text:
Page:Oliver Spence.djvu/23

16 The Commander-in-Chief of the Revolutionary forces was, of course, Oliver Spence. The Honorable Israel Smith led the forces of the Plutocratic Oligarchy. Israel Smith was said to be a descendant of Bruce Smith, who, it is believed, was in the ante-federation days a member of the Government of New South Wales.

In numbers the insurgent forces were but seventy thousand men, while those of the Plutocracy numbered one hundred thousand. The Insurgents, however, made up in enthusiasm what they lacked in numerical strength, while their opponents were held together chiefly by the promises of plunder, position and pay, made to them by the Oligarchy; and it was strongly suspected that many would desert to the insurgents if there appeared any reasonable probability of the Revolution being ultimately successful.

A number of skirmishes occurred between the combatants, but decisive battle did not take place until some days after the marshalling of the forces on both sides.

The battle will now be described, necessarily from the insurgent side, as that side has handed down to us the most reliable accounts of the great event.

On the morning of the battle, about eight o'clock, orders were received from the Commander-in-Chief to retain in some secure place as many of the explosive bullets, gas-balls (described in the second chapter) and other ammunition as possible; it was also ordered that the air-ships used to convey baggage should be sent to the rear. It became evident that Oliver Spence intended to disregard the Fabian tactics of the enemy and to give battle at once. It also became known that a force of men from the capital city of Leichhardt was marching to the support of the rebels.

An hour after, it was seen from the excitement among the staff-officers that the battle was momentarily expected to begin. The insurgents received orders to stand to their arms, and shortly afterwards Spence ordered them to take up a very advantageous position on a gently rising ground, where they awaited the enemy's onslaught; for Marshall Israel Smith had, it appeared, from the movements in his army, observed by the insurgent officers, decided to pick up the gage of battle thrown down by Spence.

Shortly after the insurgents had taken up their position, their right was attacked by a portion of the enemy and warmly engaged by them, but the insurgents beat them off, and by the orders of the Commander a long line of portable steel barricades was erected between them and the enemy. These, by the peculiar nature of their construction resisted all the ammunition of the enemy, so that it became evident that Israel Smith's forces must attack the insurgents in the rear. This they at last succeeded in doing, and soon the groans of the wounded and dying filled the air.

title: Page:Oliver Spence.djvu/23


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 1

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 1


text:
Page:Fires and Fire-fighters (1913).djvu/26

6 in the chapter devoted to the subject and the writer confidently anticipates that if his advice is followed, advice framed upon forty years of actual experience, the casualties due to fire panics will be appreciably minimized.

These are some of the issues connected with fire-fighting, which have been dealt with in as exhaustive and interesting a manner as possible in this volume. The particular intention of the writer has been to avoid lengthy and tedious explanations, which would be beyond the comprehension of the untrained layman. To that end an appendix has been supplied replete with all the tables necessary to the scientific fireman. For the rest, the problems of fire control have emerged from the chrysalis stage of experiment into the fully developed formulæ of an exact science, and the time has arrived when no one can afford to be ignorant of the first principles governing the same. A great quantity of useless information is assimilated by the public; is it too much to hope that opportunity may be found for the perusal of a subject so closely connected with the welfare, safety and homes of the people.


text: Page:Fires and Fire-fighters (1913).djvu/28


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 2

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 2


text:
Page:Mysteries of Melbourne Life.djvu/9

Rh of the torments of the habitations of woe. One of these crises was upon Hugh as he stopped in front of a bank and prepared to enter, glancing furtively around, to see that no one was following, for he was in deadly fear of the myrmydons if the law. There was a great dread upon his soul.

It was a fine building that he entered—a bank with a massive stone front, rising grandly over the pigmy shops on each side, like some noble nature towering above its vile, insignificant, earth-grubbing compeers. There was an air of solid comfort, of luxury, about it that revolted at the idea of the entrance into its sacred precincts of a being so world-forsaken as Hugh; and if the stones of the splendid portal had been sentient, they would have seized and thrust out the intruder. What right had he in that great hall, flooded with a mellow light from the glass dome that rose gracefully overhead? What right had he to stand side by side with these well-fed, well-clad men, who were making out their pay-in slips at the elegant tables, or handing cheques to the clerks, perched up behind the elaborately-carved and varnished desks? Was this not the home of wealth, and the resort of men who held some of the mammon of unrighteousness? What right had he there?

What right but that of cold and hunger—hunger, which will tame even the wildest and proudest nature.

He had come there to beg of two men who had, but a few years since, been dear to him and be to them. And now he was a wretched outcast; they stood behind their desks, looking happy and comfortable.

Hugh's gaze first fell on the cashier. He was a strong, well-built, young man, perhaps a little older than himself, but how different! Harry Robertson was a tall, well-built, handsome man, with energy and determination written in every line of his well-formed features, and pervading every action. Not that he appeared worldly and selfish. On the contrary, his mouth had a singularly sweet expression, especially when he smiled, and his eyes were full of gentle light, that flashed forth irresistibly whenever occasion offered, and prepossessed all who met his frank, fearless gaze. His high forehead betokened study, and the grave cast of his countenance told that his time was not frivolously employed. The careful observer, too, could notice shades of sadness cross his countenance at times, as clouds now and then darken the fields on the bright summer days. But now he was intent on counting out rolls of notes and little pillars of gold and silver to the customers, who, as it was near the close of bank hours, were thronging around. As Hugh gazed on him he felt something rise to his throat, and the recollections of the many happy days they had spent together acted like a spell. He hastily turned his eyes away, and fixed them on a young man who was answering some inquiries, perched up behind an exceedingly handsome desk. Here, indeed, was something for the eye to look upon: Robert Wilton was one of these youths who bring back to the mind the days of Greece, when men were godlike in face and form. Not that Robert was exactly one of these "lionlike men," with tawny beard, &c, who are the especial delight of gushing sensational lady novelists; he was nothing of the kind. He was an inexpressibly elegantly-formed youth, with a face that is very difficult to describe, but which many can imagine when they recall the darlings of their youth, the school favorites, the loved ones of the hearth. His face was round but not too full; his eyes brown, and formed for melting glances; and his mouth was capable of a witching smile, that could stay the wrath of the most unimpressionable. Over all this, there was cast an expression of such kindness, guilelessness, and genial good-humor, that made the whole ensemble irresistible.

Viewing the busy scene, Hugh felt something of the tortures of the damned. There flashed through his brain, in tableaux after tableaux, the past history of these two young men and himself. He remembered their growing up together, their early friendship, their schooldays, so full of boyish affection and boyish quarrels—the times when they entered upon the business of life in that very same bank, with downy cheeks and hearts beating high with hope at the fair vista opening before them. How happy they had been when, after their day's work was over, they would stroll out together and seek diversion, their minds without a care! He even remembered that they derived a positive pleasure from the performance of their duties; and this had continued until the shadow had come in the shape of woman, and then came hopeless love, hate, wild dissipation, reckless madness, despair, disgrace, debt, and now —— !

But there came, too, recollections of how these men had striven to save—how they had lent money to no end, which he squandered in evil ways—how they had, with merciful hands, sought to turn him out of the way of destruction, and how he had spurned them!

title: Page:Mysteries of Melbourne Life.djvu/9


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 3

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 3


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 4

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 4


text:
Page:Oliver Spence.djvu/24

Rh Owing to the fact that on both sides where powder was used, it was of the smokeless, noiseless variety, the evils of war could be both seen and heard in all their horror.

The fight continued for some hours with varying fortunes on both sides, until Oliver Spence, who had hoped to win without resorting to the more terrible means at his disposal, finding it impossible, ordered out the Electric Bomb Throwers. These terrible engines of war were loaded with large Panmort bombs and discharged their death-dealing contents by means of a simple electrical appliance, which had then but recently been invented. This action of the Revolutionary Commander practically decided the battle, and the arrival at that time of the Leichhardt contingent was taken as a signal, and excuse for the immediate surrender of the Oligarchy's army. The Oligarchy was completely and disastrously defeated. Marshall Israel Smith and several officers shot themselves, rather than become prisoners, while nearly all the soldiers who surrendered joined the revolution. Over half the Oligarchy's forces had been killed and the Revolutionists had also suffered severely. Spence had conducted the battle with great skill and personal valor. Four horses had been killed under him, and at one time he had been temporarily blinded by the blood which gushed in his face from a comrade whose skull had been shot away.

War is a dreadful thing, but is sometimes as necessary to save and secure the lives and liberties of peoples, as on occasion a surgical operation may be, to preserve the life of an individual.

title: Page:Oliver Spence.djvu/24


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 5

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 5


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 6

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 6


text:
Page:Origin of the Anglo-Saxon Race.djvu/19

Rh Kent, which are equivalent in meaning to Æthelwulfes land and Swithrædes den, or wood.

In the Anglo-Saxon charters, or copies of them which have been preserved, many names ending in the word -ingas, denoting people of a certain clan or ga, are mentioned. Of these, about 24 are in Kent, 11 in Sussex, 5 in Essex, 7 in Berks, 8 in Norfolk, 4 in Suffolk, 12 in Hants, and 3 in Middlesex. Many more clans no doubt existed, whose names may probably be inferred from existing place-names. On this, however, I lay in no stress. The termination -ingahem in place-names occurs in a large group in the North-East of France, where an early Teutonic colony can be traced. Local names ending in -ingen are scattered over Germany, most numerously in South Baden, Würtemberg, and along the north of the upper course of the Danube, and it was to these parts of Germany that people closely allied to the Old Saxons migrated. They moved south-west, while many who were kindred to them in race passed over into England, and hence the similarity in the endings of their place-names.

Anglo-Saxon names of places are almost universally feminine nouns ending in -e, and forming the genitive case in -an. When connected with other words they generally appear as genitives, but sometimes combine with these words, and form simple compounds without inflection. Of these many examples will appear.

The Old English place-names of which the words men or man form part, and which do not appear to be names derived from inflected words, are somewhat numerous, and most of them may probably be regarded as the tribal names by which the settlers at these places were first known. Of such names, Normanton,


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 7

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 7


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 8

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 8


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 9

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 9


text:
Page:Oliver Spence.djvu/25

18

Oliver returned to Sydney, the undisputed and supreme ruler of all Australia. The people regarded him a a hero, and he was treated as one. Vast triumphal arches covered with laudatory mottos and inscriptions of welcome decorated the principal streets. Everyone smiled on him, everyone rushed to shake him by the hand. It was even proposed to offer him a throne and crown him king of Australia. But for such gee-gaws Oliver had no mind, and so in no unhesitating fashion, he informed his admirers. Until the expiration of his term of office he was the uncrowned "Tsar of all the Australia," and with that dignity he would rest content until the time came for him to resign his office into the hands of those who had elected him.

His sweetheart Mary was the first to meet him when he set foot in Sydney. When she saw him, the tears in her eyes seemed to vanish and to be replaced with a smile like a sunbeam. Her lover, her hero, her god, was back in Sydney again, safe and sound, with the old winning smile, the old manly bearing, free to stroll with her, to talk with her. Her happiness was ecstatic, she walked on air, feeling so elastic, so buoyant, as she walked by his side that she half-wondered why she did not fly off with him into cloudland, there to wander until they reached the realms of the blest.

Oliver, too, was happy in the company of his comrade-sweetheart, and was busy considering how, when, and where their marriage should take place, for needless to say he had long ago "popped the question," and had received her consent, but he was compelled to leave the problem unsolved for the time, and to give his attention to weighty matters of State.

The Convention had appointed for Spence's assistance and guidance a Board of Advice, consisting of forty trusted and tried members of the Brotherhood of the Poor, and after consulting with them, he determined to issue a proclamation declaring that in future all unoccupied and unused land should be treated as unowned, and the first-comer be lawfully entitled to take possession of it. This proclamation at once swept away the monopolists, who for speculative purposes, had "locked-up" some of the richest land in Australia, and it threw open to the people an immense quantity of "free land."

His next step was the creation of a National Bank of Issue, such a bank having been imperatively necessary, even before the collapse of the private banks. The syndicates had introduced the system of farming upon a large scale, with all kinds of elaborate and expensive machinery, driven by steam, compressed air, or electricity. The consequence was that the agricultural population had become so accustomed to these large farms, which by their competition had reduced most of the farmers to the position

title: Page:Oliver Spence.djvu/25


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 10

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 10


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 11

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 11


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 12

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 12


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 13

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 13


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 14

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 14


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 15

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 15


text:
Page:Oliver Spence.djvu/26

Rh of hired labourers for the syndicates, that it appeared to most of them impossible to farm successfully upon a small scale. Such of them as were inclined to try, however, were at once advanced in the notes of the National Bank, sufficient sums of money at very low rates of interest, to enable them to earn their living from Mother Earth without crowding into the already over-populated cities. Others were encouraged by the same means to form co-operative agricultural companies; and the rest of them, those who appeared to require some person or persons whom they might look upon as employers, were placed upon huge State farms, where they were employed under the direction of competent State officials.

In the meantime it became quite evident to the Dictator that to successfully carry on a National Bank at such a time of popular disturbance as that following a terrible civil war, required a very considerable gold basis for the Bank's note issue. To secure this gold basis, he, therefore, took possession of the whole of the coin and bullion remaining in the vaults of the Federal Money Stronghold. This amounted to several hundred millions sterling, for although some members of the ring—forseeing the triumph of the Revolutionists—had escaped from Australia in their private yachts, most of the financiers had remained, and believing that their army would overthrow the Revolutionists, had lodged their valuables for safety in the Money Stronghold.

There were, of course, a few men who still had sufficient hardihood to shriek "confiscation" and "robbery" at the Dictator's action, but he heeded them not, for he did not forget that the reason why the Paris Commune of 1871 was overthrown was that the Commune refused to touch the money in the Banks of Paris, and was thus bereft of the most necessary "sinews of war." The Dictator also called to mind the frightful vengeance of the plutocratic conquerors of the Commune, and he resolved to put it out of the power of the financiers to accomplish in Australia such a hideous butchery as their class had perpetrated in France.

To meet the necessary expenses of Government the Dictator imposed a tax upon land values, which was heavy where the demand for certain land was great, and light where the demand was small, thus the most productive or otherwise most desirable land 1aid the heaviest tax, which, however, was not oppressively felt, as the amount required for the cost of maintaining what was decidedly the least expensive Government ever seen in Australia was very small.

The Dictator crowned his acts of "confiscation" by declaring private property in land a crime against the people of Australia. All land should in future, he proclaimed, be leased from the State, and should return to the State at the death of the leaseholder. The leaseholder, could, however, possess property in his own improvements, which he might dispose of, as it pleased him. It was also proclaimed that every man of the age of 21 or over should be entitled to lease land from the State free of all charges, except the ordinary tax on land values. To encourage young men to marry and make a home, a loan from the funds of the National Bank of Issue was made to every young married man leasing a homestead.

title: Page:Oliver Spence.djvu/26


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 16

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 16


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 17

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 17


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 18

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 18


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 19

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 19


text: Page:Greek Biology and Medicine.djvu/17

title: Page:Greek Biology and Medicine.djvu/17


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 20

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 20


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 21

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 21


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 22

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 22


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 23

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 23


text:
Page:Mysteries of Melbourne Life.djvu/10

6 Yet this had no effect upon him; it was but as the final strokes on the numbed nerves of him who is broken on the wheel. He shut his eyes and closed his ears, and would not heed. He had entered upon a path of his own, and he would allow no one to lead him.

He knew that it would be vain to ask Harry for anything, for he had long since resolutely refused to hold any intercourse with him. But he had always found that Robert's nature could not refuse an appeal. And yet how he hated him; how his eyes gleamed when they lit on the once friendly face! It was Robert who had come between him and the one he loved; but for his cursed fascination he might have been a happy, prosperous man. And he knew well that, ere many weeks, Robert would call her his own, that—but here the man's face became hideous with the envy and revenge that swelled his heart to bursting. What dreadful thoughts the sight of that bright young face created in the mind of this unfortunate fallen man! Could those who stood around have imagined what they were they would have seized him and hurled him out into the street, as they would a deadly viper.

But hunger is all-powerful, and Hugh had tasted nothing for two days. His companions in wickedness had deserted him when his money was spent, and he would make no exertion to earn his living. It was desperation that urged him to come here to-day. As the customers were now departing, he walked over to the desk behind which Robert stood. Robert was marking some cheque when he heard the well-known voice, and the start he gave, and the change of color in his face, announced the impression it made. But it was only momentary. Advised by Harry, he had resolved to cast off this man, who had so utterly gone astray, and to whom it was cruelty to lend money.

"What do you want?" he asked in as stern a voice as he could.

"Want!" said Hugh; "can you look at me and ask that?"

"If you want money," said Robert, "you'll not get it from me. As long as there appeared the slightest hope of reformation, Harry and I supplied you with funds; but when we saw that the more we gave, the worse it was for you, that our hard-earned money was squandered, we resolved to give no more. We believe that the only way of reforming you is to leave you to be taught by necessity; you will then be compelled to labor, and perhaps that will bring back those regular habits and proper respect for yourself which can alone make you what you were. Then, notwithstanding all that has passed, we will step forward, and do all we can to place you in a position equal to that which you have lost. We will do this," said Robert, his voice growing kinder and lower, "because we never can forget what we were to one another."

And he buried his face in the ledger.

"But, but," said Hugh, in a tone that denoted anger struggling with his ravenous desire for food, which tamed his ferocity, "but, but give me a few shillings, and I'll never come near you again. I am hungry."

Robert raised his face.

"This is no country for you to plead that," said he calmly, though it was easy to see he had to struggle with his naturally kind heart. "You cannot starve if you like to work, and work you must to bring you back to your senses. Yon need not press in that way. Take care! or I'll send for a policeman."

Hugh fell back, and his eyes dilated till they seemed to fill with fire. Then conquering nature, which counselled abject suppliance, he spoke out in a voice which no one who heard it ever forgot.

"This from you!" said he. "This to a poor starving wretch from a man with abundance, in comfort, surrounded by all that can be desired! I will never forget this moment, and I will never forgive. I have sinned and fallen; so may you, Mr. Robert Wilton, with all your pretty ways and many friends. And you will, you will; I know you will! And when that comes to pass, may the same be meted out to you which you have meted out to me!"

And with a rapid step he passed out of the bank, amidst the wonder of all present, who thought some melodramatic madman had fallen amongst them. There was a general laugh when he cleared out, but Robert's face was for a while clouded, for he had gone against his whole nature in acting as he had, and knowing the strange, vindictive, impulsive nature of Hugh, he could not but feel a dread at his words, particularly when he remembered that many had said be had become partially insane.

"You have done well," said Harry, when the day's work was over, and they were quitting the bank. "As long as you would supply money he would do no good; now necessity will force him to change his life."

"Perhaps for the worse," said Robert; "he might commit suicide, or steal. Think of him dead, or in gaol, Harry—Hugh, who was once so dear to us."


text:
Page:Mysteries of Melbourne Life.djvu/1

 PRICE ONE SHILLING-. E. M'INTYRE & CO., ' %attat$, hosiers, anb (Outfitters. A splendid assortment of Gceloag and West of England . Tweed ; also Black Doeakin Woollen Cloths alwaya on hand. Snit made to order in six hoars' notice, on most reaainable terms. Mr. M'Mohon, Cutter. THE HB*n CENTRE OF MELBOUBSE is THE "CLAEET JUS" "WINE DEPOT OPPOSITE THEATEE EOYAL, By WiLEIAM BARTON, Jun. Ictd Drjxks. Bbst Cioabs. w H CO s 'EPS ' felp ECO CI ujWs SfcfSN Upffj - "IS^S C J:3 9 F • >»C— o £ Coating t, Vtitingi, C "**?" A TTT JB3 'V", **« - tar i'"< TAILOB, and OUTFITTER, & SHIRTMAKER, J^'^t Trmteringt, & Bor/REE STREET EAST. Stock of Tm in the City. Oecrcoatinii "'• Thomas Dunn is Cotter and Manager of tho ■' ' Tailoring Department. Clergymen'sGarmentsnuule&t the shortest notice, and on the most reasonable terms. VIr. JOHN XX DENTIST; COLLINS STREET IFPB, EAST. n ,'t

%

H P C0J3 I » S • r~ » Eg ill ■ fi < r- LU or Q 2 < LU < CO a o I s si lis If 1 ^MYSTERIES MELBOURNE LIFE. BY THE AUTHOR OF « SCRIPOPOLIS.' "There's a power whose sway Angel souls adore. And the lost obey. Weeping evermore." glclbotttht : MASON, FIRTH, & M'CUTCHEON, 1873. O. ^l~ B-fciX^X-fX", ASSAYER, MELTER, AND REFINER, SWA.N6TON STREET, MELBOURNE. NORHIS'S silpice: Surpasses crer-vibin^ ereryet Introduced for . FATTENING FOWLS & EFFECTUALLY PREVENTING DISEASES IN THE FOWL- YARD. Sold in Tins, li, Sa., and 5s. each, by all tlrassurts, storekeepers, and seedsmen throughout the colonies : wholesale by all wholesale drussfsts. Q O ■3 « I? V g CO ei § co = w 3 M o K ? H H > CO •4 Co ^ lis
 * 2 b

~o?« g m, = 3" n?2 - co - Z CO » M M co H 3. O f— « > o o ca J Q H N KING, Importer & Dealer In China, Glass, <t Earthenware, COLLINS STREET EAST, Bttveen Bank of Victoria and Xlizabttk-ttreet Sols Agent In Victoria for the Slllcated Carbon Filter Company. Dahlke'i Patent. G. F. WICKENS, PHARMACEUTICAL CHEMIST,  ELIZABETH STREET, Two doors toutk of CoUiiu-strcet, 3t*tbanrM. Dr. Brisbt'3 Phosphodrne, Sir A. Cooper's Vital Roator*- tive, CUrke's BlOoJ Uixtnre, Marks' Pick-mo-np. Prescriptions accurately prepare*!.

title: Page:Mysteries of Melbourne Life.djvu/1


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 24

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 24


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 25

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 25


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 26

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 26


text:
Page:Narrativeavoyag01wilsgoog.djvu/297

Rh Studded with reefs, we proceeded, for some distance, along the hoarse-resounding shore, and then crossed over the coast range of sand hills, which, in geological structure, resembles the coast about Swan River. This inlet was perceived to be of considerable size, and communicated, by a serpentine channel, with the lagoon well known to the sportsmen of the settlement.

Having arrived within a few miles of home, we halted, for the purpose of shaving, and making ourselves as tidy as our means would admit, before we entered the camp. This being done, we continued our nearly finished journey at a pretty brisk pace, about noon we reached the S.W. side of Princess Royal Harbour, and walked along its sandy shore; where we observed the recent foot-marks of several natives, by which Mokărē was enabled to tell their names.

Having kept a little brandy in case of need, I distributed it, when within about half a mile of the camp; and, although the quantity was small, yet, from the want of food, it raised the spirits of the party wonderfully; and we entered the settlement, in good order and high glee, about one o'clock P.M. after having walked nearly two hundred miles, over a country previously unknown, without having experienced any privation worthy of notice.

The natives crowded round Mokărē, eager to hear the news from a far country; and the soldiers besieged Gough for the same purpose, but he wisely declined giving them the least information until they brought

title: Page:Narrativeavoyag01wilsgoog.djvu/297


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 27

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 27


text:
Page:Narrativeavoyag01wilsgoog.djvu/298

266 him something to eat; while Mr. Kent and myself did justice to Dr. Davis's proffered hospitality. Captain Barker and Lieutenant Sleeman were on board the Governor Phillips, hastening the arrangements for her departure, when we arrived. A flag, however, being hoisted from the camp, soon brought Captain Barker on shore.

Our arrival caused much gladness, as, from our long absence, fears were entertained, that we must either have been destroyed by the natives, or that we had lost our way. A great quantity of wood had been carried to the top of Mount Melville, which was to have been kindled this evening, to direct us, if haply we might be wandering about in search of home.

Captain Barker was the only individual who was free from alarm; but had we not returned this evening, he would also have begun to suspect that some accident had befellen us. He was much gratified by the account of our expedition, and determined to proceed, as soon as his avocations would permit, to examine the inlet, and also the interior water seen from Mount Lindesay, far to the westward, where it is likely there may exist a convenient harbour, with a good entrance.

I may here stop the thread of my own narrative, to introduce Captain Barker's descriptive account of his excursion over this tract of country, contained in a letter which I received from him shortly after my arrival in England.

title: Page:Narrativeavoyag01wilsgoog.djvu/298


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 28

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 28


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 29

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 29


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 30

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 30


text: Talk:The Astral Plane

title: Talk:The Astral Plane


text:
Page:Narrativeavoyag01wilsgoog.djvu/299

Rh

title: Page:Narrativeavoyag01wilsgoog.djvu/299


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 31

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 31


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 32

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 32


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 33

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 33


text:
Page:Narrativeavoyag01wilsgoog.djvu/300

268

title: Page:Narrativeavoyag01wilsgoog.djvu/300


text: Talk:Clairvoyance (Leadbeater)

title: Talk:Clairvoyance (Leadbeater)


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 34

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 34


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 35

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 35


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 36

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 36


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 37

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 37


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 39

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 39


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 38

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 38


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 40

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book IV/Hymn 40


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Crichton, William (fl.1615)


text: Talk:Something New (Wodehouse)

title: Talk:Something New (Wodehouse)


text: Talk:In the Days of the Comet

title: Talk:In the Days of the Comet


text: Talk:The History of Mr. Polly

title: Talk:The History of Mr. Polly


text:
Something New (Wodehouse)/Chapter 1

The sunshine of a fair Spring morning fell graciously on London town. Out in Piccadilly its heartening warmth seemed to infuse into traffic and pedestrians alike a novel jauntiness, so that bus drivers jested and even the lips of chauffeurs uncurled into not unkindly smiles. Policemen whistled at their posts—clerks, on their way to work; beggars approached the task of trying to persuade perfect strangers to bear the burden of their maintenance with that optimistic vim which makes all the difference. It was one of those happy mornings.

At nine o'clock precisely the door of Number Seven Arundell Street, Leicester Square, opened and a young man stepped out.

Of all the spots in London which may fairly be described as backwaters there is none that answers so completely to the description as Arundell Street, Leicester Square. Passing along the north sidewalk of the square, just where it joins Piccadilly, you hardly notice the bottleneck opening of the tiny cul-de-sac. Day and night the human flood roars past, ignoring it. Arundell Street is less than forty yards in length; and, though there are two hotels in it, they are not fashionable hotels. It is just a backwater.

In shape Arundell Street is exactly like one of those flat stone jars in which Italian wine of the cheaper sort is stored. The narrow neck that leads off Leicester Square opens abruptly into a small court. Hotels occupy two sides of this; the third is at present given up to rooming houses for the impecunious. These are always just going to be pulled down in the name of progress to make room for another hotel, but they never do meet with that fate; and as they stand now so will they in all probability stand for generations to come.

They provide single rooms of moderate size, the bed modestly hidden during the day behind a battered screen. The rooms contain a table, an easy-chair, a hard chair, a bureau, and a round tin bath, which, like the bed, goes into hiding after its useful work is performed. And you may rent one of these rooms, with breakfast thrown in, for five dollars a week.

Ashe Marson had done so. He had rented the second-floor front of Number Seven.

Twenty-six years before this story opens there had been born to Joseph Marson, minister, and Sarah his wife, of Hayling, Massachusetts, in the United States of America, a son. This son, christened Ashe after a wealthy uncle who subsequently double-crossed them by leaving his money to charities, in due course proceeded to Harvard to study for the ministry. So far as can be ascertained from contemporary records, he did not study a great deal for the ministry; but he did succeed in running the mile in four minutes and a half and the half mile at a correspondingly rapid speed, and his researches in the art of long jumping won him the respect of all.

That he should be awarded, at the conclusion of his Harvard career, one of those scholarships at Oxford University instituted by the late for the encouragement of the liberal arts, was a natural sequence of events.

That was how Ashe came to be in England.

The rest of Ashe's history follows almost automatically. He won his blue for athletics at Oxford, and gladdened thousands by winning the mile and the half mile two years in succession against Cambridge at Queen's Club. But owing to the pressure of other engagements he unfortunately omitted to do any studying, and when the hour of parting arrived he was peculiarly unfitted for any of the learned professions. Having, however, managed to obtain a sort of degree, enough to enable him to call himself a Bachelor of Arts, and realizing that you can fool some of the people some of the time, he applied for and secured a series of private tutorships.

A private tutor is a sort of blend of poor relation and nursemaid, and few of the stately homes of England are without one. He is supposed to instill learning and deportment into the small son of the house; but what he is really there for is to prevent the latter from being a nuisance to his parents when he is home from school on his vacation.

Having saved a little money at this dreadful trade, Ashe came to London and tried newspaper work. After two years of moderate success he got in touch with the Mammoth Publishing Company.

The Mammoth Publishing Company, which controls several important newspapers, a few weekly journals, and a number of other things, does not disdain the pennies of the office boy and the junior clerk. One of its many profitable ventures is a series of paper-covered tales of crime and adventure. It was here that Ashe found his niche. Those adventures of Gridley Quayle, Investigator, which are so popular with a certain section of the reading public, were his work.

Until the advent of Ashe and Mr. Quayle, the British Pluck Library had been written by many hands and had included the adventures of many heroes: but in Gridley Quayle the proprietors held that the ideal had been reached, and Ashe received a commission to conduct the entire British Pluck Library—monthly—himself. On the meager salary paid him for these labors he had been supporting himself ever since.

That was how Ashe came to be in Arundell Street, Leicester Square, on this May morning.

He was a tall, well-built, fit-looking young man, with a clear eye and a strong chin; and he was dressed, as he closed the front door behind him, in a sweater, flannel trousers, and rubber-soled gymnasium shoes. In one hand he bore a pair of Indian clubs, in the other a skipping rope.

Having drawn in and expelled the morning air in a measured and solemn fashion, which the initiated observer would have recognized as that scientific deep breathing so popular nowadays, he laid down his clubs, adjusted his rope and began to skip.

When he had taken the second-floor front of Number Seven, three months before, Ashe Marson had realized that he must forego those morning exercises which had become a second nature to him, or else defy London's unwritten law and brave London's mockery. He had not hesitated long. Physical fitness was his gospel. On the subject of exercise he was confessedly a crank. He decided to defy London.

The first time he appeared in Arundell Street in his sweater and flannels he had barely whirled his Indian clubs once around his head before he had attracted the following audience:

a) Two cabmen—one intoxicated; b) Four waiters from the Hotel Mathis; c) Six waiters from the Hotel Previtali; d) Six chambermaids from the Hotel Mathis; e) Five chambermaids from the Hotel Previtali; f) The proprietor of the Hotel Mathis; g) The proprietor of the Hotel Previtali; h) A street cleaner; i) Eleven nondescript loafers; j) Twenty-seven children; k) A cat.

They all laughed—even the cat—and kept on laughing. The intoxicated cabman called Ashe "Sunny Jim." And Ashe kept on swinging his clubs.

A month later, such is the magic of perseverance, his audience had narrowed down to the twenty-seven children. They still laughed, but without that ringing conviction which the sympathetic support of their elders had lent them.

And now, after three months, the neighborhood, having accepted Ashe and his morning exercises as a natural phenomenon, paid him no further attention.

On this particular morning Ashe Marson skipped with even more than his usual vigor. This was because he wished to expel by means of physical fatigue a small devil of discontent, of whose presence within him he had been aware ever since getting out of bed. It is in the Spring that the ache for the larger life comes on us, and this was a particularly mellow Spring morning. It was the sort of morning when the air gives us a feeling of anticipation—a feeling that, on a day like this, things surely cannot go jogging along in the same dull old groove; a premonition that something romantic and exciting is about to happen to us.

But the southwest wind of Spring brings also remorse. We catch the vague spirit of unrest in the air and we regret our misspent youth.

Ashe was doing this. Even as he skipped, he was conscious of a wish that he had studied harder at college and was now in a position to be doing something better than hack work for a soulless publishing company. Never before had he been so completely certain that he was sick to death of the rut into which he had fallen.

Skipping brought no balm. He threw down his rope and took up the Indian clubs. Indian clubs left him still unsatisfied. The thought came to him that it was a long time since he had done his Larsen Exercises. Perhaps they would heal him.

The Larsen Exercises, invented by a certain Lieutenant Larsen, of the Swedish Army, have almost every sort of merit. They make a man strong, supple, and slender. But they are not dignified. Indeed, to one seeing them suddenly and without warning for the first time, they are markedly humorous. The only reason why King Henry, of England, whose son sank with the White Ship, never smiled again, was because Lieutenant Larsen had not then invented his admirable exercises.

So complacent, so insolently unselfconscious had Ashe become in the course of three months, owing to his success in inducing the populace to look on anything he did with the indulgent eye of understanding, that it simply did not occur to him, when he abruptly twisted his body into the shape of a corkscrew, in accordance with the directions in the lieutenant's book for the consummation of Exercise One, that he was doing anything funny.

And the behavior of those present seemed to justify his confidence. The proprietor of the Hotel Mathis regarded him without a smile. The proprietor of the Hotel Previtali might have been in a trance, for all the interest he displayed. The hotel employees continued their tasks impassively. The children were blind and dumb. The cat across the way stropped its backbone against the railings unheeding.

But, even as he unscrambled himself and resumed a normal posture, from his immediate rear there rent the quiet morning air a clear and musical laugh. It floated out on the breeze and hit him like a bullet.

Three months ago Ashe would have accepted the laugh as inevitable, and would have refused to allow it to embarrass him; but long immunity from ridicule had sapped his resolution. He spun round with a jump, flushed and self-conscious.

From the window of the first-floor front of Number Seven a girl was leaning. The Spring sunshine played on her golden hair and lit up her bright blue eyes, fixed on his flanneled and sweatered person with a fascinated amusement. Even as he turned, the laugh smote him afresh.

For the space of perhaps two seconds they stared at each other, eye to eye. Then she vanished into the room.

Ashe was beaten. Three months ago a million girls could have laughed at his morning exercises without turning him from his purpose. Today this one scoffer, alone and unaided, was sufficient for his undoing. The depression which exercise had begun to dispel surged back on him. He had no heart to continue. Sadly gathering up his belongings, he returned to his room, and found a cold bath tame and uninspiring.

The breakfasts—included in the rent—provided by Mrs. Bell, the landlady of Number Seven, were held by some authorities to be specially designed to quell the spirits of their victims, should they tend to soar excessively. By the time Ashe had done his best with the disheveled fried egg, the chicory blasphemously called coffee, and the charred bacon, misery had him firmly in its grip. And when he forced himself to the table, and began to try to concoct the latest of the adventures of Gridley Quayle, Investigator, his spirit groaned within him.

This morning, as he sat and chewed his pen, his loathing for Gridley seemed to have reached its climax. It was his habit, in writing these stories, to think of a good title first, and then fit an adventure to it. And overnight, in a moment of inspiration, he had jotted down on an envelope the words: "The Adventure of the Wand of Death."

It was with the sullen repulsion of a vegetarian who finds a caterpillar in his salad that he now sat glaring at them.

The title had seemed so promising overnight—so full of strenuous possibilities. It was still speciously attractive; but now that the moment had arrived for writing the story its flaws became manifest.

What was a wand of death? It sounded good; but, coming down to hard facts, what was it? You cannot write a story about a wand of death without knowing what a wand of death is; and, conversely, if you have thought of such a splendid title you cannot jettison it offhand. Ashe rumpled his hair and gnawed his pen.

There came a knock at the door.

Ashe spun round in his chair. This was the last straw! If he had told Mrs. Ball once that he was never to be disturbed in the morning on any pretext whatsoever, he had told her twenty times. It was simply too infernal to be endured if his work time was to be cut into like this. Ashe ran over in his mind a few opening remarks.

"Come in!" he shouted, and braced himself for battle.

A girl walked in—the girl of the first-floor front; the girl with the blue eyes, who had laughed at his Larsen Exercises.

Various circumstances contributed to the poorness of the figure Ashe cut in the opening moments of this interview. In the first place, he was expecting to see his landlady, whose height was about four feet six, and the sudden entry of somebody who was about five feet seven threw the universe temporarily out of focus. In the second place, in anticipation of Mrs. Bell's entry, he had twisted his face into a forbidding scowl, and it was no slight matter to change this on the spur of the moment into a pleasant smile. Finally, a man who has been sitting for half an hour in front of a sheet of paper bearing the words: "The Adventure of the Wand of Death," and trying to decide what a wand of death might be, has not his mind under proper control.

The net result of these things was that, for perhaps half a minute, Ashe behaved absurdly. He goggled and he yammered. An, had one been present, would have made up his mind about him without further investigation. For an appreciable time he did not think of rising from his seat. When he did, the combined leap and twist he executed practically amounted to a Larsen Exercise.

Nor was the girl unembarrassed. If Ashe had been calmer he would have observed on her cheek the flush which told that she, too, was finding the situation trying. But, woman being ever better equipped with poise than man, it was she who spoke first.

"I'm afraid I'm disturbing you."

"No, no!" said Ashe. "Oh, no; not at all—not at all! No. Oh, no—not at all—no!" And would have continued to play on the theme indefinitely had not the girl spoken again.

"I wanted to apologize," she said, "for my abominable rudeness in laughing at you just now. It was idiotic of me and I don't know why I did it. I'm sorry."

Science, with a thousand triumphs to her credit, has not yet succeeded in discovering the correct reply for a young man to make who finds himself in the appalling position of being apologized to by a pretty girl. If he says nothing he seems sullen and unforgiving. If he says anything he makes a fool of himself. Ashe, hesitating between these two courses, suddenly caught sight of the sheet of paper over which he had been poring so long.

"What is a wand of death?" he asked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"A wand of death?"

"I don't understand."

The delirium of the conversation was too much for Ashe. He burst out laughing. A moment later the girl did the same. And simultaneously embarrassment ceased to be.

"I suppose you think I'm mad?" said Ashe.

"Certainly," said the girl.

"Well, I should have been if you hadn't come in."

"Why was that?"

"I was trying to write a detective story."

"I was wondering whether you were a writer."

"Do you write?"

"Yes. Do you ever read Home Gossip?"

"Never!"

"You are quite right to speak in that thankful tone. It's a horrid little paper—all brown-paper patterns and advice to the lovelorn and puzzles. I do a short story for it every week, under various names. A duke or an earl goes with each story. I loathe it intensely."

"I am sorry for your troubles," said Ashe firmly; "but we are wandering from the point. What is a wand of death?"

"A wand of death?"

"A wand of death."

The girl frowned reflectively.

"Why, of course; it's the sacred ebony stick stolen from the Indian temple, which is supposed to bring death to whoever possesses it. The hero gets hold of it, and the priests dog him and send him threatening messages. What else could it be?"

Ashe could not restrain his admiration.

"This is genius!"

"Oh, no!"

"Absolute genius. I see it all. The hero calls in Gridley Quayle, and that patronizing ass, by the aid of a series of wicked coincidences, solves the mystery; and there am I, with another month's work done."

She looked at him with interest.

"Are you the author of Gridley Quayle?"

"Don't tell me you read him!"

"I do not read him! But he is published by the same firm that publishes Home Gossip, and I can't help seeing his cover sometimes while I am waiting in the waiting room to see the editress."

Ashe felt like one who meets a boyhood's chum on a desert island. Here was a real bond between them.

"Does the Mammoth publish you, too? Why, we are comrades in misfortune—fellow serfs! We should be friends. Shall we be friends?"

"I should be delighted."

"Shall we shake hands, sit down, and talk about ourselves a little?"

"But I am keeping you from your work."

"An errand of mercy."

She sat down. It is a simple act, this of sitting down; but, like everything else, it may be an index to character. There was something wholly satisfactory to Ashe in the manner in which this girl did it. She neither seated herself on the extreme edge of the easy-chair, as one braced for instant flight; nor did she wallow in the easy-chair, as one come to stay for the week-end. She carried herself in an unconventional situation with an unstudied self-confidence that he could not sufficiently admire.

Etiquette is not rigid in Arundell Street; but, nevertheless, a girl in a first-floor front may be excused for showing surprise and hesitation when invited to a confidential chat with a second-floor front young man whom she has known only five minutes. But there is a freemasonry among those who live in large cities on small earnings.

"Shall we introduce ourselves?" said Ashe. "Or did Mrs. Bell tell you my name? By the way, you have not been here long, have you?"

"I took my room day before yesterday. But your name, if you are the author of Gridley Quayle, is Felix Clovelly, isn't it?"

"Good heavens, no! Surely you don't think anyone's name could really be Felix Clovelly? That is only the cloak under which I hide my shame. My real name is Marson—Ashe Marson. And yours?"

"Valentine—Joan Valentine."

"Will you tell me the story of your life, or shall I tell mine first?"

"I don't know that I have any particular story. I am an American."

"Not American!"

"Why not?"

"Because it is too extraordinary, too much like a Gridley Quayle coincidence. I am an American!"

"Well, so are a good many other people."

"You miss the point. We are not only fellow serfs—we are fellow exiles. You can't round the thing off by telling me you were born in Hayling, Massachusetts, I suppose?"

"I was born in New York."

"Surely not! I didn't know anybody was."

"Why Hayling, Massachusetts?"

"That was where I was born."

"I'm afraid I never heard of it."

"Strange. I know your home town quite well. But I have not yet made my birthplace famous; in fact, I doubt whether I ever shall. I am beginning to realize that I am one of the failures."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-six."

"You are only twenty-six and you call yourself a failure? I think that is a shameful thing to say."

"What would you call a man of twenty-six whose only means of making a living was the writing of Gridley Quayle stories—an empire builder?"

"How do you know it's your only means of making a living? Why don't you try something new?"

"Such as?"

"How should I know? Anything that comes along. Good gracious, Mr. Marson; here you are in the biggest city in the world, with chances for adventure simply shrieking to you on every side."

"I must be deaf. The only thing I have heard shrieking to me on every side has been Mrs. Bell—for the week's rent."

"Read the papers. Read the advertisement columns. I'm sure you will find something sooner or later. Don't get into a groove. Be an adventurer. Snatch at the next chance, whatever it is."

Ashe nodded.

"Continue," he said. "Proceed. You are stimulating me."

"But why should you want a girl like me to stimulate you? Surely London is enough to do it without my help? You can always find something new, surely? Listen, Mr. Marson. I was thrown on my own resources about five years ago—never mind how. Since then I have worked in a shop, done typewriting, been on the stage, had a position as governess, been a lady's maid—"

"A what! A lady's maid?"

"Why not? It was all experience; and I can assure you I would much rather be a lady's maid than a governess."

"I think I know what you mean. I was a private tutor once. I suppose a governess is the female equivalent. I have often wondered what General Sherman would have said about private tutoring if he expressed himself so breezily about mere war. Was it fun being a lady's maid?"

"It was pretty good fun; and it gave me an opportunity of studying the aristocracy in its native haunts, which has made me the Gossip's established authority on dukes and earls."

Ashe drew a deep breath—not a scientific deep breath, but one of admiration.

"You are perfectly splendid!"

"Splendid?"

"I mean, you have such pluck."

"Oh, well; I keep on trying. I'm twenty-three and I haven't achieved anything much yet; but I certainly don't feel like sitting back and calling myself a failure."

Ashe made a grimace.

"All right," he said. "I've got it."

"I meant you to," said Joan placidly. "I hope I haven't bored you with my autobiography, Mr. Marson. I'm not setting myself up as a shining example; but I do like action and hate stagnation."

"You are absolutely wonderful!" said Ashe. "You are a human correspondence course in efficiency, one of the ones you see advertised in the back pages of the magazines, beginning, 'Young man, are you earning enough?' with a picture showing the dead beat gazing wistfully at the boss' chair. You would galvanize a jellyfish."

"If I have really stimulated you——"

"I think that was another slam," said Ashe pensively. "Well, I deserve it. Yes, you have stimulated me. I feel like a new man. It's queer that you should have come to me right on top of everything else. I don't remember when I have felt so restless and discontented as this morning."

"It's the Spring."

"I suppose it is. I feel like doing something big and adventurous."

"Well, do it then. You have a Morning Post on the table. Have you read it yet?"

"I glanced at it."

"But you haven't read the advertisement pages? Read them. They may contain just the opening you want."

"Well, I'll do it; but my experience of advertisement pages is that they are monopolized by philanthropists who want to lend you any sum from ten to a hundred thousand pounds on your note of hand only. However, I will scan them."

Joan rose and held out her hand.

"Good-by, Mr. Marson. You've got your detective story to write, and I have to think out something with a duke in it by to-night; so I must be going." She smiled. "We have traveled a good way from the point where we started, but I may as well go back to it before I leave you. I'm sorry I laughed at you this morning."

Ashe clasped her hand in a fervent grip.

"I'm not. Come and laugh at me whenever you feel like it. I like being laughed at. Why, when I started my morning exercises, half of London used to come and roll about the sidewalks in convulsions. I'm not an attraction any longer and it makes me feel lonesome. There are twenty-nine of those Larsen Exercises and you saw only part of the first. You have done so much for me that if I can be of any use to you, in helping you to greet the day with a smile, I shall be only too proud. Exercise Six is a sure-fire mirth-provoker; I'll start with it to-morrow morning. I can also recommend Exercise Eleven—a scream! Don't miss it."

"Very well. Well, good-by for the present."

"Good-by."

She was gone; and Ashe, thrilling with new emotions, stared at the door which had closed behind her. He felt as though he had been wakened from sleep by a powerful electric shock.

Close beside the sheet of paper on which he had inscribed the now luminous and suggestive title of his new Gridley Quayle story lay the Morning Post, the advertisement columns of which he had promised her to explore. The least he could do was to begin at once.

His spirits sank as he did so. It was the same old game. A Mr. Brian MacNeill, though doing no business with minors, was willing—even anxious—to part with his vast fortune to anyone over the age of twenty-one whose means happened to be a trifle straitened. This good man required no security whatever; nor did his rivals in generosity, the Messrs. Angus Bruce, Duncan Macfarlane, Wallace Mackintosh and Donald MacNab. They, too, showed a curious distaste for dealing with minors; but anyone of maturer years could simply come round to the office and help himself.

Ashe threw the paper down wearily. He had known all along that it was no good. Romance was dead and the unexpected no longer happened. He picked up his pen and began to write "The Adventure of the Wand of Death."

title: Something New (Wodehouse)/Chapter 1


text:
Something New (Wodehouse)/Chapter 2

In a bedroom on the fourth floor of the Hotel Guelph in Piccadilly, the Honorable Frederick Threepwood sat in bed, with his knees drawn up to his chin, and glared at the day with the glare of mental anguish. He had very little mind, but what he had was suffering.

He had just remembered. It is like that in this life. You wake up, feeling as fit as a fiddle; you look at the window and see the sun, and thank Heaven for a fine day; you begin to plan a perfectly corking luncheon party with some of the chappies you met last night at the National Sporting Club; and then—you remember.

"Oh, dash it!" said the Honorable Freddie. And after a moment's pause: "And I was feeling so dashed happy!"

For the space of some minutes he remained plunged in sad meditation; then, picking up the telephone from the table at his side, he asked for a number.

"Hello!"

"Hello!" responded a rich voice at the other end of the wire.

"Oh, I say! Is that you, Dickie?"

"Who is that?"

"This is Freddie Threepwood. I say, Dickie, old top, I want to see you about something devilish important. Will you be in at twelve?"

"Certainly. What's the trouble?"

"I can't explain over the wire; but it's deuced serious."

"Very well. By the way, Freddie, congratulations on the engagement."

"Thanks, old man. Thanks very much, and so on—but you won't forget to be in at twelve, will you? Good-by."

He replaced the receiver quickly and sprang out of bed, for he had heard the door handle turn. When the door opened he was giving a correct representation of a young man wasting no time in beginning his toilet for the day.

An elderly, thin-faced, bald-headed, amiably vacant man entered. He regarded the Honorable Freddie with a certain disfavor. "Are you only just getting up, Frederick?"

"Hello, gov'nor. Good morning. I shan't be two ticks now."

"You should have been out and about two hours ago. The day is glorious."

"Shan't be more than a minute, gov'nor, now. Just got to have a tub and then chuck on a few clothes."

He disappeared into the bathroom. His father, taking a chair, placed the tips of his fingers together and in this attitude remained motionless, a figure of disapproval and suppressed annoyance.

Like many fathers in his rank of life, the Earl of Emsworth had suffered much through that problem which, with the exception of Mr. Lloyd-George, is practically the only fly in the British aristocratic amber—the problem of what to do with the younger sons.

It is useless to try to gloss over the fact—in the aristocratic families of Great Britain the younger son is not required.

Apart, however, from the fact that he was a younger son, and, as such, a nuisance in any case, the honorable Freddie had always annoyed his father in a variety of ways. The Earl of Emsworth was so constituted that no man or thing really had the power to trouble him deeply; but Freddie had come nearer to doing it than anybody else in the world. There had been a consistency, a perseverance, about his irritating performances that had acted on the placid peer as dripping water on a stone. Isolated acts of annoyance would have been powerless to ruffle his calm; but Freddie had been exploding bombs under his nose since he went to Eton.

He had been expelled from Eton for breaking out at night and roaming the streets of Windsor in a false mustache. He had been sent down from Oxford for pouring ink from a second-story window on the junior dean of his college. He had spent two years at an expensive London crammer's and failed to pass into the army. He had also accumulated an almost record series of racing debts, besides as shady a gang of friends—for the most part vaguely connected with the turf—as any young man of his age ever contrived to collect.

These things try the most placid of parents; and finally Lord Emsworth had put his foot down. It was the only occasion in his life when he had acted with decision, and he did it with the accumulated energy of years. He stopped his son's allowance, haled him home to Blandings Castle, and kept him there so relentlessly that until the previous night, when they had come up together by an afternoon train, Freddie had not seen London for nearly a year.

Possibly it was the reflection that, whatever his secret troubles, he was at any rate once more in his beloved metropolis that caused Freddie at this point to burst into discordant song. He splashed and warbled simultaneously.

Lord Emsworth's frown deepened and he began to tap his fingers together irritably. Then his brow cleared and a pleased smile flickered over his face. He, too, had remembered.

What Lord Emsworth remembered was this: Late in the previous autumn the next estate to Blandings had been rented by an American, a Mr. Peters—a man with many millions, chronic dyspepsia, and one fair daughter—Aline. The two families had met. Freddie and Aline had been thrown together; and, only a few days before, the engagement had been announced. And for Lord Emsworth the only flaw in this had been removed.

Yes, he was glad Freddie was engaged to be married to Aline Peters. He liked Aline. He liked Mr. Peters. Such was the relief he experienced that he found himself feeling almost affectionate toward Freddie, who emerged from the bathroom at this moment, clad in a pink bathrobe, to find the paternal wrath evaporated, and all, so to speak, right with the world.

Nevertheless, he wasted no time about his dressing. He was always ill at ease in his father's presence and he wished to be elsewhere with all possible speed. He sprang into his trousers with such energy that he nearly tripped himself up. As he disentangled himself he recollected something that had slipped his memory.

"By the way, gov'nor, I met an old pal of mine last night and asked him down to Blandings this week. That's all right, isn't it? He's a man named Emerson, an American. He knows Aline quite well, he says—has known her since she was a kid."

"I do not remember any friend of yours named Emerson."

"Well, as a matter of fact, I met him last night for the first time. But it's all right. He's a good chap, don't you know!—and all that sort of rot."

Lord Emsworth was feeling too benevolent to raise the objections he certainly would have raised had his mood been less sunny.

"Certainly; let him come if he wishes."

"Thanks, gov'nor."

Freddie completed his toilet.

"Doing anything special this morning, gov'nor? I rather thought of getting a bit of breakfast and then strolling round a bit. Have you had breakfast?"

"Two hours ago. I trust that in the course of your strolling you will find time to call at Mr. Peters' and see Aline. I shall be going there directly after lunch. Mr. Peters wishes to show me his collection of—I think s was the word he used."

"Oh, I'll look in all right! Don't you worry! Or if I don't I'll call the old boy up on the phone and pass the time of day. Well, I rather think I'll be popping off and getting that bit of breakfast—what?"

Several comments on this speech suggested themselves to Lord Emsworth. In the first place, he did not approve of Freddie's allusion to one of America's merchant princes as "the old boy." Second, his son's attitude did not strike him as the ideal attitude of a young man toward his betrothed. There seemed to be a lack of warmth. But, he reflected, possibly this was simply another manifestation of the modern spirit; and in any case it was not worth bothering about; so he offered no criticism.

Presently, Freddie having given his shoes a flick with a silk handkerchief and thrust the latter carefully up his sleeve, they passed out and down into the main lobby of the hotel, where they parted—Freddie to his bit of breakfast; his father to potter about the streets and kill time until luncheon. London was always a trial to the Earl of Emsworth. His heart was in the country and the city held no fascinations for him.

On one of the floors in one of the buildings in one of the streets that slope precipitously from the Strand to the Thames Embankment, there is a door that would be all the better for a lick of paint, which bears what is perhaps the most modest and unostentatious announcement of its kind in London. The grimy ground-glass displays the words:

R. JONES

Simply that and nothing more. It is rugged in its simplicity. You wonder, as you look at it—if you have time to look at and wonder about these things—who this Jones may be; and what is the business he conducts with such coy reticence.

As a matter of fact, these speculations had passed through suspicious minds at Scotland Yard, which had for some time taken not a little interest in R. Jones. But beyond ascertaining that he bought and sold curios, did a certain amount of bookmaking during the flat-racing season, and had been known to lend money, Scotland Yard did not find out much about Mr. Jones and presently dismissed him from its thoughts.

On the theory, given to the world by William Shakespeare, that it is the lean and hungry-looking men who are dangerous, and that the "fat, sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights…" are harmless, R. Jones should have been above suspicion. He was infinitely the fattest man in the west-central postal district of London. He was a round ball of a man, who wheezed when he walked upstairs, which was seldom, and shook like jelly if some tactless friend, wishing to attract his attention, tapped him unexpectedly on the shoulder. But this occurred still less frequently than his walking upstairs; for in R. Jones' circle it was recognized that nothing is a greater breach of etiquette and worse form than to tap people unexpectedly on the shoulder. That, it was felt, should be left to those who are paid by the government to do it.

R. Jones was about fifty years old, gray-haired, of a mauve complexion, jovial among his friends, and perhaps even more jovial with chance acquaintances. It was estimated by envious intimates that his joviality with chance acquaintances, specially with young men of the upper classes, with large purses and small foreheads—was worth hundreds of pounds a year to him. There was something about his comfortable appearance and his jolly manner that irresistibly attracted a certain type of young man. It was his good fortune that this type of young man should be the type financially most worth attracting.

Freddie Threepwood had fallen under his spell during his short but crowded life in London. They had met for the first time at the Derby; and ever since then R. Jones had held in Freddie's estimation that position of guide, philosopher and friend which he held in the estimation of so many young men of Freddie's stamp.

That was why, at twelve o'clock punctually on this Spring day, he tapped with his cane on R. Jones' ground glass, and showed such satisfaction and relief when the door was opened by the proprietor in person.

"Well, well, well!" said R. Jones rollickingly. "Whom have we here? The dashing bridegroom-to-be, and no other!"

R. Jones, like Lord Emsworth, was delighted that Freddie was about to marry a nice girl with plenty of money. The sudden turning off of the tap from which Freddie's allowance had flowed had hit him hard. He had other sources of income, of course; but few so easy and unfailing as Freddie had been in the days of his prosperity.

"The prodigal son, by George! Creeping back into the fold after all this weary time! It seems years since I saw you, Freddie. The old gov'nor put his foot down—didn't he?—and stopped the funds. Damned shame! I take it that things have loosened up a bit since the engagement was announced—eh?"

Freddie sat down and chewed the knob of his cane unhappily.

"Well, as a matter of fact, Dickie, old top," he said, "not so that you could notice it, don't you know! Things are still pretty much the same. I managed to get away from Blandings for a night, because the gov'nor had to come to London; but I've got to go back with him on the three-o'clock train. And, as for money, I can't get a quid out of him. As a matter of fact, I'm in the deuce of a hole; and that's why I've come to you."

Even fat, jovial men have their moments of depression. R. Jones' face clouded, and jerky remarks about hardness of times and losses on the Stock Exchange began to proceed from him. As Scotland Yard had discovered, he lent money on occasion; but he did not lend it to youths in Freddie's unfortunate position.

"Oh, I don't want to make a touch, you know," Freddie hastened to explain. "It isn't that. As a matter of fact, I managed to raise five hundred of the best this morning. That ought to be enough."

"Depends on what you want it for," said R. Jones, magically genial once more.

The thought entered his mind, as it had so often, that the world was full of easy marks. He wished he could meet the money-lender who had been rash enough to advance the Honorable Freddie five hundred pounds. Those philanthropists cross our path too seldom.

Freddie felt in his pocket, produced a cigarette case, and from it extracted a newspaper clipping.

"Did you read about poor old Percy in the papers? The case, you know?"

"Percy?"

"Lord Stockheath, you know."

"Oh, the Stockheath breach-of-promise case? I did more than that. I was in court all three days." R. Jones emitted a cozy chuckle. "Is he a pal of yours? A cousin, eh? I wish you had seen him in the witness box, with Jellicoe-Smith cross-examining him! The funniest thing I ever heard! And his letters to the girl! They read them out in court; and of all—"

"Don't, old man! Dickie, old top—please! I know all about it. I read the reports. They made poor old Percy look like an absolute ass."

"Well, Nature had done that already; but I'm bound to say they improved on Nature's work. I should think your Cousin Percy must have felt like a plucked chicken."

A spasm of pain passed over the Honorable Freddie's vacant face. He wriggled in his chair.

"Dickie, old man, I wish you wouldn't talk like that. It makes me feel ill."

"Why, is he such a pal of yours as all that?"

"It's not that. It's—the fact is, Dickie, old top, I'm in exactly the same bally hole as poor old Percy was, myself!"

"What! You have been sued for breach of promise?"

"Not absolutely that—yet. Look here; I'll tell you the whole thing. Do you remember a show at the Piccadilly about a year ago called "The Baby Doll"? There was a girl in the chorus."

"Several—I remember noticing."

"No; I mean one particular girl—a girl called Joan Valentine. The rotten part is that I never met her."

"Pull yourself together, Freddie. What exactly is the trouble?"

"Well—don't you see?—I used to go to the show every other night, and I fell frightfully in love with this girl—"

"Without having met her?"

"Yes. You see, I was rather an ass in those days."

"No, no!" said R. Jones handsomely.

"I must have been or I shouldn't have been such an ass, don't you know! Well, as I was saying, I used to write this girl letters, saying how much I was in love with her; and—and—"

"Specifically proposing marriage?"

"I can't remember. I expect I did. I was awfully in love."

"How was that if you never met her?"

"She wouldn't meet me. She wouldn't even come out to luncheon. She didn't even answer my letters—just sent word down by the Johnny at the stage door. And then——"

Freddie's voice died away. He thrust the knob of his cane into his mouth in a sort of frenzy.

"What then?" inquired R. Jones.

A scarlet blush manifested itself on Freddie's young face. His eyes wandered sidewise. After a long pause a single word escaped him, almost inaudible:

"Poetry!"

R. Jones trembled as though an electric current had been passed through his plump frame. His little eyes sparkled with merriment.

"You wrote her poetry!"

"Yards of it, old boy—yards of it!" groaned Freddie. Panic filled him with speech. "You see the frightful hole I'm in? This girl is bound to have kept the letters. I don't remember whether I actually proposed to her or not; but anyway she's got enough material to make it worth while to have a dash at an action—especially after poor old Percy has just got soaked for such a pile of money and made breach-of-promise cases the fashion, so to speak.

"And now that the announcement of my engagement is out she's certain to get busy. Probably she has been waiting for something of the sort. Don't you see that all the cards are in her hands? We couldn't afford to let the thing come into court. That poetry would dish my marriage for a certainty. I'd have to emigrate or something! Goodness knows what would happen at home! My old gov'nor would murder me! So you see what a frightful hole I'm in, don't you, Dickie, old man?"

"And what do you want me to do?"

"Why, to get hold of this girl and get back the letters—don't you see? I can't do it myself, cooped up miles away in the country. And besides, I shouldn't know how to handle a thing like that. It needs a chappie with a lot of sense and a persuasive sort of way with him."

"Thanks for the compliment, Freddie; but I should imagine that something a little more solid than a persuasive way would be required in a case like this. You said something a while ago about five hundred pounds?"

"Here it is, old man—in notes. I brought it on purpose. Will you really take the thing on? Do you think you can work it for five hundred?"

"I can have a try."

Freddie rose, with an expression approximating to happiness on his face. Some men have the power of inspiring confidence in some of their fellows, though they fill others with distrust. Scotland Yard might look askance at R. Jones, but to Freddie he was all that was helpful and reliable. He shook R. Jones' hand several times in his emotion.

"That's absolutely topping of you, old man!" he said. "Then I'll leave the whole thing to you. Write me the moment you have done anything, won't you? Good-by, old top, and thanks ever so much!"

The door closed. R. Jones remained where he sat, his fingers straying luxuriously among the crackling paper. A feeling of complete happiness warmed R. Jones' bosom. He was uncertain whether or not his mission would be successful; and to be truthful he was not letting that worry him much. What he was certain of was the fact that the heavens had opened unexpectedly and dropped five hundred pounds into his lap.

title: Something New (Wodehouse)/Chapter 2