text:
MediaWiki talk:Gadget-PageNumbers-core.js

Local copy
Is there a compelling reason for us to have a local copy of this rather than loading the version from oldwikisource like with most of the other common javascript? Prosody (talk) 19:17, 14 January 2013 (UTC)
 * Yes. One day this copy will load within proper starting and ending div tags while the others will continue to follow the designs of a designer who left development altogether. See the talk page at old for details. -- George Orwell III (talk) 23:55, 14 January 2013 (UTC)

Recent changes don't work in Firefox 25
Not sure what has been done to cause the breakage (no edit summaries makes it difficult to know), however, the page number and the grey highlight is now offset in a downwards direction when using Firefox. There has to be a better way. Would you please return it to the previous form where it worked. Thanks. — billinghurst  sDrewth  06:23, 3 November 2013 (UTC)
 * Seeing a similar effect in Chrome, though not as accentuated as with FF. — billinghurst  sDrewth  06:44, 3 November 2013 (UTC)

 * Technically this has been "broken" for months if not years now (& I'm not going to rehash Any of it for the umpteenth time right now either) but, yes, to the layman's eye everything seemed just fine. If the gray highlight is still off at the time of this post - its because I don't know javascript for sh!t. That shouldn't be all that much to fix - the embedded page numbers still reside on the same line as the point where the Page: namespace's page-break cuts into the transcluded content. Compensating for or adding/subracting a line return and/or a hard space is the obvious code fix for the gray highlight thingy if its still offset (I just don't know enough to be sure where exactly to do that & my gut tells me the offsets were all off to begin with).

 * The major point was to reign in Dynamic Layouts from intruding in on "things outside of the 'editbox' & it's norms" upon User: save and the subsequent viewing. This has been rectified (for the most part) in what probably is not the most elegant nor most efficient way to script what was needed. Sorry for any headaches - past present or future. Fair warning - now that that the boundary boxes are "aligned" along the top (where the most sub wrappers & sub containers reside), the lower half (or footer related) still has a thing or two "inside the wrong box" for lack of a better term so folks should expect a bit more weirdness before everything is completely "stable" again. --George Orwell III (talk) 08:44, 3 November 2013 (UTC)

Broken again
This is becoming infuriating that the simple ability to link is constantly under change, without obvious concern for users, and fellow administrators, and now I get no page numbers in either browser, and rolling back gives me page numbers with [undefined]. If you want to play with this, take it all over to test.wikipedia.org and play over there, get it right, then bring it back here. In the meanwhile, please give me stable page numbering so that I can do my bits around here. — billinghurst  sDrewth  09:22, 6 November 2013 (UTC)

Proper page number decoding
This script mangles page names containing various Unicode characters, for example "1–2" as "1.E2.80.932". Please replace:

with:

This is essentially a lossy implementation of an  that would reverse the   parser function. The  is in there because there may be false positives.

Also, if anyone here is an administrator at the Multilingual Wikisource, please update the version there as well. Thank you!

– Minh Nguyễn (talk, contribs) 05:44, 9 October 2014 (UTC)

 * Wrap the tags inside quotes. Page numbers are simple things, usually numbers or roman numerals, and we have used emdashes and endashes successfully when quoted. Pages numbers are not more complex. — billinghurst  sDrewth  05:50, 9 October 2014 (UTC)
 * have you an example of where we have the problem? — billinghurst  sDrewth  01:20, 10 October 2014 (UTC)
 * In fairness to Minh, I have seen this on occasion before (I checked my vague memories of where but nothing showing right now.) However (1) your solution of quoting; and (2) it is almost always a mistake to transclude a page liable to be marked as described; especially in combination mean that there is very little likelihood of this being an issue worthy of addressing within PageNumbers.js. In any case, this whole issue is merely one of a special case of language/browser misunderstanding/mishandling of UNICODE which is most probably not worth of address at an application level, and will most likely be addressed sooner if band-aid solutions (@Mxn: I am not denigrating the brilliance of your solution!) are not plastering the whole edifice together already? AuFCL (talk) 01:57, 10 October 2014 (UTC)

I originally asked for this change at the Multilingual Wikisource because the Vietnamese Wikisource includes that version; asked me to see if the change would also apply to this version as well.

At the Vietnamese Wikisource, some of our most important documents are numbered by column, two columns to a page. So vi:Mục lục:Dictionarium Annamiticum Lusitanum et Latinum (Bayerische Staatsbibliothek).pdf for example has a page numbered "1–2" for the page with columns 1 and 2. It also has a page numbered, for lack of a better term, "inside cover" (bìa phụ). We are using quotes around the page numbers in the  tag, if that's what you mean, but the anchor-encoding actually comes from the ProofreadPages extension  preprocessor. If you include vi:Trang:Dictionarium Annamiticum Lusitanum et Latinum (Bayerische Staatsbibliothek).pdf/11 (1–2) on a page using the  tag, "1–2" is passed into MediaWiki:Proofreadpage pagenum template, which MediaWiki's preprocessor turns into:

The  attribute is apparently set so that you can link to individual pages in the main namespace, for example Từ điển Việt–Bồ–La/A. (The preprocessor is definitely responsible for the anchor encoding: try entering  into Special:ExpandTemplates and viewing the raw HTML.) This script picks up the   attribute and will happily convert ".E2.80.93" into an en dash, but only at the beginning of the string, not in the middle. It also won't help with characters like "ì" and "ụ".

Regardless, the Vietnamese Wikisource doesn't use the English Wikisource's script, so I have no problem if you decline to incorporate the proposed change. I just wanted to offer it in case any documents here also get tripped up by this bug.

– Minh Nguyễn (talk, contribs) 06:37, 10 October 2014 (UTC)

Simpler alternative
After digging into the cause of the anchor encoding above, I arrived at this simpler, more reliable change:

 Change MediaWiki:Proofreadpage pagenum template to add  next to  . In this script, replace: with:

Other wikis that include this script but haven't updated their MediaWiki:Proofreadpage pagenum template would just have to put up with badly mangled page numbers.

– Minh Nguyễn (talk, contribs) 08:05, 10 October 2014 (UTC)

 * It sounds like something that would be better within the ProofreadPage code, rather than in the page numbering output. May as well resolve it at host. — billinghurst  sDrewth  10:49, 10 October 2014 (UTC)

 * Sorry, I wasn't clear above. The bug doesn't actually have anything to do with ProofreadPage itself. The bug lies in how MediaWiki:Proofreadpage pagenum template and MediaWiki:PageNumbers.js both rely on the  attribute, which gets transformed by MediaWiki's preprocessor. ProofreadPages passes the correct, unencoded page number to MediaWiki:Proofreadpage pagenum template. It doesn't make sense to add a special case to the preprocessor, does it? – Minh Nguyễn (talk, contribs) 07:29, 12 October 2014 (UTC)

 * Also, the bug appears on plenty of pages here at the English Wikisource, including:
 * Persia
 * The Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy (1729)/The Laws of the Moon's Motion according to Gravity
 * Panama, past and present/Chapter 1
 * The passing of Korea
 * Rabbit: A Compiler for Scheme/Front Matter
 * In Korea with Marquis Ito
 * Modern Parliamentary Eloquence
 * Railroad accident report—Derailment of Southern Pacific Transportation Company freight train on May 12, 1989 and subsequent rupture of Calnev petroleum pipeline on May 25, 1989—San Bernardino, California
 * Second Geological Survey of Pennsylvania. Report of Progress/PPP
 * – Minh Nguyễn (talk, contribs) 08:13, 12 October 2014 (UTC)

 * Sorry for being away for a few days real life calls I tried implementing this and it broke all the numbering; [undefined] came up for all the embedded links back to the page namespace instead. - George Orwell III (talk) 23:01, 13 October 2014 (UTC)

 * I'm sorry, there was a typo above: the variable should continue to be named, not  , and   can't be called on raw DOM elements. I've corrected the mistakes above. That was bad copy-pasta from the OldWikisource version of my proposal. – Minh Nguyễn (talk, contribs) 05:35, 14 October 2014 (UTC)

-- OK, that stopped the "undefined" results all around but now embedded numbers are no longer generated after the targeted point {anchored url] in certain cases. If you re-visit the pages you listed above earlier that were affected by this "issue" you should now see that the embedded "target" page number/back-link and all links afterwards are no longer generated. Please verify you see the same before I revert to previous scheme. -- George Orwell III (talk) 23:13, 17 October 2014 (UTC)

Ah, that's because  is being used for both the displayed page name and the URL anchor. Replace this line:

with this:

– Minh Nguyễn (talk, contribs) 03:44, 19 October 2014 (UTC)
 * - Ok that last one seemed to resolve the lack of generation of the target & subsequent embedded page links but I noticed the mouse-pointer hover over such links does not produce the corresponding "grey highlight" of transcluded content like it does for "normal" links. No big deal for me personally but somebody, someday will surely complain about the lack of it. Any ideas? -- George Orwell III (talk) 03:56, 19 October 2014 (UTC)

Thanks for taking care of that. The page number span for one of these special pages contains a ".". jQuery treats "." as the start of a class name, rather than as part of the ID. Replace this:

with this:

– Minh Nguyễn (talk, contribs) 04:17, 19 October 2014 (UTC)

 * No good - now all the "hover-highlighting" no longer works. reverting. -- George Orwell III (talk) 04:39, 19 October 2014 (UTC)

 * Yikes, sorry, need to wrap that in a jQuery object:  I tested this suggestion with User:Mxn/PageNumbers.js and it seems to work fine. – Minh Nguyễn (talk, contribs) 10:33, 19 October 2014 (UTC)
 * -- not so much here (as far as I can tell). While the "grey highlighting" upon hover for embedded links in general now work as before, the instances originally listed above still generate properly but no highlight upon mouse hover in those special cases. Its no big deal since it affects so few pages apparently but if you think you can nail it down, I'm willing to keep trying rather than revert it. Good thing I checked before saving - it just took a bit longer for the caching to catch up. The grey highlighting upon mouse hover now works for those special cases listed above as well as the rest of the embedded links like before. Thanks again & Please check back whenever you get around to it in a couple of days just to be sure others don't wind up seeing/not seeing something we do/don't right now. -- George Orwell III (talk) 10:49, 19 October 2014 (UTC)

Changes to left margin push up against left sidebar
The last change to margins now pushes the square bracket up against the left side bar, and it seems to require a little more whitespace between the sidebar and the left square bracket. (firefox 34] — billinghurst  sDrewth  03:45, 1 January 2015 (UTC)
 * Gotcha User:Billinghurst. Do me one favor first (hopefully you're not on a tablet or something as "tiny") - can you slowly resize your browser window width-wise (wider if its normally a window of many on the desktop, smaller if its normally taking up the whole screen) and see if at some point the side-bar margins (and the pageNums) don't readjust themselves position wise (happens around a viewable width of 982px to be specific). Thanks. -- George Orwell III (talk) 04:00, 1 January 2015 (UTC) Never mind - reverted. -- George Orwell III (talk) 13:59, 1 January 2015 (UTC)
 * } I would have been happy with the retrieval of .5 em (think that prior it was -3, and you took it to -4 … -3.5??) if I remember the change that you made. — billinghurst  sDrewth  07:43, 2 January 2015 (UTC)
 * that was the whole point of asking you to test for the "readjustment" of default css settings coming from the phps on the servers as you [hopefully] use a device or monitor with a view area that is roughly larger than 982px at its max. As you slowly shrink your browser window's width from full screen (the max dpi) all the way down to a size where everything becomes unintelligible -- and however your system defines ~982px -- you "should" see exactly a .5em shift in padding, margins, etc. when that ~982px threshold is crossed. Keep the focus of your viewable window to the most top-left corner of any WS page. The shift is most easily seen by focusing on the sidebar menu as your window shrinks. I can only test the browser(s) that I have handy and those are all IE. double :( So can you kindly add your favorite browser's performance regarding the possible readjust at ~982px threshold or not? Please answer this question either way -- sooner would be more helpful than the usual when I get around to and if remember to timeframe. -- George Orwell III (talk) 11:22, 3 January 2015 (UTC)
 * Monobook does not change width (Firefox), though I do see that vector does shuffle and squeeze (toolbar and margin) to the left (Chrome) when I get browser to mid-width of the (first) monitor. — billinghurst  sDrewth  12:11, 3 January 2015 (UTC)
 * Thanks for that. So under monobook nothing happens regardless of the browser used while under vector Chrome makes the "shift" but Firefox does not?... if I'm understanding you correctly there that is. -- George Orwell III (talk) 13:25, 3 January 2015 (UTC)
 * That was just two tests. I have tried FF logged out, and in vector it behaves the same as Chrome. So presumably that means that monobook is static width left toolbar, and chrome is dynamic, and browser independent. — billinghurst  sDrewth  03:04, 4 January 2015 (UTC)

-- UPDATE (+E/C) Never mind - there is no point in trying to come up with a solution or a compromise while further tinkering is likely to occur. The already open Task is tracked above. -- George Orwell III (talk) 03:11, 4 January 2015 (UTC)

Bitrot
While debugging something else I ran across this:

is no longer an event handler method in jQuery 3.0 (it now fetches data from the server). This needs to be changed to:

Though it would probably work even with. --Xover (talk) 14:07, 12 December 2020 (UTC)

 * ✅ Special:Diff/10707649. :-) Inductiveload— talk/contribs  23:52, 12 December 2020 (UTC)

 * I have reverted as page numbers had moved from the lead part of the page to middle of the page—Firefox, monobook. Was happening in the three biographical articles linked from Portal:Accepted Frewen. — billinghurst  sDrewth  01:24, 13 December 2020 (UTC)
 * Ok, dropping raw thoughts here as they occur to me (and before morning coffee takes effect; apologies in advance for the stupid), since I can't predict how much time I'll have to pursue this today, and it may be useful for others…First, One of those changes was to fix the problem reported in WS:S#Translation license box does not expand. In addition, the most likely culprit for the issues you saw is the other change (the one starting this thread). In other words, it would be preferable to try to preserve the fix for the translation license template rather than aim for a status quo (since the status quo was broken).Second, as briefly mentioned, the most likely culprit is the change proposed here (diff). It means calling refresh_pagenumbers an additional time that has most likely not been working for years (since MW updated jQuery to 3.x), and since refresh_pagenumbers calculates the position of the page numbers, it seems the most likely thing to cause the problems you describe.Thirdly, when I try to load this script from my common.js, even without these two changes, I am seeing even more weirdness: at first blush it looks like the div for holding the pagenumbers is placed after the licence banner, footer, etc. That suggests even more timing issues, and the difference makes this (pardon my French) hell to debug. I am wondering if the split into main and -core gadgets makes any kind of sense here, or if it is only exacerbating this kind of issue. So, since I can't reproduce the problem, I think I may approach this by some judicious application of brute force and ignorance and try to smush this together into a single gadget. That should at least eliminate one class of timing issues and might give some idea of where the real problem is. --Xover (talk) 09:00, 13 December 2020 (UTC)
 * It was just easiest to revert to status quo, rather than having a nuffnuff try to work it out. — billinghurst  sDrewth  10:38, 13 December 2020 (UTC)
 * Sure, that's usually the best bet: roll it all back and figure out the details once the dust settles. It was just that in this particular case the rolled-back state was also broken (in a public-facing way), and there was a chance the borkage could be fixed without introducing the new breakage. --Xover (talk) 20:37, 13 December 2020 (UTC)
 * And in the world's longest (and possibly dumbest) detour, the issue with the local copy was that the Gadget loads some CSS as a dependency, but when you load it locally you need to load the CSS yourself. *sigh* And by the time I finally figured that out I'd run out of wikitime. I did try to test the issue Billinghurst reported, but failed to reproduce it. It was in Safari rather than Firefox, and it was not very thorough testing, so not conclusive; but it does suggest the issue is affected by the differences in the environment for a Gadget vs. a user script.One thing worth checking out though, is whether the  really needs to hook into the load event. In my testing the script consistently tried to add the handler after the load even had already fired, and load, unlike ready, does not immediately execute handlers added after it's been fired. Just on eyeballing I'd say this could run from the ready event. I started on a BF&I refactor where that worked fine, but, that was refactored code so not directly comparable. It may not even be needed at all (there's all kinds of voodoo coding hiding in there, trying to handle edge cases that cannot actually happen), but if it is this is a prime suspect in miscalculating the initial position of the page numbers (switching layouts would probably fix it if so). --Xover (talk) 20:37, 13 December 2020 (UTC)
 * Ok, just tested in Firefox (83.0, macOS) with my local copy and I can't reproduce Billinghurst's problem in any of the layouts, and in neither Vector nor Monobook. We may need to set this up as a Gadget to debug properly. --Xover (talk) 08:27, 14 December 2020 (UTC)
 * Oh, and digging a bit on the load event, it looks like since jQuery 3.x, when .ready was made asynchronous, a .load handler inside .ready will effectively never execute. We should just drop the .load event and execute pagenumbers.refresh_offsets synchronously inside $(document).ready. If that gets called before the page geometries are completely settled in some cases (it's technically a race, especially on image-heavy pages, but all our images have known dimensions ahead of time) we'll need to refactor so we can attach the .load handler earlier (or force a .refresh_offsets at the right time some other way). --Xover (talk) 08:38, 14 December 2020 (UTC)

 * I have reverted to the version that fixed Jan's reported issue with the collapsing. Reverting this Gadget and not Mediawiki:Gadget-PageNumbers.js's associated changes has left the whole thing broken in the respect that the moving of headers, footers and templates out of the layout-ed area was totally killed by the original reversion.
 * Billinghurt: please let me know if you still see your issue now.
 * We can deal with the  issue separately. Inductiveload— talk/contribs   12:55, 14 December 2020 (UTC)


text:
The New International Encyclopædia/Paul and Virginia

PAUL AND VIRGINIA (Fr. Paul et Virginie, pṓlắ-vḗr'zhḗ'nḗ). A well-known romance by Bernardin de Saint-Pierre (1788), the scene of which is laid in Mauritius, where the author had spent three years. It exhibits great powers of description and emotional force, with exaggerated sentiment and a not altogether healthy atmosphere. It is the story of two playmates whose affection develops into love, and ends with the drowning of Virginia and the death of her lover from grief.

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


text:
The New International Encyclopædia/Paul Clifford

PAUL CLIFFORD. A novel by Bulwer-Lytton (1833). It is the story of a chivalrous highwayman in the time of the French Revolution. Paul Clifford, of unknown birth, brought up in evil, is arrested for theft and becomes a highwayman. As Captain Clifford he loves Lucy Brandon, but is brought before her uncle, Judge Brandon, for a robbery. He proves to be

stolen child, is condemned to death by his father, but escapes with Lucy to America.


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Leslie, Charles Robert


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Leslie, David


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Leslie, George (d.1558)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Leslie, George (d.1637)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Leslie, John (1527-1596)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Leslie, John (1679-1722)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Leslie, John (1698?-1767)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Leslie, John (1766-1832)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Leslie, Norman


text:
Amazing Stories/Volume 03/Number 12/The Worm

The miller patted his dog on the head, as he whispered: "We are going to stay here. Our folks, your ancestors and mine, have been here for nearly two hundred years, and queer it would be to leave now because of fear."

The grist mill stood, a solid stone structure, in an isolated Vermont valley. Years ago every day had been a busy one for the mill and the miller, but now only the mill wheel was busy. There was no grist for the mill and no one lived in the valley. Blackberries and hazel grew where once the pastures had been green. The hand of time had passed over the farms and the only folk left were sleeping in the churchyard. A family of squirrels nested in the pulpit, while on the tombstones silent snails left their cryptic messages in silvery streaks. Thompson's Valley was being handed back to nature. Only the old bachelor miller, John Staples, remained. He was too proud and too stubborn to do anything else.

The mill was his home, even as it had served all of his family for a home during the last two hundred years. The first Staples had built it to stay, and it was still as strong as on the day it was finished. There was a basement for the machinery of the mill, the first floor was the place of grinding and storage and the upper two floors served as the Staples' homestead. The building was warm in winter and cool in summer. Times past it had sheltered a dozen Staples at a time; now it provided a home for John Staples and his dog.

He lived there with his books and his memories. He had no friends and desired no associates. Once a year he went to the nearest town and bought supplies of all kinds, paying for them in gold. It was supposed that he was wealthy. Rumor credited him with being a miser. He attended to his own business, asked the world to do the same, and on a winter's evening laughed silently over Burton and Rabalais, while his dog chased rabbits in his heated sleep upon the hearth.

The winter of 1935 was beginning to threaten the valley, but with an abundance of food and wood in the mill, the recluse looked forward to a comfortable period of desuetude. No matter how cold the weather, he was warm and contented. With the inherent ability of his family, he had been able to convert the water power into electricity. When the wheel was frozen, he used the electricity stored in his storage batteries. Every day he puttered around among the machinery which it was his pride to keep in perfect order. He assured the dog that if business ever did come to the mill, he would be ready for it.

It was on Christmas Day of that winter that he first heard the noise. Going down to the basement to see that nothing had been injured by the bitter freeze of the night before, his attention was attracted, even while descending the stone steps, by a peculiar grinding noise, that seemed to come from out of the ground. His ancestors, building for permanency, had not only put in solid foundations, but had paved the entire basement with slate flagstones three feet wide and as many inches thick. Between these the dust of two centuries had gathered and hardened.

Once his feet were on this pavement, Staples found that he could not only hear the noise, but he could also feel the vibrations which accompanied it through the flagstones. Even through his heavy leather boots he could feel the rhythmic pulsations. Pulling off his mittens, he stooped over and put his finger tips on the stone. To his surprise it was warm in spite of the fact that the temperature had been below zero the night before. The vibration was more distinct to his finger tips than it had been to his feet. Puzzled, he threw himself on the slate stone and put his ear to the warm surface.

The sound he now heard made him think of the grinding of the mill stones when he was a boy and the farmers had brought corn to be ground into meal. There had been no corn-meat ground in the mill for fifty years, yet here was the sound of stone scraping slowly and regularly on stone. He could not understand it. In fact it was some time before he tried to explain it. With the habit born of years of solitary thinking, the first collected all the available facts about this noise. He knew that during the long winter evenings he would have time enough to do his thinking.

Going to his sitting room, he secured a walking stick of ash and went back to the cellar. Holding the handle of the cane lightly, he placed the other end on a hundred different spots on the floor, and each time he held it long enough to determine the presence or absence of vibration. To his surprise he found that while it varied in strength, it was present all over the cellar with the exception of the four corners. The maximum intensity was about in the center.

That evening he concentrated on the problem before him. He had been told by his grandfather, that the mill was built on solid rock. As a young men he had helped clean out a well near the mill and recalled, that instead of being dug out of gravel or dirt, it had the appearance of being drilled out of solid granite. There was no difficulty in believing that the earth under the mill was also solid rock. There was no reason for thinking otherwise. Evidently some of these strata of stone had become loose and were slipping and twisting under the mill. The simplest explanation was the most reasonable: it was simply a geological phenomenon. The behavior of the dog, however, was not so easily explained. He had refused to go with his master into the cellar, and now, instead of sleeping in comfort before the fire, he was in an attitude of strained expectancy. He did not bark, or even whine, but crept silently to his master's chair, looking at him anxiously.

The next morning the noise was louder. Staples heard it in his bed, and at first he thought that some bold adventurer had come into the forest and was sawing down a tree. That was what it sounded like; only softer and longer in its rhythm. Buzzzzzz— Buzzzzzzzz-Buzzzzzzzz. The dog, distinctly unhappy, jumped up on the bed and crawled uneasily so he could nuzzle the man's hand.

Through the four legs of the bed, Staples could feel the same vibration that had come to him through the handle of his cane the day before. That made him think. The vibration was now powerful enough to be appreciated, not through a walking stick, but through the walls of the building. The noise could be heard as well on the third floor as in the cellar.

He tried to fancy what it sounded like — not what it was — what it was like. The first idea had been that it resembled a saw going through oak; then came the thought of bees swarming, only these were large bees and millions of them: but finally all he could think of was the grinding of stones in a grist mill, the upper stone against the lower: and now the second was Grrrrrrr—Grrrrrrrrr instead of Bzzzzzzzzz or Hummmmmmm.

That morning he took longer than usual to shave and was more methodical than was his wont in preparing breakfast for himself and the dog. It seemed as though he knew that sometime he would have to go down into the cellar but wanted to postpone it as long as he could. In fact, he finally put on his coat and beaver hat and mittens and walked outdoors before he went to the basement. Followed by the dog, who seemed happy for the. first time in hours, he walked out on the frozen ground and made a circle around the building he called his home. Without knowing it, he was trying to get away from the noise, to go somewhere be could walk without feeling that peculiar tingling.

Finally he went into the mill and started down the steps to the cellar. The dog hesitated on the top step, went down two steps and then jumped back to the top step, where he started to whine. Staples went down the step, but the dog's behavior did not add to his peace of mind. The noise was much louder than it was the day before, and he did not need a cane to detect the vibration — the whole building was shaking. He sat down on the third step from the bottom and thought the problem over before he ventured out on the floor. He was especially interested in an empty barrel which was dancing around the middle of the floor.

The power of the mill-wheel was transferred through a simple series of shafts, cogs and leather belting to the grinding elements on the first floor. All this machinery for transmitting power was in the basement. The actual grinding had been done on the first floor. The weight of all this machinery, as well as of the heavy millstones on the first floor, was carried entirely by the flooring of the basement. The ceiling of the first floor was built on long pine beams which stretched across the entire building and were sunk into the stone walls at either side.

Staples started to walk around on the slate flagstones when he observed something that made him decide to stay on the steps. The floor was beginning to sink in the middle; not much, but enough to cause some of the shafts to separate from the ceiling. The ceiling seemed to sag. He saw that light objects like the empty barrel were congregating at the middle of the cellar. There was not much light but he was easily able to see that the floor was no longer level; that it was becoming saucer-shaped. The grinding noise grew louder. The steps he sat on were of solid masonry, stoutly connected with and a part of the wall. These shared in the general vibration. The whole building began to sing like a 'cello.

One day he had been to the city and heard an orchestra play. He had been interested in the large violins, especially the one that was so large the player had to stay on his feet to play it. The feeling of the stone step under him reminded him of the notes of this violin the few times it had been played by itself. He sat there. Suddenly he started, realizing that in a few more minutes he would be asleep. He was not frightened but in some dim way he knew that he must not go to sleep — not here. Whistling, he ran up the steps to get his electric torch. With that in his hand, he went back to the steps. Aided by the steady light, he saw that several large sacks had appeared in the floor and that some of the stones, broken loose from their fellows, were moving slowly in a drunken, meaningless way. He looked at his watch. It was only a little after nine.

And then the noise stopped.

No more noise! No more vibration! Just a broken floor and every bit of the machinery of the mill disabled and twisted. In the middle of the floor was a hole where one of the pavement stones had dropped through. Staples carefully walked across and threw the light down this hole. Then he lay down and carefully put himself in such a position that he could look down the hole. He began to sweat. There did not seem to be any bottom!

Back on the solid steps he tried to give that hole its proper value. He could not understand it, but he did not need the whining of the dog to tell him what to do. That door must be closed as soon as possible.

Like a flash the method of doing so came to him. On the floor above he had cement. There were hundreds of grain sacks. Water was plentiful in the mill race. All that day he worked, carefully closing the hole with a great stopper of bags and wire. Then he placed timbers above and finally covered it all with cement, rich cement. Night came and he still worked. Morning came and still he swaggered down the steps, each time with a bag of crushed stone, or cement on his shoulder or with two buckets of water in his hands. At noon the next day the floor was no longer concave but convex. On top of the hole was four feet of timbers, bags and concrete. Then and only then did he go and make some coffee. He drank it, cup after cup, and slept.

The dog stayed on the bed at his feet.

When the man awoke, the sun was streaming in through the windows. It was a new day. Though the fire had long since died out, the room was warm. Such days in Vermont were called weather breeders. Staples listened. There was no sound except the ticking of his clock. Not realizing what he was doing, he knelt by the bed, thanked God for His mercies, jumped into bed again and slept for another twenty-four hours. This time he awoke and listened. There was no note. He was sure that by this time the cement had hardened. This morning he stayed awake and shared a Gargantuan meal with the dog. Then it seemed the proper thing to go to the basement. There was no doubt that the machinery was a wreck but the hole was closed. Satisfied that the trouble was over, he took his gun and dog and went hunting.

When he returned, he did not have to enter the mill to know that the grinding had begun again. Even before he started down the steps he recognized too well the vibration and the sound. This time it was a melody of notes, a harmony of discords, and he realized that the thing, which before had cut through solid rock, was now wearing its way through a cement in which were bags, timbers and pieces of iron. Each of these gave a different tone. Together they all wailed over their dissolution.

Staples saw, even with the first glance, that it would not be long before this cement "cork" would be destroyed. What was there to do next? All that day when hunting, his mind had been dimly working on that problem. Now he had the answer. He could not cork the hole, so he would fill it with water. The walls of the mill were solid, but he could blast a hole through them and turn the mill race into the cellar. The race, fed by the river, took only a part of what it could take, if its level were rapidly lowered. Whatever it was that was breaking down the floor of the mill could be drowned. If it were alive, it could be killed. If it was fire, it could be quenched. There was no use to wait until the hole was again opened. The best plan was to have everything ready. He went back to his kitchen and cooked a meal of ham and eggs. He ate all he could. He boiled a pot of coffee. Then he started to work. The wall reached three feet down below the surface. A charge of powder, heavy enough to break through, would wreck the whole building, so he began to peck at the wall, like a bird pecking at a nut. First a period of drilling and then a little powder and a muffled explosion. A few buckets of loosened rock. Then some more drilling and another explosion. At last he knew that only a few inches of rock lay between the water and the cellar.

All this time there had been a symphony of noises, a disharmony of sounds. The constant grinding came from the floor, interrupted with the sound of sledge or crowbar, dull explosion of powder and crashing of rock, fragments on the floor. Staples worked without stop save to drink his coffee. The dog stood on the upper steps.

Then without warning the whole floor caved in. Staples jumped to the steps. These held. On the first day there had been a hole a few feet wide. Now the opening nearly occupied the entire area of the floor. Staples, nauseated, looked down to the bottom. There, about twenty feet below him, a mass of rocks and timbers churned in a peculiar way, but all gradually disappeared in a second hole, fifteen feet wide. Even as he looked they all disappeared in this median hole.

The opening he had been breaking in the wall was directly across from the steps. There was a charge of powder there but no way of going across to light the fuse. Still there was no time to lose and he had to think fast. Running to the floor above he picked up his rifle and went to the bottom of the steps. He was able to throw the beam from his search light directly into the hole in the wall. Then he shot — once — twice and the third time the explosion told him he had succeeded.

The water started to run into the cellar. Not fast at first but more rapidly as the mud and weeds were cleared out. Finally an eight-inch stream flowed steadily into the bottomless hole. Staples sat on the bottom steps. Soon he had the satisfaction of seeing the water fill the larger hole and then cover the floor, what there was left of it. In another hour he had to leave the lower steps. He went out to the mill race and saw that there was still enough water to fill a hundred such holes. A deep sense of satisfaction filled his weary mind.

And again, after eating, he sought sleep.

When he awoke, he heard the rain angrily tapping at the windows with multifingers. The dog was on the woven rug by the side of the bed. He was still restless and seemed pleased to have his master awake. Staples dressed more warmly than usual and spent an extra half hour making pancakes to eat with honey. Sausages and coffee helped assuage his hunger. Then with rubber boots and a heavy raincoat, he went out into the valley. The very first thing that he noticed was the mill race. It was practically empty. The little stream of water at the bottom was pouring into the hole he had blasted into the stone wall hours before. The race had contained eight feet of water. Now barely six inches remained, and the dread came to the man that the hole in the cellar was not only emptying the race but was also draining the little river that for thousands of years had flowed through the valley. It had never gone dry. He hastened over to the dam and his worst fears were realized. Instead of a river, there was simply a streak of mud with cakes of dirty ice, all being washed by the torrent of rain. With relief he thought of the rain. Millions of tons of snow would melt and fill the river. Ultimately the hole would fill and the water would rise again in the mill-race. Still he was uneasy. What if the hole had no bottom?

When he looked into the basement he was little reassured. The water was still going down, though slowly. It was rising in the basement and this meant that it was now running in faster than it was running down.

Leaving his coat and boots on the first floor, he ran up the stone steps to the second floor, built a fire in the living room and started to smoke — and think. The machinery of the mill was in ruins; of course it could be fixed, but as there was no more need of it, the best thing was to leave it alone. He had gold saved by his ancestors. He did not know how much, but he could live on it. Restlessly he reviewed the past week, and, unable to rest, hunted for occupation. The idea of the gold stayed in his mind and the final result was that he again put on his boots and coat and carried the entire treasure to a little dry cave in the woods about a half mile from the mill. Then he came back and started to cook his dinner. He went past the cellar door three times without looking down.

Just as he and the dog had finished eating, he heard a noise. It was a different one this time, more like a saw going through wood, but the rhythm was the same — Hrrrrr — Hrrrrr. He started to go to the cellar but this time he took his rifle, and while the dog went after him, he howled dismally with his tail between his legs, shivering.

As soon as Staples reached the first floor, he felt the vibration. Not only could he feel the vibration, he could see it. It seemed that the center of the floor was being pushed up. Flashlight in hand, he opened the cellar door. There was no water there now — in fact there was no cellar left! In front of him was a black wall on which the light played in undulating waves. It was a wall and it was moving. He touched it with the end of his rifle. It was hard and yet there was a give to it. Feeling the rock, he could feel it move. Was it alive? Could there be a living rock? He could not see around it but he felt that the bulk of the thing filled the entire cellar and was pressing against the ceiling. That was it! The thing was boring through the first floor. It had destroyed and filled the cellar! It had swallowed the river! Now it was working at the first floor. If this continued, the mill was doomed. Staples knew that it was a thing alive and he had to stop it!!

He was thankful that all of the steps in the mill were of stone, fastened and built into the wall. Even though the floor did fall in, he could still go to the upper rooms. He realized that from now on the fight had to be waged from the top floors. Going up the steps, he saw that a small hole had been cut through the oak flooring. Even as he watched, this grew larger. Trying to remain calm, realizing that only by doing so could he retain his sanity, he sat down in a chair and timed the rate of enlargement. But there was no need of using a watch: the hole grew larger — and larger and larger — and now he began to see the dark hole which had sucked the river dry. Now it was three feet in diameter — now four feet — now six. It was working smoothly now — it was not only grinding — but it was eating.

Staples began to laugh. He wanted to see what it would do when the big stone grinders slipped silently down into that maw. That would be a rare sight. All well enough to swallow a few pavement stones, but when it came to a twenty ton grinder, that would be a different kind of a pill. "I hope you choke!" he cried, "Damn you! whatever you are! I hope you choke!!" The walls hurled back the echo of his shouts and frightened him into silence. Then the floor began to tilt and the chair to slide toward the opening. Staples sprang toward the steps.

"Not yet!" he shrieked. "Not to-day, Elenora! Some other day, but not to-day!" and then from the safety of the steps, he witnessed the final destruction of that floor and all in it. The stones slipped down, the partitions, the beams, and then, as though satisfied with the work and the food, the Thing dropped down, down, down and left Staples dizzy on the steps looking into a hole, dark, deep, coldly bottomless surrounded by the walls of the mill, and below them a circular hole cut out of the solid rock. On one side a little stream of water came through the blasted wall and fell, a tiny waterfall, below. Staples could not hear it splash at the bottom.

Nauseated and vomiting, he crept up the steps to the second floor, where the howling dog was waiting for him. On the floor he lay, sweating and shivering in dumb misery. It took hours for him to change from a frightened animal to a cerebrating god, but ultimately he accomplished even this, cooked some more food, warmed himself and slept.

And while he dreamed, the dog kept sleepless watch at his feet. He awoke the next morning. It was still raining, and Staples knew that the snow was melting on the hills and soon would change the little valley river into a torrent. He wondered whether it was all a dream, but one look at the dog showed him the reality of the last week. He went to the second floor again and cooked breakfast. After he had eaten, he slowly went down the steps. That is, he started to go, but halted at the sight of the hole. The steps had held and ended on a wide stone platform. From there another flight of steps went down to what had once been the cellar. These two flights of steps clinging to the walls had the solid stone mill on one side, but on the inside they faced a chasm, circular in outline and seemingly bottomless; but the man knew there was a bottom and from that pit the Thing had come — and would come again.

That was the horror of it! He was so certain that it would come again. Unless he was able to stop it. How could he? Could he destroy a Thing that was able to bore a thirty foot hole through solid rock, swallow a river and digest grinding stones like so many pills? One thing he was sure of — he could accomplish nothing without knowing more about it. To know more, he had to watch. He determined to cut a hole through the floor. Then he could see the Thing when it came up. He cursed himself for his confidence, but he was sure it would come.

It did. He was on the floor looking into the hole he had sawed through the plank, and he saw it come: but first he heard it. It was a sound full of slithering slidings, wrathful rasping of rock against rock — but, no! That could not be, for this Thing was alive. Could this be rock and move and grind and eat and drink? Then he saw it come into the cellar and finally to the level of the first floor, and then he saw its head and face.

The face looked at the man and Staples was glad that the hole in the floor was as small as it was. There was a central mouth filling half the space: fully fifteen feet in diameter was that mouth; and the sides were ashen gray and quivering. There were no teeth.

That increased the horror: a mouth without teeth, without any visible means of mastication and yet Staples shivered as he thought of what had gone into that mouth, down into that mouth, deep into the recesses of that mouth and disappeared. The circular lip seemed made of scales of steel, and they were washed clean with the water from the race.

On either side of this gigantic mouth was an eye, lidless, browless, pitiless. They were slightly withdrawn into the head so the Thing could bore into rock without injuring them. Staples tried to estimate their size: all he could do was to avoid their baleful gaze. Then even as he watched the mouth closed and the head began a semicircular movement, so many degrees to the right, so many degrees to the left and up — and up — and finally the top touched the bottom of the plank Staples was on and then Hrrrrrr — Hrrrrr and the man knew that it was starting upon the destruction of the second floor. He could not see now as he had been able to see before, but he had an idea that after grinding a while the Thing opened its mouth and swallowed the debris. He looked around the room. Here was where he did his cooking and washing and here was his winter supply of stove wood. A thought came to him.

Working frantically, he pushed the center burner to the middle of the room right over the hole he had cut in the floor. Then he built a fire in it, starting it with a liberal supply of coal-oil. He soon had the stove red hot. Opening the door he again filled the stove with oak and then ran for the steps. He was just in time. The floor, cut through, disappeared into the Thing's maw and with it the redhot stove. Staples yelled in his glee, "A hot pill for you this time, a HOT PILL!"

If the pill did anything, it simply increased the desire of the Thing to destroy, for it kept on till it had bored a hole in this floor equal in size to the holes in the floors below it. Staples saw his food, his furniture, the ancestral relics disappear into the same opening that had consumed the machinery and mill supplies.

On the upper floor the dog howled.

The man slowly went up to the top floor, and joined the dog, who had ceased to howl and began an uneasy whine. There was a stove on this floor, but there was no food. That did not make any difference to Staples: for some reason he was not hungry any more: it did not seem to make any difference — nothing seemed to matter or make any difference any more. Still he had his gun and over fifty cartridges, and he knew that at the last, even a Thing like that would react to bullets in its eye balls — he just knew that nothing could withstand that.

He lit the lamp and paced the floor in a cold, careless mood. One thing he had determined. He said it over and over to himself.

"This is my home. It has been the home of my family for two hundred years. No devil or beast or worm can make me leave it."

He said it again and again. He felt that if he said it often enough, he would believe it, and if he could only believe it, he might make the Worm believe it. He knew now that it was a Worm, just like the night crawlers he had used so often for bait, only much larger. Yes, that was it. A worm like a night crawler, only much larger, in fact, very much larger. That made him laugh — to think how much larger this worm was than the ones he had used for fishing. All through the night he walked the floor and burned the lamp and said, "This is my home. No worm can make me leave it!" Several times he went down the steps, just a few of them, and shouted the message into the pit as though he wanted the Worm to hear and understand, "This is my home! NO WORM CAN MAKE ME LEAVE IT!!"

Morning come. He mounted the ladder that led to the trap door in the roof and opened it. The rain beat in. Still that might be a place of refuge. Crying, he took his Burton and his Rabalais and wrapped them in his rain coat and put them out on the roof, under a box. He took the small pictures of his father and mother and put them with the books. Then in loving kindness he carried the dog up and wrapped him in a woolen blanket. He sat down and waited, and as he did so he recited poetry — anything that came to him, all mixed up, "Come into the garden where there was a man who was so wondrous wise, he jumped into a bramble bush and you're a better man than I am and no one will work for money and the King of Love my Shepherd is" — and on — and then —

He heard the sliding and the slithering rasping and he knew that the Worm had come again. He waited till the Hrrrr-Hrrrrr told that the wooden floor he was on was being attacked and then he went up the ladder. It was his idea to wait till the Thing had made a large opening, large enough so the eyes could be seen and then use the fifty bullets — where they would do the most good. So, on the roof, beside the dog, he waited.

He did not have to wait long. First appeared a little hole and then it grew wider and wider till finally the entire floor and the furniture had dropped into the mouth, and the whole opening, thirty feet wide and more than that, was filled with the head, the closed mouth of which came within a few foot of the roof. By the aid of the light from the trap door, Staples could see the eye on the left side. It made a beautiful bull's eye, a magnificent target for his rifle and he was only a few feet away. He could not miss. Determined to make the most of his last chance to drive his enemy away, he. decided to drop down on the creature, walk over to the eye and put the end of the rifle against the eye before he fired. If the first shot worked well, he could retire to the roof and use the other cartridges. He knew that there was some danger — but it was his last hope. After all he knew that when it came to brains he was a man and this thing was only a Worm. He walked over the head. Surely no sensation could go through such massive scales. He even jumped up and down. Meantime the eye kept looking up at the roof. If it saw the man, it made no signs, gave no evidence. Staples pretended to pull the trigger and then made a running jump for the trap door. It was easy. He did it again, and again. Then he sat on the edge of the door and thought.

He suddenly saw what it all meant. Two hundred years before, his ancestors had started grinding at the mill. For over a hundred and fifty years the mill had been run continuously, often day and night. The vibrations had been transmitted downward through the solid rock. Hundreds of feet below the Worm had heard them and felt them and thought it was another Worm. It had started to bore in the direction of the noise. It had taken two hundred years to do it, but it had finished the task, it had found the place where its mate should be. For two hundred years it had slowly worked its way through the primitive rack. Why should it worry over a mill and the things within it? Staples saw then that the mill had been but a slight incident in its life. It was probable that it had not even known it was there — the water, the gristmillstones, the red hot stove, had meant nothing — they had been taken as a part of the day's work. There was only one thing that the Worm was really interested in, but one idea that had reached its consciousness and remained there through two centuries, and that was to find its mate. The eye looked upward.

Staples, at the end, lost courage and decided to fire from a sitting position in the trap door. Taking careful aim, he pulled the trigger. Then he looked carefully to see what damage had resulted. There was none. Either the bullet had gone into the eye and the opening had closed or else it had glanced off. He fired again and again.

Then the mouth opened — wide — wider — until there was nothing under Staples save a yawning void of darkness.

The Worm belched a cloud of black, nauseating vapor. The man, enveloped in the cloud, lost consciousness and fell.

The Mouth closed on him.

On the roof the dog howled.


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Leslie, Thomas Edward Cliffe


text:
Amazing Stories/Volume 06/Number 08/The Rat Racket

With Dr. Keller's genius for hitting at vital spots every time, he now gives us a brand new idea and an ingenious solution. We hope no racketeers read this story. They might, as a result, cause the police some trouble. Fortunately, however, the racket has a flaw.

Richard Moyer, senior partner of the firm of Moyer & Perkins, read that letter over twice before he called in the man who had helped him make the importing of high grade groceries from England a most profitable business for over twenty years.

He simply handed the letter over to Paul Perkins without a word of explanation. The latter read it through and handed it back in equal silence, but the hand that held the letter trembled.

"Just another racket," exclaimed Moyer, finally.

"Looks like it. I suppose we were foolish to start in paying for protection. First our trucks were threatened; then the new building; after that our best customers were bombed, and we had to pay to protect them. Your son was kidnapped—and the police! They even went so far as to advise that we keep on paying—and now this letter! We might as well close out the business. All our profits go toward supporting a gang of criminals who have muscled into every type of American industry." They were running out through the picture. A crazed man tore it from the wall.

"On the face of it the letter looks innocent enough," sighed Perkins, as he picked it up and gave it another reading. "Simply says that the rat menace is increasing, cites several business houses where the rodents have done a great deal of damage, and offers to give our warehouses complete protection for five thousand a week. You could show that letter to a hundred police officials and they would laugh at your fears. But I am not laughing. Because that letter was written on the same damaged typewriter that the other letters were written on and those gangsters have not failed to make any of their threats good."

"Suppose we pretend that they are honest, and answer their letter and send them a check for the first week's protection?"

"They will laugh at you and send back the check."

"They may, at that. Then we will give them the cash. In either case, it will give us time to think. I feel that they are only experimenting with us. They are after larger game than five thousand a week. We shall see and hear more of this rat business in a while. Write to them and tell them that we will pay the cash, and put the entire matter in the hands of the Chamber of Commerce. If it does not act soon, the entire city will be in the hands of the gangsters."

The complaint of Moyer & Perkins was only one of a dozen similar ones which reached the Chamber of Commerce that day. In a secluded room of the Manufacturers' Club a dozen wealthy men met day after day, hearing and weighing evidence against a hundred forms of racketeering which was rapidly becoming a terrible and powerful enemy to the varied industries of the Metropolis. Practically every business had been threatened and more than one captain of industry blustered openly, but paid his weekly tribute silently in order to protect his business, family, and home.

Up to this time the usual weapon had been the strong arm man and the bomb. While these were bad enough, they were at least understood. When it came to rats, it was different. Of course, everybody knew something about rats—that they were supposed to be numerous around the river fronts and warehouses—but on the other hand, rats were seldom seen in daylight, and there were many New Yorkers who never saw one.

Not one of the dozen men had been raised on a farm and none had served in the trenches during the World War. They did not understand rats, so, they hesitated, and finally simply advised the merchants who had received the rat letters to use their own judgement. As a result, some paid tribute and some did not. There is no evidence to show that those who paid were one hundred per cent free from rats in their warehouses, but within a week there was ample proof that at least three wholesale groceries and one laundry had been invaded overnight by rats in sufficient quantity to cause thousands of dollars' worth of damages. Moyer & Perkins heard the news and decided to pay another five thousand.

The Defense Committee of the Chamber of Commerce was called to an extra meeting at the El Dorado Hotel. The owner of the hotel was one of the Committee, a man who, so far, had taken a very inactive part in its transactions. He did not waste time in giving the reason for the special meeting.

"I was called on the telephone this morning," he explained. "The person at the other end wanted to protect my hotel from rats for the small compensation of twenty-five thousand dollars a week. He referred casually to the three warehouses and one laundry that had been wrecked last week. Right at the present time I have, on an average, twelve hundred guests a night. They are here to be entertained, not to be frightened by rats. But here is the point. If I yield, every other hotel in the city will be placed in a similar position. Three hundred thousand strangers are in the city every day. Suppose that ten hotels were overrun with rats in one week and the fact was circulated in the press? What would that cost the city?"

"Better pay it," growled one of the men. He happened to own a hotel. He knew how temperamental was the pleasure-seeking stranger. Singularly, that advice was the only brand given by the rest of the Committee. They seemed strangely unable to offer any remedy except to keep on paying and in every way possible bar unpleasant news from the newspapers.

Inside of next month, fifty-five hotels were paying a weekly tax to the rat racketeers. One small hotel refused, and was at once deluged with an army of rats which drove out guests and employees, killed one old scrub woman and severely injured twenty of the cooks, waiters and porters who received the brunt of the rodent onslaught.

Moyer & Perkins were still paying the five thousand a week when, to their surprise, a visitor dropped into their office and casually suggested that they sell him their business.

"It used to be a good business," explained Moyer.

"It still is," interrupted Perkins. "What my partner means is this. We have our share of trade, but the overhead has become so heavy that we have not been able to make any money lately."

"That is what I understand," commented the stranger. "In fact, I was sent here by the Chamber of Commerce. They told me you had been paying money for rat protection. That is about the only reason I want to buy your business. Your business is supposed to be worth about two hundred thousand and your real estate as much more. Suppose I give you half a million and advise you to keep quiet about the sale?"

"You mean carry on the business under the old name?" asked Moyer, looking at the prospective buyer earnestly.

"Something like that."

The Englishman shook his head.

"Not and remain in this country! They kidnapped my son. No telling what they will do next, if the policies of the firm are changed. Anything that is done we shall be blamed for, no matter who really owns the business."

"Then, you and your partner take a vacation in Europe. You can afford it. All I am asking for is an exact account of your transactions with these racketeers, so I can have something to work on."

"May I ask what you want to do with the business?" interrogated the Junior Partner, Perkins.

"Certainly. I intend to use it as one of my experimental laboratories for the study of a mammal, known as the Mus Norvegicus, called, in common English, the brown rat. He is supposed to have originated from the Mus Humiliatus of Central Asia. Now will you gentlemen take the half million?"

"We will!" exclaimed Perkins. "Then may I ask your name?"

"Winifred Willowby."

"Not the one who is reputed to own more United States bonds than any other man in America?" gasped Richard Moyer.

"I won't admit that I do, but I am the man you are thinking about."

"Then I simply cannot understand why you want to mix up in this rat business."

"Simple enough. I am a hundred per cent American. For five generations my people have been born and buried in this city. I own over two hundred million dollars worth of land here. When the dregs of Europe come over to my city and use the rats of Asia to bleed that city white, then I personally protest. I am going to start something. I am not sure what, but when I finish, this city will be practically rat empty and gangster free."

"A large programme, Mr. Willowby," whispered Perkins.

"But I am a large man. Now, suppose I write you gentlemen a check?"

Five minutes later the two partners were alone. Moyer looked at the check, then put it in his pocket, and his hat on his head.

"Suppose we get it cashed?" he said to Perkins. "You can do as you please with your half, but I am going to take my family and go back to England. That man Willowby is only half pint size, but his blue eyes look cold to me, and I bet he plays a stiff game of bridge. If he starts fighting those gangsters, I do not want to be caught on the battlefield."

"How about starting a business over in England?" asked Perkins.

"Not a bad idea. I came over here and together we made half a million selling English groceries to Americans. Perhaps we can make a million more selling American groceries to Englishmen."

Winifred Willowby not only bought the grocery business of Mover & Perkins; he bought a laundry, a small hotel, an apartment house and a theatre. He kept all the old employees, put in a manager, instructed that the weekly tribute should be paid as usual, and then disappeared from New York City.

Ten days later, in Paradise Valley, in the broken country below the Poconos of Pennsylvania, he entertained several men, each an authority in his special line of art or science. They kept the appointment, not being at all sure what it was for, but unable to refuse the invitation which was accompanied in each case with a substantial check. They had all heard of Willowby, but none had ever seen him. No doubt all were rather disappointed at his apparent lack of color and personality. They quickly changed their mind when he started to talk, for there was a man who, when he had something to say, was able to say it briefly and to the point.

"You men are all interested in rats," he began, "and so am I. You have worked with rats in one way or another for a good many years. Perhaps I ought to introduce you to each other. Mr. William Rastell has written the best biological study of rats in the English language. He has done for rats what Beebe did for the pheasant. Now the gentleman next to Mr. Rastell is Mr. Carol Crawford. I doubt if he ever actually saw or willingly handled a rat in all his life, but I am told he knows more about the folklore and traditions of the rat than any other living person. The third of my guests is Professor Wilson. He is the psychologist who has tried to breed different strains of rats, some of superior intelligence and others of the imbecile type. What I want you gentlemen to tell me is why these rats congregate at times in certain buildings of New York City, in such large numbers that they are a serious menace to property and even human life, and, then, as suddenly disappear as they appeared."

"Are they actually doing that?" asked Professor Wilson, who had suddenly become vitally interested in the conversation.

"Suppose they are?" queried Carol Crawford, answering the question for Willowby. "That is nothing more than they have done for centuries."

"Do you mean migratory movements?" asked the biologist, Rastell. "Rats have always migrated."

"I mean nothing of the kind," protested Crawford. "I mean their sudden appearance in a town or a building, their remaining there for a short time and then their sudden disappearance. The folklore and fairy tales are full of that sort of thing."

"That is why I asked you to come to this conference, Mr. Crawford," explained Willowby. "There is something peculiar happening in New York at the present time, and it has to do with rats and their actions. In some way rats of New York seem to be under the control of a set of racketeers who are able to force them to enter any building they select. The rats come and go suddenly. It is all over in a little while, but when they are in the building, they do a lot of damage."

Mr. Crawford interrupted him.

"I doubt if you use the right word, when you say the rats were forced to enter the building. Perhaps you mean that the rats were by some means placed in such a psychic condition that they wanted to enter the building."

"That brings the matter into my field of research," insisted Professor Wilson. "I doubt the fact that they were forced, but if they wanted to, why that brings up all kinds of interesting questions."

"That is what I am after, gentlemen. I simply want to present the problem to you and have you solve it. I personally am satisfied with one thing. These rats are no different than the rats of five thousand years ago. They are just like the rats of classic Greece and imperial Rome. Maybe Mr. Crawford will tell us how they acted."

The antiquarian fairly beamed as he started to ride his favorite hobby-horse.

"Of course, the story everyone thinks of is the one concerning the Piper of Hamelin. It was in the year 1284. The rats were thick, and the Piper agreed to lead them out of the town for a certain sum. He played a pipe, no doubt some kind of flute, and the rats followed him. When the people refused to pay, he returned on the 26th of June, the feast of Saints John and Paul, and again played on the pipe. This time the children, one hundred and thirty in number, followed him into a cave and were lost. The date is well documented. A number of historians believe that it actually occurred, and on the gate of the town is the statement.

"'CENTUM TER DENOS CUM MAGUS AB URBE PUELLOS DUXERAT ANTE ANNOS CCLXXII CONDITA PORTA FUIT.'[1]

[1] When the magician (the Piper) had led the one hundred and thirty children out of the city, two hundred and seventy-two years before the gate was built.

"The same story is found, with variations, in all parts of the world. There is, for example, the story of the wicked Hatto, abbot of Fulda. He was visited by a swarm of rats who killed him. I can give you a dozen variations of that story, but in each of them the rats came and went, suddenly, as Mr. Willowby says they have been doing in New York."

"I should like to see a few examples of this mass movement of rats. I saw a lemming migration in Norway, but that was different," explained Rastell. "It seems to me that if we actually saw one of these nocturnal attacks, we might learn why they wanted to do it."

"He is deadly right," agreed Professor Wilson. "A few actual facts are worth a hundred theories."

"That is why I have asked you to help me," explained the richest man in New York. "I have prepared some experimental stations for your use. I can put you in a grocery warehouse and guarantee that inside of a week you will see more rats than you ever dreamed of. I have a laundry and a small hotel. We can work out the details right now. All I am asking of you is to find out, when the rats come, why they come and, once we know that, we can do something to solve this problem."

"The game looks interesting," declared the Professor of rat psychology. "What I am interested in is why the rats do it. I am sure that it is because they want to do it, but are they forced to want to do it? It is a problem that will take a lot of research to solve, but Rastell and I can solve it. With all respects to our friend, Mr. Crawford, I think that he had better stay away and just keep on reading about his little pets. A few thousand vicious rats would be hard for him to deal with."

"I guess you are right," laughed Winifred Willowby. "Crawford and I will stay here and read about it while you two do the actual scientific work. By the way, Crawford, in that story of the Piper, what was given the credit for drawing the rats out of the town?"

"The tune that he played on the pipes!"

"Check and double check. Now I would advise you gentlemen to locate some musical instrument in that warehouse, and if you find one, experiment with it. Of course, you will have to be rather clever to find it. In the first place, the people putting it there will have it under cover and just as soon as the mischief is done they will remove it."

"It is nothing like that," laughed Professor Wilson, almost in scorn. "These are New York rats. It will take more than a little music to lead them from their usual haunts. But Rastell and I will start in at once. Give us the address of the buildings and the authority to use them. How shall we know when the rats are going to come?"

"They will appear within seven days after you stop the racket money. Suppose we adjourn the meeting? I want a few words in private with Mr. Crawford. You other gentlemen can get all the rest of the details from my secretary. He will arrange your salary and expense account. Good night."

He took Mr. Crawford into his bedroom.

"Do you really believe that story, Crawford?"

"I positively do. And the people believe it. The Piper walked down the Bungen-Strasse and to this day no music is ever played in that street. They even date time in that town from the day the children disappeared."

"Then, there must be something in it. Suppose we go over to Europe and find out something about that tune, the tune that drew the rats out of Hamelin?"

Rastell and Wilson followed out their programme. They went to the grocery warehouse and made a rat survey. There were a few rodents there but not many. Then they issued orders that the weekly payment of five thousand dollars be stopped. After that they spent their nights in the warehouse. On the fifth night the rats came by the thousands. They appeared to be hunting for something, but in the meantime, they ate and soiled whatever came their way. The local cats fought heroically, but were soon killed and eaten. The rats came up from the cellar through the elevator shafts, up the steps, through the cracks in the floor, up and up till they started to run around the roof. Then, at four in the morning, they started to leave, running down the steps in close formation, seemingly panic-stricken at their own temerity and anxious only to return to their safe, dark haunts. The two scientists, in their wire observation cage, closed their note book, opened the door of the cage, and started to make a careful search of the building. It revealed nothing but the bones of cats and much spoiled food.

For the next two days they worked carefully through every part of the building, hunting for something to explain the conduct of the rats. They found nothing. All that they were sure of was the fact that the rats had been there, and that they had not come back.

The following week they repeated the experiment in the laundry. The course of events was the same. The payment was refused, then the rats came, devoured and destroyed, stayed a night and left. Nothing was found. They decided to go and have a conference with Winifred Willowby, but he could not be located. The two scientists were left to their own resources. Having no other plausible plan of action, they selected the small hotel for their next experiment. This time they set a hundred wire traps and caught several hundred living rats. These they subjected to every known experiment, and at the end were forced to acknowledge that all they had learned left them in ignorance as to why the rats came just for one night in such enormous numbers.

Two months later their employer sent for them. It appeared that he had just returned from Europe. He listened to their story, smiled kindly at their perplexity, suggested that they take a vacation and forget about rats for a while, paid all their bills, and discharged them. He even went so far as to say that he was uninterested in rats, that it had just been a passing hobby and that just at present he was working on other matters. So, he asked them to pass out of his life. But he and Carol Crawford went into the wilds of Pike County and did some experimenting on his own account.

Meantime, things were going from bad to worse in New York City. The rat racketeers were becoming bolder, and started to reach after larger game. There were rumors that the Pennsylvania Railroad was paying to protect its terminal and that the Interurban was being bled white to keep the rats out of the subway. Of course, much of this was rumor and none of it reached the newspapers, but there is no doubt about the fact that eight million people were becoming rat-conscious and rat-afraid. It was growing into a worth-while racket, and those behind it were rapidly acquiring more than riches; they were growing so powerful that they felt able to control the city government.

More than one business tried to resist and more than one business awoke to find that it owned nothing but ruins. Rat protection was worthless when the enemy came by the hundred thousand and even million. The only worth-while defense against the multitudinous enemy was the payment of the weekly tribute, small enough each week, but in the course of the year taking the profits from most of the firms compelled to pay. Within a year the average business in the city was working for the gangsters and content to, at least, be permitted to stay in business.

Then the racket was transferred to other cities, slowly and on a small scale at first; then more boldly. Chicago, Philadelphia and Washington began to feel the pressure. The profits were divided, but always the main share went to New York. For that was where the Big Boys were. And ruling the Big Boys was the Old Man, who was so little known and so seldom seen that his very existence was questioned by some of the smaller gangsters. No one knew how he had obtained his power, but no one was brave enough to deny it. The fact remained that he simply ruled; reigned like a Caesar; dictated like a Napoleon. From back-stage he pulled the wires to make his puppets dance.

It was this man who aroused the interest of Winifred Willowby. In other times, in former generations, in far-passed centuries, they might have ruled Rome together, or split it in two ways over their dying bodies. But in 1935 the short sword had been replaced by the ballot box and civil war by the primary election. Neither man had much that the other craved for, yet both prevented the other from the full enjoyment of life. But it was the blue-blooded patrician who at last gave in and secretly asked for an interview.

The conference was held on a fallen log on the shore of Porter's Pond in Pike County, Pa. Someone said that if Mark Hopkins sat on one end of a log and a student on the other end, it was a University; but, with Willowby on one end of the log and the Old Man on the other, it became nothing more than a conspiracy against the existence and the very life of the nation.

It was a strange sight, those two opposites on the log. The rich man, a little over five feet, barely a hundred pounds, with the body of a boy and the face of an angel. At the other end a large man, with the torso of an ape, and the face of a Titan, a man who had conquered by crushing, ruthlessly and devastatingly, all who had dared to oppose him. The two were great men, but they were equally lonely. Their very positions as leaders of their respective societies prevented any fraternizing with their followers.

"I do not want to waste your time, Mr. Consuelo," began Willowby. "We ought to be able to understand each other. You would do nicely if the Federal Government would leave you alone, but it has the peculiar ability of annoying you and interfering with your plans. Am I right?"

"Absolutely! Of course, it does not make any real difference—"

"But it does annoy you—investigations of your income tax and deporting your men now and then?"

"Well, what of it?"

"Simply this. After some years of effort, I am at last able to say that I control the Government."

"That is the silly brag of a child," sneered the Old Man.

"Not at all," and as he said that, Willowby reached down and picked up a handful of pebbles. "See these stones? In the same way I hold in my hand a majority of the Supreme Court, over two-thirds of the Senators and most of the Representatives. I can swing the votes of enough of the states to pass any kind of legislation I wish. Now here is my proposition. You handle the cities. I will turn over the country to you. Together we will run the nation, and all I want is just one thing—just one little favor from you."

"I bet I can guess what that is," laughed the Old Man.

"No doubt, but let me tell you. I want to be the next President."

"I thought so."

"I think we ought to be together on this thing. Perhaps I could be elected without your help, even in spite of your opposition. But if I am, I will, naturally, try to destroy you. We might end up like the Kilkenny cats. But if we are allies, I have eight years of power and you have eight years of liberty in which to plunder the richest nation in the world. How about it?"

The Old Man drew a deep breath.

"Is this on the level?"

"It has to be. I have a reputation, and it is respectable. I am placing myself in your hands. What is there to prevent you from giving the press an interview tomorrow?"

"You would deny it!"

"But no one would listen to me."

"I suppose not. What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to give the order to your leaders. There are a hundred of them, perhaps a few more. No doubt my list is not absolutely accurate. Call them in, from Chicago, St. Louis, New Orleans, Boston and Philadelphia. Have them all in one room. You introduce me. Let me talk to them. I will open the war chest, fifty million to start with, and more to come. You promise them anything you want, and I will make the promise good."

"And you will be there? Right in the room with me?"

"I will be there."

"I won't do it!" growled the Old Man. "I never have and I never will. I don't do things that way. A whisper to one or two, and the business is done, but not a hundred at one time. Some of these boys have never seen me."

"Then you want to turn me down?"

"Not exactly, but I am opposed to that meeting."

"Then we are through talking. I will take you to the five-ten train, or, if you want to, I will have my chauffeur drive you to the city."

"Let's talk it over."

"No."

"How about having six of the Big Boys there?"

"No! All on my list or none."

"Your list?"

"Certainly! I am not sure that it is absolutely correct, but it satisfies me."

"Let me see it."

"No reason why you should not."

The Old Man took the paper that was handed to him. It was no casual glance, he gave the names. At last he handed it back to the little man with the casual comment:

"I suppose that is not all you know about my organization?"

"I suppose not. Why not be sensible about this, Mr. Consuelo? If we fight, we will simply kill each other, but if we become allies who can stop us? But I must be sure of you, and the only way I can be sure is to have you talk to your men, and then let me talk to them. We can have the meeting at night in my offices, you know where, top floor of the Empire Trust. No one need be any the wiser. Half an hour, and all the men can go back with the money in their pockets and the orders in their brains."

"O.K. When shall we meet?"

"A month from today at ten P.M."

"Good. I'll give the orders, but I want the money, the fifty million. It is not much, but part of it will help keep the Big Boys in line. Some of them won't like the idea very much."

"A little cash will influence them. Now, how about taking you back to the city?"

Winifred Willowby made preparations for entertaining his one hundred guests. His largest office was transformed into an assembly room. Its inch-thick carpets, overstuffed chairs and mahogany trimmings gave it an air of luxuriant comfort. There were special chairs for the Big Boys and two very special chairs for the Old Man and the Host of the evening. A large picture frame, hanging on one wall, and carefully covered, gave a hint as to part of the evening's ceremony.

The Empire Trust belonged to Willowby. He had built it so that he could have a private office on the top floor, the sixty-third from the ground. The elevator reached this floor, but there were no steps. Many buildings surpassed it in height, but none in the view that it gave of the city. The guests who arrived first commented on the view and expanded their chests when they realized that they carried that city in their vest pockets.

At last every chair was occupied. It was a peculiar gathering. It included judges, politicians, pseudo-business men, several lawyers and even the Mayor of one of the largest cities in the Mississippi Valley. Facing them, sat the Old Man and Willowby.

Of the hundred men in the audience not one was at his ease. Most had come because they were afraid to stay away. Many hoped that they would not be recognized. The majority doubted the wisdom of such a meeting and felt that the Old Man was slipping mentally. It was the first time that many of them had even seen him. He was almost as much of an unknown to them as the little man sitting next to him. A peculiar silence hung over the assembly. More than one man fondled the handle of his automatic. No one seemed to be sure of what was going to happen next. It was a fortunate thing that the meeting was held at night; with the audience composed of such men. A daylight gathering would have been impossible.

The Old Man and Willowby held a short whispered conference, and then the leader of American Racketeers stood up. What had been silence before, now became the hush of death. The Old Man was going to talk, and everyone wanted to hear what he had to say. It did not take him long to start.

"You Big Boys have been running the cities before," he growled, "but from tonight on we are going to run the country. Congress and the Supreme Court are going to dance to our music and like it. Our new friend here has promised to deliver the goods, and he does not want much in return. I have told him that we will trade, and what I say goes. Now, you boys listen to Willowby, and remember that I am back of him."

Then he sat down. As far as the records are concerned, that was the longest speech the Old Man made in his life. The Boys hardly knew what to do; they felt they should applaud, but not being certain remained quiet. Then Willowby stood up.

"I do not want very much, gentlemen," he remarked. "I only want to be the next President of the United States, and I can be, with your help. Let me show you a picture."

He walked over to the covered picture, pulled a cord and unveiled it and there, life size, were the Old Man and Willowby shaking hands. Anyone could tell who they were and what they were doing. That brought the house down. Everybody felt that it was time for a little noise. Some of them, who knew the Big Boy well enough, went up and congratulated him on the new political alliance. In the confusion, Winifred Willowby slipped out of the room and no one noticed his absence.

But some one did notice the sideboard and started to sample the bottles. Soon everyone was drinking a little. But the Old Man did not drink. He just sat there, moodily chewing his cigar and wondering how much of the fifty million he could keep for his share.

Nobody saw the first rat. It dropped from behind the picture and ran under a chair. The next rat did the same. Perhaps fifty rats were in the room before their presence was noticed. By that time they were coming faster, by the dozen, by the hundred. That was different. One rat in a large room meant nothing. A hundred, five hundred in the same room could mean almost anything.

And now they were literally pouring out from back of the picture. A cursing man pulled it to the floor and there was a large hole in the wall, two feet in diameter, and out of that hole the rats were pouring, big brown, hungry rats, dropping to the floor and starting to hunt for food. The puzzled men jumped up on top the chairs; the rats stood on their hind legs and looked at the large chunks of food with black beady, binoculars. The Old Man just sat there, chewing his cigar and cursing. He knew what it all meant seconds before anyone else.

A number of the most fearful men made a dash for the elevator. They were driven back by a torrent of rats climbing up the elevator shaft. Then fear came—and panic. With gun and heel, and broken chairs for clubs, they started in to kill rats, and for every one they killed, a hundred fastened to them with chisel teeth. To make it worse, the lights went out, and they were there in the dark, with mutilation as a beginning and death as an ending, and still the rats poured into the room, up the elevator shaft and out of the hole in the wall.

The Old Man walked across the room, kicking the struggling bodies of his followers out of his pathway. Rats ran up his legs and tried to bite his hands, his face; he swept them off him as a tiger would wipe ants off his fur; at last he came to the window. There was the city of New York in front of him, the city of a million twinkling lights, the tomb of a billion dead hopes; the Morgue of a Nation, covered by laughing, painted faces. He raised the sash and sat on the sill.

"Damn Willowby!" he said. "What a fool I was. But I am going to die clean. No rat is going to send me to Hell!"

And then he dropped.

In the room the struggle kept on—for an hour and then two. At last the screaming ceased, and the only sound was the gnawing of the rats, the crunching of their teeth and their satisfied, little squeaks of pleasure.

The next morning Winifred Willowby called on the Chief of the Secret Service of New York. With him were several men from Washington.

"I want to tell you something," he said. "A large group of men borrowed my office to have a meeting last night. They wanted privacy and secrecy and they had heard of my place in the Empire Trust Building. So I loaned them the entire floor for the night. But my janitors tell me that something terrible happened. An army of rats invaded the place, as they have been doing with other places in the city, and literally ate every man there; that is, all except one, a fellow by the name of Consuelo, and he preferred to jump out of a window and die clean on the pavement."

"Consuelo?" asked the Chief. "Not the Old Man? Not that Consuelo?"

"I think that is the one. Here is a list of the men who were there. I thought you might like to look it over before you gave it to the papers."

The Chief took the list and read it, puzzled.

"Do you mean these men were there last night?"

"I understand so."

"And now they are dead?"

"I think so. Of course, that is for the coroner to say."

"Do you know who these men were?"

"I suppose they were business associates of Consuelo. At least, that is what he told me."

"They were the hundred biggest gangsters in America. They were the brains of everything vicious in American society. There is not a man there whom we have not been after for years, but we just couldn't pin anything on them. Their death in one night gives the decent people in our country a new lease on life. We can go ahead now and get the little fellows. But, tell me, Mr. Willowby, how did it happen?"

"I told you. They had a meeting and the rats came. You know there was a rat racket which no one thoroughly understood. Anyway, the rats came—and killed them. No one can tell exactly what did happen, because everyone who was there was killed. That is all. I am sorry that it happened in my office—but I thought I was doing the man a favor to loan him the place for the meeting."

That night Crawford and Willowby were talking things over. In rushed Rastell and Wilson, brushing the indignant butler aside.

"We have heard a thousand rumors," began Rastell, "and read as many foolish statements in the papers about the rat tragedy, and we just couldn't wait a minute longer. You just have to tell us what happened. We are not going to leave you till you do."

"You tell them, Crawford," whispered Willowby. "Whenever I talk about it, my voice becomes squeaky."

"It happened this way," explained Crawford. "After you started to work, Mr. Willowby decided to go over and study the story of the Piper right in the town of Hamelin. We went there and there was no doubt that the town people really believed that it really happened. They told us all about it, and the more we listened and paid them, the more they told. They gave us the very tune the Piper played to make the rats follow him. It was a simple little thing, and we made some phonograph records of it. It seems that when the rats hear that tune, they want to get as close as they can to the source of the music. Then one old man—he gave us some additional bars which he claimed drove the rats frantic for blood, and we made a record of that also.

"Afterwards we came back to America and went up into Pike County. Not so many rats there but enough to experiment with. We tried the short tune and the long tune and they worked on the American rats just like they did on the Hamelin ones. We put two and two together and decided that the rat racketeers in New York were using this method of attracting rats. Just put a repeating phonograph in a building and start it playing, and then the rats would come and eat everything to pieces. Of course, we did not know the psychology of it, but I suppose it has something to do with the effect of musical vibrations on the rat's nervous system.

"Then Mr. Willowby thought that it would be a good idea to make a great rat trap and attract all the rats in the city to it. He had a good deal of work done in the Empire Trust, and rigged up a phonograph with a lot of loud speakers in different parts of the basement. He ran a lot of ropes down a ventilating shaft for the rats to climb on. I think it was his original idea to have them come up to his office by the millions and then use some kind of gas on them. At least, he wanted to get rid of the rats. Someone must have turned on the phonograph with the entire record. Mr. Willowby left the room, went down the elevator and being somewhat absent-minded, told the elevator boy that he could go for the night. Of course, he was surprised to hear all about it the next morning. All he wanted to do was to get rid of the rats."

"Exactly!" purred Mr. Winifred Willowby.

And he lit another cigarette.


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Leslie, Walter


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Leslie, William (d.1654?)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Leslie, William (1657-1727)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Lesly, George


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Lesse, Nicholas


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Lester, Frederick Parkinson


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Lestock, Richard


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/L'Estrange, Hamon (1674-1769)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Le Strange, Henry L'Estrange Styleman


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Le Strange, John


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/L'Estrange, John


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/L'Estrange, Nicholas


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/L'Estrange, Roger


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Le Strange, Thomas


text:
The New International Encyclopædia/Paulding, Hiram

PAUL'DING, (1797-1878). An American naval officer. He was born in New York City, entered the United States Navy as a midshipman iu 1811, participated in the battle of Lake Champlain (September 11, 1814), receiving a vote of thanks and a sword from Congress for his services, served under Commodore Decatur against the Barbary Powers in 1815, and in the following year was promoted to a lieutenancy. He accompanied Commodore Porter on an expedition against the West Indian pirates in 1822-23, acting as first lieutenant of the Sea Gull, said to have been the first steamer ever used for purposes of war; served on the Dolphin in 1826 when that vessel was sent to the Mulgrave Islands in search of the mutineers of the American whale ship Globe; cruised in the East Indies, in command of the Vincennes, from 1844 to 1847; was in command of the Washington Navy Yard from 1851 to 1854; and from 1854 to 1857 was commander of the home squadron, at the time the highest position in the navy. For arresting the filibuster Walker (see ) at Greytown, Nicaragua, in December, 1857, he was relieved from command by President Buchanan, though the Republic of Nicaragua, in recognition of his services, presented him with a sword and a large tract of valuable land, which latter Congress did not allow him to accept. On the outbreak of the Civil War he was ordered to Washington to assist Secretary Welles of the Navy Department, and in April, 1861, proceeded to Norfolk and destroyed the navy yard there. Having passed the age limit of sixty-two years, he was technically retired in December, 1861. In the following year he was promoted to the recently created grade of rear-admiral, on the retired list, and subsequently was commandant of the New York Navy Yard from 1862 to 1866, in which position he rendered important services to the Government by sending many vessels and thousands of men to the front; was Governor of the Naval Asylum in Philadelphia from 1866 to 1869, and was port admiral at Boston from 1870 to 1871. He published a Journal of a Cruise Among the Islands of the Pacific (1831). Consult a biographical sketch by Meade in Harper's New Monthly Magazine, vol. lviii. (New York, 1879).


text:
Page:A Companion and Useful Guide to the Beauties of Scotland.djvu/15

A Guide to the Lakes of Cumberland, Westmoreland, Lancashire; and to the Curiosities of the West Riding of Yorkshire; particularly the District called Craven, in Yorkshire.

A Guide to the Beauties of Scotland.

A DESCRIPTION OF PART OF SCOTLAND, PARTICULARLY THAT PART OF IT CALLED THE HIGHLANDS.

From Langtown to Langholm, through Part of Eskdale.—A View of Netherby, Sir James Graham's—at Langholm, a Castle, the Duke of Buccleugh's.—Ewesdale—Mosspole—Part of Tivistdale—Hawick—Selkirk—a fine Part of Tweedale, at Yair and Fairnalie—Bank House.—The first sight of Edinburgh, from the Middleton Road.—The President Dundas's.—Dalhousie Castle.—Leswade.—Melville Castle.

A Description of Edinburgh—Arthur's Seat—the fine Echo—Dediston Lake, and House—Crag Miller Castle—Dalkeith—Roslin Castle—Hauthorndean—Penny-wedding—The Views from Calton Hill, and Arthur's Seat.


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Letchworth, Thomas


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Lethbridge, Joseph Watts


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Lethbridge, Walter Stephens


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Letherland, Joseph


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Lethieullier, Smart


text:
Page:Biographies of Scientific Men.djvu/115

 extinct reptiles of Great Britain, on the fossil belemnites from the Oxford clay, on the wading land bird Gastornis Parisiensis, etc., remain well-known classics. In 1877 he published two volumes, Researches on the Fossil Remains of the Extinct Mammals of Australia, with a Notice of the Extinct Marsupials of England, and in 1879 two volumes on the Extinct Wingless Birds of New Zealand; and even as late as 1889 he published monographs on fossil Reptilia and Cetacea. At the age of eighty-five we find Owen at work on his favourite subjects. This certainly upsets Oslerism, or "too old at forty"! And it should be borne in mind that the greatest philosopher of the nineteenth century, Herbert Spencer, did not commence writing his volumes on the Synthetic Philosophy until the age of forty.

In addition to the previously-mentioned researches, by his numerous memoirs on Mesozoic land reptiles, to which he gave the name of Dinosaurs, and a hundred or more other pieces of work, Owen did inestimable service to palæontology.

Owen excelled Cuvier in the accuracy of his work and in the generalizing spirit which he brought to bear upon his problems. Erroneous in some of his theories; but where is the worker who has not made faults? As Liebig said, "The man who never made a fault never worked."

The working out of the structural contrasts between