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 where he might go in the world of cattle. And there was no other world for him, no other pursuit of which he was master enough to make a bluff of living by.

On the other hand, staying on there for the violent adjustment that the cattlemen were bent on making might never lead to anything more than his death. The waters of his disgrace would close above his grave, never to be parted again. So he stood weighing it, and a man came riding around the corner below him, and turned his horse toward the Woodbine Hotel.

There was no mistaking the rider, for, once seen in the saddle, Dee Winch was not to be forgotten. His traits on horse-back were as marked as his peculiarities on foot.

Dee Winch it was. He had come to keep his appointment and carry out his word. Winch would go straight to the hotel looking for him, for he had sent word to the little man-slayer that he would find him there when wanted.

Winch should not be disappointed. Hartwell would keep the engagement as honestly as a lover. All thought of riding away from Cottonwood dissolved from his mind, all the business of life that involved him sprung to a sudden point. He was conscious suddenly of an unaccountable lightness, of a relief from a long and heavy strain. Dee

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 Winch should not look for him in vain, a sneer on his thin lip, his protruding teeth laid bare. Life's business had come to a sudden head. His adventure lay before him; he was no longer a listening man.

"They're thinning out down there, most of them's gone," said Texas, turning to the old man, speaking with his accustomed slowness and serenity. "I'm goin' to step down to the ho-tel a, minute, sir, and see if Fannie didn't leave a letter for me that they over-looked."

Uncle Boley went to the door and looked out* and seemed relieved by the appearance of placidity that had fallen again over the town.

"Well, you'll be back in a little while I reckon, Texas?"

"I'll be back almost di-rec'ly, Uncle Boley," Texas replied, standing a moment with his foot on the step to smile before he turned away to keep his rendezvous with Winch.

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INCH had disappeared when Texas started to the hotel. Texas believed he had gone to the livery stable to leave his horse, doubtless having returned to Cottonwood with the intention of making a considerable stay.

Mrs. Goodloe was in the hotel office, gasping and shaking her head, and laboring to express to herself her astonishment and grief over the shocking downfall of Cottonwood's financial pillar. She was wearing a new plaid waist that morning, with most surprising effect on her facial peculiarities, and this, together with the excitement under which she labored, had turned her into the homeliest human that Hartwell had ever seen.

"Ain't it awful about Henry Stott?" she said, as Texas appeared in the door.

"Not so bad for him, I guess, ma'am, as the folks he's robbed."

"No, hangin's too good for that man if they ketch him. Malvina, she's in her room cryin' her eyes out over the seven hundred dollars she had in the

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 bank, and her slavin' nearly five years to git ahead that much over payin' for the house."

"You don't tell me, ma'am! I didn't know she was a depositor, but I reckon most everybody was."

"Ollie had ninety dollars, there, too. He's sorry now he didn't cut Stott's throat the last time he had him in his chair, and he'd 'a' done it, too, if he'd 'a' knowed what was in his rascally mind!"

"Has he gone out with the posse to hunt for track of Stott?"

"No, he's over at the shop. Zeb Smith's roamin' around agin, out of a job since Mackey sold and skipped."

"He's a mighty ornery man, ma'am."

"Yes, and Ollie says he ain't worth killin', but he knows he'll have to do it before he'll have any peace."

"Has anybody been in lookin' for me, ma'am?"

"No, Texas; nobody ain't."

"I'm goin' up to my room to write a letter, and I wish you'd call me if anybody comes askin'."

"Sure I will, Texas."

Hartwell had little business to leave behind him if he should be summoned suddenly from the world, but what there was he wanted to set straight. There was a shadowy possibility that something might come in time out of the present worthless investments in Kansas City. The deeds to these mel-

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 ancholy stretches of vacant fields he had carried in his blanket roll when he came to Cottonwood. Now he wrapped them and addressed them to his sister, with a letter for Malvina, directing her to post the packet in the event of his death.

That done, he polished his boots, put on his black coat, and prepared himself to quit this life with dignity and decency, according to the way that he had lived it. He was brushing his hat by the window when he saw Fannie ride by, just catching an identifying glimpse of her in the angling view that his window gave of the street.

He thrust the papers, which he wanted them to find on his dead body if he should fall, into the breast pocket of his coat and hurried down-stairs. When he reached the street, Fannie was half way to Uncle Boley's and, coming from the opposite direction a little way beyond her, Dee Winch, turning his head from side to side as he rode, as if searching for somebody among the people on the walks.

It was all to make a show and a parade of it beforehand, this riding around on the pretense that he had to seek him out, thought Texas, as suddenly resentful over the little gun-slinger's behavior as if he had slapped him in the face. Winch must have known where to look for him all the time. Even if his messenger had failed to return Hart-

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 well's answer to him, he had only to inquire in passing where to find the man whom he sought.

Hartwell hurried along the comparatively empty sidewalk, keeping to the outer edge to make himself conspicuous in Winch's eyes. Fannie was about a hundred yards ahead of him, riding in a slow walk.

Texas noted that a considerable number of cattlemen had returned to town. Among them he recognized several who had been in the party that rode to turn the Texas invaders, and these looked hard at him, and stood together talking and watching him after he had passed. Their action and numbers concerned him little now. Winch was before him; the long waiting and listening were at an end. Up the street he saw Uncle Boley in front of his shop, his black alpaca coat on, his beard about him like a fog.

About midway between the old man and Hartwell, Fannie and Winch met. A moment before she passed him, Fannie jerked her horse sharply and rode in front of Winch, changing her course so abruptly that the animals almost collided. This threw her on the left-hand side of Winch, and, as she came face to face with him, she raised her quirt with her left hand and struck him a sharp blow across the face.

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VEN at the distance which divided them, Hartwell heard the blow fall. He bounded forward as her purpose in this affront came to him in a flash.

"Winch, Winch! That's a woman!" he shouted as he ran.

Winch did not heed. That he heard there could be no doubt, for several cattlemen ahead of Hartwell repeated the warning to the infuriated gun-slinger.

Almost instantly, almost simultaneously, two shots sounded out of the confusion of trampling horses and rising dust. And there was Winch standing beside his fallen horse, his smoking revolver in his hand; beyond him a rod, lying in the dust of the road, Fannie Goodnight, her arms stretched wide, her face upon the ground. Her frightened horse was galloping away with flying stirrups; Winch was standing with his arm crooked, his gun half raised, as if he waited for her to move.

A moment, like figures revealed by a lightning stroke, those who stood in the street saw this picture.

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 Then Hartwell leaped into it, a cry in his throat like the voice of despairing pain.

Winch did not change the position of his body, which was three-quarters full toward Hartwell. With a little slinging jerk of his gun he fired, then staggered back, his arms outflung, his weapon dropped from his hand. Three bullets from Hartwell's pistol struck him in the breast before he touched the ground.

Fannie was breathing when Hartwell lifted her and ran with her to Uncle Boley's shop, the people pressing behind him with the senseless curiosity of cattle. Uncle Boley shut the door on them. Texas carried her into the old man's room and laid her on his bed.

Uncle Boley went out the back door, after one quick look at Fannie's face, to bring the doctor. Texas bent over her, his heart melting with unutterable emotions, and bathed her face, and spoke to her in endearing whispers broken by his grief. He opened her shirt and disclosed her wound, down in her white bosom toward her heart, below the dark stain that disguised the fairness of her face and neck.

Fannie opened her eyes, quite unexpectedly, and smiled. There was blood on her lips; he wiped it away.

"Did I get him, Texas?" she asked.

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 "Yes honey, you got him."

She closed her eyes, and a weary placidity settled over her face.

"I went out to get him, Texas, before he—could get—you."

The last of it trailed away as if it blended with death. He took her hand and pressed it to his bosom, murmuring endearments to her in the panic of his grief. She reached up and touched his face; clasped her cold hands about his neck. He bent with her gentle pressure and kissed her lips.

So she smiled, and died, peace in her face, as if absolution had come to her soul in that caress. Hartwell bowed his head on her poor breast in agony that rent his heart.

Hartwell joined Uncle Boley in the shop after a while, unashamed of the traces of grief in his face.

"She was pure gold, Uncle Boley, as true a friend as a man ever had in this world," said he.

Uncle Boley was sitting in front of the door, as if on guard, trouble in his face, his shoemaker's hammer on the floor beside him.

"Did she speak to you before she went, Texas?"

Texas told him what she had said. Uncle Boley looked up, his face bright with admiration, his eyes tender for the great sacrifice that she had made.

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 is such races as these that call for missionary enterprise. Their close relations with the Malays have given them a taste for dress, as I found them wearing cloth instead of the bark of trees. The women were dressed in sarongs in the manner of Malayan women, but the men only wore a strip of cloth of scanty dimensions, round the middle and passing between the thighs. Their address was open and simple, their demeanour respectful. The Malays spoke of them as being little better than baboons, and treated them as a much inferior class to themselves. The Malay women of the house in which I was afforded shelter commanded their less fortunate sisters in a manner not to be mistaken, and this was allowed as a matter of course; it afforded considerable amusement to see how the Malay women placed the arms, straightened the face, and directed the eyes of the female subject of my pencil, and when they had placed her in a position pleasing to themselves they sat themselves where they could best gratify their own curiosity.

Their physiognomy you have already described; the reader is therefore referred to the plates annexed to this paper for further information.

Plate No. 1. represents six heads of the river nomades, and though coarsely executed they may still be offered as correct portraits of the originals. Fig. 2. gives the facial outline and skull of a Boy of the Slétar tribes who possessed in rather an exaggerated degree the marked peculiarities of the physiognomy of his race, and in order to sender such peculiarities palpable to the eye of the observer I have enclosed the outline within a square constructed in the following manner. The lower containing line of Camper's celebrated facial angle drawn through the meatus auditorius to the base of the nose is taken as a basis, this line is produced either way until lines at right angles to it touching the posterior and anterior parts of the head and face, will intersect it. The line contained between those points of intersection is then bisected and upon it are formed four equal squares, two enclosing the superior part of the head and two the inferior and together making the large containing square above mentioned; three of these squares are again divided each into one hundred equal parts, and,


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 "She went out to hunt him, and left early for fear you'd stop her."

"Yes, sir, that's what she did."

"She picked a fuss with him, thinkin' she could kill him and stop him from hurtin' you."

"She did just that, Uncle Boley, God bless her little heart!"

Uncle Boley got up and moved about the shop under the stress of his great emotion. Now and then he shook his head, and he was busy with his handkerchief about his eyes.

"You can't beat 'em, can't beat 'em!" said he. "When they're true, they're above anything that a man can conceive of, and when they ain't, they're hell-fire and mustard! Hell-fire and mustard, Texas, when they ain't."

"Yes, sir, I guess that's so."

"And I said she wasn't a good woman! Lord forgive me—that's what I said about that little Fannie!" He started toward the bedroom door, stopped, turned back. "Did you cover her face up, son?"

"Yes, sir, I covered her pore little face up from the light of this unkind world."

"I'm not fit to," said Uncle Boley, bowing his old white head, "not fit to touch her foot!"

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 in it, sir, accordin' to law, till it's cleared up and dismissed."

"I reckon so. And that ain't half of it. Them cowmen they're growlin' around and talkin' about comin' up here and handlin' you, Texas. The doctor overheard a good deal of their talk, and I don't like the looks of things. That's why I was settin' there in the door with that hammer. I was goin' to brain the first man that tried to put a hand on you!"

Texas went to the door. It was past the noon hour and the visiting cattlemen had cleared out of the streets, seeking the restaurants for dinner, leaving their horses to gnaw hitching poles, according to their established way.

"I'll go down and get the undertaker to care for Fannie's body," he said, "and after that I'll hunt up the marshal and see if he wants to lock me up till the coroner's jury sets. I'm tired, Uncle Boley, clean through to the bone."

"I reckon it's the best thing to do," Uncle Boley agreed. "I'll watch over her, Texas, as tender as if she was flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone. To-morrow we'll lay her away. I'll go up and see the preacher about her funeral as soon as the undertaker comes."

"No preacher ever had a chance to do a nobler office in this world."

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 Texas went on to the hotel after his visit to the undertaker, not having been able to find the town marshal. A number of cattlemen were at dinner there, singularly silent for men of such boisterous manner. Like some other people in the world that day, Texas reflected, they had enough to think about to make them serious.

He did not give more than a passing thought to the threats which Uncle Boley had heard they were making against him, for he knew that it was inevitable that such murmuring should attend the killing of a man. It was no more to him than the blowing of the wind, sore as he was in heart that hour.

He went to his room, where he sat in the gloom of dejection, the past a seeming waste behind him, the future a blank curtain which he had no desire left in him to move aside and pass. There was no regret for the slaying of Dee Winch. That seemed to him such a small incident in the turmoil of the past few hours that it might have been the deed of any other man than himself. It had no personal connection; it seemed but an isolated and inconsequential happening in which he was only technically concerned.

The big thing that filled the day was the sacrifice that Fannie had made of her life. Nobly conceived, generously carried out, but so pathetic-

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 ally useless, so sorrowfully mistaken. Still, Dee Winch might have killed him if they had met face to face without the vengeance for that hideous deed to quicken Hartwell's hand. This he considered, also, his heart dead within him, his head bowed down in grief.

So that matter was finished, and his business was done in Cottonwood, sad business for the greater part, for which time had been saving him, it seemed. He must leave now with the taint of treason on him, for there was no word to be lifted in his behalf but his own. Whatever burst of sun had come into his days there had ended quickly in storm. There were goldenrod and brown eyes, and a little thread of new hope that his heart had begun to weave. These were to be remembered—sentimental trifles to be shut up in the book which he was about to close, and put away forever.

He sat wrapped in his thoughts a long time, too heavy with sorrow, too dumb from the shock of the tragedy, to care to move a foot. Below he heard the sound of feet coming and going, and the sound of strong voices as the men stood in front of the hotel and discussed the events which they had ridden to share in Cottonwood that day.

Malvina was at his door—he knew her step as she came up the stairs, quick and light as a girl's.

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 He opened to her, to see her eyes big with fear, her cheeks pale.

"Malcolm Duncan and them men—they want you, Texas!" she whispered.

"All right, Mrs. Noggle. Please say to them I'll be right straight down."

"Oh, my God! They'll kill you, Texas," she moaned. "They've been talkin' about it—it's no secret in town—they'll kill you, I know they will!"

Texas was buckling on his gun. Her message had stirred a new desire in him, a fierce and savage desire to swim back to the shore of peace and safety through a wild turmoil of strife. If they wanted a fight they could have it, and a fight that some of them would remember above all the combats of their lives. Right here and now accounts between him and the drovers of the Arkansas Valley range would be adjusted for good and all.

"Maybe they will kill me," he said, calmly, reaching for his long black coat which he had flung down on the bed.

"Go down the back stairs," she whispered, leaning into the room, "walk easy—I'll make a noise when I go down!"

Texas turned to her with a smile, offering her his hand.

"Thank you, ma'am, for your good intention, but

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 I'm not a backdoor man. I'm under favors to you for the many kindnesses you've done for me in this house. If they happen to get me, ma'am, there's money of mine left with Uncle Boley to pay you what I owe. Good-by, ma'am, and kindest wishes forever."

His heart was soft for the simple woman who had defied public sentiment to befriend him. Her faith had been like a flower in the desert. She was crying against the wall beside his door when he left her, and the sound of her sobbing reached him as he went down the stairs, like the grief of a mother who sees her son borne away to the grave.

Malcolm Duncan was standing just within the office door. Beyond him Hartwell saw many others blocking his way to the street. But he did not turn his eyes about, nor consider any other passage from the house. They had sent for him, and he had come, and his way lay straight ahead of him, as lays a man's way always when his conscience is clear.

Duncan stepped forward to meet Hartwell, holding out his hand.

"Texas, I want to apologize to you publicly, on my own account and on behalf of the Cattle Raisers' Association," he said.

Hartwell was so wrenched by this unexpected

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 turn that he stopped, drew back a step, as if he struggled to adjust his equilibrium to the sudden reeling of the earth beneath his feet.

It was a thing to take a man's breath, and spring a question in his mind, to be met by a friendly hand where he expected to face hostile guns. Hartwell couldn't grasp it for a second or two. He left Duncan standing with his hand outstretched. Then a great warm surge of thankfulness, of peace, of reborn desire, came flooding over him. He took Duncan's hand.

"Sir, I didn't come down expectin' this," he said.

"You came down expectin' a fight, Hartwell, and I'm mighty glad it turned out you didn't have to do it. You'd 'a' gone through us like a hot iron through a paper sack from the way you looked."

"I'm thankful that it turned out otherwise," Texas told him, solemnly.

"I've found out the truth about them southern cattle, and I'm here to own up that we slandered and wronged you about as bad as a man can be slandered and wronged in this part of the country, Hartwell."

"It's generous and square of you to say that, sir, and it's all past and forgotten, as far as I'm concerned. It hurt for a while though, gentlemen it hurt me to the heart!"

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 Malvina was on the stairs behind him. When Texas said that she caught her breath with a sharp sob, and came down, half blinded by her tears, and touched him on the shoulder as she passed. Mrs. Goodloe was big in the dining-room door, and behind her was Viney Kelly, who had been called in to help serve the tables during the unusually heavy dinner trade. Other cattlemen came crowding into the office to shake hands with Texas, who met them in hearty sincerity.

"Word from Stott reached me this morning," Duncan explained. "It was delayed in reaching me, for I was out at the camp with the boys. If I'd 'a' got it two hours sooner, things wouldn't have ended the way they have."

"Yes, sir, it would have saved the life of one of the best and truest women that ever walked the earth!"

Hartwell flashed his eyes around as he said it, and drew himself up like a soldier, proud to stand the champion of Fannie Goodnight before the world.

"I did the best I could, Hartwell," said Duncan, gently.

"I know it, sir. It just had to happen so, arranged from the start for her, I guess. Life was a sort of mockery all the way through for her. The best it had to give it always fetched around too late."

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 Nobody mentioned his fight with Winch, for all felt that there was a certain taint of guilt attaching to them on that score. Winch had come to town that morning representing the cattlemen; his vengeance was their vengeance, his creed their creed. They were ashamed of it now, but all of them were men, after a certain rude standard, and none sought to excuse himself of responsibility.

They talked freely of their past animosity toward Texas, and of the fever which the southern cattle had spread on the range. By shifting their herds they were holding it down; it was the hope that a frost or two would see the end of it without any great loss.

The city marshal came in presently, adding his congratulations with friendly effusion.

"I've fixed it up with the coroner, Texas," he said, "and there won't be any inquest. I told him there wasn't no use puttin' the county to that expense for a carcass like Dee Winch—it's cost the county enough already buryin' men he's killed. A hundred people saw him shoot first; it was as plain a case of self-defense as ever happened in this town."

For all of which Texas expressed his gratitude in his warm, extravagant Southern fashion. The marshal went on about his business with his chest out, proud of the opportunity that had brought him

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 into such prominent touch with Cottonwood's most notable hero.

Business men whom he never had met stopped in during the cattlemen's levee to shake hands with Hartwell. But after the first flush of satisfaction in feeling himself cleared, Texas began to settle back into the shadows of his melancholy. For there was one who did not come to add her felicitations when all the rest of the community seemed glad of his restoration to his place among honorable men.

Ranchers continued to arrive, for the news of Stott's pillage of the bank had spread. Men who went out in the morning to pick up his trail were returning, reporting no trace. It was the belief now that he had boarded a freight train that had stopped at Cottonwood for water in the early hours of the night, and had escaped their hands.

Texas yielded to Mrs. Goodloe's pressure at last and went in for his dinner, to be attended by Yiney Kelly in a white waist with a gold locket hung round her neck on a slender red ribbon. He was the only occupant of the dining-room, for the hour was long past that of the regular dinner.

Viney had little to say as she carried in the food and shifted the dishes about with ready hand, but she attempted a bit of pleasantry when it came to the choice of a drink.

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 "Tay or caffee?" she asked, affecting the dialect which was her lawful heritage, adding quickly: "Say caffee—we have no tay."

"Caffee it is then," said he, struggling to be genial through his fog of melancholy gray.

Viney came with the coffee and went back for the pie. When she arrived with this she stood close by Hartwell's elbow, wiping the rim of the plate around carefully with her apron. Then she put the pie down before him and fell back a step, but to reach again and slide it clear of the other plates, a full arm's length from the diner. Another retreat to gather the effect, and another shift of the plate, this time bringing it into the middle distance, where she allowed it to stand. It was if she maneuvered for the artistic distance, in which the fat slice of apple pie would be most appealing to the appetite of a man after it had been dulled by the charge of cabbage and beef.

"The board's going to put Sallie McCoy back in the school," she said.

"So they told me a little while ago."

"Well, I don't care," sighed Yiney. Then, hastily: "You know they hired me to take the primary grades in her place."

"No, I hadn't heard."

"I don't care, though. I've got thirteen music pupils and I'd 'a' had to given—gave—them up.

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 She's a good teacher, but she's awful stuck on herself."

"You don't tell me!"

"Yes, and since Stott turned over that money to 'em yesterday she'll be so stuck-up you can't touch her with a ten-foot pole. You heard about what Stott did—done—didn't you?"

"I just got rumors of it, ma'am."

"Well, some people think they're no better than he is, takin' money from him that he stole from somebody else, no matter if it was comin' to them, as some say it was."

"Would you please hand me a glass of water, ma'am?"

Texas made the request with such distant formality, such absolute dismissal of the subject to which she was warming with true scandalous scent, that Viney turned to look back at him as she sped on his request.

When she returned she stood off a little way, dropping her locket down the V-collar of her waist and pulling it up again, as if she sounded the shallows of her bony bosom to find her heart.

"Was there anything else you wished?" she asked.

"Nothing at all, thank you kindly, ma'am."

She turned at the door to look at him again.

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 He was sitting with his head bent in contemplative pose, as if he prayed silently, and the pie stood untouched in the foreground, where Viney had pushed it when she brought the water. Soon from the parlor the tremulous tones of the organ rose. Miss Kelly's voice took up a song.

Texas left the pie standing as it stood, to serve for another in better trim. Several people had come into the office; Mrs. Goodloe and Malvina were there, all talking excitedly. Miss Kelly's lament was louder than their words; he wondered what new calamity had fallen as he hurried out to join them.

"Oh, ain't it awful!" said Mrs. Goodloe.

"They caught him at Wichita!" Malvina said. "Just to think—"

"Stott, the banker, you know," said a man, recognized by Texas as the railroad station agent by the badge on his hat;" he had two grips full of money."

"The minute they laid hands on him—oh, mercy,

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 mercy!" Mrs. Goodloe covered her eyes with her hands as she exclaimed.

"Blowed his brains out," said the station agent, turning to Texas, "with his own gun the minute they tapped him on the shoulder and said: 'Come along with us.

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EB SMITH was in a bitter frame of mind that afternoon. Out of a job, out of money, wanting a drink, and no credit in the town. The more he thought of the snug nest that Ollie Noggle had nosed him out of, the blacker grew his hate against the long-legged artist of the perfumed hair.

Old Zeb was sitting on a keg in the shade of Jud Springer's combination joint, where he had so lately been a power under the mighty arm of Johnnie Mackey. The smell of sour beer was in the keg, and a score of its mates around him, whetting Zeb's appetite to frenzy. He cursed his bad luck, he cursed Malvina, he cursed the barber and, above all, with a double curse, he blasted Texas Hartwell for his meddlesome interference on the bridal night.

If it hadn't been for that glum-faced stranger, with that thing in his eyes which Smith had come to respect in the very few men who were gifted with it—that thing which was like a cold hand on the back of a man's neck and lead in his heart—if it hadn't been for that solemn, slow-voiced stranger,

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 look what he'd have come into! A hotel, and a good bed to stretch in, and meals at all hours and money coming in at doors and windows on every wind. It was a shame the way things ran in this world. What fatal prearrangement had fixed their conjunction in Cottonwood at that hour? That was what puzzled Smith and, because it puzzled him, threw him into a deep and dark resentfulness.

There he had come to Cottonwood to hold up Henry Stott at close range, and had found the tent boarding-house that Malvina had started with hardened into a regular hotel, like some kind of a bug that grows a shell in the summer sun. First, this Texas had beaten him out of the hotel, with the insignificant assistance of the despicable barber, and now he had beaten him out of Stott.

Fool enough in his own time, Zeb reflected, he had owned to Hartwell and that little Indian, that he had seen Stott murder McCoy and had been a pensioner of silence ever since. But that little Indian knew it all the time, and knew more, so much more that old Zeb grew cold in a sweat when he considered how much. But the little Indian was dead; he couldn't talk. If Hartwell was out of there also, Zeb believed he could run the barber out of town and take his place again with his feet under Malvina's table.

Zeb hadn't followed events very closely in Cot-

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 tonwood that day. He had heard that Stott was gone, and the little Indian killed, and somebody else shot up by that Texas man, but all those events were small and uninteresting in comparison with the demand of his clamoring nerves for a drink.

And nobody in town would trust him; not a soul. He had ruined his chances by his overbearing conduct while working as bouncer for Mackey. He hadn't a friend in the world. Worse than that, he hadn't a single article left that he could pledge for a drink, or raise the money on. His gun was gone, his hat was gone, his spurs were gone. A man had to keep the rest of his clothes to meet the requirements of a despised society.

It was torture to smell liquor and not be able to get it, for there was nothing in the beer kegs but the scent. Zeb had tipped them all, licked their chines, rammed his hot tongue into their bungholes in the burning hope of one dribbling drop.

And there was that barber, that snipe-shanked suds mixer, enjoying the kingdom that rightly belonged to him. Noggle never lacked a dime to buy a drink, never knew the torture of the longing for one sizzling slug of whisky to cool his burning guts.

A thought grew out of this bitter denunciation. It swelled in the vaporous brain of alcoholic lees and raised old Zeb Smith to his feet. That barber

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 had money; people gave the fly-headed scoundrel dimes for shaves, quarters to cut their hair. And what Noggle had, by all the justice that the disinherited claim, belonged to him.

Zeb got up; he headed for the barber shop, a glaze in his eyes, a feeling of dust on his dry lips, his tongue a streak of fire. What belonged to Noggle now had belonged to him originally. No consideration had been rendered for the bed and board which the barber had usurped. This was the day to collect.

Noggle was not in the shop. The door stood open, a newspaper on the chair backed against it, just as if the barber had put it down and fled at the sound of his enemy's footfall. But Noggle was quite unconscious of both Smith's presence and designs. He was across the street in the drug store, smelling over a new stock of perfumes.

Smith went in and sat down, turning his red eyes around the shop, taking stock of what could be snatched and carried off in case the barber did not return speedily and make a settlement in cash. The druggist called Noggle's attention to the waiting customer, and Noggle went out to face the crisis of his life.

Noggle was whistling a little tune when he stepped into the street, and the wind was playing in his scented hair, and turning back the skirts

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 of his seersucker coat, displaying his pearl-handled gun. He could see the reflection of his own elegance in his shoes. Zeb Smith rose up and filled the door, as forbidding as a lion.

Noggle did not stand to question any phase of the situation at all. He turned and ran, with a cold, gurgling noise in his throat of absolute fright. Smith dashed after him, commanding him in his hoarse, whisky-burned voice to stop and begin a reckoning.

There was but one thought in Noggle's mind, and that was the sanctuary of the hotel. Toward that refuge he sped, cutting the ground in great scissors leaps, old Zeb Smith close after him, his wild hair flying, his wild eyes glaring, his great mustache blowing back to his ears. Away through the business block they went, people giving ground to them, Noggle holding the middle of the sidewalk, that water-gurgle of cold terror still in his throat; after him followed Smith, the one thought of his thoughts being that his last chance must not be allowed to slip his hand.

They passed the city marshal in front of Jud Springer's new joint, but they were going faster than any city marshal in this world ever could hope to move of his own effort, driven by his own physical machinery. He saw the uselessness of pursuit, and let them run unchallenged.

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text:
Page:The Journal of the Indian Archipelago and Eastern Asia (IA journalindianar00loga).pdf/387

 for the sake of clearness, those small one-hundreth parts are only shown on such parts as are not filled up by the outline of the head. Again should the head reach beyond the square as in the case of fig. 1 extra squares are created to contain it. By careful measurement the relative proportions of the head may thus be reduced to numbers with mathematical correctness, and as the higher front square contains the front of the skull and upper part of the face it may be denominated the superior anterior square, the higher back square will be named the superior posterior square and so on, and by finding the number of 100ths. contained in each square the relative proportions in numbers can at once be ascertained; thus in figures No. 1. 2. 3. and 4. the proportions will be found as follows,

which would place the Orang Slétar intermediate between the Euro- pean and Negro in expansion of the organs of intellect, and again shews them to possess a greater developement [sic] of the jaws and "organs subserviant to sensation and animal faculties than either." The drawing of the Mias, sometimes called Orang Utan in this country and commonly Oráng Outáng in Europe, is given to show the wide difference be- tween it and the subjects of this paper, who are generally known to the Malays as Orang Utan, thus confounding them with the lower creation. The above mode of measurement is not given as the only one required to ascertain the physical peculiarities of the skulls of races, but only as a simple method of rendering palpable to the most unpractised eye, the differences of configuration of the outline, and its principle can also be applied to the other modes mentioned by Dr.


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 When they arrived at the hotel, Smith was reaching for Noggle's coat-tail. Up-stairs the barber leaped, up-stairs after him Smith lumbered; along the hall toward Malvina's bedroom Noggle ran, shaking the house from shingle to foundation stone, and close behind his heels panted Smith, his eyes as red as hate.

Noggle jumped to the door like a swooping eagle, Smith a rod behind him. Within there was a glimpse of bare shoulders, a shower of unloosed red hair, and the sharp alarm of a woman's scream. Then the door was flung shut in Noggle's face and locked, and the terrible Smith was upon him, his obscene hand gathering a firm hold in the back of the seersucker coat.

Noggle felt a chill of fear crinkle his hair, and leaned and strained and pawed the floor in his struggle to break that hold. It broke, for seersucker is not as strong as fear in the heart of a coward naturally born, and away went Noggle again, on through the hall, down the back stairs, around the hotel, into the main street. He shaped his halfblind course for the door of his shop again, thinking frantically of a razor, beating the ground with his long flat feet until the cow ponies hitched along the way reared back on their halters, and plunged and snorted, raising a dust for a background to

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 the most tremendous race that Cottonwood ever had seen.

And all the time there hung by the barber's side, under his elbow, near the grasp of his true right hand, his .32 caliber pistol in its patent-leather case.

Three razors lay on the little shelf beneath the mirror in Ollie Noggle's shop, their blades bent backward like the heads of serpents lifted to strike. Smith came up the two steps which raised from the sidewalk to the shop threshold with the back of the seersucker coat still grasped in his defiling hand, at the moment that Noggle, purple, popeyed, panting, whirled round and faced him, a command like a cough in his dry throat.

"Don't y'u come in—don't y'u come in!" he panted.

But Smith was already in, and Noggle backed before him to a corner. There, with his thin back to the wall, his own floor beneath his feet, his chair on one hand, his hot water tank on the other, and no possibility of escape through the door, his soul began to enlarge with the desperate determination to fight.

Old Zeb Smith stood before him, red spines of beard on his dirty face, his red flannel shirt open on his hairy chest, crouching from the knees, his hands fixed to spring and tear.

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 Noggle seized a razor, the hot water of a coward's courage in his eyes, swiped with it, slashed with it, brought it around in bright, confusing whirl in front of Zeb Smith's face. Smith fell back a step, growling in his bearded neck, winking his red eyes as if a hot iron had been thrust under his nose.

"Git out! Git out!" Noggle commanded, his courage bristling on his narrow back like hairs.

"Gimme ten dollars and I'll leave you alone," said Smith.

"No, I won't—no, I won't!" Noggle answered, cheered and strengthened to heroic endeavors by the gathering crowd before his door.

"Gimme—"

Whether Zeb Smith had it in mind to raise his demand, or to lower to a compromise, no man ever heard. For his words broke in horrified, shivering exclamation as Noggle's bright razor darted and slashed and snipped the end of his nose off as if it were a green cucumber.

Smith clapped his hand to the end of his nose in time to catch the fragment as it fell. Terrified beyond expression, he gazed a moment, clamped the bleeding parent stem between finger and thumb and, with the severed portion tightly clasped in the other hand, ran bellowing from the shop.

It wasn't a very big piece that Noggle had cut

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 Prichard as practised by Professors Blumenbach and Owen, the former measuring the area of the skull when looked upon vertically, and the latter the basis or under surface of the cranium after the lower jaw is removed, but both of which methods there is seldom opportunity to practice for sufficiently apparent reasons.

Plate No. 2. represents the facial outline and skull of a man and woman of the Sabimba tribe.


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 from the end of Smith's nose, perhaps not much bigger than a silver quarter, but it must have looked the size of a wagon-wheel to Zeb as he ran with it in his hand to the doctor's office. There he presented it, holding hard to the end of his nose to check the flow of blood, with a thick request that it be immediately attached to its proper surroundings.

The doctor was a short man with a black beard, which was red at times for half an inch next his skin, as business might press, or the coloring matter be slow about reaching him from Kansas City. He was a saw-and-calomel survival of the Civil War, a vituperative man, full of strange and disquieting oaths. He looked on Smith, his bleeding nose, his extended fragment, and cursed him by all the gods in his uncommon vocabulary.

"It's a pity he didn't cut your dam' head off, you old soak! No, I won't sew it on! I won't touch you, you old skunk!"

Smith implored his compassion, still offering the little piece of red nose-end, fiery yet, though drained of blood. The doctor cursed him again, and turned from him. Smith stood looking at the bit of flesh in his hand, breathing through his mouth with a loud noise. "Can't you put it back, doc? My looks'll be ruined!" he said.

With that the swearing doctor turned to him

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 again, ordered him to sit down, examined the cut.

"It wouldn't take, you old fool!" he said.

Smith insisted that he had heard of such things being done, but the doctor gave him no heed. He set about bandaging the nose, chuckling to himself from time to time behind Smith's back.

"Yes, it might be done," he said, when he had the injured nose wrapped and stuck over with adhesive tape, "but I'm not prepared to do it, Smith. You've got to have human grafting-wax for a job like this, and I'm all out. If you could keep that piece of nose fresh till you go to Kansas City, they could do it for you there."

"Lord, doc, I ain't got the money to go there on!"

"Would you go if I got your ticket, Zeb?"

"I would if I could keep that piece fresh till I get there."

"I'll fix it for you; I'll get a chunk of ice. We'll wrap it up and put it in a box on the ice, and it'll keep as fresh as a fish."

Smith was on hand to take the train for Kansas City, a large dripping box in his hand, a ticket in his pocket for which the money of Ollie Noggle had paid. For the barber realized very well that this was the cheapest and easiest way of ridding himself of Smith for many a day to come. It was one thing for him to go to Kansas City on a pro-

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 vided ticket, and another for him to come back on one bought by himself.

The doctor was there to watch Zeb aboard, and to caution him in all gravity to get more ice out of the water-cooler in case the chunk in his box should run low. And so Zeb Smith departed from Cottonwood. Whether he ever came back is not a matter that concerns us now. Certainly he was not seen there again in the brief time that remains to the portion of this diminishing tale.

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ND you're a goin' to wear your shoes," said Uncle Boley.

"Yes, sir, I'll save my boots till I get back in the saddle again. I'd only wear 'em out trampin' along over the road in 'em, sir—they're too good for that."

"If I had my way, Texas, you never would leave this country on foot. You'd go on a train or a horse, if I had my say. Oh, well, if I had my downright way, you wouldn't leave at all."

"You've been too kind to me already, Uncle Boley, and I haven't done anything in return but show you what a fool feller I am for mussin' and muddlin' things up. I'm through here; if I was to stay on any longer I'd get my foot into it again, somehow, and I'll just bet you a purty I would."

They were in Uncle Boley's shop, and it was late afternoon of the day following Fannie Goodnight's death. They had seen her lowered into her bed in the bare, melancholy cemetery, and Texas was now making ready for the road. The work that time had been saving for him in Cottonwood,

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 as he often thought, was finished. His listening and straining, hopes and heart-burnings were at an end in that place. As he came to Cottonwood, like a bird blown far from its native haunts by the storm, so he would leave.

He had gathered nothing but sorrow there, and cares which left their mark in new lines in his solemn, homely face. Perhaps, in the great prearrangement, there had been something else set down to his labors beyond that unfriendly land. A man must go on until he found his place.

His boots were rolled in his blanket, together with his brave black coat. This roll he must carry on his back, for he hadn't money enough left out of the expense of Fannie's burial to buy one leg of a horse.

Hartwell's last word had thrown Uncle Boley into a silent and speculative spell. He sat on his work-bench out of old habit, although dressed in his alpaca coat and derby hat, looking out of his dusty window with fixed stare.

"Yes, that might be so, might be so," he sighed. "Change and doin's seems to be the lot of some folks, peace and easy goin' of others. I've been makin' boots for fifty years and more, and I've made many a pair that men's tromped off in to git rich, or git shot, but I've just kep' right on makin' boots. It wasn't laid out for me to do anything

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 else, I reckon; I couldn't 'a' changed it if I'd 'a' tried."

"Maybe not, sir."

"I was aimin' and hopin' to see you settled down here, Texas. There must be something laid out for you besides roamin' and lookin' and never findin'. I wish I could tell you what it is."

"I wish I could tell myself, Uncle Boley, sir."

"I'm put out, and I'm put out worse than I ever was over anything in my life, over the way Sallie's acted up. It ain't like her—she must know them cow-men cleared you, and she ought to be big enough to come in here like a man and tell you she's glad."

"Maybe she isn't a bit glad, sir," said Texas, sadly.

"Yes, she is, dang her little melts! She's holdin' Fannie ag'in you, that's what's eatin' her. Well, if she knew—"

"She mustn't know, sir," Texas interposed, hastily. "Anyhow, not till I'm gone and out of the way."

"I ain't decided she deserves to know at all, Texas. If a woman ain't got faith enough in a man—"

"You can't blame her, sir, at all. It looked bad—even you thought I wasn't straight for a little while."

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 "But I guess it might be good for her to tell her, when you're gone, and let her grieve. Snap judgment ain't fair to a man, and it's harder on a woman, every time. I took it on you that day, but I wasn't so bull-headed I couldn't be reasoned out of it, was I, Texas?"

"You've al-ways been mighty liberal with me, Uncle Boley, even when things looked bad."

"Yes, and I wanted you to like Sallie, tooth and toe-nail, dang the luck! But I'm done with women, I'm through. I ain't a goin' to marry no more; I'm a goin' to take my pen in hand to-night and write to that girl up in Topeky and tell her she don't need to bother about comin' down to look at m' teeth, I'll tell her I lost the last one of 'em I could chaw on this afternoon."

Texas said nothing, although he applauded Uncle Boley's resolution in his heart. For he knew that if Gertie Moorehead ever came to Cottonwood she would marry the old man for his pension. There was the look of a home-hunter in her starved eyes, as hungry as a lost hound's.

"I guess Sallie and her mother woti't be needin' me no more, either, since they've got money agin," Uncle Boley said, very sadly.

"Surely, sir, that never can make any difference between them and you. Gratitude for what you've been to them will hold them your friends."

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 "You can't tell, Texas. Money makes a big difference in people sometimes. Well, sir, there's a good many people here thinks they ought to turn that money over to the bank directors till they can straighten things up. You know, Stott never mentioned that forged note, and nobody else but me and you and Johnnie Mackey knows. Maybe Sallie she'll be fool enough to give it up."

"She mustn't be allowed to, sir, you must tell the people of this town about the forgery, and tell Miss Sallie about it as soon as I'm gone, I expect. Give poor little Fannie the credit for it all, Uncle Boley, and keep my name out of it as much as you can. I was only the instrument, she was the force back of it."

"I'll think it over, Texas, and I'll figger out what to tell her, somehow. I guess your first stop'll be at Colby's ranch?"

"Yes, sir, I'll go there and tell Fannie's relations. Maybe they'll need a hand this fall, and I can work there long enough to buy me a horse. If I can, I'll ride back here and see you before I light out for home—for Taixas—down on the Nueces, sir, where I used to be at."

"I'd give—if I was young and could go with you, Texas—I'd give all the world owes me, or ever owed me. I'd give it all!"

It was almost sundown when Uncle Boley and

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 Texas paused for their parting on the southern edge of Cottonwood. Uncle Boley had insisted on going with him that far, clinging pathetically to his slipping hold on this friend of his age.

"It'll be dark before you've went very fur, Texas," he said, putting off the last word in the useless way that one will do when parting is inevitable, and the bitterness of tears is rising to the tongue.

"It won't matter, Uncle Boley; I can foller my way."

Texas stood looking off into the south, his head held high, his blanket in a military roll over his shoulder.

"There's not much down there for me but recollections now, but a man loves the place that's been kind to him, and his feet ache to start back to it when his troubles come too fast."

"Maybe you won't like it when you git back there, Texas?" Uncle Boley spoke hopefully, looking up at his young friend's yearning face.

"No man can tell, sir."

"If you don't, you can come back; you can always come back, Texas."

"Sir, thank you kindly. And I'll be rackin' on."

Texas unbuckled the revolver that Uncle Boley had given him and handed it back to the old man.

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 "What're you aimin' to do, Texas?" Uncle Boley inquired in surprise.

"I've worn it, sir, to the last minute, hatin' to give it up, but this is our partin'-line, Uncle Boley, and I'm puttin' it back in your hands. You gave it to me, and I'm restorin' it through you to Miss Sallie. Give it to her, sir, and tell her the man that wore it last went away with a doubt in his heart of his worthiness. She never come to say a word!"

Uncle Boley took the pistol without protest, for there was not the strength of protest in his crushed old heart. He could see Texas in wavering outline through his tears, and Texas was still looking away into the south like one watching the receding shores of country and home.

"I'm going away from you-all, Uncle Boley, sir," he said, "but I'm leavin' my heart staked out here behind me. It'll pull back on me like a rock."

He turned to the old man in a moment, his face illumined by his transforming smile.

"Good-by, Uncle Boley, and good luck to you, sir, wherever you may be."

Uncle Boley's farewell choked in his throat. He clung to Hartwell's hand and went trailing beside him, toddling like a child, heartbroken to see him go. Texas patted his hand as if giving him assurance and benediction, gently broke his clasp, and hurried down the slope.

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 The old man stood looking after him until he mounted the knoll beyond, and passed over the top out of sight. Then he returned to the spot where he had dropped the revolver, and sat down, his forehead bowed upon his knees, and wept.

There came the sound of a horse slowly ridden through the grass, its quickening pace, its sudden stopping close behind his back. Uncle Boley resented this trespass upon his grief, for he was far from any traversed road, out on the unfenced, unmown prairie lands. He did not lift his head.

Somebody came running to his side; he could hear the short breath of excitement.

"Why, Uncle Boley! What's the matter—are you hurt?"

"Yes, Sallie, I'm hurt; I'm hurt bad!"

She was on her knees beside him, stroking his hand, looking into his face with fright in her sorrowful brown eyes, anxiety in her sympathetic voice.

"Who did it?" she whispered, the sight of the revolver, which she knew too well, bringing a rush of horrible, strangling suspicion.

"You done it!" said Uncle Boley, bitterly. He disengaged her hand, pushed her away, got to his feet.

"I did it? Why, Uncle Boley, I wouldn't—"

"I was a friend to you, and I stood by you—here,

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 take this gun and go on home, before I say something to you that don't become me!"

Sallie stood looking at him, her face bloodless, making no effort to take the proffered weapon.

"The man that wore it last left it here a little while ago and walked away over that hill, and left my old age as barren as the top of a rock. I've lived nearly eighty year, and I've got to meet the man that's equal to him in honor and kindness of heart—but he's gone. He said for me to hand this gun back to you. Here—take it, and go on home!"

She reached out for it, but her eyes were not with her hand. She was looking away into the south, with something of the same yearning in her face as the old man had seen in Hartwell's but a little while before.

"Isn't he coming back any more, Uncle Boley?" she asked, her voice very small, a tremor in it, no pride in her quick young heart.

"What's he got to come back for? His work's done."

She dropped the heavy pistol and belt at her feet, and a little flush of color came into her face.

"I suppose his world is empty now," she said.

"Well, yours ain't," said Uncle Boley, rather sharply. "You've got your sixty thousand dollars, but you wouldn't 'a' had sixty cents if it hadn't been for that poor girl we put away under the sod to-day.

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 Yes, you can look up, and jump, and turn white. You ain't worthy to drop a clod as big as the end of your finger on her coffin, Miss Sallie McCoy!"

"Oh, Uncle Boley, what do you mean?" she appealed.

"This has been a day of partin' and goin's away," said Uncle Boley heavily. "I'll set down, Sallie, and I'll tell you something you've got to know for the good of your soul."

She dropped to the grass beside him, afraid of his portentous manner, shocked by the seeming brutality of his words. Uncle Boley sat a little while looking in the direction that Hartwell had gone, and by and by he took off his hat and laid it on the grass at his side.

"Well, he's gone now; I'll not be breakin' my word to him if I tell you, Sallie. I guess it's only right for you to know, no matter if it does take the hide off somewhere."

So Uncle Boley told her the story of Fannie Goodnight, and how she came into Texas Hartwell's life, and what she had been to him. And when he came to that part of it Sallie covered her face with her hands and burst out crying, sobbing and moaning as if the grave had opened at her feet and swallowed the best that the world contained for her.

"I knew he didn't care for her—I knew he was

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 honest—and I was ashamed to go back and tell him!"

"Just a fool fit of jealousy, and look what you done."

"He's gone away thinkin' I'm ungrateful, and a mean, proud, foolish thing!"

"Maybe not. He was too good and square to think hard of other folks, especially when he—where've you been trapesin' around to, Sallie?"

"I went down to Duncan's night before last, Uncle Boley. I'm going home."

"Oh, you did? Had to go down and let 'em know you're rich agin, did you?"

"I went to take him the word that Stott sent us before he ran away with the bank's money, Uncle Boley."

"Did that dish-faced Dutch houn' send word to you that Texas wasn't to blame for them fever cattle, Sallie?"

"Yes, Uncle Boley," she replied softly, her face turned away still, the flush deeper over her cheeks and neck.

"And you took your horse in the night and went tearin' off to Duncan's alone to tell him?"

"It wasn't anything to what she—the other one—did for him," she said, her words almost a whisper, her eyes cast down.

"No," Uncle Boley admitted, with ungenerous

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 readiness, it seemed, "it wasn't. But every little helps, Sallie; every little helps. It shows your heart wasn't half as foolish as your tongue."

She put her arm around the old man's neck and suddenly hid her face on his shoulder, crying again as if there was nothing left between the seas to console her.

"I loved him so, Uncle Boley! Oh, I loved him so!"

Uncle Boley stroked her hair, the light back in his kind blue eyes. He felt her body shake with the grief that hurt her soul.

"Well, I don't know what we can do about it now, Sallie," he said. But a smile moved his beard as he looked southward and saw a figure rise a little hill, and stand a moment as if already the backward strain of his heart was making his road harder than he could bear.

A little while; Sallie sat up again. She laid her hand tenderly on the stock of the pistol that Texas had left behind.

"I wish he had his gun, Uncle Boley."

"I reckon he does too, Sallie. But he felt he didn't have no right to it without a word from you."

"Did he—did he—buy a new one, Uncle Boley?"

"No, he never, Sallie. Just took it off down here and handed it to me and went on his way without no more gun on him than a rabbit."

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 "I wish he had it," said she, looking anxiously over the prairie.

She stood on her knees, looking still; but Texas had passed over the knoll and out of sight. Uncle Boley smiled. There was another knoll beyond, and another, and onward to the horizon, like the swells of a peaceful sea.

"I wish he had it," she said again, slowly, her voice very sad and low, as if she whispered her wish after him to find him on his lonely way.

"Well, if I was as young as I was sixty years ago I'd hop a horse and take it to him. But I ain't; I ain't been on a horse no tellin' when."

Sallie was standing, looking away into the hazy south, straining forward a little, her lips open, her breath coming fast.

"How long has he been gone, Uncle Boley?"

"Oh, fifteen or twenty minutes."

"He can't be very far away yet."

"No, I don't reckon he's so fur a horse couldn't ketch him."

"Why, I believe—I do—I do see him!"

"Sure enough!" said Uncle Boley, feigning great surprise. "Well, darn that feller's slow shanks! he ain't went more'n a mile."

"Do you suppose he'd think—if I went, do you suppose—"

"No tellin'," Uncle Boley replied gravely, his

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 blue eyes growing brighter, his old beard twitching as if a wind moved in it about his lips.

Sallie was straining as if she projected her soul into the south after the lone traveler who stood dark-lined against the sky. She held her hands out as if she called him; the cool wind of sunset was in her light-moving hair.

"Would you come back, Texas, if I'd go to you and tell you I'm sorry and unworthy, but lonesome—oh, so lonesome! Would you come back—home?"

She seemed unconscious of Uncle Boley's presence, calling her appeal after that dark figure no bigger in the distance than a finger held against the sky. The old man took the revolver from the ground, threw the belt over the pommel of her saddle, and came leading the horse forward. Uncle Boley made a gesture with his hand as if sweeping her away. She leaped into the saddle and galloped swiftly to her heart's desire.

The old man stood looking after her as the south drew her on, smaller with the rising of each successive swell.

"Her heart's a flyin' to him like a dove," he said. "Well, do you reckon he'll come back?"

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text: Journal of the Indian Archipelago and Eastern Asia/Series 1/Volume 1/Remarks on the Sletar & Samimba Tribes


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 caught the bough with a grasp like a smith's vice: and in an instant had torn it away so that the duke saw Constance his wife and Luigi Cortanto the scholar with their lips hard set together, and their arms around one another's necks. And the gentleman thought that his master would have leapt in and made short work of them both, and had turned away, for he rather liked the scholar and had no particular wish to see him die violently, only he listened for Constance her death scream. But the Duke did not so much as draw his sword; merely looking once into his wife's eyes, and then going back, he took hold of the gentleman's arm and led him forth. But when they had again come to the entrance my lord of San Giuliano put his finger on top of the pillar and pointed to the line De quo nullus vadere qui fuit intus, and said no more but only bade the courtier go to the castle and fetch an hundred men-at-arms to that place. This done, the soldiers were set all round the labyrinth, and their charge was to keep close watch, and if anyone strove to come out, by no means to kill but merely to push them back again within the maze. And the duke likewise sent messengers to the officers over all the townships within his lordship, to what intent you shall presently understand. Thus the hanging gallery of the Chasteau de Par Amours had fallen beneath Constance and her lover, and they were now tasting the points of the rocks beneath. But how they fared together, whether they reproached or consoled one another is not known, only before long one of the soldiers heard a rustling in the

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 German Imperialism, which hastened to the aid of Finnish capitalism with weapons of highly trained forces. Whether German Social Democracy did all that it ought to prevent this we leave it to the German workers to decide. To us the interference of the German Government was destructive—and instructive. The independence of our mother country, a gift which came to us from you honoured Russian comrades, we Finnish Social Democrats enthusiastically protected; but the bourgeoisie of Finland sold it to German Imperialism for the price of the Finnish workers' blood. By this deed the bourgeoisie has stripped us of social patriotism.

By international slaughter, power and the capitalist technique of mob murder, the opposition of our revolutionary workers was strangled last April (1918); men whose bravest efforts could not withstand the pressure of our enemies, and no help came to us from abroad. The German comrades did not hear our call. Our Russian Comrade heard, but had not power enough to save us. He was himself in danger, but yet helped as much as he could. Our debt of thankfulness became larger day by day and week by week. This we felt deeply, and also were ashamed, because there was once a time when, under the influence of bourgeois local-patriotism, we hesitated to accept aid from the soldier comrade of Russia, and to enter into noble alliance with him. The sacred blood that was shed on the snowfields of Finland has bound us now in a fraternal alliance that will last for ever.

Comrade Lenin, the real meaning of revolutionary Socialism, which on the eve of our workers' revolution we failed to understand, now begins to be made clear by the example of the victorious Russian proletariat and by your teaching. Here in Russia we have been able to study the working of the greatest revolution in the history of the world, the first grand revolution. We were told in Finland that we should see here destruction, only destruction. It is true we have seen much destruction, but destruction which has resulted from the proletarian revolution has shattered only the capitalist class state; it has only meant the conscious and thorough annihilation of the old, rotten and oppressive State organisation of the exploiting classes; from under this destruction we have seen germination and sprouting upward a nobler crop than we have even imagined. We have seen the grand and suffering Russia bring forth to the world in life and actual reality the beautiful ideal of which the workers of the world have been dreaming for many thousands of years.

We now understand that only thus can Socialism


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[It is stated in the Singapore Free Press of the 3rd instant that disturbances have lately occurred at Komring under the Government of Palembang, owing to the determination of the inhabitants to resist the levy of a poll tax of 6 rupees, and the forced labour imposed by the Dutch Government. We have not yet learned the particulars. It would appear that the former Pangeran of the district, disgusted with the duties imposed on him, had resigned his office and returned to Palem- bang, and that his successor had failed in reconciling the inhabitants to exactions to which they had not been accustomed. This disturbance appears to be considered as serious by the Supreme Government, who have ordered the immediate despatch of three War Steamers and 1,000 soldiers from Batavia." As we merely mentioned the name of this people in our General Sketch of Sumatra (ante p. 354), we here give a short potice of them, translated from the Tijdschrift v. Neerl. Ind. ]

The character of the inhabitants of Komring, and especially those of Komring Ulu, is more substantial than that of the Ogan people; they have a peculiar language, their writing in letter and sound agrees much with that of the Battas, their religion is in general heathenism; worshippers of images, they firmly believe in the transmigration of the soul This people are bold and determined; and it is an extremely rare event that one of their dusons or talangs is attacked, because they can stoutly defend their lives and property. They are also more industrious than the rest of the inhabitants, and it is from their country that most pepper is brought to market. They hold fast their ancient customs; the jujur is highly respected; and yet this people are obedient and submissive to all rules and commands. Although many of their dusons are about as populous as other dusons, the houses are fewer; they are large, roomy and strong, constructed of fine wooden work, and not seldom ornamented with varied carving; they sometimes contain from 10 to 20 families who live peaceably together.

The so called menareh (dancing) and berswara (singing) also differ in Komring from what they are in the other districts. The young girls dress better, are more pleasing in their movements, and their voice is more harmonious than that of women of the country usually is in singing. We have frequently witnessed that girls by the gift of song are able, in free, agreeable and melodious tones, to pour forth improvised couplets and verses in honor of persons and events. In former days the concubines of the Sultan were chosen from the fair sex in Komring.

Under the division of Komring is the district of Ranau, with a small population of about 3,000 souls settled around the large and beautiful lake of Ranau. This lake, in a basin amidst hills, gives to the population an abundant livelihood. The Ranau tobacco is the kind in so much request in the Archipelago, and the value of which at Palembang rises from 40 sometimes to 200 and more guilders the pikul, prepared in the Indian manner.


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 examination of these monomaniacs, I have generally found them laboring under some gastric disease, or troublesome ulcer, and these fearful ebullitions break out upon some ex- acerbation of the disorder. Those about them have generally told me that they appeared moping and melancholy a few days before the outbreak. It is certainly much to be deplored that Monomania amongst the Malays, almost invariably takes this terrible form. The Bugis, whether from revenge or disease, are by far the most addicted to the "Amok." I should think 3/4ths of all the cases I have seen have been by persons of this nation. T. OXLEY.


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 be realised, that it will never grow to life from the jungle of democracy, as we in Finland believed, but from the reality of destruction, danger, suffering and warfare. The class government of Russia's victorious workers, of which you, honoured Comrade, are leader, is founded to help into being the long-awaited new society. This gigantic task will daily call for the boundless straining of nerves and power. The administrative difficulties of your task would demand from the proletariat very great exertions, even if Russia had been out of the terrible war, which has raged now for several years, and in which Russia is losing still important lives. Greater efforts are needed, because you must struggle under the attack both of internal and external enemies. Sword in hand must the Russian workers build, sword in hand must the revolutionary ploughman plough. They are building, ploughing, and struggling with inexhaustible energy and enthusiasm. "The work will be bad, the work will be worthless!" croak the expelled hawks from outside. It is true that all that is done cannot be good, because there is no time for polishing, but every day some work is finished. We have seen growing from your combined efforts unexpectedly rich results, and that is good testimony. If in Russia, held for so long under the tyranny of the Czardom, and lately in the grasp of Germany's iron-hand, if in Russia, where the cultural and economic process was in chaos, the Socialist Soviet Republic stands firm after eleven months, how ripe, indeed, is capitalist world for socialist revolution! The capitalist world is ripe for communism, as we now say, comrade Lenin, in accordance with your teaching, the value of which the workers' revolution in your country has proved to the world.

To us Finnish Social Democrats the communist revolution has brought altogether new ideas of the world end of lite. We have awakened now to the sunshine of Socialism, of which before we only dreamed.

For the knowledge of communism we are in debt, which we must pay by sincere and enthusiastic work for the international socialist revolution, above all in Finland and here in Russia. Communism has given us the bright and hopeful belief that the great sacrifices the workers of our country have endured in their campaigns this year, and still more in the beastly orgies of revenge held by the Finnish bourgeois after the workers' defeat, are not wasted but given for the international victory of the proletariat. This noble end the Finnish working class tried to help in their campaigns of last spring; small in number, knowledge and strength, it yet made great sacrifice and once more it will rise up from the dust. Communism will bring the light of new hope to the darkest night;


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The character of the unsophisticated Malay is remarkable for its simplicity and honesty; having no artificial wants they are satisfied and content with what would be considered positive destitution by a Chinese, they are consequently apathetic and inactive, and will not for any amount offered to them, labour beyond their usual habits, or customary routine; they have little if any speculative turn; they have a regard for truth and may generally be depended upon in their statements. What has so often been written of their revengeful spirit is much exaggerated; polite in the extreme according to their own ideas, they never indulge in abuse one towards the other, the only reply to any deviation from this rule is the Kriss, for which they will watch their oppertunity [sic] and most certainly not afford their adversary any advantage it is in their power to deprive him of. This is their code of honor, and being fully aware of it amongst themselves, provocation is seldom given, and satisfaction as seldom required. When goaded however to the necessity they become perfectly reckless, and should discovery attend the deed they attempt no refutaion [sic] but sell their lives at the utmost cost they can to the captors. Too often have I known the Officers of Police compelled to shoot them on these occasions. Such is one species of "Amok" and how offenders of this description are to be dealt with, can admit of but little doubt, but there is another variety of the "Orang Beramok” vastly different, and by no means the least frequent, which requires discrimination on the part of the Medical Jurist, to prevent irresponsible persons suffering the penalty of the injured Law. For instance a man sitting quietly amongst his freinds [sic] and relatives will, without provocation, suddenly start up weapon in hand and slay all within his reach. I have known so many as 8 killed and wounded by a very feeble individual in this manner. Next day when interrogated whether he was not sorry for the act he had committed, no one could be more contrite; when asked why then did you do it, the answer has invariably been "the Devil entered into me, my eyes were darkened, I did not know what I was about." I have received this same reply on at least twenty different occasions ; on


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 leaves opposite to him, and Luigi's head came out. And seeing the men-at-arms made no sign of hurting him the poor poet gave a whistle and a swift pattering of feet came along the passage inside the labyrinth. Then Luigi began slowly to ease himself out, and still the soldier did nothing, but when he was clear of the hedge and had turned to help Constance, the man seized him by his neck and pushed him back again by force, so that all his struggling could not keep him on the right side of his prison, and while he was doing this the pikeman heard someone's breath caught sharply, and a noise like sobbing. And once or twice Luigi tried to escape that night and put his head out as before, and saw standing by each soldier a serving man holding a great torch, and neither said anything, but let him painfully work his way out as before, and then thrust him back. And just as the sun set at the close of the next day the messengers the duke had sent began to return, and with them came companies of men, whom my lord himself received, and showed them where they might get stones, rough and smooth, for these fellows were masons. Straightway they went to their work, and as more came, they too fell to their tools, and at midnight many score of men were a-labouring by torchlight, and a place had been made ready for the foundations of a wall right around the maze. Nor was there any delay, but the stones were set one above other, and compacted with mortar, and still the men-at-arms stood in their order, but Luigi only came out once more. And it chanced that as

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text: Journal of the Indian Archipelago and Eastern Asia/Series 1/Volume 3/Malay Amoks


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 most distinguished physiologists of our College, showing the relation of his discovery to the knowledge of the period and to that which succeeded it. I dare not attempt to improve on these well-exhausted themes, but falling back on the object which Harvey had in view, in wishing to perpetuate the remembrance of this day, I find that I have a text sufficient for me. I need not remind you what his object was, since Harvey's injunction to the College is ever before us, "to study and search out the secrets of nature by way of experiment." Let this then be my theme--That we members of this College, practising physicians like himself, should occupy ourselves with the investigation of nature. Harvey could not have had in contemplation all departments of natural history, but only those which pertained to man or, as we may say, animal life. His wish was, that his followers should continue in the path which he had indicated, and that they should remember that one of their duties was the acquisition of further physiological knowledge. I ask, have his precepts been followed his hopes been fulfilled? The answer is before us. We need but look through the long roll of our College, lately


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 published by our learned librarian, to find it. In that goodly list will be seen the record of the work performed by our members, some of which may bear comparison with that of the master himself. Much of course may be regarded as a mere drop in the great ocean of knowledge; some, however, of the work contains great and clementary truths which eclipse all beside them-fundamental truths which immediately swallow up or form a culmination to the teaching of centuries, and cause mankind to take one long stride in the path of knowledge. Although it may be true that this great edifice of science which is slowly growing up before us, is one on which comparatively few Englishmen have laboured, yet they have been skilled workmen and have laid some of the weightiest of its foundation stones. Amongst these is Harvey, whose pedestal may be placed by the side of that of Newton, a man whom we justly regard as the father of English scientific philosophy. I need not specify the well-known names on our list, but cannot refrain from speaking of Marshall Hall and his great discovery, which may, in the future, be ranked in importance equal to that of Harvey's. His, like Harvey's, was not the discovery merely of an


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 isolated fact, but the full disclosure of the mysteries of the nervous system which had hitherto been unrevealed to us. His discovery had, as has been lately declared, the character of a first essential and fundamental principle.

Does not this contemplation of Harvey, instigating us to further discoveries in the animal organisation, accompanied by the thought of the glorious results which have followed his instructions, inspire us with loftier notions as to the nature of our calling? What means the existence of this College, and what is the function of its members? It were a trite and easy answer to declare our final aim to be the alleviation of the woes of our fellow creatures, and certainly this is all the public voice demands, but Harvey declares this end cannot be obtained without knowledge and, therefore, one of our duties is to search out the secrets of nature. Now how is this to be accomplished? It may be done either by direct experiment or by other means, with which I have little doubt Harvey was acquainted, that is, by making use of the experiments performed by nature herself in the various maladies which daily come before us, and by taking advantage of the vast


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 it will break the chains of despair, and pour into the sorrowful soul of the defeated soldier a new and iron-strong belief in victory.

On the day when the commanding song, "This is our last struggle," shall sound throughout the world; when the international Red Army starts forth on its onward march, the world shall see the proletariat of Finland also storm out to the war-front and to victory.

In Germany, Austria, England, France, the United States and Japan the working class will wee repudiate. all the Labour Parties that in those countries, which speak to postpone the workers' revolution when the moment is ripe for it, and in spite of all our warnings, still give the false advice: "First peace, then revolution." The workers will repudiate those Labour Parties that directly or indirectly are supporting the attempts of the imperialist governments of their countries to strangle the Socialist Soviet Republic and to crush the workers' international revolution.

We send a brotherly handshake to all those Labour organisations; which, already in war time, are preparing for the revolution, to rescue the workers of their own countries, to help the Russian Soviet Republic and to build up the international socialist republic.

We believe and hope that the present world war will be the grave in which international capitalism will be buried.

Honour to you, Russian Communists, who so heroically have carried out the heaviest pioneer work tor the workers' international revolution! From you and the workers you represent great exertions and many heavy sacrifices will yet be demanded, but the victorious march of international Socialism which you have started will go on unchecked to its destination.

In this creative struggle; Comrade Lenin, you are needed. Your firm hand, and bright, far-seeing eye, and the strength of your mental power are important. You will patiently bear the pain and annoyance of the wounded soldier. And soon again you will take into your strong hands the rudder of the Socialist Soviet Republic and the workers' international revolutionary movement.

Tell the Russian comrades, in our name, that their Finnish comrades will go happily under fire; they desire to be in the attack when the forts of capitalism shall be taken and destroyed. The Finnish comrades will not be out of the fighting line when the workers of all countries win the world.

Moscow.


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 opportunities thus afforded of unlocking her secrets. Indeed a large part of physiological discovery has been made and must be made by the practising physician. Herein lies the scientific aspect of the medical profession which can never be understood by the outer world. We are necessary to the public for one object only to treat and alleviate human suffering; that is the beginning and the end of medicine in their eyes. An opportunity has lately occurred by which we have been enabled to ascertain the opinion of the public as to the office of the medical practitioner. In their advocacy of the fitness of women for our profession we have heard the voices of eminent statesmen, of bishops, and even of the judges of the land, and they all agree in the sentiment expressed by one of the most distinguished members of their several bodies, that for the administration of medicine, the hand of woman is much more fitted than the hand of man. Beyond this sentimental conception of the medical profession, no shadow of a thought seems to have crossed their minds that the administration of drugs was not the physician's supremest aim. Let us, therefore, who take a larger view of our calling


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 study of the two branches must be pursued together, for the very derangement of parts gives a clue to their uses. I say that the daily task of the physician is one of physiological investigation, as well as the treatment of discase; for while affording relief to the sufferer who has sought his aid, he yet makes use of the opportunity to watch the effects of the quickened revolution of the wheels, of the stiffened valves, or the changes in the fluids which are circulating through the tubes of the animal machinery. I remember some years ago a meeting of physiologists was called, I believe in Germany, to discuss the propriety of altogether divorcing their subject from medicine, but it was found that the attempt was impossible, for though it be true that physiology may be studied apart from any connection with our medical art, yet the chief of all animals, man, in whom the greatest scientific interest centres, is so prominently placed in his disordered states before the physician, that the experience of the latter cannot but assist in the work of the physiologist. Moreover, in the application of his art in the use of drugs, many interesting and important facts are acquired bearing on the


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 function of the organism. Just as the pure physiologist makos experiments in his laboratory in order to discover the function of some portion of the animal economy, so the physician has ever placed before him similar experiments made by accident or disease. I should be sorry to be obliged to venture an opinion as to whether the physiologist has more assisted the physician or the physician the physiologist in the elucidation of many obscure phenomena observed in the human subject.

Every one who is pursuing his professional avocations in a scientific spirit knows how large a part of the questions which he is obliged to discuss, and often unwillingly, are physiological. For example, a person is seized with paralysis of a certain kind, and we immediately ask ourselves where is the seat of the lesion. Now, if the physiologist had prepared the way we should long have left these questions behind us, and confined ourselves solely to the nature of the disease and its treatment; at present, however, we are assisting in his work. If the case be one of so ordinary a complaint as jaundice, our inquiry has not only reference to the disease, but to the causes which have made bile appear in the blood-a question only


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 to be decided by a knowledge of the functions of the liver. So in diabetes and many other diseases, the questions mainly discussed by the teacher before his class are purely physiological ones; and this discussion bears its fruits. Witness, for example, the amount of knowledge obtained by ourselves relating to the functions of the nervous system; such as the varieties of sensation, as of touch, pain, heat, and cold, together with the time of transmission of sensations, and many other phenomena associated with disease of the spinal cord, which could scarcely have been known had not the facts been observed in the human subject. Our actual acquaintance with the functions of the nervous system, as gained in the physiological laboratory is small compared with what may be learned in the wards of a hospital. Could we gain any approach to an insight into the remarkable properties of the nervous system, had we merely laboratory experiments to guide us, and had we never seen the vagaries of hysteria? An acquaintance with sim physiological laws derived from observation in animals and healthy men, gives as no clue to some of the most remarkable phenomena we witness in women. It is from


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 the latter we get an insight into the complexity of nervous functions, and therefore to assume that the standard of these functions is to be made in the laboratory, and all beside considered abnormal, is to shut the light from our eyes. With the exception of the experiments of Waller and Bouchard, little had, until quite lately, been taught the student beyond the notion that afferent and efferent nerves were so many telegraphic wires proceeding to and from the centres; but when he enters the wards of of a hospital and witnesses cases of disease, and sees the muscles becoming atrophied, when one nerve is destroyed and the skin undergoing changes, when another nerve is irritated, he discovers that these cords have other functions; he no longer regards them as mere conducting wires, but rather as active organs conveying a distinct nutritive influence over the body, and sees with the mind's eye a perpetual stream of energy coursing through the system, or alternately ebbing and flowing in hysteria and other similar nervous disorders.

Then, again, some of our members are engaged in the important department of mental alienation, a department necessitating the study of the mind


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 in its widest range. Here again the advantages of the physician over every other member of the community are immense. He has opportunities of observation which the pure mental philosopher can never possess. Looking at the brain as the material organ of the mind, and taking into consideration its intimate relation with the working of every part of the body, it seems impossible that the philosopher by sitting in his study and noting the faculties and powers of his own intelligence, can do more than propound doctrines of pure metaphysics; he cannot, except by a physiological study of other beings, and even animals, form a scheme of psychology or interpret a tithe of the actions of men and women in everyday life. This might be exemplified in innumerable ways. Thus the discoveries by physiologists and by practising physicians, Fellows of this College, while demonstrating the intimate relation between the convolutions of the brain and the muscular system, prove also the close alliance between psychic states and muscular movements. This may be illustrated in various ways, but perhaps we cannot do better than go to the stage for a confirmation of the doctrine. There we see not only the actor placing himself in


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 attitudes corresponding to the state of feeling he wishes to express; but as some of the most famous comedians assure us, the very posture which they assume, suggestive of some passion of the mind, will cause the latter to grow into a reality until laughter may be excited or tears flow, which are absolutely genuine in their origin. Many a practical lesson may be learned from this physiological fact. A desponding man stooping forward in his chair may be made cheerful in spite of himself by a brisk walk with expanded chest.

With regard to the subject of language, too, I am bold enough to think that its study from cases of discase of the brain by our members has thrown more light upon its nature than the disquisitions of the pure mental philosopher. If, therefore, our College treats, as it necessarily must, the question of mental alienation, its members devoted to this branch of medicine may include in their sphere of inquiry the whole range of psychology.

If any further corroboration were required to prove the value of observing cases of disease in aid of physiology, let me remind you that such men as Darwin and Huxley have not hesitated to make use of our knowledge in order to further


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 unfold their doctrines. The late Croonian lectures also, given here by Dr. Stone, on the causes producing various pathological states, might be used also in explanation of physiological laws. I do not, therefore, regard Harvey, although his name is immortalised by a discovery purely physiological, as standing apart from the Fellows of his College except in his superior excellence. I would rather regard him as the king's physician assisting in the advancement of knowledge and unravelling the problems of nature. It is from this point of view that it is of more interest to me to regard our great master and teacher. His work thus comes home to us and binds us closer together in one fraternity. This view also tends to elevate us as a profession, and, to my thinking, places us in one of the most exalted positions that man can hold. If our vocation leads us to the study of our fellow-creatures, in both their bodily and mental capacity, what higher function can we discharge. Others in the State may frame laws which govern the people in their social and political relations, but beneath all these lies the individual man, with his instincts, his pleasures, and his pursuits, having their basis in his mate-