The Strength of the Strong

THE STRENGTH OF THE STRONG

_Parables don’t lie_, _but liars will parable_.

—_Lip-King_.

OLD Long-Beard paused in his narrative, licked his greasy fingers, and

wiped them on his naked sides where his one piece of ragged bearskin

failed to cover him. Crouched around him, on their hams, were three

young men, his grandsons, Deer-Runner, Yellow-Head, and

Afraid-of-the-Dark. In appearance they were much the same. Skins of

wild animals partly covered them. They were lean and meagre of build,

narrow-hipped and crooked-legged, and at the same time deep-chested, with

heavy arms and enormous hands. There was much hair on their chests and

shoulders, and on the outsides of their arms and legs. Their heads were

matted with uncut hair, long locks of which often strayed before their

eyes, beady and black and glittering like the eyes of birds. They were

narrow between the eyes and broad between the cheeks, while their lower

jaws were projecting and massive.

It was a night of clear starlight, and below them, stretching away

remotely, lay range on range of forest-covered hills. In the distance

the heavens were red from the glow of a volcano. At their backs yawned

the black mouth of a cave, out of which, from time to time, blew draughty

gusts of wind. Immediately in front of them blazed a fire. At one side,

partly devoured, lay the carcass of a bear, with about it, at a

respectable distance, several large dogs, shaggy and wolf-like. Beside

each man lay his bow and arrows and a huge club. In the cave-mouth a

number of rude spears leaned against the rock.

“So that was how we moved from the cave to the tree,” old Long-Beard

spoke up.

They laughed boisterously, like big children, at recollection of a

previous story his words called up. Long-Beard laughed, too, the

five-inch bodkin of bone, thrust midway through the cartilage of his

nose, leaping and dancing and adding to his ferocious appearance. He did

not exactly say the words recorded, but he made animal-like sounds with

his mouth that meant the same thing.

“And that is the first I remember of the Sea Valley,” Long-Beard went on.

“We were a very foolish crowd. We did not know the secret of strength.

For, behold, each family lived by itself, and took care of itself. There

were thirty families, but we got no strength from one another. We were

in fear of each other all the time. No one ever paid visits. In the top

of our tree we built a grass house, and on the platform outside was a

pile of rocks, which were for the heads of any that might chance to try

to visit us. Also, we had our spears and arrows. We never walked under

the trees of the other families, either. My brother did, once, under old

Boo-oogh’s tree, and he got his head broken and that was the end of him.

“Old Boo-oogh was very strong. It was said he could pull a grown man’s

head right off. I never heard of him doing it, because no man would give

him a chance. Father wouldn’t. One day, when father was down on the

beach, Boo-oogh took after mother. She couldn’t run fast, for the day

before she had got her leg clawed by a bear when she was up on the

mountain gathering berries. So Boo-oogh caught her and carried her up

into his tree. Father never got her back. He was afraid. Old Boo-oogh

made faces at him.

“But father did not mind. Strong-Arm was another strong man. He was one

of the best fishermen. But one day, climbing after sea-gull eggs, he had

a fall from the cliff. He was never strong after that. He coughed a

great deal, and his shoulders drew near to each other. So father took

Strong-Arm’s wife. When he came around and coughed under our tree,

father laughed at him and threw rocks at him. It was our way in those

days. We did not know how to add strength together and become strong.”

“Would a brother take a brother’s wife?” Deer-Runner demanded.

“Yes, if he had gone to live in another tree by himself.”

“But we do not do such things now,” Afraid-of-the-Dark objected.

“It is because I have taught your fathers better.” Long-Beard thrust his

hairy paw into the bear meat and drew out a handful of suet, which he

sucked with a meditative air. Again he wiped his hands on his naked

sides and went on. “What I am telling you happened in the long ago,

before we knew any better.”

“You must have been fools not to know better,” was Deer-Runner’s comment,

Yellow-Head grunting approval.

“So we were, but we became bigger fools, as you shall see. Still, we did

learn better, and this was the way of it. We Fish-Eaters had not learned

to add our strength until our strength was the strength of all of us.

But the Meat-Eaters, who lived across the divide in the Big Valley, stood

together, hunted together, fished together, and fought together. One day

they came into our valley. Each family of us got into its own cave and

tree. There were only ten Meat-Eaters, but they fought together, and we

fought, each family by itself.”

Long-Beard counted long and perplexedly on his fingers.

“There were sixty men of us,” was what he managed to say with fingers and

lips combined. “And we were very strong, only we did not know it. So we

watched the ten men attack Boo-oogh’s tree. He made a good fight, but he

had no chance. We looked on. When some of the Meat-Eaters tried to

climb the tree, Boo-oogh had to show himself in order to drop stones on

their heads, whereupon the other Meat-Eaters, who were waiting for that

very thing, shot him full of arrows. And that was the end of Boo-oogh.

“Next, the Meat-Eaters got One-Eye and his family in his cave. They

built a fire in the mouth and smoked him out, like we smoked out the bear

there to-day. Then they went after Six-Fingers, up his tree, and, while

they were killing him and his grown son, the rest of us ran away. They

caught some of our women, and killed two old men who could not run fast

and several children. The women they carried away with them to the Big

Valley.

“After that the rest of us crept back, and, somehow, perhaps because we

were in fear and felt the need for one another, we talked the thing over.

It was our first council—our first real council. And in that council we

formed our first tribe. For we had learned the lesson. Of the ten

Meat-Eaters, each man had had the strength of ten, for the ten had fought

as one man. They had added their strength together. But of the thirty

families and the sixty men of us, we had had the strength of but one man,

for each had fought alone.

“It was a great talk we had, and it was hard talk, for we did not have

the words then as now with which to talk. The Bug made some of the words

long afterward, and so did others of us make words from time to time.

But in the end we agreed to add our strength together and to be as one

man when the Meat-Eaters came over the divide to steal our women. And

that was the tribe.

“We set two men on the divide, one for the day and one for the night, to

watch if the Meat-Eaters came. These were the eyes of the tribe. Then,

also, day and night, there were to be ten men awake with their clubs and

spears and arrows in their hands, ready to fight. Before, when a man

went after fish, or clams, or gull-eggs, he carried his weapons with him,

and half the time he was getting food and half the time watching for fear

some other man would get him. Now that was all changed. The men went

out without their weapons and spent all their time getting food.

Likewise, when the women went into the mountains after roots and berries,

five of the ten men went with them to guard them. While all the time,

day and night, the eyes of the tribe watched from the top of the divide.

“But troubles came. As usual, it was about the women. Men without wives

wanted other men’s wives, and there was much fighting between men, and

now and again one got his head smashed or a spear through his body.

While one of the watchers was on top of the divide, another man stole his

wife, and he came down to fight. Then the other watcher was in fear that

some one would take his wife, and he came down likewise. Also, there was

trouble among the ten men who carried always their weapons, and they

fought five against five, till some ran away down the coast and the

others ran after them.

“So it was that the tribe was left without eyes or guards. We had not

the strength of sixty. We had no strength at all. So we held a council

and made our first laws. I was but a cub at the time, but I remember.

We said that, in order to be strong, we must not fight one another, and

we made a law that when a man killed another him would the tribe kill.

We made another law that whoso stole another man’s wife him would the

tribe kill. We said that whatever man had too great strength, and by

that strength hurt his brothers in the tribe, him would we kill that his

strength might hurt no more. For, if we let his strength hurt, the

brothers would become afraid and the tribe would fall apart, and we would

be as weak as when the Meat-Eaters first came upon us and killed

Boo-oogh.

“Knuckle-Bone was a strong man, a very strong man, and he knew not law.

He knew only his own strength, and in the fullness thereof he went forth

and took the wife of Three-Clams. Three-Clams tried to fight, but

Knuckle-Bone clubbed out his brains. Yet had Knuckle-Bone forgotten that

all the men of us had added our strength to keep the law among us, and

him we killed, at the foot of his tree, and hung his body on a branch as

a warning that the law was stronger than any man. For we were the law,

all of us, and no man was greater than the law.

“Then there were other troubles, for know, O Deer-Runner, and

Yellow-Head, and Afraid-of-the-Dark, that it is not easy to make a tribe.

There were many things, little things, that it was a great trouble to

call all the men together to have a council about. We were having

councils morning, noon, and night, and in the middle of the night. We

could find little time to go out and get food, because of the councils,

for there was always some little thing to be settled, such as naming two

new watchers to take the place of the old ones on the hill, or naming how

much food should fall to the share of the men who kept their weapons

always in their hands and got no food for themselves.

“We stood in need of a chief man to do these things, who would be the

voice of the council, and who would account to the council for the things

he did. So we named Fith-Fith the chief man. He was a strong man, too,

and very cunning, and when he was angry he made noises just like that,

_fith-fith_, like a wild-cat.

“The ten men who guarded the tribe were set to work making a wall of

stones across the narrow part of the valley. The women and large

children helped, as did other men, until the wall was strong. After

that, all the families came down out of their caves and trees and built

grass houses behind the shelter of the wall. These houses were large and

much better than the caves and trees, and everybody had a better time of

it because the men had added their strength together and become a tribe.

Because of the wall and the guards and the watchers, there was more time

to hunt and fish and pick roots and berries; there was more food, and

better food, and no one went hungry. And Three-Legs, so named because

his legs had been smashed when a boy and who walked with a

stick—Three-Legs got the seed of the wild corn and planted it in the

ground in the valley near his house. Also, he tried planting fat roots

and other things he found in the mountain valleys.

“Because of the safety in the Sea Valley, which was because of the wall

and the watchers and the guards, and because there was food in plenty for

all without having to fight for it, many families came in from the coast

valleys on both sides and from the high back mountains where they had

lived more like wild animals than men. And it was not long before the

Sea Valley filled up, and in it were countless families. But, before

this happened, the land, which had been free to all and belonged to all,

was divided up. Three-Legs began it when he planted corn. But most of

us did not care about the land. We thought the marking of the boundaries

with fences of stone was a foolishness. We had plenty to eat, and what

more did we want? I remember that my father and I built stone fences for

Three-Legs and were given corn in return.

“So only a few got all the land, and Three-Legs got most of it. Also,

others that had taken land gave it to the few that held on, being paid in

return with corn and fat roots, and bear-skins, and fishes which the

farmers got from the fishermen in exchange for corn. And, the first

thing we knew, all the land was gone.

“It was about this time that Fith-Fith died and Dog-Tooth, his son, was

made chief. He demanded to be made chief anyway, because his father had

been chief before him. Also, he looked upon himself as a greater chief

than his father. He was a good chief at first, and worked hard, so that

the council had less and less to do. Then arose a new voice in the Sea

Valley. It was Twisted-Lip. We had never thought much of him, until he

began to talk with the spirits of the dead. Later we called him Big-Fat,

because he ate over-much, and did no work, and grew round and large. One

day Big-Fat told us that the secrets of the dead were his, and that he

was the voice of God. He became great friends with Dog-Tooth, who

commanded that we should build Big-Fat a grass house. And Big-Fat put

taboos all around this house and kept God inside.

“More and more Dog-Tooth became greater than the council, and when the

council grumbled and said it would name a new chief, Big-Fat spoke with

the voice of God and said no. Also, Three-Legs and the others who held

the land stood behind Dog-Tooth. Moreover, the strongest man in the

council was Sea-Lion, and him the land-owners gave land to secretly,

along with many bearskins and baskets of corn. So Sea-Lion said that

Big-Fat’s voice was truly the voice of God and must be obeyed. And soon

afterward Sea-Lion was named the voice of Dog-Tooth and did most of his

talking for him.

“Then there was Little-Belly, a little man, so thin in the middle that he

looked as if he had never had enough to eat. Inside the mouth of the

river, after the sand-bar had combed the strength of the breakers, he

built a big fish-trap. No man had ever seen or dreamed a fish-trap

before. He worked weeks on it, with his son and his wife, while the rest

of us laughed at their labours. But, when it was done, the first day he

caught more fish in it than could the whole tribe in a week, whereat

there was great rejoicing. There was only one other place in the river

for a fish-trap, but, when my father and I and a dozen other men started

to make a very large trap, the guards came from the big grass-house we

had built for Dog-Tooth. And the guards poked us with their spears and

told us begone, because Little-Belly was going to build a trap there

himself on the word of Sea-Lion, who was the voice of Dog-Tooth.

“There was much grumbling, and my father called a council. But, when he

rose to speak, him the Sea-Lion thrust through the throat with a spear

and he died. And Dog-Tooth and Little-Belly, and Three-Legs and all that

held land said it was good. And Big-Fat said it was the will of God.

And after that all men were afraid to stand up in the council, and there

was no more council.

“Another man, Pig-Jaw, began to keep goats. He had heard about it as

among the Meat-Eaters, and it was not long before he had many flocks.

Other men, who had no land and no fish-traps, and who else would have

gone hungry, were glad to work for Pig-Jaw, caring for his goats,

guarding them from wild dogs and tigers, and driving them to the feeding

pastures in the mountains. In return, Pig-Jaw gave them goat-meat to eat

and goat-skins to wear, and sometimes they traded the goat-meat for fish

and corn and fat roots.

“It was this time that money came to be. Sea-Lion was the man who first

thought of it, and he talked it over with Dog-Tooth and Big-Fat. You

see, these three were the ones that got a share of everything in the Sea

Valley. One basket out of every three of corn was theirs, one fish out

of every three, one goat out of every three. In return, they fed the

guards and the watchers, and kept the rest for themselves. Sometimes,

when a big haul of fish was made they did not know what to do with all

their share. So Sea-Lion set the women to making money out of

shell—little round pieces, with a hole in each one, and all made smooth

and fine. These were strung on strings, and the strings were called

money.

“Each string was of the value of thirty fish, or forty fish, but the

women, who made a string a day, were given two fish each. The fish came

out of the shares of Dog-Tooth, Big-Fat, and Sea-Lion, which they three

did not eat. So all the money belonged to them. Then they told

Three-Legs and the other land-owners that they would take their share of

corn and roots in money, Little-Belly that they would take their share of

fish in money, Pig-Jaw that they would take their share of goats and

cheese in money. Thus, a man who had nothing, worked for one who had,

and was paid in money. With this money he bought corn, and fish, and

meat, and cheese. And Three-Legs and all owners of things paid Dog-Tooth

and Sea-Lion and Big-Fat their share in money. And they paid the guards

and watchers in money, and the guards and watchers bought their food with

the money. And, because money was cheap, Dog-Tooth made many more men

into guards. And, because money was cheap to make, a number of men began

to make money out of shell themselves. But the guards stuck spears in

them and shot them full of arrows, because they were trying to break up

the tribe. It was bad to break up the tribe, for then the Meat-Eaters

would come over the divide and kill them all.

“Big-Fat was the voice of God, but he took Broken-Rib and made him into a

priest, so that he became the voice of Big-Fat and did most of his

talking for him. And both had other men to be servants to them. So,

also, did Little-Belly and Three-Legs and Pig-Jaw have other men to lie

in the sun about their grass houses and carry messages for them and give

commands. And more and more were men taken away from work, so that those

that were left worked harder than ever before. It seemed that men

desired to do no work and strove to seek out other ways whereby men

should work for them. Crooked-Eyes found such a way. He made the first

fire-brew out of corn. And thereafter he worked no more, for he talked

secretly with Dog-Tooth and Big-Fat and the other masters, and it was

agreed that he should be the only one to make fire-brew. But

Crooked-Eyes did no work himself. Men made the brew for him, and he paid

them in money. Then he sold the fire-brew for money, and all men bought.

And many strings of money did he give Dog-Tooth and Sea-Lion and all of

them.

“Big-Fat and Broken-Rib stood by Dog-Tooth when he took his second wife,

and his third wife. They said Dog-Tooth was different from other men and

second only to God that Big-Fat kept in his taboo house, and Dog-Tooth

said so, too, and wanted to know who were they to grumble about how many

wives he took. Dog-Tooth had a big canoe made, and, many more men he

took from work, who did nothing and lay in the sun, save only when

Dog-Tooth went in the canoe, when they paddled for him. And he made

Tiger-Face head man over all the guards, so that Tiger-Face became his

right arm, and when he did not like a man Tiger-Face killed that man for

him. And Tiger-Face, also, made another man to be his right arm, and to

give commands, and to kill for him.

“But this was the strange thing: as the days went by we who were left

worked harder and harder, and yet did we get less and less to eat.”

“But what of the goats and the corn and the fat roots and the fish-trap?”

spoke up Afraid-of-the-Dark, “what of all this? Was there not more food

to be gained by man’s work?”

“It is so,” Long-Beard agreed. “Three men on the fish-trap got more fish

than the whole tribe before there was a fish-trap. But have I not said

we were fools? The more food we were able to get, the less food did we

have to eat.”

“But was it not plain that the many men who did not work ate it all up?”

Yellow-Head demanded.

Long-Beard nodded his head sadly.

“Dog-Tooth’s dogs were stuffed with meat, and the men who lay in the sun

and did no work were rolling in fat, and, at the same time, there were

little children crying themselves to sleep with hunger biting them with

every wail.”

Deer-Runner was spurred by the recital of famine to tear out a chunk of

bear-meat and broil it on a stick over the coals. This he devoured with

smacking lips, while Long-Beard went on:

“When we grumbled Big-Fat arose, and with the voice of God said that God

had chosen the wise men to own the land and the goats and the fish-trap,

and the fire-brew, and that without these wise men we would all be

animals, as in the days when we lived in trees.

“And there arose one who became a singer of songs for the king. Him they

called the Bug, because he was small and ungainly of face and limb and

excelled not in work or deed. He loved the fattest marrow bones, the

choicest fish, the milk warm from the goats, the first corn that was

ripe, and the snug place by the fire. And thus, becoming singer of songs

to the king, he found a way to do nothing and be fat. And when the

people grumbled more and more, and some threw stones at the king’s grass

house, the Bug sang a song of how good it was to be a Fish-Eater. In his

song he told that the Fish-Eaters were the chosen of God and the finest

men God had made. He sang of the Meat-Eaters as pigs and crows, and sang

how fine and good it was for the Fish-Eaters to fight and die doing God’s

work, which was the killing of Meat-Eaters. The words of his song were

like fire in us, and we clamoured to be led against the Meat-Eaters. And

we forgot that we were hungry, and why we had grumbled, and were glad to

be led by Tiger-Face over the divide, where we killed many Meat-Eaters

and were content.

“But things were no better in the Sea Valley. The only way to get food

was to work for Three-Legs or Little-Belly or Pig-Jaw; for there was no

land that a man might plant with corn for himself. And often there were

more men than Three-Legs and the others had work for. So these men went

hungry, and so did their wives and children and their old mothers.

Tiger-Face said they could become guards if they wanted to, and many of

them did, and thereafter they did no work except to poke spears in the

men who did work and who grumbled at feeding so many idlers.

“And when we grumbled, ever the Bug sang new songs. He said that

Three-Legs and Pig-Jaw and the rest were strong men, and that that was

why they had so much. He said that we should be glad to have strong men

with us, else would we perish of our own worthlessness and the

Meat-Eaters. Therefore, we should be glad to let such strong men have

all they could lay hands on. And Big-Fat and Pig-Jaw and Tiger-Face and

all the rest said it was true.

“‘All right,’ said Long-Fang, ‘then will I, too, be a strong man.’ And

he got himself corn, and began to make fire-brew and sell it for strings

of money. And, when Crooked-Eyes complained, Long-Fang said that he was

himself a strong man, and that if Crooked-Eyes made any more noise he

would bash his brains out for him. Whereat Crooked-Eyes was afraid and

went and talked with Three-Legs and Pig-Jaw. And all three went and

talked to Dog-Tooth. And Dog-Tooth spoke to Sea-Lion, and Sea-Lion sent

a runner with a message to Tiger-Face. And Tiger-Face sent his guards,

who burned Long-Fang’s house along with the fire-brew he had made. Also,

they killed him and all his family. And Big-Fat said it was good, and

the Bug sang another song about how good it was to observe the law, and

what a fine land the Sea Valley was, and how every man who loved the Sea

Valley should go forth and kill the bad Meat-Eaters. And again his song

was as fire to us, and we forgot to grumble.

“It was very strange. When Little-Belly caught too many fish, so that it

took a great many to sell for a little money, he threw many of the fish

back into the sea, so that more money would be paid for what was left.

And Three-Legs often let many large fields lie idle so as to get more

money for his corn. And the women, making so much money out of shell

that much money was needed to buy with, Dog-Tooth stopped the making of

money. And the women had no work, so they took the places of the men. I

worked on the fish-trap, getting a string of money every five days. But

my sister now did my work, getting a string of money for every ten days.

The women worked cheaper, and there was less food, and Tiger-Face said we

should become guards. Only I could not become a guard because I was lame

of one leg and Tiger-Face would not have me. And there were many like

me. We were broken men and only fit to beg for work or to take care of

the babies while the women worked.”

Yellow-Head, too, was made hungry by the recital and broiled a piece of

bear-meat on the coals.

“But why didn’t you rise up, all of you, and kill Three-Legs and Pig-Jaw

and Big-Fat and the rest and get enough to eat?” Afraid-in-the-Dark

demanded.

“Because we could not understand,” Long-Beard answered. “There was too

much to think about, and, also, there were the guards sticking spears

into us, and Big-Fat talking about God, and the Bug singing new songs.

And when any man did think right, and said so, Tiger-Face and the guards

got him, and he was tied out to the rocks at low tide so that the rising

waters drowned him.

“It was a strange thing—the money. It was like the Bug’s songs. It

seemed all right, but it wasn’t, and we were slow to understand.

Dog-Tooth began to gather the money in. He put it in a big pile, in a

grass house, with guards to watch it day and night. And the more money

he piled in the house the dearer money became, so that a man worked a

longer time for a string of money than before. Then, too, there was

always talk of war with the Meat-Eaters, and Dog-Tooth and Tiger-Face

filled many houses with corn, and dried fish, and smoked goat-meat, and

cheese. And with the food, piled there in mountains the people had not

enough to eat. But what did it matter? Whenever the people grumbled too

loudly the Bug sang a new song, and Big-Fat said it was God’s word that

we should kill Meat-Eaters, and Tiger-Face led us over the divide to kill

and be killed. I was not good enough to be a guard and lie fat in the

sun, but, when we made war, Tiger-Face was glad to take me along. And

when we had eaten, all the food stored in the houses we stopped fighting

and went back to work to pile up more food.”

“Then were you all crazy,” commented Deer-Runner.

“Then were we indeed all crazy,” Long-Beard agreed. “It was strange, all

of it. There was Split-Nose. He said everything was wrong. He said it

was true that we grew strong by adding our strength together. And he

said that, when we first formed the tribe, it was right that the men

whose strength hurt the tribe should be shorn of their strength—men who

bashed their brothers’ heads and stole their brothers’ wives. And now,

he said, the tribe was not getting stronger, but was getting weaker,

because there were men with another kind of strength that were hurting

the tribe—men who had the strength of the land, like Three-Legs; who had

the strength of the fish-trap, like Little-Belly; who had the strength of

all the goat-meat, like Pig-Jaw. The thing to do, Split-Nose said, was

to shear these men of their evil strength; to make them go to work, all

of them, and to let no man eat who did not work.

“And the Bug sang another song about men like Split-Nose, who wanted to

go back, and live in trees.

“Yet Split-Nose said no; that he did not want to go back, but ahead; that

they grew strong only as they added their strength together; and that, if

the Fish-Eaters would add their strength to the Meat-Eaters, there would

be no more fighting and no more watchers and no more guards, and that,

with all men working, there would be so much food that each man would

have to work not more than two hours a day.

“Then the Bug sang again, and he sang that Split-Nose was lazy, and he

sang also the ‘Song of the Bees.’ It was a strange song, and those who

listened were made mad, as from the drinking of strong fire-brew. The

song was of a swarm of bees, and of a robber wasp who had come in to live

with the bees and who was stealing all their honey. The wasp was lazy

and told them there was no need to work; also, he told them to make

friends with the bears, who were not honey-stealers but only very good

friends. And the Bug sang in crooked words, so that those who listened

knew that the swarm was the Sea Valley tribe, that the bears were the

Meat-Eaters, and that the lazy wasp was Split-Nose. And when the Bug

sang that the bees listened to the wasp till the swarm was near to

perishing, the people growled and snarled, and when the Bug sang that at

last the good bees arose and stung the wasp to death, the people picked

up stones from the ground and stoned Split-Nose to death till there was

naught to be seen of him but the heap of stones they had flung on top of

him. And there were many poor people who worked long and hard and had

not enough to eat that helped throw the stones on Split-Nose.

“And, after the death of Split-Nose, there was but one other man that

dared rise up and speak his mind, and that man was Hair-Face. ‘Where is

the strength of the strong?’ he asked. ‘We are the strong, all of us,

and we are stronger than Dog-Tooth and Tiger-Face and Three-Legs and

Pig-Jaw and all the rest who do nothing and eat much and weaken us by the

hurt of their strength which is bad strength. Men who are slaves are not

strong. If the man who first found the virtue and use of fire had used

his strength we would have been his slaves, as we are the slaves to-day

of Little-Belly, who found the virtue and use of the fish-trap; and of

the men who found the virtue and use of the land, and the goats, and the

fire-brew. Before, we lived in trees, my brothers, and no man was safe.

But we fight no more with one another. We have added our strength

together. Then let us fight no more with the Meat-Eaters. Let us add

our strength and their strength together. Then will we be indeed strong.

And then we will go out together, the Fish-Eaters and the Meat-Eaters,

and we will kill the tigers and the lions and the wolves and the wild

dogs, and we will pasture our goats on all the hill-sides and plant our

corn and fat roots in all the high mountain valleys. In that day we will

be so strong that all the wild animals will flee before us and perish.

And nothing will withstand us, for the strength of each man will be the

strength of all men in the world.’

“So said Hair-Face, and they killed him, because, they said, he was a

wild man and wanted to go back and live in a tree. It was very strange.

Whenever a man arose and wanted to go forward all those that stood still

said he went backward and should be killed. And the poor people helped

stone him, and were fools. We were all fools, except those who were fat

and did no work. The fools were called wise, and the wise were stoned.

Men who worked did not get enough to eat, and the men who did not work

ate too much.

“And the tribe went on losing strength. The children were weak and

sickly. And, because we ate not enough, strange sicknesses came among us

and we died like flies. And then the Meat-Eaters came upon us. We had

followed Tiger-Face too often over the divide and killed them. And now

they came to repay in blood. We were too weak and sick to man the big

wall. And they killed us, all of us, except some of the women, which

they took away with them. The Bug and I escaped, and I hid in the

wildest places, and became a hunter of meat and went hungry no more. I

stole a wife from the Meat-Eaters, and went to live in the caves of the

high mountains where they could not find me. And we had three sons, and

each son stole a wife from the Meat-Eaters. And the rest you know, for

are you not the sons of my sons?”

“But the Bug?” queried Deer-Runner. “What became of him?”

“He went to live with the Meat-Eaters and to be a singer of songs to the

king. He is an old man now, but he sings the same old songs; and, when a

man rises up to go forward, he sings that that man is walking backward to

live in a tree.”

Long-Beard dipped into the bear-carcass and sucked with toothless gums at

a fist of suet.

“Some day,” he said, wiping his hands on his sides, “all the fools will

be dead and then all live men will go forward. The strength of the

strong will be theirs, and they will add their strength together, so

that, of all the men in the world, not one will fight with another.

There will be no guards nor watchers on the walls. And all the hunting

animals will be killed, and, as Hair-Face said, all the hill-sides will

be pastured with goats and all the high mountain valleys will be planted

with corn and fat roots. And all men will be brothers, and no man will

lie idle in the sun and be fed by his fellows. And all that will come to

pass in the time when the fools are dead, and when there will be no more

singers to stand still and sing the ‘Song of the Bees.’ Bees are not

men.”

SOUTH OF THE SLOT

OLD San Francisco, which is the San Francisco of only the other day, the

day before the Earthquake, was divided midway by the Slot. The Slot was

an iron crack that ran along the centre of Market Street, and from the

Slot arose the burr of the ceaseless, endless cable that was hitched at

will to the cars it dragged up and down. In truth, there were two slots,

but in the quick grammar of the West time was saved by calling them, and

much more that they stood for, “The Slot.” North of the Slot were the

theatres, hotels, and shopping district, the banks and the staid,

respectable business houses. South of the Slot were the factories,

slums, laundries, machine-shops, boiler works, and the abodes of the

working class.

The Slot was the metaphor that expressed the class cleavage of Society,

and no man crossed this metaphor, back and forth, more successfully than

Freddie Drummond. He made a practice of living in both worlds, and in

both worlds he lived signally well. Freddie Drummond was a professor in

the Sociology Department of the University of California, and it was as a

professor of sociology that he first crossed over the Slot, lived for six

mouths in the great labour-ghetto, and wrote _The Unskilled Labourer_—a

book that was hailed everywhere as an able contribution to the literature

of progress, and as a splendid reply to the literature of discontent.

Politically and economically it was nothing if not orthodox. Presidents

of great railway systems bought whole editions of it to give to their

employees. The Manufacturers’ Association alone distributed fifty

thousand copies of it. In a way, it was almost as immoral as the

far-famed and notorious _Message to Garcia_, while in its pernicious

preachment of thrift and content it ran _Mr. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch_

a close second.

At first, Freddie Drummond found it monstrously difficult to get along

among the working people. He was not used to their ways, and they

certainly were not used to his. They were suspicious. He had no

antecedents. He could talk of no previous jobs. His hands were soft.

His extraordinary politeness was ominous. His first idea of the rôle he

would play was that of a free and independent American who chose to work

with his hands and no explanations given. But it wouldn’t do, as he

quickly discovered. At the beginning they accepted him, very

provisionally, as a freak. A little later, as he began to know his way

about better, he insensibly drifted into the rôle that would work—namely,

he was a man who had seen better days, very much better days, but who was

down on his luck, though, to be sure, only temporarily.

He learned many things, and generalized much and often erroneously, all

of which can be found in the pages of _The Unskilled Labourer_. He saved

himself, however, after the sane and conservative manner of his kind, by

labelling his generalizations as “tentative.” One of his first

experiences was in the great Wilmax Cannery, where he was put on

piece-work making small packing cases. A box factory supplied the parts,

and all Freddie Drummond had to do was to fit the parts into a form and

drive in the wire nails with a light hammer.

It was not skilled labour, but it was piece-work. The ordinary labourers

in the cannery got a dollar and a half per day. Freddie Drummond found

the other men on the same job with him jogging along and earning a dollar

and seventy-five cents a day. By the third day he was able to earn the

same. But he was ambitious. He did not care to jog along and, being

unusually able and fit, on the fourth day earned two dollars.

The next day, having keyed himself up to an exhausting high-tension, he

earned two dollars and a half. His fellow workers favoured him with

scowls and black looks, and made remarks, slangily witty and which he did

not understand, about sucking up to the boss and pace-making and holding

her down, when the rains set in. He was astonished at their malingering

on piece-work, generalized about the inherent laziness of the unskilled

labourer, and proceeded next day to hammer out three dollars’ worth of

boxes.

And that night, coming out of the cannery, he was interviewed by his

fellow workmen, who were very angry and incoherently slangy. He failed

to comprehend the motive behind their action. The action itself was

strenuous. When he refused to ease down his pace and bleated about

freedom of contract, independent Americanism, and the dignity of toil,

they proceeded to spoil his pace-making ability. It was a fierce battle,

for Drummond was a large man and an athlete, but the crowd finally jumped

on his ribs, walked on his face, and stamped on his fingers, so that it

was only after lying in bed for a week that he was able to get up and

look for another job. All of which is duly narrated in that first book

of his, in the chapter entitled “The Tyranny of Labour.”

A little later, in another department of the Wilmax Cannery, lumping as a

fruit-distributor among the women, he essayed to carry two boxes of fruit

at a time, and was promptly reproached by the other fruit-lumpers. It

was palpable malingering; but he was there, he decided, not to change

conditions, but to observe. So he lumped one box thereafter, and so well

did he study the art of shirking that he wrote a special chapter on it,

with the last several paragraphs devoted to tentative generalizations.

In those six months he worked at many jobs and developed into a very good

imitation of a genuine worker. He was a natural linguist, and he kept

notebooks, making a scientific study of the workers’ slang or argot,

until he could talk quite intelligibly. This language also enabled him

more intimately to follow their mental processes, and thereby to gather

much data for a projected chapter in some future book which he planned to

entitle _Synthesis of Working-Class Psychology_.

Before he arose to the surface from that first plunge into the underworld

he discovered that he was a good actor and demonstrated the plasticity of

his nature. He was himself astonished at his own fluidity. Once having

mastered the language and conquered numerous fastidious qualms, he found

that he could flow into any nook of working-class life and fit it so

snugly as to feel comfortably at home. As he said, in the preface to his

second book, _The Toiler_, he endeavoured really to know the working

people, and the only possible way to achieve this was to work beside

them, eat their food, sleep in their beds, be amused with their

amusements, think their thoughts, and feel their feeling.

He was not a deep thinker. He had no faith in new theories. All his

norms and criteria were conventional. His Thesis on the French

Revolution was noteworthy in college annals, not merely for its

painstaking and voluminous accuracy, but for the fact that it was the

dryest, deadest, most formal, and most orthodox screed ever written on

the subject. He was a very reserved man, and his natural inhibition was

large in quantity and steel-like in quality. He had but few friends. He

was too undemonstrative, too frigid. He had no vices, nor had any one

ever discovered any temptations. Tobacco he detested, beer he abhorred,

and he was never known to drink anything stronger than an occasional

light wine at dinner.

When a freshman he had been baptized “Ice-Box” by his warmer-blooded

fellows. As a member of the faculty he was known as “Cold-Storage.” He

had but one grief, and that was “Freddie.” He had earned it when he

played full-back in the ‘Varsity eleven, and his formal soul had never

succeeded in living it down. “Freddie” he would ever be, except

officially, and through nightmare vistas he looked into a future when his

world would speak of him as “Old Freddie.”

For he was very young to be a doctor of sociology, only twenty-seven, and

he looked younger. In appearance and atmosphere he was a strapping big

college man, smooth-faced and easy-mannered, clean and simple and

wholesome, with a known record of being a splendid athlete and an implied

vast possession of cold culture of the inhibited sort. He never talked

shop out of class and committee rooms, except later on, when his books

showered him with distasteful public notice and he yielded to the extent

of reading occasional papers before certain literary and economic

societies.

He did everything right—too right; and in dress and comportment was

inevitably correct. Not that he was a dandy. Far from it. He was a

college man, in dress and carriage as like as a pea to the type that of

late years is being so generously turned out of our institutions of

higher learning. His handshake was satisfyingly strong and stiff. His

blue eyes were coldly blue and convincingly sincere. His voice, firm and

masculine, clean and crisp of enunciation, was pleasant to the ear. The

one drawback to Freddie Drummond was his inhibition. He never unbent.

In his football days, the higher the tension of the game, the cooler he

grew. He was noted as a boxer, but he was regarded as an automaton, with

the inhuman precision of a machine judging distance and timing blows,

guarding, blocking, and stalling. He was rarely punished himself, while

he rarely punished an opponent. He was too clever and too controlled to

permit himself to put a pound more weight into a punch than he intended.

With him it was a matter of exercise. It kept him fit.

As time went by, Freddie Drummond found himself more frequently crossing

the Slot and losing himself in South of Market. His summer and winter

holidays were spent there, and, whether it was a week or a week-end, he

found the time spent there to be valuable and enjoyable. And there was

so much material to be gathered. His third book, _Mass and Master_,

became a text-book in the American universities; and almost before he

knew it, he was at work on a fourth one, _The Fallacy of the

Inefficient_.

Somewhere in his make-up there was a strange twist or quirk. Perhaps it

was a recoil from his environment and training, or from the tempered seed

of his ancestors, who had been book-men generation preceding generation;

but at any rate, he found enjoyment in being down in the working-class

world. In his own world he was “Cold-Storage,” but down below he was

“Big” Bill Totts, who could drink and smoke, and slang and fight, and be

an all-round favourite. Everybody liked Bill, and more than one working

girl made love to him. At first he had been merely a good actor, but as

time went on, simulation became second nature. He no longer played a

part, and he loved sausages, sausages and bacon, than which, in his own

proper sphere, there was nothing more loathsome in the way of food.

From doing the thing for the need’s sake, he came to doing the thing for

the thing’s sake. He found himself regretting as the time drew near for

him to go back to his lecture-room and his inhibition. And he often

found himself waiting with anticipation for the dreamy time to pass when

he could cross the Slot and cut loose and play the devil. He was not

wicked, but as “Big” Bill Totts he did a myriad things that Freddie

Drummond would never have been permitted to do. Moreover, Freddie

Drummond never would have wanted to do them. That was the strangest part

of his discovery. Freddie Drummond and Bill Totts were two totally

different creatures. The desires and tastes and impulses of each ran

counter to the other’s. Bill Totts could shirk at a job with clear

conscience, while Freddie Drummond condemned shirking as vicious,

criminal, and un-American, and devoted whole chapters to condemnation of

the vice. Freddie Drummond did not care for dancing, but Bill Totts

never missed the nights at the various dancing clubs, such as The

Magnolia, The Western Star, and The Elite; while he won a massive silver

cup, standing thirty inches high, for being the best-sustained character

at the Butchers and Meat Workers’ annual grand masked ball. And Bill

Totts liked the girls and the girls liked him, while Freddie Drummond

enjoyed playing the ascetic in this particular, was open in his

opposition to equal suffrage, and cynically bitter in his secret

condemnation of coeducation.

Freddie Drummond changed his manners with his dress, and without effort.

When he entered the obscure little room used for his transformation

scenes, he carried himself just a bit too stiffly. He was too erect, his

shoulders were an inch too far back, while his face was grave, almost

harsh, and practically expressionless. But when he emerged in Bill

Totts’ clothes he was another creature. Bill Totts did not slouch, but

somehow his whole form limbered up and became graceful. The very sound

of the voice was changed, and the laugh was loud and hearty, while loose

speech and an occasional oath were as a matter of course on his lips.

Also, Bill Totts was a trifle inclined to late hours, and at times, in

saloons, to be good-naturedly bellicose with other workmen. Then, too,

at Sunday picnics or when coming home from the show, either arm betrayed

a practised familiarity in stealing around girls’ waists, while he

displayed a wit keen and delightful in the flirtatious badinage that was

expected of a good fellow in his class.

So thoroughly was Bill Totts himself, so thoroughly a workman, a genuine

denizen of South of the Slot, that he was as class-conscious as the

average of his kind, and his hatred for a scab even exceeded that of the

average loyal union man. During the Water Front Strike, Freddie Drummond

was somehow able to stand apart from the unique combination, and, coldly

critical, watch Bill Totts hilariously slug scab longshoremen. For Bill

Totts was a dues-paying member of the Longshoremen Union and had a right

to be indignant with the usurpers of his job. “Big” Bill Totts was so

very big, and so very able, that it was “Big” Bill to the front when

trouble was brewing. From acting outraged feelings, Freddie Drummond, in

the rôle of his other self, came to experience genuine outrage, and it

was only when he returned to the classic atmosphere of the university

that he was able, sanely and conservatively, to generalize upon his

underworld experiences and put them down on paper as a trained

sociologist should. That Bill Totts lacked the perspective to raise him

above class-consciousness Freddie Drummond clearly saw. But Bill Totts

could not see it. When he saw a scab taking his job away, he saw red at

the same time, and little else did he see. It was Freddie Drummond,

irreproachably clothed and comported, seated at his study desk or facing

his class in _Sociology_ 17, who saw Bill Totts, and all around Bill

Totts, and all around the whole scab and union-labour problem and its

relation to the economic welfare of the United States in the struggle for

the world market. Bill Totts really wasn’t able to see beyond the next

meal and the prize-fight the following night at the Gaiety Athletic Club.

It was while gathering material for _Women and Work_ that Freddie

received his first warning of the danger he was in. He was too

successful at living in both worlds. This strange dualism he had

developed was after all very unstable, and, as he sat in his study and

meditated, he saw that it could not endure. It was really a transition

stage, and if he persisted he saw that he would inevitably have to drop

one world or the other. He could not continue in both. And as he looked

at the row of volumes that graced the upper shelf of his revolving

book-case, his volumes, beginning with his Thesis and ending with _Women

and Work_, he decided that that was the world he would hold to and stick

by. Bill Totts had served his purpose, but he had become a too dangerous

accomplice. Bill Totts would have to cease.

Freddie Drummond’s fright was due to Mary Condon, President of the

International Glove Workers’ Union No. 974. He had seen her, first, from

the spectators’ gallery, at the annual convention of the Northwest

Federation of Labour, and he had seen her through Bill Totts’ eyes, and

that individual had been most favourably impressed by her. She was not

Freddie Drummond’s sort at all. What if she were a royal-bodied woman,

graceful and sinewy as a panther, with amazing black eyes that could fill

with fire or laughter-love, as the mood might dictate? He detested women

with a too exuberant vitality and a lack of . . . well, of inhibition.

Freddie Drummond accepted the doctrine of evolution because it was quite

universally accepted by college men, and he flatly believed that man had

climbed up the ladder of life out of the weltering muck and mess of lower

and monstrous organic things. But he was a trifle ashamed of this

genealogy, and preferred not to think of it. Wherefore, probably, he

practised his iron inhibition and preached it to others, and preferred

women of his own type, who could shake free of this bestial and

regrettable ancestral line and by discipline and control emphasize the

wideness of the gulf that separated them from what their dim forbears had

been.

Bill Totts had none of these considerations. He had liked Mary Condon

from the moment his eyes first rested on her in the convention hall, and

he had made it a point, then and there, to find out who she was. The

next time he met her, and quite by accident, was when he was driving an

express waggon for Pat Morrissey. It was in a lodging-house in Mission

Street, where he had been called to take a trunk into storage. The

landlady’s daughter had called him and led him to the little bedroom, the

occupant of which, a glove-maker, had just been removed to hospital. But

Bill did not know this. He stooped, up-ended the trunk, which was a

large one, got it on his shoulder, and struggled to his feet with his

back toward the open door. At that moment he heard a woman’s voice.

“Belong to the union?” was the question asked.

“Aw, what’s it to you?” he retorted. “Run along now, an’ git outa my

way. I wanta turn round.”

The next he know, big as he was, he was whirled half around and sent

reeling backward, the trunk overbalancing him, till he fetched up with a

crash against the wall. He started to swear, but at the same instant

found himself looking into Mary Condon’s flashing, angry eyes.

“Of course I b’long to the union,” he said. “I was only kiddin’ you.”

“Where’s your card?” she demanded in businesslike tones.

“In my pocket. But I can’t git it out now. This trunk’s too damn heavy.

Come on down to the waggon an’ I’ll show it to you.”

“Put that trunk down,” was the command.

“What for? I got a card, I’m tellin’ you.”

“Put it down, that’s all. No scab’s going to handle that trunk. You

ought to be ashamed of yourself, you big coward, scabbing on honest men.

Why don’t you join the union and be a man?”

Mary Condon’s colour had left her face, and it was apparent that she was

in a rage.

“To think of a big man like you turning traitor to his class. I suppose

you’re aching to join the militia for a chance to shoot down union

drivers the next strike. You may belong to the militia already, for that

matter. You’re the sort—”

“Hold on, now, that’s too much!” Bill dropped the trunk to the floor

with a bang, straightened up, and thrust his hand into his inside coat

pocket. “I told you I was only kiddin’. There, look at that.”

It was a union card properly enough.

“All right, take it along,” Mary Condon said. “And the next time don’t

kid.”

Her face relaxed as she noticed the ease with which he got the big trunk

to his shoulder, and her eyes glowed as they glanced over the graceful

massiveness of the man. But Bill did not see that. He was too busy with

the trunk.

The next time he saw Mary Condon was during the Laundry Strike. The

Laundry Workers, but recently organized, were green at the business, and

had petitioned Mary Condon to engineer the strike. Freddie Drummond had

had an inkling of what was coming, and had sent Bill Totts to join the

union and investigate. Bill’s job was in the wash-room, and the men had

been called out first, that morning, in order to stiffen the courage of

the girls; and Bill chanced to be near the door to the mangle-room when

Mary Condon started to enter. The superintendent, who was both large and

stout, barred her way. He wasn’t going to have his girls called out, and

he’d teach her a lesson to mind her own business. And as Mary tried to

squeeze past him he thrust her back with a fat hand on her shoulder. She

glanced around and saw Bill.

“Here you, Mr. Totts,” she called. “Lend a hand. I want to get in.”

Bill experienced a startle of warm surprise. She had remembered his name

from his union card. The next moment the superintendent had been plucked

from the doorway raving about rights under the law, and the girls were

deserting their machines. During the rest of that short and successful

strike, Bill constituted himself Mary Condon’s henchman and messenger,

and when it was over returned to the University to be Freddie Drummond

and to wonder what Bill Totts could see in such a woman.

Freddie Drummond was entirely safe, but Bill had fallen in love. There

was no getting away from the fact of it, and it was this fact that had

given Freddie Drummond his warning. Well, he had done his work, and his

adventures could cease. There was no need for him to cross the Slot

again. All but the last three chapters of his latest, _Labour Tactics

and Strategy_, was finished, and he had sufficient material on hand

adequately to supply those chapters.

Another conclusion he arrived at, was that in order to sheet-anchor

himself as Freddie Drummond, closer ties and relations in his own social

nook were necessary. It was time that he was married, anyway, and he was

fully aware that if Freddie Drummond didn’t get married, Bill Totts

assuredly would, and the complications were too awful to contemplate.

And so, enters Catherine Van Vorst. She was a college woman herself, and

her father, the one wealthy member of the faculty, was the head of the

Philosophy Department as well. It would be a wise marriage from every

standpoint, Freddie Drummond concluded when the engagement was

consummated and announced. In appearance cold and reserved, aristocratic

and wholesomely conservative, Catherine Van Vorst, though warm in her

way, possessed an inhibition equal to Drummond’s.

All seemed well with him, but Freddie Drummond could not quite shake off

the call of the underworld, the lure of the free and open, of the

unhampered, irresponsible life South of the Slot. As the time of his

marriage approached, he felt that he had indeed sowed wild oats, and he

felt, moreover, what a good thing it would be if he could have but one

wild fling more, play the good fellow and the wastrel one last time, ere

he settled down to grey lecture-rooms and sober matrimony. And, further

to tempt him, the very last chapter of _Labour Tactics and Strategy_

remained unwritten for lack of a trifle more of essential data which he

had neglected to gather.

So Freddie Drummond went down for the last time as Bill Totts, got his

data, and, unfortunately, encountered Mary Condon. Once more installed

in his study, it was not a pleasant thing to look back upon. It made his

warning doubly imperative. Bill Totts had behaved abominably. Not only

had he met Mary Condon at the Central Labour Council, but he had stopped

at a chop-house with her, on the way home, and treated her to oysters.

And before they parted at her door, his arms had been about her, and he

had kissed her on the lips and kissed her repeatedly. And her last words

in his ear, words uttered softly with a catchy sob in the throat that was

nothing more nor less than a love cry, were “Bill . . . dear, dear Bill.”

Freddie Drummond shuddered at the recollection. He saw the pit yawning

for him. He was not by nature a polygamist, and he was appalled at the

possibilities of the situation. It would have to be put an end to, and

it would end in one only of two ways: either he must become wholly Bill

Totts and be married to Mary Condon, or he must remain wholly Freddie

Drummond and be married to Catherine Van Vorst. Otherwise, his conduct

would be beneath contempt and horrible.

In the several months that followed, San Francisco was torn with labour

strife. The unions and the employers’ associations had locked horns with

a determination that looked as if they intended to settle the matter, one

way or the other, for all time. But Freddie Drummond corrected proofs,

lectured classes, and did not budge. He devoted himself to Catherine Van

Vorst, and day by day found more to respect and admire in her—nay, even

to love in her. The Street Car Strike tempted him, but not so severely

as he would have expected; and the great Meat Strike came on and left him

cold. The ghost of Bill Totts had been successfully laid, and Freddie

Drummond with rejuvenescent zeal tackled a brochure, long-planned, on the

topic of “diminishing returns.”

The wedding was two weeks off, when, one afternoon, in San Francisco,

Catherine Van Vorst picked him up and whisked him away to see a Boys’

Club, recently instituted by the settlement workers in whom she was

interested. It was her brother’s machine, but they were alone with the

exception of the chauffeur. At the junction with Kearny Street, Market

and Geary Streets intersect like the sides of a sharp-angled letter “V.”

They, in the auto, were coming down Market with the intention of

negotiating the sharp apex and going up Geary. But they did not know

what was coming down Geary, timed by fate to meet them at the apex.

While aware from the papers that the Meat Strike was on and that it was

an exceedingly bitter one, all thought of it at that moment was farthest

from Freddie Drummond’s mind. Was he not seated beside Catherine? And

besides, he was carefully expositing to her his views on settlement

work—views that Bill Totts’ adventures had played a part in formulating.

Coming down Geary Street were six meat waggons. Beside each scab driver

sat a policeman. Front and rear, and along each side of this procession,

marched a protecting escort of one hundred police. Behind the police

rearguard, at a respectful distance, was an orderly but vociferous mob,

several blocks in length, that congested the street from sidewalk to

sidewalk. The Beef Trust was making an effort to supply the hotels, and,

incidentally, to begin the breaking of the strike. The St. Francis had

already been supplied, at a cost of many broken windows and broken heads,

and the expedition was marching to the relief of the Palace Hotel.

All unwitting, Drummond sat beside Catherine, talking settlement work, as

the auto, honking methodically and dodging traffic, swung in a wide curve

to get around the apex. A big coal waggon, loaded with lump coal and

drawn by four huge horses, just debouching from Kearny Street as though

to turn down Market, blocked their way. The driver of the waggon seemed

undecided, and the chauffeur, running slow but disregarding some shouted

warning from the crossing policemen, swerved the auto to the left,

violating the traffic rules, in order to pass in front of the waggon.

At that moment Freddie Drummond discontinued his conversation. Nor did

he resume it again, for the situation was developing with the rapidity of

a transformation scene. He heard the roar of the mob at the rear, and

caught a glimpse of the helmeted police and the lurching meat waggons.

At the same moment, laying on his whip, and standing up to his task, the

coal driver rushed horses and waggon squarely in front of the advancing

procession, pulled the horses up sharply, and put on the big brake. Then

he made his lines fast to the brake-handle and sat down with the air of

one who had stopped to stay. The auto had been brought to a stop, too,

by his big panting leaders which had jammed against it.

Before the chauffeur could back clear, an old Irishman, driving a rickety

express waggon and lashing his one horse to a gallop, had locked wheels

with the auto. Drummond recognized both horse and waggon, for he had

driven them often himself. The Irishman was Pat Morrissey. On the other

side a brewery waggon was locking with the coal waggon, and an east-bound

Kearny Street car, wildly clanging its gong, the motorman shouting

defiance at the crossing policeman, was dashing forward to complete the

blockade. And waggon after waggon was locking and blocking and adding to

the confusion. The meat waggons halted. The police were trapped. The

roar at the rear increased as the mob came on to the attack, while the

vanguard of the police charged the obstructing waggons.

“We’re in for it,” Drummond remarked coolly to Catherine.

“Yes,” she nodded, with equal coolness. “What savages they are.”

His admiration for her doubled on itself. She was indeed his sort. He

would have been satisfied with her even if she had screamed, and clung to

him, but this—this was magnificent. She sat in that storm centre as

calmly as if it had been no more than a block of carriages at the opera.

The police were struggling to clear a passage. The driver of the coal

waggon, a big man in shirt sleeves, lighted a pipe and sat smoking. He

glanced down complacently at a captain of police who was raving and

cursing at him, and his only acknowledgment was a shrug of the shoulders.

From the rear arose the rat-rat-tat of clubs on heads and a pandemonium

of cursing, yelling, and shouting. A violent accession of noise

proclaimed that the mob had broken through and was dragging a scab from a

waggon. The police captain reinforced from his vanguard, and the mob at

the rear was repelled. Meanwhile, window after window in the high office

building on the right had been opened, and the class-conscious clerks

were raining a shower of office furniture down on the heads of police and

scabs. Waste-baskets, ink-bottles, paper-weights, type-writers—anything

and everything that came to hand was filling the air.

A policeman, under orders from his captain, clambered to the lofty seat

of the coal waggon to arrest the driver. And the driver, rising

leisurely and peacefully to meet him, suddenly crumpled him in his arms

and threw him down on top of the captain. The driver was a young giant,

and when he climbed on his load and poised a lump of coal in both hands,

a policeman, who was just scaling the waggon from the side, let go and

dropped back to earth. The captain ordered half-a-dozen of his men to

take the waggon. The teamster, scrambling over the load from side to

side, beat them down with huge lumps of coal.

The crowd on the sidewalks and the teamsters on the locked waggons roared

encouragement and their own delight. The motorman, smashing helmets with

his controller bar, was beaten into insensibility and dragged from his

platform. The captain of police, beside himself at the repulse of his

men, led the next assault on the coal waggon. A score of police were

swarming up the tall-sided fortress. But the teamster multiplied

himself. At times there were six or eight policemen rolling on the

pavement and under the waggon. Engaged in repulsing an attack on the

rear end of his fortress, the teamster turned about to see the captain

just in the act of stepping on to the seat from the front end. He was

still in the air and in most unstable equilibrium, when the teamster

hurled a thirty-pound lump of coal. It caught the captain fairly on the

chest, and he went over backward, striking on a wheeler’s back, tumbling

on to the ground, and jamming against the rear wheel of the auto.

Catherine thought he was dead, but he picked himself up and charged back.

She reached out her gloved hand and patted the flank of the snorting,

quivering horse. But Drummond did not notice the action. He had eyes

for nothing save the battle of the coal waggon, while somewhere in his

complicated psychology, one Bill Totts was heaving and straining in an

effort to come to life. Drummond believed in law and order and the

maintenance of the established, but this riotous savage within him would

have none of it. Then, if ever, did Freddie Drummond call upon his iron

inhibition to save him. But it is written that the house divided against

itself must fall. And Freddie Drummond found that he had divided all the

will and force of him with Bill Totts, and between them the entity that

constituted the pair of them was being wrenched in twain.

Freddie Drummond sat in the auto, quite composed, alongside Catherine Van

Vorst; but looking out of Freddie Drummond’s eyes was Bill Totts, and

somewhere behind those eyes, battling for the control of their mutual

body, were Freddie Drummond the sane and conservative sociologist, and

Bill Totts, the class-conscious and bellicose union working man. It was

Bill Totts, looking out of those eyes, who saw the inevitable end of the

battle on the coal waggon. He saw a policeman gain the top of the load,

a second, and a third. They lurched clumsily on the loose footing, but

their long riot-clubs were out and swinging. One blow caught the

teamster on the head. A second he dodged, receiving it on the shoulder.

For him the game was plainly up. He dashed in suddenly, clutched two

policemen in his arms, and hurled himself a prisoner to the pavement, his

hold never relaxing on his two captors.

Catherine Van Vorst was sick and faint at sight of the blood and brutal

fighting. But her qualms were vanquished by the sensational and most

unexpected happening that followed. The man beside her emitted an

unearthly and uncultured yell and rose to his feet. She saw him spring

over the front seat, leap to the broad rump of the wheeler, and from

there gain the waggon. His onslaught was like a whirlwind. Before the

bewildered officer on the load could guess the errand of this

conventionally clad but excited-seeming gentleman, he was the recipient

of a punch that arched him back through the air to the pavement. A kick

in the face led an ascending policeman to follow his example. A rush of

three more gained the top and locked with Bill Totts in a gigantic

clinch, during which his scalp was opened up by a club, and coat, vest,

and half his starched shirt were torn from him. But the three policemen

were flung far and wide, and Bill Totts, raining down lumps of coal, held

the fort.

The captain led gallantly to the attack, but was bowled over by a chunk

of coal that burst on his head in black baptism. The need of the police

was to break the blockade in front before the mob could break in at the

rear, and Bill Totts’ need was to hold the waggon till the mob did break

through. So the battle of the coal went on.

The crowd had recognized its champion. “Big” Bill, as usual, had come to

the front, and Catherine Van Vorst was bewildered by the cries of “Bill!

O you Bill!” that arose on every hand. Pat Morrissey, on his waggon

seat, was jumping and screaming in an ecstasy, “Eat ’em, Bill! Eat ’em!

Eat ’em alive!” From the sidewalk she heard a woman’s voice cry out,

“Look out, Bill—front end!” Bill took the warning and with well-directed

coal cleared the front end of the waggon of assailants. Catherine Van

Vorst turned her head and saw on the curb of the sidewalk a woman with

vivid colouring and flashing black eyes who was staring with all her soul

at the man who had been Freddie Drummond a few minutes before.

The windows of the office building became vociferous with applause. A

fresh shower of office chairs and filing cabinets descended. The mob had

broken through on one side the line of waggons, and was advancing, each

segregated policeman the centre of a fighting group. The scabs were torn

from their seats, the traces of the horses cut, and the frightened

animals put in flight. Many policemen crawled under the coal waggon for

safety, while the loose horses, with here and there a policeman on their

backs or struggling at their heads to hold them, surged across the

sidewalk opposite the jam and broke into Market Street.

Catherine Van Vorst heard the woman’s voice calling in warning. She was

back on the curb again, and crying out—

“Beat it, Bill! Now’s your time! Beat it!”

The police for the moment had been swept away. Bill Totts leaped to the

pavement and made his way to the woman on the sidewalk. Catherine Van

Vorst saw her throw her arms around him and kiss him on the lips; and

Catherine Van Vorst watched him curiously as he went on down the

sidewalk, one arm around the woman, both talking and laughing, and he

with a volubility and abandon she could never have dreamed possible.

The police were back again and clearing the jam while waiting for

reinforcements and new drivers and horses. The mob had done its work and

was scattering, and Catherine Van Vorst, still watching, could see the

man she had known as Freddie Drummond. He towered a head above the

crowd. His arm was still about the woman. And she in the motor-car,

watching, saw the pair cross Market Street, cross the Slot, and disappear

down Third Street into the labour ghetto.

* * * * *

In the years that followed no more lectures were given in the University

of California by one Freddie Drummond, and no more books on economics and

the labour question appeared over the name of Frederick A. Drummond. On

the other hand there arose a new labour leader, William Totts by name.

He it was who married Mary Condon, President of the International Glove

Workers’ Union No. 974; and he it was who called the notorious Cooks and

Waiters’ Strike, which, before its successful termination, brought out

with it scores of other unions, among which, of the more remotely allied,

were the Chicken Pickers and the Undertakers.

THE UNPARALLELED INVASION

IT was in the year 1976 that the trouble between the world and China

reached its culmination. It was because of this that the celebration of

the Second Centennial of American Liberty was deferred. Many other plans

of the nations of the earth were twisted and tangled and postponed for

the same reason. The world awoke rather abruptly to its danger; but for

over seventy years, unperceived, affairs had been shaping toward this

very end.

The year 1904 logically marks the beginning of the development that,

seventy years later, was to bring consternation to the whole world. The

Japanese-Russian War took place in 1904, and the historians of the time

gravely noted it down that that event marked the entrance of Japan into

the comity of nations. What it really did mark was the awakening of

China. This awakening, long expected, had finally been given up. The

Western nations had tried to arouse China, and they had failed. Out of

their native optimism and race-egotism they had therefore concluded that

the task was impossible, that China would never awaken.

What they had failed to take into account was this: _that between them

and China was no common psychological speech_. Their thought-processes

were radically dissimilar. There was no intimate vocabulary. The

Western mind penetrated the Chinese mind but a short distance when it

found itself in a fathomless maze. The Chinese mind penetrated the

Western mind an equally short distance when it fetched up against a

blank, incomprehensible wall. It was all a matter of language. There

was no way to communicate Western ideas to the Chinese mind. China

remained asleep. The material achievement and progress of the West was a

closed book to her; nor could the West open the book. Back and deep down

on the tie-ribs of consciousness, in the mind, say, of the

English-speaking race, was a capacity to thrill to short, Saxon words;

back and deep down on the tie-ribs of consciousness of the Chinese mind

was a capacity to thrill to its own hieroglyphics; but the Chinese mind

could not thrill to short, Saxon words; nor could the English-speaking

mind thrill to hieroglyphics. The fabrics of their minds were woven from

totally different stuffs. They were mental aliens. And so it was that

Western material achievement and progress made no dent on the rounded

sleep of China.

Came Japan and her victory over Russia in 1904. Now the Japanese race

was the freak and paradox among Eastern peoples. In some strange way

Japan was receptive to all the West had to offer. Japan swiftly

assimilated the Western ideas, and digested them, and so capably applied

them that she suddenly burst forth, full-panoplied, a world-power. There

is no explaining this peculiar openness of Japan to the alien culture of

the West. As well might be explained any biological sport in the animal

kingdom.

Having decisively thrashed the great Russian Empire, Japan promptly set

about dreaming a colossal dream of empire for herself. Korea she had

made into a granary and a colony; treaty privileges and vulpine diplomacy

gave her the monopoly of Manchuria. But Japan was not satisfied. She

turned her eyes upon China. There lay a vast territory, and in that

territory were the hugest deposits in the world of iron and coal—the

backbone of industrial civilization. Given natural resources, the other

great factor in industry is labour. In that territory was a population

of 400,000,000 souls—one quarter of the then total population of the

earth. Furthermore, the Chinese were excellent workers, while their

fatalistic philosophy (or religion) and their stolid nervous organization

constituted them splendid soldiers—if they were properly managed.

Needless to say, Japan was prepared to furnish that management.

But best of all, from the standpoint of Japan, the Chinese was a kindred

race. The baffling enigma of the Chinese character to the West was no

baffling enigma to the Japanese. The Japanese understood as we could

never school ourselves or hope to understand. Their mental processes

were the same. The Japanese thought with the same thought-symbols as did

the Chinese, and they thought in the same peculiar grooves. Into the

Chinese mind the Japanese went on where we were balked by the obstacle of

incomprehension. They took the turning which we could not perceive,

twisted around the obstacle, and were out of sight in the ramifications

of the Chinese mind where we could not follow. They were brothers. Long

ago one had borrowed the other’s written language, and, untold

generations before that, they had diverged from the common Mongol stock.

There had been changes, differentiations brought about by diverse

conditions and infusions of other blood; but down at the bottom of their

beings, twisted into the fibres of them, was a heritage in common, a

sameness in kind that time had not obliterated.

And so Japan took upon herself the management of China. In the years

immediately following the war with Russia, her agents swarmed over the

Chinese Empire. A thousand miles beyond the last mission station toiled

her engineers and spies, clad as coolies, under the guise of itinerant

merchants or proselytizing Buddhist priests, noting down the horse-power

of every waterfall, the likely sites for factories, the heights of

mountains and passes, the strategic advantages and weaknesses, the wealth

of the farming valleys, the number of bullocks in a district or the

number of labourers that could be collected by forced levies. Never was

there such a census, and it could have been taken by no other people than

the dogged, patient, patriotic Japanese.

But in a short time secrecy was thrown to the winds. Japan’s officers

reorganized the Chinese army; her drill sergeants made the mediæval

warriors over into twentieth century soldiers, accustomed to all the

modern machinery of war and with a higher average of marksmanship than

the soldiers of any Western nation. The engineers of Japan deepened and

widened the intricate system of canals, built factories and foundries,

netted the empire with telegraphs and telephones, and inaugurated the era

of railroad-building. It was these same protagonists of

machine-civilization that discovered the great oil deposits of Chunsan,

the iron mountains of Whang-Sing, the copper ranges of Chinchi, and they

sank the gas wells of Wow-Wee, that most marvellous reservoir of natural

gas in all the world.

In China’s councils of empire were the Japanese emissaries. In the ears

of the statesmen whispered the Japanese statesmen. The political

reconstruction of the Empire was due to them. They evicted the scholar

class, which was violently reactionary, and put into office progressive

officials. And in every town and city of the Empire newspapers were

started. Of course, Japanese editors ran the policy of these papers,

which policy they got direct from Tokio. It was these papers that

educated and made progressive the great mass of the population.

China was at last awake. Where the West had failed, Japan succeeded.

She had transmuted Western culture and achievement into terms that were

intelligible to the Chinese understanding. Japan herself, when she so

suddenly awakened, had astounded the world. But at the time she was only

forty millions strong. China’s awakening, with her four hundred millions

and the scientific advance of the world, was frightfully astounding. She

was the colossus of the nations, and swiftly her voice was heard in no

uncertain tones in the affairs and councils of the nations. Japan egged

her on, and the proud Western peoples listened with respectful ears.

China’s swift and remarkable rise was due, perhaps more than to anything

else, to the superlative quality of her labour. The Chinese was the

perfect type of industry. He had always been that. For sheer ability to

work no worker in the world could compare with him. Work was the breath

of his nostrils. It was to him what wandering and fighting in far lands

and spiritual adventure had been to other peoples. Liberty, to him,

epitomized itself in access to the means of toil. To till the soil and

labour interminably was all he asked of life and the powers that be. And

the awakening of China had given its vast population not merely free and

unlimited access to the means of toil, but access to the highest and most

scientific machine-means of toil.

China rejuvenescent! It was but a step to China rampant. She discovered

a new pride in herself and a will of her own. She began to chafe under

the guidance of Japan, but she did not chafe long. On Japan’s advice, in

the beginning, she had expelled from the Empire all Western missionaries,

engineers, drill sergeants, merchants, and teachers. She now began to

expel the similar representatives of Japan. The latter’s advisory

statesmen were showered with honours and decorations, and sent home. The

West had awakened Japan, and, as Japan had then requited the West, Japan

was not requited by China. Japan was thanked for her kindly aid and

flung out bag and baggage by her gigantic protégé. The Western nations

chuckled. Japan’s rainbow dream had gone glimmering. She grew angry.

China laughed at her. The blood and the swords of the Samurai would out,

and Japan rashly went to war. This occurred in 1922, and in seven bloody

months Manchuria, Korea, and Formosa were taken away from her and she was

hurled back, bankrupt, to stifle in her tiny, crowded islands. Exit

Japan from the world drama. Thereafter she devoted herself to art, and

her task became to please the world greatly with her creations of wonder

and beauty.

Contrary to expectation, China did not prove warlike. She had no

Napoleonic dream, and was content to devote herself to the arts of peace.

After a time of disquiet, the idea was accepted that China was to be

feared, not in war, but in commerce. It will be seen that the real

danger was not apprehended. China went on consummating her

machine-civilization. Instead of a large standing army, she developed an

immensely larger and splendidly efficient militia. Her navy was so small

that it was the laughing stock of the world; nor did she attempt to

strengthen her navy. The treaty ports of the world were never entered by

her visiting battleships.

The real danger lay in the fecundity of her loins, and it was in 1970

that the first cry of alarm was raised. For some time all territories

adjacent to China had been grumbling at Chinese immigration; but now it

suddenly came home to the world that China’s population was 500,000,000.

She had increased by a hundred millions since her awakening. Burchaldter

called attention to the fact that there were more Chinese in existence

than white-skinned people. He performed a simple sum in arithmetic. He

added together the populations of the United States, Canada, New Zealand,

Australia, South Africa, England, France, Germany, Italy, Austria,

European Russia, and all Scandinavia. The result was 495,000,000. And

the population of China overtopped this tremendous total by 5,000,000.

Burchaldter’s figures went round the world, and the world shivered.

For many centuries China’s population had been constant. Her territory

had been saturated with population; that is to say, her territory, with

the primitive method of production, had supported the maximum limit of

population. But when she awoke and inaugurated the machine-civilization,

her productive power had been enormously increased. Thus, on the same

territory, she was able to support a far larger population. At once the

birth rate began to rise and the death rate to fall. Before, when

population pressed against the means of subsistence, the excess

population had been swept away by famine. But now, thanks to the

machine-civilization, China’s means of subsistence had been enormously

extended, and there were no famines; her population followed on the heels

of the increase in the means of subsistence.

During this time of transition and development of power, China had

entertained no dreams of conquest. The Chinese was not an imperial race.

It was industrious, thrifty, and peace-loving. War was looked upon as an

unpleasant but necessary task that at times must be performed. And so,

while the Western races had squabbled and fought, and world-adventured

against one another, China had calmly gone on working at her machines and

growing. Now she was spilling over the boundaries of her Empire—that was

all, just spilling over into the adjacent territories with all the

certainty and terrifying slow momentum of a glacier.

Following upon the alarm raised by Burchaldter’s figures, in 1970 France

made a long-threatened stand. French Indo-China had been overrun, filled

up, by Chinese immigrants. France called a halt. The Chinese wave

flowed on. France assembled a force of a hundred thousand on the

boundary between her unfortunate colony and China, and China sent down an

army of militia-soldiers a million strong. Behind came the wives and

sons and daughters and relatives, with their personal household luggage,

in a second army. The French force was brushed aside like a fly. The

Chinese militia-soldiers, along with their families, over five millions

all told, coolly took possession of French Indo-China and settled down to

stay for a few thousand years.

Outraged France was in arms. She hurled fleet after fleet against the

coast of China, and nearly bankrupted herself by the effort. China had

no navy. She withdrew like a turtle into her shell. For a year the

French fleets blockaded the coast and bombarded exposed towns and

villages. China did not mind. She did not depend upon the rest of the

world for anything. She calmly kept out of range of the French guns and

went on working. France wept and wailed, wrung her impotent hands and

appealed to the dumfounded nations. Then she landed a punitive

expedition to march to Peking. It was two hundred and fifty thousand

strong, and it was the flower of France. It landed without opposition

and marched into the interior. And that was the last ever seen of it.

The line of communication was snapped on the second day. Not a survivor

came back to tell what had happened. It had been swallowed up in China’s

cavernous maw, that was all.

In the five years that followed, China’s expansion, in all land

directions, went on apace. Siam was made part of the Empire, and, in

spite of all that England could do, Burma and the Malay Peninsula were

overrun; while all along the long south boundary of Siberia, Russia was

pressed severely by China’s advancing hordes. The process was simple.

First came the Chinese immigration (or, rather, it was already there,

having come there slowly and insidiously during the previous years).

Next came the clash of arms and the brushing away of all opposition by a

monster army of militia-soldiers, followed by their families and

household baggage. And finally came their settling down as colonists in

the conquered territory. Never was there so strange and effective a

method of world conquest.

Napal and Bhutan were overrun, and the whole northern boundary of India

pressed against by this fearful tide of life. To the west, Bokhara, and,

even to the south and west, Afghanistan, were swallowed up. Persia,

Turkestan, and all Central Asia felt the pressure of the flood. It was

at this time that Burchaldter revised his figures. He had been mistaken.

China’s population must be seven hundred millions, eight hundred

millions, nobody knew how many millions, but at any rate it would soon be

a billion. There were two Chinese for every white-skinned human in the

world, Burchaldter announced, and the world trembled. China’s increase

must have begun immediately, in 1904. It was remembered that since that

date there had not been a single famine. At 5,000,000 a year increase,

her total increase in the intervening seventy years must be 350,000,000.

But who was to know? It might be more. Who was to know anything of this

strange new menace of the twentieth century—China, old China,

rejuvenescent, fruitful, and militant!

The Convention of 1975 was called at Philadelphia. All the Western

nations, and some few of the Eastern, were represented. Nothing was

accomplished. There was talk of all countries putting bounties on

children to increase the birth rate, but it was laughed to scorn by the

arithmeticians, who pointed out that China was too far in the lead in

that direction. No feasible way of coping with China was suggested.

China was appealed to and threatened by the United Powers, and that was

all the Convention of Philadelphia came to; and the Convention and the

Powers were laughed at by China. Li Tang Fwung, the power behind the

Dragon Throne, deigned to reply.

“What does China care for the comity of nations?” said Li Tang Fwung.

“We are the most ancient, honourable, and royal of races. We have our

own destiny to accomplish. It is unpleasant that our destiny does not

tally with the destiny of the rest of the world, but what would you? You

have talked windily about the royal races and the heritage of the earth,

and we can only reply that that remains to be seen. You cannot invade

us. Never mind about your navies. Don’t shout. We know our navy is

small. You see we use it for police purposes. We do not care for the

sea. Our strength is in our population, which will soon be a billion.

Thanks to you, we are equipped with all modern war-machinery. Send your

navies. We will not notice them. Send your punitive expeditions, but

first remember France. To land half a million soldiers on our shores

would strain the resources of any of you. And our thousand millions

would swallow them down in a mouthful. Send a million; send five

millions, and we will swallow them down just as readily. Pouf! A mere

nothing, a meagre morsel. Destroy, as you have threatened, you United

States, the ten million coolies we have forced upon your shores—why, the

amount scarcely equals half of our excess birth rate for a year.”

So spoke Li Tang Fwung. The world was nonplussed, helpless, terrified.

Truly had he spoken. There was no combating China’s amazing birth rate.

If her population was a billion, and was increasing twenty millions a

year, in twenty-five years it would be a billion and a half—equal to the

total population of the world in 1904. And nothing could be done. There

was no way to dam up the over-spilling monstrous flood of life. War was

futile. China laughed at a blockade of her coasts. She welcomed

invasion. In her capacious maw was room for all the hosts of earth that

could be hurled at her. And in the meantime her flood of yellow life

poured out and on over Asia. China laughed and read in their magazines

the learned lucubrations of the distracted Western scholars.

But there was one scholar China failed to reckon on—Jacobus Laningdale.

Not that he was a scholar, except in the widest sense. Primarily,

Jacobus Laningdale was a scientist, and, up to that time, a very obscure

scientist, a professor employed in the laboratories of the Health Office

of New York City. Jacobus Laningdale’s head was very like any other

head, but in that head was evolved an idea. Also, in that head was the

wisdom to keep that idea secret. He did not write an article for the

magazines. Instead, he asked for a vacation. On September 19, 1975, he

arrived in Washington. It was evening, but he proceeded straight to the

White House, for he had already arranged an audience with the President.

He was closeted with President Moyer for three hours. What passed

between them was not learned by the rest of the world until long after;

in fact, at that time the world was not interested in Jacobus Laningdale.

Next day the President called in his Cabinet. Jacobus Laningdale was

present. The proceedings were kept secret. But that very afternoon

Rufus Cowdery, Secretary of State, left Washington, and early the

following morning sailed for England. The secret that he carried began

to spread, but it spread only among the heads of Governments. Possibly

half-a-dozen men in a nation were entrusted with the idea that had formed

in Jacobus Laningdale’s head. Following the spread of the secret, sprang

up great activity in all the dockyards, arsenals, and navy-yards. The

people of France and Austria became suspicious, but so sincere were their

Governments’ calls for confidence that they acquiesced in the unknown

project that was afoot.

This was the time of the Great Truce. All countries pledged themselves

solemnly not to go to war with any other country. The first definite

action was the gradual mobilization of the armies of Russia, Germany,

Austria, Italy, Greece, and Turkey. Then began the eastward movement.

All railroads into Asia were glutted with troop trains. China was the

objective, that was all that was known. A little later began the great

sea movement. Expeditions of warships were launched from all countries.

Fleet followed fleet, and all proceeded to the coast of China. The

nations cleaned out their navy-yards. They sent their revenue cutters

and dispatch boats and lighthouse tenders, and they sent their last

antiquated cruisers and battleships. Not content with this, they

impressed the merchant marine. The statistics show that 58,640 merchant

steamers, equipped with searchlights and rapid-fire guns, were despatched

by the various nations to China.

And China smiled and waited. On her land side, along her boundaries,

were millions of the warriors of Europe. She mobilized five times as

many millions of her militia and awaited the invasion. On her sea coasts

she did the same. But China was puzzled. After all this enormous

preparation, there was no invasion. She could not understand. Along the

great Siberian frontier all was quiet. Along her coasts the towns and

villages were not even shelled. Never, in the history of the world, had

there been so mighty a gathering of war fleets. The fleets of all the

world were there, and day and night millions of tons of battleships

ploughed the brine of her coasts, and nothing happened. Nothing was

attempted. Did they think to make her emerge from her shell? China

smiled. Did they think to tire her out, or starve her out? China smiled

again.

But on May 1, 1976, had the reader been in the imperial city of Peking,

with its then population of eleven millions, he would have witnessed a

curious sight. He would have seen the streets filled with the chattering

yellow populace, every queued head tilted back, every slant eye turned

skyward. And high up in the blue he would have beheld a tiny dot of

black, which, because of its orderly evolutions, he would have identified

as an airship. From this airship, as it curved its flight back and forth

over the city, fell missiles—strange, harmless missiles, tubes of fragile

glass that shattered into thousands of fragments on the streets and

house-tops. But there was nothing deadly about these tubes of glass.

Nothing happened. There were no explosions. It is true, three Chinese

were killed by the tubes dropping on their heads from so enormous a

height; but what were three Chinese against an excess birth rate of

twenty millions? One tube struck perpendicularly in a fish-pond in a

garden and was not broken. It was dragged ashore by the master of the

house. He did not dare to open it, but, accompanied by his friends, and

surrounded by an ever-increasing crowd, he carried the mysterious tube to

the magistrate of the district. The latter was a brave man. With all

eyes upon him, he shattered the tube with a blow from his brass-bowled

pipe. Nothing happened. Of those who were very near, one or two thought

they saw some mosquitoes fly out. That was all. The crowd set up a

great laugh and dispersed.

As Peking was bombarded by glass tubes, so was all China. The tiny

airships, dispatched from the warships, contained but two men each, and

over all cities, towns, and villages they wheeled and curved, one man

directing the ship, the other man throwing over the glass tubes.

Had the reader again been in Peking, six weeks later, he would have

looked in vain for the eleven million inhabitants. Some few of them he

would have found, a few hundred thousand, perhaps, their carcasses

festering in the houses and in the deserted streets, and piled high on

the abandoned death-waggons. But for the rest he would have had to seek

along the highways and byways of the Empire. And not all would he have

found fleeing from plague-stricken Peking, for behind them, by hundreds

of thousands of unburied corpses by the wayside, he could have marked

their flight. And as it was with Peking, so it was with all the cities,

towns, and villages of the Empire. The plague smote them all. Nor was

it one plague, nor two plagues; it was a score of plagues. Every

virulent form of infectious death stalked through the land. Too late the

Chinese government apprehended the meaning of the colossal preparations,

the marshalling of the world-hosts, the flights of the tin airships, and

the rain of the tubes of glass. The proclamations of the government were

vain. They could not stop the eleven million plague-stricken wretches,

fleeing from the one city of Peking to spread disease through all the

land. The physicians and health officers died at their posts; and death,

the all-conqueror, rode over the decrees of the Emperor and Li Tang

Fwung. It rode over them as well, for Li Tang Fwung died in the second

week, and the Emperor, hidden away in the Summer Palace, died in the

fourth week.

Had there been one plague, China might have coped with it. But from a

score of plagues no creature was immune. The man who escaped smallpox

went down before scarlet fever. The man who was immune to yellow fever

was carried away by cholera; and if he were immune to that, too, the

Black Death, which was the bubonic plague, swept him away. For it was

these bacteria, and germs, and microbes, and bacilli, cultured in the

laboratories of the West, that had come down upon China in the rain of

glass.

All organization vanished. The government crumbled away. Decrees and

proclamations were useless when the men who made them and signed them one

moment were dead the next. Nor could the maddened millions, spurred on

to flight by death, pause to heed anything. They fled from the cities to

infect the country, and wherever they fled they carried the plagues with

them. The hot summer was on—Jacobus Laningdale had selected the time

shrewdly—and the plague festered everywhere. Much is conjectured of what

occurred, and much has been learned from the stories of the few

survivors. The wretched creatures stormed across the Empire in

many-millioned flight. The vast armies China had collected on her

frontiers melted away. The farms were ravaged for food, and no more

crops were planted, while the crops already in were left unattended and

never came to harvest. The most remarkable thing, perhaps, was the

flights. Many millions engaged in them, charging to the bounds of the

Empire to be met and turned back by the gigantic armies of the West. The

slaughter of the mad hosts on the boundaries was stupendous. Time and

again the guarding line was drawn back twenty or thirty miles to escape

the contagion of the multitudinous dead.

Once the plague broke through and seized upon the German and Austrian

soldiers who were guarding the borders of Turkestan. Preparations had

been made for such a happening, and though sixty thousand soldiers of

Europe were carried off, the international corps of physicians isolated

the contagion and dammed it back. It was during this struggle that it

was suggested that a new plague-germ had originated, that in some way or

other a sort of hybridization between plague-germs had taken place,

producing a new and frightfully virulent germ. First suspected by

Vomberg, who became infected with it and died, it was later isolated and

studied by Stevens, Hazenfelt, Norman, and Landers.

Such was the unparalleled invasion of China. For that billion of people

there was no hope. Pent in their vast and festering charnel-house, all

organization and cohesion lost, they could do naught but die. They could

not escape. As they were flung back from their land frontiers, so were

they flung back from the sea. Seventy-five thousand vessels patrolled

the coasts. By day their smoking funnels dimmed the sea-rim, and by

night their flashing searchlights ploughed the dark and harrowed it for

the tiniest escaping junk. The attempts of the immense fleets of junks

were pitiful. Not one ever got by the guarding sea-hounds. Modern

war-machinery held back the disorganized mass of China, while the plagues

did the work.

But old War was made a thing of laughter. Naught remained to him but

patrol duty. China had laughed at war, and war she was getting, but it

was ultra-modern war, twentieth century war, the war of the scientist and

the laboratory, the war of Jacobus Laningdale. Hundred-ton guns were

toys compared with the micro-organic projectiles hurled from the

laboratories, the messengers of death, the destroying angels that stalked

through the empire of a billion souls.

During all the summer and fall of 1976 China was an inferno. There was

no eluding the microscopic projectiles that sought out the remotest

hiding-places. The hundreds of millions of dead remained unburied and

the germs multiplied themselves, and, toward the last, millions died

daily of starvation. Besides, starvation weakened the victims and

destroyed their natural defences against the plagues. Cannibalism,

murder, and madness reigned. And so perished China.

Not until the following February, in the coldest weather, were the first

expeditions made. These expeditions were small, composed of scientists

and bodies of troops; but they entered China from every side. In spite

of the most elaborate precautions against infection, numbers of soldiers

and a few of the physicians were stricken. But the exploration went

bravely on. They found China devastated, a howling wilderness through

which wandered bands of wild dogs and desperate bandits who had survived.

All survivors were put to death wherever found. And then began the great

task, the sanitation of China. Five years and hundreds of millions of

treasure were consumed, and then the world moved in—not in zones, as was

the idea of Baron Albrecht, but heterogeneously, according to the

democratic American programme. It was a vast and happy intermingling of

nationalities that settled down in China in 1982 and the years that

followed—a tremendous and successful experiment in cross-fertilization.

We know to-day the splendid mechanical, intellectual, and art output that

followed.

It was in 1987, the Great Truce having been dissolved, that the ancient

quarrel between France and Germany over Alsace-Lorraine recrudesced. The

war-cloud grew dark and threatening in April, and on April 17 the

Convention of Copenhagen was called. The representatives of the nations

of the world, being present, all nations solemnly pledged themselves

never to use against one another the laboratory methods of warfare they

had employed in the invasion of China.

—Excerpt from Walt Mervin’s “_Certain Essays in History_.”

THE ENEMY OF ALL THE WORLD

IT was Silas Bannerman who finally ran down that scientific wizard and

arch-enemy of mankind, Emil Gluck. Gluck’s confession, before he went to

the electric chair, threw much light upon the series of mysterious

events, many apparently unrelated, that so perturbed the world between

the years 1933 and 1941. It was not until that remarkable document was

made public that the world dreamed of there being any connection between

the assassination of the King and Queen of Portugal and the murders of

the New York City police officers. While the deeds of Emil Gluck were

all that was abominable, we cannot but feel, to a certain extent, pity

for the unfortunate, malformed, and maltreated genius. This side of his

story has never been told before, and from his confession and from the

great mass of evidence and the documents and records of the time we are

able to construct a fairly accurate portrait of him, and to discern the

factors and pressures that moulded him into the human monster he became

and that drove him onward and downward along the fearful path he trod.

Emil Gluck was born in Syracuse, New York, in 1895. His father, Josephus

Gluck, was a special policeman and night watchman, who, in the year 1900,

died suddenly of pneumonia. The mother, a pretty, fragile creature, who,

before her marriage, had been a milliner, grieved herself to death over

the loss of her husband. This sensitiveness of the mother was the

heritage that in the boy became morbid and horrible.

In 1901, the boy, Emil, then six years of age, went to live with his

aunt, Mrs. Ann Bartell. She was his mother’s sister, but in her breast

was no kindly feeling for the sensitive, shrinking boy. Ann Bartell was

a vain, shallow, and heartless woman. Also, she was cursed with poverty

and burdened with a husband who was a lazy, erratic ne’er-do-well. Young

Emil Gluck was not wanted, and Ann Bartell could be trusted to impress

this fact sufficiently upon him. As an illustration of the treatment he

received in that early, formative period, the following instance is

given.

When he had been living in the Bartell home a little more than a year, he

broke his leg. He sustained the injury through playing on the forbidden

roof—as all boys have done and will continue to do to the end of time.

The leg was broken in two places between the knee and thigh. Emil,

helped by his frightened playmates, managed to drag himself to the front

sidewalk, where he fainted. The children of the neighbourhood were

afraid of the hard-featured shrew who presided over the Bartell house;

but, summoning their resolution, they rang the bell and told Ann Bartell

of the accident. She did not even look at the little lad who lay

stricken on the sidewalk, but slammed the door and went back to her

wash-tub. The time passed. A drizzle came on, and Emil Gluck, out of

his faint, lay sobbing in the rain. The leg should have been set

immediately. As it was, the inflammation rose rapidly and made a nasty

case of it. At the end of two hours, the indignant women of the

neighbourhood protested to Ann Bartell. This time she came out and

looked at the lad. Also she kicked him in the side as he lay helpless at

her feet, and she hysterically disowned him. He was not her child, she

said, and recommended that the ambulance be called to take him to the

city receiving hospital. Then she went back into the house.

It was a woman, Elizabeth Shepstone, who came along, learned the

situation, and had the boy placed on a shutter. It was she who called

the doctor, and who, brushing aside Ann Bartell, had the boy carried into

the house. When the doctor arrived, Ann Bartell promptly warned him that

she would not pay him for his services. For two months the little Emil

lay in bed, the first month on his back without once being turned over;

and he lay neglected and alone, save for the occasional visits of the

unremunerated and over-worked physician. He had no toys, nothing with

which to beguile the long and tedious hours. No kind word was spoken to

him, no soothing hand laid upon his brow, no single touch or act of

loving tenderness—naught but the reproaches and harshness of Ann Bartell,

and the continually reiterated information that he was not wanted. And

it can well be understood, in such environment, how there was generated

in the lonely, neglected boy much of the bitterness and hostility for his

kind that later was to express itself in deeds so frightful as to terrify

the world.

It would seem strange that, from the hands of Ann Bartell, Emil Gluck

should have received a college education; but the explanation is simple.

Her ne’er-do-well husband, deserting her, made a strike in the Nevada

goldfields, and returned to her a many-times millionaire. Ann Bartell

hated the boy, and immediately she sent him to the Farristown Academy, a

hundred miles away. Shy and sensitive, a lonely and misunderstood little

soul, he was more lonely than ever at Farristown. He never came home, at

vacation, and holidays, as the other boys did. Instead, he wandered

about the deserted buildings and grounds, befriended and misunderstood by

the servants and gardeners, reading much, it is remembered, spending his

days in the fields or before the fire-place with his nose poked always in

the pages of some book. It was at this time that he over-used his eyes

and was compelled to take up the wearing of glasses, which same were so

prominent in the photographs of him published in the newspapers in 1941.

He was a remarkable student. Application such as his would have taken

him far; but he did not need application. A glance at a text meant

mastery for him. The result was that he did an immense amount of

collateral reading and acquired more in half a year than did the average

student in half-a-dozen years. In 1909, barely fourteen years of age, he

was ready—“more than ready” the headmaster of the academy said—to enter

Yale or Harvard. His juvenility prevented him from entering those

universities, and so, in 1909, we find him a freshman at historic Bowdoin

College. In 1913 he graduated with highest honours, and immediately

afterward followed Professor Bradlough to Berkeley, California. The one

friend that Emil Gluck discovered in all his life was Professor

Bradlough. The latter’s weak lungs had led him to exchange Maine for

California, the removal being facilitated by the offer of a professorship

in the State University. Throughout the year 1914, Emil Gluck resided in

Berkeley and took special scientific courses. Toward the end of that

year two deaths changed his prospects and his relations with life. The

death of Professor Bradlough took from him the one friend he was ever to

know, and the death of Ann Bartell left him penniless. Hating the

unfortunate lad to the last, she cut him off with one hundred dollars.

The following year, at twenty years of age, Emil Gluck was enrolled as an

instructor of chemistry in the University of California. Here the years

passed quietly; he faithfully performed the drudgery that brought him his

salary, and, a student always, he took half-a-dozen degrees. He was,

among other things, a Doctor of Sociology, of Philosophy, and of Science,

though he was known to the world, in later days, only as Professor Gluck.

He was twenty-seven years old when he first sprang into prominence in the

newspapers through the publication of his book, _Sex and Progress_. The

book remains to-day a milestone in the history and philosophy of

marriage. It is a heavy tome of over seven hundred pages, painfully

careful and accurate, and startlingly original. It was a book for

scientists, and not one calculated to make a stir. But Gluck, in the

last chapter, using barely three lines for it, mentioned the hypothetical

desirability of trial marriages. At once the newspapers seized these

three lines, “played them up yellow,” as the slang was in those days, and

set the whole world laughing at Emil Gluck, the bespectacled young

professor of twenty-seven. Photographers snapped him, he was besieged by

reporters, women’s clubs throughout the land passed resolutions

condemning him and his immoral theories; and on the floor of the

California Assembly, while discussing the state appropriation to the

University, a motion demanding the expulsion of Gluck was made under

threat of withholding the appropriation—of course, none of his

persecutors had read the book; the twisted newspaper version of only

three lines of it was enough for them. Here began Emil Gluck’s hatred

for newspaper men. By them his serious and intrinsically valuable work

of six years had been made a laughing-stock and a notoriety. To his

dying day, and to their everlasting regret, he never forgave them.

It was the newspapers that were responsible for the next disaster that

befell him. For the five years following the publication of his book he

had remained silent, and silence for a lonely man is not good. One can

conjecture sympathetically the awful solitude of Emil Gluck in that

populous University; for he was without friends and without sympathy.

His only recourse was books, and he went on reading and studying

enormously. But in 1927 he accepted an invitation to appear before the

Human Interest Society of Emeryville. He did not trust himself to speak,

and as we write we have before us a copy of his learned paper. It is

sober, scholarly, and scientific, and, it must also be added,

conservative. But in one place he dealt with, and I quote his words,

“the industrial and social revolution that is taking place in society.”

A reporter present seized upon the word “revolution,” divorced it from

the text, and wrote a garbled account that made Emil Gluck appear an

anarchist. At once, “Professor Gluck, anarchist,” flamed over the wires

and was appropriately “featured” in all the newspapers in the land.

He had attempted to reply to the previous newspaper attack, but now he

remained silent. Bitterness had already corroded his soul. The

University faculty appealed to him to defend himself, but he sullenly

declined, even refusing to enter in defence a copy of his paper to save

himself from expulsion. He refused to resign, and was discharged from

the University faculty. It must be added that political pressure had

been put upon the University Regents and the President.

Persecuted, maligned, and misunderstood, the forlorn and lonely man made

no attempt at retaliation. All his life he had been sinned against, and

all his life he had sinned against no one. But his cup of bitterness was

not yet full to overflowing. Having lost his position, and being without

any income, he had to find work. His first place was at the Union Iron

Works, in San Francisco, where he proved a most able draughtsman. It was

here that he obtained his firsthand knowledge of battleships and their

construction. But the reporters discovered him and featured him in his

new vocation. He immediately resigned and found another place; but after

the reporters had driven him away from half-a-dozen positions, he steeled

himself to brazen out the newspaper persecution. This occurred when he

started his electroplating establishment—in Oakland, on Telegraph Avenue.

It was a small shop, employing three men and two boys. Gluck himself

worked long hours. Night after night, as Policeman Carew testified on

the stand, he did not leave the shop till one and two in the morning. It

was during this period that he perfected the improved ignition device for

gas-engines, the royalties from which ultimately made him wealthy.

He started his electroplating establishment early in the spring of 1928,

and it was in the same year that he formed the disastrous love attachment

for Irene Tackley. Now it is not to be imagined that an extraordinary

creature such as Emil Gluck could be any other than an extraordinary

lover. In addition to his genius, his loneliness, and his morbidness, it

must be taken into consideration that he knew nothing about women.

Whatever tides of desire flooded his being, he was unschooled in the

conventional expression of them; while his excessive timidity was bound

to make his love-making unusual. Irene Tackley was a rather pretty young

woman, but shallow and light-headed. At the time she worked in a small

candy store across the street from Gluck’s shop. He used to come in and

drink ice-cream sodas and lemon-squashes, and stare at her. It seems the

girl did not care for him, and merely played with him. He was “queer,”

she said; and at another time she called him a crank when describing how

he sat at the counter and peered at her through his spectacles, blushing

and stammering when she took notice of him, and often leaving the shop in

precipitate confusion.

Gluck made her the most amazing presents—a silver tea-service, a diamond

ring, a set of furs, opera-glasses, a ponderous _History of the World_ in

many volumes, and a motor-cycle all silver-plated in his own shop.

Enters now the girl’s lover, putting his foot down, showing great anger,

compelling her to return Gluck’s strange assortment of presents. This

man, William Sherbourne, was a gross and stolid creature, a heavy-jawed

man of the working class who had become a successful building-contractor

in a small way. Gluck did not understand. He tried to get an

explanation, attempting to speak with the girl when she went home from

work in the evening. She complained to Sherbourne, and one night he gave

Gluck a beating. It was a very severe beating, for it is on the records

of the Red Cross Emergency Hospital that Gluck was treated there that

night and was unable to leave the hospital for a week.

Still Gluck did not understand. He continued to seek an explanation from

the girl. In fear of Sherbourne, he applied to the Chief of Police for

permission to carry a revolver, which permission was refused, the

newspapers as usual playing it up sensationally. Then came the murder of

Irene Tackley, six days before her contemplated marriage with Sherbourne.

It was on a Saturday night. She had worked late in the candy store,

departing after eleven o’clock with her week’s wages in her purse. She

rode on a San Pablo Avenue surface car to Thirty-fourth Street, where she

alighted and started to walk the three blocks to her home. That was the

last seen of her alive. Next morning she was found, strangled, in a

vacant lot.

Emil Gluck was immediately arrested. Nothing that he could do could save

him. He was convicted, not merely on circumstantial evidence, but on

evidence “cooked up” by the Oakland police. There is no discussion but

that a large portion of the evidence was manufactured. The testimony of

Captain Shehan was the sheerest perjury, it being proved long afterward

that on the night in question he had not only not been in the vicinity of

the murder, but that he had been out of the city in a resort on the San

Leandro Road. The unfortunate Gluck received life imprisonment in San

Quentin, while the newspapers and the public held that it was a

miscarriage of justice—that the death penalty should have been visited

upon him.

Gluck entered San Quentin prison on April 17, 1929. He was then

thirty-four years of age. And for three years and a half, much of the

time in solitary confinement, he was left to meditate upon the injustice

of man. It was during that period that his bitterness corroded home and

he became a hater of all his kind. Three other things he did during the

same period: he wrote his famous treatise, _Human Morals_, his remarkable

brochure, _The Criminal Sane_, and he worked out his awful and monstrous

scheme of revenge. It was an episode that had occurred in his

electroplating establishment that suggested to him his unique weapon of

revenge. As stated in his confession, he worked every detail out

theoretically during his imprisonment, and was able, on his release,

immediately to embark on his career of vengeance.

His release was sensational. Also it was miserably and criminally

delayed by the soulless legal red tape then in vogue. On the night of

February 1, 1932, Tim Haswell, a hold-up man, was shot during an

attempted robbery by a citizen of Piedmont Heights. Tim Haswell lingered

three days, during which time he not only confessed to the murder of

Irene Tackley, but furnished conclusive proofs of the same. Bert

Danniker, a convict dying of consumption in Folsom Prison, was implicated

as accessory, and his confession followed. It is inconceivable to us of

to-day—the bungling, dilatory processes of justice a generation ago.

Emil Gluck was proved in February to be an innocent man, yet he was not

released until the following October. For eight months, a greatly

wronged man, he was compelled to undergo his unmerited punishment. This

was not conducive to sweetness and light, and we can well imagine how he

ate his soul with bitterness during those dreary eight months.

He came back to the world in the fall of 1932, as usual a “feature” topic

in all the newspapers. The papers, instead of expressing heartfelt

regret, continued their old sensational persecution. One paper did

more—the _San Francisco Intelligencer_. John Hartwell, its editor,

elaborated an ingenious theory that got around the confessions of the two

criminals and went to show that Gluck was responsible, after all, for the

murder of Irene Tackley. Hartwell died. And Sherbourne died too, while

Policeman Phillipps was shot in the leg and discharged from the Oakland

police force.

The murder of Hartwell was long a mystery. He was alone in his editorial

office at the time. The reports of the revolver were heard by the office

boy, who rushed in to find Hartwell expiring in his chair. What puzzled

the police was the fact, not merely that he had been shot with his own

revolver, but that the revolver had been exploded in the drawer of his

desk. The bullets had torn through the front of the drawer and entered

his body. The police scouted the theory of suicide, murder was dismissed

as absurd, and the blame was thrown upon the Eureka Smokeless Cartridge

Company. Spontaneous explosion was the police explanation, and the

chemists of the cartridge company were well bullied at the inquest. But

what the police did not know was that across the street, in the Mercer

Building, Room 633, rented by Emil Gluck, had been occupied by Emil Gluck

at the very moment Hartwell’s revolver so mysteriously exploded.

At the time, no connection was made between Hartwell’s death and the

death of William Sherbourne. Sherbourne had continued to live in the

home he had built for Irene Tackley, and one morning in January, 1933, he

was found dead. Suicide was the verdict of the coroner’s inquest, for he

had been shot by his own revolver. The curious thing that happened that

night was the shooting of Policeman Phillipps on the sidewalk in front of

Sherbourne’s house. The policeman crawled to a police telephone on the

corner and rang up for an ambulance. He claimed that some one had shot

him from behind in the leg. The leg in question was so badly shattered

by three ’38 calibre bullets that amputation was necessary. But when the

police discovered that the damage had been done by his own revolver, a

great laugh went up, and he was charged with having been drunk. In spite

of his denial of having touched a drop, and of his persistent assertion

that the revolver had been in his hip pocket and that he had not laid a

finger to it, he was discharged from the force. Emil Gluck’s confession,

six years later, cleared the unfortunate policeman of disgrace, and he is

alive to-day and in good health, the recipient of a handsome pension from

the city.

Emil Gluck, having disposed of his immediate enemies, now sought a wider

field, though his enmity for newspaper men and for the police remained

always active. The royalties on his ignition device for gasolene-engines

had mounted up while he lay in prison, and year by year the earning power

of his invention increased. He was independent, able to travel wherever

he willed over the earth and to glut his monstrous appetite for revenge.

He had become a monomaniac and an anarchist—not a philosophic anarchist,

merely, but a violent anarchist. Perhaps the word is misused, and he is

better described as a nihilist, or an annihilist. It is known that he

affiliated with none of the groups of terrorists. He operated wholly

alone, but he created a thousandfold more terror and achieved a

thousandfold more destruction than all the terrorist groups added

together.

He signalized his departure from California by blowing up Fort Mason. In

his confession he spoke of it as a little experiment—he was merely trying

his hand. For eight years he wandered over the earth, a mysterious

terror, destroying property to the tune of hundreds of millions of

dollars, and destroying countless lives. One good result of his awful

deeds was the destruction he wrought among the terrorists themselves.

Every time he did anything the terrorists in the vicinity were gathered

in by the police dragnet, and many of them were executed. Seventeen were

executed at Rome alone, following the assassination of the Italian King.

Perhaps the most world-amazing achievement of his was the assassination

of the King and Queen of Portugal. It was their wedding day. All

possible precautions had been taken against the terrorists, and the way

from the cathedral, through Lisbon’s streets, was double-banked with

troops, while a squad of two hundred mounted troopers surrounded the

carriage. Suddenly the amazing thing happened. The automatic rifles of

the troopers began to go off, as well as the rifles, in the immediate

vicinity, of the double-banked infantry. In the excitement the muzzles

of the exploding rifles were turned in all directions. The slaughter was

terrible—horses, troops, spectators, and the King and Queen, were riddled

with bullets. To complicate the affair, in different parts of the crowd

behind the foot-soldiers, two terrorists had bombs explode on their

persons. These bombs they had intended to throw if they got the

opportunity. But who was to know this? The frightful havoc wrought by

the bursting bombs but added to the confusion; it was considered part of

the general attack.

One puzzling thing that could not be explained away was the conduct of

the troopers with their exploding rifles. It seemed impossible that they

should be in the plot, yet there were the hundreds their flying bullets

had slain, including the King and Queen. On the other hand, more

baffling than ever was the fact that seventy per cent. of the troopers

themselves had been killed or wounded. Some explained this on the ground

that the loyal foot-soldiers, witnessing the attack on the royal

carriage, had opened fire on the traitors. Yet not one bit of evidence

to verify this could be drawn from the survivors, though many were put to

the torture. They contended stubbornly that they had not discharged

their rifles at all, but that their rifles had discharged themselves.

They were laughed at by the chemists, who held that, while it was just

barely probable that a single cartridge, charged with the new smokeless

powder, might spontaneously explode, it was beyond all probability and

possibility for all the cartridges in a given area, so charged,

spontaneously to explode. And so, in the end, no explanation of the

amazing occurrence was reached. The general opinion of the rest of the

world was that the whole affair was a blind panic of the feverish Latins,

precipitated, it was true, by the bursting of two terrorist bombs; and in

this connection was recalled the laughable encounter of long years before

between the Russian fleet and the English fishing boats.

And Emil Gluck chuckled and went his way. He knew. But how was the

world to know? He had stumbled upon the secret in his old electroplating

shop on Telegraph Avenue in the city of Oakland. It happened, at that

time, that a wireless telegraph station was established by the Thurston

Power Company close to his shop. In a short time his electroplating vat

was put out of order. The vat-wiring had many bad joints, and, on

investigation, Gluck discovered minute welds at the joints in the wiring.

These, by lowering the resistance, had caused an excessive current to

pass through the solution, “boiling” it and spoiling the work. But what

had caused the welds? was the question in Gluck’s mind. His reasoning

was simple. Before the establishment of the wireless station, the vat

had worked well. Not until after the establishment of the wireless

station had the vat been ruined. Therefore the wireless station had been

the cause. But how? He quickly answered the question. If an electric

discharge was capable of operating a coherer across three thousand miles

of ocean, then, certainly, the electric discharges from the wireless

station four hundred feet away could produce coherer effects on the bad

joints in the vat-wiring.

Gluck thought no more about it at the time. He merely re-wired his vat

and went on electroplating. But afterwards, in prison, he remembered the

incident, and like a flash there came into his mind the full significance

of it. He saw in it the silent, secret weapon with which to revenge

himself on the world. His great discovery, which died with him, was

control over the direction and scope of the electric discharge. At the

time, this was the unsolved problem of wireless telegraphy—as it still is

to-day—but Emil Gluck, in his prison cell, mastered it. And, when he was

released, he applied it. It was fairly simple, given the directing power

that was his, to introduce a spark into the powder-magazines of a fort, a

battleship, or a revolver. And not alone could he thus explode powder at

a distance, but he could ignite conflagrations. The great Boston fire

was started by him—quite by accident, however, as he stated in his

confession, adding that it was a pleasing accident and that he had never

had any reason to regret it.

It was Emil Gluck that caused the terrible German-American War, with the

loss of 800,000 lives and the consumption of almost incalculable

treasure. It will be remembered that in 1939, because of the Pickard

incident, strained relations existed between the two countries. Germany,

though aggrieved, was not anxious for war, and, as a peace token, sent

the Crown Prince and seven battleships on a friendly visit to the United

States. On the night of February 15, the seven warships lay at anchor in

the Hudson opposite New York City. And on that night Emil Gluck, alone,

with all his apparatus on board, was out in a launch. This launch, it

was afterwards proved, was bought by him from the Ross Turner Company,

while much of the apparatus he used that night had been purchased from

the Columbia Electric Works. But this was not known at the time. All

that was known was that the seven battleships blew up, one after another,

at regular four-minute intervals. Ninety per cent. of the crews and

officers, along with the Crown Prince, perished. Many years before, the

American battleship _Maine_ had been blown up in the harbour of Havana,

and war with Spain had immediately followed—though there has always

existed a reasonable doubt as to whether the explosion was due to

conspiracy or accident. But accident could not explain the blowing up of

the seven battleships on the Hudson at four-minute intervals. Germany

believed that it had been done by a submarine, and immediately declared

war. It was six months after Gluck’s confession that she returned the

Philippines and Hawaii to the United States.

In the meanwhile Emil Gluck, the malevolent wizard and arch-hater,

travelled his whirlwind path of destruction. He left no traces.

Scientifically thorough, he always cleaned up after himself. His method

was to rent a room or a house, and secretly to install his

apparatus—which apparatus, by the way, he so perfected and simplified

that it occupied little space. After he had accomplished his purpose he

carefully removed the apparatus. He bade fair to live out a long life of

horrible crime.

The epidemic of shooting of New York City policemen was a remarkable

affair. It became one of the horror mysteries of the time. In two short

weeks over a hundred policemen were shot in the legs by their own

revolvers. Inspector Jones did not solve the mystery, but it was his

idea that finally outwitted Gluck. On his recommendation the policemen

ceased carrying revolvers, and no more accidental shootings occurred.

It was in the early spring of 1940 that Gluck destroyed the Mare Island

navy-yard. From a room in Vallejo he sent his electric discharges across

the Vallejo Straits to Mare Island. He first played his flashes on the

battleship _Maryland_. She lay at the dock of one of the mine-magazines.

On her forward deck, on a huge temporary platform of timbers, were

disposed over a hundred mines. These mines were for the defence of the

Golden Gate. Any one of these mines was capable of destroying a dozen

battleships, and there were over a hundred mines. The destruction was

terrific, but it was only Gluck’s overture. He played his flashes down

the Mare Island shore, blowing up five torpedo boats, the torpedo

station, and the great magazine at the eastern end of the island.

Returning westward again, and scooping in occasional isolated magazines

on the high ground back from the shore, he blew up three cruisers and the

battleships _Oregon_, _Delaware_, _New Hampshire_, and _Florida_—the

latter had just gone into dry-dock, and the magnificent dry-dock was

destroyed along with her.

It was a frightful catastrophe, and a shiver of horror passed through the

land. But it was nothing to what was to follow. In the late fall of

that year Emil Gluck made a clean sweep of the Atlantic seaboard from

Maine to Florida. Nothing escaped. Forts, mines, coast defences of all

sorts, torpedo stations, magazines—everything went up. Three months

afterward, in midwinter, he smote the north shore of the Mediterranean

from Gibraltar to Greece in the same stupefying manner. A wail went up

from the nations. It was clear that human agency was behind all this

destruction, and it was equally clear, through Emil Gluck’s impartiality,

that the destruction was not the work of any particular nation. One

thing was patent, namely, that whoever was the human behind it all, that

human was a menace to the world. No nation was safe. There was no

defence against this unknown and all-powerful foe. Warfare was

futile—nay, not merely futile but itself the very essence of the peril.

For a twelve-month the manufacture of powder ceased, and all soldiers and

sailors were withdrawn from all fortifications and war vessels. And even

a world-disarmament was seriously considered at the Convention of the

Powers, held at The Hague at that time.

And then Silas Bannerman, a secret service agent of the United States,

leaped into world-fame by arresting Emil Gluck. At first Bannerman was

laughed at, but he had prepared his case well, and in a few weeks the

most sceptical were convinced of Emil Gluck’s guilt. The one thing,

however, that Silas Bannerman never succeeded in explaining, even to his

own satisfaction, was how first he came to connect Gluck with the

atrocious crimes. It is true, Bannerman was in Vallejo, on secret

government business, at the time of the destruction of Mare Island; and

it is true that on the streets of Vallejo Emil Gluck was pointed out to

him as a queer crank; but no impression was made at the time. It was not

until afterward, when on a vacation in the Rocky Mountains and when

reading the first published reports of the destruction along the Atlantic

Coast, that suddenly Bannerman thought of Emil Gluck. And on the instant

there flashed into his mind the connection between Gluck and the

destruction. It was only an hypothesis, but it was sufficient. The

great thing was the conception of the hypothesis, in itself an act of

unconscious cerebration—a thing as unaccountable as the flashing, for

instance, into Newton’s mind of the principle of gravitation.

The rest was easy. Where was Gluck at the time of the destruction along

the Atlantic sea-board? was the question that formed in Bannerman’s mind.

By his own request he was put upon the case. In no time he ascertained

that Gluck had himself been up and down the Atlantic Coast in the late

fall of 1940. Also he ascertained that Gluck had been in New York City

during the epidemic of the shooting of police officers. Where was Gluck

now? was Bannerman’s next query. And, as if in answer, came the

wholesale destruction along the Mediterranean. Gluck had sailed for

Europe a month before—Bannerman knew that. It was not necessary for

Bannerman to go to Europe. By means of cable messages and the

co-operation of the European secret services, he traced Gluck’s course

along the Mediterranean and found that in every instance it coincided

with the blowing up of coast defences and ships. Also, he learned that

Gluck had just sailed on the Green Star liner _Plutonic_ for the United

States.

The case was complete in Bannerman’s mind, though in the interval of

waiting he worked up the details. In this he was ably assisted by George

Brown, an operator employed by the Wood’s System of Wireless Telegraphy.

When the _Plutonic_ arrived off Sandy Hook she was boarded by Bannerman

from a Government tug, and Emil Gluck was made a prisoner. The trial and

the confession followed. In the confession Gluck professed regret only

for one thing, namely, that he had taken his time. As he said, had he

dreamed that he was ever to be discovered he would have worked more

rapidly and accomplished a thousand times the destruction he did. His

secret died with him, though it is now known that the French Government

managed to get access to him and offered him a billion francs for his

invention wherewith he was able to direct and closely to confine electric

discharges. “What!” was Gluck’s reply—“to sell to you that which would

enable you to enslave and maltreat suffering Humanity?” And though the

war departments of the nations have continued to experiment in their

secret laboratories, they have so far failed to light upon the slightest

trace of the secret. Emil Gluck was executed on December 4, 1941, and so

died, at the age of forty-six, one of the world’s most unfortunate

geniuses, a man of tremendous intellect, but whose mighty powers, instead

of making toward good, were so twisted and warped that he became the most

amazing of criminals.

—Culled from Mr. A. G. Burnside’s “Eccentricitics of Crime,” by kind

permission of the publishers, Messrs. Holiday and Whitsund.

THE DREAM OF DEBS

I AWOKE fully an hour before my customary time. This in itself was

remarkable, and I lay very wide awake, pondering over it. Something was

the matter, something was wrong—I knew not what. I was oppressed by a

premonition of something terrible that had happened or was about to

happen. But what was it? I strove to orient myself. I remembered that

at the time of the Great Earthquake of 1906 many claimed they awakened

some moments before the first shock and that during these moments they

experienced strange feelings of dread. Was San Francisco again to be

visited by earthquake?

I lay for a full minute, numbly expectant, but there occurred no reeling

of walls nor shock and grind of falling masonry. All was quiet. That

was it! The silence! No wonder I had been perturbed. The hum of the

great live city was strangely absent. The surface cars passed along my

street, at that time of day, on an average of one every three minutes;

but in the ten succeeding minutes not a car passed. Perhaps it was a

street-railway strike, was my thought; or perhaps there had been an

accident and the power was shut off. But no, the silence was too

profound. I heard no jar and rattle of waggon wheels, nor stamp of

iron-shod hoofs straining up the steep cobble-stones.

Pressing the push-button beside my bed, I strove to hear the sound of the

bell, though I well knew it was impossible for the sound to rise three

stories to me even if the bell did ring. It rang all right, for a few

minutes later Brown entered with the tray and morning paper. Though his

features were impassive as ever, I noted a startled, apprehensive light

in his eyes. I noted, also, that there was no cream on the tray.

“The Creamery did not deliver this morning,” he explained; “nor did the

bakery.”

I glanced again at the tray. There were no fresh French rolls—only

slices of stale graham bread from yesterday, the most detestable of bread

so far as I was concerned.

“Nothing was delivered this morning, sir,” Brown started to explain

apologetically; but I interrupted him.

“The paper?”

“Yes, sir, it was delivered, but it was the only thing, and it is the

last time, too. There won’t be any paper to-morrow. The paper says so.

Can I send out and get you some condensed milk?”

I shook my head, accepted the coffee black, and spread open the paper.

The headlines explained everything—explained too much, in fact, for the

lengths of pessimism to which the journal went were ridiculous. A

general strike, it said, had been called all over the United States; and

most foreboding anxieties were expressed concerning the provisioning of

the great cities.

I read on hastily, skimming much and remembering much of labour troubles

in the past. For a generation the general strike had been the dream of

organized labour, which dream had arisen originally in the mind of Debs,

one of the great labour leaders of thirty years before. I recollected

that in my young college-settlement days I had even written an article on

the subject for one of the magazines and that I had entitled it “The

Dream of Debs.” And I must confess that I had treated the idea very

cavalierly and academically as a dream and nothing more. Time and the

world had rolled on, Gompers was gone, the American Federation of Labour

was gone, and gone was Debs with all his wild revolutionary ideas; but

the dream had persisted, and here it was at last realized in fact. But I

laughed, as I read, at the journal’s gloomy outlook. I knew better. I

had seen organized labour worsted in too many conflicts. It would be a

matter only of days when the thing would be settled. This was a national

strike, and it wouldn’t take the Government long to break it.

I threw the paper down and proceeded to dress. It would certainly be

interesting to be out in the streets of San Francisco when not a wheel

was turning and the whole city was taking an enforced vacation.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Brown said, as he handed me my cigar-case, “but

Mr. Harmmed has asked to see you before you go out.”

“Send him in right away,” I answered.

Harmmed was the butler. When he entered I could see he was labouring

under controlled excitement. He came at once to the point.

“What shall I do, sir? There will be needed provisions, and the delivery

drivers are on strike. And the electricity is shut off—I guess they’re

on strike, too.”

“Are the shops open?” I asked.

“Only the small ones, sir. The retail clerks are out, and the big ones

can’t open; but the owners and their families are running the little ones

themselves.”

“Then take the machine,” I said, “and go the rounds and make your

purchases. Buy plenty of everything you need or may need. Get a box of

candles—no, get half-a-dozen boxes. And, when you’re done, tell Harrison

to bring the machine around to the club for me—not later than eleven.”

Harmmed shook his head gravely. “Mr. Harrison has struck along with the

Chauffeurs’ Union, and I don’t know how to run the machine myself.”

“Oh, ho, he has, has he?” said I. “Well, when next Mister Harrison happens

around you tell him that he can look elsewhere for a position.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You don’t happen to belong to a Butlers’ Union, do you, Harmmed?”

“No, sir,” was the answer. “And even if I did I’d not desert my employer

in a crisis like this. No, sir, I would—”

“All right, thank you,” I said. “Now you get ready to accompany me.

I’ll run the machine myself, and we’ll lay in a stock of provisions to

stand a siege.”

It was a beautiful first of May, even as May days go. The sky was

cloudless, there was no wind, and the air was warm—almost balmy. Many

autos were out, but the owners were driving them themselves. The streets

were crowded but quiet. The working class, dressed in its Sunday best,

was out taking the air and observing the effects of the strike. It was

all so unusual, and withal so peaceful, that I found myself enjoying it.

My nerves were tingling with mild excitement. It was a sort of placid

adventure. I passed Miss Chickering. She was at the helm of her little

runabout. She swung around and came after me, catching me at the corner.

“Oh, Mr. Corf!”’ she hailed. “Do you know where I can buy candles? I’ve

been to a dozen shops, and they’re all sold out. It’s dreadfully awful,

isn’t it?”

But her sparkling eyes gave the lie to her words. Like the rest of us,

she was enjoying it hugely. Quite an adventure it was, getting those

candles. It was not until we went across the city and down into the

working-class quarter south of Market Street that we found small corner

groceries that had not yet sold out. Miss Chickering thought one box was

sufficient, but I persuaded her into taking four. My car was large, and

I laid in a dozen boxes. There was no telling what delays might arise in

the settlement of the strike. Also, I filled the car with sacks of

flour, baking-powder, tinned goods, and all the ordinary necessaries of

life suggested by Harmmed, who fussed around and clucked over the

purchases like an anxious old hen.

The remarkable thing, that first day of the strike, was that no one

really apprehended anything serious. The announcement of organized

labour in the morning papers that it was prepared to stay out a month or

three months was laughed at. And yet that very first day we might have

guessed as much from the fact that the working class took practically no

part in the great rush to buy provisions. Of course not. For weeks and

months, craftily and secretly, the whole working class had been laying in

private stocks of provisions. That was why we were permitted to go down

and buy out the little groceries in the working-class neighbourhoods.

It was not until I arrived at the club that afternoon that I began to

feel the first alarm. Everything was in confusion. There were no olives

for the cocktails, and the service was by hitches and jerks. Most of the

men were angry, and all were worried. A babel of voices greeted me as I

entered. General Folsom, nursing his capacious paunch in a window-seat

in the smoking-room was defending himself against half-a-dozen excited

gentlemen who were demanding that he should do something.

“What can I do more than I have done?” he was saying. “There are no

orders from Washington. If you gentlemen will get a wire through I’ll do

anything I am commanded to do. But I don’t see what can be done. The

first thing I did this morning, as soon as I learned of the strike, was

to order in the troops from the Presidio—three thousand of them. They’re

guarding the banks, the Mint, the post office, and all the public

buildings. There is no disorder whatever. The strikers are keeping the

peace perfectly. You can’t expect me to shoot them down as they walk

along the streets with wives and children all in their best bib and

tucker.”

“I’d like to know what’s happening on Wall Street,” I heard Jimmy Wombold

say as I passed along. I could imagine his anxiety, for I knew that he

was deep in the big Consolidated-Western deal.

“Say, Corf,” Atkinson bustled up to me, “is your machine running?”

“Yes,” I answered, “but what’s the matter with your own?”

“Broken down, and the garages are all closed. And my wife’s somewhere

around Truckee, I think, stalled on the overland. Can’t get a wire to

her for love or money. She should have arrived this evening. She may be

starving. Lend me your machine.”

“Can’t get it across the bay,” Halstead spoke up. “The ferries aren’t

running. But I tell you what you can do. There’s Rollinson—oh,

Rollinson, come here a moment. Atkinson wants to get a machine across

the bay. His wife is stuck on the overland at Truckee. Can’t you bring

the _Lurlette_ across from Tiburon and carry the machine over for him?”

The _Lurlette_ was a two-hundred-ton, ocean-going schooner-yacht.

Rollinson shook his head. “You couldn’t get a longshoreman to land the

machine on board, even if I could get the _Lurlette_ over, which I can’t,

for the crew are members of the Coast Seamen’s Union, and they’re on

strike along with the rest.”

“But my wife may be starving,” I could hear Atkinson wailing as I moved

on.

At the other end of the smoking-room I ran into a group of men bunched

excitedly and angrily around Bertie Messener. And Bertie was stirring

them up and prodding them in his cool, cynical way. Bertie didn’t care

about the strike. He didn’t care much about anything. He was blasé—at

least in all the clean things of life; the nasty things had no attraction

for him. He was worth twenty millions, all of it in safe investments,

and he had never done a tap of productive work in his life—inherited it

all from his father and two uncles. He had been everywhere, seen

everything, and done everything but get married, and this last in the

face of the grim and determined attack of a few hundred ambitious mammas.

For years he had been the greatest catch, and as yet he had avoided being

caught. He was disgracefully eligible. On top of his wealth he was

young, handsome, and, as I said before, clean. He was a great athlete, a

young blond god that did everything perfectly and admirably with the

solitary exception of matrimony. And he didn’t care about anything, had

no ambitions, no passions, no desire to do the very things he did so much

better than other men.

“This is sedition!” one man in the group was crying. Another called it

revolt and revolution, and another called it anarchy.

“I can’t see it,” Bertie said. “I have been out in the streets all

morning. Perfect order reigns. I never saw a more law-abiding populace.

There’s no use calling it names. It’s not any of those things. It’s

just what it claims to be, a general strike, and it’s your turn to play,

gentlemen.”

“And we’ll play all right!” cried Garfield, one of the traction

millionaires. “We’ll show this dirt where its place is—the beasts! Wait

till the Government takes a hand.”

“But where is the Government?” Bertie interposed. “It might as well be

at the bottom of the sea so far as you’re concerned. You don’t know

what’s happening at Washington. You don’t know whether you’ve got a

Government or not.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” Garfield blurted out.

“I assure you I’m not worrying,” Bertie smiled languidly. “But it seems

to me it’s what you fellows are doing. Look in the glass, Garfield.”

Garfield did not look, but had he looked he would have seen a very

excited gentleman with rumpled, iron-grey hair, a flushed face, mouth

sullen and vindictive, and eyes wildly gleaming.

“It’s not right, I tell you,” little Hanover said; and from his tone I

was sure that he had already said it a number of times.

“Now that’s going too far, Hanover,” Bertie replied. “You fellows make

me tired. You’re all open-shop men. You’ve eroded my eardrums with your

endless gabble for the open shop and the right of a man to work. You’ve

harangued along those lines for years. Labour is doing nothing wrong in

going out on this general strike. It is violating no law of God nor man.

Don’t you talk, Hanover. You’ve been ringing the changes too long on the

God-given right to work . . . or not to work; you can’t escape the

corollary. It’s a dirty little sordid scrap, that’s all the whole thing

is. You’ve got labour down and gouged it, and now labour’s got you down

and is gouging you, that’s all, and you’re squealing.”

Every man in the group broke out in indignant denials that labour had

ever been gouged.

“No, sir!” Garfield was shouting. “We’ve done the best for labour.

Instead of gouging it, we’ve given it a chance to live. We’ve made work

for it. Where would labour be if it hadn’t been for us?”

“A whole lot better off,” Bertie sneered. “You’ve got labour down and

gouged it every time you got a chance, and you went out of your way to

make chances.”

“No! No!” were the cries.

“There was the teamsters’ strike, right here in San Francisco,” Bertie

went on imperturbably. “The Employers’ Association precipitated that

strike. You know that. And you know I know it, too, for I’ve sat in

these very rooms and heard the inside talk and news of the fight. First

you precipitated the strike, then you bought the Mayor and the Chief of

Police and broke the strike. A pretty spectacle, you philanthropists

getting the teamsters down and gouging them.

“Hold on, I’m not through with you. It’s only last year that the labour

ticket of Colorado elected a governor. He was never seated. You know

why. You know how your brother philanthropists and capitalists of

Colorado worked it. It was a case of getting labour down and gouging it.

You kept the president of the South-western Amalgamated Association of

Miners in jail for three years on trumped-up murder charges, and with him

out of the way you broke up the association. That was gouging labour,

you’ll admit. The third time the graduated income tax was declared

unconstitutional was a gouge. So was the eight-hour Bill you killed in

the last Congress.

“And of all unmitigated immoral gouges, your destruction of the

closed-shop principle was the limit. You know how it was done. You

bought out Farburg, the last president of the old American Federation of

Labour. He was your creature—or the creature of all the trusts and

employers’ associations, which is the same thing. You precipitated the

big closed-shop strike. Farburg betrayed that strike. You won, and the

old American Federation of Labour crumbled to pieces. You fellows

destroyed it, and by so doing undid yourselves; for right on top of it

began the organization of the I.L.W.—the biggest and solidest

organization of labour the United States has ever seen, and you are

responsible for its existence and for the present general strike. You

smashed all the old federations and drove labour into the I.L.W., and the

I.L.W. called the general strike—still fighting for the closed shop. And

then you have the effrontery to stand here face to face and tell me that

you never got labour down and gouged it. Bah!”

This time there were no denials. Garfield broke out in self-defence—

“We’ve done nothing we were not compelled to do, if we were to win.”

“I’m not saying anything about that,” Bertie answered. “What I am

complaining about is your squealing now that you’re getting a taste of

your own medicine. How many strikes have you won by starving labour into

submission? Well, labour’s worked out a scheme whereby to starve you

into submission. It wants the closed shop, and, if it can get it by

starving you, why, starve you shall.”

“I notice that you have profited in the past by those very labour gouges

you mention,” insinuated Brentwood, one of the wiliest and most astute of

our corporation lawyers. “The receiver is as bad as the thief,” he

sneered. “You had no hand in the gouging, but you took your whack out of

the gouge.”

“That is quite beside the question, Brentwood,” Bertie drawled. “You’re

as bad as Hanover, intruding the moral element. I haven’t said that

anything is right or wrong. It’s all a rotten game, I know; and my sole

kick is that you fellows are squealing now that you’re down and labour’s

taking a gouge out of you. Of course I’ve taken the profits from the

gouging and, thanks to you, gentlemen, without having personally to do

the dirty work. You did that for me—oh, believe me, not because I am

more virtuous than you, but because my good father and his various

brothers left me a lot of money with which to pay for the dirty work.”

“If you mean to insinuate—” Brentwood began hotly.

“Hold on, don’t get all-ruffled up,” Bertie interposed insolently.

“There’s no use in playing hypocrites in this thieves’ den. The high and

lofty is all right for the newspapers, boys’ clubs, and Sunday

schools—that’s part of the game; but for heaven’s sake don’t let’s play

it on one another. You know, and you know that I know just what jobbery

was done in the building trades’ strike last fall, who put up the money,

who did the work, and who profited by it.” (Brentwood flushed darkly.)

“But we are all tarred with the same brush, and the best thing for us to

do is to leave morality out of it. Again I repeat, play the game, play

it to the last finish, but for goodness’ sake don’t squeal when you get

hurt.”

When I left the group Bertie was off on a new tack tormenting them with

the more serious aspects of the situation, pointing out the shortage of

supplies that was already making itself felt, and asking them what they

were going to do about it. A little later I met him in the cloak-room,

leaving, and gave him a lift home in my machine.

“It’s a great stroke, this general strike,” he said, as we bowled along

through the crowded but orderly streets. “It’s a smashing body-blow.

Labour caught us napping and struck at our weakest place, the stomach.

I’m going to get out of San Francisco, Corf. Take my advice and get out,

too. Head for the country, anywhere. You’ll have more chance. Buy up a

stock of supplies and get into a tent or a cabin somewhere. Soon

there’ll be nothing but starvation in this city for such as we.”

How correct Bertie Messener was I never dreamed. I decided that he was

an alarmist. As for myself, I was content to remain and watch the fun.

After I dropped him, instead of going directly home, I went on in a hunt

for more food. To my surprise, I learned that the small groceries where

I had bought in the morning were sold out. I extended my search to the

Potrero, and by good luck managed to pick up another box of candles, two

sacks of wheat flour, ten pounds of graham flour (which would do for the

servants), a case of tinned corn, and two cases of tinned tomatoes. It

did look as though there was going to be at least a temporary food

shortage, and I hugged myself over the goodly stock of provisions I had

laid in.

The next morning I had my coffee in bed as usual, and, more than the

cream, I missed the daily paper. It was this absence of knowledge of

what was going on in the world that I found the chief hardship. Down at

the club there was little news. Rider had crossed from Oakland in his

launch, and Halstead had been down to San Jose and back in his machine.

They reported the same conditions in those places as in San Francisco.

Everything was tied up by the strike. All grocery stocks had been bought

out by the upper classes. And perfect order reigned. But what was

happening over the rest of the country—in Chicago? New York?

Washington? Most probably the same things that were happening with us,

we concluded; but the fact that we did not know with absolute surety was

irritating.

General Folsom had a bit of news. An attempt had been made to place army

telegraphers in the telegraph offices, but the wires had been cut in

every direction. This was, so far, the one unlawful act committed by

labour, and that it was a concerted act he was fully convinced. He had

communicated by wireless with the army post at Benicia, the telegraph

lines were even then being patrolled by soldiers all the way to

Sacramento. Once, for one short instant, they had got the Sacramento

call, then the wires, somewhere, were cut again. General Folsom reasoned

that similar attempts to open communication were being made by the

authorities all the way across the continent, but he was non-committal as

to whether or not he thought the attempt would succeed. What worried him

was the wire-cutting; he could not but believe that it was an important

part of the deep-laid labour conspiracy. Also, he regretted that the

Government had not long since established its projected chain of wireless

stations.

The days came and went, and for a while it was a humdrum time. Nothing

happened. The edge of excitement had become blunted. The streets were

not so crowded. The working class did not come uptown any more to see

how we were taking the strike. And there were not so many automobiles

running around. The repair-shops and garages were closed, and whenever a

machine broke down it went out of commission. The clutch on mine broke,

and neither love nor money could get it repaired. Like the rest, I was

now walking. San Francisco lay dead, and we did not know what was

happening over the rest of the country. But from the very fact that we

did not know we could conclude only that the rest of the country lay as

dead as San Francisco. From time to time the city was placarded with the

proclamations of organized labour—these had been printed months before,

and evidenced how thoroughly the I.L.W. had prepared for the strike.

Every detail had been worked out long in advance. No violence had

occurred as yet, with the exception of the shooting of a few wire-cutters

by the soldiers, but the people of the slums were starving and growing

ominously restless.

The business men, the millionaires, and the professional class held

meetings and passed resolutions, but there was no way of making the

proclamations public. They could not even get them printed. One result

of these meetings, however, was that General Folsom was persuaded into

taking military possession of the wholesale houses and of all the flour,

grain, and food warehouses. It was high time, for suffering was becoming

acute in the homes of the rich, and bread-lines were necessary. I knew

that my servants were beginning to draw long faces, and it was

amazing—the hole they made in my stock of provisions. In fact, as I

afterward surmised, each servant was stealing from me and secreting a

private stock of provisions for himself.

But with the formation of the bread-lines came new troubles. There was

only so much of a food reserve in San Francisco, and at the best it could

not last long. Organized labour, we knew, had its private supplies;

nevertheless, the whole working class joined the bread-lines. As a

result, the provisions General Folsom had taken possession of diminished

with perilous rapidity. How were the soldiers to distinguish between a

shabby middle-class man, a member of the I.L.W., or a slum dweller? The

first and the last had to be fed, but the soldiers did not know all the

I.L.W. men in the city, much less the wives and sons and daughters of the

I.L.W. men. The employers helping, a few of the known union men were

flung out of the bread-lines; but that amounted to nothing. To make

matters worse, the Government tugs that had been hauling food from the

army depots on Mare Island to Angel Island found no more food to haul.

The soldiers now received their rations from the confiscated provisions,

and they received them first.

The beginning of the end was in sight. Violence was beginning to show

its face. Law and order were passing away, and passing away, I must

confess, among the slum people and the upper classes. Organized labour

still maintained perfect order. It could well afford to—it had plenty to

eat. I remember the afternoon at the club when I caught Halstead and

Brentwood whispering in a corner. They took me in on the venture.

Brentwood’s machine was still in running order, and they were going out

cow-stealing. Halstead had a long butcher knife and a cleaver. We went

out to the outskirts of the city. Here and there were cows grazing, but

always they were guarded by their owners. We pursued our quest,

following along the fringe of the city to the east, and on the hills near

Hunter’s Point we came upon a cow guarded by a little girl. There was

also a young calf with the cow. We wasted no time on preliminaries. The

little girl ran away screaming, while we slaughtered the cow. I omit the

details, for they are not nice—we were unaccustomed to such work, and we

bungled it.

But in the midst of it, working with the haste of fear, we heard cries,

and we saw a number of men running toward us. We abandoned the spoils

and took to our heels. To our surprise we were not pursued. Looking

back, we saw the men hurriedly cutting up the cow. They had been on the

same lay as ourselves. We argued that there was plenty for all, and ran

back. The scene that followed beggars description. We fought and

squabbled over the division like savages. Brentwood, I remember, was a

perfect brute, snarling and snapping and threatening that murder would be

done if we did not get our proper share.

And we were getting our share when there occurred a new irruption on the

scene. This time it was the dreaded peace officers of the I.L.W. The

little girl had brought them. They were armed with whips and clubs, and

there were a score of them. The little girl danced up and down in anger,

the tears streaming down her cheeks, crying: “Give it to ’em! Give it to

’em! That guy with the specs—he did it! Mash his face for him! Mash

his face!” That guy with the specs was I, and I got my face mashed, too,

though I had the presence of mind to take off my glasses at the first.

My! but we did receive a trouncing as we scattered in all directions.

Brentwood, Halstead, and I fled away for the machine. Brentwood’s nose

was bleeding, while Halstead’s cheek was cut across with the scarlet

slash of a black-snake whip.

And, lo, when the pursuit ceased and we had gained the machine, there,

hiding behind it, was the frightened calf. Brentwood warned us to be

cautious, and crept up on it like a wolf or tiger. Knife and cleaver had

been left behind, but Brentwood still had his hands, and over and over on

the ground he rolled with the poor little calf as he throttled it. We

threw the carcass into the machine, covered it over with a robe, and

started for home. But our misfortunes had only begun. We blew out a

tyre. There was no way of fixing it, and twilight was coming on. We

abandoned the machine, Brentwood pulling and staggering along in advance,

the calf, covered by the robe, slung across his shoulders. We took turn

about carrying that calf, and it nearly killed us. Also, we lost our

way. And then, after hours of wandering and toil, we encountered a gang

of hoodlums. They were not I.L.W. men, and I guess they were as hungry

as we. At any rate, they got the calf and we got the thrashing.

Brentwood raged like a madman the rest of the way home, and he looked

like one, with his torn clothes, swollen nose, and blackened eyes.

There wasn’t any more cow-stealing after that. General Folsom sent his

troopers out and confiscated all the cows, and his troopers, aided by the

militia, ate most of the meat. General Folsom was not to be blamed; it

was his duty to maintain law and order, and he maintained it by means of

the soldiers, wherefore he was compelled to feed them first of all.

It was about this time that the great panic occurred. The wealthy

classes precipitated the flight, and then the slum people caught the

contagion and stampeded wildly out of the city. General Folsom was

pleased. It was estimated that at least 200,000 had deserted San

Francisco, and by that much was his food problem solved. Well do I

remember that day. In the morning I had eaten a crust of bread. Half of

the afternoon I had stood in the bread-line; and after dark I returned

home, tired and miserable, carrying a quart of rice and a slice of bacon.

Brown met me at the door. His face was worn and terrified. All the

servants had fled, he informed me. He alone remained. I was touched by

his faithfulness and, when I learned that he had eaten nothing all day, I

divided my food with him. We cooked half the rice and half the bacon,

sharing it equally and reserving the other half for morning. I went to

bed with my hunger, and tossed restlessly all night. In the morning I

found Brown had deserted me, and, greater misfortune still, he had stolen

what remained of the rice and bacon.

It was a gloomy handful of men that came together at the club that

morning. There was no service at all. The last servant was gone. I

noticed, too, that the silver was gone, and I learned where it had gone.

The servants had not taken it, for the reason, I presume, that the club

members got to it first. Their method of disposing of it was simple.

Down south of Market Street, in the dwellings of the I.L.W., the

housewives had given square meals in exchange for it. I went back to my

house. Yes, my silver was gone—all but a massive pitcher. This I

wrapped up and carried down south of Market Street.

I felt better after the meal, and returned to the club to learn if there

was anything new in the situation. Hanover, Collins, and Dakon were just

leaving. There was no one inside, they told me, and they invited me to

come along with them. They were leaving the city, they said, on Dakon’s

horses, and there was a spare one for me. Dakon had four magnificent

carriage horses that he wanted to save, and General Folsom had given him

the tip that next morning all the horses that remained in the city were

to be confiscated for food. There were not many horses left, for tens of

thousands of them had been turned loose into the country when the hay and

grain gave out during the first days. Birdall, I remember, who had great

draying interests, had turned loose three hundred dray horses. At an

average value of five hundred dollars, this had amounted to $150,000. He

had hoped, at first, to recover most of the horses after the strike was

over, but in the end he never recovered one of them. They were all eaten

by the people that fled from San Francisco. For that matter, the killing

of the army mules and horses for food had already begun.

Fortunately for Dakon, he had had a plentiful supply of hay and grain

stored in his stable. We managed to raise four saddles, and we found the

animals in good condition and spirited, withal unused to being ridden. I

remembered the San Francisco of the great earthquake as we rode through

the streets, but this San Francisco was vastly more pitiable. No

cataclysm of nature had caused this, but, rather, the tyranny of the

labour unions. We rode down past Union Square and through the theatre,

hotel, and shopping districts. The streets were deserted. Here and

there stood automobiles, abandoned where they had broken down or when the

gasolene had given out. There was no sign of life, save for the

occasional policemen and the soldiers guarding the banks and public

buildings. Once we came upon an I.L.W. man pasting up the latest

proclamation. We stopped to read. “We have maintained an orderly

strike,” it ran; “and we shall maintain order to the end. The end will

come when our demands are satisfied, and our demands will be satisfied

when we have starved our employers into submission, as we ourselves in

the past have often been starved into submission.”

“Messener’s very words,” Collins said. “And I, for one, am ready to

submit, only they won’t give me a chance to submit. I haven’t had a full

meal in an age. I wonder what horse-meat tastes like?”

We stopped to read another proclamation: “When we think our employers are

ready to submit we shall open up the telegraphs and place the employers’

associations of the United States in communication. But only messages

relating to peace terms shall be permitted over the wires.”

We rode on, crossed Market Street, and a little later were passing

through the working-class district. Here the streets were not deserted.

Leaning over the gates or standing in groups were the I.L.W. men. Happy,

well-fed children were playing games, and stout housewives sat on the

front steps gossiping. One and all cast amused glances at us. Little

children ran after us, crying: “Hey, mister, ain’t you hungry?” And one

woman, nursing a child at her breast, called to Dakon: “Say, Fatty, I’ll

give you a meal for your skate—ham and potatoes, currant jelly, white

bread, canned butter, and two cups of coffee.”

“Have you noticed, the last few days,” Hanover remarked to me, “that

there’s not been a stray dog in the streets?”

I had noticed, but I had not thought about it before. It was high time

to leave the unfortunate city. We at last managed to connect with the

San Bruno Road, along which we headed south. I had a country place near

Menlo, and it was our objective. But soon we began to discover that the

country was worse off and far more dangerous than the city. There the

soldiers and the I.L.W. kept order; but the country had been turned over

to anarchy. Two hundred thousand people had fled from San Francisco, and

we had countless evidences that their flight had been like that of an

army of locusts.

They had swept everything clean. There had been robbery and fighting.

Here and there we passed bodies by the roadside and saw the blackened

ruins of farm-houses. The fences were down, and the crops had been

trampled by the feet of a multitude. All the vegetable patches had been

rooted up by the famished hordes. All the chickens and farm animals had

been slaughtered. This was true of all the main roads that led out of

San Francisco. Here and there, away from the roads, farmers had held

their own with shotguns and revolvers, and were still holding their own.

They warned us away and refused to parley with us. And all the

destruction and violence had been done by the slum-dwellers and the upper

classes. The I.L.W. men, with plentiful food supplies, remained quietly

in their homes in the cities.

Early in the ride we received concrete proof of how desperate was the

situation. To the right of us we heard cries and rifle-shots. Bullets

whistled dangerously near. There was a crashing in the underbrush; then

a magnificent black truck-horse broke across the road in front of us and

was gone. We had barely time to notice that he was bleeding and lame.

He was followed by three soldiers. The chase went on among the trees on

the left. We could hear the soldiers calling to one another. A fourth

soldier limped out upon the road from the right, sat down on a boulder,

and mopped the sweat from his face.

“Militia,” Dakon whispered. “Deserters.”

The man grinned up at us and asked for a match. In reply to Dakon’s

“What’s the word?” he informed us that the militiamen were deserting.

“No grub,” he explained. “They’re feedin’ it all to the regulars.” We

also learned from him that the military prisoners had been released from

Alcatraz Island because they could no longer be fed.

I shall never forget the next sight we encountered. We came upon it

abruptly around a turn of the road. Overhead arched the trees. The

sunshine was filtering down through the branches. Butterflies were

fluttering by, and from the fields came the song of larks. And there it

stood, a powerful touring car. About it and in it lay a number of

corpses. It told its own tale. Its occupants, fleeing from the city,

had been attacked and dragged down by a gang of slum dwellers—hoodlums.

The thing had occurred within twenty-four hours. Freshly opened meat and

fruit tins explained the reason for the attack. Dakon examined the

bodies.

“I thought so,” he reported. “I’ve ridden in that car. It was

Perriton—the whole family. We’ve got to watch out for ourselves from now

on.”

“But we have no food with which to invite attack,” I objected.

Dakon pointed to the horse I rode, and I understood.

Early in the day Dakon’s horse had cast a shoe. The delicate hoof had

split, and by noon the animal was limping. Dakon refused to ride it

farther, and refused to desert it. So, on his solicitation, we went on.

He would lead the horse and join us at my place. That was the last we

saw of him; nor did we ever learn his end.

By one o’clock we arrived at the town of Menlo, or, rather, at the site

of Menlo, for it was in ruins. Corpses lay everywhere. The business

part of the town, as well as part of the residences, had been gutted by

fire. Here and there a residence still held out; but there was no

getting near them. When we approached too closely we were fired upon.

We met a woman who was poking about in the smoking ruins of her cottage.

The first attack, she told us had been on the stores, and as she talked

we could picture that raging, roaring, hungry mob flinging itself on the

handful of townspeople. Millionaires and paupers had fought side by side

for the food, and then fought with one another after they got it. The

town of Palo Alto and Stanford University had been sacked in similar

fashion, we learned. Ahead of us lay a desolate, wasted land; and we

thought we were wise in turning off to my place. It lay three miles to

the west, snuggling among the first rolling swells of the foothills.

But as we rode along we saw that the devastation was not confined to the

main roads. The van of the flight had kept to the roads, sacking the

small towns as it went; while those that followed had scattered out and

swept the whole countryside like a great broom. My place was built of

concrete, masonry, and tiles, and so had escaped being burned, but it was

gutted clean. We found the gardener’s body in the windmill, littered

around with empty shot-gun shells. He had put up a good fight. But no

trace could we find of the two Italian labourers, nor of the house-keeper

and her husband. Not a live thing remained. The calves, the colts, all

the fancy poultry and thoroughbred stock, everything, was gone. The

kitchen and the fireplaces, where the mob had cooked, were a mess, while

many camp-fires outside bore witness to the large number that had fed and

spent the night. What they had not eaten they had carried away. There

was not a bite for us.

We spent the rest of the night vainly waiting for Dakon, and in the

morning, with our revolvers, fought off half-a-dozen marauders. Then we

killed one of Dakon’s horses, hiding for the future what meat we did not

immediately eat. In the afternoon Collins went out for a walk, but

failed to return. This was the last straw to Hanover. He was for flight

there and then, and I had great difficulty in persuading him to wait for

daylight. As for myself, I was convinced that the end of the general

strike was near, and I was resolved to return to San Francisco. So, in

the morning, we parted company, Hanover heading south, fifty pounds of

horse-meat strapped to his saddle, while I, similarly loaded, headed

north. Little Hanover pulled through all right, and to the end of his

life he will persist, I know, in boring everybody with the narrative of

his subsequent adventures.

I got as far as Belmont, on the main road back, when I was robbed of my

horse-meat by three militiamen. There was no change in the situation,

they said, except that it was going from bad to worse. The I.L.W. had

plenty of provisions hidden away and could last out for months. I

managed to get as far as Baden, when my horse was taken away from me by a

dozen men. Two of them were San Francisco policemen, and the remainder

were regular soldiers. This was ominous. The situation was certainly

extreme when the regulars were beginning to desert. When I continued my

way on foot, they already had the fire started, and the last of Dakon’s

horses lay slaughtered on the ground.

As luck would have it, I sprained my ankle, and succeeded in getting no

farther than South San Francisco. I lay there that night in an

out-house, shivering with the cold and at the same time burning with

fever. Two days I lay there, too sick to move, and on the third, reeling

and giddy, supporting myself on an extemporized crutch, I tottered on

toward San Francisco. I was weak as well, for it was the third day since

food had passed my lips. It was a day of nightmare and torment. As in a

dream I passed hundreds of regular soldiers drifting along in the

opposite direction, and many policemen, with their families, organized in

large groups for mutual protection.

As I entered the city I remembered the workman’s house at which I had

traded the silver pitcher, and in that direction my hunger drove me.

Twilight was falling when I came to the place. I passed around by the

alleyway and crawled up the black steps, on which I collapsed. I managed

to reach out with the crutch and knock on the door. Then I must have

fainted, for I came to in the kitchen, my face wet with water, and whisky

being poured down my throat. I choked and spluttered and tried to talk.

I began saying something about not having any more silver pitchers, but

that I would make it up to them afterward if they would only give me

something to eat. But the housewife interrupted me.

“Why, you poor man,” she said, “haven’t you heard? The strike was called

off this afternoon. Of course we’ll give you something to eat.”

She bustled around, opening a tin of breakfast bacon and preparing to fry

it.

“Let me have some now, please,” I begged; and I ate the raw bacon on a

slice of bread, while her husband explained that the demands of the

I.L.W. had been granted. The wires had been opened up in the early

afternoon, and everywhere the employers’ associations had given in.

There hadn’t been any employers left in San Francisco, but General Folsom

had spoken for them. The trains and steamers would start running in the

morning, and so would everything else just as soon as system could be

established.

And that was the end of the general strike. I never want to see another

one. It was worse than a war. A general strike is a cruel and immoral

thing, and the brain of man should be capable of running industry in a

more rational way. Harrison is still my chauffeur. It was part of the

conditions of the I.L.W. that all of its members should be reinstated in

their old positions. Brown never came back, but the rest of the servants

are with me. I hadn’t the heart to discharge them—poor creatures, they

were pretty hard-pressed when they deserted with the food and silver.

And now I can’t discharge them. They have all been unionized by the

I.L.W. The tyranny of organized labour is getting beyond human

endurance. Something must be done.

THE SEA-FARMER

“THAT wull be the doctor’s launch,” said Captain MacElrath.

The pilot grunted, while the skipper swept on with his glass from the

launch to the strip of beach and to Kingston beyond, and then slowly

across the entrance to Howth Head on the northern side.

“The tide’s right, and we’ll have you docked in two hours,” the pilot

vouchsafed, with an effort at cheeriness. “Ring’s End Basin, is it?”

This time the skipper grunted.

“A dirty Dublin day.”

Again the skipper grunted. He was weary with the night of wind in the

Irish Channel behind him, the unbroken hours of which he had spent on the

bridge. And he was weary with all the voyage behind him—two years and

four months between home port and home port, eight hundred and fifty days

by his log.

“Proper wunter weather,” he answered, after a silence. “The town is

undistinct. Ut wull be rainun’ guid an’ hearty for the day.”

Captain MacElrath was a small man, just comfortably able to peep over the

canvas dodger of the bridge. The pilot and third officer loomed above

him, as did the man at the wheel, a bulky German, deserted from a

warship, whom he had signed on in Rangoon. But his lack of inches made

Captain MacElrath a no less able man. At least so the Company reckoned,

and so would he have reckoned could he have had access to the carefully

and minutely compiled record of him filed away in the office archives.

But the Company had never given him a hint of its faith in him. It was

not the way of the Company, for the Company went on the principle of

never allowing an employee to think himself indispensable or even

exceedingly useful; wherefore, while quick to censure, it never praised.

What was Captain MacElrath, anyway, save a skipper, one skipper of the

eighty-odd skippers that commanded the Company’s eighty-odd freighters on

all the highways and byways of the sea?

Beneath them, on the main deck, two Chinese stokers were carrying

breakfast for’ard across the rusty iron plates that told their own grim

story of weight and wash of sea. A sailor was taking down the life-line

that stretched from the forecastle, past the hatches and cargo-winches,

to the bridge-deck ladder.

“A rough voyage,” suggested the pilot.

“Aye, she was fair smokin’ ot times, but not thot I minded thot so much

as the lossin’ of time. I hate like onythun’ tull loss time.”

So saying, Captain MacElrath turned and glanced aft, aloft and alow, and

the pilot, following his gaze, saw the mute but convincing explanation of

that loss of time. The smoke-stack, buff-coloured underneath, was white

with salt, while the whistle-pipe glittered crystalline in the random

sunlight that broke for the instant through a cloud-rift. The port

lifeboat was missing, its iron davits, twisted and wrenched, testifying

to the mightiness of the blow that had been struck the old _Tryapsic_.

The starboard davits were also empty. The shattered wreck of the

lifeboat they had held lay on the fiddley beside the smashed engine-room

skylight, which was covered by a tarpaulin. Below, to star-board, on the

bridge deck, the pilot saw the crushed mess-room door, roughly bulkheaded

against the pounding seas. Abreast of it, on the smokestack guys, and

being taken down by the bos’n and a sailor, hung the huge square of rope

netting which had failed to break those seas of their force.

“Twice afore I mentioned thot door tull the owners,” said Captain

MacElrath. “But they said ut would do. There was bug seas thot time.

They was uncreditable bug. And thot buggest one dud the domage. Ut fair

carried away the door an’ laid ut flat on the mess table an’ smashed out

the chief’s room. He was a but sore about ut.”

“It must ’a’ been a big un,” the pilot remarked sympathetically.

“Aye, ut was thot. Thungs was lively for a but. Ut finished the mate.

He was on the brudge wuth me, an’ I told hum tull take a look tull the

wedges o’ number one hatch. She was takin’ watter freely an’ I was no

sure o’ number one. I dudna like the look o’ ut, an’ I was fuggerin’

maybe tull heave to tull the marn, when she took ut over abaft the

brudge. My word, she was a bug one. We got a but of ut ourselves on the

brudge. I dudna miss the mate ot the first, what o’ routin’ out Chips

an’ bulkheadun’ thot door an’ stretchun’ the tarpaulin over the

sky-light. Then he was nowhere to be found. The men ot the wheel said

as he seen hum goin’ down the lodder just afore she hut us. We looked

for’ard, we looked tull hus room, aye looked tull the engine-room, an’ we

looked along aft on the lower deck, and there he was, on both sides the

cover to the steam-pipe runnun’ tull the after-wunches.”

The pilot ejaculated an oath of amazement and horror.

“Aye,” the skipper went on wearily, “an’ on both sides the steam-pipe uz

well. I tell ye he was in two pieces, splut clean uz a herrin’. The sea

must a-caught hum on the upper brudge deck, carried hum clean across the

fiddley, an’ banged hum head-on tull the pipe cover. It sheered through

hum like so much butter, down atween the eyes, an’ along the middle of

hum, so that one leg an’ arm was fast tull the one piece of hum, an’ one

leg an’ arm fast tull the other piece of hum. I tull ye ut was fair

grewsome. We putt hum together an’ rolled hum in canvas uz we pulled hum

out.”

The pilot swore again.

“Oh, ut wasna onythun’ tull greet about,” Captain MacElrath assured him.

“’Twas a guid ruddance. He was no a sailor, thot mate-fellow. He was

only fut for a pugsty, an’ a dom puir apology for thot same.”

It is said that there are three kinds of Irish—Catholic, Protestant, and

North-of-Ireland—and that the North-of-Ireland Irishman is a transplanted

Scotchman. Captain MacElrath was a North-of-Ireland man, and, talking

for much of the world like a Scotchman, nothing aroused his ire quicker

than being mistaken for a Scotchman. Irish he stoutly was, and Irish he

stoutly abided, though it was with a faint lip-lift of scorn that he

mentioned mere South-of-Ireland men, or even Orange-men. Himself he was

Presbyterian, while in his own community five men were all that ever

mustered at a meeting in the Orange Men’s Hall. His community was the

Island McGill, where seven thousand of his kind lived in such amity and

sobriety that in the whole island there was but one policeman and never a

public-house at all.

Captain MacElrath did not like the sea, and had never liked it. He wrung

his livelihood from it, and that was all the sea was, the place where he

worked, as the mill, the shop, and the counting-house were the places

where other men worked. Romance never sang to him her siren song, and

Adventure had never shouted in his sluggish blood. He lacked

imagination. The wonders of the deep were without significance to him.

Tornadoes, hurricanes, waterspouts, and tidal waves were so many

obstacles to the way of a ship on the sea and of a master on the

bridge—they were that to him, and nothing more. He had seen, and yet not

seen, the many marvels and wonders of far lands. Under his eyelids

burned the brazen glories of the tropic seas, or ached the bitter gales

of the North Atlantic or far South Pacific; but his memory of them was of

mess-room doors stove in, of decks awash and hatches threatened, of undue

coal consumption, of long passages, and of fresh paint-work spoiled by

unexpected squalls of rain.

“I know my buzz’ness,” was the way he often put it, and beyond his

business was all that he did not know, all that he had seen with the

mortal eyes of him and yet that he never dreamed existed. That he knew

his business his owners were convinced, or at forty he would not have

held command of the _Tryapsic_, three thousand tons net register, with a

cargo capacity of nine thousand tons and valued at fifty-thousand pounds.

He had taken up seafaring through no love of it, but because it had been

his destiny, because he had been the second son of his father instead of

the first. Island McGill was only so large, and the land could support

but a certain definite proportion of those that dwelt upon it. The

balance, and a large balance it was, was driven to the sea to seek its

bread. It had been so for generations. The eldest sons took the farms

from their fathers; to the other sons remained the sea and its

salt-ploughing. So it was that Donald MacElrath, farmer’s son and

farm-boy himself, had shifted from the soil he loved to the sea he hated

and which it was his destiny to farm. And farmed it he had, for twenty

years, shrewd, cool-headed, sober, industrious, and thrifty, rising from

ship’s boy and forecastle hand to mate and master of sailing-ships and

thence into steam, second officer, first, and master, from small command

to larger, and at last to the bridge of the old _Tryapsic_—old, to be

sure, but worth her fifty thousand pounds and still able to bear up in

all seas, and weather her nine thousand tons of freight.

From the bridge of the _Tryapsic_, the high place he had gained in the

competition of men, he stared at Dublin harbour opening out, at the town

obscured by the dark sky of the dreary wind-driven day, and at the

tangled tracery of spars and rigging of the harbour shipping. Back from

twice around the world he was, and from interminable junketings up and

down on far stretches, home-coming to the wife he had not seen in

eight-and-twenty months, and to the child he had never seen and that was

already walking and talking. He saw the watch below of stokers and

trimmers bobbing out of the forecastle doors like rabbits from a warren

and making their way aft over the rusty deck to the mustering of the port

doctor. They were Chinese, with expressionless, Sphinx-like faces, and

they walked in peculiar shambling fashion, dragging their feet as if the

clumsy brogans were too heavy for their lean shanks.

He saw them and he did not see them, as he passed his hand beneath his

visored cap and scratched reflectively his mop of sandy hair. For the

scene before him was but the background in his brain for the vision of

peace that was his—a vision that was his often during long nights on the

bridge when the old _Tryapsic_ wallowed on the vexed ocean floor, her

decks awash, her rigging thrumming in the gale gusts or snow squalls or

driving tropic rain. And the vision he saw was of farm and farm-house

and straw-thatched outbuildings, of children playing in the sun, and the

good wife at the door, of lowing kine, and clucking fowls, and the stamp

of horses in the stable, of his father’s farm next to him, with, beyond,

the woodless, rolling land and the hedged fields, neat and orderly,

extending to the crest of the smooth, soft hills. It was his vision and

his dream, his Romance and Adventure, the goal of all his effort, the

high reward for the salt-ploughing and the long, long furrows he ran up

and down the whole world around in his farming of the sea.

In simple taste and homely inclination this much-travelled man was more

simple and homely than the veriest yokel. Seventy-one years his father

was, and had never slept a night out of his own bed in his own house on

Island McGill. That was the life ideal, so Captain MacElrath considered,

and he was prone to marvel that any man, not under compulsion, should

leave a farm to go to sea. To this much-travelled man the whole world

was as familiar as the village to the cobbler sitting in his shop. To

Captain MacElrath the world was a village. In his mind’s eye he saw its

streets a thousand leagues long, aye, and longer; turnings that doubled

earth’s stormiest headlands or were the way to quiet inland ponds;

cross-roads, taken one way, that led to flower-lands and summer seas, and

that led the other way to bitter, ceaseless gales and the perilous bergs

of the great west wind drift. And the cities, bright with lights, were

as shops on these long streets—shops where business was transacted, where

bunkers were replenished, cargoes taken or shifted, and orders received

from the owners in London town to go elsewhere and beyond, ever along the

long sea-lanes, seeking new cargoes here, carrying new cargoes there,

running freights wherever shillings and pence beckoned and underwriters

did not forbid. But it was all a weariness to contemplate, and, save

that he wrung from it his bread, it was without profit under the sun.

The last good-bye to the wife had been at Cardiff, twenty-eight months

before, when he sailed for Valparaiso with coals—nine thousand tons and

down to his marks. From Valparaiso he had gone to Australia, light, a

matter of six thousand miles on end with a stormy passage and running

short of bunker coal. Coals again to Oregon, seven thousand miles, and

nigh as many more with general cargo for Japan and China. Thence to

Java, loading sugar for Marseilles, and back along the Mediterranean to

the Black Sea, and on to Baltimore, down to her marks with crome ore,

buffeted by hurricanes, short again of bunker coal and calling at Bermuda

to replenish. Then a time charter, Norfolk, Virginia, loading mysterious

contraband coal and sailing for South Africa under orders of the

mysterious German supercargo put on board by the charterers. On to

Madagascar, steaming four knots by the supercargo’s orders, and the

suspicion forming that the Russian fleet might want the coal. Confusion

and delays, long waits at sea, international complications, the whole

world excited over the old _Tryapsic_ and her cargo of contraband, and

then on to Japan and the naval port of Sassebo. Back to Australia,

another time charter and general merchandise picked up at Sydney,

Melbourne, and Adelaide, and carried on to Mauritius, Lourenço Marques,

Durban, Algoa Bay, and Cape Town. To Ceylon for orders, and from Ceylon

to Rangoon to load rice for Rio Janeiro. Thence to Buenos Aires and

loading maize for the United Kingdom or the Continent, stopping at St.

Vincent, to receive orders to proceed to Dublin. Two years and four

months, eight hundred and fifty days by the log, steaming up and down the

thousand-league-long sea-lanes and back again to Dublin town. And he was

well aweary.

A little tug had laid hold of the _Tryapsic_, and with clang and clatter

and shouted command, with engines half-ahead, slow-speed, or half-astern,

the battered old sea-tramp was nudged and nosed and shouldered through

the dock-gates into Ring’s End Basin. Lines were flung ashore, fore and

aft, and a ’midship spring got out. Already a small group of the happy

shore-staying folk had clustered on the dock.

“Ring off,” Captain MacElrath commanded in his slow thick voice; and the

third officer worked the lever of the engine-room telegraph.

“Gangway out!” called the second officer; and when this was accomplished,

“That will do.”

It was the last task of all, gangway out. “That will do” was the

dismissal. The voyage was ended, and the crew shambled eagerly forward

across the rusty decks to where their sea-bags were packed and ready for

the shore. The taste of the land was strong in the men’s mouths, and

strong it was in the skipper’s mouth as he muttered a gruff good day to

the departing pilot, and himself went down to his cabin. Up the gangway

were trooping the customs officers, the surveyor, the agent’s clerk, and

the stevedores. Quick work disposed of these and cleared his cabin, the

agent waiting to take him to the office.

“Dud ye send word tull the wife?” had been his greeting to the clerk.

“Yes, a telegram, as soon as you were reported.”

“She’ll likely be comin’ down on the marnin’ train,” the skipper had

soliloquized, and gone inside to change his clothes and wash.

He took a last glance about the room and at two photographs on the wall,

one of the wife the other of an infant—the child he had never seen. He

stepped out into the cabin, with its panelled walls of cedar and maple,

and with its long table that seated ten, and at which he had eaten by

himself through all the weary time. No laughter and clatter and wordy

argument of the mess-room had been his. He had eaten silently, almost

morosely, his silence emulated by the noiseless Asiatic who had served

him. It came to him suddenly, the overwhelming realization of the

loneliness of those two years and more. All his vexations and anxieties

had been his own. He had shared them with no one. His two young

officers were too young and flighty, the mate too stupid. There was no

consulting with them. One tenant had shared the cabin with him, that

tenant his responsibility. They had dined and supped together, walked

the bridge together, and together they had bedded.

“Och!” he muttered to that grim companion, “I’m quit of you, an’ wull

quit . . . for a wee.”

Ashore he passed the last of the seamen with their bags, and, at the

agent’s, with the usual delays, put through his ship business. When

asked out by them to drink he took milk and soda.

“I am no teetotaler,” he explained; “but for the life o’ me I canna bide

beer or whusky.”

In the early afternoon, when he finished paying off his crew, he hurried

to the private office where he had been told his wife was waiting.

His eyes were for her first, though the temptation was great to have more

than a hurried glimpse of the child in the chair beside her. He held her

off from him after the long embrace, and looked into her face long and

steadily, drinking in every feature of it and wondering that he could

mark no changes of time. A warm man, his wife thought him, though had

the opinion of his officers been asked it would have been: a harsh man

and a bitter one.

“Wull, Annie, how is ut wi’ ye?” he queried, and drew her to him again.

And again he held her away from him, this wife of ten years and of whom

he knew so little. She was almost a stranger—more a stranger than his

Chinese steward, and certainly far more a stranger than his own officers

whom he had seen every day, day and day, for eight hundred and fifty

days. Married ten years, and in that time he had been with her nine

weeks—scarcely a honeymoon. Each time home had been a getting acquainted

again with her. It was the fate of the men who went out to the

salt-ploughing. Little they knew of their wives and less of their

children. There was his chief engineer—old, near-sighted MacPherson—who

told the story of returning home to be locked out of his house by his

four-year kiddie that never had laid eyes on him before.

“An’ thus ’ull be the loddie,” the skipper said, reaching out a hesitant

hand to the child’s cheek.

But the boy drew away from him, sheltering against the mother’s side.

“Och!” she cried, “and he doesna know his own father.”

“Nor I hum. Heaven knows I could no a-picked hum out of a crowd, though

he’ll be havin’ your nose I’m thunkun’.”

“An’ your own eyes, Donald. Look ut them. He’s your own father, laddie.

Kiss hum like the little mon ye are.”

But the child drew closer to her, his expression of fear and distrust

growing stronger, and when the father attempted to take him in his arms

he threatened to cry.

The skipper straightened up, and to conceal the pang at his heart he drew

out his watch and looked at it.

“Ut’s time to go, Annie,” he said. “Thot train ’ull be startun’.”

He was silent on the train at first, divided between watching the wife

with the child going to sleep in her arms and looking out of the window

at the tilled fields and green unforested hills vague and indistinct in

the driving drizzle that had set in. They had the compartment to

themselves. When the boy slept she laid him out on the seat and wrapped

him warmly. And when the health of relatives and friends had been

inquired after, and the gossip of Island McGill narrated, along with the

weather and the price of land and crops, there was little left to talk

about save themselves, and Captain MacElrath took up the tale brought

home for the good wife from all his world’s-end wandering. But it was

not a tale of marvels he told, nor of beautiful flower-lands nor

mysterious Eastern cities.

“What like is Java?” she asked once.

“Full o’ fever. Half the crew down wuth ut an’ luttle work. Ut was

quinine an’ quinine the whole blessed time. Each marnun’ ’twas quinine

an’ gin for all hands on an empty stomach. An’ they who was no sick made

ut out to be hovun’ ut bad uz the rest.”

Another time she asked about Newcastle.

“Coals an’ coal-dust—thot’s all. No a nice sutty. I lost two Chinks

there, stokers the both of them. An’ the owners paid a fine tull the

Government of a hundred pounds each for them. ‘We regret tull note,’

they wrut me—I got the letter tull Oregon—‘We regret tull note the loss

o’ two Chinese members o’ yer crew ot Newcastle, an’ we recommend greater

carefulness un the future.’ Greater carefulness! And I could no a-been

more careful. The Chinks hod forty-five pounds each comun’ tull them in

wages, an’ I was no a-thunkun’ they ’ud run.

“But thot’s their way—‘we regret tull note,’ ‘we beg tull advise,’ ‘we

recommend,’ ‘we canna understand’—an’ the like o’ thot. Domned cargo

tank! An’ they would thunk I could drive her like a _Lucania_, an’

wi’out burnun’ coals. There was thot propeller. I was after them a guid

while for ut. The old one was iron, thuck on the edges, an’ we couldna

make our speed. An’ the new one was bronze—nine hundred pounds ut cost,

an’ then wantun’ their returns out o’ ut, an’ me wuth a bod passage an’

lossin’ time every day. ‘We regret tull note your long passage from

Voloparaiso tull Sydney wuth an average daily run o’ only one hundred an’

suxty-seven. We hod expected better results wuth the new propeller. You

should a-made an average daily run o’ two hundred and suxteen.’

“An’ me on a wunter passage, blowin’ a luvin’ gale half the time, wuth

hurricane force in atweenwhiles, an’ hove to sux days, wuth engines

stopped an’ bunker coal runnun’ short, an’ me wuth a mate thot stupid he

could no pass a shup’s light ot night wi’out callun’ me tull the brudge.

I wrut an’ told ’em so. An’ then: ‘Our nautical adviser suggests you

kept too far south,’ an’ ‘We are lookun’ for better results from thot

propeller.’ Nautical adviser!—shore pilot! Ut was the regular latitude

for a wunter passage from Voloparaiso tull Sydney.

“An’ when I come un tull Auckland short o’ coal, after lettun’ her druft

sux days wuth the fires out tull save the coal, an’ wuth only twenty tons

in my bunkers, I was thunkun’ o’ the lossin’ o’ time an’ the expense, an’

tull save the owners I took her un an’ out wi’out pilotage. Pilotage was

no compulsory. An’ un Yokohama, who should I meet but Captun Robinson o’

the _Dyapsic_. We got a-talkun’ about ports an’ places down

Australia-way, an’ first thing he says: ‘Speakun’ o’ Auckland—of course,

Captun, you was never un Auckland?’ ‘Yus,’ I says, ‘I was un there very

recent.’ ‘Oh, ho,’ he says, very angry-like, ‘so you was the smart Aleck

thot fetched me thot letter from the owners: “We note item of fufteen

pounds for pilotage ot Auckland. A shup o’ ours was un tull Auckland

recently an’ uncurred no such charge. We beg tull advise you thot we

conseeder thus pilotage an onnecessary expense which should no be

uncurred un the future.”’

“But dud they say a word tull me for the fufteen pounds I saved tull

them? No a word. They send a letter tull Captun Robinson for no savun’

them the fufteen pounds, an’ tull me: ‘We note item of two guineas

doctor’s fee at Auckland for crew. Please explain thus onusual

expunditure.’ Ut was two o’ the Chinks. I was thunkun’ they hod

beri-beri, an’ thot was the why o’ sendun’ for the doctor. I buried the

two of them ot sea not a week after. But ut was: ‘Please explain thus

onusual expunditure,’ an’ tull Captun Robinson, ‘We beg tull advise you

thot we conseeder thus pilotage an onnecessary expense.’

“Dudna I cable them from Newcastle, tellun’ them the old tank was thot

foul she needed dry-dock? Seven months out o’ dry-dock, an’ the West

Coast the quickest place for foulun’ un the world. But freights was up,

an’ they hod a charter o’ coals for Portland. The _Arrata_, one o’ the

Woor Line, left port the same day uz us, bound for Portland, an’ the old

_Tryapsic_ makun’ sux knots, seven ot the best. An’ ut was ot Comox,

takun’ un bunker coal, I got the letter from the owners. The boss

humself hod signed ut, an’ ot the bottom he wrut un hus own hond: ‘The

_Arrata_ beat you by four an’ a half days. Am dusappointed.’

Dusappointed! When I had cabled them from Newcastle. When she drydocked

ot Portland, there was whuskers on her a foot long, barnacles the size o’

me fust, oysters like young sauce plates. Ut took them two days

afterward tull clean the dock o’ shells an’ muck.

“An’ there was the motter o’ them fire-bars ot Newcastle. The firm

ashore made them heavier than the engineer’s speecifications, an’ then

forgot tull charge for the dufference. Ot the last moment, wuth me

ashore gettun’ me clearance, they come wuth the bill: ‘Tull error on

fire-bars, sux pounds.’ They’d been tull the shup an’ MacPherson hod

O.K.’d ut. I said ut was strange an’ would no pay. ‘Then you are

dootun’ the chief engineer,’ says they. ‘I’m no dootun’,’ says I, ‘but I

canna see my way tull sign. Come wuth me tull the shup. The launch wull

cost ye naught an’ ut ’ull brung ye back. An’ we wull see what

MacPherson says.’

“But they would no come. Ot Portland I got the bill un a letter. I took

no notice. Ot Hong-Kong I got a letter from the owners. The bill hod

been sent tull them. I wrut them from Java explainun’. At Marseilles

the owners wrut me: ‘Tull extra work un engine-room, sux pounds. The

engineer has O.K.’d ut, an’ you have no O.K.’d ut. Are you dootun’ the

engineer’s honesty?’ I wrut an’ told them I was no dootun’ his honesty;

thot the bill was for extra weight o’ fire-bars; an’ thot ut was O.K.

Dud they pay ut? They no dud. They must unvestigate. An’ some clerk un

the office took sick, an’ the bill was lost. An’ there was more letters.

I got letters from the owners an’ the firm—‘Tull error on fire-bars, sux

pounds’—ot Baltimore, ot Delagoa Bay, ot Moji, ot Rangoon, ot Rio, an’ ot

Montevuddio. Ut uz no settled yut. I tell ye, Annie, the owners are

hard tull please.”

He communed with himself for a moment, and then muttered indignantly:

“Tull error on fire-bars, sux pounds.”

“Hov ye heard of Jamie?” his wife asked in the pause.

Captain MacElrath shook his head.

“He was washed off the poop wuth three seamen.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Off the Horn. ’Twas on the _Thornsby_.”

“They would be runnun’ homeward bound?”

“Aye,” she nodded. “We only got the word three days gone. His wife is

greetin’ like tull die.”

“A good lod, Jamie,” he commented, “but a stiff one ot carryun’ on. I

mind me when we was mates together un the _Albion_. An’ so Jamie’s gone.”

Again a pause fell, to be broken by the wife.

“An’ ye will no a-heard o’ the _Bankshire_? MacDougall lost her in

Magellan Straits. ’Twas only yesterday ut was in the paper.”

“A cruel place, them Magellan Straits,” he said. “Dudna thot domned

mate-fellow nigh putt me ashore twice on the one passage through? He was

a eediot, a lunatuc. I wouldna have hum on the brudge a munut. Comun’

tull Narrow Reach, thuck weather, wuth snow squalls, me un the

chart-room, dudna I guv hum the changed course? ‘South-east-by-east,’ I

told hum. ‘South-east-by-east, sir,’ says he. Fufteen munuts after I

comes on tull the brudge. ‘Funny,’ says thot mate-fellow, ‘I’m no

rememberun’ ony islands un the mouth o’ Narrow Reach. I took one look ot

the islands an’ yells, ‘Putt your wheel hard a-starboard,’ tull the mon

ot the wheel. An’ ye should a-seen the old _Tryapsic_ turnun’ the

sharpest circle she ever turned. I waited for the snow tull clear, an’

there was Narrow Reach, nice uz ye please, tull the east’ard an’ the

islands un the mouth o’ False Bay tull the south’ard. ‘What course was

ye steerun’?’ I says tull the mon ot the wheel. ‘South-by-east, sir,’

says he. I looked tull the mate-fellow. What could I say? I was thot

wroth I could a-kult hum. Four points dufference. Five munuts more an’

the old _Tryapsic_ would a-been funushed.

“An’ was ut no the same when we cleared the Straits tull the east’ard?

Four hours would a-seen us guid an’ clear. I was forty hours then on the

brudge. I guv the mate his course, an’ the bearun’ o’ the Askthar Light

astern. ‘Don’t let her bear more tull the north’ard than west-by-north,’

I said tull hum, ’an’ ye wull be all right.’ An’ I went below an’ turned

un. But I couldna sleep for worryun’. After forty hours on the brudge,

what was four hours more? I thought. An’ for them four hours wull ye be

lettun’ the mate loss her on ye? ‘No,’ I says to myself. An’ wuth thot

I got up, hod a wash an’ a cup o’ coffee, an’ went tull the brudge. I

took one look ot the bearun’ o’ Askthar Light. ’Twas nor’west-by-west,

and the old _Tryapsic_ down on the shoals. He was a eediot, thot

mate-fellow. Ye could look overside an’ see the duscoloration of the

watter. ’Twas a close call for the old _Tryapsic_ I’m tellun’ ye. Twice

un thirty hours he’d a-hod her ashore uf ut hod no been for me.”

Captain MacElrath fell to gazing at the sleeping child with mild wonder

in his small blue eyes, and his wife sought to divert him from his woes.

“Ye remember Jummy MacCaul?” she asked. “Ye went tull school wuth hus

two boys. Old Jummy MacCaul thot hoz the farm beyond Doctor Haythorn’s

place.”

“Oh, aye, an’ what o’ hum? Uz he dead?”

“No, but he was after askun’ your father, when he sailed last time for

Voloparaiso, uf ye’d been there afore. An’ when your father says no,

then Jummy says, ‘An’ how wull he be knowun a’ tull find hus way?’ An’

with thot your father says: ‘Verry sumple ut uz, Jummy. Supposun’ you

was goin’ tull the mainland tull a mon who luved un Belfast. Belfast uz

a bug sutty, Jummy, an’ how would ye be findun’ your way?’ ‘By way o’ me

tongue,’ says Jummy; ‘I’d be askun’ the folk I met.’ ‘I told ye ut was

sumple,’ says your father. ‘Ut’s the very same way my Donald finds the

road tull Voloparaiso. He asks every shup he meets upon the sea tull ot

last he meets wuth a shup thot’s been tull Voloparaiso, an’ the captun o’

thot shup tells hum the way.’ An’ Jummy scratches hus head an’ says he

understands an’ thot ut’s a very sumple motter after all.”

The skipper chuckled at the joke, and his tired blue eyes were merry for

the moment.

“He was a thun chap, thot mate-fellow, oz thun oz you an’ me putt

together,” he remarked after a time, a slight twinkle in his eye of

appreciation of the bull. But the twinkle quickly disappeared and the

blue eyes took on a bleak and wintry look. “What dud he do ot

Voloparaiso but land sux hundred fathom o’ chain cable an’ take never a

receipt from the lighter-mon. I was gettun’ my clearance ot the time.

When we got tull sea, I found he hod no receipt for the cable.

“‘An’ ye no took a receipt for ut?’ says I.

“‘No,’ says he. ‘Wasna ut goin’ direct tull the agents?’

“‘How long ha’ ye been goin’ tull sea,’ says I, ‘not tull be knowin’ the

mate’s duty uz tull deluver no cargo wuthout receipt for same? An’ on

the West Coast ot thot. What’s tull stop the lighter-mon from stealun’ a

few lengths o’ ut?’

“An’ ut come out uz I said. Sux hundred went over the side, but

four hundred an’ ninety-five was all the agents received. The

lighter-mon swore ut was all he received from the mate—four hundred an’

ninety-five fathom. I got a letter from the owners ot Portland. They no

blamed the mate for ut, but me, an’ me ashore ot the time on shup’s

buzz’ness. I could no be in the two places ot the one time. An’ the

letters from the owners an’ the agents uz still comun’ tull me.

“Thot mate-fellow was no a proper sailor, an’ no a mon tull work for

owners. Dudna he want tull break me wuth the Board of Trade for bein’

below my marks? He said as much tull the bos’n. An’ he told me tull my

face homeward bound thot I’d been half an inch under my marks. ’Twas at

Portland, loadun’ cargo un fresh watter an’ goin’ tull Comox tull load

bunker coal un salt watter. I tell ye, Annie, ut takes close fuggerin’,

an’ I _was_ half an inch under the load-line when the bunker coal was un.

But I’m no tellun’ any other body but you. An’ thot mate-fellow

untendun’ tull report me tull the Board o’ Trade, only for thot he saw

fut tull be sliced un two pieces on the steam-pipe cover.

“He was a fool. After loadun’ ot Portland I hod tull take on suxty tons

o’ coal tull last me tull Comox. The charges for lighterun’ was heavy,

an’ no room ot the coal dock. A French barque was lyin’ alongside the

dock an’ I spoke tull the captun, askun’ hum what he would charge when

work for the day was done, tull haul clear for a couple o’ hours an’ let

me un. ‘Twenty dollars,’ said he. Ut was savun’ money on lighters tull

the owner, an’ I gave ut tull hum. An’ thot night, after dark, I hauled

un an’ took on the coal. Then I started tull go out un the stream an’

drop anchor—under me own steam, of course.

“We hod tull go out stern first, an’ somethun’ went wrong wuth the

reversun’ gear. Old MacPherson said he could work ut by hond, but very

slow ot thot. An’ I said ‘All right.’ We started. The pilot was on

board. The tide was ebbun’ stuffly, an’ right abreast an’ a but below

was a shup lyin’ wuth a lighter on each side. I saw the shup’s ridun’

lights, but never a light on the lighters. Ut was close quarters to

shuft a bug vessel onder steam, wuth MacPherson workun’ the reversun’

gear by hond. We hod to come close down upon the shup afore I could go

ahead an’ clear o’ the shups on the dock-ends. An’ we struck the lighter

stern-on, just uz I rung tull MacPherson half ahead.

“‘What was thot?’ says the pilot, when we struck the lighter.

“‘I dunna know,’ says I, ‘an’ I’m wonderun’.’

“The pilot was no keen, ye see, tull hus job. I went on tull a guid

place an’ dropped anchor, an’ ut would all a-been well but for thot

domned eediot mate.

“‘We smashed thot lighter,’ says he, comun’ up the lodder tull the

brudge—an’ the pilot stondun’ there wuth his ears cocked tull hear.

“‘What lighter?’ says I.

“‘Thot lighter alongside the shup,’ says the mate.

“‘I dudna see no lighter,’ says I, and wuth thot I steps on hus fut guid

an’ hard.

“After the pilot was gone I says tull the mate: ‘Uf you dunna know

onythun’, old mon, for Heaven’s sake keep your mouth shut.’

“‘But ye dud smash thot lighter, dudn’t ye?’ says he.

“‘Uf we dud,’ says I, ‘ut’s no your buzz’ness tull be tellun’ the

pilot—though, mind ye, I’m no admuttun’ there was ony lighter.’

“An’ next marnun’, just uz I’m after dressun’, the steward says, ‘A mon

tull see ye, sir.’ ‘Fetch hum un,’ says I. An’ un he come. ‘Sut down,’

says I. An’ he sot down.

“He was the owner of the lighter, an’ when he hod told hus story, I says,

‘I dudna see ony lighter.’

“‘What, mon?’ says he. ‘No see a two-hundred-ton lighter, bug oz a

house, alongside thot shup?’

“‘I was goin’ by the shup’s lights,’ says I, ‘an’ I dudna touch the shup,

thot I know.’

“‘But ye dud touch the lighter,’ says he. ‘Ye smashed her. There’s a

thousand dollars’ domage done, an’ I’ll see ye pay for ut.’

“‘Look here, muster,’ says I, ‘when I’m shuftun’ a shup ot night I follow

the law, an’ the law dustunctly says I must regulate me actions by the

lights o’ the shuppun’. Your lighter never hod no ridun’ light, nor dud

I look for ony lighter wuthout lights tull show ut.’

“‘The mate says—’ he beguns.

“‘Domn the mate,’ says I. ‘Dud your lighter hov a ridun’ light?’

“‘No, ut dud not,’ says he, ‘but ut was a clear night wuth the moon

a-showun’.’

“‘Ye seem tull know your buzz’ness,’ says I. ‘But let me tell ye thot I

know my buzz’ness uz well, an’ thot I’m no a-lookun’ for lighters wuthout

lights. Uf ye thunk ye hov a case, go ahead. The steward will show ye

out. Guid day.’

“An’ thot was the end o’ ut. But ut wull show ye what a puir fellow thot

mate was. I call ut a blessun’ for all masters thot he was sliced un two

on thot steam-pipe cover. He had a pull un the office an’ thot was the

why he was kept on.”

“The Wekley farm wull soon be for sale, so the agents be tellun’ me,” his

wife remarked, slyly watching what effect her announcement would have

upon him.

His eyes flashed eagerly on the instant, and he straightened up as might

a man about to engage in some agreeable task. It was the farm of his

vision, adjoining his father’s, and her own people farmed not a mile

away.

“We wull be buyun’ ut,” he said, “though we wull be no tellun’ a soul of

ut ontul ut’s bought an’ the money paid down. I’ve savun’ consuderable

these days, though pickun’s uz no what they used to be, an’ we hov a tidy

nest-egg laid by. I wull see the father an’ hove the money ready tull

hus hond, so uf I’m ot sea he can buy whenever the land offers.”

He rubbed the frosted moisture from the inside of the window and peered

out at the pouring rain, through which he could discern nothing.

“When I was a young men I used tull be afeard thot the owners would guv

me the sack. Stull afeard I am of the sack. But once thot farm is mine

I wull no be afeard ony longer. Ut’s a puir job thus sea-farmun’. Me

managin’ un all seas an’ weather an’ perils o’ the deep a shup worth

fufty thousand pounds, wuth cargoes ot times worth fufty thousand more—a

hundred thousand pounds, half a million dollars uz the Yankees say, an’

me wuth all the responsubility gettun’ a screw o’ twenty pounds a month.

What mon ashore, managin’ a buz’ness worth a hundred thousand pounds wull

be gettun’ uz small a screw uz twenty pounds? An’ wuth such masters uz a

captun serves—the owners, the underwriters, an’ the Board o’ Trade, all

pullun’ an wantun’ dufferent thungs—the owners wantun’ quick passages an’

domn the rusk, the underwriters wantun’ safe passages an’ domn the delay,

an’ the Board o’ Trade wantun’ cautious passages an’ caution always

meanun’ delay. Three dufferent masters, an’ all three able an’ wullun’

to break ye uf ye don’t serve their dufferent wushes.”

He felt the train slackening speed, and peered again through the misty

window. He stood up, buttoned his overcoat, turned up the collar, and

awkwardly gathered the child, still asleep, in his arms.

“I wull see the father,” he said, “an’ hov the money ready tull hus hond

so uf I’m ot sea when the land offers he wull no muss the chance tull

buy. An’ then the owners can guv me the sack uz soon uz they like. Ut

will be all night un, an’ I wull be wuth you, Annie, an’ the sea can go

tull hell.”

Happiness was in both their faces at the prospect, and for a moment both

saw the same vision of peace. Annie leaned toward him, and as the train

stopped they kissed each other across the sleeping child.

SAMUEL

MARGARET HENAN would have been a striking figure under any circumstances,

but never more so than when I first chanced upon her, a sack of grain of

fully a hundredweight on her shoulder, as she walked with sure though

tottering stride from the cart-tail to the stable, pausing for an instant

to gather strength at the foot of the steep steps that led to the

grain-bin. There were four of these steps, and she went up them, a step

at a time, slowly, unwaveringly, and with so dogged certitude that it

never entered my mind that her strength could fail her and let that

hundred-weight sack fall from the lean and withered frame that wellnigh

doubled under it. For she was patently an old woman, and it was her age

that made me linger by the cart and watch.

Six times she went between the cart and the stable, each time with a full

sack on her back, and beyond passing the time of day with me she took no

notice of my presence. Then, the cart empty, she fumbled for matches and

lighted a short clay pipe, pressing down the burning surface of the

tobacco with a calloused and apparently nerveless thumb. The hands were

noteworthy. They were large-knuckled, sinewy and malformed by labour,

rimed with callouses, the nails blunt and broken, and with here and there

cuts and bruises, healed and healing, such as are common to the hands of

hard-working men. On the back were huge, upstanding veins, eloquent of

age and toil. Looking at them, it was hard to believe that they were the

hands of the woman who had once been the belle of Island McGill. This

last, of course, I learned later. At the time I knew neither her history

nor her identity.

She wore heavy man’s brogans. Her legs were stockingless, and I had

noticed when she walked that her bare feet were thrust into the crinkly,

iron-like shoes that sloshed about her lean ankles at every step. Her

figure, shapeless and waistless, was garbed in a rough man’s shirt and in

a ragged flannel petticoat that had once been red. But it was her face,

wrinkled, withered and weather-beaten, surrounded by an aureole of

unkempt and straggling wisps of greyish hair, that caught and held me.

Neither drifted hair nor serried wrinkles could hide the splendid dome of

a forehead, high and broad without verging in the slightest on the

abnormal.

The sunken cheeks and pinched nose told little of the quality of the life

that flickered behind those clear blue eyes of hers. Despite the minutiæ

of wrinkle-work that somehow failed to weazen them, her eyes were clear

as a girl’s—clear, out-looking, and far-seeing, and with an open and

unblinking steadfastness of gaze that was disconcerting. The remarkable

thing was the distance between them. It is a lucky man or woman who has

the width of an eye between, but with Margaret Henan the width between

her eyes was fully that of an eye and a half. Yet so symmetrically

moulded was her face that this remarkable feature produced no uncanny

effect, and, for that matter, would have escaped the casual observer’s

notice. The mouth, shapeless and toothless, with down-turned corners and

lips dry and parchment-like, nevertheless lacked the muscular slackness

so usual with age. The lips might have been those of a mummy, save for

that impression of rigid firmness they gave. Not that they were

atrophied. On the contrary, they seemed tense and set with a muscular

and spiritual determination. There, and in the eyes, was the secret of

the certitude with which she carried the heavy sacks up the steep steps,

with never a false step or overbalance, and emptied them in the

grain-bin.

“You are an old woman to be working like this,” I ventured.

She looked at me with that strange, unblinking gaze, and she thought and

spoke with the slow deliberateness that characterized everything about

her, as if well aware of an eternity that was hers and in which there was

no need for haste. Again I was impressed by the enormous certitude of

her. In this eternity that seemed so indubitably hers, there was time

and to spare for safe-footing and stable equilibrium—for certitude, in

short. No more in her spiritual life than in carrying the hundredweights

of grain was there a possibility of a misstep or an overbalancing. The

feeling produced in me was uncanny. Here was a human soul that, save for

the most glimmering of contacts, was beyond the humanness of me. And the

more I learned of Margaret Henan in the weeks that followed the more

mysteriously remote she became. She was as alien as a far-journeyer from

some other star, and no hint could she nor all the countryside give me of

what forms of living, what heats of feeling, or rules of philosophic

contemplation actuated her in all that she had been and was.

“I wull be suvunty-two come Guid Friday a fortnight,” she said in reply

to my question.

“But you are an old woman to be doing this man’s work, and a strong man’s

work at that,” I insisted.

Again she seemed to immerse herself in that atmosphere of contemplative

eternity, and so strangely did it affect me that I should not have been

surprised to have awaked a century or so later and found her just

beginning to enunciate her reply—

“The work hoz tull be done, an’ I am beholden tull no one.”

“But have you no children, no family, relations?”

“Oh, aye, a-plenty o’ them, but they no see fut tull be helpun’ me.”

She drew out her pipe for a moment, then added, with a nod of her head

toward the house, “I luv’ wuth meself.”

I glanced at the house, straw-thatched and commodious, at the large

stable, and at the large array of fields I knew must belong with the

place.

“It is a big bit of land for you to farm by yourself.”

“Oh, aye, a bug but, suvunty acres. Ut kept me old mon buzzy, along wuth

a son an’ a hired mon, tull say naught o’ extra honds un the harvest an’

a maid-servant un the house.”

She clambered into the cart, gathered the reins in her hands, and quizzed

me with her keen, shrewd eyes.

“Belike ye hail from over the watter—Ameruky, I’m meanun’?”

“Yes, I’m a Yankee,” I answered.

“Ye wull no be findun’ mony Island McGill folk stoppun’ un Ameruky?”

“No; I don’t remember ever meeting one, in the States.”

She nodded her head.

“They are home-luvun’ bodies, though I wull no be sayin’ they are no

fair-travelled. Yet they come home ot the last, them oz are no lost ot

sea or kult by fevers an’ such-like un foreign parts.”

“Then your sons will have gone to sea and come home again?” I queried.

“Oh, aye, all savun’ Samuel oz was drownded.”

At the mention of Samuel I could have sworn to a strange light in her

eyes, and it seemed to me, as by some telepathic flash, that I divined in

her a tremendous wistfulness, an immense yearning. It seemed to me that

here was the key to her inscrutableness, the clue that if followed

properly would make all her strangeness plain. It came to me that here

was a contact and that for the moment I was glimpsing into the soul of

her. The question was tickling on my tongue, but she forestalled me.

She _tchk’d_ to the horse, and with a “Guid day tull you, sir,” drove

off.

* * * * *

A simple, homely people are the folk of Island McGill, and I doubt if a

more sober, thrifty, and industrious folk is to be found in all the

world. Meeting them abroad—and to meet them abroad one must meet them on

the sea, for a hybrid seafaring and farmer breed are they—one would never

take them to be Irish. Irish they claim to be, speaking of the North of

Ireland with pride and sneering at their Scottish brothers; yet Scotch

they undoubtedly are, transplanted Scotch of long ago, it is true, but

none the less Scotch, with a thousand traits, to say nothing of their

tricks of speech and woolly utterance, which nothing less than their

Scotch clannishness could have preserved to this late day.

A narrow loch, scarcely half a mile wide, separates Island McGill from

the mainland of Ireland; and, once across this loch, one finds himself in

an entirely different country. The Scotch impression is strong, and the

people, to commence with, are Presbyterians. When it is considered that

there is no public-house in all the island and that seven thousand souls

dwell therein, some idea may be gained of the temperateness of the

community. Wedded to old ways, public opinion and the ministers are

powerful influences, while fathers and mothers are revered and obeyed as

in few other places in this modern world. Courting lasts never later

than ten at night, and no girl walks out with her young man without her

parents’ knowledge and consent.

The young men go down to the sea and sow their wild oats in the wicked

ports, returning periodically, between voyages, to live the old intensive

morality, to court till ten o’clock, to sit under the minister each

Sunday, and to listen at home to the same stern precepts that the elders

preached to them from the time they were laddies. Much they learned of

women in the ends of the earth, these seafaring sons, yet a canny wisdom

was theirs and they never brought wives home with them. The one solitary

exception to this had been the schoolmaster, who had been guilty of

bringing a wife from half a mile the other side of the loch. For this he

had never been forgiven, and he rested under a cloud for the remainder of

his days. At his death the wife went back across the loch to her own

people, and the blot on the escutcheon of Island McGill was erased. In

the end the sailor-men married girls of their own homeland and settled

down to become exemplars of all the virtues for which the island was

noted.

Island McGill was without a history. She boasted none of the events that

go to make history. There had never been any wearing of the green, any

Fenian conspiracies, any land disturbances. There had been but one

eviction, and that purely technical—a test case, and on advice of the

tenant’s lawyer. So Island McGill was without annals. History had

passed her by. She paid her taxes, acknowledged her crowned rulers, and

left the world alone; all she asked in return was that the world should

leave her alone. The world was composed of two parts—Island McGill and

the rest of it. And whatever was not Island McGill was outlandish and

barbarian; and well she knew, for did not her seafaring sons bring home

report of that world and its ungodly ways?

* * * * *

It was from the skipper of a Glasgow tramp, as passenger from Colombo to

Rangoon, that I had first learned of the existence of Island McGill; and

it was from him that I had carried the letter that gave me entrance to

the house of Mrs. Ross, widow of a master mariner, with a daughter living

with her and with two sons, master mariners themselves and out upon the

sea. Mrs. Ross did not take in boarders, and it was Captain Ross’s

letter alone that had enabled me to get from her bed and board. In the

evening, after my encounter with Margaret Henan, I questioned Mrs. Ross,

and I knew on the instant that I had in truth stumbled upon mystery.

Like all Island McGill folk, as I was soon to discover, Mrs. Ross was at

first averse to discussing Margaret Henan at all. Yet it was from her I

learned that evening that Margaret Henan had once been one of the island

belles. Herself the daughter of a well-to-do farmer, she had married

Thomas Henan, equally well-to-do. Beyond the usual housewife’s tasks she

had never been accustomed to work. Unlike many of the island women, she

had never lent a hand in the fields.

“But what of her children?” I asked.

“Two o’ the sons, Jamie an’ Timothy uz married an’ be goun’ tull sea.

Thot bug house close tull the post office uz Jamie’s. The daughters thot

ha’ no married be luvun’ wuth them as dud marry. An’ the rest be dead.”

“The Samuels,” Clara interpolated, with what I suspected was a giggle.

She was Mrs. Ross’s daughter, a strapping young woman with handsome

features and remarkably handsome black eyes.

“’Tuz naught to be smuckerun’ ot,” her mother reproved her.

“The Samuels?” I intervened. “I don’t understand.”

“Her four sons thot died.”

“And were they all named Samuel?”

“Aye.”

“Strange,” I commented in the lagging silence.

“Very strange,” Mrs. Ross affirmed, proceeding stolidly with the knitting

of the woollen singlet on her knees—one of the countless under-garments

that she interminably knitted for her skipper sons.

“And it was only the Samuels that died?” I queried, in further attempt.

“The others luved,” was the answer. “A fine fomuly—no finer on the

island. No better lods ever sailed out of Island McGill. The munuster

held them up oz models tull pottern after. Nor was ever a whusper

breathed again’ the girls.”

“But why is she left alone now in her old age?” I persisted. “Why don’t

her own flesh and blood look after her? Why does she live alone? Don’t

they ever go to see her or care for her?”

“Never a one un twenty years an’ more now. She fetched ut on tull

herself. She drove them from the house just oz she drove old Tom Henan,

thot was her husband, tull hus death.”

“Drink?” I ventured.

Mrs. Ross shook her head scornfully, as if drink was a weakness beneath

the weakest of Island McGill.

A long pause followed, during which Mrs. Ross knitted stolidly on, only

nodding permission when Clara’s young man, mate on one of the Shire Line

sailing ships, came to walk out with her. I studied the half-dozen

ostrich eggs, hanging in the corner against the wall like a cluster of

some monstrous fruit. On each shell were painted precipitous and

impossible seas through which full-rigged ships foamed with a lack of

perspective only equalled by their sharp technical perfection. On the

mantelpiece stood two large pearl shells, obviously a pair, intricately

carved by the patient hands of New Caledonian convicts. In the centre of

the mantel was a stuffed bird-of-paradise, while about the room were

scattered gorgeous shells from the southern seas, delicate sprays of

coral sprouting from barnacled _pi-pi_ shells and cased in glass,

assegais from South Africa, stone axes from New Guinea, huge Alaskan

tobacco-pouches beaded with heraldic totem designs, a boomerang from

Australia, divers ships in glass bottles, a cannibal _kai-kai_ bowl from

the Marquesas, and fragile cabinets from China and the Indies and inlaid

with mother-of-pearl and precious woods.

I gazed at this varied trove brought home by sailor sons, and pondered

the mystery of Margaret Henan, who had driven her husband to his death

and been forsaken by all her kin. It was not the drink. Then what was

it?—some shocking cruelty? some amazing infidelity? or some fearful,

old-world peasant-crime?

I broached my theories, but to all Mrs. Ross shook her head.

“Ut was no thot,” she said. “Margaret was a guid wife an’ a guid mother,

an’ I doubt she would harm a fly. She brought up her fomuly God-fearin’

an’ decent-minded. Her trouble was thot she took lunatic—turned eediot.”

Mrs. Ross tapped significantly on her forehead to indicate a state of

addlement.

“But I talked with her this afternoon,” I objected, “and I found her a

sensible woman—remarkably bright for one of her years.”

“Aye, an’ I’m grantun’ all thot you say,” she went on calmly. “But I am

no referrun’ tull thot. I am referrun’ tull her wucked-headed an’

vucious stubbornness. No more stubborn woman ever luv’d than Margaret

Henan. Ut was all on account o’ Samuel, which was the name o’ her

youngest an’ they do say her favourut brother—hum oz died by hus own hond

all through the munuster’s mustake un no registerun’ the new church ot

Dublin. Ut was a lesson thot the name was musfortunate, but she would no

take ut, an’ there was talk when she called her first child Samuel—hum

thot died o’ the croup. An’ wuth thot what does she do but call the next

one Samuel, an’ hum only three when he fell un tull the tub o’ hot watter

an’ was plain cooked tull death. Ut all come, I tell you, o’ her

wucked-headed an’ foolush stubbornness. For a Samuel she must hov; an’

ut was the death of the four of her sons. After the first, dudna her own

mother go down un the dirt tull her feet, a-beggun’ an’ pleadun’ wuth her

no tull name her next one Samuel? But she was no tull be turned from her

purpose. Margaret Henan was always set on her ways, an’ never more so

thon on thot name Samuel.

“She was fair lunatuc on Samuel. Dudna her neighbours’ an’ all kuth an’

kun savun’ them thot luv’d un the house wuth her, get up an’ walk out ot

the christenun’ of the second—hum thot was cooked? Thot they dud, an’ ot

the very moment the munuster asked what would the bairn’s name be.

‘Samuel,’ says she; an’ wuth thot they got up an’ walked out an’ left the

house. An’ ot the door dudna her Aunt Fannie, her mother’s suster, turn

an’ say loud for all tull hear: ‘What for wull she be wantun’ tull murder

the wee thing?’ The munuster heard fine, an’ dudna like ut, but, oz he

told my Larry afterward, what could he do? Ut was the woman’s wush, an’

there was no law again’ a mother callun’ her child accordun’ tull her

wush.

“An’ then was there no the third Samuel? An’ when he was lost ot sea off

the Cape, dudna she break all laws o’ nature tull hov a fourth? She was

forty-seven, I’m tellun’ ye, an’ she hod a child ot forty-seven. Thunk

on ut! Ot forty-seven! Ut was fair scand’lous.”

* * * * *

From Clara, next morning, I got the tale of Margaret Henan’s favourite

brother; and from here and there, in the week that followed, I pieced

together the tragedy of Margaret Henan. Samuel Dundee had been the

youngest of Margaret’s four brothers, and, as Clara told me, she had

well-nigh worshipped him. He was going to sea at the time, skipper of

one of the sailing ships of the Bank Line, when he married Agnes Hewitt.

She was described as a slender wisp of a girl, delicately featured and

with a nervous organization of the supersensitive order. Theirs had been

the first marriage in the “new” church, and after a two-weeks’ honeymoon

Samuel had kissed his bride good-bye and sailed in command of the

_Loughbank_, a big four-masted barque.

And it was because of the “new” church that the minister’s blunder

occurred. Nor was it the blunder of the minister alone, as one of the

elders later explained; for it was equally the blunder of the whole

Presbytery of Coughleen, which included fifteen churches on Island McGill

and the mainland. The old church, beyond repair, had been torn down and

the new one built on the original foundation. Looking upon the

foundation-stones as similar to a ship’s keel, it never entered the

minister’s nor the Presbytery’s head that the new church was legally any

other than the old church.

“An’ three couples was married the first week un the new church,” Clara

said. “First of all, Samuel Dundee an’ Agnes Hewitt; the next day Albert

Mahan an’ Minnie Duncan; an’ by the week-end Eddie Troy and Flo

Mackintosh—all sailor-men, an’ un sux weeks’ time the last of them back

tull their ships an’ awa’, an’ no one o’ them dreamin’ of the wuckedness

they’d been ot.”

The Imp of the Perverse must have chuckled at the situation. All things

favoured. The marriages had taken place in the first week of May, and it

was not till three months later that the minister, as required by law,

made his quarterly report to the civil authorities in Dublin. Promptly

came back the announcement that his church had no legal existence, not

being registered according to the law’s demands. This was overcome by

prompt registration; but the marriages were not to be so easily remedied.

The three sailor husbands were away, and their wives, in short, were not

their wives.

“But the munuster was no for alarmin’ the bodies,” said Clara. “He kept

hus council an’ bided hus time, waitun’ for the lods tull be back from

sea. Oz luck would have ut, he was away across the island tull a

christenun’ when Albert Mahan arrives home onexpected, hus shup just

docked ot Dublin. Ut’s nine o’clock ot night when the munuster, un hus

sluppers an’ dressun’-gown, gets the news. Up he jumps an’ calls for

horse an’ saddle, an’ awa’ he goes like the wund for Albert Mahan’s.

Albert uz just goun’ tull bed an’ hoz one shoe off when the munuster

arrives.

“‘Come wuth me, the pair o’ ye,’ says he, breathless-like. ‘What for,

an’ me dead weary an’ goun’ tull bed?’ says Albert. ‘Yull be lawful

married,’ says the munuster. Albert looks black an’ says, ‘Now,

munuster, ye wull be jokun’,’ but tull humself, oz I’ve heard hum tell

mony a time, he uz wonderun’ thot the munuster should a-took tull whusky

ot hus time o’ life.

“’We be no married?’ says Minnie. He shook his head. ‘An’ I om no

Mussus Mahan?’ ‘No,’ says he, ‘ye are no Mussus Mahan. Ye are plain

Muss Duncan.’ ‘But ye married ’us yoursel’,’ says she. ‘I dud an’ I

dudna,’ says he. An’ wuth thot he tells them the whole upshot, an’

Albert puts on hus shoe, an’ they go wuth the munuster an’ are married

proper an’ lawful, an’ oz Albert Mahan says afterward mony’s the time,

‘’Tus no every mon thot hoz two weddun’ nights on Island McGill.’”

Six months later Eddie Troy came home and was promptly remarried. But

Samuel Dundee was away on a three-years’ voyage and his ship fell

overdue. Further to complicate the situation, a baby boy, past two years

old, was waiting for him in the arms of his wife. The months passed, and

the wife grew thin with worrying. “Ut’s no meself I’m thunkun’ on,” she

is reported to have said many times, “but ut’s the puir fatherless bairn.

Uf aught happened tull Samuel where wull the bairn stond?”

Lloyd’s posted the _Loughbank_ as missing, and the owners ceased the

monthly remittance of Samuel’s half-pay to his wife. It was the question

of the child’s legitimacy that preyed on her mind, and, when all hope of

Samuel’s return was abandoned, she drowned herself and the child in the

loch. And here enters the greater tragedy. The _Loughbank_ was not

lost. By a series of sea disasters and delays too interminable to

relate, she had made one of those long, unsighted passages such as occur

once or twice in half a century. How the Imp must have held both his

sides! Back from the sea came Samuel, and when they broke the news to

him something else broke somewhere in his heart or head. Next morning

they found him where he had tried to kill himself across the grave of his

wife and child. Never in the history of Island McGill was there so

fearful a death-bed. He spat in the minister’s face and reviled him, and

died blaspheming so terribly that those that tended on him did so with

averted gaze and trembling hands.

And, in the face of all this, Margaret Henan named her first child

Samuel.

* * * * *

How account for the woman’s stubbornness? Or was it a morbid obsession

that demanded a child of hers should be named Samuel? Her third child

was a girl, named after herself, and the fourth was a boy again. Despite

the strokes of fate that had already bereft her, and despite the loss of

friends and relatives, she persisted in her resolve to name the child

after her brother. She was shunned at church by those who had grown up

with her. Her mother, after a final appeal, left her house with the

warning that if the child were so named she would never speak to her

again. And though the old lady lived thirty-odd years longer she kept

her word. The minister agreed to christen the child any name but Samuel,

and every other minister on Island McGill refused to christen it by the

name she had chosen. There was talk on the part of Margaret Henan of

going to law at the time, but in the end she carried the child to Belfast

and there had it christened Samuel.

And then nothing happened. The whole island was confuted. The boy grew

and prospered. The schoolmaster never ceased averring that it was the

brightest lad he had ever seen. Samuel had a splendid constitution, a

tremendous grip on life. To everybody’s amazement he escaped the usual

run of childish afflictions. Measles, whooping-cough and mumps knew him

not. He was armour-clad against germs, immune to all disease. Headaches

and earaches were things unknown. “Never so much oz a boil or a pumple,”

as one of the old bodies told me, ever marred his healthy skin. He broke

school records in scholarship and athletics, and whipped every boy of his

size or years on Island McGill.

It was a triumph for Margaret Henan. This paragon was hers, and it bore

the cherished name. With the one exception of her mother, friends and

relatives drifted back and acknowledged that they had been mistaken;

though there were old crones who still abided by their opinion and who

shook their heads ominously over their cups of tea. The boy was too

wonderful to last. There was no escaping the curse of the name his

mother had wickedly laid upon him. The young generation joined Margaret

Henan in laughing at them, but the old crones continued to shake their

heads.

Other children followed. Margaret Henan’s fifth was a boy, whom she

called Jamie, and in rapid succession followed three girls, Alice, Sara,

and Nora, the boy Timothy, and two more girls, Florence and Katie. Katie

was the last and eleventh, and Margaret Henan, at thirty-five, ceased

from her exertions. She had done well by Island McGill and the Queen.

Nine healthy children were hers. All prospered. It seemed her ill-luck

had shot its bolt with the deaths of her first two. Nine lived, and one

of them was named Samuel.

Jamie elected to follow the sea, though it was not so much a matter of

election as compulsion, for the eldest sons on Island McGill remained on

the land, while all other sons went to the salt-ploughing. Timothy

followed Jamie, and by the time the latter had got his first command, a

steamer in the Bay trade out of Cardiff, Timothy was mate of a big

sailing ship. Samuel, however, did not take kindly to the soil. The

farmer’s life had no attraction for him. His brothers went to sea, not

out of desire, but because it was the only way for them to gain their

bread; and he, who had no need to go, envied them when, returned from far

voyages, they sat by the kitchen fire, and told their bold tales of the

wonderlands beyond the sea-rim.

Samuel became a teacher, much to his father’s disgust, and even took

extra certificates, going to Belfast for his examinations. When the old

master retired, Samuel took over his school. Secretly, however, he

studied navigation, and it was Margaret’s delight when he sat by the

kitchen fire, and, despite their master’s tickets, tangled up his

brothers in the theoretics of their profession. Tom Henan alone was

outraged when Samuel, school teacher, gentleman, and heir to the Henan

farm, shipped to sea before the mast. Margaret had an abiding faith in

her son’s star, and whatever he did she was sure was for the best. Like

everything else connected with his glorious personality, there had never

been known so swift a rise as in the case of Samuel. Barely with two

years’ sea experience before the mast, he was taken from the forecastle

and made a provisional second mate. This occurred in a fever port on the

West Coast, and the committee of skippers that examined him agreed that

he knew more of the science of navigation than they had remembered or

forgotten. Two years later he sailed from Liverpool, mate of the _Starry

Grace_, with both master’s and extra-master’s tickets in his possession.

And then it happened—the thing the old crones had been shaking their

heads over for years.

It was told me by Gavin McNab, bos’n of the _Starry Grace_ at the time,

himself an Island McGill man.

“Wull do I remember ut,” he said. “We was runnin’ our Eastun’ down, an’

makun’ heavy weather of ut. Oz fine a sailor-mon oz ever walked was

Samuel Henan. I remember the look of hum wull thot last marnun’,

a-watch-un’ them bug seas curlun’ up astern, an’ a-watchun’ the old girl

an’ seeun’ how she took them—the skupper down below an’ drunkun’ for

days. Ut was ot seven thot Henan brought her up on tull the wund, not

darun’ tull run longer on thot fearful sea. Ot eight, after havun’

breakfast, he turns un, an’ a half hour after up comes the skupper,

bleary-eyed an’ shaky an’ holdun’ on tull the companion. Ut was fair

smokun’, I om tellun’ ye, an’ there he stood, blunkun’ an’ noddun’ an’

talkun’ tull humsel’. ‘Keep off,’ says he ot last tull the mon ot the

wheel. ‘My God!’ says the second mate, standun’ beside hum. The skupper

never looks tull hum ot all, but keeps on mutterun” an’ jabberun’ tull

humsel’. All of a suddent-like he straightens up an’ throws hus head

back, an’ says: ‘Put your wheel over, me mon—now domn ye! Are ye deef

thot ye’ll no be hearun’ me?’

“Ut was a drunken mon’s luck, for the _Starry Grace_ wore off afore thot

God-Almighty gale wuthout shuppun’ a bucket o’ watter, the second mate

shoutun’ orders an’ the crew jumpun’ like mod. An’ wuth thot the skupper

nods contented-like tull humself an’ goes below after more whusky. Ut

was plain murder o’ the lives o’ all of us, for ut was no the time for

the buggest shup afloat tull be runnun’. Run? Never hov I seen the

like! Ut was beyond all thunkun’, an’ me goun’ tull sea, boy an’ men,

for forty year. I tell you ut was fair awesome.

“The face o’ the second mate was white oz death, an’ he stood ut alone

for half an hour, when ut was too much for hum an’ he went below an’

called Samuel an’ the third. Aye, a fine sailor-mon thot Samuel, but ut

was too much for hum. He looked an’ studied, and looked an’ studied, but

he could no see hus way. He durst na heave tull. She would ha’ been

sweeput o’ all honds an’ stucks an’ everythung afore she could a-fetched

up. There was naught tull do but keep on runnun’. An’ uf ut worsened we

were lost ony way, for soon or late that overtakun’ sea was sure tull

sweep us clear over poop an’ all.

“Dud I say ut was a God-Almighty gale? Ut was worse nor thot. The devil

himself must ha’ hod a hond un the brewun’ o’ ut, ut was thot fearsome.

I ha’ looked on some sights, but I om no carun’ tull look on the like o’

thot again. No mon dared tull be un hus bunk. No, nor no mon on the

decks. All honds of us stood on top the house an’ held on an’ watched.

The three mates was on the poop, with two men ot the wheel, an’ the only

mon below was thot whusky-blighted captain snorun’ drunk.

“An’ then I see ut comun’, a mile away, risun’ above all the waves like

an island un the sea—the buggest wave ever I looked upon. The three

mates stood tulgether an’ watched ut comun’, a-prayun’ like we thot she

would no break un passun’ us. But ut was no tull be. Ot the last, when

she rose up like a mountain, curlun’ above the stern an’ blottun’ out the

sky, the mates scattered, the second an’ third runnun’ for the

mizzen-shrouds an’ climbun’ up, but the first runnun’ tull the wheel tull

lend a hond. He was a brave men, thot Samuel Henan. He run straight un

tull the face o’ thot father o’ all waves, no thunkun’ on humself but

thunkun’ only o’ the shup. The two men was lashed tull the wheel, but he

would be ready tull hond un the case they was kult. An’ then she took

ut. We on the house could no see the poop for the thousand tons o’

watter thot hod hut ut. Thot wave cleaned them out, took everythung

along wuth ut—the two mates, climbun’ up the mizzen-ruggun’, Samuel Henan

runnun’ tull the wheel, the two men ot the wheel, aye, an’ the wheel

utself. We never saw aught o’ them, for she broached tull what o’ the

wheel goun’, an’ two men o’ us was drownded off the house, no tull

mention the carpenter thot we pucked up ot the break o’ the poop wuth

every bone o’ hus body broke tull he was like so much jelly.”

And here enters the marvel of it, the miraculous wonder of that woman’s

heroic spirit. Margaret Henan was forty-seven when the news came home of

the loss of Samuel; and it was not long after that the unbelievable

rumour went around Island McGill. I say unbelievable. Island McGill

would not believe. Doctor Hall pooh-pooh’d it. Everybody laughed at it

as a good joke. They traced back the gossip to Sara Dack, servant to the

Henans’, and who alone lived with Margaret and her husband. But Sara

Dack persisted in her assertion and was called a low-mouthed liar. One

or two dared question Tom Henan himself, but beyond black looks and

curses for their presumption they elicited nothing from him.

The rumour died down, and the island fell to discussing in all its

ramifications the loss of the _Grenoble_ in the China seas, with all her

officers and half her crew born and married on Island McGill. But the

rumour would not stay down. Sara Dack was louder in her assertions, the

looks Tom Henan cast about him were blacker than ever, and Dr. Hall,

after a visit to the Henan house, no longer pooh-pooh’d. Then Island

McGill sat up, and there was a tremendous wagging of tongues. It was

unnatural and ungodly. The like had never been heard. And when, as time

passed, the truth of Sara Dack’s utterances was manifest, the island folk

decided, like the bos’n of the _Starry Grace_, that only the devil could

have had a hand in so untoward a happening. And the infatuated woman, so

Sara Dack reported, insisted that it would be a boy. “Eleven bairns ha’

I borne,” she said; “sux o’ them lossies an’ five o’ them loddies. An’

sunce there be balance un all thungs, so wull there be balance wuth me.

Sux o’ one an’ half a dozen o’ the other—there uz the balance, an’ oz

sure oz the sun rises un the marnun’, thot sure wull ut be a boy.”

And boy it was, and a prodigy. Dr. Hall raved about its unblemished

perfection and massive strength, and wrote a brochure on it for the

Dublin Medical Society as the most interesting case of the sort in his

long career. When Sara Dack gave the babe’s unbelievable weight, Island

McGill refused to believe and once again called her liar. But when

Doctor Hall attested that he had himself weighed it and seen it tip that

very notch, Island McGill held its breath and accepted whatever report

Sara Dack made of the infant’s progress or appetite. And once again

Margaret Henan carried a babe to Belfast and had it christened Samuel.

* * * * *

“Oz good oz gold ut was,” said Sara Dack to me.

Sara, at the time I met her, was a buxom, phlegmatic spinster of sixty,

equipped with an experience so tragic and unusual that though her tongue

ran on for decades its output would still be of imperishable interest to

her cronies.

“Oz good oz good,” said Sara Dack. “Ut never fretted. Sut ut down un

the sun by the hour an’ never a sound ut would make oz long oz ut was no

hungered! An’ thot strong! The grup o’ uts honds was like a mon’s. I

mind me, when ut was but hours old, ut grupped me so mighty thot I

fetched a scream I was thot frightened. Ut was the punk o’ health. Ut

slept an’ ate, an’ grew. Ut never bothered. Never a night’s sleep ut

lost tull no one, nor ever a munut’s, an’ thot wuth cuttin’ uts teeth an’

all. An’ Margaret would dandle ut on her knee an’ ask was there ever so

fine a loddie un the three Kungdoms.

“The way ut grew! Ut was un keepun’ wuth the way ut ate. Ot a year ut

was the size o’ a bairn of two. Ut was slow tull walk an’ talk.

Exceptun’ for gurgly noises un uts throat an’ for creepun’ on all fours,

ut dudna monage much un the walkun’ an’ talkun’ line. But thot was tull

be expected from the way ut grew. Ut all went tull growun’ strong an’

healthy. An’ even old Tom Henan cheered up ot the might of ut an’ said

was there ever the like o’ ut un the three Kungdoms. Ut was Doctor Hall

thot first suspicioned, I mind me well, though ut was luttle I dreamt

what he was up tull ot the time. I seehum holdun’ thungs’ un fronto’

luttle Sammy’s eyes, an’ a-makun’ noises, loud an’ soft, an’ far an’

near, un luttle Sammy’s ears. An’ then I see Doctor Hall go away,

wrunklun’ hus eyebrows an’ shakun’ hus head like the bairn was ailun’.

But he was no ailun’, oz I could swear tull, me a-seeun’ hum eat an’

grow. But Doctor Hall no said a word tull Margaret an’ I was no for

guessun’ the why he was sore puzzled.

“I mind me when luttle Sammy first spoke. He was two years old an’ the

size of a child o five, though he could no monage the walkun’ yet but

went around on all fours, happy an’ contented-like an’ makun’ no trouble

oz long oz he was fed promptly, which was onusual often. I was hangun’

the wash on the line ot the time when out he comes, on all fours, hus bug

head waggun’ tull an’ fro an’ blunkun’ un the sun. An’ then, suddent, he

talked. I was thot took a-back I near died o’ fright, an’ fine I knew ut

then, the shakun’ o’ Doctor Hall’s head. Talked? Never a bairn on

Island McGill talked so loud an’ tull such purpose. There was no

mustakun’ ut. I stood there all tremblun’ an’ shakun’. Little Sammy was

brayun’. I tell you, sir, he was brayun’ like an ass—just like

thot,—loud an’ long an’ cheerful tull ut seemed hus lungs ud crack.

“He was a eediot—a great, awful, monster eediot. Ut was after he talked

thot Doctor Hall told Margaret, but she would no believe. Ut would all

come right, she said. Ut was growun’ too fast for aught else. Guv ut

time, said she, an’ we would see. But old Tom Henan knew, an’ he never

held up hus head again. He could no abide the thung, an’ would no brung

humsel’ tull touch ut, though I om no denyun’ he was fair fascinated by

ut. Mony the time, I see hum watchun’ of ut around a corner, lookun’ ot

ut tull hus eyes fair bulged wuth the horror; an’ when ut brayed old Tom

ud stuck hus fungers tull hus ears an’ look thot miserable I could

a-puttied hum.

“An’ bray ut could! Ut was the only thung ut could do besides eat an’

grow. Whenever ut was hungry ut brayed, an’ there was no stoppun’ ut

save wuth food. An’ always of a marnun’, when first ut crawled tull the

kutchen-door an’ blunked out ot the sun, ut brayed. An’ ut was brayun’

that brought about uts end.

“I mind me well. Ut was three years old an’ oz bug oz a led o’ ten. Old

Tom hed been goun’ from bed tull worse, ploughun’ up an’ down the fields

an’ talkun’ an’ mutterun’ tull humself. On the marnun’ o’ the day I mind

me, he was suttun’ on the bench outside the kutchen, a-futtun’ the handle

tull a puck-axe. Unbeknown, the monster eediot crawled tull the door an’

brayed after hus fashion ot the sun. I see old Tom start up an’ look.

An’ there was the monster eediot, waggun’ uts bug head an’ blunkun’ an’

brayun’ like the great bug ass ut was. Ut was too much for Tom.

Somethun’ went wrong wuth hum suddent-like. He jumped tull hus feet an’

fetched the puck-handle down on the monster eediot’s head. An’ he hut ut

again an’ again like ut was a mod dog an’ hum afeard o’ ut. An’ he went

straight tull the stable an’ hung humsel’ tull a rafter. An’ I was no

for stoppun’ on after such-like, an’ I went tull stay along wuth me

suster thot was married tull John Martin an’ comfortable-off.”

* * * * *

I sat on the bench by the kitchen door and regarded Margaret Henan, while

with her callous thumb she pressed down the live fire of her pipe and

gazed out across the twilight-sombred fields. It was the very bench Tom

Henan had sat upon that last sanguinary day of life. And Margaret sat in

the doorway where the monster, blinking at the sun, had so often wagged

its head and brayed. We had been talking for an hour, she with that slow

certitude of eternity that so befitted her; and, for the life of me, I

could lay no finger on the motives that ran through the tangled warp and

woof of her. Was she a martyr to Truth? Did she have it in her to

worship at so abstract a shrine? Had she conceived Abstract Truth to be

the one high goal of human endeavour on that day of long ago when she

named her first-born Samuel? Or was hers the stubborn obstinacy of the

ox? the fixity of purpose of the balky horse? the stolidity of the

self-willed peasant-mind? Was it whim or fancy?—the one streak of lunacy

in what was otherwise an eminently rational mind? Or, reverting, was

hers the spirit of a Bruno? Was she convinced of the intellectual

rightness of the stand she had taken? Was hers a steady, enlightened

opposition to superstition? or—and a subtler thought—was she mastered by

some vaster, profounder superstition, a fetish-worship of which the Alpha

and the Omega was the cryptic _Samuel_?

“Wull ye be tellun’ me,” she said, “thot uf the second Samuel hod been

named Larry thot he would no hov fell un the hot watter an’ drownded?

Atween you an’ me, sir, an’ ye are untellugent-lookun’ tull the eye,

would the name hov made ut onyways dufferent? Would the washun’ no be

done thot day uf he hod been Larry or Michael? Would hot watter no be

hot, an’ would hot watter no burn uf he hod hod ony other name but

Samuel?”

I acknowledged the justice of her contention, and she went on.

“Do a wee but of a name change the plans o’ God? Do the world run by hut

or muss, an’ be God a weak, shully-shallyun’ creature thot ud alter the

fate an’ destiny o’ thungs because the worm Margaret Henan seen fut tull

name her bairn Samuel? There be my son Jamie. He wull no sign a

Rooshan-Funn un hus crew because o’ believun’ thot Rooshan-Funns do be

monajun’ the wunds an’ hov the makun’ o’ bod weather. Wull you be

thunkun’ so? Wull you be thunkun’ thot God thot makes the wunds tull

blow wull bend Hus head from on high tull lussen tull the word o’ a

greasy Rooshan-Funn un some dirty shup’s fo’c’sle?”

I said no, certainly not; but she was not to be set aside from pressing

home the point of her argument.

“Then wull you be thunkun’ thot God thot directs the stars un their

courses, an’ tull whose mighty foot the world uz but a footstool, wull

you be thunkun’ thot He wull take a spite again’ Margaret Henan an’ send

a bug wave off the Cape tull wash her son un tull eternity, all because

she was for namun’ hum Samuel?”

“But why Samuel?” I asked.

“An’ thot I dinna know. I wantud ut so.”

“But _why_ did you want it so?”

“An’ uz ut me thot would be answerun’ a such-like question? Be there ony

mon luvun’ or dead thot can answer? Who can tell the _why_ o’ like? My

Jamie was fair daft on buttermilk, he would drunk ut tull, oz he said

humself, hus back teeth was awash. But my Tumothy could no abide

buttermilk. I like tull lussen tull the thunder growlun’ an’ roarun’,

an’ rampajun’. My Katie could no abide the noise of ut, but must scream

an’ flutter an’ go runnun’ for the mudmost o’ a feather-bed. Never yet

hov I heard the answer tull the _why_ o’ like, God alone hoz thot answer.

You an’ me be mortal an’ we canna know. Enough for us tull know what we

like an’ what we duslike. I _like_—thot uz the first word an’ the last.

An’ behind thot like no men can go an’ find the _why_ o’ ut. I _like_

Samuel, an’ I like ut well. Ut uz a sweet name, an’ there be a rollun’

wonder un the sound o’ ut thot passes onderstandun’.”

The twilight deepened, and in the silence I gazed upon that splendid dome

of a forehead which time could not mar, at the width between the eyes,

and at the eyes themselves—clear, out-looking, and wide-seeing. She rose

to her feet with an air of dismissing me, saying—

“Ut wull be a dark walk home, an’ there wull be more thon a sprunkle o’

wet un the sky.”

“Have you any regrets, Margaret Henan?” I asked, suddenly and without

forethought.

She studied me a moment.

“Aye, thot I no ha’ borne another son.”

“And you would . . .?” I faltered.

“Aye, thot I would,” she answered. “Ut would ha’ been hus name.”

I went down the dark road between the hawthorn hedges puzzling over the

why of like, repeating _Samuel_ to myself and aloud and listening to the

rolling wonder in its sound that had charmed her soul and led her life in

tragic places. _Samuel_! There was a rolling wonder in the sound. Aye,

there was!