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 it. He who holds to his appointment, and does not keep you waiting for him, shows that he has regard for your time as well as for his own. Thus punctuality is one of the modes by which we testify our personal respect for those whom we are called upon to meet in the business of life. It is also conscientiousness in a measure; for an appointment is a contract, express or implied, and he who does not keep it breaks faith, as well as dishonestly uses other people's time, and thus inevitably loses character. We naturally come to the conclusion that the person who is careless about time will be careless about business, and that he is not the one to be trusted with the transaction of matters of importance. When Washington's secretary excused himself for the lateness of his attendance and laid the blame upon his watch, his master quietly said, "Then you must get another watch, or I another secretary."

The person who is negligent of time and its employment is usually found to be a general disturber of others' peace and serenity. It was wittily said by Lord Chesterfield of the old Duke of Newcastle—"His Grace loses an hour in the morning, and is looking for it all the rest of the day." Everybody with whom the unpunctual man has to do is thrown from time to time into a state of fever: he is systematically late; regular only in his irregularity. He conducts his dawdling as if upon system; arrives at his appointment after time; gets to the railway station after the train has started; posts his letter when the box has closed. Thus business is thrown into confusion, and everybody concerned is put out of temper. It will generally be found that the men who are thus


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—But 'tis no marvel, continued the corporal—seeing my uncle Toby musing upon it—for, an' please your honour, is exactly like war, in this; that a soldier, though he has escaped three weeks compleat o'Saturday-night,—may nevertheless be shot through his heart on Sunday morningIt happened so here, an' please your honour, with this difference only—that it was on Sunday in the afternoon, when I fell in love all at once with a sisserarait burst upon me, an' please your honour, like a bomb—scarce giving me time to say, "God bless me."

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 I thought, Trim, said my uncle Toby, a man never fell in love so very suddenly.

Yes, an' please your honour, if he is in the way of it—replied Trim.

I prithee, quoth my uncle Toby, inform me how this matter happened.

With all pleasure, said the corporal, making a bow.


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text: The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman/Volume 8/Chapter 21


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 With that he leaned forward, and spoke to his mare—she was just of the tint of a strawberry, a young thing, very beautiful—and she arched up her neck, as misliking the job; yet, trusting him, would attempt it. She entered the flood, with her dainty fore-legs sloped further and further in front of her, and her delicate ears pricked forward, and the size of her great eyes increasing: but he kept her straight in the turbid rush, by the pressure of his knee on her. Then she looked back, and wondered at him, as the force of the torrent grew stronger, but he bade her go on; and on she went, and it foamed up over her shoulders; and she tossed up her lip and scorned it, for now her courage was waking. Then as the rush of it swept her away, and she struck with her fore-feet down the stream, he leaned from his saddle in a manner which I never could have thought possible, and caught up old Tom with his left hand, and set him between his holsters, and smiled at his faint quack of gratitude. In a moment all these were carried down-stream, and the rider lay flat on his horse, and tossed the hurdle clear from him, and made for the bend of smooth water.

They landed, some thirty or forty yards lower, in the midst of our kitchen-garden, where the winter-cabbage was; but though Annie and I crept in through the hedge, and were full of our thanks and admiring him, he would answer us never a word, until he had spoken in full to the mare, as if explaining the whole to her.

"Sweetheart, I know thou couldest have leaped


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 it," he said, as he patted her check, being on the ground by this time, and she was nudging up to him, with the water pattering off from her; "but I had good reason, Winnie dear, for making thee go through it."

She answered him kindly with her soft eyes, and sniffed at him very lovingly, and they understood one another. Then he took from his waistcoat two peppercorns, and made the old drake swallow them, and tried him softly upon his legs, where the leading gap in the hedge was. Old Tom stood up quite bravely, and clapped his wings, and shook off the wet from his tail-feathers; and then away into the court-yard, and his family gathered around him, and they all made a noise in their throats, and stood up, and put their bills together, to thank God for this great deliverance.

Having taken all this trouble, and watched the end of that adventure, the gentleman turned round to us with a pleasant smile on his face, as if he were lightly amused with himself; and we came up and looked at him. He was rather short, about John Fry's height, or may be a little taller, but very strongly built and springy, as his gait at every step showed plainly, although his legs were bowed with much riding, and he looked as if he lived on horseback. To a boy like me he seemed very old, being over twenty, and well-found in beard; but he was not more than four-and-twenty, fresh and ruddy looking, with a short nose and keen blue eyes, and a merry waggish jerk about him, as if the world were not in earnest. Yet he had a sharp,


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 stern way, like the crack of a pistol, if anything misliked him; and we knew (for children see such things) that it was safer to tickle than buffet him.

"Well, young uns, what be gaping at?" He gave pretty Annie a chuck on the chin, and took me all in without winking.

"Your mare," said I, standing stoutly up, being a tall boy now; "I never saw such a beauty, sir. Will you let me have a ride of her?"

"Think thou could'st ride her, lad? She will have no burden but mine. Thou could'st never ride her. Tut! I would be loth to kill thee."

"Ride her!" I cried with the bravest scorn, for she looked so kind and gentle; "there never was horse upon Exmoor foaled, but I could tackle in half-an-hour. Only I never ride upon saddle. Take them leathers off of her."

He looked at me with a dry little whistle, and thrust his hands into his breeches-pockets, and so grinned that I could not stand it. And Annie laid hold of me in such a way that I was almost mad with her. And he laughed, and approved her for doing so. And the worst of all was—he said nothing.

"Get away, Annie, will you? Do you think I'm a fool, good sir? Only trust me with her, and I will not over-ride her."

"For that I will go bail, my son. She is liker to over-ride thee. But the ground is soft to fall upon, after all this rain. Now come out into the yard, young man, for the sake of your mother's cabbages. And the


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 mellow straw-bed will be softer for thee, since pride must have its fall. I am thy mother's cousin, boy, and am going up to house. Tom Faggus is my name, as everybody knows: and this is my young mare, Winnie."

What a fool I must have been not to know it at once! Tom Faggus, the great highwayman, and his young blood-mare, the strawberry! Already her fame was noised abroad, nearly as much as her master's, and my longing to ride her grew tenfold, but fear came at the back of it. Not that I had the smallest fear of what the mare could do to me, by fair play and horse-trickery, but that the glory of sitting upon her seemed to be too great for me; especially as there were rumours abroad that she was not a mare after all, but a witch. However, she looked like a filly all over, and wonderfully beautiful, with her supple stride, and soft slope of shoulder, and glossy coat beaded with water, and prominent eyes full of docile fire. Whether this came from her Eastern blood of the Arabs newly imported, and whether the cream-colour, mixed with our bay, led to that bright strawberry tint, is certainly more than I can decide, being chiefly acquaint with farm-horses. And these come of any colour and form; you never can count what they will be, and are lucky to get four legs to them.

Mr. Faggus gave his mare a wink, and she walked demurely after him, a bright young thing, flowing over with life, yet dropping her soul to a higher one, and led by love to anything, as the manner is of


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The LIFE OF MOHAMMED. Translated from the Arabic of Abulfeda, with an Introduction and Appendix. By the Rev. Wm. Murray, Episcopal Clergyman at Duffus. Very scarce. 12s.

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 The Castle of BLENHEIM was founded by Queen ANNE, In the Fourth Year of her Reign, In the Year of the Christian Æra, One thousand seven hundred and five; A Monument designed to perpetuate the Memory of the Signal Victory Obtained over the FRENCH and BAVARIANS. Near the Village of BLENHEIM, On the Banks of the, By IOHN Duke of MARLBOROUGH: The Hero not only of his Nation, but his Age: Whose Glory was equal in the Council and in the Field: Who by Wisdom, Justice, Candour, and Address, Reconciled various and even opposite Interests; Acquired an Influence, which no Rank, no Authority can give, Nor any Force, but that of Superior Virtue; Became the fixed, important Center, Which united in one common Cause, The Principal States of EUROPE. Who by military Knowledge, and irresistible Valour, In a long Series of uninterrupted Triumphs, Broke the Power of FRANCE, When raised the highest, when exerted the most; Rescued the EMPIRE from Desolation; Asserted and confirmed the Liberties of EUROPE.

PHILIP, a Grand-son of the House of FRANCE, united to the Interest, directed by the Policy, supported by the Arms of that Crown, was placed on the Throne of SPAIN. King WILLIAM the Third beheld this formidable Union of two Great, and once Rival, Monarchies. At the End of a Life spent in defending the Liberties of EUROPE, He saw them in their greatest Danger. He provided for their Security in the most effectual Manner: He took the Duke of MARLBOROUGH into his Service.

Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary To the of the United Provinces,

The Duke contracted several Alliances, before the Death of King WILLIAM. He confirmed and improved These, He contracted Others, after the Accession of Queen ANNE; and re-united the Confederacy, which had been dissolved at the End of a former War, in a stricter and firmer League.

Captain General and Commander in Chief Of the Forces of GREAT BRITAIN,

The Duke led to the Field the Army of the Allies. He took with surprising Rapidity, , ,. He extended and secured the Frontiers of the DUTCH. The Enemies, whom he found insulting at the Gates of, were driven to seek for Shelter behind their Lines. He forced, , , in another Campaign. He opened the Communication of the, as well as the. He added all the Country between these Rivers to his former Conquests.

The Arms of FRANCE, favoured by the Defection of the Elector of BAVARIA, had penetrated into the Heart of the EMPIRE. This mighty Body lay exposed to immediate Ruin. In that memorable Crisis, the Duke of MARLBOROUGH led his Troops with unexampled Celerity, Secrecy, Order, from the OCEAN to the DANUBE. He saw. He attacked, nor stopped, but to conquer the Enemy. He forced the BAVARIANS, sustained by the FRENCH, in their strong intrenchments at SCHELLENBERG. He passed the DANUBE. A second Royal Army, composed of the best Troops of FRANCE, was sent to re-inforce the first. That of the Confederates was divided, with one Part of it the Siege of INGOLSTADT was carried on: With the other the Duke gave Battle to the united Strength of FRANCE and BAVARIA. On the Second Day of AUGUST, One thousand seven hundred and four, He gained a more glorious Victory than the Histories of any Age can boast. The Heaps of Slain were dreadful Proofs of his Valour: A Marshal of FRANCE, whose Legions of FRENCH, his Prisoners, proclaimed his Mercy. BAVARIA was subdued. RATISMON, AUGSBOURG, ULM, MEMINGHEN, All the Usurpations of the Enemy were recovered. The Liberty of the DIET, the Peace of the EMPIRE were restored. From the DANUBE the Duke turned his victorious Arms towards the RHINE and the MOSELLE, LANDAU, TREVES, TRAERBACH were taken. In the Course of one Campaign the very nature of the War was changed. The invaders of other States were reduced to defend their own. The Frontier of FRANCE was exposed in its weakest part to the Efforts of the Allies.

That He might improve this Advantage, that He might push the Sum of things to a Speedy Decision, the Duke of MARLBOROUGH led his Troops early in the following Year once more to the MOSELLE. They whom He had saved a few Months before, neglected to second Him now. They who might have been his Companions in Conquest refused to join Him. When He saw the generous Designs He had formed frustrated by private Interest, by Pique, by Jealousy, He returned with speed to the MAES. He returned; and Fortune and Victory returned with Him. LIEGE was relieved; HUY retaken. The FRENCH, who had pressed the Army of the STATES-GENERAL with Superior Numbers, retired behind Intrenchments which they deemed impregnable. The Duke forced these Intrenchments, with Inconsiderable Loss, on the Seventh Day of IULY, One thousand seven hundred and five. He defeated a great Part of the Army which defended them. The Rest escaped by a precipitate Retreat. If Advantages proportionable to his Success were not immediately obtained, let the Failure be ascribed to that misfortune which attends most Confederacies, a Division of Opinions were One alone should judge, a Division of Powers where One alone should command. The Disappointment it-self did Honour to the Duke. It became the Wonder of Mankind, how He could do so much under those Restraints which had hindered Him from doing more.

Powers more absolute were given Him afterwards. The Increase of his Powers multiplied his Victories. At the opening of the next Campaign, when all his Army was not yet assembled, when it was hardly known that He had taken the Field, the Noise of his Triumphs was heard over EUROPE. On the Twelfth Day of MAY, One thousand seven hundred and six, He attacked the FRENCH at RAMELLIES. In the space of two Hours their whole Army was put to flight. The Vigour and Conduct with which He improved this Success, were equal to those with which He gained it. LOUVAIN, BRUSSELS, MALINES, LIERE, GHENT, OUDENARDE, ANTWERP, DAMME, BRUGES, COURTRAY surrendered. OSTEND, MENIN, DENDERMONDE AETH were taken. BRABANT and FLANDERS were recovered. Places which had resisted the greatest Generals for Months, for Years; Provinces disputed for Ages, were the Conquests of a Summer.

Nor was the Duke content to triumph alone. Solicitous for the general Interest, his Care extended to the remotest Scenes of the War. He chose to lessen his own Army, that He might enable the Leaders of other Armies to conquer. To this it must be ascribed, that TURIN was relieved, the Duke of SAVOY re-instated, the FRENCH driven with Confusion out of ITALY.

These Victories gave the Confederates an Opportunity of carrying the War on every side into the Dominions of FRANCE. But She continued to enjoy a kind of peaceful Neutrality in GERMANY. From ITALY she was once alarmed, and had no more to fear. The entire Reduction of this Power, whose Ambition had caused, whose Strength supported the War, seemed reserved to Him alone who had so triumphantly begun the Glorious Work.

The Barrier of FRANCE on the side of the LOW-COUNTRIES, had been forming for more than half a Century. What Art, Power, Expence could do, had been alone to render it impenetrable. Yet here She was most exposed: For here the Duke of MARLBOROUGH threatened to attack Her.

To cover what they had gained by Surprise, or had been yielded to them by Treachery, the FRENCH marched to the Banks of the SCHELDE. At their Head were the Princes of the Blood, and thir most fortunate General, the Duke of VENDOME. Thus commanded, thus posted, they hoped to check the Victor in his Course. Vain were their Hopes. The Duke of MARLBOROUGH passed the River in their sight. He defeated their whole Army. The Approach of Night concealed, the Proximity of GHENT favoured their Flight. They neglected nothing to repair their Loss, to defend their Frontier. New Generals, new Armies appeared in the NETHERLANDS. All contributed to enhance the Glory, none were able to retard the Progress of the Confederate Arms.

LISLE, the Bulwark of this Barrier, was besieged. A numerous Garrison and a Marshal of FRANCE defended the Place. Prince EUGENE of SAVOY commanded, the Duke of MARLBOROUGH covered and sustained the Siege. The Rivers were seized, and the Communication with HOLLAND interrupted. The Duke opened new Communications, with great Labour, and greater Art, through Countries over-run by the Enemy, the necessary Convoys arrived in Safety, one alone was attacked. The Troops which attacked it, were beat. The defence of LISLE was animated by Assurances of Relief. The FRENCH assembled all their Forces. They marched towards the Town. The Duke of MARLBOROUGH offered them Battle, without suspending the Siege. They abandoned the Enterprise. They came to save the Town: They were Spectators of its Fall.

From this Conquest the Duke hastened to others. The Posts taken by the Enemy on the SCHELDE were surprised. That River was passed the second time, and notwithstanding the great Preparations made to prevent it, without opposition, BRUSSELS, besieged by the Elector of BAVARIA, was relieved. GHENT surrendered to the Duke in the middle of a Winter remarkably severe. An Army little inferior to his own, marched out of the Place.

As soon as the Season of the Year permitted Him to open another Campaign, the Duke besieged and took TOURNAY. He invested MONS. Near this City, the FRENCH Army, covered by thick Woods defended by treble Intrenchments, waited to molest, nor presumed to offer Battle. Even this was not attempted by them with Impunity. On the last Day of AUGUST, One thousand seven hundred and nine, the Duke attacked them in their Camp. All was employed, nothing availed against the Resolution of such a General, against the Fury of such Troops. The Battle was bloody: The Event decisive. The Woods were pierced: The Fortifications trampled down. The Enemy fled. The Town was taken.

DOWAY, LETHUNE, AIRE, St VENANT, BOUCHAIN, underwent the same Fate in two succeeding Years. Their vigorous Resistance could not save them. The Army of FRANCE durst not attempt to relieve them. It seemed preserved to defend the Capital of the Monarchy.

The Prospect of this extreme Distress was neither distant nor dubious. The FRENCH acknowledged their Conqueror, and sued for Peace.

These are the Actions of the Duke of MARLBOROUGH, Performed in the Compass of few Years, Sufficient to adorn the Annals of Ages. The Admiration of other Nations Will be conveyed to latest Posterity, In the Histories even of the Enemies of BRITAIN. The Sense which the BRITISH Nation had Of his Transcendent Merit, Was expressed In the most solemn, most effectual, most durable Manner. The ACTS of PARLIAMENT inscribed on this Pillar, Shall stand as long as the BRITISH Name and Language last, Illustrious Monuments Of MARLBOROUGH'S Glory And Of BRITAIN'S Gratitude.


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 habitually behind time are as habitually behind success; and the world generally casts them aside to swell the ranks of the grumblers and the railers against fortune.

In addition to the ordinary working qualities the business man of the highest class requires quick perception and firmness in the execution of his plans. Tact is also important; and though this is partly the gift of nature, it is yet capable of being cultivated and developed by observation and experience. Men of this quality are quick to see the right mode of action, and if they have decision of purpose, are prompt to carry out their undertakings to a successful issue. These qualities are especially valuable, and indeed indispensable, in those who direct the action of other men on a large scale, as, for instance, in the case of the commander of an army in the field. It is not merely necessary that the general should be great as a warrior, but also as a man of business. He must possess great tact, much knowledge of character, and ability to organize the movements of a large mass of men, whom he has to feed, clothe, and furnish with whatever may be necessary in order that they may keep the field and win battles. In these respects Napoleon and Wellington were both first-rate men of business.

Though Napoleon had an immense love for details, he had also a vivid power of imagination, which enabled him to look along extended lines of action, and deal with those details on a large scale, with judgment and rapidity. He possessed such knowledge of character as enabled him to select, almost unerringly, the best agents for the execution of his designs. But he trusted as little as possible


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Tony rehearsed the steps ahead of him. The swift, ominously silent ride out into the country. Then when a sufficiently deserted spot had been reached, he would be kicked out of the car, riddled with bullets and left dead in a ditch, to be found by some passerby or perhaps picked to pieces by buzzards if the place were remote enough.

A fellow had some chance in a street gun-fight, no matter what the odds against him, but "a ride" was more inexorable than the death sentence imposed by a jury and court. For there was no appeal from it. There was no possibility of escape from it. It was carried out with the cool, precise deadliness of a state execution. And it was even more inevitable—at least it always had been.

A nervous or sensitive man, faced with cruel and certain death within an hour, would have shouted, screamed, pleaded, perhaps battled his captors with that reckless strength born of despair. But Tony was neither nervous nor sensitive. A man who

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 stimuli must be mixed to match the homogeneous stimuli of the spectrum. (; 4, 15, 223-247).

(a) Any set of component stimuli, thus applied, may be regarded as physiological primaries, but when they are so chosen for any or all visual color systems as to account for the maximum number of facts they may be called the fundamental physiological primaries. Such primaries are stimuli, not colors; although they may properly be said to “have” a color. They are of the additive type because the stimuli are added to produce the required effects.

(b) The corresponding subtractive, or “pigment,” primaries are determined roughly by the spectrophotometric complementaries of the additive primaries. However, they do not consist of radiant energy but of absorbing mechanisms of one sort or another. In general they absorb from a “gray light’ spectral distribution—of a certain intensity—(vide infra) portions which are as nearly as possible equivalent in color mixture value to the respective, additive primaries.

C.. Another psychophysical function of the second type is the so-called visibility curve, which expresses reciprocally the intensities of radiant energy of different frequencies (or wave-lengths) which are required to match a standard in brilliance alone. The most recent average visibility values are given in.

(a) The conception of light, which is fundamental to photometry, is a psychophysical quantity defined as the product of the absolute power and visibility measures for any given sample of radiant energy.

(b) Relative light quantities are called luminosities.

D. are stimuli which when mixed additively in certain required proportions evoke a gray.

(a) Complementary colors are the colors evoked by these stimuli, in the given proportions, separately.

E. The definition of color as a strictly psychological entity does not preclude the legitimate use of such convenient expressions

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  been alo made by kings, was this; when kings were either buied with wars, or ditracted with public cares, o that every private man could not have acces to their perons, to learn their wills and pleaure, then were laws of neceity invented, that o every particular ubject might find his prince's pleaure decyphered unto him in the tables of his laws, p. 92. In a monarchy, the king mut by neceity be above the laws, p. 100. A perfect kingdom is that, wherein the king rules all things according to his own will, p. 100. Neither common nor tatute laws are, or can be, any diminution of that general power, which kings have over their people by right of fatherhood, p. 115. Adam'' was the father, king, and lord over his family; a on, a ubject, and a ervant or lave, were one and the ame thing at firt. The father had power to dipoe or ell his children or ervants; whence we find, that the firt reckoning up of goods in cripture, the man-ervant and the maid-ervant, are numbrednumbered [sic] among the poeions and ubtance of the owner, as other goods were, Obervations, Pref. God alo hath given to the father a right or liberty, to alien his power over his children to any other; whence we find the ale and gift of children to have much been in ue in the beginning of the world, when men had their ervants for a poeion and an inheritance, as well as other goods; whereupon we find the power of catrating and making eunuchs much in ue in old times,'' Ob- ervations


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100 could be let fall in a moment, so as to crush a score of men, and bar the approach of horses. Behind this tree, the rocky mouth was spanned, as by a gallery, with brushwood and piled timber, all upon a ledge of stone, where thirty men might lurk unseen, and fire at any invader. From that rampart it would be impossible to dislodge them, because the rock fell sheer below them twenty feet, or it may be more; while overhead it towered three hundred, and so jutted over that nothing could be cast upon them; even if a man could climb the height. And the access to this portcullis place—if I may so call it, being no portcullis there—was through certain rocky chambers known to the tenants only.

But the cleverest of their devices, and the most puzzling to an enemy, was that, instead of one mouth only, there were three to choose from, with nothing to betoken which was the proper access; all being pretty much alike, and all unfenced, and yawning. And the common rumour was that in times of any danger, when any force was known to be on muster in their neighbourhood, they changed their entranec every day, and diverted the other two, by meaus of sliding doors to the chasms and dark abysses.

Now I could see those three rough arches, jagged, black, and terrible; and I knew that only one of them could lead me to the valley; neither gave the river now any further guidance; but dived underground with a sullen roar, where it met the cross-bar of the mountain. Having no means at all of judging which


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Rh was the right way of the three, and knowing that the other two would lead to almost certain death, in the ruggedness and darkness,—for how could a man, among precipices and bottomless depths of water, without a ray of light, have any chance to save his life?—I do declare that I was half inclined to go away, and have done with it.

However, I knew one thing for certain, to wit that the longer I stayed debating, the more would the enterprise pall upon me, and the less my relish be. And it struck me that, in times of peace, the middle way was the likeliest; and the others diverging right and left in their further parts might be made to slide into it (not far from the entrance), at the pleasure of the warders. Also I took it for good omen that I remembered (as rarely happened) a very fine line in the Latin grammar, whose emphasis and meaning is "middle road is safest."

Therefore, without more hesitation, I plunged into the middle way, holding a long aslı staff before me, shodden at the end with iron. Presently I was in black darkness, groping along the wall, and feeling a deal more fear than I wished to feel; especially when upon looking back I could no longer see the light, which I had forsaken. Then I stumbled over something hard, and sharp, and very cold, moreover so grievous to my legs that it needed my very best doctrine and humour to forbear from swearing, in the manner they use in London. But when I arose, and felt it, and knew it to be a culverin, I was somewhat


text:
Page:JOSA-Vol 06-06.djvu/19

Equivalents in Terms of Fresnels of Wave-lengths in Millimicrons

Adopted as Standard by the Illuminating Engineering Society and the Optical Society

of America 1919-1920.

title: Page:JOSA-Vol 06-06.djvu/19


text: Author:William Weekes Fowler

title: Author:William Weekes Fowler


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Page:Lorna Doone - a romance of Exmoor (IA lornadooneromanc269blac).pdf/112

 reassured thereby; inasmuch as it was not likely that they would plant this engine, except in the real and true entrance.

Therefore I went on again, muore painfully and wearily, and presently found it to be good that I had received that knock, and borne it with such patience; for otherwise I might have blundered full upon the sentries, and been shot without more ado. As it was, I had barely time to draw back, as I turned a corner upon them; and if their lanthorn had been in its place, they could scarce have failed to descry me; unless indeed I had seen the gleam, before I turned the corner.

There seemed to be only two of them, of size indeed and stature as all the Doones must be, but I need not have feared to encounter them both, had they been unarmed, as I was. It was plain, however, that each had a long and heavy carbine, not in his hands (as it should have been), but standing close beside him. Therefore it beloved me now to be exceeding careful; and even that might searce avail, without luck in proportion. So I kept well back at the corner, and laid one cheek to the rock face, and kept my outer eye round the jut, in the wariest mode I could compass, watching my opportunity and this is what I saw.

The two villains looked very happy—which villains have no right to be, but often are, meseemeth—they were sitting in a niche of rock, with the lanthorn in the corner, quaffing something from glass measures, and playing at push-pin, or shepherd's chess, or basset;


text: Author:Louis Pierre Vieillot

title: Author:Louis Pierre Vieillot


text:
Page:Lorna Doone - a romance of Exmoor (IA lornadooneromanc269blac).pdf/113

 or some trivial game of that sort. Each was smoking a long clay pipe, quite of new London shape I could sec, for the shadow was thrown out clearly; and each would laugh from time to time, as he fancied he got the better of it. One was sitting with his knees up, and left hand on his thigh; and this one had his back to me, and seemed to be the stouter. The other leaned more against the rock, half sitting and half astraddle, and wearing leathern overalls, as if newly come from riding. I could see his face quite clearly by the light of the open lanthorn, and a handsomer or a boider face I had seldom, if ever, set eyes upon; insomuch that it made me very unhappy, to think of his being so near my Lorna.

"How long am I to stay crouching here?" I asked of myself at last; being tired of hearing them cry, "score one," "score two," "No, by, Charlie." "By I say it is, Phelps." And yet my only cliance of slipping by them unperceived, was to wait till they quarrelled more, and came to blows about it. Presently as I made up my mind to steal along towards them (for the cavern was pretty wide, just there), Charlie, or Charloworth Doone, the younger and taller man, reached forth his hand to seize the money, which he swore he had won that time. Upon this, the other jerked his arm, vowing that he had no right to it; whereupon Charlie flung at his face the contents of the glass he was sipping, but missed him and hit the candle, which sputtered with a flare of blue flame (from the strength perhaps


text: Page:The Hind and the Panther - Dryden (1687).djvu/134


text:
Page:The New York Times, 1918-11-11.pdf/10

To-day the United War Work Campaign begins. It starts at a supreme moment in human history.

Victory is in the air!

The triumph of all we have been hoping for and all that our boys have been fighting and dying for, may be finally achieved this very day.

Think what all this will mean to the soldiers of our Allies.

Their home folks will sureliy "take the lid off" when their boys come home. Street lights, dimmed now for several years in a thousand cities and towns, to avoid giving direction to enemy air raids, will shine out as never before. Window shades ordered by law to be down at night in millions ofhomes in France and England, will be raised.

The boys of France and Italy can get home immediately. They will march through Paris and Rome to the sound of a nation's cheers. Nothing will be good enough for them; and oh! what it will mean to them to be there among those they love.

And the Tommies! What a time they will have hurrying to the first boat, and, only a few hours later, jumping off at railroad stations and swinging through the streets of their home towns, while bands play and all England shouts its welcome.

Even the Tommies who must stay in France awaiting their turn to go home will get the home papers next morning. Mails next day will be full of letters packed with love and joy. Every Tommy will immediately hear and feel the sense of England's happiness and pride.

One day our boys will come home. It will be the biggest day New York has ever seen. But that day is not yet; 3,000 miles of ocean lie between us.

A few of the boys can return immediately; but hundreds of thousands of them must stay behind―and wait. It will seem a very long time both to them and to us.

What wouldn't we have given―what wouldn't they have given―if they could have been here last Thursday and seen that marvellous celebration. It was premature, to be sure, but the public instinct was sound. The people knew they weren't celebrating a fake; they were celebrating a victory they knew had been won.

And if our own boys could come swinging down the Avenue, those boys who have slept in the mud, who have endured every discomfort, who have faced death in every form―what wouldn't we want to do for them!

No one would count the dollars then; not one of us would stint in his giving.

There is only one real way we can celebrate this victory in a manner which can tangibly express our feelings toward those in the service of Our Country either abroad or in camps in the United States.

The United War Work Campaign gives us this opportunity. Through giving to it we can show our boys the feeling which is in our hearts, and send them our message of gratitude, not at some future time when they return―but now.

The sum of at least $170,500,000 is to be raised for our soldiers and sailors, to add to their comfort and happiness, to help them in the temptations and difficulties, during the period which must elapse until they are safe home again.

The purpose for which this money is to be used, and the methods whereby it is to be spent, have been approved by the Government. The President of the United States has requested that in this campaign a united effort be made by the Y.M.C.A., the Y.W.C.A., the National Catholic War Council, the Jewish Welfare Board, the Salvation Army, the War Camp Community Service and the American Library Association.

Surely one other thought is in our minds at this vital moment; that is, of gratitude that the victory has been won so much sooner than many thought possible.

How anxious we were as these splendid fellows went out from our homes; how thankful we feel now that so many of them will come back again safe and sound.

Let us, then, make the United War Work Campaign both a thank offering and a celebration of Victory.

Let the cables carry a message to the men over there of what we have done to warm their huts and warm their hearts against the cold and the loneliness of this coming winter.

Let our message be expressed not along in the amount contributed, but in the number of those who give.

Let us in New York join the whole American people, and in this hour of victory, by our act of giving, say:

Chairman, Greater New York Committee, UNITED WAR WORK CAMPAIGN.


text: Page:The Hind and the Panther - Dryden (1687).djvu/135


text: The New York Times/1918/11/11/A Message From John D. Rockefeller, Jr.


text: Page:The Hind and the Panther - Dryden (1687).djvu/136


text:
Page:West African Studies.djvu/214

 fetishism and witchcraft may be difficult to trace in the elementary stages, yet from the beginning a true distinction can invariably be recognised. According to this theory, the witch is more nearly allied with rudimentary science than with priestcraft, for he relies not upon prayer, worship, or propitiation of divinities, but upon his own secret knowledge and experience of the effect producible by certain tricks and mysterious devices upon the unseen powers, over whom he has obtained a sort of command. Instead of serving like a priest these powers, he is enabled by his art to make them serve him, and it is for this reason that his practices very soon become denounced and detested by the priesthood."

Now there are many interesting points to be considered in West Africa bearing on the above statement of Sir Alfred Lyall's theory of the nature of witchcraft,—points which I fancy, if carefully considered, would force upon us the strange conclusion that, accepting this theory as a general statement of the nature of witchcraft, there was no witchcraft whatever in West Africa, nothing having "a true distinction" in the native mind from religion. You may say there is no religion and it's all witchcraft, but this is a superficial view to take; you see the orthodox Christian view of witchcraft contains in it an element not present in the West African affair; the Christian regards the witch with hatred as one knowing good, yet choosing evil. The West African has not this choice in his mind; he has to deal with spirits who are not, any of them, up to much in the way of virtue viewed from a human standpoint. I don't say they are all what are called up here devils; a good many of them are what you might call reasonable, respectable, easy-going sort of people; some are downright bad;

title: Page:West African Studies.djvu/214


text:
Page:Cicero (Collins 1871).djvu/178

166 demolishes that grand argument of design which elsewhere he so carefully constructs, and reasons in the very language of materialism: "You assert that all the universe could not have been so ingeniously made without some godlike wisdom, the majesty of which you trace down even to the perfection of bees and ants. Why, then, did the Deity, when he made everything for the sake of man, make such a variety (for instance). of venomous reptiles? Your divine soul is a fiction; it is better to imagine that creation is the result of the laws of nature, and so release the Deity from a great deal of hard work, and me from fear; for which of us, when he thinks that he is an object of divine care, can help feeling an awe of the divine power day and night? But we do not understand even our own bodies; how, then, can we have an eyesight so piercing as to penetrate the mysteries of heaven and earth?"

The treatise, however, is but a disappointing fragment, and the argument is incomplete.

The scene of this dialogue is Cicero's villa at Tusculum. There, in his long gallery, he walks and discusses with his friends the vexed questions of morality. Was death an evil? Was the soul immortal? How could a man best bear pain and the other miseries of life? Was virtue any guarantee for happiness? Then, as now, death was the great problem of humanity—“to die and go we know not where." The

title: Page:Cicero (Collins 1871).djvu/178


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Rh old belief in Elysium and Tartarus had died away; as Cicero himself boldly puts it in another place, such things were no longer even old wives' fables. Either death brought an absolute unconsciousness, or the soul soared into space. "Lex non pœna mors"—"Death is a law, not a penalty"—was the ancient saying. It was, as it were, the close of a banquet or the fall of the curtain. "While we are, death is not; when death has come, we are not."

Cicero brings forward the testimony of past ages to prove that death is not a mere annihilation. Man cannot perish utterly. Heroes are deified; and the spirits of the dead return to us in visions of the night. Somehow or other (he says) there clings to our minds a certain presage of future ages; and so we plant, that our children may reap; we toil, that others may enter into our labours; and it is this life after death, the desire to live in men's mouths for ever, which inspires the patriot and the martyr. Fame to the Roman, even more than to us, was "the last infirmity of noble minds." It was so in a special degree to Cicero. The instinctive sense of immortality, he argues, is strong within us; and as, in the words of the English poet,

so also in death, the Roman said, though in other words—

Believe not then, says Cicero, those old wives' tales, those poetic legends, the terrors of a material hell, or

title: Page:Cicero (Collins 1871).djvu/179


text:
Author:Tariq Stévart

Works

 * Novitates Gabonenses 80. Additions And Corrections to the Flora of Gabon (2011) (contributor)

title: Author:Tariq Stévart


text:
Page:West African Studies.djvu/215

 in fact, I don't think it would be going too far to say that they are all downright bad if they get their tempers up or take a dislike to a man; there is not one of them beneficent to the human race at large. Nzambi is the nearest approach to a beneficent deity I have come across, and I feel she owes much of this to the confusion she profits by, and the Holy Virgin suffers from, in the regions under Nkissism; but Nzambi herself is far from morally perfect and very difficult tempered at times. You need not rely on me in this matter; take the important statement of Dr. Nassau: "Observe, these were distinctly prayers, appeals for mercy, agonising protests; but there was no praise, no love, no thanks, no confession of sin." He was speaking regarding utterances made down there in the face of great afflictions and sorrow; and there was no praise, because there was no love, I fancy; no thanks because what good was done to the human being was a mere boughten thing he had paid for. No confession of sin, because the Fetish believer does not hold he lives in a state of sin, but that it is a thing he can commit now and again if he is fool enough. Sin to him not being what it is to us, a vile treason against a loving Father, but a very ill-advised act against powerful, nasty-tempered spirits. Herein you see lies one difference between the Christian and the Fetish view,—a fundamental one, that must be borne in mind.

Then in the above-quoted passage you will observe that the dislike to witchcraft is traced in a measure to the action of priesthoods. This hatred is undoubted. But witchcraft is as much hated in districts in West Africa where there are no organised priesthoods as in districts

title: Page:West African Studies.djvu/215


text:
Plundered Cargo/Chapter 7

OURTEEN days out from Abalone Cove the Lonney Lee rounded Cape San Lucas, where the bony finger of the peninsula of Lower California is chopped off in a forbidding headland. A fine following wind sent the schooner nosing up into the gulf between peninsula and Mexican mainland.

The Vermilion Sea is the name old Fernando de Alarcon gave to these lonely waters when in 1541 he warped his ship away to the head of the gulf and saw the blood-red waters of the river we-call Colorado staining the blue of delta tides. Though the red silt of the river dyes only shoal water a little way out from the point of discharge, hardly a sunset in a whole year round of perpetual summer that the entire gulf does not justify the name given it by a poetically minded adventurer and become for a magic hour in truth the Vermilion Sea. Even the Sixteenth Century navigators marveled at unique atmospheric conditions above this confined sea which wrought the miracle of turning water into blood with each setting sun.

Loneliest sea between Hudsons [sic] Bay and the Gulf of Panama is this seven-hundred-mile gut of salt water fringed east and: west by mountain-bound deserts. Two decayed ports mark a steamer path on the mainland side; ancient La Paz at the southern end of the peninsula has its occasional visits by craft courteously called steamships. For the rest of the gulf, on its western shore at least, ts vacant water, strewn with numberless uninhabitable island knobs and knowing no keels but those of the forty-foot gasolinas carrying mails, and in season the small craft of the pearl fishers going to the beds in Conception Bay, at the Punta de Santa Inez and Isle of Carmen. Gulf pearls of fabulous price are still to be bought in Paris.

A few dead-and-alive old villages sprawl along the peninsula shore of the Vermilion Sea where fringes of cocoa palms mark secret wells: Loerto the Blest, Mulege, Escondido. Life is as stagnant as dead ditch water it those inhabited spots except in midsummer when men go out to dive for treasure hidden under the mantle of one oyster in a thousand. Then the fervor of the gaming table revivifies slack nerves; a peasant may come home a king.

Of the four kidnapped landsmen aboard the Lonney Lee Doctor Chitterly alone shared with Captain Judah and Mr. Hansen knowledge of the schooner's whereabouts. The skipper made no effort to conceal from his titulary second mate the small black crosses he marked on his chart with each noon's shooting of the sun. Doctor Chitterly watched the procession of those crosses down and around the tip of the peninsula; but as to where they would end at destination Captain Judah gave him no hint. One night, the second after rounding the cape, the doctor saw a faint glow of lights behind an island's high shoulder and guessed La Paz, the capital, lay there. When the schooner kept right on her northing he yielded himself to the gloomiest forebodings. If the skipper was not making for La Paz where in the water wilderness north could he be going?

His vague unrest was by no means allayed when on the third day in gulf waters he found Captain Judah busy in the cabin with a nail puller gouging out nails which held the cover to a long packing case. On that cover a Spanish consignee's name had been lampblacked with the port, “Guaymas,” scrawled beneath and the legend, “Machine Dies,” in one corner.

“Lend a hand here, Mr. Chitterly,” his superior ordered as the last nail came out of the cover. He dropped it to the cabin floor. A double row of new rifles, their barrels greased against sea dampness, lay racked securely in the packing case. Captain Judah handed them up one by one to be stood against the wall by the doctor. At the bottom of the case were wedged two dozen paper boxes of shells in clips.

“Whats the matter, man?' Storrs caught a troubled look in the other's eyes. “Don't you like the look of these fancy machine dies?”

“Well—um—rifles,” the doctor stammered; “perhaps I was not quite prepared to—ah”

“Did you expect to see bon-bons containing paper caps with strings to tie under the chin?” Doctor Chitterly was favored with a bland smile. “Come, come, Mr. Chitterly, I wouldn't pick you for a milksop!”

“I have never been accused of being that,” was the answer given with great dignity.

“Of course not! You remember what I said to you one night on the run down: how I'd put thousands in your pocket if you'd stick by me. Well, Mr. Chitterly, you do not have to be told that in this rough-and-ready world folks don't pick up thousands without fighting for them.

“And machine dies—” the skipper gave one of his tight lipped smiles—“machine dies are right handsome things to have handy in a fight. Now take this rag and be so good as to wipe the grease off those barrels before we stow our little trinkets away.”

While the worthy doctor was not an arrant pacifist, it was true that in his way through life he had made it a practice to cut a wide corner around ugly violence. He had relied upon the power of the word rather than a smash from the fist to lift him over rough going. He abhorred anything savoring of crude force.

Indeed, the uncovering of rifles secretly shipped left the discoverer of Squaw Root Tonic in a most chaotic frame of mind approaching outright funk. Here in this lonely sea suddenly was disclosed a very tangible portent of dirty work ahead, dirty work in which the captain of the Lonney Lee evidently expected him to take a hand. It appeared to be tacitly understood that he, a peace loving man, was going to shoot somebody, or several persons, as yet unknown, in order that he might share in ill gotten thousands.

Who might be the ones destined to receive those slender steel points which the doctor had viewed with a slight shudder upon the opening of one of the paper shell boxes? Where would they be found? When?

Moreover, Captain Judah had not spoken of a massacre; it was a fight which lay ahead somewhere in this bleak waste of waters. And a fight of presupposed give and take in the matter of steel-jacketed bullets. Glory be! If there could be one thing the good doctor abhorred over shooting somebody else it would be the experience of having somebody else shoot at him. Once or twice in his lifetime he had been shot at; recollection of that experience always made his entire internal machinery turn over. A knife wound—he'd seen them in others—might be bearable if not fatal. Nasty, of course, and something to be avoided at all hazards. But to receive perforations from a steel slug traveling with the speed of light—ugh!

The doctor's secondary reaction to the uncovering of the rifles was a sense of great loneliness. There was nobody on the schooner with whom he could take counsel. The Iron Man was a swine; he had hidden behind a flour barrel in the galley that epic moment of the assault upon Angelo the flute player. Angelo himself was unquestionably crazy, or far enough off his balance to deny the worth of any confidences. Spike Horn, then

With him Doctor Chitterly had had little to do since that fatal hour of their kidnapping. The young man was a violent person, although he had the doctor's secret sympathy in his defiance of Captain Judah. Then, too, the doctor was half inclined to believe what Storrs had told him: that Horn was allied with that mysterious enemy who was out to double-cross Storrs—doubtless the enemy against which rifles had been provided. How could Chitterly be sure one way or the other? All he knew about Horn was what that exuberant youth himself had told him after climbing down the struts of a Ferris wheel to the doctor's car.

But to Spike he went, nevertheless, for comfort and counsel in his dire stress of mind. The night following the uncrating of the rifles when the skipper was busy in his cabin Doctor Chitterly found Spike alone by the windlass smoking the butt of the third stolen cigar. He told him what Storrs had revealed as to the imminence of a fight and the circumstance of the rifles.

Spike heard him through without comment. Then when the doctor paused, “Well, Doc, looks like we can get the game in our own hands.”

Doctor Chitterly vented an incredulous whistle.

“You know where Storrs put those guns, don't you?” from Spike.

“Yes, in a locker under one of the cabin seats.”

“Shells there, too?”

The doctor nodded.

“Is there a lock on that locker?”

“I didn't see any padlock. Maybe it closes with a spring lock, But my dear fellow”

Spike waved down the doctor's rising objection. He rushed on in an eager undertone.

“Like this, Doc! Tonight when that Swede Hansen's on the middle watch—old Storrs snoring in his cabin—you slip out of the hay minute two bells sound. I'll've crawled along the deck right up to the cabin hatch. You find me there. We gumshoe into Storrs' cabin and tap him once with one of these marlin spike dinguses or somethin'. Then us for the guns—and the schooner's ours.”

Doctor Chitterly was appalled.

“My dear boy! That's mutiny, and Captain Storrs could hang us for less than that.” The doctor's juvenile reading taught him that where mutiny at sea was, a tidy hanging hovered in the offing.

“Mutiny be damned! How's he goin' hang us if we've got him where we want him? You poor goat! Talk about hanging when you come to me, an' you're like to get shot. I tell you, let me an' you get hands on a rifle apiece an' in five minutes we're running this ole soap-dish! The Swede we'll tie up with the skipper. We give the Wop an' that big stiff, the Iron Man, a gun each to watch the Chinks, an' there you are!”

“But,” the doctor interposed with fluttering breath, “suppose all goes well and we get control of the ship, you and I don't know how to run it. Where would we take her?”

“Like hell I don't know how to run this scow!” was Spikes confident rejoinder. “Where 'bouts are we, anyway?”

“In the Gulf of California,” Chitterly answered.

“I don't know where that is; but I can see land over yonder. That's enough for me. We'll steer for land. Me for that!”

“And wreck the ship?” Doctor Chitterly quavered. Spike suddenly put his face very close to the Chitterly beard and hissed at him.

“You ain't got the guts of a louse, Chitterly. You're the kind of a feller that teaches penmanship in a young ladies' seminary and takes tea with cream puffs every afternoon at five. Cripes, but you give me a pain!”

All unwittingly the headstrong Mr. Horn had plucked just the right chord in the worthy physician's soul scale to bring him to support the hairbrained scheme. Doctor Chitterly drew himself up to stiff dignity.

“Young fellow, no man can impute cowardice to Old Doctor Chitterly and not live to regret it. I expect, sir, that when we have made ourselves masters of this ship you will come to me with appropriate apology.”

“Good kid!” was Spike's irreverent approval, and the doctor felt his hand in a strong grasp. “At two bells I'll be at the cabin hatch.”

“At two bells, then, I'll be waiting for you,” said the doctor.

title: Plundered Cargo/Chapter 7


text:
Plundered Cargo/Chapter 8

HITE-HOT day drew to a close with an explosion of celestial fireworks behind the ragged line of mountains marking the peninsula, hot furnace red illuminating the plumes of horse-tail clouds, then cooling to umber and ice green. With up-creeping shadows the mountain tips remained each a burning carbon point of incandescence slowly cindering to blackness. The wind had fallen with evening, and the Lonney Lee was drifting lazily under puffy airs. The Isle of Carmen,  a broad-backed water monster rising from the slime of a prehistoric sea, was so close off the port bow the white of its surf line winked through gathering dusk.

Doctor Chitterly was set for the first watch, taking his place at the wheel; for Captain Judah now trusted him to con the vessel when no weather was abroad. Horn was lookout in the bow; occasionally the doctor could see the youth's blocky figure silhouetted against the stars by the schooner's lift to a long roller. Hansen and the skipper both were below. Before five bells light which had streamed up through the cabin skylight was snuffed out. A sound of snores succeeded.

The hours following the doctor's joining of a conspiracy with the rash Spike Horn had become increasingly freighted with misery for him. He felt he was flirting with the working parts of a volcano. He was positive that before another sunrise he would be shot or hanged by the competent Captain Judah. And to die in this desolate Vermilion Sea with no sepulcher but the alimentary tract of a shark would be a taking-off of a downright melancholiness beyond the power of imagination to conjure. Absently the worthy physician felt of the heavy gold links of his watch chain and wondered how much digestive trouble they would give a shark.

Time and again as the hours marched toward the moment of tryst set with Spike an hysteria of panic seized the elderly gentleman at the wheel, and he was on the point of lashing the spokes and rushing down to awaken Captain Judah to a recital of treachery planned. Yet a fine spark of honor burned to prevent his doing that thing. He had given his word to the rash youth from Goldfield. Old Doctor Chitterly's word was of greater worth than the printed promises on his bottles of nostrums. Perhaps in his inner soul the fine old fraud held to the integrity of his word as somehow redeeming the shams of his years with the medicine wagon.

Ah, that medicine wagon! Now on the eve of his sudden demise the doctor visioned it as a faithful servant dumbly awaiting the return of the master to the San Francisco livery stable where it had been stored. He saw it in its black and gold body, like the body of a hotel bus without a top; the shining brass rail running along its sides to the brass-treaded steps at the back. Letters of gold spelled “Squaw Root Tonic” over its wheels. Two sleek black horses, wearing black fly nets in summer time like hearse horses, were at the pole.

The gasoline flare beneath the elevated drum; crowd of shirt-sleeved men, and women in summer organdies, pressing close under the flare's radiance; the chart on its rack with its movable flaps which came away in a horrid succession of revelations concerning the human mechanism

“—And now the liver, friends—that treacherous organ which the ancient Romans believed to house the seat of human emotions”

Spike Horn, up forward, struck eight bells. Mr. Hansen came on deck to take the wheel and the watch. Doctor Chitterly went below to his bunk with the step of an early Christian martyr who knows there will be no rain checks at the Colosseum the day of his engagement with the lions. He lay in a profuse perspiration awaiting the striking of two bells, which would mark the moment of his rendezvous with death.

At the first stroke of the fatal bell Doctor Chitterly was out of his bunk, and in shirt and stockinged feet he tiptoed into the cabin. Captain Judah's measured snoring reassured his fluttering heart beats. He groped his way to the locker seat beneath which he had seen the guns stowed. The seat lifted easily. A swift exploratory hand encountered the outlines of rifle barrels. The doctor lifted two from the pile, lowered the locker seat and stepped to the short flight leading to the deck.

The figure of Spike Horn was glued against the coaming of the hatch. The doctor passed him one of the rifles without a word.

“You handle Hansen,” Spike whispered. “Keep him at the wheel and covered; and stand off any rush of the Chinks—maybe they'll start somethin' if there's any fracas. Me, I'll settle Storrs' hash.”

Spike slipped like a shadow down the steps into the cabin. Just that chilling instant of action a little bell struck warningly under Chitterly's snowy thatch. Shells! He had forgotten to put shells into the two rifles which were to accomplish a mutiny!

Doctor Chitterly vented a low groan; then he threw down his head and advanced, rifle to shoulder and cheek laid professionally along the stock, upon the spot where the binnacle threw a light upon the torso of Mr. Hansen behind the wheel.

“Throw up your hands—no—keep them on the wheel!” The doctor amended his order hurriedly. Sighting along the rifle barrel into the wooden countenance of the first mate, Doctor Chitterly was a little dashed to read no sign of surprise there. Mr. Hansen's expression was the normal one of a cigar store Indian. He said nothing. He just let his small blue eyes turn once to the star dappled darkness beyond the bowsprit. Doctor Chitterly was decidedly disappointed. He'd felt the moment called for some very stern words from him.

But this mutiny business was not to pass dully.

Suddenly there was a crash of splintered wood from the cabin beneath their feet. Then a shot—another.

Doctor Chitterly knew those shots must come from Captain Judah's revolver. The miserable Horn—so lightning calculation ran with the doctor—was shot down with his useless rifle.

The white haired mutineer swayed a little in his tense pose of alertness. His back was to the hatchway. He would not hear that third shot which inevitably must be fired at him any instant now.

But there was no third shot. Instead, through the open gratings of the deckhouse came sounds of desperate struggle in the black pit below, thud of blows, coughing grunts of men struck, creak and smash of cabin fittings splintered under the impact of locked bodies, all the bestial noises of brute men in battle.

Diversion came from for'ard. At the first shot the Chinese lookout on the fo'c's'le head emitted a thin yell and dived down the companionway into the sleeping hole beneath. Straightway the other Chinks of the crew, plus the Iron Man and Angelo the flute player, erupted thence. Through the tail of his eye the doctor thought he saw knives in the hands of the yellow men as they edged uncertainly down past the foremast.

Suddenly the doctor jumped to the top of the deckhouse and half turned so that his rifle might menace any rush from for'ard while still keeping the mate in its hollow threat. He called to the two white men from the fo'c's'le:

“Men, this is mutiny! Watch those Chinamen and don't let them rush me or we'll all hang together at dawn.”

The intrepid flute player ducked like a cat for a windlass bar and turned to face the Chinamen. The Iron Man dropped his craven bulk back through the fo'c's'le hatch to the security of his bunk.

The issue on the Lonney Lee's deck might have been decidedly hazardous, what with the doctor and his useless rifle and Angelo's stave against a Swede and six Chinamen, had not the balance been unexpectedly turned. A sudden dropping of the uproar in the cabin below was followed by the flash of light through the gratings in the house. After a moment Spike Horn stepped on deck.

He took a step forward toward the huddle of Chinese, dropped on a knee and sent two bullets whining over their skulls. They whirled and scurried like rats for the fo'c's'le.

Horn mounted the deckhouse where Doctor Chitterly had relaxed his guard over the unperturbed Hansen.

“Doc, you ding-donged ole rooster! How come you sent me up against Storrs with no shells in my gun an' left me to find 'em when the fun was over? But at that I guess you've got some thanks comin'. I had to beat him unconscious with my own two lily-white mitts.”

Doctor Chitterly threw open the ejector of his rifle to show an empty chamber. “I thought it more worthy to have our mutiny without violence,” he lied magnificently.

“'Thout violence?” Spike boomed exultantly. “What you think I been doin': teachin' a Chinese lady the language of flowers?”

In ten minutes the stolid Mr. Hansen was tied in his bunk. Captain Judah, still unconscious from a terrific drubbing, lay similarly bound behind a door which Spike had been forced to splinter to bring the combat to the skipper. The Chinese crew, quick to accept change of masters, was docile.

Angelo suddenly dived into his galley and, returning to the deck, seated himself on a rope coil.

Into the still night of the Vermilion Sea went winging the first shrill notes of a Spanish bolero. Angelo was christening his new flute made out of a bamboo broom handle.

title: Plundered Cargo/Chapter 8


text:
Plundered Cargo/Chapter 9

PIKE HORN'S first act after successful overturn of authority aboard the Lonney Lee was to go down into the cabin and rummage among the effects of the unconscious skipper. He came on deck with a cigar spearing through his grin of triumph. That flower of Havana was incense burned on the altar of victory. The waxing and waning of the glow at its tip gave quick-shutter pictures of a gargoyle mask which was Spike's battered countenance.

Doctor Chitterly was at the wheel, his rifle, now loaded, conveniently propped against the binnacle. On the edge of the deckhouse beyond the glow of the binnacle light sat the Iron Man. Angelo was for'ard giving his starved soul to music. Not a Chinaman was to be seen; with true Oriental stoicism they had accepted a changed situation and waited to test the mettle of whatever new master fate might order.

Spike stopped in front of the Iron Man and gave him a truculent stare. “Who asked you back here?” he wanted to know.

“Looks like I don't have to get an invite now.” The Iron Man tried to match the hardihood in his voice to Spike's. “We're runnin' this floatin' coffin now, looks like.”

“'We'!” the man from Goldfield mocked. Then he called over the binnacle to the doctor, “Doc, where was this big boloney sausage when you was holdin' the deck alone against Hansen an' the six Chinks—me down below havin' a little pasear with ole Storrs? Where'd you see him?”

“I did not see him at all, Horn,” Doctor Chitterly answered accusingly. Spike turned again on the Iron Man.

“How come?”

“Guess I was doin' my share in the fo'c's'le,” he mumbled. “When that shot went off—the first one, I mean—two Chinks come over to my bunk an' wrastled me. One held my legs; t'other one give me an awful fight with somepin hard—felt like a bar of iron. All over the top of the head he give me that fight, an'”

“Les see.” Spike's hand shot out, gripped the Iron Man's collar and dragged him over to hold his head in the light of the binnacle. His free hand explored the expanse of wiry hair.

“Where's your bumps?” Spike's question might have come from an examining judge on his bench. The Iron Man, held in this undignified position with an inexorable fist slowly strangling him by its grip on the neckband of his shirt, vented a sound which was surprisingly like a snivel.

“My God, gents! I don't get no bumps on the head after—after the big one a guy give me six years ago. I—I take bumps on the head like I take 'em other places—'thout a mark. Say, gents, don't make me go up with those Chinks, now that yuh've broken away from that fo'c's'le place!”

Horn gave the Iron Man a shove back against the coaming of the house, glared at him—and then suddenly burst out laughing at the ludicrous abjectness of him. He turned to the doctor.

“Doc, what'll we do with this beauty?”

The soft hearted doctor stroked his beard reflectively a moment or two.

“Well, suppose we let him stay with us,” he said. “He obviously can't hurt us.”

“Right,” seconded Horn. And the Iron Man sighed with relief.

O far as matters of navigation and the outward peace of the schooner went, when dawn broke on the Lonney Lee's first day under amateur management, things could not have shaped up better. Doctor Chitterly, still at the wheel, was holding the bowsprit to the course marked out for him by the stolid Mr. Hansen just before he submitted to being bound and carried to his bunk below. By luck there didn't happen to be any islands or shoal water along that course. Nor had any stiffening of the wind prompted the good doctor to shorten sail. He wouldn't have known how if the occasion had arisen. The Lonney Lee was making her slow northing about twenty miles off shore when the sunrise glory in the east lighted the mountains of the peninsula.

Angelo went to his galley. The Iron Man accompanied him to do the humble things with breakfast pots and pans. The Chinamen for'ard came blinking out of their hole. Unbidden, three of them took to swabbing down the maindeck without orders as evidence of good faith under a changed management.

Spike Horn went down into the cabin to see how Captain Judah might be faring. Now that he had worsted the worthy skipper in stand-up fight, his bare knuckles against the other's fists plus a revolver, the man from Goldfield could afford to be magnanimous. All the murder poison which had been engendered in Spike's veins when he was chipping the anchor chain with the mark of the Storrs boot fresh on his cheek had been dissipated by that berserker battle in the dark.

He came under the saturnine stare of the skipper's eyes the instant he entered the latter's wrecked quarters: eyes fully alight with reason and a sort of impersonal fury. Storrs lay as he had been left, with hands bound behind his back and feet laced to a stanchion at the foot of his bunk. His face was not pleasant to see. Spike had played considerable havoc with it.

“Well, Horn, you've thought better of your folly and have come to release me?” Captain Judah's soft voice carried almost a burlesque quality by contrast with his brutalized features.

“You got another guess, Cap,” was Spike's hearty denial. “Just come down to figure out a way to slip you some coffee 'thout giving you a chance to start something. If you were a horse, I'd know what to do—hobble you.”

He went to the folding bowl on a bulkhead wall, soaked a towel in water and clumsily bathed the blood from the skipper's face. Here was a simple gesture of charity which might have moved a heart less embittered than Captain Judah's. The man mumbled at him from under the wet cloth:

“How long do you think, Horn, you and your bunch of crazy handsmen can keep my schooner off the rocks? Not one of you that knows as much about navigation as one of those Chinamen for'ard.”

“We won't keep her off the rocks long, Cap, if rocks mean shore. We're goin' ashore, schooner or no schooner, soon's we get breakfast.” Spike gave his answer cheerily.

Captain Judah writhed in impotent rage. “What! Deliberately wreck the Lonney Lee on this bare beach, and with Sabina reckoning yesterday? Oh, you black swine!”

Spike grinned with utmost humor and carefully swabbed a bit of clotted blood from the skipper's chin.

“Sabina Island? Where does she fit into the picture? Me, I've seen enough islands to last a lifetime. Reckon I can give this Sabina the go-by an' not feel broke up about it.”

“Quit your damn' foolishness, Horn?” Captain Judah snarled. “You know well as I do your business aboard this schooner was to keep me from getting to Sabina Island—to hold me off until your gang could hop from San Francisco down to Guaymas and run over there to get—to get what is mine by right!”

Spike walked over to soak the towel anew. Here was the master of the Lonney Lee off again on that mysterious hunch of his about a decent young fellah named Spike Horn trying to doublecross him. Same sort of bunk Storrs had talked that night in the house of the cabbage fields when he found Spike's bankbook showing the deposit of one hundred thousand dollars. Must be a big stake behind all this. Something phoney.

Spike Horn was a gambler in blind chances. He might try sinking an explanatory shaft to tap this blind business; maybe something doing for ole Spike.

“Gap,” he began with mock seriousness, “I'm just a young fellah tryin' to get along in the world and followin' the Golden Rule wherever she leads. Maybe so I'd listen to reason; who knows?”

He sat on the edge of Storrs' bunk in an attitude suggesting an invitation to confidences. A crafty gleam shot through the bound man's eyes and was as quickly smudged. What his ears told him was that this fellow Horn, for the minute holding the upper hand, was willing to sell out, at a price. Horn would play both ends against the middle—so Captain Judah appraised his intention—and, having already been paid a fat price by the other side, would now attempt to bleed him, Storrs, as the price of restoring his schooner to him and making possible the gaining of Sabina Island in time. Captain Judah did some quick calculating.

“Horn,” he began with an air of crafty deliberation, “the difference between you and me—between your gang and me, let us say—is that you fellows guess the value of what lies at Sabina. I know to the last dollar piece what that value is. You fellows are taking a flyer on a gamble; I'm playing a sure thing. Does that circumstance tell you anything?”

“Not much,” Spike grinned noncommittally.

“Doesn't it mean that I can talk cold turkey?” Captain Judah asked. Spike gave him a shrug of the shoulders. “Well, then, let's get down to tacks. What's your price for restoring the Lonney Lee to me?”

That hit Horn under his guard. A game of discovery into which he had entered casually but a moment ago appeared to have become suddenly a bonanza lure. Here was a turn! Yesterday he was a shanghaied sailor sweating under the heel of a bitter-hard master; now before breakfast he was asked to name his price in a deal as far from his ken as the ultimate fixed star. Spike took a shot at the moon.

“You're so cock-sure about what the stuff's worth—what lies on Sabina Island, Į mean. Why not name that figure so's we can tell where we stand?”

Cold blue eyes stared up at him unwinkingly. “Two hundred thousand,” was the skipper's answer.

Spike was wearing his poker face. Not so much as the tweak of an eyebrow registered.

“Well, Storrs, figuring on two hundred thousand, how much is it worth to you to go up on deck and put your two hands to the wheel once more?”

“Ten thousand dollars.” Spike tipped back his head and laughed.

“Goodness gracious, Claudine, aren't you a spender!” he mocked. “I raise you a cold forty thousand.”

The man in the bunk fumed and swore. Horn sat tight. Finally Storrs met the terms named. A monitory finger was wagged before the captain's nose.

“Here's the other terms,” Spike dictated. “First thing you do when I untie your hands is to sign a contract which I'll draw up an' which'll say you agree to pay the party of the second part fifty thousand dollars by draft on the Wells Fargo Bank the day the Lonney Lee ties up in San Francisco. Item two: you'll run the schooner but you'll take orders from me any time I have a mind to give 'em. Item three: you'll turn over to me one box of a hundred prime Havana cigars an' receive from me in gold their price at the market—an' we won't have any of 'em boiled, either.”

Captain Storrs nodded assent. Horn stooped over and picked up the skipper's revolver where it lay amid the débris of the fight. He pawed over a shelf above the skipper's head and brought down three boxes of cartridges.

“These little nick-nacks stay by me until we wind up our little business affair,” he said. “We don't want you to be a bad boy any longer, Cap. Now, I'll fetch you down some of Angelo's prime coffee.”

He quit Storrs' quarters, but he did not go to the galley for coffee immediately. Instead he gathered into his arms all the pretty new rifles left in the cabin locker—his own and the doctor's were on deck—and carrying them up to the weather rail he dropped them into the gulf. The ammunition he stowed in a cache of his own choosing and behind a padlock. That left, so far as he knew, two rifles and a revolver the only weapons aboard, and in safe hands.

Then he brought Captain Judah his coffee.

Fifteen minutes later Doctor Chitterly, who was having his breakfast on the deckhouse so that he could have an eye to the Chinaman at the wheel, was thunderstruck to see Captain Storrs and Mr. Hansen emerge from the cabin hatchway. Spike Horn had his arm, in its shreds of silk shirt, linked through the skipper's.

title: Plundered Cargo/Chapter 9


text:
Plundered Cargo/Chapter 10

HE situation which was wrought aboard the Lonney Lee by the headstrong Spike Horn's taking a flyer at a hint of fortune was one wherein interesting possibilities inhered. For now the schooner drifted over the seething Vermilion Sea under the piratical flag of the Double Cross.

At one o'clock in the morning the craft had been in mutiny, with the master beaten and bound in his bunk by one of the crew; another of that crew overawing the deck by the threat of a rifle. At sun-up the captain was restored to limited authority, free to con his craft on its appointed course but subject to reversal at any minute. Two loaded rifles and his own revolver still remained in the hands of the twain that had mutinied. In those three steel tubes rested tricky balance of power.

Needless to say that Captain Judah Storrs, who had put his signature to a contract drawn by Horn as the price of salvaging his own mysterious schemes from total wreck, was this dawn perhaps the most dangerous man in any cranny of Pacific waters. He was a muzzled tiger biding opportunity to rend the man who had mastered him. Convinced now beyond a shadow of a doubt that Spike Horn had contrived the night's violence only to coerce him into a division of spoils, the nature and value of which Horn must know full well, Skipper Storrs trod his quarterdeck in a cold killing fury. Give him so much as a hair of advantage and he would wipe out the contract by destroying the man who drew it.

As for Doctor Chitterly, from the moment he saw Captain Judah and Mr. Hansen escorted by Spike back to freedom he moved in a gray haze. Still in that haze he appended his signature alongside that of the mate as witness to a document Horn brusquely had bidden him sign. He knew nothing of its purport; nor in his confusion could he muster enough curiosity to ask about it.

Old Doctor Chitterly was grievously hurt. He had been doublecrossed by Spike Horn. He had been left somehow holding the bag. He had been made the victim of a shell game.

Above all, the discoverer of Squaw Root Tonic was fear-ridden. Here he had been bullied into rising against Captain Judah that he might escape fighting with unknowns somewhere ahead of the Lonney Lee's cutwater, and of a sudden the schooner itself had become a death trap. Menace was right at his elbow. He read it in the cold blue eye of Storrs. He felt the presence of violence lurking behind the masts and hiding in the black hole of the fo'c's'le. But for his rifle, which he kept glued into the angle of his left elbow, the doctor felt he walked naked in a rattlesnake den.

He strode moodily to the rail in the schooner's waist and stood looking out over the magic of dawn's revelations. What with absence of sleep and twittering of nerves, a dreadful unreality clothed everything he saw. Near at hand the sea smoked with low hanging mists, oily and sluggish as engine room steam. A little off to westward these mist serpents wound their fat folds about the bulk of an island rising bare as an elephant's back over a white surf line. The mountain peak of another island behind appeared to float on dirty cotton wool. Over against the horizon the sierra of the peninsula burned rose-pink from a hidden sun; mysterious, aloof, like the furnace grids of hell.

Emptiness! A cold sea awaiting the day's scourge of heat. Islands of the moon. Dim land of nightmare.

“Oh, God, Thou seest me!” groaned Doctor Chitterly. His call to divinity was that of a little boy on dark stairs.

Spike Horn came swaggering up to him. His silk shirt was held together only by the neckband and gapped over his naked middle. He carried Captain Judah's revolver stuck behind the waistband of his trousers and the second rifle of the late mutiny armament slung hunter-wise in the crook of his left arm—as untidy a pirate as one could well expect to find in the end of the nineteenth century.

“Well, Doc, how goes it?” This with forced cordiality. Doctor Chitterly gave him a distant sweep of the eyes and turned again to watch the fat mist serpents strangling the nearby island. Spike grunted a chopped-off laugh.

“I'm not sore, Doc? 'S all for the best, as the cat said when she swallered the goldfish.”

All the sense of outrage in the worthy practitioner's soul boiled up at the affront of the other's breeziness. He turned upon the rag-tag Horn, cocked his hoary beard at him truculently and whiffled through his nose like an exasperated horse.

“Young fellow, I do not care to have anything more to do with you. You have betrayed my trust in you, outraged every principle of honor. Last night I risked my life at your suggestion, sir. I—um—did my not unworthy part in seizing control of this vessel so that we might quit her at first opportunity and return to—ah—our normal walks of life.

“And what do you do behind my back—and for some wretched motive I have not the least interest in learning? What do you do, young fellow, but turn loose a man who will kill us both first chance he gets and who now is free again to carry the unfortunate men aboard this schooner into lurking dangers. Why”

“Say, looky here!” Spike began: but Doctor Chitterly was not to be stopped. Under their heavy white thatches his little eyes were striking fire. His beard crinkled with wrath.

“You do not know, of course,” the doctor ramped on, “that before we'd been out a week from that place where we were kidnapped this man Storrs approached me with a dishonorable proposal which involved my shooting you. His very words: 'Horn will be the first you'll have to drill with a lead slug.' For shooting you I was to share with him in some dirty thousands of dollars—doubtless the same blood money which he has used to tempt you to betrayal of your companions. And I scorned him, sir—scorned him!”

The oratorical opportunities of the moment were tempting Doctor Chitterly into taking some latitude with facts, a minor circumstance with him. He thought he saw the other's features fall in shame and thundered on.

“Now, sir, I make no requests of one of your stamp. I—um—demand that if you think you are master of this ship you put me ashore. I will have none of your rotten conspiracies—will be no party to them. I—ah”

Doctor Chitterly's jaw hung open on his last word. He stared stupefiedly at Horn. The latter had dropped his rifle to clamp it between his knees so as to give his arms play for a violent flapping motion. He bent swiftly forward and back from the waist with a strange mechanical. jerk, and with each forward ducking he uttered a burbling note, “Cuckoo—cuckoo—cuckoo!”

“You're a—a pip!” the doctor snorted. “A hyperborean pip!”

He turned and strode down the deck.

At seven bells of the morning watch, a scant two hours after Captain Judah found himself again master, with reservations, of the Lonney Lee, destination of this mystery voyage suddenly loomed before the eyes of the landsmen aboard. The island which Doctor Chitterly had watched under the strangling coils of the mist serpents and along the shore had been drifting since first  streak of dawn, lifted  its contour to a bald headland at its northern end. Captain Judah, at the wheel, brought the head of the schooner around a few points so that her course was laid straight for the rocky foot of that headland cliff. He sent a Chinaman for'ard to heave a line from the cathead.

Tension settled upon every man aboard at these signs of imminent anchorage. The yellow men gathered at the foot of the foremast, shading their eyes under the brims of their wicker hats, like rank toadstools, to peer shoreward. Angelo and the Iron Man ducked out of the galley with dishrags in hands. Doctor Chitterly ceased his lonely pacing to stare at the forbidding shore line.

Storrs bawled orders which galvanized the Chinamen into action. Sail was shortened until only a jib and reefed mains'l caught the light airs stirring. All preparations were made for dropping anchor. Mr. Hansen took the tarpaulin off the auxiliary gasoline engine.

Horn the irrepressible took his stand behind Captain Judah, his rifle still ostentatiously at the ready. His was the thrill of the man at the green baize table who draws one card to fill a straight. Spike had taken a wild gamble on a blind hand and now the hidden card was about to be revealed.

The Lonney Lee crept by inches nearer to the line of lazy surf churning against the shore rocks. The high hump of the island towered above her, a mountain slope burned cinder brown by the sun and utterly barren—not so much as a clump of sage to break the dun monotony.

The cliff suddenly felt back revealing a cove perhaps a half-mile deep. Squarely in the middle of the shallow dish of blue water a steamer was stranded, bow high against the sands where the first line of rollers broke.

There was something startling in this sudden revelation. After a fortnight of vacant ocean—not so much as a plume of steamer smoke south of Sam Diego—to plump upon a ship here in this outland cove. Here was a Crusoe of craft desolate in its desert harbor.

Save for the canting of its bow the steamer might have been snugly at anchor awaiting passengers and cargo so far as the eyes of the Lonney Lee could determine. Only Captain Judah's practiced eye, reinforced by binoculars, could detect the sagging of stays betokening masts loosened by the waves' pounding, and a cant to the funnel. The steamer was of the common coastwise type plying Pacific ports; around two thousand tons; engines set aft; grubby looking with its black hull and dingy green superstructure—a tramp in every line.

The Stars and Stripes floated, union down, from the main truck.

The Lonney Lee crept into the shallow cove and dropped anchor in shoal water about a hundred yards away from the abandoned ship.

Once the hook was down and the schooner rode on a short cable, Captain Judah ordered the yawl overside. Two Chinamen lowered away and scrambled down to take their places at the oars. The skipper had one foot on the rail prepared to swing down when Spike, timing his casual stride down the deck, intercepted him.

“Figurin' on takin' a little trip, Cap?” Storrs gave him a flicker from baleful eyes and nodded curtly.

“I don't hear any invites to go long.” Spike thrust out his chin provocatively.

“None has been offered,” was the curt reply.

“Thanks, just the same; I'll go.” He dropped overside with his rifle, plumped himself in the stern sheets and indicated where Captain Judah should sit forward of the Chinese oarsmen. The yawl pushed off.

title: Plundered Cargo/Chapter 10