*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 51061 ***

  Table of Contents


                                                        Page

  Short Stories.                                         419

  Whale v. Sharks.                                       419

  A Battle in Mid-air.                                   422

  Up in a Balloon.                                       425

  Some “Freak” Memorials.                                428

  DOWN THE CHUTE: A Miner’s Extraordinary Experience.    436

  Where Women Wear Trousers.                             443

  Retribution.                                           451

  Mountain Tragedies of the Lake District.               457

  Cupid and the Dentist.                                 464

  My Experiences in Algeria.                             469

  I.—MY ADVENTURES IN ‘FRISCO.                           476

  II.—A Sharp Lesson.                                    480

  III.—“Seeing It Out.”                                  485

  In the Land of the Reindeer.                           489

  “Tapu.”                                                497

  The Finches’ Festival.                                 503

  The Fight at The A-T Ranch.                            509

  THE WIDE WORLD: In Other Magazines                     515

  Odds and Ends.                                         516

[Illustration: “WILLIAMS LASHED AT THE BIRD WITH HIS STICK.”

(SEE PAGE 424.)]




THE WIDE WORLD MAGAZINE.

  Vol. XXII.      FEBRUARY, 1909.      No. 131

[Illustration: SHORT STORIES.]

    Another instalment of a fascinating budget of adventure
    narratives. This month we publish accounts of a fight to the
    death between a whale and a school of thresher sharks; a
    nest-robber’s terrible battle with an infuriated mother-eagle;
    and the nerve-trying experience which befell a Surrey cyclist
    while out for a Saturday afternoon spin.




WHALE _v._ SHARKS.

BY VICTOR PITT-KETHLEY.


Early on the morning of August 14th last, while engaged in building new
quarters for the lighthouse-keeper at Breaksea Island, near Rottnest,
Western Australia, the contractor and his men noticed a bull whale,
with a cow and calf, passing the island some distance off. They watched
them with interest for awhile, noting the immense size of the two
parents and the methodical regularity with which columns of water rose
from their blowholes, and then resumed their labours.

An hour or so later--about nine o’clock, to be exact--the men were
startled by an extraordinary noise, apparently coming from the eastern
end of the island, a noise unlike anything they had ever heard before.
Dropping their tools and staring towards the east, they beheld such a
sight as it falls to the lot of few people to witness. There, not five
hundred yards from the shore, was being waged a battle to the death--a
fight between the great cow whale previously seen and a school of
thresher sharks. The calf was swimming about distractedly, but the old
bull had disappeared, having basely deserted his family at the first
approach of danger.

The sharks, as though acting in accordance with some preconcerted plan,
had completely surrounded the two whales, and, apparently realizing
that nothing was to be feared from the calf, concentrated all their
efforts upon the cow. Again and again they charged in upon her, their
jaws snapping, tearing at her mighty sides until the sea was red
with blood. Meanwhile the cow lashed her tail furiously, hurling up
sheets of reddened water and occasionally crashing down with terrific
force upon one of her voracious opponents. Maddened with pain and
rage, she dashed this way and that, but the sharks hung to her side
with a persistency and ferocity that made the fascinated onlookers
shudder. Now and again the wildly-lashing tail would catch one of
the assailants, driving it beneath the waves--no doubt killed or
disabled--but the remainder rushed in undismayed, tearing viciously
at the mammal’s bleeding flanks or butting her with the force of
battering-rams.

[Illustration: “BY A SUPREME EFFORT SHE HURLED HER WHOLE GREAT BULK
CLEAR OF THE WATER.”]

Presently the spellbound spectators realized two facts--firstly, that
the calf had disappeared in the _mêlée_, and secondly, that, the
tortured whale was undoubtedly becoming weaker. It was obvious that the
unequal struggle could have only one ending. Still, however, she
fought on doggedly, winning admiration and sympathy by her exhibition
of hopeless courage. Altering her tactics, by a supreme effort she
hurled her whole great bulk clear of the water for a moment, and the
fascinated onlookers beheld the sharks hanging from various parts of
her gleaming body by their serrated teeth. Then down she went again,
with a crash like thunder, and for an instant whale and sharks were
buried amidst masses of foam, heavily coloured with the poor mammal’s
life-blood. Rising again, she essayed another change of plan, making
for the rocks and desperately striving to rub off the clinging sharks
against their edges. But the threshers were equal to the occasion;
while those on the outside maintained their grip, the others dived
under their enemy and charged her anew, tearing at the whale’s side in
an ecstasy of ferocity that was bloodcurdling to witness.

[Illustration: TERRIFIC BATTLE AT BREAKSEA ISLAND.

WHALE KILLED BY THRASHER SHARKS.

A THREE HOURS’ FIGHT.

A SEA OF BLOOD.

(By An Eye Witness.)

Much has been written about fights between the larger denizens of the
sea, but it has fallen to the lot of very few to witness such a battle
as one which took place off Breaksea Island on Friday, the 14th inst.,
between a school of thrasher sharks and a cow

A CUTTING FROM THE “WEST AUSTRALIAN,” OF PERTH, W.A., REFERRING TO THE
BATTLE BETWEEN A WHALE AND THRESHER SHARKS.]

More and more feeble grew the whale’s struggles, and at last--to the
heartfelt relief of the spectators, for her death-fight had been
terrible to behold--the great body turned over and sank beneath the
red-tinted water. The unequal battle was over, having lasted from
nine o’clock until noon--as awe-inspiring a contest as man was ever
privileged to witness. It is a thousand pities that there was no camera
on the island to make a pictorial record of the struggle. The men went
back to their work greatly impressed by the unique spectacle, and
expressions of sympathy for the whale were heard on every side.

Forty-eight hours afterwards the whale’s carcass, which had in the
meantime become distended with gas, rose to the surface, and exploded
with a roar like a miniature powder-magazine, causing the startled
people to flock to the shore to discover what had happened. On
examination of the remains it was discovered that every shred of the
outer flesh of the whale had been torn off by the sharks, who had now,
doubtless, gone off to repeat their tactics upon some other hapless
leviathan.




A BATTLE IN MID-AIR.

BY T. R. PORTER.


Swinging like a pendulum at the end of a two-hundred-and-fifty-foot
rope against the side of a five-hundred-foot cliff, with jagged rocks
far below, and nothing but one bare hand with which to fight off the
fierce onslaught of an immense eagle, whose nest he was attempting
to rob--this was the awful predicament in which Arthur Williams, a
young man of Riverton, Wyoming, found himself one day early in June
last year. With the welfare of her nestlings at stake, the great bird
attacked the despoiler of her home with inconceivable fury, and only to
a lucky chance does Williams owe his life.

Riverton is a new town on that portion of the Cheyenne and Arapahoe
Indian reservation which was opened to settlement last year, and
in the country thereabouts mountain lions, timber wolves, coyotes,
eagles, bears, etc., are still to be found. The principal industry is
sheep-raising, and continual warfare exists between the flockmasters
and the wild things, especially the eagles, which annually kill and
carry off hundreds of young lambs. Because of this heavy drain on
their flocks, every shepherd and owner of sheep in Wyoming takes great
pains to kill the birds and to destroy their nests whenever they are
discovered.

Before the Indian reservation was formally opened to the whites for
settlement, the flockmasters were permitted to graze their sheep over
the country, and it gradually became known among the sheepmen that over
in Lost Well Canyon there were a pair of eagles who made a speciality
of devouring young lambs. Try as they might, however, the shepherds
were unable to get a shot at either of these great birds, and for
several years they were the terrors of the district.

It was discovered that the old birds made their nest in a cleft in the
face of a five hundred-foot perpendicular wall, which formed one side
of the canyon. Here they safely raised brood after brood of young
ones, which were turned loose in due course to prey on the community.

Hunters, with their Winchester rifles, often lay in wait for the big
birds, hoping to get a shot at them, but, with the proverbial keen
eyesight of such creatures, the eagles detected the Nimrods and never
came within gun-shot when the nest was being watched.

During the spring of 1908 the two old eagles were more successful than
ever in raiding the flocks of the sheepmen, and accordingly a special
effort was made to exterminate them. To that effort Arthur Williams
owes the appalling adventure which befell him.

Williams and two friends made a trip out to Lost Well Canyon to
investigate the chances of trapping the eagles in their nest. A ride of
eight miles, over rough mountain trails, brought them to the canyon,
half-way up the perpendicular side of which they saw the horizontal
cleft in which the wise old birds had built their nest. At the foot of
the cliff, directly under the cleft, was a pile of bones--the remains
of lambs, thrown out of the nest by the eagles after they had been
picked clean.

“We ain’t any nearer that nest down here than when we were at home,”
remarked Williams to his comrades. “Nothing but a balloon or an airship
can help us from down here. Let us go up to the top of the cliff and
see what we can do from there.”

For two hours the three young men struggled to reach the top of
the mountains. A wide _détour_ was necessary, but at last this was
accomplished and they stood on the brink of the cliff, half-way down
which the eagles’ nest had been built.

“There’s nothing to be done from here, either,” said one of the men,
despondently. “We might just as well go back home; we shall never reach
that nest.”

While the men stood and talked, from far down below them there arose
the shrill piping call of young birds.

“Young ones!” said Williams. “I wish we could get them alive; they
would be worth money to us.”

“No use to bother; you’ll have to take it out in wishing,” said the
third member of the party. “Come on; let’s go home.”

[Illustration: MR. A. E. WILLIAMS, WHO FOUGHT THE EAGLE IN MID-AIR.

_From a Photograph._]

“All right. I’ll go home now, but I’m coming back to-morrow after those
birds,” said Williams.

The next day found the three young men back at the cliff. They had
mapped out a scheme whereby they hoped to get the young birds, and had
brought with them seven hundred and fifty feet of stout rope, far more
than enough to reach from the top of the cliff down to the bottom of
the canyon. To make quite sure of this, however, they first lowered the
rope, weighted with a stone, down the face of the rock, and saw that,
while there yet remained a big coil at their feet, the weighted end of
the rope rested on the floor of the canyon.

Then the rope was hauled back and a tight loop made in one end. This
was paid out over the edge of the cliff until it hung directly in front
of the eagles’ nest. The other end of the rope was hitched round a
convenient tree.

During all this time the men kept close watch for the old eagles, but
saw nothing of them.

“Off hunting lambs, I suppose,” said one of the young fellows.

Then Williams stepped forward, laid hold of the rope, and quickly
disappeared over the side, sliding slowly downward, using one leg,
around which the line was wrapped, as a brake to keep himself from
going too fast.

Across his shoulders was slung a stout bag, in which he intended
placing the little eagles when he secured them. In one hand he carried
a stout stick for use in an emergency: the other hand grasped the rope.

Down, down he went until just in front of the eyrie. Then he slipped
one leg through the loop at the end of the cord and turned to look into
the dark hole, where he could hear the eaglets “talking.”

Slowly he swung round, bracing his foot against the rocky wall, until
he faced the cleft and could give his attention to the nest.

Suddenly, screaming wildly with rage and fright, out from the dark
cleft came the old mother-bird. Like a stone from a catapult she flung
herself at Williams’s face.

Dismayed by the suddenness of the attack, Williams recoiled; his foot
slipped from the wall, and his body spun round and out of reach as the
huge bird went past him. He did not escape altogether scathless, for
one claw, like a knife blade, cut across his cheek, and in an instant
the blood was flowing from a cut half an inch deep.

Only a few yards did the old eagle fly; then she wheeled and, with the
speed of an arrow, shot once more at the man hanging at the end of the
rope before her nest.

This time Williams braced himself and, with his stout stick ready in
his right hand, awaited the onslaught of the big bird. His left hand
grasped the rope.

The eagle struck Williams on the head with her wing, and at the same
moment Williams lashed at the bird with his stick. Such was the fury
and strength of the creature, however, that the stick flew from
Williams’s hand and went whirling through space to the bottom of the
canyon, far below.

Again the eagle turned sharply and swooped down on the man, now
left defenceless, with only a single bare hand to fight against the
infuriated mother-bird’s sharp claws, powerful beak, and mighty wings.

Pecking, clawing, and striking stunning blows with her terrible wings,
the big bird beat the air in front of Williams’s face, holding her
position and tearing savagely at the head and face of the would be
despoiler of her home. Her screams were incessant.

Meanwhile, on top of the cliff, there was utter consternation. The
attention of one man was necessarily taken up with the rope, and a slip
on his part meant instant death to Williams in the way of a fall to the
rocks at the foot of the precipice. With a rifle in his hand the other
man watched that nightmare fight in mid air, far below him. He could
not shoot without endangering Williams even more than the eagle.

Just then things were going very badly with the nest-robber. Blood was
flowing from a dozen cuts on his head and face, his hand was lacerated,
the clothing about his shoulders was cut into ribbons. Moreover, he was
half stunned, and but for the loop in the end of the rope would have
fallen to his death. He had no time to give directions to his comrades,
and simply had to fight the battle out alone.

[Illustration: MR. WILLIAMS AFTER HIS ENCOUNTER WITH THE EAGLE.

_From a Photograph._]

Presently the old bird darted away, preparing for another swoop at the
defenceless man. When she was ten feet distant a rifle-shot rang out
from the top of the cliff, and Williams knew his friends were doing
what they could. But the old bird did not falter for a second, although
a couple of feathers from her terrible right wing floated away on the
wind. In his haste to send a second bullet downward the man with the
rifle managed to “jam” the weapon, and with a despairing cry threw the
now useless weapon to the ground.

The eagle returned to the attack with even greater fury, and for a few
minutes Williams thought his last moments had arrived. But still he
fought on, pulling great handfuls of feathers from the bird and beating
at her desperately with his bare fist, receiving in return many cuts
and slashes, as well as stunning blows from the madly-flapping wings.
He was almost ready to loose his hold on the rope and go crashing down
to the bottom of the canyon when the eagle suddenly wheeled away for
another attack.

As she came back again, screaming and beating the air, something the
size of Williams’s head struck her on the back, and down she went like
a stone, whirling over and over. Williams’s friend above had hurled
a small rock at the bird, and, luckily for Williams, the boulder had
struck her fairly on the back, between the immense wings.

“Hold on tight and we’ll let you down to the bottom,” sang out the
man at the top of the cliff, leaning far over. Then Williams showed
the sterling stuff of which he was made. Though bleeding from a dozen
wounds, breathless and exhausted, he was still determined to fulfil his
errand.

“Hold me here until I get these little birds,” he shouted, feebly. “I
came after them, and I’m going to have them.”

With that the plucky fellow crawled back into the niche, put the two
little eaglets in his bag, thrust his leg through the loop, grasped the
rope with both hands, and was safely lowered to the floor of the canyon.

Within a few feet of where he landed lay the old mother-eagle. Williams
staggered over to her and gave her a kick. To his amazement she moved,
stood up on her feet, and flew away!

One of Williams’s companions came sliding down the rope, and reached
him just as the injured man fainted from loss of blood and excitement.
The punishment he had received was terrible, but fortunately his eyes
had escaped injury.

After casting off the rope the third man made his way down the mountain
to where Williams and his friend were. They managed to stop the flow of
blood, and between them got the wounded man on his horse and brought
him to Riverton. Williams spent several days in bed and was covered
with bandages for two weeks, but received no lasting injuries.

As souvenirs of his terrible fight, he has two little eagles and a
dozen or more big scars to show his friends.




UP IN A BALLOON.

BY A. SODEN.


It was a delightful September afternoon some six years back--the close
of a week during which there had been much discussion in the newspapers
concerning a great balloon race versus cyclists, to be fought out on
this identical Saturday. The late Rev. G. M. Bacon, of Newbury, the
“ballooning parson,” and Mr. Percival Spencer, the well-known aeronaut,
were to compete against Volunteer cyclists in an endeavour to settle
the much-debated question as to whether, in time of war, a hostile
balloon could escape from the speedy military wheelman. I am not a
Volunteer, and certainly was at that time far from being a balloonist;
I am less so now.

[Illustration: MR. A. SODEN, WHO HERE DESCRIBES HIS EXPERIENCES IN A
RUNAWAY BALLOON.

_From a Photo. by Sternberg & Co., Kingston-on-Thames._]

At four-forty-five in the afternoon of this particular Saturday, while
I was still debating what to do with myself, what should I see to
the north-east but the war balloon, released from its anchorage at
Stamford Bridge grounds, being carried by a gentle September breeze in
the direction of Epsom. At all times the sight of a balloon excites
peculiar interest, and I had soon made up my mind--I would try my hand
at catching the aeronauts, and try to beat the military cyclists! I
rushed for my machine, and was presently in full chase, pedalling fast
through the lovely lanes of Malden. On and on I went, riding hard,
alternately glancing at the road to see that all was clear and then at
the balloon, calculating how high it was, how far away, and where it
was likely to descend.

[Illustration: THE BOY WHO WAS WITH MR. SODEN IN THE BALLOON.

_From a Photograph._]

Mile after mile I chased the drifting balloon, until at last, much
to my joy, I saw that it was undoubtedly nearing the earth, and it
eventually descended in a harvested field at Bookham. On approaching
the balloon I soon discovered I was not alone, for cyclists
representing various Volunteer regiments and civilian riders were
there by the score; and a number of farm labourers who had been busy
harvesting in the neighbouring fields also appeared on the scene, eager
to inspect closely so formidable a beast as a war balloon.

The formal “capturing” of the balloonists by the soldiers was soon
over, and then, at the urgent request of the onlookers, and to the
intense delight of the local element, Mr. Spencer was good enough to
grant permission for those who wished to go for short trips in the
balloon, now held captive by the anchor-rope. There were many willing
hands to relieve the balloon of ballast, grappling-irons, and sundries,
and in a remarkably short time the great gas-bag was free of its
accoutrements. A trail-rope was attached for those on the ground to
hang on, to prevent the balloon from sailing away, and Mr. Spencer,
with his usual foresight, arranged for parties of six to go up at a
time. The passengers were given strict instructions that when the
balloon touched ground each was to get out singly, so that there should
be no sudden alteration of weight that would cause the balloon to shoot
up again.

All went merrily, and several car-loads went up, we on the ground
hanging tight to the rope and hauling the great bag down on the word
of command from Mr. Spencer. At length came the call, “The last time!”
and in I jumped. There were five of us in the car, four men and a
boy--a Volunteer, a farm labourer, and two others. Surely, I thought,
as the great sphere began to rise, I am well repaid for my long ride by
this novel experience. It was grand to be sailing up in the air with
the ground gradually sinking away beneath us and our late companions
becoming mere specks dotted about on the ground. At last we arrived
at the end of our upward journey, and the men below began hauling at
the trail-rope. Down we went, and presently touched ground. Then,
contrary to all instructions, out jumped the Volunteer and a civilian
named Tickner. As they leapt they collided with the men who held the
controlling ropes, knocking them over and causing much confusion.

[Illustration: “HIGHER AND HIGHER WE WENT, WITH THE HAPLESS MAN
DANGLING.”]

The balloon, relieved of the heavy load, at once shot up again. There
were wild cries of “Seize the rope!” “Hang on to her!” “Hold her
down!” But all the shouts were of no avail; the balloon continued to
rush upwards, while we peered helplessly over the edge of the car.
Several men, realizing the dangerous position we were in, soaring up
aloft at great speed, rushed into the middle of the crowd of excited
onlookers and seized the trailing rope, but all to no purpose; it
was now impossible to check the balloon’s rapid ascent. “Let go!”
roared somebody, and by the sudden bound our car gave we knew the
men had obeyed. All, that is, save one. He, Tickner, a hard-working,
much-respected farm labourer, clung to the rope like a monkey, only
to be drawn up into the air as the balloon rose. Higher and higher we
went, with the hapless man dangling two hundred feet below us and the
crowd watching with horror in their eyes. Presently, when he was about
eighty feet from the earth, the poor fellow’s strength gave out and he
was compelled to let go, falling with an awful thud to the ground.

Then, for the first time since the accident, I found my tongue. “Good
heavens! this is awful!” I cried. “Where shall we drop?” I could say
no more, for my knees shook under me and my very blood seemed frozen
with horror. Still, steadily and inexorably, the balloon continued to
rise. I dared not look over the side, but I knew we must have reached a
considerable altitude. What would happen to us, and should we ever see
our homes again?

All this time the boy beside me, shivering with fright, yet not
realising his desperate position, kept dinning into my ears in a
whining monotone, “They’ve let us go! They’ve let us go!”

There was nothing to be seen around us now but mountains of
clouds--clouds white, black, and grey. I saw them, and yet, somehow or
other, I could not bring myself to realize what they meant. I could not
think, but simply stood there, bewildered and dazed, leaning against
the side of the car. On my right hand the boy still continued his
maddening wail; on the left my second companion, a man, kept asking
what his father and mother would think. Our peril seemed to have
temporarily turned his brain.

[Illustration: 2 SEPTEMBER 1902.

BALLON DISASTER.

A LEATHERHEAD LABORER KILLED.

THRILLING ADVENTURES OF AMATEUR AERONAUTS.

The ballon versus cyclists, which was arranged by the Rev. G. M. Bacon,
of Newbury, the ballooning enthusiast, with the sanction of the War
Office, and which took place from Stamford-bridge athletic grounds on
Saturday, was, it was transpire, attended with an accident of a very
serious character, resulting in the death of one man, injuries to
several others, and an experience which three of those involved are
never likely to forget as long as they live. The

A CUTTING FROM THE “MORNING LEADER” REFERRING TO THE BALLOON DISASTER.]

I glanced at the altitude-registering instrument; we were up two
thousand feet! Then, suddenly, without the slightest warning, my
brain cleared, and I remembered the valve, the opening of which would
cause the great gas-bag to descend. But where was it? Which was the
valve-rope? The car seemed all ropes as I turned anxiously this way and
that. I tried one after another, and at last, to my joy, I felt one
give. Then I smelt the escaping gas, and knew that I had struck the
right cord. Very soon I realized that our upward way was checked, and
that instead we were descending. I do not know how long we took over
the downward trip. I only remember that I pulled the rope, then slacked
it, and so on alternately until we could faintly hear the shouts of
those below. Presently the boy plucked up courage to look over the
side of the car, and, wild with joy, called out that we were saved.
Fortunately for us, there was practically no wind; we went up straight
and came down straight, landing safely in a field only some two hundred
yards from the spot where we ascended. I collapsed as they helped
me out of the car, and the other man, directly he alighted, rushed
headlong away--the ordeal had turned his brain.

Giving evidence before the coroner the following Monday at the inquest
on poor Tickner, I still felt decidedly shaky, and to my dying day I
shall never forget my trip in the runaway balloon.

[Illustration: THE FIELD IN WHICH THE BALLOON DESCENDED.

_From a Photograph._]




Some “Freak” Memorials.

BY T. W. WILKINSON.

    When a man, especially a wealthy man, sets out to erect a
    memorial to something or somebody, there is no knowing what
    eccentricity he will not commit. Scattered up and down this
    country, as the writer shows, are a number of most remarkable
    memorials--“freaks” of the first water, from whatever
    standpoint one judges them.


Who shall impose limits on the intent and form of memorials? He
would be a brave man indeed who attempted the task; yet, though it
is very difficult to say precisely where the line should be drawn,
there are a number of such things in existence which, judged by the
commonly-accepted standards, are distinctly “freakish.” They range from
public statues plain to all men to small stones in arcadian aloofness,
and, as a whole, go far to justify the oft-repeated taunt of the
“intelligent foreigner”--a taunt amounting to an implication--that
memorials afford an outlet for much of the Englishman’s eccentricity
and sheer “pig-headedness.”

There are some very curious monuments to animals scattered over the
countryside. The one with the most remarkable story crowns Farley
Mount, near Winchester. Underneath it lies buried, as an inscription
on the exterior records, “a horse, the property of Paulet St. John,
Esq., that in the month of September, 1733, leaped into a chalk-pit
twenty-five feet deep a-fox-hunting, with his master on his back,
and in October, 1734, won the Hunters’ Plate on Worthing Downs, and
was rode by his owner, and entered in the name of Beware Chalk Pit.”
This inscription, which is a copy of the original, was restored by
the Right Hon. Sir William Heathcote, Bart., in 1870. A duplicate is
in the interior, which is provided with three seats intended for the
accommodation of wayfarers.

[Illustration:

A MONUMENT TO A HORSE THAT LEAPED INTO A CHALK-PIT AND AFTERWARDS WON A
RACE.

_From a Photograph._]

Of the memorials to dogs the most imposing of modern date is “Tell’s
Tower,” a structure on the seashore near West Kirby, Cheshire. It is
in honour of the Great St. Bernard dog, Tell, “ancestor of most of the
rough-coated champions of England, and himself winner of every prize in
the kingdom. He was majestic in appearance, noble in character, and of
undaunted courage.” Built by the late Mr. J. Cumming Macdona, the tower
is a sort of summer-house, in the base of which is a vault containing
Tell’s remains, guarded by an effigy of that remarkable animal.

To a whole series of such freaks of commemoration there hangs a
singular tale. In Oatlands Park, Weybridge, there are two or three
scores of memorials to dogs. These animals, some of which have handsome
epitaphs inscribed to their many virtues, are popularly supposed to
have been pets of Frederica Duchess of York; but, as a fact, Her Royal
Highness had not sufficient warm affection to bestow a goodly portion
on so many dumb creatures. What human being, indeed, ever had? She was
presented with many dogs, which she could neither refuse without giving
pain, nor keep unless the whole house was turned into kennels. So they
were given a dose of opium, buried, and then commemorated in verse.
But, while the Duchess was not so foolish as is generally believed
by those who visit Oatlands, she was certainly responsible for the
monuments.

[Illustration: “TELL’S TOWER,” ERECTED TO THE MEMORY OF A ST. BERNARD
DOG--IN THE FOUNDATIONS IS A VAULT CONTAINING THE ANIMAL’S REMAINS.

_From a Photograph._]

Strange, then, that her own memorial is the prime curiosity of
Weybridge! Its history is this: After her death the inhabitants of
the town were desirous of commemorating her thirty years’ residence
among them, and it suddenly struck them that a way was ready to hand.
Till about fifty years earlier there had stood in Seven Dials a pillar
supporting a sundial which presented a face to each of the streets.
It was from this adornment, indeed, that the classic district got its
name. Believing that treasure was buried beneath the pillar, some
night-birds threw it down and excavated beneath it, to find nothing.
Rumour, they discovered, was a lying jade. The stones, instead of
being set up again on their old site, were conveyed to Sayes Court,
Addlestone, with a view to their re-erection there, but this was not
done, the column remaining dismembered till the occupier of Oatlands
died. Now this bit of London out of town the inhabitants resolved
should be converted into a memorial of the Duchess. So the stones
were purchased and set up on the green, with the substitution of a
ducal crown for the block on which were the dials. This was used for
some time afterwards as a mounting stone at an inn hard by. It then
constituted a puzzle, because, though in Seven Dials--according to the
testimony of everybody who described it--there were seven faces, the
number on close examination proved to be only six.

[Illustration: THE “SEVEN DIALS” PILLAR, AT WEYBRIDGE, SURREY.

_From a Photograph._]

Another class of “freak” memorials have a twofold peculiarity: they
are singular in themselves and are also remarkable by reason of the
tardiness with which they were erected. Maud Heath’s Column, on
Bremhillwick Hill, near Chippenham, is as good an instance as any.
The title of the good lady to grateful remembrance is that she left a
bequest by which a causeway was constructed in 1474 from Chippenham
to the shoulder of Bremhillwick Hill. Her claim was from the outset
acknowledged, inscriptions along the route of the causeway expressing
gratitude to her for having made it. But this was not enough for a
former vicar of Bremhillwick. After pedestrians had for more than three
centuries been called upon to bless the public-spirited lady, and had
been told, moreover, precisely where her causeway began and where
it ended, the vicar came to the conclusion that she ought to have a
statue, and moved himself to that end. A preliminary difficulty was
that no portrait of Maud Heath was known to exist; but ultimately, with
the co-operation of the Marquess of Lansdowne, the clergyman triumphed,
and the column on Bremhillwick Hill--which was set up in 1836--is the
result. The sculptor of the statue on the top of it had to fall back
on his imagination, and he represented a woman in fifteenth century
costume, with a staff in her hand and a basket by her side.

[Illustration: A BELATED MONUMENT--IT WAS ERECTED IN 1836 TO THE MEMORY
OF A LADY WHO LIVED IN 1474, AND THE ARCHITECT HAD TO FALL BACK UPON
HIS IMAGINATION FOR THE PORTRAIT!

_From a Photograph._]

[Illustration: A HIGHWAYMAN’S GRAVE AT BOXMOOR COMMON.

_From a Photograph._]

A belated memorial of a different class is at the head of a
highwayman’s grave on Boxmoor Common. The knight of the road buried
here, Snooks by name, was long a terror to travellers on the London
road, which runs by his resting-place. At last, emboldened by many
successes, he had the audacity to rob the Royal mail, whereupon he
was hunted down, and eventually hanged near the scene of many of
his crimes. He was, it is said, the last highwayman to suffer the
extreme penalty in the district. Buried in unconsecrated ground, he
was intended to be forgotten; but till about four years ago his grave
was re-turfed periodically, and then a small stone, simply inscribed,
“Robert Snooks, 1803,” was placed at its head. That tribute is one
proof out of many that there is still a certain admiration for the race
of which Dick Turpin is the popular hero.

[Illustration: THE “ROUND HOUSE,” NEAR FINEDON, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE, WHICH
IS SUPPOSED TO OVERLOOK A TRACT OF COUNTRY EXACTLY RESEMBLING THE FIELD
OF WATERLOO.

_From a Photograph._]

Among our battle memorials are several of the “freak” order. The Round
House, near Finedon, Northamptonshire, must certainly be so classified.
Formerly an inn, it is now a dwelling, from the roof of which, it is
said, there can be obtained a “panorama of Waterloo.” It was built on
this spot, as a memorial of Wellington’s great victory, because the
surrounding country is believed to be very much like the theatre of
the momentous battle. There is a parallel duplicate in Kent. Crown
Point, between Sevenoaks and Maidstone, takes its name from a place in
Canada where Sir Jeffrey Amherst gained a great victory over the North
American Indians. It is said to bear a remarkably close resemblance to
its namesake.

Waterloo is also commemorated by an Alnwick memorial. Locally dubbed
a “folly,” it stands on Camphill, where it is surrounded by tall fir
trees, which prevent it from being seen except at close quarters. Its
creator was the late Mr. H. S. Selby, whose object was to place on
record the policy of Pitt, the victories of Wellington and Nelson, and
the restoration of peace in 1814. He appears to have been doubtful
afterwards whether the column would be sufficient to prevent all these
events from being forgotten by posterity, because in celebration of the
Battle of Waterloo he set up a beautiful statue of Peace in front of
his mansion.

[Illustration: A HILL-TOP FREAK--THE COLUMN COMMEMORATES QUITE A LOT OF
THINGS, BUT IS SO SURROUNDED BY TREES AS TO BE INVISIBLE SAVE AT CLOSE
QUARTERS.

_From a Photograph._]

Still more singular a memorial of our fighting prowess is the Red
Lion of Martlesham. The Red Lion, originally a ship’s figure-head,
is now the sign of an inn at Martlesham, on the high road between
Ipswich and Woodbridge, and is painted a most brilliant and aggressive
red. Indeed, “As red as the Red Lion of Martlesham” is a proverbial
expression throughout East Suffolk. The grotesque object is a relic of
a British victory over the Dutch in Sole Bay. It was brought inland as
a trophy of our success, and was ultimately converted to its present
use--that of an inn sign.

[Illustration: THE RED LION, OF MARTLESHAM, WHICH HAS GIVEN RISE TO A
SUFFOLK PROVERB.

_From a Photograph._]

One of the best-known memorials of battles fought on English soil--the
obelisk at Naseby--is a “freak,” and a strange one, too. Its
distinction lies in the fact that it has misled thousands, including
Carlyle and Dr. Arnold. “To commemorate,” so runs the inscription,
“that great and decisive battle fought in this field on the XIV day
of June, MDCXLV, between the Royalist Army, commanded by King Charles
the First, and the Parliament Forces, headed by the Generals Fairfax
and Cromwell ... this pillar was erected by John and Mary Frances
Fitzgerald, Lord and Lady of the Manor of Naseby.” But nothing is
more certain than that the battle was not fought in “this field.” It
actually took place on Broadmoor, about a mile away. Appropriately,
therefore, did Liston call the obelisk the “obstacle.” Edward
Fitzgerald was conscious of this strange blunder, to which he refers in
one of his letters (the monument, he says, “planted by my papa on the
wrong site”), and which he proposed to remedy by removing the obelisk
to the real battlefield. The scheme, however, was not carried out,
presumably on the score of expense.

[Illustration: A MONUMENT IN THE WRONG PLACE--THE NASEBY MEMORIAL,
WHICH DOES NOT STAND UPON THE BATTLEFIELD AT ALL.

_From a Photograph._]

Besides the Round House, Finedon possesses a representative of a large
class of “freak” memorials--those which bear no inscription, and the
object of which is consequently doubtful. These differ from the many
strange things which serve as memorials without being plainly stamped
as such. In Lancaster, for instance, a large horse-shoe is embedded in
the middle of the roadway, and there is nothing to inform the stranger
of its intent. It is actually there owing to a tradition that a horse
ridden by John o’ Gaunt, the town’s patron saint, cast a shoe near
the spot. The silent reminder of the incident--which, of course, has
been renewed many times--was some years ago polished every morning. An
eccentric man turned up with the utmost regularity, went down on his
knees, and made it as bright as the proverbial new pin. Unfortunately
his zeal was not admired by the authorities, who ultimately prosecuted
him for obstructing the traffic.

A unique milestone, again, serves as a memorial. It stands in the
hamlet of Newbold, Gloucestershire, and is surmounted by a cross. On
the south side are the directions:--

                6 miles
    To Shakespeare’s town, whose name
      Is known throughout the earth;
    To Shipston 4, whose lesser fame
      Boasts no such poet’s birth.

And on the north face appears a “sermon in stone”:--

            Crux mea lux.
    After darkness, light.
      From light hope flows,
    And peace in death,
      In Christ a sure repose.
            Spes, 1871.

Nothing on the milestone denotes that it is intended to be a memorial,
but a local gentleman, it is understood, erected it as such after the
death of a member of his family.

There are, however, many memorials of conventional form which are much
more puzzling than such “freaks.” Above the white horse at Cherhill,
Wilts, is one on which not a single letter or figure appears. Several
stories are told locally of its origin and purpose. Of the same cryptic
character is the Finedon memorial--a pillar standing in a garden at
the cross-roads. It is generally supposed to commemorate a mail-coach
robbery which took place near the spot in or about the year 1810; but,
as it was in existence before this event took place, the popular belief
must be erroneous. The most probable theory is that it was set up
during the rejoicings at the recovery of George III. from his illness.
There was an ebullition of patriotism at that time, and before the
fever subsided several memorials sprang up in different parts of the
country.

[Illustration: WHAT IS IT? AN OBELISK WITHOUT AN INSCRIPTION.

_From a Photograph._]

Burial-grounds contain numerous “freak” memorials, notwithstanding that
clergymen, as a rule, discountenance that form of eccentricity which
strives after novelty in post-mortem advertisement. The most curious
churchyard memorial in England, perhaps, is at Pinner. It resembles
a church tower, and half-way up it a coffin projects on each side.
Beneath, and supporting the structure, are arches filled in with
ironwork, bearing the words, “Byde-my-Tyme.” The “my” appears to stand
for one William London, who was interred (or interned) here in 1809.

[Illustration: “’TWIXT EARTH AND SKY”--AN EXTRAORDINARY GRAVE IN PINNER
CHURCHYARD.

_From a Photograph._]

Legends cluster round this strange object. The stone coffin, according
to the most circumstantial, contains the remains of a Scotch merchant,
whose descendants retain his property as long as he “remains above
ground.” Nothing definite, however, is known about the tomb. If its
constructor wished to furnish posterity with an insoluble puzzle, he
has succeeded to perfection.

[Illustration: ANOTHER REMARKABLE MEMORIAL--A LIGHT BURNS IN THE TOWER
NIGHT AND DAY.

_From a Photograph._]

Of the “freak” memorials in public cemeteries, a lighthouse is easily
first. This is at Ulverston, and is not merely a stonemason’s model,
for it actually contains a plate-glass lantern, in which a gas-jet
is burning continuously day and night. The most remarkable thing
about this elaborate token of affection, perhaps, is that it is not
a glorified tombstone. It was erected by a daughter in memory of her
father, who is buried elsewhere, and was placed on its present site
because the two had paid several visits to Ulverston Priory. Neither
had any real connection with the town. A feature which differentiates
this handsome tribute from all, or nearly all, others is obvious, and
that is the cost of maintenance consequent on the gas consumed in the
lantern.

Public memorials include numbers of “freaks,” the singularity of some
of which is greatly heightened by their surroundings. This is notably
so in the case of a drinking fountain which stands in the middle of the
East Anglian town of Swaffham. Unromantic as its environment is, this
structure is a modern heart shrine, containing as it does the cardiac
organ of a local magnate, Sir William Bagge, who died in 1880. It was
at his own request that his heart was deposited within the memorial,
that he might remain after death, in a sense, in a place which he had
loved so well in life.

[Illustration: A MODERN “HEART SHRINE,” AT SWAFFHAM, NORFOLK.

_From a Photograph._]

The last class of people to whom one would expect to see “freak”
memorials are preachers, and yet there are two or three to such men.
Decidedly the most picturesque, though not the most _outré_, is a
massive chimney-stack at Coleman Green, Herts. It is preserved, as a
tablet on it records, because in the cottage which was attached to it
Bunyan occasionally preached.

[Illustration: “JOHN BUNYAN’S CHIMNEY” AT COLEMAN GREEN, HERTFORDSHIRE.

_From a Photograph._]

Strange as some of the foregoing memorials are, they are surpassed by
certain monstrosities in private parks, which unquestionably contain
the most remarkable “freaks” of the kind in England. In several cases
the public are forbidden to enter such domains, not because it is
feared that they commit damage, but in order that they shall not see
some colossal absurdity of which the descendants of its creator are
ashamed. Nearly the first thing one gentleman did, on entering into
possession of the estate which he now holds, was to ascertain whether
he had power to sweep off it a memorial which was ridiculed by the
whole countryside and pointed out to every stranger to the district.
Finding that he could not remove the eyesore, he at once gave orders
that the park wall should be raised four feet all the way round!




DOWN THE CHUTE: A Miner’s Extraordinary Experience.

BY C. A. O. DUGGAN, OF KIMBERLEY, SOUTH AFRICA.

    An account of a miraculous triple escape--an escape in which
    the odds were as a million to one on death. Mr. Wood’s
    adventure created quite a sensation in South Africa, for it is
    unique in the annals of the diamond fields. The photographs
    illustrating the story are published by kind permission of the
    general manager of the De Beers Consolidated Mines.


The following narrative, describing a miner’s miraculous escape
from what appeared certain death, forms one of the most sensational
episodes in the history of South African mining in general and of the
world-famous De Beers Diamond Mines of Kimberley in particular. Miners
who have spent many years in the wonderful underground workings of the
Kimberley diamond mines, and who have become thoroughly familiar with
the perils and thrilling incidents synonymous with underground mining,
were dumbfounded at the truly unique experience which befell Mr.
Charles Wood at the De Beers Company’s Wesselton Mine, Kimberley, South
Africa, on Tuesday, 11th August, 1908. Mr. Wood’s story is here given
as related to the author.

       *       *       *       *       *

I am twenty-nine years of age, and have been for some years engaged in
various capacities in the many departments of the underground workings
of the Kimberley diamond mines. During that period I have witnessed
many hairbreadth escapes from the innumerable perils of the treacherous
subterranean workings, and have seen men launched into eternity in a
single second by one or other of those unavoidable happenings which of
necessity form part of the miner’s precarious occupation. Personally,
however, I have been very fortunate, for my own mining experience has
been uneventful--until last week, when I was the victim of a string of
events probably unparalleled in the annals of the diamond mines.

On the morning of Tuesday, 11th August, 1908, I went to work as usual,
and arrived at the mine shaft a few minutes before six o’clock, feeling
in high spirits after a brisk and invigorating three-mile bicycle ride
in a calm, bracing, and typical South African dawn, which heralded the
commencement of a day that was to prove the most eventful and memorable
of my life. Precisely as the mine “hooter” sounded, I, with several
others, boarded the huge iron man-cage, and in another moment its human
freight was being lowered some five hundred feet down the perpendicular
shaft to the main working level of the mine.

Our destination was reached in due course, and the cage came to a
standstill at the entrance to the main level, which here resembles a
large arch-shaped room, about eighteen feet high and twenty-five feet
wide, with sides and roof of solid rock. On the one side is the main
vertical shaft, leading to the headgear on the surface above and to
the further levels below, while directly opposite, and extending in
a straight, horizontal line for nearly half a mile into the bowels
of the earth, is the main tunnel to the mine, suggestive of some
great corridor, with many side galleries and minor branch tunnels on
either side, leading in contrary directions. There is a double track
of rails, one for empties returning from the tips and the other for
the loaded trucks, which are detached from the electric locomotives
at an apex some thirty yards from the loading chute, and from which
they run by gravitation, in sets of eight, along the “full-way,” round
the left side of the shaft, to the automatic tips, which are situated
immediately behind the shaft and on the opposite side of the main
tunnel. Here the trucks are mechanically overturned and the contents
discharged into the loading chute, a large steel receptacle some twenty
feet deep, fifteen feet long, and four feet wide. From this point
the trucks run along the “empty-way,” or right side of the shaft, in
a semicircle towards the main tunnel, to be finally coupled to the
locomotive, and drawn, in trains of sixteen, to the different passes to
be reloaded.

In the mine I am known as the “tipman,” and my duties--directing the
discharge of the diamond-laden “ground” into the chutes--commence when
the trucks, laden with the “ground,” reach the automatic tips.

I was soon at my accustomed post, and before many minutes had elapsed
the distant rumbling of the moving trucks in the tunnels became
audible. The day’s operations had begun.

I am constantly engaged in superintending the working of the tipping
arrangements, and in watching the running of trucks on the proper
tracks, which here almost entirely encircle the main shaft, through
which the “ground” is eventually raised to the surface in the giant
hoisting skips.

On this particular morning I worked without the shortest break, and
nothing interrupted the monotonous rolling of the trucks as they went
backwards and forwards again and again to be refilled at the loading
passes and emptied at the loading chutes, until nearly one o’clock,
when, through a slight but unfortunate mishap, I became the victim of a
catastrophe which now seems to me like some horrible nightmare, or the
effect of temporary delirium, rather than an actual occurrence.

[Illustration: THE FIVE HUNDRED FEET LEVEL OF THE WESSELTON MINE,
SHOWING AUTOMATIC TIPS AND TRUCK TIPPING INTO THE CHUTE INTO WHICH WOOD
WAS THROWN.

_From a Photo by J. A. Glennie, Kimberley._]

As before-mentioned, the train of sixteen trucks is divided into two
sets of eight trucks each. One set is emptied into No. 1 chute and the
other into No. 2 chute. At about a quarter to one my attention was
drawn to what appeared to be a slight irregularity in the tipping of
the trucks at No. 2 chute. A train had just reached the tips, and the
first set of eight trucks was emptied in the usual manner into No. 1
chute, while the second set was directed on to No. 2 chute.

As the last set of trucks passed round the “empty-way” I stepped on
to the track, immediately over the No. 2 chute, in order to verify
my suspicion that something was wrong. As I did so I heard a loud
clattering noise, as of loaded trucks coming clown the “full-way”
incline to the chute. I did not look to ascertain the cause of this
noise at that moment, but an instant later I instinctively turned my
head and looked up towards the entrance to the chute. Then, to my utter
dismay and consternation, I saw, within a few feet, two fully-loaded
trucks rushing headlong on to the No. 2 tip, where I was standing. In
an instant the awful truth flashed through my brain. Only six trucks of
the last set had tipped, two having become uncoupled up the incline,
and here was I standing on the track immediately over the chute,
without the remotest possibility of escape!

For a moment I was petrified with horror, and before I could make any
arrangement the foremost of the two trucks had struck me full in the
back, just above the hips, and I was precipitated violently into the
chute, some twenty feet below, while at the same time, with a fearful,
deafening noise, the two trucks overturned, and two tons of rock and
hard blue “ground” came crashing into the chute on top of me. For a few
seconds I was completely buried, but with a frantic effort I got the
upper part of my body free, all the time gasping wildly for breath,
while temporarily deprived of sight by the mass of falling “ground,”
and nearly asphyxiated by the immense cloud of dust, which seemed to
hang over the chute like a pall.

[Illustration: “I WAS PRECIPITATED VIOLENTLY INTO THE CHUTE.”]

As I gradually gained control of my scattered senses I became aware
of my miraculous escape from a terrible death, and with a shudder of
horror realized that my situation was still one of extreme peril. In
another second the doors of the chute would be opened, and I should
either be plunged, with the great quantity of “ground” amidst which
I lay, into the hoisting-skip below, or else crushed to a pulp by
the next consignment of “ground” from the tip above. With almost
superhuman strength I endeavoured to extricate myself from the mass
of “ground” by which I was well-nigh covered, and with all the power
of which I was capable I shouted vociferously for help. It was all in
vain, however; my cries for assistance were lost amidst the din of the
constantly-moving trucks on the level above.

[Illustration: PORTION OF THE HEADGEAR SHOWING THE HOISTING-SKIP
(INDICATED BY A CROSS) IN WHICH WOOD MADE HIS RAPID BUT UNCOMFORTABLE
JOURNEY TO THE SURFACE.

_From a Photo. by J. A. Glennie, Kimberley._]

Just as I made another desperate attempt to free myself I heard the
ominous creak of the levers, which foretold that the slides at the
bottom of the chute were about to be opened, and--quite helpless and
filled with an overwhelming despair--I resigned myself to my fate; I
was doomed to a death from which there could be no possible escape.
My whole frame was trembling with the fear of impending death, as,
with a loud creak, the slides at the bottom of the chute separated,
and I felt myself violently overturned and forced irresistibly through
the opening. Thence I plunged head-first into the great hoisting-skip
below, amidst the thunderous crash of the eight tons of blue “ground.”
In a second the sliding doors of the chute had closed, the skip was
loaded, and the relentless downpour of “ground” and hard lumps ceased.
I was again completely buried, but with a ferocious struggle managed to
get my head uncovered.

[Illustration: THE ENGINE-HOUSES AND HEADGEAR WHERE WOOD WAS HOISTED TO
THE SURFACE.

_From a Photo. by J. A. Glennie, Kimberley._]

[Illustration:

  KIMBERLEY,

  26th August, 1908.

_TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN_:

I, the undersigned, hereby certify that the account of my experience
at Wesselton Mine, Kimberley, Cape Colony, as written by Mr. C. A. O.
Duggan, is true and correct in every detail, and, further, I hereby
give to Mr. C. A. O. Duggan the full and exclusive right to publish the
particulars and account above referred to in any newspaper, periodical
or magazine he may choose.

  Charles Wood
  KIMBERLEY, S. A. 26th August, 1908.

  AS WITNESSES:--

  JJ Armstrong
  BW Freislich

The abovementioned copyright of Mr. Charles Wood’s experience at
Wesselton Mine, Kimberley, C. C. is hereby given to the Proprietors of
the “Wide World Magazine”, London, England.

  C.A.O. Duggan]


  MR. WOOD’S SIGNED STATEMENT VOUCHING FOR THE ACCURACY OF THIS STORY.]

Dazed and just able to realize my terrible situation, I gasped for
breath, and, although quite oblivious of the nature and extent of my
injuries, I was vaguely conscious that I was still alive, and that
for the second time in a few minutes my life had been miraculously
preserved. Securely pinned down by the tremendous weight of the
“ground,” I lay unable to move, and after making a feeble and vain
effort to shout for assistance, I gave up my futile struggle to free my
aching body and sank down from sheer exhaustion, staring vacantly in
the semi-darkness at an enormous, treacherous-looking boulder that had
lodged a few inches above me, and which appeared likely to find a fresh
resting-place on my unprotected head at any moment.

For an instant there was a death-like stillness. Nearly distracted by
the awful suspense, I lay helpless in the great iron skip, expecting
each instant to feel the peculiar jerk of the hauling-rope that would
mean the commencement of my lightning upward journey to the headgear on
the surface, nearly six hundred feet above.

[Illustration: PORTION OF HEADGEAR SHOWING BOX LEVERS, WITH CHARLES
WOOD STANDING ALMOST IMMEDIATELY UNDER THE LOADING-BOX WHERE HE WAS
TAKEN OUT HEAD FIRST.

_From a Photo. by J. A. Glennie, Kimberley._]

What would be my fate when the skip tipped automatically on the
surface? Should I be crushed to death or buried alive by the enormous
quantity of “ground,” or should I meet with a more terrible death by
being dashed to pieces against the steel sides or cross-bars of the
loading-box, to be found later--a mangled and unrecognisable mass of
humanity?

All these thoughts and countless vivid recollections of my childhood,
boyhood, and early manhood flashed through my now disordered brain with
startling rapidity, and I sobbed with anguish as I thought for a moment
of my home, my children, and my wife, who was soon to be a widow and
whom I should never see again. With a sickening terror I now grasped
the fact that in a few seconds the great winding engine on the surface
would be set in motion. Oh, the irony of it all! I had escaped death
at the tip, and again at the loading-chute, only to end my existence
when the skip eventually shot its eight-ton cargo into the steel
loading-boxes above! Each moment now seemed a lifetime, and I prayed
fervently that my suspense and agony might be ended.

At last the hauling-rope strained and tightened, and with a sudden jerk
the skip started on its upward journey through the inky-black shaft,
gaining in rapidity at every yard, and each second carrying me nearer
to death. The skip flew up at a terrific pace, and in a few seconds I
was aware of its approach to the surface by the faint streaks of light
that penetrated down the shaft. Another moment and I should be no more!
The light of day became more and more intense, and with startling
suddenness I shot out into the momentary and welcome brightness of the
sunlight, past the level of the surface, and up to the automatic tip
on the giant head-gear. Then, with a sharp click, the skip reached its
tipping level and overturned, and I felt myself being thrown through
space towards the yawning iron loading-boxes.

As the skip capsized I became unconscious, and was consequently
spared the further mental torture consequent upon my precipitation
into the yawning surface loading-boxes. At last, however, I opened my
eyes, as if awakening from a profound sleep, and--amazed and utterly
bewildered--gradually recognised that for the third time in as many
minutes I had escaped a frightful death in a wonderful and miraculous
manner. I found that I was lying awkwardly and with feet uppermost in
the north side loading-box. While still trying to realize what had
happened the slides of the box separated, and the next moment startled,
anxious faces were peering in at me.

[Illustration: “STARTLED, ANXIOUS FACES WERE PEERING IN AT ME.”]

[Illustration: CHARLES WOOD AS HE APPEARED AFTER HIS ALARMING ADVENTURE.

_From a Photo. by J. A. Glennie, Kimberley._]

Gently the amazed men lifted me through the door and carried me to
the mine change-house, where my injuries were promptly attended to.
Incredible as it may seem, I was not seriously hurt, only suffering
from several bruises about the body and from slight cuts on the head
and above one eye. I was duly sent to the Kimberley Hospital, from
which I was discharged eight days after the chapter of accidents here
related, having completely recovered from the effects of my remarkable
adventure.




Where Women Wear Trousers.

BY L. VAN DER VEER.

    There is a place up in the mountains of Switzerland where from
    time immemorial the women have worn the garb and done most of
    the work of their men-folk, who stop at home and smoke or mind
    the babies, while their be-trousered wives and daughters toil
    in the hayfields or among the live stock. In this article Miss
    Van der Veer describes a visit to this strange and little-known
    community.


Away up in the mountains of one of the most beautiful cantons of
Switzerland, the Valais, the peasant women have for years found it
expedient to don the garb of their men-folk and work in the hayfields
and among the grazing cattle on the slopes, while their lords and
masters lounge their days away in ease and the quiet of their log huts.

Curious to relate, they all seem perfectly contented with this inverted
order of things--the men in particular. They brew the herbs, fry the
tough-as-leather mountain meat, and look after the babies, while their
buxom wives are wrestling with the sterner duties of field and stable.

[Illustration: A SHEPHERDESS ON THE MOUNTAINS.

_From a Photograph._]

During the summer of 1908 I spent some days in Champéry, the little
village in the valley at the foot of the mountains where these
strenuous women work and their lazy husbands smoke. At first I felt
great disappointment at not seeing them about the village streets, but
soon found that they seldom or never came down the mountain-side in
their strange garb, or, at any rate, walked about the village in it.
Tourists have become so numerous of recent years, and their curiosity
so troublesome, that the village fathers have forbidden the women
to come into the hamlet without skirts over their masculine nether
garments. So whoever cares to behold them in the strange clothes of
their choosing must scramble and toil their way up the mountain-side.
On Sunday mornings it is highly entertaining to watch these women and
young girls come down the zigzag footpaths to the tiny village chapel,
where, just outside its doors, they halt and throw their skirts on over
their heads in the most unconcerned fashion, as thoughtlessly as the
fashionable dame gives her hat a furtive touch as she enters the church
doors.

[Illustration: WASHING-DAY.

_From a Photo. by Jullien Bros._]

It is difficult to trace the origin of this strange custom of the
Champéry dames donning masculine nether garments. When one asks the
peasants about it they do their best to look reflective, but always
end in declaring that “it was always so.” “Our men-folk like best the
fires, and we like best the fields,” is about the only intelligible
explanation I could get out of them. They are fine, sturdy-looking
beings, mostly red-cheeked and strong of limb, and many of the younger
ones are strikingly handsome.

[Illustration: COOKING THE DINNER.

_From a Photo. by Jullien Bros._]

One can scarcely call their costume a becoming one, though it certainly
looks better than one would expect, and, after the first novelty of
seeing them wears off, its absolute suitability disarms criticism.

[Illustration: MOWING ON THE HILLSIDE.

_From a Photo. by Jullien Bros._]

The most amusing thing about it is that the upper part of the costume
remains feminine--the ordinary rough bodice of the peasant woman, often
in bright colours of red or blue, worn with the most nondescript cut of
trousers, of the “home-made” variety. That such a costume is necessary
for women who take upon themselves the work of their men-folk in such
a region of the world is quite apparent to any woman who attempts to
follow them at their work for even ten minutes.

[Illustration: OFF TO THE VILLAGE.

_From a Photo. by Jullien Bros._]

[Illustration: AMONG THE COWS ON THE MOUNTAIN PASTURES--THE WOMEN DO
ALL THE MILKING AND BUTTER-MAKING.

_From a Photograph._]

The constant tramping along rough mountain ways and following cows over
dangerously narrow ledges, the cutting of hay on inclines so acute as
to be seemingly almost perpendicular, the going in search of lost sheep
in thickets and snowdrifts, are but a few of the things which make the
tyranny of skirts altogether impossible. These women do not seem to
mind in the least being stared at and questioned as to their clothes.
In fact, they rather feel the pride of distinction their garments
confer upon them. “We have never known any others,” they say quite
simply, “so why should we feel queer in them? Besides, we all prefer
them to skirts.”

[Illustration: A BE-TROUSERED MILKMAID.

_From a Photograph._]

The most surprising thing is that, in spite of their male attire, the
women do not walk or sit in the masculine manner. Anyone can see at a
glance that they are women in men’s clothes, though some green--very
green--tourists often make ridiculous mistakes. At a mountain hut I
once heard an English traveller declare that he never heard of men
doing the family knitting until he came over the pass where these
people live. He had evidently not the faintest suspicion that he had
come across the men-garbed women of the mountain region, for they often
sit knitting as they herd the sheep and cows on the hillsides.

Another thing that strikes one absurdly is that, while wearing
trousers, these women nearly always sit sideways on horseback and
get over fences by first mounting to the top rail and sliding down
women-fashion, instead of striding over man-fashion. In truth, I
observed no end of evidence that the inconsistency of the weaker sex
cannot be quenched by anything so delectable as clothes.

One morning, when a heavy mist hung over the mountain-tops, quite
obscuring everything, I sat outside the comfortable little chalet where
a happy family of four sturdy daughters, with their mother, donned
trousers every morning and disappeared up the mountain-side to work,
while their stalwart “Pap,” as they called him, pottered round the
house, pipe in mouth.

I could hear the women sharpening their scythes now and again, and
catch snatches of mountain ditties as they sang at their mowing. Later
on, as the mist lifted, I walked up to where they were working, and the
first thing I noticed was that their trousers were so long as to be
quite dripping with mud, just as their skirts would have been had they
worn them. When the old man went out he turned his up.

[Illustration: A FAMILY GROUP.

_From a Photograph._]

Another feminine absurdity is the wearing of a long sort of toga, which
trails down their backs and gets in the way whenever they bend over or
go through the tangles of the mountain wood.

“Why don’t you wear a cap or small felt hat like the men?” I asked an
old woman once.

“We have always covered our heads so,” was her explanation--an
explanation, in her opinion, that was all-sufficing; peasants from one
generation to another do everything simply because their forefathers
did the same.

[Illustration: A HALT FOR REST.

_From a Photo. by Jullien Bros._]

One would imagine that on Sundays and fête days these women,
particularly the young ones, would yield to the eternal feminine
instinct of assuming the finery of their sex, but not they. Rest-time
and feast-time always finds them in their usual garments. They have
better-looking ones for these occasions, I confess, but they have no
hankering for the trammels of skirts even during their courting hours.
I was highly amused at seeing the pretty girls sauntering along the
picturesque trails with their sweet-hearts’ arms around their waists,
looking to the casual stranger for all the world like two young men
gone “loony.”

One can scarcely imagine a wedding-party with bride and groom dressed
in the same kind of garments, but I have seen one in the mountains,
when the bride wore a white bodice, white trousers, and a bunch of
white violets in her hair! She was as pretty as a picture, too, despite
the attire, and quite as blushing and shy as any bride out of a convent.

The man of her choice, a perfect giant of a peasant, was resplendent in
native costume, the chief glory of which, a green waistcoat with large
brass buttons, could be seen a long way off.

Most of the weddings of recent years have been held in the little
chapel of the village down in the valley, where the regulation “slip
over” skirt is donned at the chapel door, to be discarded before the
tramp up the mountain-side is begun.

One day I was told in the village that a funeral was to be held in
the little mountain settlement above Champéry, and I trudged up the
zigzag pathway as hurriedly as the occasion would allow, for I confess
to having a penchant for witnessing these mournful conclaves in every
foreign country I may visit.

I had no trouble in discovering the house of mourning, as a crowd of
peasants hung about the door. Soon the little procession, headed by the
priest and his attendants, filed out of the door and moved with solemn
chant down the mountain-side towards the little churchyard below.

On inquiry, I learned that the departed one was the elderly husband
of a bent and weather-beaten old peasant woman, who tottered along in
faded black garments, the nether portion of which looked for all the
world as if she had donned the “left-overs” of her dear departed. On
her head was a crisp new crape toga, however, and as she hobbled along
I confess that she made a pathetic as well as an incongruous figure.

[Illustration: THE VILLAGERS POSSESS LARGE HERDS OF FINE MILCH-GOATS,
WHICH THE WOMEN LOOK AFTER WHILE THEIR MEN-FOLK STOP AT HOME.

_From a Photo. by Jullien Bros._]

Despite the fact that the women work hard out of doors, summer and
winter, exposed to the worst of weathers, they are mostly long-lived
and seldom know what illness is. I often saw them working in the
hayfields with their babies lying blinking in the sunlight near by.
At noon they lounged under the trees, talking mother-foolishness to
the wee things, and their queer garments never seem so hideous and
altogether distasteful as when they are nursing the children.

The lack of even the simplest understanding of remedies for either
illness or accident has always struck me as most remarkable among the
Swiss peasantry. They may live several hours’ journey away from a
doctor or chemist without ever making the least attempt at learning
what to do for even the simplest ailments.

I once knew one of these Champéry women to have sunstroke so badly that
she became quite unconscious, and continued so long in that state that
I was certain she would die.

[Illustration: “MARY HAD A LITTLE LAMB”--THIS PHOTOGRAPH SHOWS CLEARLY
THE “HOME-MADE” CUT OF THE TROUSERS AND THE CURIOUS HEAD-DRESS WORN BY
THE WOMEN.]

There were any number of old men and women gathered round wailing, but
none of them seemed to know what to do in such a case. The woman’s
mother suggested giving her a cup of coffee, which was attempted, most
of it being spilt over her. Then someone took off her shoes and began
slapping the soles of her feet with a piece of board.

I chanced to have a “first aid” case with me, and--greatly to the
distrust of the peasants--administered what suitable remedies I had;
I also insisted on one going post-haste down the valley for a medical
man. But they would do nothing except wail and shake their heads.
Finally the patient came round all right, saying that her head “felt
full of hot things,” and the next morning, when I called to inquire
after her, I found that she was at work in the hayfields, hatless,
under the scorching sunlight, as usual. At another time a little child
of three was taken with convulsions from having eaten too much cheese,
and died without having anything done to save the little creature; the
old women simply wagging their heads wisely and muttering something
about their all “going” when taken like that. With them it is evidently
a case of the survival of the fittest.

Last summer I was in Champéry at the time of the great Swiss national
holiday, when everybody celebrates Swiss freedom by making as much
noise as possible during the day and lighting huge bonfires at night.
Everyone was dressed in holiday finery, many of the younger women
appearing in grey-check trousers and hats with artificial flowers!
One happy family party, consisting of the father and mother and four
children, had evidently a decided fondness for royal purple--or perhaps
this was the colour of their clan--for the six of them, even to the
babe in arms, were arrayed in the purple of kings and emperors!

The baby in particular attracted my interest insomuch that I ventured
to take the little creature in my arms in the hope that I might slip
it out of the cartridge-like swaddling-case in which these poor little
wretches are carried about. I might just as well have tried to pull off
the muzzle of a gun; the babe was as tightly fixed in his terribly hot
case as though it were a vice. And yet I doubt not he will grow into
a fine stalwart son of the mountains, though how they ever manage to
expand or lengthen at all is a mystery to me.

I once sat talking to an old goatherd who certainly looked as if he had
sat in the same nook in the mountains for at least a century. He was so
bent and rheumaticky-looking that I quite failed to see how he could
possibly make his way along the steep and slippery paths. His “old
woman,” as he called her, was off down the valley gathering faggots.
“She be a great worker,” he told me, and never got tired the way he
did. I asked him if he liked the idea of the women doing most of the
hard work; he answered by saying that it “was their way.” It suited the
women to work at the hay, he seemed to think; and, besides, they hadn’t
to smoke, which was evidently sufficient occupation for the men.

This old man had never seen a railway until this last summer, when a
branch line was run on to the village of Champéry, at the foot of his
mountain home. I asked him what he thought of it, and he grumbled out a
long tale of how it had already killed a lot of goats and sheep!

Any sort of progress is looked upon with the greatest prejudice and
suspicion by these people, who will undergo any fatigue and discomfort
rather than change the routine of centuries.

Coming down a mountain path one evening, I ran into a party of peasant
girls toiling up with huge baskets of provisions strapped to their
backs. In the half light I mistook them for men from their garb, but
coming nearer I recognised their red togas, and later their women’s
voices.

[Illustration: A MOUNTAIN IDYLL.

_From a Photo. by Jullien Bros._]

Stopping to talk with them, I found that they were of the well-to-do
natives who owned cows and mules, but they seldom thought of taking the
mules along to carry up the provisions or themselves.

It had always been the custom of their women to make pack-baskets out
of their backs, and they would never think of doing otherwise. It is
not easy to get these people to talk of themselves to strangers; they
often resent being asked questions about their work and ideas.

Yet the young women take interest in the pretty clothes of strangers.
One of them came up to me and touched a blue lapis-lazuli ring I was
wearing, her eyes simply devouring it, and the other trinkets I wore of
the same stone. Finally, she exclaimed that she liked them very much,
and also the frock of the same colour. I am quite certain there was a
momentary pang of feminine envy in her heart, and a hatred for her own
incongruous garments.




[Illustration: RETRIBUTION.

BY CAPTAIN G. F. PUGH.]

    A story of the bad old “shanghaiing” days, showing how a
    villainous crimp had the tables turned upon him in dramatic
    fashion. Captain Pugh heard the first part of the story while
    in Newcastle, N.S.W., as mate of a ship, and its sequel upon a
    return voyage.


In 1872 Newcastle, New South Wales, was a busy, thriving little
seaport. The harbour was full of large sailing ships, loading and
waiting to load coal, and bound chiefly to China, San Francisco, and
the Pacific Coast ports.

Very few of these ships had their full complement of seamen on board.
Most of the sailors deserted during the vessels’ stay in port--and one
cannot blame them, when it is remembered that the pay in these ships
from British ports was two pounds ten a month, with the poorest quality
of food that it was possible for the ship-owner to buy, and only just
sufficient of that to keep body and soul together.

The pay out of the Australian ports was, for homeward-bounders, five
pounds ten, and in the coast and inter-Colonial traders seven pounds a
month, with a sufficiency of good, nourishing food. In addition to the
inducements offered by the coast traders, there was plenty of work to
be found on shore, for the Queensland, Victorian, and South Australian
goldfields were in full swing. The consequence was that there was great
difficulty in getting men to man the ships when they were ready for sea.

Like most seaports in those days of sailing-ships, the town was full
of sailors’ boarding-houses. The tactics and ways of procuring men
employed by the proprietors of these places were not such as would
stand the light of day, but nevertheless they did a thriving business.

One of the most noted characters in the town was a boarding-house
keeper named Dan Sullivan, a scoundrel to the backbone. He was
notorious for the number of men he had “shanghaied” out of the port,
but, strange to say, he had gained a certain amount of power in the
town, and shipmasters requiring men were, under the circumstances,
compelled to deal with him, although at the same time many of them had
the utmost contempt for the fellow.

Sullivan kept a low-class drinking saloon with a free-and-easy
dancing-room attached to it. The boarders lived in the rooms overhead.
This was the only dancing saloon in the town, and was thronged with
sailors every night. The liquor sold was, needless to say, vile
stuff, but men who have been living for months on weevily biscuit and
“salt-horse” have very little taste left in their mouths, and as long
as the decoction was hot and came out of a bottle it passed muster.

Sullivan was an adept at drugging liquor, and he always kept materials
at hand for that purpose. Just a little tobacco ash dropped in the
glass when pouring out the drinks, and the thing was done. When he
required a few sailors for a ship ready to sail, he picked out the
likeliest men in the room--usually strangers--and when the seamen, hot
and thirsty with dancing, ordered drinks through the women who acted as
waitresses, these Delilahs would bring the prepared stuff, and soon the
men would feel muddled and sleepy and would go into the side room and
sink down on the benches.

Sullivan would then slip in among them.

“Halloa, mates! What’s the matter? Feel queer, eh? Ah, it’s the dancing
and the hot weather. I’ll send you a good tot that will put you all
right.”

He would then send one of the girls in with a good glass of hot
whisky--drugged, and that would be all the men would know for some
time. When they came to their senses they found themselves in a
strange ship, out of sight of land, without a stitch of clothes beyond
what they stood up in. Of course, there was generally a row, but it
invariably ended in their turning to work and making the best of a bad
bargain.

[Illustration: “HALLOA, MATES! WHAT’S THE MATTER?”]

One day in February, 1872, it happened that there were three British
ships lying at the buoys, loaded and ready to sail, but each was in
want of a few seamen to make up her complement. Not a man could be
got at the shipping-office for love or money--the news of a fresh
gold-field on the Barrington had reached Newcastle that morning, and
all the disengaged men had made tracks for that district. So the only
possible way to get hands for the vessels ready to sail was to obtain
them from the ships that had lately arrived, and which would have some
time to wait for a loading berth.

The captains of the ships at the buoys sent for Sullivan, and arranged
with him to supply them with four men each that night, as the trio
would sail at the turn of the tide. When Sullivan got back on shore,
he sent some of his runners to quietly let the crews of the ships in
harbour know there was to be a free concert and dance at his place,
with plenty of whisky into the bargain.

When night came the saloon was packed with seamen, and among the lot
were six fine young American sailors from the ship _Jeremiah Crawford_,
of New Bedford. Now, New Bedford ships are very often “family
ships”--that is to say, the captain, officers, and seamen are related
to each other. Of the six young fellows who went to this dance, two
were nephews of the captain, one was a relative of the mate, and the
others were related to members of the crew.

Long before the dance was over there were several seamen lying
helplessly drugged in the side room. Just before midnight, and while
the dance was still going on, Sullivan and his fellow-crimps removed
the helpless men down to a boat, and took them off to the ships at the
buoys. Then Sullivan pocketed his blood-money, and before daylight the
vessels were at sea under all plain sail.

The following day, when the six American seamen did not turn up on
board the _Jeremiah Crawford_, inquiries were quietly made, and it was
soon found out what had become of them; they had been among the twelve
men “shanghaied” aboard the three waiting ships. The men’s shipmates,
boiling with anger, wanted to go and wreck Sullivan and his saloon, but
the captain called all hands aft, and from the poop told them they must
not let it be known that they knew where their shipmates were.

“I know how you feel over it,” he said, “and I know how I feel too, but
I intend to pay that rascal in his own coin. Those Britishers are off
to ‘Frisco, and we are bound there, too; and you can bet your bottom
dollar I mean to make the ship move when we start. And what is more, I
intend to take that rascal Sullivan with me!”

“All right, captain,” answered the men. “Mum’s the word. We will wait
events.”

Two days afterwards Captain Monk, of the _Jeremiah Crawford_, told
Sullivan to get him six men by the time the ship was loaded.

Sullivan agreed, on condition that he was paid three pounds per man.
This Captain Monk agreed to, and when the ship was finished and hauled
out to the buoys, Sullivan sent word to the captain that he would bring
the men off about eight p.m.

Now, that day a young Irish police-constable had been transferred from
Sydney to Newcastle, and promoted. He was appointed to this district
with a view to watching the goings-on at Sullivan’s, rumours of which
had reached police head-quarters.

The constable was married to a fine strapping Irish lass, who was a
great help to her husband. She wore her hair short like a man’s, and
was not a stranger to the wearing of men’s clothes. It was partly owing
to her, in fact, that her husband had got his position.

The constable knew he was there to get proof of Sullivan’s shady
doings, and it was accordingly arranged that his wife should disguise
herself as a seaman--as she had done before--and watch the inside while
her husband watched the outside of Sullivan’s saloon. The policeman’s
wife was a splendidly-built woman, as straight as a reed, and muscular
as well.

So it happened that, when Sullivan was picking out the men he wanted
for his purpose that night, he saw this likely-looking young fellow
among them. But he was not taking any liquor--only a bottle of
ginger-ale. Sullivan obligingly opened a bottle for him, and it was a
simple matter, as the stuff fizzed out, to knock the ash from his cigar
into the glass with his little finger, and the mischief was done.

Presently one of his spies cautioned the crimp that there was a
constable knocking about in the street.

“We must get the beggar out of the way, Mike,” said Sullivan. “I’ll
soon settle him. You watch him.”

Going outside, Sullivan walked up the street past the constable,
smoking a splendid cigar. The constable got a whiff and wished he
had one like it. In a few minutes the crimp returned, still puffing
away at the cigar. As he passed the policeman he quietly dropped his
cigar-case. The constable, just behind him, saw the case and picked it
up, and, seeing there were two or three fine cigars in it, succumbed to
temptation and put it in his pocket.

He could not long resist the mute appeal of those cigars, so, slipping
into the shadow behind some houses, he lit one, and was soon enjoying a
good smoke. It had a wonderfully soothing influence, and he leaned up
against the wall, thinking of the sharp bit of work that had brought
him promotion. He felt that already he had Sullivan in his power, and
he saw himself in imagination with his sergeant’s stripes. Then, all
of a sudden, he smiled a sickly smile, his head fell forward, his legs
gave way beneath him, and he sank in a heap on the ground.

A few minutes afterwards the spy, who had been watching him all
the time, cautiously approached. He took the cigar-case out of the
unconscious man’s tunic, removed the remains of the drugged cigar from
his mouth, and left him there.

The night was dark, and about eight p.m., while the dancing and singing
were still in full swing, Sullivan and his tools got the selected men
off in a boat. The tug was ahead of the ship, all ready to start.
When the crimp got alongside with his men the _Jeremiah Crawford_ was
hanging to a slip-rope, and the captain was in his cabin waiting for
Sullivan and the sailors.

“Hurry up and get those chaps on board,” the mate called out. “I want
to get under way.”

“All right, Mister Mate,” answered one of the crimps. “We’ll soon have
them on board. Get out of that, you brutes!” he added, giving one of
the dazed men a kick.

Sullivan and his men soon got their victims on board, but on getting
on deck one of the fellows, a fine-built young Swede, seemed to partly
recover his senses.

“I don’t belong to this ship,” he said, and made for the gangway. With
an oath Sullivan sprang at him. A terrific blow on the side of the
head, and the poor fellow dropped senseless on the deck. They then
bundled the lot forward.

[Illustration: “EACH OF THEM WAS KNOCKED SENSELESS WITH A BLOW BEHIND
THE EAR FROM A KNUCKLE-DUSTER.”]

Finding no light in the forecastle Sullivan and his men stepped inside,
and were in the act of striking matches, when each of them was knocked
senseless with a blow behind the ear from a knuckle-duster. They were
then dropped into the fore-peak and the hatch fastened down, while the
new men were lifted into berths to sleep off the effects of the drugged
liquor.

In the meantime, the second mate slipped down the gangway, and,
standing on one side of Sullivan’s boat, capsized her. When she filled
with water he cast her off and let her drift up-river.

The tug-boat dropped down, the tow-rope was secured, the buoy cast off,
and before midnight the ship was outside the Nobbies and under all sail.

At daylight the “shanghaied” men were getting over the effects of the
drug, and the captain called all hands aft to give them a good glass
of grog. The new men were in a terrible state when they came to their
senses and found they had been “shanghaied.” One young fellow, in
particular, sat down on the hatch and, placing his head on his hands,
seemed to give way to despair. He took no heed of what was going on,
and spoke no word to anyone.

The young Swede who had been so brutally struck by Sullivan stepped up
to the captain.

“Who brought us on board?” he asked.

“Dan Sullivan,” replied the mate. “He said you were his boarders. I
saw him come alongside, and then I went forward, and have not seen him
since.”

“Did you pay him any advance for us, captain?”

“No; I have not seen him,” said the skipper. “He must have gone on
shore again. I cannot understand it. I do not know the man,” added
Captain Monk. “I wrote him to get me six men, and told him I would sign
them on board. I heard him come alongside with you, and when I came out
of my cabin I saw no boat alongside, and we got under way at once.”

“Thank you, captain,” replied the Swede. “Sullivan and I will meet
again some day.”

“Halloa, halloa! What’s all that about?” rang out from the forecastle,
accompanied by a heavy thumping.

The mate started to run forward, and all hands turned, to behold a
remarkable sight.

Out of the forecastle bolted three men. Casting their eyes in the
direction of the land they rushed aft, past the seamen, and were about
to mount the poop-ladder, when the mate barred the way.

“Get down out of this, you skunks!” he roared. “Who are you fellows,
and where do you come from?”

“You know jolly well who I am,” roared the biggest of the three. “And
you had better land us as quick as you can, or it will be a bad job for
you, so I tell you.”

The mate looked at him in silence for a moment; then the skipper chimed
in.

“Who the deuce are you?” demanded Captain Monk; “and what are you doing
aboard my ship?”

“What are you trying to get at, captain?” cried the crimp, furiously.
“You know very well I’m Dan Sullivan. I brought you six men last night,
and when we took them into the forecastle--”

There was a shuffle among the men, and the next minute the young Swede
had sprung at Sullivan’s throat and the two were tossing about the deck
battering each other like wild beasts.

“Stand back, everybody!” cried the mate. “Let them have it out.”

Sullivan was the bigger and heavier man, but the Swede was a perfect
young athlete, and had a cruel wrong to wipe out. The muscles of his
arms and neck stood out like strong cords as the two rolled from side
to side.

Not a word was uttered by the officers or crew, who stood calmly
looking on.

Suddenly, by a quick movement, the Swede pinned Sullivan against the
fife-rail around the mainmast, and with his right hand battered his
face unmercifully. Then, seizing him by the throat, he flung him into
the lee-scuppers, where he lay without movement.

The Swede looked at his foe for a moment, then coolly walked over and
wiped his boots on him. Next, turning towards the poop where Captain
Monk and the officers stood, he touched his cap and said:--

“I am second mate of the Swedish ship _Oscar Brandi_, and my father
is captain. I went on shore for a walk, and hearing the music I went
into a saloon and called for a drink. I sat down to watch the dancers,
and knew no more until I found myself on board this ship. What will my
father say or think? What will my employers say?”

He stopped abruptly, and walked forward with his head bent, overwhelmed
with his grief.

Within another minute the two remaining crimps were hotly engaged with
two of the ship’s crew whose relatives had been “shanghaied” aboard the
Britishers. The sailors made short work of the crimps, and fairly wiped
the deck with them.

Captain Monk then ordered the hapless three to be locked up in separate
cabins and fed on bread and water for a few days.

“It will give them time to repent,” he said to the mate. “It won’t do
to put them with the crew yet awhile--there would be murder done. In a
few days they can go forward, and the crew will save us dirtying our
hands with the scoundrels. Our chaps will lead them a dance, and they
will wish to Heaven they had never laid their hands on my crew.”

Just then the mate noticed the young fellow sitting on the hatch with
his head in his hands. He seemed utterly dejected and oblivious of
everything about him. The rest of the men had gone forward, and were
excitedly discussing the matter of Sullivan and his mates being on
board, each one swearing to have his pound of flesh out of the hated
“shanghaiers.”

The captain and the mate walked along to the young fellow on the hatch.
Putting his hand kindly on his bowed head, Captain Monk said: “Come,
come, young man; you must not give way like that. Sailors should always
make the best of everything.”

Lifting his head at the kindly touch and words, the young fellow
replied:--

“Oh, captain, whatever shall I do? I am not a sailor.”

“Oh, never mind that,” said the mate. “You will soon learn here; so get
forward with the others.”

“Oh, captain, take pity on me!” cried the supposed young man,
tremulously. “For Heaven’s sake, take pity on me! I am a respectable
married woman! My husband is Police-constable Hogan of the Newcastle
police.”

The captain and mate were astounded, and for a moment could do nothing
but stare at her. Then, seeing some of the men forward looking at them,
Captain Monk said: “Come aft to the saloon and I will hear your story.”

When they got into the cabin Mrs. Hogan told how the authorities at
Sydney had heard something of the doings of Sullivan and his crimps,
and had sent her husband to the district to get evidence against him.
She had assisted him before, and on this occasion had dressed up in
her present clothes and joined the sailors in the dance room to watch
Sullivan and his satellites.

“I called for a bottle of ginger-ale,” she said. “I watched him open
the bottle, and I am sure there was nothing in the glass, for I saw
it standing upside down on the counter; but I had not drunk it many
minutes before I felt my head getting light, and I remember no more
until I found myself on board this ship. I have abundant evidence
against that blackguard Sullivan now, but it is no good as he is on
board here. What shall I do? I have no clothes but these. I cannot go
among those men.”

“Steamer ahead, sir! Coming this way,” rang out the cry.

“Aye, aye!”

Captain Monk took a look at her through the telescope.

“Run the ‘Urgent’ signal up!” he shouted. “It is the Union Company’s
boat bound to Melbourne. I will send a letter and this woman on board.
Back the mainyard, and get the boat out quick.”

Up went the signal, and the steamer bore down towards the ship. Her
decks were crowded with passengers.

“You will go in the boat, Mrs. Hogan,” said the skipper, “and you had
better explain things to the captain at once. My letter will tell him
also. Mr. Patter, you go with the boat, and take four of our own hands
with you. As soon as you give the letter to the captain, put this woman
on board and return at once.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Ship your oars! Let go forward!”

The boat shot away and was soon alongside the steamer, and the mate and
Mrs. Hogan climbed on board. Going along the bridge, Mr. Patter handed
the letter to the captain, who read it and said:--

“All right. Tell Captain Monk that I will take the woman to Melbourne.
I am glad he has that blackguard on board. Good-bye.”

The mate got back into his boat, the engines were rung ahead, the
ensign was dipped three times, and before the boat was on board again
the steamer was out of sight.

Then the sails were filled once more and the _Jeremiah Crawford_ stood
on her course.

Five days afterwards Sullivan and his mates were released and sent to
live in the forecastle. Sullivan was put into the mate’s watch and the
two crimps in the second mate’s watch.

There was another row at once, and again the blackguards got a good
thrashing. They were put to the most menial work, were made to wait on
the others, and do all the dirty work about the decks; in fact, their
lives were made a misery to them from morning till night. Hardly a day
passed that one or other of the scoundrels did not get a licking. They
had a taste of the misery they had caused many another man, and, as the
captain had prophesied, they had time to repent of their misdeeds.

When the _Jeremiah Crawford_ arrived at San Francisco the pilot
informed them that two British ships had just gone to the anchorage,
adding that he noticed they were from Newcastle. This was good news to
all but Sullivan and his crimps.

As they moved up the harbour to their anchorage they passed close to
the _Commonwealth_. On board her were some of the _Jeremiah Crawford’s_
crew, and as they passed, one of the sailors called out, “We have
Sullivan on board!”

After the sails were unbent, all the running-gear triced up, and the
decks washed down, the crew were dismissed.

“Pay off to-morrow,” said the mate.

“Aye, aye!” answered the crew.

All hands went on shore, and Sullivan was forced, much against his
will, to go with them. On the wharf where they landed stood the six
American sailors whom Sullivan and his mates had “shanghaied” from
Newcastle! Let us mercifully draw a veil over the crimp’s final
punishment.

Neither of the three blackguards turned up when the crew were paid
off; no questions were asked, and no explanations given. But two
years afterwards Sullivan appeared again at New South Wales--not the
unscrupulous bully and braggart, but a broken, decrepit old man.




[Illustration: Mountain Tragedies of the Lake District.]

BY A MEMBER OF THE ALPINE CLUB.

    A contribution appealing to climbers and non-climbers
    alike. Although the writer prefers to remain anonymous, he
    is a well-known mountaineer. In this article he gives an
    authoritative and most interesting account of the various
    climbing fatalities which have occurred in the English Lake
    District, pointing out exactly how each disaster occurred.
    Photographs by G. P. Abraham, Keswick.


In these days of hurry-scurry mountaineering, when the words of the
wise are on every climber’s tongue and the intention to obey them in
few men’s minds, a great deal is written concerning the perils of the
mountains. The object of the greater part of these writings has been to
elaborate in detail the various phases of mountaineering dangers and
how to obviate them: in other words, how best to avoid accidents.

[Illustration: MICKLEDORE RIDGE AND THE BROAD STAND--THE CIRCLE MARKS
THE SPOT FROM WHICH MR. HAARBLEICHER FELL AND THE CROSS THE POINT WHERE
MR. PETTY LOST HIS BALANCE.

_From a Photograph._]

It is a somewhat singular fact that, beyond a few generalities and
platitudes evolved by non-climbing reporters, no record has been
written of the accidents themselves. And yet, in the case of the
accidents that have occurred in the Lake District, much is to be
learnt. Every disaster on the mountains, if properly understood,
should teach a lesson, for the majority of them are only accidents in
part, and have been directly due to the disregard or violation of some
cardinal law governing the sport of mountaineering.

If a man who has never been on a mountain in his life before endeavours
to scale a steep precipice and loses his life in the attempt, can such
be truly called an accident? Surely it would be more of an accident if
he succeeded in winning through without mishap; a fatal fall may under
such circumstances be called a tragedy--a disaster, but surely not an
accident.

And yet the circumstances of the so-called accident to Mr.
Haarbleicher, a Manchester merchant, in 1892, were almost in accordance
with the above instance.

He arrived at Wastdale Head Hotel with his sister, and, being “anxious
to climb his first mountain,” ascended Scawfell.

[Illustration: SCAWFELL PINNACLE--PROFESSOR MARSHALL HAD JUST RETURNED
FROM THIS CLIMB WHEN HE MET WITH HIS FATAL ACCIDENT.

_From a Photograph._]

In attempting to descend to Mickledore by way of the Broad Stand,
at the bottom of which is a steep cliff, he jumped downward on to
a scree-covered slab, his feet shot from under him, and he fell a
distance of more than a hundred feet. As a result of his injuries he
succumbed shortly after.

This lower cliff of the Broad Stand was responsible for another
fall, which, however, did not prove fatal. A Mr. Petty was climbing
Mickledore Chimney with a large party, amongst whom was his _fiancée_.
The late J. W. Robinson was the leader. At the place where the Chimney
is left and a step across to the Broad Stand effected, Mr. Petty took
off the rope in order to let the leader throw the end of it down to the
others of the party.

An agonized shout from Petty caused Mr. Robinson to turn sharply, and
he saw his companion shooting head downwards with terrific velocity
to the screes below. The distance, carefully measured afterwards, was
a hundred and seven feet. Some of the party, still at the foot of the
Chimney, were horrified to see Mr. Petty hurtling through the air
towards them, and narrowly escaped being struck.

He fell face downward. The angle of his body conformed exactly to
the slope of the screes, and his entire length struck the slope at
once. It seems incredible that he could survive such a fall, and his
friends never hoped to find him alive. His injuries was terrible, but
nevertheless he still lived, and, by careful nursing, regained his full
strength.

[Illustration: THE PILLAR ROCK--THIS IS THE CLIMB THE NOVICES WERE
ATTEMPTING WHEN MR. WALKER WENT TO THEIR ASSISTANCE.

_From a Photograph._]

This is surely the most wonderful bit of luck that ever befell a
climber. It transpired afterwards that he had grown impatient of
waiting for the others to come up and had begun to fill in the time by
a little desultory climbing on a steep slab directly above him. Off
this he had just slipped when he shouted and drew the attention of Mr.
Robinson and the others.

[Illustration: THE PILLAR ROCK AND SHAMROCK (NORTH SIDE)--THE CROSS
SHOWS THE CLIFF MR. WALKER SLID OVER, NOW KNOWN AS “WALKER’S GULLY.”

_From a Photograph._]

Would that Professor Milnes Marshall, who was killed the following year
on the opposite side of Scawfell, could have had such a providential
escape! His fall could not have been one of more than twelve feet, and
yet it proved too great.

In company with the late Owen Glynne Jones and Joseph Collier,
Professor Marshall had just previously climbed Scawfell Pinnacle by way
of Steep Ghyll, returning down Deep Ghyll to the foot of the crags,
where they had lunch together. Being anxious to obtain a photograph of
the Ghyll, Professor Marshall scrambled up the fell side opposite to
its entrance.

The nature of the ground was so easy and well broken up, although
rocky and steep, that his companions never for a moment dreamt of
disaster. Hearing a noise of falling stones they looked round and
saw a cube of rock, about two feet in diameter, rolling down the
mountain side. This was followed by the body of Professor Marshall.
Both came to rest on the scree slope below the Lord’s Rake, where, to
their great astonishment and horror, Messrs. Jones and Collier found
the life of their companion quite extinct. Exactly how the accident
happened will never be known, but it was surmised at the time that Mr.
Marshall had stepped on the cube of rock and that it had given way
with him. It has become proverbial that “it is on the easy places that
accidents happen,” and no doubt it was the easy nature of the ground
that caused a temporary carelessness on the part of a man who, in all
mountaineering circles, was recognised as a most careful and cautious
climber.

We may pass over briefly the death of the Rev. James Jackson, who fell
on the Pillar and was killed in May, 1878. He was alone at the time,
but his body was found at the foot of a steep cliff, near the summit of
the mountain. In walking along the top of the cliff he had evidently
slipped over, but what caused him to do so will never be known. The
fact that the reverend gentleman had attained to the ripe age of
eighty-two years may suggest a broad reason.

[Illustration: SCAWFELL PINNACLE AND DEEP GHYLL, SHOWING THE GHYLL AS
IT APPEARED WHEN MR. GOODALL GLISSADED DOWN IT TO HIS DEATH.

_From a Photograph._]

At Easter, nearly five years later, a party of novices were trying
to climb the Pillar Rock from the east side. For some time they were
unsuccessful. Just then another party reached the top of the Pillar
Mountain; one of them, a Whitehaven youth of the name of Walker, had
climbed the rock some time before. Seeing the predicament of the
novices, he set off down a snow-slope towards them, intending to direct
their ascent. He had only gone a few feet when he slipped on to his
back and shot off down the snow. Gathering terrific and uncontrollable
impetus as he slid, he reached the Rock, which juts out of the side of
the mountain, in a few moments and dashed into it. His body bounded off
it and then fell into a gully on the right. This was filled with hard
snow, which carried him swiftly downward until the crest of a sheer
cliff was reached. Over this, for five hundred feet, he plunged, and
far into the Ennerdale valley below, death, of course, being inevitable.

[Illustration: SCAWFELL AND MICKLEDORE--THE DOUBLE CROSSES INDICATE THE
LEDGE FROM WHICH THE PARTY OF FOUR FELL; THE SINGLE CROSS DENOTES WHERE
PROFESSOR MARSHALL SLIPPED; AND THE CIRCLE SHOWS WHERE ALL THE BODIES,
INCLUDING THAT OF MR. GOODALL, WERE FOUND.

_From a Photograph._]

Of the witnesses of this accident two subsequently lost their reason,
and the death of another shortly afterwards was attributed to the
shock. And all for the want of a little caution and forethought on
a snow-slope! Still, “out of evil comes good,” and no doubt the
remembrance of this terrible tragedy and its contributory cause has
ultimately saved many valuable lives. Only once since then has it been
forgotten in the Lake District, and this led to the last tragedy that
has happened. This was to poor Alexander Goodall, a Keswick youth, who
deliberately set off glissading down the snow at the top of Deep Ghyll
on Scawfell.

To those of us who know the frightful velocity that is attained in a
few feet on steep snow, and the long years of practice necessary to
control this speed, such an act would appear quite inexplicable. But
to him, whose first day on snow it was, and in entire ignorance of its
insidious dangers, that downward slide would present no terrors, until,
with balance gone and ice-axe snatched out of his grasp by the snow
in which he wildly dug it, his mistake flashed across his mind with
terrible meaning. Alas! he learnt his lesson too late; he did not live
to profit by it, for his body dashed downward, crashing into the rocks
as it sped, until it came to rest on the scree-slope five hundred feet
below, within a few feet of the place on which Professor Marshall fell.

A short three months before this same spot witnessed the most terrible
of all the Lakeland tragedies, when a party of skilful climbers fell
from the north face of Scawfell Pinnacle. Even the historical accident
on the first ascent of the Matterhorn, when all of a large party were
killed but Mr. Whymper and two guides, palls before this home disaster,
for here four Englishmen in the prime of their youth were suddenly
called away.

On September 21st, 1903, Messrs. Broadrick, Garrett, Jupp, and
Ridsdale started from Wastdale Head for Scawfell, intent upon climbing
the Pinnacle by the difficult route from Deep Ghyll. This they
successfully accomplished, and afterwards redescended to the foot of
the Pinnacle, where they had lunch with another climbing party, which
was under Mr. W. E. Webb’s leadership.

After lunch Mr. Webb’s party bade them _au revoir_ and went off to
climb one of the cracks on the far end of the crags. After their climb
they foregathered on Mickledore Ridge, and thence set off along the
base of the cliff to regain their knapsacks, which had been left at the
lunching-place.

As they neared the foot of the Pinnacle they heard a shout, but thought
it came from the valley below. Leisurely they rounded a corner, and
there, about fifty yards away, in the vicinity of the screes where they
had lunched, saw four figures stretched out and lying quite still.

In a disconnected way they thought at first that these four figures
were asleep, though it was a peculiar place to fall asleep in; then
something unusual about their attitudes became apparent, and not till
then did the awful reality flash upon them.

They tore across the rough intervening ground and made a dreadful
discovery. Only Mr. Ridsdale was alive, and even he was obviously too
terribly injured to recover. As they approached he raised his head.
“I’ve been shouting for hours,” he murmured. “I’m afraid the others are
all gone, but look after them and don’t mind me.” As he feared, they
were past human aid, and death had evidently visited them with merciful
swiftness, for their bodies were already cold.

It was now nearly six o’clock, and little could be done for poor
Ridsdale, but Mr. Webb and another of his party stayed with him whilst
the other ran down to Wastdale for help.

From that time until nearly ten o’clock they did all in their power
to alleviate the sufferings of the survivor, who was in great pain.
Darkness set in before seven o’clock, and their lonely vigil, with the
wind sighing weirdly through the crags above their heads, their three
erstwhile friends lying dead around them, and poor Ridsdale moaning
and but half conscious most of the time, must have been an awful
experience. The remembrance of Ridsdale’s heroic appeal to them to tend
the others before him, and afterwards the manly efforts of Mr. Webb
and his friend to help and sustain their dying comrade in such awful
circumstances through those long, dark hours of waiting, must ever
linger with pride in the hearts of all true Englishmen. We may be a
degenerate race; but, if this Scawfell tragedy has done nothing else,
it has proved that there are still men amongst us.

Little more remains to be told. The rescue party arrived through the
darkness with a stretcher, and by the light of the lanterns, after
strenuous labour and weary suspense, succeeded in conveying the
survivor downward over the rough stones and shale, only to find, alas!
that their effort was in vain, for their burden expired about an hour
before they gained the shelter of the inn.

From what Mr. Ridsdale let fall in his delirium, and by an
investigation of the face of the Pinnacle from which the party fell,
it was not difficult to reconstruct their doings before the accident.
After Mr. Webb’s party had left them they started up the north face of
the Pinnacle, a climb that had not hitherto been accomplished, with Mr.
Broadrick leading. He must subsequently have relinquished it, however,
for their position on the rope when found showed that Mr. Garrett had
taken over the lead. From a narrow ledge about two hundred feet up the
sheer rock-face Mr. Garrett slipped, and the others, not being well
placed to sustain a shock, were plucked one after another from their
holds and dashed to the screes below.

Apart from Mr. Garrett’s slip, there were two prime contributory causes
of the accident. The first was the perseverance of the party beyond
where good anchorage (a place where the leader could be checked by
the rope in case of a slip) was obtainable; and the second was in not
turning back and abandoning the climb when Mr. Broadrick, by far the
most experienced and careful man in the party, gave up the leadership.

It is easy to be wise after the event, but similar circumstances may
arise some day on another climb. If the Scawfell Pinnacle disaster
and its lesson are then recalled, it may be the means of working the
salvation of future climbers, and the loss of four valuable men,
plucked off in their prime, may not have been in vain.

[Illustration]




_Cupid and the Dentist._

BY DR. PAUL S. COLEMAN.

    The man who interferes in the love affairs of the passionate,
    hot-blooded people of Central America is likely to find he has
    stirred up a veritable hornets’ nest, and will be lucky if
    he escapes with his life. Such, at least, was Dr. Coleman’s
    experience in Salvador, but fortunately everything ended
    happily for all concerned.


Those readers of THE WIDE WORLD who are familiar with my
former narrative, entitled “Fallen Among Thieves,”[1] will remember
that my object in going into Central America was for the purpose of
practising dentistry.

[1] See April, 1908, issue.--ED.

While actively engaged in my profession in the Salvadorean city of
Santa Ana, the following series of incidents occurred, which served to
put a great deal of excitement into what might otherwise have been a
somewhat humdrum existence.

Before going farther it is necessary that the reader should understand
some of the characteristics of the Salvadoreans, who are descendants of
the ancient Spanish adventurers, with an admixture of native blood.

The women, in my humble opinion, are for intelligence, character,
and beauty the superiors of any other nation inhabiting the southern
portion of the Western Hemisphere. As for the men, the Spanish
blood seems to predominate in point of passion, for, besides being
the most valiant soldier in time of war of any Central American
race, the Salvadorean is also the most ardent lover and the most
jealously-inclined towards his inamorata of any person upon the face of
the earth. That also is my humble opinion, and that I have good grounds
for my statement will presently appear.

There are just two things the foreigner in Salvador must not do: he
must not poke his nose into political squabbles or try to interfere in
a love affair. Ten times out of ten, if you do, it will be to your very
great sorrow not counting the danger you run.

Now, when the wealthy coffee-planter or “hacienda” owner has need
of the services of a doctor or dental surgeon he never thinks of
leaving his plantation, but rounds up his mule-train, heads it with
an excellent saddle animal, sends it off to the doctor, and invites
the latter to pay him a visit. Experience has taught the practitioners
that these invitations are very remunerative, and when the call comes
business must certainly be very brisk to warrant a refusal. I, for
one, have never found it advisable to decline, and so it happened that
one Sunday afternoon I received a polite note requesting me to visit
the Señor Don Eduardo Castillo, owner of the immense coffee plantation
known as “Las Flores.” I should mention here that I have been compelled
to use assumed names, for the family concerned is one of the most
prominent in Salvador, and would not care for the notoriety which the
publication of their name would give them.

Next morning found me with my entire dental paraphernalia packed
upon the backs of a number of mules, and myself, under the escort of
half-a-dozen servants, traversing the mountain trails leading around
the base of the big volcano eight miles north of Santa Ana, upon
the way to the “finca” of Las Flores. The journey was made without
incident, though it was far into the night before we arrived, the
distance traversed being something like forty-five miles.

Señor Eduardo met me at the door, and after partaking of a late dinner,
being very much fatigued, I retired to my room, which was situated at
the extreme end of the immense building. In point of furnishings and
size the place constituted a small palace. Indeed, the manner in which
the wealthy owners of these South American coffee plantations have
managed to gather the comforts of life and many luxuries at so great a
distance from a seaport or railroad is perfectly astounding. They have
practically every modern convenience, and many others which you or I
have never been used to.

It was late next morning when I awoke, very sore and stiff from my long
ride. I found, however, that I was just in time for “coffee,” which is
usually served at ten o’clock. Here I had the pleasure of meeting the
members of the family, consisting of the mother, an aunt, one son, and
two very charming daughters, both of whom spoke perfect English, having
attended a school in the City of London for several years. I decided
immediately that my four weeks’ visit was going to be very enjoyable,
and I flattered myself that I had made a fairly good impression upon my
hosts.

Life upon the “finca” was indeed delightful. Situated as it was at
an altitude of over four thousand feet above sea-level, the days
and nights were exhilaratingly cool and pleasant. I soon struck up
a friendship--which still lasts--with the son of the house, and we
enjoyed many pleasant hours in riding over the surrounding country. To
the left, adjoining the plantation, was the immense cattle ranch owned
by a young man named Gonzales, who, I found out later, was very much
in love with the elder of Don Eduardo’s daughters, while three leagues
farther on was another coffee plantation owned by an old man named
Vasquez, whose son, I understood, had been paying much attention to the
younger girl.

Two weeks passed very happily and speedily. Very early in my visit I
became acquainted with how matters stood as regards the two courtships.
The younger Vasquez, Roberto, had already proposed and had been
accepted, while the other young man, Enrique, had been calling for
several years--indeed, he often came two or three times a day--but as
yet had never declared himself.

Being by this time well acquainted with Roberto and his betrothed, I
laughingly suggested one afternoon to the two daughters and himself
that it would be a good idea, as a means of finding out exactly what
Enrique’s intentions were, for me to kiss the Señorita Hortensia one
day when Enrique called, doing it in such a manner that the bashful
lover could not fail to see, but so that his witnessing the act should
appear an accident. The señorita, being full of girlish fun, had no
objection, and so it came to pass that the very next afternoon, when
we saw Enrique coming over, Miss Hortensia and I repaired to a very
secluded spot upon the veranda, but one which was clearly visible
from the road. There, in plain view of the approaching Enrique, I
administered the salute--much to my satisfaction. If I could have
foreseen its outcome, however, I should certainly have thought twice
about my action.

Enrique saw me kiss the señorita just as he was dismounting, and, with
an almost imperceptible start, he remounted his horse and galloped
away. Then things began to happen. Hortensia--girl-like--retired to
her room and commenced to weep, while her sister Leonia became very
distant and chilly in her manner towards me, impressing upon me that
if anything unpleasant occurred it would be all my fault. The only
ones with whom I seemed to be upon anything like decent terms were
the son and the elder people, who knew nothing about the state of
miniature warfare I had thoughtlessly provoked. Dinner that evening, in
consequence, was a very formal affair.

As, somewhat disconsolately, I pondered over the matter that night
before retiring, I resolved to hunt out Enrique early next day, explain
things fully, and endeavour to bring about a reconciliation. Having
settled the affair satisfactorily in my own mind, I climbed into bed
for the night, and, after reading a short while, dropped off to sleep,
leaving a lamp burning at my bedside.

How long I slept I do not know, but suddenly something woke me, and
I opened my eyes to behold, standing at the foot of the bed, calmly
surveying my person, a disreputable-looking Indian! In his right hand
he held a “machete,” or huge cane knife, about four feet long, and as
I watched him he ran his finger along the edge, seemingly to ascertain
whether or not it was sharp enough for the business he intended it for.
Grabbing my pillow, I sprang to my feet on the bed and backed against
the wall--just in time to catch a heavy blow from the machete upon the
pillow, which I held in front of me as a shield. For the moment I had
forgotten all about the revolver which I usually kept under my head,
and which now lay exposed in the lamplight. As I reached for it the
would-be assassin’s nerve failed him, and with a rush he fled out of
the door. A moment later I heard him mount a horse and make off at a
gallop down the road.

There was, of course, no more sleep for me until daylight. I had no
doubt that Enrique, maddened by jealousy, was the prime mover in the
performance, which, needless to say, upset me very badly. Nevertheless,
I had resolved to see Enrique that day, and now I was more than ever
anxious to clear up the unfortunate misunderstanding that had arisen.
So, saddling early, I proceeded towards the cattle ranch, taking with
me the boy servant who had been kindly assigned to me by Don Eduardo.
When we were about a mile from the ranch the boy, to my amazement,
suddenly doubled up and began to howl. Springing from my horse and
running to him, I found a bullet-hole through the fleshy part of his
thigh, from which the blood flowed freely. The wound had undoubtedly
been caused by a high-power rifle bullet, fired at such a distance that
it was impossible to hear the report. Dressing the wound as best I
could, I took the lad up behind me and made for Las Flores, where I put
him to bed and redressed the wound. Things were getting a good bit too
lively for my liking, and I would much rather have been in Santa Ana
just then than where I was. If I had not been afraid of assassination
on the road I would certainly have made my departure immediately.

This second adventure, of course, caused considerable excitement in
the family, as I had already mentioned my night’s alarm, and I was the
object of much sympathy from the young ladies, who now began to take
my part. I sent several notes over to Enrique’s place, and Don Eduardo
also went across to look him up, but he was not to be found.

[Illustration: “ENRIQUE SAW ME KISS THE SEÑORITA JUST AS HE WAS
DISMOUNTING.”]

About this time another misfortune befell me. Roberto came over and
found me holding a very earnest conversation with his betrothed.
Knowing nothing of previous happenings, this fiery-tempered young
man became violently enraged, and, without asking any explanation,
immediately attacked me with a heavy riding-whip. We had a smart
struggle, but I succeeded in wresting it from him and knocking him down
with a blow from my fist. Springing to his feet with a snarl, he made
off as fast as his legs would carry him, leaving his horse tied to the
gate. The señorita promptly swooned, and the last glimpse Roberto got
of us showed me carrying the young lady in my arms into the house. I
have a faint recollection of seeing him shake his fist at me and grind
his gleaming white teeth.

Well, now I was “up against it” properly, with two heart-broken girls
on my hands and two lovers vowing to have my life. I discussed the
matter at length with Don Eduardo, explaining to him that, while I
liked the young ladies very much indeed and valued their friendship
greatly, I was not in love with them and had done nothing to warrant
anyone in thinking I was, the “kiss incident” notwithstanding. It
seemed very hard lines that I should go in peril of my life and get
into general hot water through trying, by means of a harmless joke, to
bring a bashful or undecided lover “up to the scratch.”

Needless to say, I was very much worried by the turn things were
taking, and for several days I got very little sleep. One night, while
tossing wakefully upon my bed, I seemed to feel some danger in the air,
so much so that I got up and lit the lamp to get rid of the feeling of
depression which seemed to overwhelm me. Lying down again, I fell into
a light slumber. Presently I was awakened by something touching me upon
the shoulder. Opening my eyes, I saw right above me, with his head and
one shoulder through the window, the same old Indian who had previously
visited me. He was trying to slip a noose over my head by means of a
long stick, but the instant I opened my eyes he disappeared. A moment
later the noose slipped over the bed-post, dragging the entire end out
bodily and jerking it against the wall. There followed a snort and a
grunt outside, and the sound of a horse dashing off.

Next morning revealed a broken saddle to which the rope had been tied,
it evidently being the intention to jerk me through the window--which
stood eleven feet from the ground--thus breaking my neck most
effectually.

In spite of this little interlude, the night’s adventures were not yet
over by any means, and I had scarcely got over this first shock when a
bundle was flung through the window, landing upon the mattress by my
side. Shoving it hurriedly off on to the floor, I found it contained
a hissing and squirming mass of snakes, and soon the room was filled
with a score or so of the vipers usually known in the medical world as
“corals”--the only really deadly reptiles in that part of the country,
their bite being often known to kill in thirty minutes.

As I slept some distance from anyone else I did not care to arouse the
household in the middle of the night, so I spent the remaining hours
perched upon a bookcase, out of reach of harm. It is needless to say
that before the slaying of the reptiles was over next morning the
commotion upon the “finca” was at fever-heat and no work was done at
all, the labourers being dispatched in different directions in a vain
effort to find either of the two revengeful youths.

At night, when no trace had been found of either of them, Señor
Eduardo, greatly perturbed, dispatched a note to the nearest Alcalde
for police protection. This, however, could not arrive until the
second day, and in the meanwhile I also took a trip over to the two
plantations in an effort to locate the belligerents and explain matters.

That night nothing out of the ordinary happened, but I took pains to
fasten my room securely, and obtained a good night’s rest. Next day I
again endeavoured to locate Messrs. Roberto and Enrique, but without
success. The following evening I happened to be strolling up and down
the long front veranda with the Señorita Hortensia, who had now become
somewhat reconciled to the new state of affairs. We had stopped to
look at the reflection of the moon upon a lake a mile or so down the
valley, when, without the slightest warning, a figure rose silently
from the shadow of a bush and hurled an immense knife directly at the
young lady. The father and son, who were sitting upon the steps, saw
the movement, and leapt to their feet with yells of alarm. As in the
other cases, however, Providence seemed to be with us, and the dagger
merely pierced the señorita’s dress, though it missed her body only by
a couple of inches.

Seeing that no harm had occurred, we three men sprang forward and
captured the would-be assassin just as he was in the act of flinging
another of his murderous missiles at the fainting girl. It proved to be
Enrique, and he put up a nasty fight before he was finally landed by
the heels. At this stage Hortensia, having recovered from the shock,
took the lead in the affair and immediately appropriated the prisoner
to herself. When we finally got through explaining things to him, he
came round completely and apologized most generously for all that he
had done. That night there was much rejoicing at Las Flores, and the
announcement was made that Enrique and Hortensia were to be married
very shortly.

Everyone seemed to have temporarily forgotten about the Señorita Leonia
and her troubles, but Enrique suddenly remembered them and volunteered
to go immediately and fetch Roberto. An hour later the two young men
returned together, and another reconciliation took place. Don Eduardo,
all smiles now, settled things for the lovers, and the billing and
cooing was quite affecting. Next night a grand “biallie,” or dance, was
held at the “finca,” and the whole countryside was invited. Soon after
the banns were posted for a double wedding, at which, several weeks
later, the girls’ brother and myself acted as “best men.” There is now
a little Enrique and a little Roberto, to say nothing of a young Pablo,
named in my honour, and of whom I am the proud godfather. Master Pablo
little knows, however, what a time his worthy godparent had of it when
he foolishly tried to adjust the love affairs of the aforesaid Master
Pablo’s parents.

[Illustration: “SHOVING IT HURRIEDLY OFF ON TO THE FLOOR, I FOUND IT
CONTAINED A HISSING AND SQUIRMING MASS OF SNAKES.”]




[Illustration: My Experiences in Algeria.

BY THE BARONESS DE BOERIO.]

    The Baroness’s husband, an officer in the French army, was
    ordered to Algeria, and took his wife and children with him.
    There, located at a tiny post far from civilization, in the
    midst of fierce and unruly tribes, the authoress met with some
    very strange adventures, which she here sets forth in a chatty
    and amusing fashion.

III.


We climbed into the regimental brake very gladly, had a good breakfast
at Boghar, and then, at four o’clock in the afternoon, started for
the first caravanserai, Ain Ousera, on the way to Laghouat, where we
ought to have arrived at about half-past seven. However, half-past
nine came, and still no caravanserai was in sight. The night was of an
inky blackness, and we began to suspect that we had lost our way. My
husband accordingly stopped the carriage and questioned the driver, who
acknowledged that he had only been that way once before, and was not
very sure of his route. In this country, where there are no roads, one
always follows the direction of the telegraph posts.

“Where are they?” asked my husband.

The Spahi hung his head abashed.

“I have not seen one since it grew dark,” he confessed.

[Illustration: ARAB WOMEN WASHING IN A STREAM.

_From a Photograph._]

There was no use being angry and abusing him, so my husband set to work
to gain some idea of our position. Happily we met an Arab, who gave us
the indication required, and we set out again at a good pace. Whether
the Arab gave us the wrong direction, or whether the driver deviated,
I cannot say; but we were spinning along, making up for lost time,
when suddenly the horses were flung back on their haunches and a voice
yelled, “Back! Back! _Malheureux_!” The Spahi fortunately obeyed the
command, and my husband jumped out quickly to see what new adventure
had befallen us. This one, however, came very near being our last, for
we had been stopped by the guardian on the very brink of a quarry!
Another few yards and we should have leapt into space and fallen down
a precipice some thirty feet deep. My husband was afraid to trust the
soldier driver any more, so he arranged with the quarry guardian to
guide us, and we ultimately arrived at Ain Ousera towards 2 a.m., tired
out and as hungry as wolves. We woke up the landlord and asked for beds
and food. There was nothing to be had, he said, but bread, potatoes,
and eggs, but we told him that would do if some strong, hot coffee
accompanied it. An hour later we were all snoring.

[Illustration: “THE HORSES WERE FLUNG BACK ON THEIR HAUNCHES AND A
VOICE YELLED, ‘BACK! BACK!’”]

The rest of our journey was less adventurous. At a caravanserai called
Gelt Es Stel we were to send back the regimental brake and continue our
road in a carriage sent by the Bach-Agha of Laghouat. We waited in vain
for the promised vehicle, however, and when, on the second day, the
mail and passenger coach came in, we decided it was better to continue
our journey by that. The _coupé_--a small compartment for three in
the front of the coach--was all that was available, so in we got--my
husband, myself, three children, and four dogs! I shall never forget
that journey. My legs were too long for the space, and the cramp at
last grew unbearable, while the roof was so near my head that I had to
sit perfectly still, with a swanlike curve of the neck which, though
perhaps very graceful, was also excruciatingly uncomfortable. No one
was more devoutly thankful than myself when at last we finally reached
our destination.

Laghouat, or, properly speaking, El-Aghouath, the “Pearl of the South,”
as the Arabs call it, is built on and around two rocks rising out of
the burning plain and cutting the oasis in two, thus giving it the form
of a green horse-shoe. A small canalized stream passes between the two
rocks, watering first the north and then the south oasis.

[Illustration: THE TOWN OF LAGHOUAT, ON THE EDGE OF THE DESERT.

_From a Photograph._]

From the top of these rocks the view, to the lover of Sahara beauty, is
magnificent. Away to the south stretches the desert, sterile and naked,
save for the tufts of vegetation here and there, yet the lights and
shades of colour are so variable and rich that it is a pure joy to gaze
over its infinity. On the north the undulating flatness is relieved by
a low line of rocky barren hills, round the top of which is a curious
dark line, which one could swear was a high-water mark. On a hot summer
day these hills rise black as coal out of the flame of golden sand
around them; then, as evening draws nigh, some become pale rose-colour,
others deepest pansy purple, or bright ochre yellow, and all so vivid,
so luminous, that the artist despairs of transferring their colours to
his canvas.

Nearly all the houses at Laghouat are built of mud bricks, mixed with
straw and baked in the sun. As a child I used to be very much perplexed
by the Israelites’ complaint during their Egyptian captivity, “How can
we make bricks, for we have no more straw?” No one could explain the
matter to me satisfactorily, but now I understood. In these parts, when
the earth is not sand, it is clay. This clay is well wetted and patted,
in the way dear to the childish heart, and then mixed and rolled in
very short straw. Afterwards it is put in a square wooden frame, well
patted once more, turned out in rows, and left to bake in the sun for a
fortnight. The bricks are then stacked up ready for use.

Personally, I liked these houses immensely; it was so easy to put nails
in the walls solidly. As a rule, things I nail up fall down suddenly,
without any warning, on some revered head--never on mine, because I
take care not to place myself underneath the work of my own hands. In
the Laghouat houses, however, you can plant a good long nail boldly.
It enters as though into butter, you hang up your picture, or whatever
it is, and then go outside and hang a pot of flowers or a water-pot on
the point which has come through--and there you are, perfectly balanced
on both sides! But these mud houses have one rather serious drawback.
When it rains--fortunately this only occurs at very rare intervals--the
buildings, unless strongly white washed, have a tendency to fall down
and melt away into shapeless mud-heaps. This is all in the day’s work
to the Arab, and does not upset him overmuch, unless a child--or what
is to him worse, a sheep or horse--is buried in the ruins. He just
camps out under a camel hair tent in the highest part of his garden,
or, if he hasn’t a tent, under a carpet--everyone has a carpet. Then,
when it ceases raining, he serenely rebuilds. “Tu cha Allah!” he
says--“It is the will of God.”

The rain-storms, though infrequent, are really terrifying when they
do come. I have seen waves several feet high turning the corner of my
house, and that half an hour after a downpour began. The river of sand,
Oued M’zi, which becomes Oued Djdid farther on, fills with water in
the twinkling of an eye, and is soon a deep, roaring torrent two miles
broad; it is perfectly incredible the rapidity with which the floods
rise.

[Illustration: A LAGHOUT MUD-HOUSE--DURING THE RAIN-STORMS THESE
BUILDINGS HAVE AN AWKWARD HABIT OF MELTING AWAY!

_From a Photograph._]

This Oued M’zi is supposed by the Roman historian Juba to be the real
source of the Nile. It is an uncanny river, disappearing underground
at various points for several days’ march. It finally disappears
altogether at Cholt Melghir, but the Roman historian points out that
after twenty days’ march it reappears as the source of the Nile.

Some seven years before I arrived at Laghouat, I was informed, the M’zi
rose to such a height that it bore all before it on the north side of
the oasis. Men, women, children, tents, and herds were carried away for
many kilometres, and the deaths by drowning numbered several hundred.

I remember once passing a night of anguish when my husband was away
in the south. I had changed my house during his absence and taken a
smaller one, with a huge garden, in the north oasis, some hundred
yards from the river. The autumn rains began, and soon my garden and
outer court were under water. The river came thundering down, and the
mud house seemed to quiver. Towards ten at night the sound of the
swift-rushing flood grew so terrific that my heart almost stood still,
and I remembered the catastrophe of seven years back. “Why, oh, why did
I leave our solid stone house to inhabit this dangerous hole?” I asked
myself.

I tramped across the court, knee-deep in water, to my Arab servant’s
room.

“Mohammed,” I cried, “come with me to see if the pathway to town is
in a good enough state to take the children to the hotel. The water
frightens me; we shall be drowned like rats in a trap.”

We tried to open the garden door giving on the wall-lined pathway along
which the irrigation stream ran, and which was the only road to the
town for the houses or gardens of the northern oasis. The door opened
outward, and fortunately for us the pressure of water against it was so
heavy that our united strength could not move it half an inch.

Mohammed accordingly climbed on the wall and looked down. The water was
nearly six feet deep! He descended hastily, observing calmly, with a
critical look at the wall, “It’s a very old wall. It must be the will
of Allah that it does not fall.”

There was obviously nothing to be done, so I retired indoors and
changed my clothes, for I was soaking wet. The waters thundered and
swirled all about us, and I was thankful indeed when daylight came and
the flood gradually began to subside.

The women of Laghouat never go out by day, and at night are closely
veiled as they journey under escort from one relation’s house to
another; even the lower classes and the dancing women faithfully
observe this custom. Only on two feasts, which last three and seven
days--the “Aid el Srir” and “Aid el Kebir,” the “little” and “great”
Feast of the Sheep, which correspond with the Jewish Passover and
killing of the Paschal lamb--do the latter ladies don their finest
clothes and strut about barefaced.

Their costumes are indeed splendid--silks and brocades of the very best
quality and the most lovely hues, with gold, silver, and gem-studded
embroideries. The veils hanging from their bejewelled head-dresses are
of cloth of silver and gold, their bosoms are covered with precious
stones, and the noise of the numerous bracelets they wear on arms and
legs can be heard some way off.

[Illustration: A SCENE IN THE SAHARA.

_From a Photograph._]

The dancing women of the province of Algiers and Oran are nearly all of
the tribes of the Ouled Najls. The women of these tribes have chosen
dancing as their profession, and when quite young they go forth to earn
their dowry by “tripping on the light fantastic toe.” When they have
earned it they generally return home, marry, and make as good wives and
mothers as the rest of womenkind.

[Illustration: A GROUP OF DANCING GIRLS OF THE OULED NAJL.

_From a Photograph._]

There are now about thirty-eight tribes of Ouled Najls, stretching
from Biskara to the Djebel-Amour, all pastoral, wandering wherever
the blessed rain of heaven falls and grasses grow, without taking any
notice of distance or frontiers. The supreme happiness of a Najl is to
find a quiet corner where the grass is green and abundant, and there to
snooze under the sun’s rays, watching his sheep and camels fatten, and
fattening himself as well, for he lives chiefly on their milk. Later he
exchanges his flocks for corn, dates, and everything necessary for his
existence. Truly these people are still in the age of Abraham.

[Illustration: THE BACH-AGHA OF THE LARBAAS, AN IMPORTANT ARAB CHIEF.

_From a Photograph._]

A fortnight after I arrived at Laghouat the Bach-Agha of the Larbaas
(a tribe of warriors who have always been faithful to France) gave a
“diffa” in our honour. Warned by my experience of painful memory at
Teniet-el-Haad, I did not try to partake of all the twenty-five dishes
which were served in weary succession. After the repast was over we
paid a visit to the chief’s two wives. The favourite, a young woman
of twenty-four, was most beautifully dressed in eau-de Nil brocade.
The costume was that of the Algiers women, full trousers closing in
tightly round the small, silk-socked, golden-slippered feet. Then came
a three-quarter skirt of the same material and a much-embroidered
tight-fitting bodice. The front of this latter garment was so covered
with jewels that the stuff was hardly visible. The head-dress was
composed of silk handkerchiefs and chains of gold and precious stones.
She had two children, a boy of eight and a girl ten years old. She
told me she was very happy, that she had been married to the Bach-Agha
since she was twelve years old, and that he had only beaten her once,
when she had broken one of her pieces of jewellery in a temper. She
showed us the very piece, with much laughter--a big, finely-worked gold
filigree disc.

“You did not laugh so loudly when you felt the _matraque_ on your
shoulders,” said a grim voice behind her.

Without another word she pulled one of her handkerchiefs over her
face and stood motionless. It was now our turn to laugh, which we did
heartily, for we had seen the Bach-Agha come in, and had understood his
sign for us not to betray him.

After teasing her a little the good old man--he was sixty--told her to
unveil, but not to boast too much of her one beating, or he should have
to make it two.

We much admired the beautiful carpets and embroidered cushions on the
marble floor, and the handsome silver and brass jugs, cups, and plates
which adorned the Arab brackets, but we thought the four-poster bed,
with white muslin curtains, which stood in the far corner, rather out
of place.

The young wife’s apartments consisted of two big rooms, about fourteen
yards long by four wide, both leading out into a big square court with
pink marble pillars, where palms and various other exotic plants
flourished. In the centre was a fountain where goldfish glinted.

Then we went to see the other wife, old, like her husband. Her room was
big, her bed comfortable, her clothing good, but everything was of the
simplest. Her only jewel was a tiny gold brooch fastening a drapery
drawn round the head under the chin. She seemed too weary to talk.

“Life is over for me,” she said. “My children are dead; my husband
has not spoken to me for years. I, too, shall soon be gone.” And she
clacked her tongue in her cheek in a dismally resigned fashion. I felt
heavy-hearted as I went out.

“How sad!” I said to Ben Aouda, one of the Bach-Agha’s three grown-up
sons. “I thought she was your mother.”

“My mother and my brothers’ mother has been dead a long time,” he
replied. “That one”--and I distinguished a shade of contempt in his
voice--“only gave my father daughters--feeble creatures who died young.”

If an Arab woman wishes to retain any power she may ever have had over
her husband, she must first be a mother, and, secondly, the mother of
male children, strong and lusty. There are, of course, exceptions; I
knew of one at Laghouat later. The two longed for a family. They made
pilgrimages to all sorts of outlandish places. In accordance with
Arab superstitions, the husband tore the still-throbbing heart out of
countless jackals’ palpitating bodies and devoured it warm, while his
wife wore all sorts of horrible fetishes round her neck and drank the
blood of hyenas. It was all of no avail, but despite the advice and
worrying of his family he refused to divorce her or to take another
wife, as the law allowed him. But he was a very rare exception to the
general rule.

Besides the Bach-Agha’s, I used to visit at the rival house, where
lived descendants of other rulers of Laghouat. Here I was often amused
by the harmless little intrigues I came across. The master of the house
possessed three very pretty and very young wives, ruled and guarded by
his mother--one of the jolliest, gayest old ladies I have ever met. She
was always draped in a spotless fine woollen _melhafa_, bordered with
green.

It was extraordinary, seeing the secluded life they led, how familiar
these young wives were with Laghouat society.

Peeping through their closely-latticed window, looking on to the road,
they would say: “Ah! there goes Lieutenant This, or Captain That,” and
then they would tell me stories concerning these officers that I had no
idea of, and enjoy my surprise.

“We may be shut up, but we know everything that goes on and have plenty
of fun,” they would say. One day when I arrived, however, I found their
harmony disturbed. Zohra, an Algiers Moor, kept apart, silent and
sullen, darting looks of hatred at Aicha, who was happily nursing her
lately-born son.

Hennia, the youngest, following my gaze, whispered: “She is mad with
jealousy because Aicha has a son, and our lord is pleased with Aicha
and angry with Zohra, who has been four years married and has given him
no offspring.”

“And you?” I inquired.

She shrugged her slender shoulders. “It is only six months since he
brought me to his house, and the last wife is never the least until
many moons have waned.”

Worried by Zohra’s look I returned shortly, but she sullenly refused to
speak to me. Then, suddenly, one day as I was leaving, she ran after
me and drew me aside. “I hate her! I hate her!” she panted. “She has
stolen his love from me. Help me, O Roumia, help me, or I shall die.”

“What can I do for you?” I inquired, rather upset by her burning gaze
and passionate whisper.

“Bring me the little white powder,” she breathed, “the dear little
powder, to sweeten her coffee and make her sleep, sleep, sleep!”

She seized my wrists and held me fast, her eyes blazing like those of a
madwoman.

“To do evil that good may come” is not usually one of my principles,
but on this occasion I thought it excusable. So I promised her the
powder, and, what is more, I took her not one, but two! One, for her
rival, was composed of chalk and sugar, and the other, for herself, of
Epsom salts.

“For these powders to have any effect you must take another at the
same time,” I told her, impressively. “If Aicha has really stolen
your share of your lord’s love from you she will surely die; but if
you have accused her wrongly, then you yourself will be the one to
suffer. You will not die, but you will suffer.” She eagerly agreed--and
she certainly suffered, too; but her jealousy was effectually cured,
and my next visit found the trio reunited and full of their usual
light-hearted tittle-tattle. When I told the story to the husband he
laughed as Arabs seldom laugh.


THE END.




[Illustration:

Ways That Are Dark.

Some Records of Roguery.]

BY RALPH STOCK, R. L. C. MORRISON, AND A. E. MACGROTTY.

    “For ways that are dark and tricks that are vain,” says Bret
    Harte’s famous poem, “the heathen Chinee is peculiar.” The
    subjoined examples of clever rascality, however, show that
    the Celestial has by no means a monopoly of the gentle art of
    living at other people’s expense.

I.--MY ADVENTURES IN ‘FRISCO.

BY RALPH STOCK.


It was on the first anniversary of the great earthquake that I found
myself in San Francisco. The city was a forest of scaffolding and
steam-cranes; huge blocks of stone and concrete hung suspended above
the streets on their way to clothe the towering “quake-proof” steel
frameworks that rose from the _débris_ of former buildings like
gigantic skeletons. Hills of bricks, mortar, and plaster confronted
the pedestrian at every turn, and the dust from these and the streets
generally made the city a blinding, choking wilderness.

The demand for labour in rebuilding had drawn to San Francisco the very
dregs of humanity throughout the Americas, and strikes, street riots,
and robberies with violence were of daily occurrence. The authority
of the police was a sinecure; fat, good-natured giants in white,
uniforms and helmets, with truncheons swinging from their wrists, leant
against hoardings at street corners and smoked cigarettes, or earnestly
requested a striker who became more than usually vociferous to “Cut it
out” or “Go way back and sit down.”

It appears that in “’Frisco” the cheapest way of living is by drinking,
for by buying five cents’ worth of inferior beer one is entitled to
eat at a “free lunch counter” adjacent to the bar and have a cut
from the joint and cheese and biscuits _ad lib_. To a world-wanderer
like myself, whose income was, to say the least, precarious, this
was a great institution; and it was at one of these counters that
I met a would-be guide, philosopher, and friend in the form of a
gaunt youth who, after a brief exchange of civilities, professed the
desire to show me a little of ‘Frisco under-life--at my expense. He
promised me Chinese opium and gambling dens and orgies in subterranean
dancing-halls, with attendant excitements undreamed of by my prosaic
mind.

Such an appeal to the adventure-loving spirit that lies hidden in most
of us was irresistible. I closed with the offer, and after investing
in a cheap revolver, that was quite as likely to hurt the man behind
it as the one in front, we set out for the less frequented parts of
the city. Down by the docks the streets were dark and deserted, and my
guide improved the occasion by relating the various “sand-baggings” and
assaults that had distinguished the quarter during the past week.

The only lighted shop we passed was a small tobacco booth, where
I stopped to buy cigarettes. This could hardly have taken me more
than two minutes, yet when I stepped out into the street I found my
unfortunate guide lying face downwards on the pavement, with a thin
stream of red creeping from his forehead towards the gutter. For a
brief moment I thought he had fainted; then I saw his clothes had been
rifled, and, glancing up the street, discerned the dim outline of three
dark figures trotting silently and apparently without haste into the
gloom.

A wave of anger took possession of me; the cowardly assailants
evidently thought they would get off scot-free after an easy and
profitable night’s work. I longed to give them at least a scare for
their money.

Leaving my companion, still insensible, to the care of the tobacconist,
I dashed up the street in pursuit. My footfalls echoed along the
deserted thoroughfare like rifle-shots, so I hastily discarded my boots
and continued the chase in socks.

Rather to my surprise I soon came in sight of the three figures in
front, who had now dropped into a leisurely walk. This confidence in
their security for some reason angered me the more, and in the deep
shadows of a wall I crept nearer and drew the revolver from my pocket.

I had never shot a man in my life, and for the first time I experienced
the dread of doing this in cold blood. Then I remembered my companion’s
gaunt figure prone on the pavement, and the fact that but for a
packet of cigarettes I should have certainly shared the same fate. I
fired--low down.

The men scattered like startled rabbits; two darted down by-streets on
opposite sides of the road, while the third took an abrupt seat on the
pavement and examined his leg, evidently more concerned about his wound
than the chances of escape.

As I rushed down the turning to the left I sighted my second quarry
scrambling over a mound of bricks; he turned and saw me at the same
instant, and then began a chase and obstacle race combined under
conditions that are probably unique. Over mounds of sand, lime, and
broken brick; through mazes of scaffolding, barrels, planks, and
wheelbarrows, pools of muddy water, and quagmires of soft mortar we
went. My bootless feet were soon battered and bruised, but the fever of
the chase was in my veins, and as long as my quarry was in sight I felt
incapable of abandoning the pursuit.

The fugitive was now hardly thirty feet ahead, and I dashed after him
round a corner of scaffolding, confident that I had run him to earth;
and I did, but not in the way expected. He had crouched low just round
the corner, and, unable to stop myself, I fell headlong over his body.
It was an old trick, and I scrambled to my feet anathematizing myself
for a fool, but my man had vanished. With slightly cooler blood and
a bruised head I had just decided to leave matters where they stood,
when I heard a gentle rasping, and looked up to find him clinging to a
scaffold-pole above my head. I could see his white face looking down at
me.

“What are you going to do about it?” he demanded, breathlessly.

“Come down and you’ll see,” said I, sternly.

When at last we stood facing each other, however, I found myself
at a loss. He was a mere boy, with a wizened, old-young face and
cunning eyes that took me in from hatless head to socked feet with a
callous insolence that rather appealed to me. What _was_ I going to do
about it? The police of San Francisco were either asleep or smoking
cigarettes in more salubrious quarters of the city; and it was next to
impossible to give him in charge, so I took the law into my own hands.

“Hand over what you took,” said I, “and you shall go.”

“The others went through him,” he replied, sullenly; “I don’t know how
much they got.”

“Shall we call it twenty-five dollars as a minimum?” I suggested.

His face expressed neither approval nor dissent, but he drew from a
ragged pocket a large gold watch.

“Guess that’ll cover it,” he said, coolly, and on examination I found
that it did, by fully another twenty-five dollars.

When, after considerable difficulty, I found my way back to the
tobacconist, my companion had recovered consciousness and, with a
bandaged head, sat up to hear my report.

“How much did you lose?” was my first question.

“Nothing,” he said; “I haven’t a cent in the world.”

“Then here’s something to be going on with,” said I, and handed him the
watch.

After the foregoing, it is with some reluctance that I relate what
happened two days later, but the experience is so typical of San
Franciscan under-life that I can hardly allow it to pass unrecorded.
My own part in the affair was entirely reprehensible, and I need say
no more, for everyone knows that, while confession may be good for the
soul, it is rarely compatible with personal dignity.

I wished to go to a certain theatre, and asked the way of the first
pedestrian I met. He smilingly informed me that I was going in
precisely the opposite direction, and that, as he happened to be
passing the doors himself, he would show me the way. During the
next five minutes I learnt that my guide was also a stranger to
San Francisco, and that he had come from Canada. As I had lived
there myself for four years this supplied a connecting link in our
reminiscences, and we entered the first bar to improve the occasion.
He certainly knew the Canadian prairie like a book, and his anecdotes
of ranch and bush life were so interesting that the theatre was soon
forgotten and we settled down for a chat.

[Illustration: “UNABLE TO STOP MYSELF, I FELL HEADLONG OVER HIS BODY.”]

It appeared that he had tired of the rough life of the plains, and
after a course of study had become a telegraph operator in Denver.

While there he had been approached by a gang of wire-tappers[2] with
a view to his becoming a confederate, but he had refused. A few
weeks later he heard of their capture, and went to see the trial and
conviction of the entire gang.

[2] Those who intercept telegraph messages by establishing secret
connections on branch wires, thus gaining news of races in advance of
the general public.

Now, however, they were again at large, for he had recognised their
leader that very day in the streets of San Francisco, and without a
doubt he was engaged in his old nefarious business.

My companion’s idea was to make a round of the city pool-rooms, where
they received news of the races by wire, and, if he encountered the
“wire-tapper,” force him by threats of exposure to divulge what horses
he was going to back. “There might be some brisk fun,” he said. “Would
you care to come and see it?”

This appealed to me rather more than the theatre, and we accordingly
started a careful tour of every pool-room in the city. They were dark,
dusty places, swarming with a heterogeneous collection of humanity that
ceaselessly shuffled and elbowed round boards bearing notices of the
odds and winners, while a sleek gentleman in faultless attire stood on
a rostrum at the end of the room and acted as “bookie.”

The fruitlessness of my companion’s search was growing a trifle
monotonous, when, on entering the fourth of these rooms, he seized my
arm and nodded in the direction of a tall, stout man who had emerged
from the crowd and stood counting over a large roll of bills. At last
he seemed satisfied, slipped an elastic band round the roll, and strode
out into the street.

“Come on,” whispered my companion, excitedly; “that’s my man.”

Not far from the door he tapped the stranger on the shoulder. The tall
man faced about with surprising swiftness.

“What do you want?” he snapped.

“I know all about you,” said my companion, evenly.

The collapse was sudden; the tall man’s jaw dropped perceptibly.

“Come farther away and I’ll listen to you,” he said, with a furtive
glance at the pool-room doors.

Round a quiet corner my companion stated his business, and the
wire-tapper brought out his roll of bills and fingered them feverishly.

“This is blackmail,” he whined; “but how much do you want?”

“It’s not blackmail, and I want none of your money,” protested my
companion, indignantly. “All you have to do is to take _my_ money and
place it on the right horse. Here are ten dollars for a start. I shall
watch you go in and come out of the pool-room from this corner.”

The wire-tapper had hardly left us when a little boy of thirteen or
fourteen ran up to him with a note; then he disappeared through the
swinging doors.

Presently the wire-tapper came out and, without a word, counted thirty
dollar bills into the other’s hand.

“The price was only two to one,” he explained, apologetically.

“Never mind,” said my companion; “better luck next time. Just place
this thirty dollars for me, and that will do--for the present.”

The process was repeated, and this time ninety dollars changed hands;
but the wire-tapper was evidently nervous and anxious to be gone, and
when my companion tentatively suggested a third attempt he refused
point-blank, on the ground that if he won any more that day it would
arouse suspicion. This objection, however, was overruled by the other
offering to place the money himself.

“And we’ll make the amount worth while; shall we?” he added, turning to
me. “Do you feel inclined to join me in a hundred-dollar bet?”

Fifty dollars meant a good deal to me then, but the two or three
hundred it would bring in meant a great deal more, so I took the
plunge. After another note had changed hands between the wire-tapper
and the boy, he told us to back Rough Diamond for the next race, and
threw in fifty dollars as his own stake; then we took up our position
on the opposite pavement and waited expectantly.

To my surprise my companion soon appeared and exultantly informed us
that he had succeeded in placing our stake on Rough Diamond to win at
three to one.

“To win?” roared the wire-tapper.

“Yes, to win,” retorted the other, feebly.

The wire-tapper literally danced on the pavement.

“You fool!” he spluttered; “I told you to back the horse for a _place_
this time--it has come in third.” He turned to me. “Didn’t I say for a
place?” he snapped, vehemently.

But I took no further interest in the proceedings. In Western parlance,
I had been “done brown.” The men were confederates, and all that was
left for me to do was to swallow my medicine without grimacing. So I
smiled blandly, congratulated them on their acting, and left them to
marvel at man’s credulity.

It all sounds very foolish and easy, set down in black and white, but
the San Franciscan “confidence man,” by long and unhampered practice,
has reduced his methods to a fine art; and although it is hardly likely
that any respectable, level-headed reader of THE WIDE WORLD
would fall a victim to his wiles, such a thing has been known to occur
to others, and if the foregoing personal experience helps to put these
on their guard, the purpose of its recounting will be served.




II.--A SHARP LESSON.

BY R. L. C. MORRISON.


In November of the year 1885, when I had reached the mature age of
seventeen, I found myself in Glasgow, my native city, in the service of
an uncle of mine named Mr. James Thomson, who was a merchant tailor and
Colonial outfitter in Hope Street.

One afternoon towards the end of the month my uncle gave me
instructions to call at the offices of a well-known firm in the
neighbourhood of Jamaica Street.

I was to collect an account, whose total represented a substantial
sum, and give a receipt for the money. There would, I was told, be no
difficulty about drawing what was due, as the firm in question had duly
intimated to my uncle that if he would present the account on a certain
date payment would be made then and there.

It was close upon three o’clock when I put in an appearance at the
counting-house of the firm, taking up my position in a somewhat
extended queue of clerks and others who had arrived on the same errand
as myself.

The queue was arranged in single file along a passage of considerable
length on the second storey, to reach which a flight of something like
a score of steps had to be ascended.

Right away at the far end of this passage was what had all the
appearance of a railway station booking office, where, behind a square
aperture of limited dimensions, stood the sharp-witted cashier.

I took my turn with the rest, and in due course found myself in front
of the pigeon-hole, where I presented my uncle’s account.

“All right; receipt it,” exclaimed the cashier, as he returned it.

I did so, receiving the amount of the account in Bank of Scotland pound
notes, a couple of score of them, or more, which I quickly folded into
a kind of roll and thrust deep into my trousers pocket, keeping my hand
over them for safety’s sake.

Pleased with the thought that I had got the money, I briskly threaded
my way among the nondescript crowd in the passage, and even more
briskly negotiated the stairs.

I had scarcely walked the length of the side thoroughfare which led
into Jamaica Street, however, when I heard hurrying footsteps behind
me, and, looking round, was surprised to see a very stylishly-dressed
man, whose appearance was enhanced by his faultlessly-groomed hair and
moustache. As soon as I looked in his direction he held up his hand and
beckoned me to stop.

Wondering what he could want with me I obeyed without further ado,
waiting for him to come up with me.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, with much politeness, at the same time
slightly raising his hat, “but I believe this is your handkerchief.” As
he spoke he swept round his hand, which he had held behind his back,
and displayed to view a blue silk specimen in the handkerchief line. It
was mine; there was no doubt about that, and as I advanced my hand he
extended it towards me.

“I saw you drop it as you came down the stairs of Messrs. ----’s
office” (mentioning the name of the firm), he explained.

I thanked him and was about to resume my way when he asked if I could
direct him to Hope Street.

As everyone who knows anything about Glasgow is aware, it does not take
long to reach Hope Street from Jamaica Street, and I was beginning to
explain this to him when he cut me short with the remark that before we
went any farther I must have a drink with him. As I was a teetotaller,
however, I promptly declined his proffered hospitality, and once more
resumed my walk.

The next moment he laid a daintily-gloved hand on my shoulder, and,
with an engaging smile, said, with the utmost good humour, “But surely
a glass of lemonade or ginger-beer cannot do you any harm?”

There was a strange magnetism about the man which carried me away, and
I meekly surrendered myself to his will.

“Let us turn up this street,” he said, suddenly. “I know a nice little
quiet place where we can have a drink in comfort.”

I followed him. Strange as it may seem, I was for the time being
incapable of resistance. Perhaps my new-found friend was a hypnotist,
or something of the kind; if he did not actually possess occult powers,
he certainly had the gift in a very marked degree of ingratiating
himself with strangers.

As we walked along side by side he kept up a lively and interesting
conversation, touching lightly upon a variety of subjects. He evidently
possessed a well-stored mind, for his fund of knowledge and anecdote
seemed almost inexhaustible.

I became so interested in what he was telling me--wonderful adventures
he said he had had in South America, and a graphic description of how
diamonds are found--that I did not notice where I was being led. All I
know is that we traversed street after street, until at length the man
whom I had offered to guide to Hope Street had taken me to a part of
the city in which I never remember having previously been.

[Illustration: “’EXCUSE ME, SIR,’ HE SAID, WITH MUCH POLITENESS, AT
THE SAME TIME SLIGHTLY RAISING HIS HAT, ‘BUT I BELIEVE THIS IS YOUR
HANDKERCHIEF.’”]

Then suddenly he halted in front of a most respectable-looking whisky
shop--in England we call them public-houses--situated in a broad
thoroughfare, busy with plenty of pedestrian and vehicular traffic.
It did not strike me as being a particularly “quiet” place; in fact,
whilst it may have been comfortable enough inside, its exterior
surroundings were not likely to recommend it to those in search of
solitude.

“Here we are, my young friend,” he said, with that smile which had now
become almost irresistible to me.

The inside fittings of the place were what may be termed “flashy,”
immense gilded mirrors and crimson-covered seats being the outstanding
features in the general scheme of furnishing and decoration. A
mahogany, tumbler-laden bar, with shelves of massed bottles in the
background, ran the whole length of the apartment, whilst on the other
side were a range of what I can best describe as cubicles, though in
public-house parlance I suppose they would be called “snugs.” There was
a door to each of these box-like apartments, though the ceiling of the
saloon was common to them all.

“Come in here,” urged my friend, tugging at my coat-sleeve. “It will be
quieter, and no one will disturb us.”

We entered the “snug,” which contained a long narrow table, with
horsehair-padded seats on either side, an oblong window, half screened,
serving to let in a rather subdued light.

Scarcely had I got both my feet inside when I observed with surprise
that the place had already an occupant, a benevolent-looking old
gentleman, who at that moment was studiously engaged in perusing the
columns of a newspaper.

My companion, noticing my hesitation, exclaimed in a cheery voice,
“It’s all right, my boy; I’m sure our friend won’t object.”

Looking up from his paper “our friend” adjusted his spectacles and
regarded us both with a quizzical expression.

“Come in; don’t mind me,” he said at length, as if satisfied with our
appearance, and we sat down at the table, my companion on one side, I
on the other, the first occupant taking no further notice of us.

“I’m going to have a toothful of whisky,” said my fashionably-dressed
_vis-à-vis_. “Will you have the same?”

I diffidently demurred at the proposal, as all alcoholic beverages were
then to me as a sealed book, and in the end a bottle of lemonade was
ordered for me.

And there I sat, sipping the lemonade and nervously fingering the
bundle of notes in my trousers pocket.

I had found my friend very agreeable, very pleasant, and very
entertaining, and would not have objected to remaining a little longer
with him, but that I felt my employer would be expecting my return with
the money he had sent me out to collect. Accordingly, drinking up my
beverage, I presently rose and said I was afraid I must be going.

“Oh, there is no hurry, my boy,” he said, with such cordiality that I
sat down again--but it should be only for a couple of minutes, I told
myself.

“That’s right; make yourself comfortable, and we’ll have another drink
in.”

I protested that I had had quite sufficient and that I must not linger,
as I was expected back.

“A few minutes more or less will hardly make any difference,” he
remarked, “and, besides, if you will only wait I shall be coming your
way, for you know you promised to show me the way to Hope Street.”

I am afraid my resolutions about going were somewhat feeble, for he
again persuaded me to sit down.

Meanwhile the old gentleman at the other end of the narrow table went
on reading his paper. He might have had the place to himself for all
the notice he took of us.

Suddenly my companion ceased speaking to me (the conversation had by
some means or other turned on the subject of trains), and diving his
hand into a side pocket produced a new railway-carriage key, very
bright and very shiny.

I wondered what he intended to do with it, and even got so far as
speculating upon whether he was a manufacturer of this class of goods,
or travelled for the people who made them.

Then he tapped the key lightly on the edge of the table, and,
addressing the old gentleman, said, politely: “Is this article of any
service to you, sir? Excuse the apparent liberty, but I can offer you
these keys at the small sum of sixpence each.”

I looked in the direction of the old gentleman and saw that he had put
his paper on one side and was regarding my companion with a pleasant
smile.

“I am much obliged to you, sir,” he replied, softly; “but as I very
rarely travel I have no use for such a key.”

“Never mind,” remarked the other; “I’ll tell you what we’ll do--we’ll
just ‘cut’ for it,” and without any further explanation at the moment
he drew from his breast pocket what I took to be three ordinary
playing-cards. The same pattern embellished the back of each, but when
they were turned face upwards I observed that two of them were blanks,
whilst on the other was a highly-coloured representation of a lady’s
head and shoulders. I recollect that the hues in which the charms of
this female were depicted were very varied, so that in combination they
presented a dazzling picture.

Although the word “cut” had been made use of as applicable to the
cards, it was rather a misnomer. “Double shuffle,” with a peculiar
movement, would more fittingly describe what subsequently happened.

“Now, whichever of you two can first tell me where the lady is I will
present with this key as a prize,” said the young man. As he spoke
he made a pretence of shuffling the cards up in his hands, and then
proceeded to lay them face downwards on the table, but before he
finally allowed them to remain he exhibited the face of each card, so
that I thought nothing could possibly be easier than to indicate where
the lady’s head lay.

“You try first, sir,” said my friend to the old gentleman, and he
singled out the card which I was absolutely certain was the wrong one,
and so it was, as it turned out.

“Your turn, my boy,” cried the stranger, having rearranged the cards,
and without the slightest hesitation I displayed the female’s head to
view.

“Very good; here’s your prize,” and he pushed the key across the table
to me.

“Just by way of a change, I will bet each of you sixpence that neither
of you can pick out the lady’s head _this_ time,” he said; but hardly
had the words been spoken than the door of the “snug” was quietly
opened and an elderly man stood framed in the open space.

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” he apologized; “I didn’t mean to
intrude.”

“Won’t you come in and join us, sir?” cried my companion,
insinuatingly. “Just a quiet little game together; only sixpenny
stakes.”

“Oh, well, I don’t mind if I do,” replied the new-comer, and without
further ceremony he seated himself on the other side of me and fixed
his eyes intently on the cards, which the other was manipulating with
both hands.

By this time the old gentleman gave every sign of being deeply
interested in the proceedings, and had taken a number of sixpences from
his pocket, which he placed in a little heap at his side.

The new-comer and I also produced the necessary coin and staked it on
the “lady.”

The old gentleman was the first to try his luck, but he failed to
locate the whereabouts of the fair one.

Then the cards were taken up and rearranged, when the new arrival had a
flutter, but he likewise parted with his sixpence.

“How stupid these men must be!” I thought, as the cards were being
prepared for a third set out, when, of course, I immediately spotted
the “lady” and was paid over the sixpence.

“Double stakes now,” cried the manipulator.

Nothing loath, I put my shilling down, and again I was the only victor.

Well, to cut a long story short, my companion went on doubling the
stakes until they stood at sixteen shillings. Up to now I had been the
only winner. I had not lost a single penny; as a matter of fact, I was
fifteen and sixpence to the good, but when I tried to find the “lady”
when the stakes stood at sixteen shillings I signally failed, and had
to pay over all my winnings, with an additional sixpence.

By this time I was fairly infected with the game, and had thrown all
discretion to the winds with regard to my return to the office. I
felt confident that I could win a lot of money, and up to this point
had not the faintest suspicion that I was in the midst of a gang of
card-sharpers of whose _modus operandi_ of working the business I was
now being given a practical demonstration. Therefore, when the leader
of the coterie, the man, who had “hooked” me outside, suggested that
the stakes should be thirty-two shillings I made no demur, but blindly
accepted, fondly imagining that by exercising a little care in watching
where the cards were placed I should be able to spot the “lady.”

“Now, gentlemen,” cried the card manipulator, deliberately holding up
the picture card to our view every two or three shuffles, so that I was
able to follow its fortunes with the greatest ease, “there is the lady!
Just watch carefully where I place her.”

As I had been the last loser it was my turn to pick out the picture,
and as he placed the winning card in the centre (I could have sworn
he did) I did not hesitate to indicate my choice by at once turning
it face upwards, when, lo and behold! all that met my gaze was a
plain white surface. Instead of being in the middle, the “lady” was
at the right of me, though how this sleight-of-hand trick had been
accomplished under my very eyes without my detecting it was past my
comprehension.

“Thank you,” said the swindler, suavely; “thirty-two shillings,
please”; and after some fumbling in my trousers pocket I succeeded in
detaching two pound notes from the roll.

“Eight shillings change,” he remarked, genially, and handed me over the
silver.

Inconceivable as it may appear, it is nevertheless the fact that even
this “fleecing” did not arouse my suspicion as to the _bona fides_ of
the proceedings in which I was being made the victim. Possibly I was
too excited at the moment to give this aspect of the matter a thought.
My chief concern just then was to recover the money I had lost--not my
own money, it should be remembered, but my employer’s.

At the suggestion of the old gentleman, who had not up to the
present won a penny, and yet struck me as taking his “bad luck” very
philosophically, the stakes were increased to three pounds--“so as to”
(I use his own ingenuous phrase) “give the young gentleman and myself a
chance.”

I sprang at the bait. Indeed, I was desperately in earnest, and
mentally vowed that I must win this time at all costs.

Need it be recorded that I lost?

The card on the left--my choice--was _not_ the “lady,” and three more
notes were separated from the roll in my pocket.

Then, and not till then, did the real situation dawn upon me--I was
in the hands of a gang of “three-card” tricksters. I had over forty
pounds, which was not mine, on me, and the fashionably-attired stranger
who had ingratiated himself into my good graces by some mysterious
means was fully aware of that fact. The whole thing, in short, was a
cleverly-laid plot to despoil me of my employer’s money.

As the full truth burst upon me I rose from my seat without a word and
made my way to the door, intending to seek the landlord’s assistance.

But it was _locked from outside!_ Bending down and applying my eye to
the lock I saw the key inserted on the saloon side. This discovery I
accepted as furnishing positive proof of the existence of a conspiracy
to rob me. As I stood at the locked door, making up my mind that the
next step should be on my part, the man who had lured me into the place
plucked me by the coat-sleeve and begged me with gentle words to resume
my seat and “talk matters over.”

“Give me my money back!” I cried, impetuously, pointing to the five
notes which lay on the table. “It does not belong to me,” I went on,
entreatingly. “It is my employer’s, and I cannot return to him without
it.”

The two other confederates looked at me with sympathetic glances; then
I fancied I saw an exchange of eye telegraphy between them and the
leader.

“Of course, none of us want to get you into trouble,” he said,
soothingly, at the same time pushing me gently back into my seat and
taking his place opposite me, “but you must admit that you were willing
enough to play the game. No one forced you to it, and what you have
lost has been lost in square play.”

“But why is the door locked if it is all fair and above-board?” I
shouted, excitedly.

“What! the door locked?” they cried in chorus, with well-simulated
amazement.

“Yes, locked from outside,” I continued.

“Ah, from the outside,” replied the leader, smilingly. “That proves we
have nothing to do with it. It is an accident, a mistake on the part of
someone in the saloon.”

Although I did not believe a word of this, for I was now fully
convinced that the landlord was also in league with these scoundrels,
I made no further allusion to it, having made up my mind to a certain
plan by which I hoped to regain possession of the money and make my
escape from this den.

I instinctively knew that a proposal for further play was going to be
made me on the plea of giving me a chance of recouping my losses, and
for the purposes of the desperate plan I had decided upon this was
exactly what I wanted.

“Now, my boy,” began the leader, in his friendly way, “I’ll tell you
what I’ll do to give you a chance. I’ll lay you ten pounds to two
pounds on the next round, and only you and I will play. You shall watch
me as closely as you like, and no doubt you will win.”

“I will agree,” I assented, “on condition that the door is unlocked and
the key brought inside and placed on the table.”

It was a bold move on my part, and I trembled for the answer, because
upon this one point depended to a very great extent the success of the
desperate plan I had thought of to escape, and at the same time regain
my employer’s money.

Evidently sure of their quarry, and all unsuspicious as to my
intentions, the trio at once agreed to the proposal.

The landlord was called--and bullied--the door unlocked, and the key
placed on the table by my side.

Then the cards were laid out afresh, and I made another effort to
“spot” the “lady,” although I was morally certain that I should fail.

I did, and handed over two more pound notes, which the dealer placed
with the five others, lying loosely by his side.

In my jacket pocket I had a large sailors’ clasp knife, with a
murderous-looking blade nearly five inches long, and while my
_vis-à-vis_ was picking up the cards preparatory to another deal, I
having consented to play for the same stakes again, I surreptitiously
got this weapon out and opened it under cover of the table.

The seven Bank of Scotland pound notes lay carelessly bunched together
opposite me on the side of the table and within easy reach, whilst the
door of the “snug” was but a couple of feet away from where I sat, I
being nearest to it.

The next moment I saw my opportunity and seized it.

As the dealer manipulated the cards, he, as he had done all through,
spread out his hand over a card for a couple of seconds. I clutched the
open knife firmly in my right hand, and before any one of those present
could have the slightest idea of my intentions I bounded to my feet,
raised my arm in the air, and the next instant had pinned the sharper’s
hand to the table with the long, keen blade!

With his scream of agony ringing in my ears, and the sight of the
knife quivering in his hand photographed, as it were, upon my vision,
I grabbed at the loose notes which lay in front of me, bunched them up
into the palm of my hand, and, leaving the knife where I had driven it,
flung open the door of the “snug” and bounded through the saloon and
out into the busy street.

[Illustration: “THE NEXT INSTANT I HAD PINNED THE SHARPER’S HAND TO THE
TABLE WITH THE LONG, KEEN BLADE!”]

Though the recital of this incident occupies some little time in the
telling, it was all accomplished in the space of a few seconds, and as
soon as I found myself mixed up with the traffic outside I considered I
was safe from pursuit--if, indeed, it had ever been likely any attempt
would be made by the sharpers to run me to earth.

I reached my uncle’s place of business an hour or two later than I
should have done in the ordinary course, but gave some plausible excuse
for my delay.

He was inclined to be angry at first, but as I produced the money
all right he did not pursue the matter further, although it was not
until a considerable time afterwards that I ventured to give any of my
relations an account of my exciting adventure with the card-sharpers.




III.--“SEEING IT OUT.”

BY ALBERT E. MACGROTTY.


The simple-minded and innocent Britisher may, on his first trip to the
States, now and then walk into a very pretty little trap, neatly and
carefully planned, like the web of the wily spider in wait for the
inoffensive, curiosity-prompted, blundering fly.

I suppose I must have a somewhat unsophisticated aspect, which
disguises all my dark and deep wisdom, and this appearance caused me to
be selected as the victim of the little adventure I am going to recount.

It was at the close of my first visit to the States, and the day
previous to my embarking for old England--all my business finished, and
nothing to do but to say “Good-bye” to my friends and take a last look
round.

I left the Astor House, valise in hand, and walked to the steamer
_Teutonic_ lying alongside the wharf, ready to sail for Liverpool on
the following day. Having put my bag in my state-room, I strolled into
Houston Street with the intention of getting on a cable car for the
Broadway, where I was to lunch with a cousin. No cable car being in
sight, I leisurely lit a cigar and turned round to inspect the goods
in a store window. I had not been gazing therein more than a moment
when I heard a buggy drive up and stop behind me, and someone shout,
“Hey!” I paid no attention, being almost a stranger in New York, and
not supposing that the call was addressed to me, especially as Houston
Street is one of the most crowded thoroughfares in the city.

The call was repeated, but still I took no notice. When I had finished
my inspection of the window I turned round, and to my astonishment saw
that a respectable-looking man in the buggy was endeavouring to attract
my attention. I went up to him and asked what his business was with
me; he replied that he wished to know if I could tell him when the
steamer left for England. “Do you mean the _Teutonic_?” I said, and he
answered, “Yes.”

“To-morrow morning at seven,” I replied. He thanked me, and was just
whipping up his horse to drive on, when he suddenly pulled up again
sharply, and said:--

“Excuse me, sir, but the reason I asked you about the steamer is that
my guv’nor told me to try to find a respectable old gent who was
sailing in the boat for England, and ask him if he would mind looking
after his nephew, who is a boy of ten.”

“I hope you’ve found one,” I told him, smiling.

[Illustration: MR. ALBERT E. MACGROTTY.

_From a Photograph._]

“I’ve come across no one, except yourself,” replied the man.

“Well,” said I, “as the boy is going over alone, if your master will
bring him on to the steamer I will look out for him, and endeavour to
keep an eye upon him during the voyage and make the trip pleasant to
him.”

He thanked me most effusively, and said he was sure that I would be
the right person to look after the boy, adding that his master would
not think of giving me this trouble unless I would consent to receive
payment, say a hundred dollars. I was taken aback by this latter
suggestion, and rapidly came to the conclusion that the man’s so-called
“guv’nor” must be one of the sharpers of New York. Up to this time, I
must acknowledge, I had fully believed the fellow’s statements to be
genuine.

I replied that I could not accept any such payment for the little I
could do for the boy on the ship, whereupon the man again thanked me
warmly, and asked me if I would come to his master’s house in order
that he might introduce me. I declined; but, seeing no cable car coming
along, it flashed across my mind that I would make use of him a little,
so I asked which way he was driving, as I wanted to get to the upper
end of Broadway.

“Jump in, sir!” he cried, whereupon I thanked him, and accepted the
invitation.

I should not, of course, have done this had I not been fairly well
acquainted with New York and able to tell that he was taking me in the
right direction. We drove rapidly, and his conversation was clever and
amusing. He asked me if I knew California?

“Yes, I have just come from there,” I told him. He seemed greatly
pleased at this. Did I know Governor Stanford? I had not that pleasure,
though I knew him well by name. My driver said that he was sorry for
that, as the Governor was a relative of his master’s.

By this time we were in the Broadway, close to my cousin’s office, and
seeing this I asked the man to pull up, but he begged me to go on and
see his guv’nor, as it was only one block farther.

I still had half an hour to spare before lunch, and, though my
suspicions were now thoroughly aroused, some impish spirit prompted me
to “see the thing out,” so I said, “Very well, drive on.”

The man pulled up at the end of the block, and fixed his horse to the
halter found in all New York streets for that purpose. I jumped out
and we entered a stable, I taking care to keep close to the large open
door. Needless to say, I scrutinized the floor closely and rapidly for
trap-doors, but none appeared. My companion asked an ostler, who was
rubbing down one of several horses, if the “guv’nor” was in. The man
said “no,” but he would be back in a few minutes. I then informed the
driver that I could not wait, and had better see him in the morning on
the steamer.

“One minute,” replied the fellow; “if you will be good enough, I have
only to go to No. 4, and will bring my guv’nor back with me.” With that
he disappeared.

While we waited the ostler made one or two friendly remarks concerning
the weather, and a moment later a gentleman, attired in a very
handsome fur-lined coat, silk hat, and kid gloves of a light and
delicate tint, walked into the stable from the street outside. My late
companion followed, and, addressing me, said: “This is Dr. Coombs,
sir,” observing to the doctor that I had offered to look after his
nephew on the steamer without any payment. Dr. Coombs thanked me in a
gentlemanlike manner, and appeared in all respects a well-bred man.

The doctor then turned to his coachman and told him to fetch the boy,
explaining to me that his nephew was a ward in Chancery, and that he
would become possessed of a fortune of over ten million dollars on
attaining his majority. Being the boy’s guardian, he was anxious that
some responsible person should keep an eye upon him during his voyage
to England, where another uncle would meet him. We were only talking
for a short time, but I noticed that the doctor was somewhat restless,
moving frequently towards the stalls containing the horses, all of
which, he remarked, belonged to his nephew. Still I could not shake off
a certain suspicion of my surroundings, and would not move from the
door.

We had been waiting about five minutes when a big, horsy-looking fellow
lounged in from the street, shouting at the top of a loud voice: “Is
the boss in?”

My friend in the fur coat came forward, politely raised his hat, said
he was the master, and asked the stranger’s business.

The new-comer, pointing to a grey mare in one of the stalls, replied,
“I had that mare out yesterday, and I want to know, boss, what you’ll
take for her,” at the same time handing the doctor his card. Both men
were at a little distance from me, and a few words passed between them
which I did not hear. Then the fur-coated gentleman came up to me,
saying, “Excuse me a minute; I can’t understand why the boy is so long;
I will go and fetch him myself!” With that he left me with stranger
number three.

This fellow continued to examine the horses, making remarks upon them
to the ostler, and then, to my surprise, suddenly said to me, pointing
to the grey mare, that he wanted to buy it; but “the boss” could not
sell it to him, as he was an agent in Boston for buying and selling
horses, the same line as “the boss” himself was in, and there was a
State law prohibiting dealings between agents in the same business. He
next asked me if I would help him in the transaction. I replied that I
was sorry I could not see my way to do so.

“I wish you could,” said the stranger. “I would give eight hundred and
fifty dollars for the mare; she is a valuable beast.” As he spoke the
doctor returned. The Bostonian promptly told him he could see a way to
a deal, as that gentleman (pointing to me) would buy the mare with his
money, and then he in turn would purchase her from me, adding, “Now,
boss, what’s your price?”

“Eight hundred dollars,” replied the doctor.

“There,” said the Boston dealer to me; “I told you I would give eight
hundred and fifty dollars. Complete the purchase, and I will pay you
the fifty dollars for commission.”

The doctor chimed in that he also would give me five per cent.--forty
dollars.

“Gentlemen,” I said, laughing, “that is ninety dollars--a good
morning’s work. But do you expect me to be carrying eight hundred
dollars in my pocket through the streets of New York?”

They looked depressed at this; then the Bostonian, becoming suddenly
cheerful, suggested that if “the gentleman” would pay ten per cent,
of the value of the mare, he would pay the balance. The doctor agreed
immediately, and the Bostonian pulled out a roll of green-backs from
his pocket. Asking me to take the money, he placed a twenty-dollar note
in my hand, and while he was taking another from the roll I raised it
slightly as if I was weighing it; I saw at once that the note was a
forged one--some of the letters upon it were smudged. It was not even a
good imitation.

Both men read in my face that I had detected their fraud, and the
expression of their countenances became diabolical. However, the Boston
man went on pushing notes in my hand until he reached one hundred and
fifty dollars, when the doctor pulled him up, saying that he must
have the ten per cent. from me first. I saw the time had come for
action, and so, allowing the notes to drop to the floor, I told them
sternly that if I had been remaining in New York I should have had them
arrested. I then left the premises immediately. Looking back, I saw the
“doctor” rushing down some steps in front of the building, hurriedly
throwing off his fur coat as he went, and the other man walking rapidly
down the street in the opposite direction.

[Illustration: “ALLOWING THE NOTES TO DROP TO THE FLOOR, I TOLD THEM
STERNLY THAT IF I HAD BEEN REMAINING IN NEW YORK I SHOULD HAVE HAD THEM
ARRESTED.”]

In conclusion, I may say that I was very glad to arrive at the Sinclair
House and drink a stiff glass of brandy, as I was a trifle shaky,
swearing to myself that I would never again risk pocket and life with
mysterious strangers in the city of New York, even for the sake of
“seeing it out.”




IN THE LAND OF THE REINDEER.

BY H. CHUSSEAU-FLAVIENS.

[Illustration: A WINTER SCENE IN “THE LAND OF THE REINDEER”--A LAPP
MAGNATE MAKING THE ROUND OF HIS ESTATE.

_From a Photograph._]

    An article dealing with a strange and little-known people--the
    Lapps. Living in a country where practically nothing grows,
    their whole lives are occupied with the reindeer, the one
    product of Lapland. A man’s wealth is reckoned in reindeer; he
    eats its flesh and drinks its blood for food, and his clothes
    are made of its skin. Small wonder, therefore, that the moss
    on which the animals live is more important to him than cereal
    crops, and that the highest form of Lapp art finds expression
    in the carving of reindeer bones. Photographs by the Author.


Some little time ago I was in Sweden, and was strongly advised by my
friends to take the opportunity of visiting Lapland, that strange
country of reindeer and semi-savages. I was given a letter of
introduction to a certain Lapp magnate, who, I was assured, was the
most educated and advanced person in the country, and who would see
that I saw everything worth seeing. “Go and interview him,” said my
informant, “though I cannot promise that you will be able to get him
to talk. The Lapps are very reticent; they will never tell you, for
instance, how many reindeer they possess. Mickel Nilsson Nia, to whom I
am giving you this letter of recommendation, is wealthy and educated,
yet he covers himself with reindeer skins like the humblest of his
herdsmen, drinks the warm blood of the animal he kills, and thinks no
dish more succulent than a sort of cake made of reindeer blood mixed
with flour! He is a splendid specimen of a people who have at once
assimilated and resisted civilization.”

I began to think it might be worth my while to visit these curious
folk, and in pursuit of information sought out another acquaintance, a
colonel in the Swedish army.

He told me that the Lapps are very fond of stimulating drinks; they
think nothing of drinking fifteen or twenty cups of coffee a day, while
their consumption of punch is on a vast scale. It is no uncommon thing
to see numbers of helplessly drunk natives in the streets of Tromsö,
especially when the sale of reindeer flesh has been profitable. Yet
robbery and, indeed, crime in general are practically unknown among
them; the innate honesty of the people is quite extraordinary. The
colonel gave me an example. “As, perhaps, you may have heard,” he said,
“I am very keen on hunting both the wolf and the bear. On one occasion,
accompanied by a Laplander, I was out after an enormous she-wolf, but
the animal succeeded in completely baffling us. Finally, despairing of
success, I abandoned the pursuit. A few days subsequently I was much
surprised to receive a visit from my Lapp. With him he brought the
wolf’s skin, which he insisted on my accepting; he had come up with
the creature and killed it after a long, weary chase of many hours.
I told him that the skin belonged to him, but he would listen to no
argument. ‘You must be paid back for the trouble you have had,’ he kept
repeating, with a smile. ‘It would not be fair for me to keep all the
advantage for myself.’

[Illustration: A LAPP MOTHER AND CHILD IN HOLIDAY ATTIRE--SO TIGHTLY
SWATHED IS THE INFANT IN ITS CURIOUS “CASE” THAT IT SEEMS IMPOSSIBLE
FOR THE POOR LITTLE MITE TO GROW.

_From a Photograph._]

“But go to the country and see things for yourself,” concluded my
friend. “Try and speak with Mickel Nilsson Nia; but, above all things,
make up your mind to practise patience. Nobody in Lapland appreciates
the value of time in the slightest degree; a Lapp thinks nothing of
turning up at an appointment six hours too soon or six hours too late.
You must also be careful to be invariably most scrupulously polite to
them. Their pride is boundless; they are persuaded they are almost
divine. Their account of their origin is that, God having decided to
submerge the world in the Deluge, everything living was drowned by the
heavy rain, with the exception of two Laplanders, a man and a woman.
These two God took under his charge and led to Vasso-Varra, where the
couple separated, the man proceeding in one direction, the woman in
another. For three years they pursued their respective paths, and at
the end of that time found themselves again at Vasso Varra. On their
travels neither had encountered a living soul. Three separate times did
they repeat the experience. When nine years had elapsed they came to
the conclusion that in the whole world they were the only inhabitants,
and consequently they decided to marry one another. They had a very
large family, and to-day the whole earth is peopled with their
children; those who do not live in Lapland are degenerates!”

[Illustration: A TYPICAL LAPP PEASANT.

_From a Photograph._]

Well, I went to Lapland, eager to see the semi-savages of whom I had
heard so much. It is unnecessary to describe the earlier stages of my
journey. Tromsö, Hammerfest, and Lyngseedt, though much frequented,
are but large villages in the neighbourhood of which the nomad Lapps
pasture their reindeer. The animals feed on a sort of lichen, termed
reindeer moss, which, during the autumn, covers the mountains with what
looks like a mantle of snow.

The natives live in primitive wattle and mud huts, and I found
entire families living in paternal promiscuity with their animals
in what--judged by the usual standards--was a most pestilential
atmosphere, the predominating feature of which was a nauseous mingled
odour of leather and boiled coffee.

As to the people themselves, the typical Laplander, with whom I grew
familiar, was, by no means a disagreeable type. Many of the older men
bear a strange resemblance to French peasants, having the same dark
skin, black hair, large mouth, thin face, prominent cheek-bones, and
long, pointed chin. Even in the most wretched hovels I was offered a
cup of coffee, accompanied by polite gestures that would have been
appropriate for the bestowal of Royal hospitality. In exchange for this
courtesy I usually presented my hosts with chocolate sweetmeats, which
were received with transports of gratitude. My general impression,
however, was that I was among a very primitive peasant race, but I am
bound to admit that the Laplanders fell in with all my requirements as
a photographer with the utmost good grace; they invariably took the
pose I required better than my own people, and never displayed any
unseemly curiosity.

I had not forgotten the famous Mickel Nilsson Nia, and when I reached
Nawick a Lapp schoolmistress there was kind enough to serve me as
guide to the abode of her celebrated countryman. We walked for an
hour through a most desolate stretch of country, which gave one the
impression that it had been abandoned after some mighty natural
cataclysm. In this landscape of death the only persons we met were a
stray herdsman or two, miserably attired, driving before them a few
attenuated reindeer. Suddenly my guide stopped, exclaiming, “Here is
Mickel’s house.”

[Illustration: A LAPP WOMAN OF THE BETTER CLASS--MOST OF THE FEMALES
HAVE A MARKED PREDILECTION FOR TOBACCO.

_From a Photograph._]

On the threshold two women were engaged in tanning reindeer hides. One
of the women was elderly, the other quite young, yet they were attired
in an almost identical manner. Each wore a short, coarse brown woollen
skirt, beneath which were visible garments that resembled trousers made
of bands of tightly-wound cloth. On their shoulders were grey shawls,
on their feet enormous shoes of reindeer leather, on their heads
bonnets of some blue material covered with lace. The colours usually
employed in Lapp costumes, by the way, are white, black, grey, blue,
and green; brighter hues are seldom seen.

At sight of us the two women ceased working to stare, and then broke
out into a hearty laugh--not of derision, but of welcome. The Laplander
is of an extremely jovial disposition, and invariably prides himself
on the possession of some nickname--not always complimentary--bestowed
upon him in jest. My guide addressed herself to the younger of the
two women, who, in addition to the garments I have enumerated, wore
some splendid reindeer furs. Then a young peasant came out of the hut,
and there ensued a tremendous discussion, the result of which was
to convince us that we had made a mistake--Mickel Nilsson’s hut was
farther on. The young man volunteered to accompany us there.

[Illustration: MICKEL NILSSON NIA, THE “LAPP ROTHSCHILD,” WHO POSSESSES
NINE THOUSAND HEAD OF REINDEER.

_From a Photograph._]

Finally, we came up to a group of men and women, in the centre of
which, busily talking, a veritable Triton among minnows, was the person
I sought. On the road I had, through my interpreter, been questioning
our new companion, and had thus learned that Mickel Nilsson Nia was a
sort of Lapp Rothschild, and possessed nine thousand head of reindeer.
As each animal may be put down as worth roughly about a sovereign, the
fortune of the little Lapp before me--who, hearing the object of my
mission, had now put his finger to his cap and was wringing my hand
with great affability--might be estimated at nine thousand pounds.

We had come upon him on a holiday, it appeared, and Mickel Nilsson
Nia was arrayed in his very best clothes. On his head he wore a tall
sugarloaf, peaked cap, topped by a bright red “pompon,” which gave it
a most extraordinary aspect. His body was covered by a superb white
reindeer skin--the gala costume--and on his vest glittered the medal
bestowed upon him by King Oscar as a reward for his success in breeding
reindeer. The man’s whole appearance, with his moustache, short
beard, cunning eyes, and perpetual smile, reminded me strongly of Li
Hung Chang, the Chinese statesman of illustrious memory, and also the
richest man in his country.

Mickel Nilsson Nia courteously invited me to enter his hut. I hesitated
for a moment, and then, with head bent low, bravely dashed into the
malodorous atmosphere of leather and boiled coffee which I had already
learned to dread. In the semi-gloom of the interior a mass of animals
were wallowing about, though I could not see them very distinctly. I
sank into a wicker arm-chair.

“A cup of coffee?”

“Many thanks.”

Into my hands was thrust a grotesquely-coloured cup, bearing the
fateful legend, “Made in Germany.” Like a hero I gulped down the
mixture it contained; to tell the truth, it was not unsavoury. Then I
commenced to ask him a few questions.

“Are things prospering in the reindeer breeding?” I inquired.

[Illustration: FRATERNAL AFFECTION--FAMILY TIES ARE STRONG IN LAPLAND,
AND EVEN THE BOYS LOOK AFTER THEIR BABY BROTHERS WITH THE UTMOST
SOLICITUDE.

_From a Photograph._]

Mickel’s answer was strictly non-committal--neither a decided “yes” nor
a “no.”

“How many animals do you possess?”

Again he evaded the direct answer with an unsatisfactory “Not so
many as I once had.” Then he called my attention to a herd of some
three hundred animals or so on the neighbouring hillside, but added
immediately, as though fearing he had hinted too much, “They do not
all belong to me, however; some are the property of my neighbours. The
herdsman we share between us.”

After this I thought it as well to abandon commercial matters for
literature. Mickel Nilsson Nia is a man of letters, devoting to books
all the leisure his nomadic pursuits leave him. Of the literature of
Lapland he spoke with pride.

“With us,” added Mickel, “literature is essentially popular. Our poets
sing only of what they have actually under their eyes; they celebrate
our daily life, our labours.” Here is a specimen of our poetry:--

    The reindeer are in full flight.
    Look at their wild flowing manes!
    Look at the capricious animals!
    Look how the noble creatures bound fleet-footed over the plain
        through the world!
    At his topmost speed the man pursues them, sweat standing out in
        great beads.
    “Ah, how fatigued I am!” he cries.
    “And yet what would I not do to catch them!”
    Oh, the precious animal!
    What flesh, what a skin, what horns, what veins, what bones!
    How excellent is all about him!
    How excellent he is himself!
    Ah, ah, ah!
    Look! Look!
    Two hundred, three hundred, thousands together!
    Ever do they flee.
    Into the lakes, into the snow do they cast themselves, seeking to
        get refreshed.
    Only when the sun has set will they come forth.
    Now the night has come; forth they dart.
    Now it is day and they hide themselves; only the plaintive bleats
        of the young fall on the ear.

[Illustration: A VENDER OF SOUVENIRS--HE HAS DONE WELL AT HIS TRADE,
AND HAS ACCORDINGLY TREATED HIMSELF TO A SPECIALLY-SMART CAP AND
LUXURIOUS LAPP BOOTS.

_From a Photograph._]

As I was begging my interpreter to convey to Mickel Nilsson Nia my
admiration of this stirring epic of hunting, my host picked up a bundle
of Swedish illustrated papers from the corner and proceeded to make
comments upon them. Just then, however, a herdsman entered with news of
importance, so I rose and took my leave.

Accompanied by my two companions, I retraced my steps through the wild,
desolate country, in which none but the most intrepid of sportsmen
could find any pleasure. It is a land in which there are neither
hotels nor houses; a land which seems to take one back to some remote
age of innocence, when simple, honest human beings drove their flocks
and herds before them, chanting the while a hymn to the delights of a
pastoral life.

What souvenirs, you ask, can one carry away from this strange country,
where the reindeer rules supreme, and which, without the presence of
that useful animal, would sink into a condition of abject poverty and
utter desolation? Appropriately enough, there is nothing but carved
reindeer bones. Some are carved in so extraordinarily realistic and
expert a fashion that more than one eminent sculptor to whom I have
shown them has lifted his hands in admiration.

[Illustration: LAPP ARTISTS AT WORK CARVING REINDEER BONES.

_From a Photograph._]

Like all true artists worthy the name--like the Japanese, for
instance--the Laplander will only reproduce what he sees. Consequently,
in nine cases out of ten his carved reindeer bones show only
reindeer--reindeer at rest, reindeer jumping, reindeer harnessed
to sledges, and reindeer browsing. The thing becomes an absolute
obsession. And what realism is displayed by these unconscious artists!
What long hours of patient observation are implied by the life-like
attitudes they depict, and which might almost have been photographed,
so true are they to Nature! One gets the impression, watching the Lapp
carver at work, that one is in the presence of an artisan of a bygone
age, before rules had been laid down and become stereotyped--an age
when each individual worker was guided by his personal inspiration
alone.

After all, then, in this strange country, where there is supposed to
be “nothing but reindeer,” one may still find among these half-savage
people financiers--like Mickel Nilsson Nia--poets, and artists--types
which certainly go to show that the Lapps possess some of the
attributes of a civilized nation. Music alone is unknown in Lapland,
and this may be because the Lapp, with his boundless pride of race,
considers he has no need of its chastening and refining influence.

[Illustration: BUYING SOUVENIRS--STRIKING A BARGAIN WITH THE CURIO
PEDLARS IS A LONG AND COMPLICATED BUSINESS.

_From a Photograph._]




“TAPU.”

BY D. W. O. FAGAN, OF MANGAPAI, WHANGAREI, AUCKLAND, NEW
ZEALAND.

    The author writes: “I can vouch for this story in every
    particular. I hope it may prove interesting to ’Wide World’
    readers, as illustrating the endless ramifications of the old
    Maori law of ‘tapu,’ and the absurd predicaments in which
    Europeans coming under its influence occasionally found
    themselves.”


In the old days of thirty-five years ago, especially in the
out-districts, the Maoris still retained many of their ancient customs.

Among other inconvenient practices they had an insane habit of
depositing the bones of the dead in any kind of handy spot that took
their fancy--on the top of an island, in a hollow tree, in the crevices
of rocks--anywhere that was most convenient.

Afterwards the place became “tapu” (sacred, forbidden, prohibited).
Consequently any unwary and unsuspecting stranger who, happening along,
chanced to lean against the tree or tread on the rocks became himself
“tapu” (meaning, in this connection, accursed, unclean), and was hunted
from the tribe as a social leper and outcast. Like Cain, every man’s
hand was against him, though it was forbidden to kill him; and unless
he was a man of mark and could get the “tohunga” (priest) to “lift the
‘tapu’ off him” he speedily succumbed to a general sense of misery and
superstitious bedevilment.

It is not my intention to attempt an explanation of the working of the
“tapu” law. That has already been done by far abler pens than mine. My
own opinion is that no one ever did properly understand it--not even
the Maoris themselves.

In the beginning, probably, the thing was a decent and workable law
enough, as laws go, but in the course of ages, what with amendments
and addenda, it got beyond everything and was entirely indigestible by
human intellect; finally becoming an incubus--a kind of religio-legal
nightmare from which they couldn’t wake up.

I only know that any place, person, or thing could become “tapu.” Food,
fire, air, and water were not free from it. Man, woman, and child were
subject to it. For any trivial cause and without his knowledge a man
might be made “tapu.”

Sometimes it was partial, affecting only the feet or hands, and on
these occasions a man could put a “tapu” on himself by walking about or
scratching his own head!

Anyhow, if you got a bad dose of it, things became pretty uncomfortable.

White men could generally escape by affecting to ignore the thing and
taking ship for another country.

Unfortunately, as the reader will perceive, circumstances prevented my
adoption of this course.

At the time I am telling of I was superintending their northern trading
station at Te Mata for Messrs. Franks, Backhouse, and Co., a big
Auckland firm. Puketawa--whom I have mentioned in previous WIDE
WORLD contributions--a native of the South Island, educated at a
mission school, was by way of being my servant and store-help. Having
lived much with Europeans, and being ridiculously proud of the little
the mission school had taught him, he affected to despise the Maoris of
the neighbourhood. “Ignorant savages,” he called them, and stood aloof
in the light of superior wisdom. At times he even permitted himself
a mild remonstrance at what he considered my undue intimacy with the
heathen. Education had made Puketawa a bit of a snob; but, for all
that, he was a very good fellow.

The store, residence, and outbuildings stood on the shore of the tidal
estuary of the Mangapai River. Over a low range of hills running
parallel with the coast, at a distance of about half a mile, was the
Maori “kainga” (village), having a population of about nine hundred
souls.

It was with the object of bringing the blessings of civilization
to these benighted inhabitants and--of course, quite
incidentally--securing a profit to themselves that my principals had
established the trading post.

Being the only station within a radius of fifty miles, trade was good,
and neither merchants nor agent had reason for complaint on the score
of value or bulk of the cargoes of native produce picked up by the
firm’s trading steamer on its quarterly round.

By largess of sweets to the piccaninnies and gauds of cheap jewellery
to their mothers, I had gained a certain popularity. With Te Horo, the
chief, I was on terms of close friendship. I had quite won the old
fellow’s heart by a timely gift of an imitation pearl necklace to his
youngest and favourite wife. By careful tutelage I was fast inducing
in these children of Nature a craving for the things of the white man’s
higher life as represented by cotton goods, sugar, tea, tobacco, etc.
For obvious reasons, therefore, I was anxious to retain their good
will, and careful lest by any infringement of custom or superstition I
should unwittingly offend. In the light of what follows this should be
remembered.

The snipe were thick that autumn on the tidal flats at the river’s
mouth, and as a break to the monotony and with a view to change of
diet I would often close the store on Saturday afternoons and, with
Puketawa, drop down stream on a gunning expedition.

It was on one of these weekly excursions that misfortune fell upon
us. The birds were shy that day, and we followed them far over the
sand-flats. Intent on our sport, neither of us noticed the signs of an
ominous change in the weather, till, chancing to look seaward, I became
suddenly aware of it. The blue water had changed in colour to a leaden
grey and the horizon was hidden in a dense shroud of mist, which, with
the wind behind it, was rapidly rolling up towards us. There was no
time to lose. Our boat was at anchor a mile away on the inner edge of
the sand-flat. It would be a race between us and the fog. If overtaken
on those interminable banks we might wander, hopeless, till the
returning tide drowned us like rats in a trap.

Fortune favoured us. We reached the boat, and, breathless, had just
tumbled into it and hoisted sail, when the sea-fog shut down like a
curtain. Sky, cliffs, and river channel were blotted out in an instant.
No pretence at keeping a course was possible. The river ran due west,
and, the wind coming from the east, it only remained to sit tight and
let the boat scud before it, trusting to luck that we did not ram any
one of the hundred rocky islets studding the river’s mouth.

Our vision, beyond a small circle of heaving grey water immediately
around us, was shut in by the wall of thick white vapour. With Puketawa
at the sheet, I at the steer-oar, we drove along in a little world of
our own.

[Illustration: “IT ONLY REMAINED TO SIT TIGHT AND LET THE BOAT SCUD.”]

Suddenly, at a yell from Puketawa, I looked up. A wall of rock loomed
dark through the mist, before and above us! “Luff!” he screamed, but
there was no time. Ere I could sweep her round with the oar a grey
roller lifted under our stern, caught us broadside on its crest, rushed
us through a providential cleft in the rocks, and, rolling over and
over, we, with our belongings, were strewn broadcast on a little, sandy
beach. The boat, though shaken, was still sound, and we quickly hauled
it beyond the reach of the waves.

A short examination showed us we had been cast up on one of the
very islands we had hoped to escape. Still, unpleasant though our
predicament was, it could easily have been worse. In that thick haze
we might well have been driven on the bluff cliffs of the headland and
pounded to a jelly in the surf. At all events, we were on terra firma
and could make the best of it till the fog lifted. In our drenched
condition the wind was decidedly unpleasant, so, after securing the
boat, we made haste to seek shelter on the lee side of the island.

As we groped our way up the rocks and over the top we came across a
low-spreading puriri tree. Beneath it we found plenty of dry sticks,
and, breaking off some dead branches also, we carried with us a good
stock of firewood. I had matches in a waterproof case, and soon, in a
snug rock-niche, we were warm and comfortable beside a roaring fire.
We had managed to save some six brace of birds from the shipwreck, and
these, skinned and toasted on the embers, with the contents of my flask
to wash them down, made an excellent supper, with sufficient to spare
for breakfast.

Dawn broke clear and calm, with just enough wind to take us on our
homeward way. I had sent Puketawa for a further supply of wood, when a
shout from above brought me scrambling up the rocks. There he stood,
a living embodiment of terror. With wide eyes and dropping jaw he was
staring at the hollow tree-trunk. Then I saw what it was. From the
orifice, ghastly in the dim light, grinned two fleshless skeletons.
Around the hole was heaped a pile of human bones and skulls, while
other death’s-heads peered at us from crevices of the rocks. We were in
a Maori “wahi-tapu” (cemetery).

[Illustration: THE ESTUARY OF THE MANGAPAI RIVER.

_From a Photograph._]

It was yet another instance of the sheer “cussedness” of things
in general. There were half a hundred islands to choose from; yet
malignant Fate, aided by that confounded fog, must needs fix upon
Taupiri on which to cast us up--Taupiri, the sacred island, where
for centuries the bones of the chiefs had been deposited. It was
consecrated to the “mana” (holiness) of their spirits, and frightfully
“tapu.” No man might put foot on it and live. And we had not only
passed the night there, but--horror of horrors!--had eaten food cooked
with wood from the sacred tree! The loose stones, among which we
had stumbled in the foggy night and had kicked from our path, were
the skulls of the great dead. There was no doubt about it--we were
“tapued” up to our necks. That it was purely accidental and through no
fault of our own didn’t in the least matter. From the Maori point of
view, indeed, it made the case infinitely worse. For Puketawa, whose
civilization was, after all, only skin-deep, it was likely to prove
a most serious affair. Brought thus face to face with the terrors of
ancient superstition, his white man’s education fell to pieces. His
mind swung back to the faith of his forbears and the fears of the
old beliefs gripped his heart. He was for fleeing the accursed place
at once, but, “tapu” or no “tapu,” I wasn’t going without breakfast.
Puketawa refused food. Already I fancied he was getting “pourri”
(depressed)--no light thing with a Maori, for I had known them before
then to die of sheer melancholy. I realized that the accident was
bad for me also if the thing should get known. I did not fancy being
ostracized by the tribe, my goods confiscated and destroyed, and my
house and store burnt by way of purification and to avert the anger of
the gods.

[Illustration: “THERE HE STOOD, A LIVING EMBODIMENT OF TERROR.”]

Though, on the way home, I was angry and contemptuous by turns,
Puketawa refused to be comforted. To my ridicule or reproaches he
answered only with a sickly smile. “No good,” he said. He was “tapu”
right enough--could feel the spell “working inside him.” In vain I
pointed out that the island was six miles distant from the “kainga,”
hidden by a bend of the river, and that we had landed at night in a
dense fog and had left again before sunrise.

“Ah!” he answered. “Te tohunga very wise. He know wi’out seein’.”

On arrival, contrary to custom, we found the beach below the store
deserted. Not a soul was in sight. No Sunday crowd of mothers chatted
as they squatted around the buildings; no piccaninnies dabbled in the
water, and waited anxiously for sweets on my return. I knew these
latter would not forego the weekly dole unless for serious cause. Could
Puketawa be right after all? Had our infringement of “tapu” become
known in some incomprehensible manner? It began to look very like it.
That night at supper also Puketawa declined food. He even refused
rum-punch, and when Puketawa refused rum things must be looking black
indeed. He lay in his bunk with his face to the wall, silent save for
long, shuddering sighs. So it went on through the night. Protests,
reproaches, even vigorous shakings were of no avail; he lay like a log,
with closed eyes, making no sign.

This was beyond a joke. No possibility of pretence was here. The man
was dying, visibly, of sheer funk. Unless I could rouse him he would
not live another day. I could not let him die, and, base surrender
to heathen jugglery though it was, made up my mind to seek out the
“tohunga” next day and entreat him to remove the spell.

In the long, dark watches I began to feel pretty queer myself. The
silence seemed tangible, heavy, impermeable. I was not exactly
frightened; the feeling was indescribable--a sort of nameless terror
at nothing, a horror of some unknown impending fate against which it
was useless to struggle and from which there was no escape. Mutuality,
sympathy, hypnotism--call it what you will--a weight of fear lay on my
senses, a veritable obsession of dread.

Was there any truth in heathen devilry after all, I wondered? Had the
confounded “tapu” got me too? With an effort I shook off the growing
lethargy and paced the floor through the night. In the morning I could
eat nothing; food was repulsive. Shortly after sunrise I took my way to
the “kainga.”

Within fifty yards of the gate I was warned by the young warriors to
keep my distance. Presently Te Horo himself appeared in full war-paint
of “korowai” (kilt) and feather mat, a spear in his hand.

“Thy sin is known,” he cried, sternly. “Come not near to bring
contamination upon us. Thou and thy servant are accursed. It may be
ye shall both die; I know not. Begone! At noon the ‘tohunga’ comes to
confer with thee.”

As I sat beside the bewitched man and awaited the coming of the
priest the night fears that had assailed me passed, giving place to
a feeling of rising anger at the whole thing. Here was I--a fairly
decent Englishman, reared in the Anglican faith and living in the
nineteenth century--hindered from going about my business, outcast,
excommunicated, shunned as a leper, my servant dying; all on account of
some fiendish diablerie of heathen fetish. The affair was preposterous,
incredible, ludicrous. Then I looked at poor Puketawa, moaning, prone
in his bunk, and was answered. That at least was real.

Punctually at twelve o’clock the old “tohunga” came over the hill. He
was a tall man, grey-headed and handsome, and in his full robes of
office he looked imposing enough. Halting at a short distance he called
us to come forth. I started forward to expostulate, but he waved me
sternly back.

“Approach not,” he commanded. “You are unclean, you have incurred the
anger of the great spirits. Yet will I intercede, and it may be purge
you of the offence. Now, therefore, bring out your ‘taonga’ (goods) and
everything that you have touched, in order that I may destroy it and
the purging be complete.”

This was beyond a joke. Give up my household goods and knick-knacks to
be burnt? Never! I’d see him hanged first.

“Be off, you old scallywag!” I shouted. “Give you my things, indeed!”
And I began to tell him what I thought about it. He stood impassive,
inexorable.

“Young man,” he answered, “be not mad. Fool! Can you fight the spirits?
Look to your servant. Delay not, lest he die.”

This was unanswerable. I surrendered, and we carried the things
out, Puketawa moving as though in a mesmeric dream. All my
bachelor treasures, bedding, rugs, chairs, cooking-pots, and
crockery--everything went. The pots and crockery he smashed with his
tomahawk, the house and all else he burnt to ashes. Luckily, I had not
been near the store, or that and its contents would have gone too.

What next, I wondered? Had the old heathen done with us? Evidently not.

“Remove your clothing,” he commanded. Here was a pretty state of
things! Being naturally of a modest disposition, I demurred, at which
he lost his temper.

“Hinder me not,” he cried. “Your life or death is naught to me. Beware,
lest I depart and leave you to your fate.”

There was nothing for it but to comply. So, whilst our clothes were
burning, Puketawa and I stood before him naked and unashamed.

Down to the creek, to the pool beneath the waterfall, the old priest
drove us. The stream was full of snow-water from the mountains, and
bitterly cold.

“Enter,” he ordered.

“Needs must when the devil drives,” and with a gulp we plunged in and
stood shivering up to our necks, while for ten interminable minutes the
old fellow chanted prayers and wove his “karakia” (spells) on the bank.

[Illustration: THE AUTHOR’S STORE ON THE BANKS OF THE MANGAPAI RIVER.

_From a Photograph._]

At last it was over. We climbed out, and the “tohunga” sprinkled each
of us, separately and solemnly, with a fern frond dipped in the water
of the pool.

“It is enough,” he said. “The ‘tapu’ is lifted,” and walked away.

The humour of the situation appealed to me, and, cold and dripping
though I was, I shouted with laughter. And you will admit the thing
_was_ fairly humorous. Imagine us, if you can, standing there, stripped
of our worldly goods, naked and shivering--Puketawa, a prize convert
from a mission station, and I, a Christian--brought to such a pass by
miserable heathen wizardry that we had been glad to submit ourselves to
the sorceries of the arch-wizard himself to escape the consequences of
the spells that had been cast over us!

All the same, the effect of the hanky-panky on Puketawa was truly
wonderful. Moribund before the arrival of the “tohunga,” he was a new
man after the performance. He laughed with me, his dull eyes again
became clear and bright, and he got quite chirpy; while, laugh as you
will, even I, who had submitted to go through it only on Puketawa’s
account and for the sake of trade, must confess to a sense of spiritual
well-being to which I had been a stranger for some days.

With trade clothing from the store we clad our nakedness. The baptism
business had given us an appetite, and we soon rummaged out a cold
collation. Maoris are always fair trenchermen, but I never saw one put
away such a feed as Puketawa did then. Eat? Long after I had finished
I sat and watched the stuff disappearing--tinned salmon, potted beef,
spiced ox-tongue, dried fish, ham and chicken, pine-apple, Worcester
sauce. King Solomon in all his glory never had such an appetite.

Next day, as though to make amends for the inconvenience we had
suffered, and show that the popular feeling was not directed against
us but against the “tapu” alone, the Maoris flocked to the store with
cash and barter, and I did the best day’s trade of my life. In two days
they had built me a better house than that destroyed. It was as if the
ceremony of purification had conferred a sort of brotherhood upon me,
and I found myself on a better footing with them than ever before. I
never discovered, however, how they learnt of our transgression.

To this day the question of how the “tohunga” became aware of our
accidental presence on the sacred island remains a mystery. That we
were alone there I am certain. Under the circumstances of the storm and
the thick mist, it is equally certain our presence was not observed
from the shore. The “kainga” was six miles distant, a range of hills
intervening. It was a black night; Maoris are chary of being out
after dark. Altogether the possibility of our having been seen may
be dismissed. Puketawa, of course, leaned to the supernatural. Old
stories of occultism practised by the priests, of spiritualism and
uncanny mental telepathy with the spirit world, he told for my benefit.
I do not like mystery, and have no leaning towards the occult, but,
dismissing all this as unworthy of credence, there yet remains the
query of how the “tohunga” knew of our “breaking of the ’wahi-tapu’”
(breach of the sanctity of a burial-place).

In the fullness of his heart at my successful whitewashing, old Te Horo
offered to give me his youngest and prettiest daughter in marriage,
with a thousand acres of tribal land as a dowry. Between you and me,
there have since been times when I have regretted that I didn’t clinch
the bargain.




The Finches’ Festival.

A BIRD-SINGING COMPETITION IN FLANDERS.

BY A. PITCAIRN-KNOWLES.

    Bird-singing competitions, in which substantial money prizes
    are awarded to the owner of the songster making the greatest
    number of “trills” in a specified time, are very popular in
    the North of France and Flanders. In this article the author
    describes and illustrates a typical bird-singing festival in a
    Flemish village. From photographs by the author.


The inhabitants of the rural district of that part of Belgium which
goes by the name of Flanders seem to be possessed of a genius almost
unique for instituting and organizing quaint and curious competitions
designed to administer to that keen taste for friendly rivalry which is
so characteristic of the population of King Leopold’s little domain.
Any stranger penetrating into the heart of the country at the time
of the year when many of the hamlets are about to hold their annual
fairs--spun out to last a week, or even longer--cannot fail to be
interested in the long posters adorning the walls of every “estaminet,”
announcing a separate event for each day of the festive season, and
testifying to the great hold this healthful spirit of emulation
exercises upon the minds of these simple peasants.

Being one of those strangers in a strange land, I was overcome by a
spirit of curiosity when a very limited acquaintance with the Flemish
tongue helped me to the conclusion that the “Prijskamp voor Blinde
Vinken,” announced for a certain Sunday at the untimely hour of seven
in the morning, was a competition in which blind birds were to be the
candidates for honour and distinction, and I resolved to be present at
what promised to be a curiously interesting spectacle.

[Illustration: THE FINCH-OWNERS’ MEETING-PLACE AND HEADQUARTERS.

_From a Photograph._]

Setting out on my bicycle in the early dawn of a stormy morning, I
was borne with the wind through one sleeping hamlet after another.
The pulse of life had scarcely begun to stir; but when I reached my
destination, as the clock struck six, and wended my way to the street
with the well-nigh unpronounceable name where the great event was
to take place, all was alive and bustling. Peasants of both sexes,
representing every stage from tender childhood to decrepit old
age, were strolling up and down or standing about in groups eagerly
discussing the all-absorbing event which was about to commence--the
contest of the blind finches.

[Illustration: ONE OF THE CAGES, SHOWING THE DOUBLE FRONT TO PROTECT
THE LITTLE OCCUPANT FROM CATS.

_From a Photograph._]

At intervals men and boys clattered along in _sabots_, or proceeded
with shuffling gait in gorgeously-coloured carpet slippers, bearing
mysterious wooden boxes under their arms. I inquired into the nature
of their burdens, and discovered that they contained cages which
housed the chaffinches destined to take part in the competition. These
cases, varying in size, bore little similarity to each other either
in design or workmanship, for while some were roughly put together
without any attempt at decoration, others, though evidently the work
of the amateur, revealed traces of minute care and originality of
construction, one being adorned with a rudely carved representation
of the little imprisoned inmate, a work of art presumably executed
by the owner himself or some village genius. A few of the boxes were
really elaborate constructions, one in particular being made of
highly-polished mahogany, on which figured a bird with outstretched
wings, executed in relief ironwork.

[Illustration: THE BANNER OF A FINCH-OWNERS CLUB.

_From a Photograph._]

[Illustration: ONE OF THE JUDGES IN POSITION, READY TO SCORE THE
NUMBER OF “TRILLS” EMITTED BY THE BIRD IN FRONT--NOTICE THE CURIOUS
TALLY-STICK USED IN SCORING.

_From a Photograph._]

There was one spot in particular towards which the future competitors
seemed to be attracted, a rustic inn, over whose portals the flag of
the local finch-owners’ club waved lustily in the vigorous breeze, and
the cheery greeting, “Vinkeniers Welkom,” attracted the attention of
the passers-by. It was here that the organizers and competitors met for
the purpose of settling all matters pertaining to the bird-singing
contest. Even at 6 a.m. beer has irresistible fascination for the true
native of Flanders, and it goes without saying that every entry for
the competition called forth a request for at least one “bock” on the
part of the competing bird-owner. Others, who came as mere spectators,
followed his example, and soon the stream of conviviality flowed freely.

[Illustration: THE COMPETITORS AND JUDGES IN POSITION.

_From a Photograph._]

A few men and boys were already opening their boxes, and tenderly
lifting out strong little wooden cages with double wire fronts,
designed to withstand the attacks of that relentless foe to bird
life--the domestic cat. Meanwhile numbers had been chalked on to
the wall along the side of the road with the object of showing each
competitor his place, and one by one the owners of the feathered
songsters took up their positions, until I counted fifty-six
competitors seated by the roadside, waiting for the signal to begin
the contest. Some of these men had walked as far as twenty miles, and,
having placed their boxes three yards apart, sat down with evident
relief.

[Illustration: A JUDGE AT WORK--EACH MAN SCORES FOR SOMEONE ELSE’S
BIRD, AND STEWARDS KEEP A CHECK UPON THEM TO INSURE FAIR PLAY.

_From a Photograph._]

During the interval of waiting I gathered from several communicative
candidates that it is necessary to blind the little birds in these
“concours,” as they would stop singing immediately they found
themselves to be under observation. The eye itself is not injured,
however, the closed eyelids being merely glued together, so to speak,
by means of a slight touch with a hot iron. Needless to say, this
operation must be performed by an experienced hand, otherwise part of
the lid may be left open, in which case the front of the cage must be
covered, or the shy little occupant will not sing. One is relieved
to know that it is quite possible to restore the bird’s sight by
separating the closed lids.

As the Belgian law does not permit such cruelty to be openly practised
in the country, the birds are imported--or, to be more accurate, are
supposed to be imported--from France. Even the catching of birds for
the purpose of employing them in these curious contests is looked upon
as illegal in Belgium, but laws of this kind are more easily made than
enforced. Probably the Government thinks that by keeping this pastime
under a control which appears to be severe it is doing its duty, and
with this object in view it demands that each owner shall carry on his
person a certificate containing the following words:--

“The undersigned, burgomaster of the town of ----, hereby declares
that Mr. ----, of such a trade, living at ----, is the owner of blind
chaffinches, with which he travels, and that he does not practise the
trade of bird-selling.” For this guarantee a fee of a hundred francs
is charged, it being necessary to obtain a new signature from the
authorities every fortnight.

The success or failure of a bird entered in a contest depends upon the
number of perfect “trills” made by the little competitor in a certain
time--usually an hour. The best result my informant had ever known at
a “concours” was one thousand and nineteen trills in the hour, and
after setting up this record the bird readily sold for a hundred and
twenty francs. As money prizes are invariably offered, these feathered
songsters are often sources of profit as well as sport to their owners,
a good chaffinch easily adding a hundred francs to the family exchequer.

But now let me relate how these competitions are managed and carried
on. I doubt whether any of my readers have ever witnessed such a scene
as I am about to describe, and a brief sketch of what came to pass in
that out-of-the-way spot can hardly fail to interest those who enjoy a
glimpse of peculiar, old-world practices.

[Illustration: A WELL-EARNED REST--HANGING THE WINNING BIRD UP IN THE
SUNSHINE AFTER THE CONTEST.

_From a Photograph._]

As the clock of the village church laboriously chimed out its seventh
stroke the manager of the competition, in a loud voice, issued the
order for the contest to begin. At this there was a general stir. Each
man took up a more or less business-like attitude in front of the
cage of one of his opponents, every competitor acting as judge for
someone else’s bird. Having produced his curious-looking marker--a
thing resembling a four-sided yard-stick, painted black, with a handle
either in the form of a knob or a ring at the top end--the men at once
proceeded to chalk certain cabalistic signs thereupon, which a close
observation showed me stood for the number of trills made by each
bird--“Chuie, chuie, chuie, chuie, chuiep” being a perfect trill. It
is the fifth and last part of the warble upon which success really
depends. If the final “chuiep” is not heard the feat is incomplete, and
the little warbler is not credited with a chalk mark.

The silence was scarcely broken save for the shrill piping of the
birds, and the seriousness exhibited by competitors and spectators
alike would have done credit to the mourners at a funeral. It was
curious to note the manner in which some of the less gravely-disposed
owners spent the interval of waiting for their charges to distinguish
themselves. Some were lightening the serious business of marking by
occasional draughts of beer from huge tumblers, which they had, with
wise forethought, placed close at hand. Others, with that calmness
that comes from long practice, were puffing contentedly at short clay
pipes, while the greater number--among whom were some very youthful
competitors, evidently on their first trial--wore anxious expressions,
never letting their eyes rest upon any other object than the cage and
the scoring-stick entrusted to their care.

[Illustration: COLLECTING THE TALLY STICKS.

_From a Photograph._]

All this time the subdued talking among the group of interested
spectators scarcely rose above the continued chirping of the birds,
which seemed to become more and more shrill and vigorous as the
moments passed, until, after the lapse of half an hour or so, each of
the little songsters seemed ready to burst its little throat in its
determination to make itself heard above its neighbours.

[Illustration: PLACING THE NET AND DECOY-BIRDS TO CAPTURE FINCHES.

_From a Photograph._]

At the commencement of the competition I had been under the pleasant
impression that the little creatures, although selfishly deprived of
the blessing of sight in order to administer to a somewhat barbaric
form of human enjoyment, sang their early morning songs out of pure
gladness of heart and “the wild joy of living,” but my fond delusion
was soon nipped in the bud, for unmistakable notes of anger were by
this time distinct, and it needed not the assurance of one of the
spectators to convince me that, in its wild state, this particular
species of the winged creation, at all events, is far from preserving
that unity and perfect agreement in the home circle ascribed to it by
one of our poets and pointed out for man’s emulation. It is in order
to stimulate an artificially-produced anger, considered necessary for
the success of the “concours,” that these matches are held in the early
morning hours, while the birds of the trees and hedges are singing most
lustily. The chirping of the imprisoned songsters proceeds from a wild
frenzy of desire to do battle-royal with those of their brethren still
enjoying freedom, and by degrees the longing grows for an encounter
with their competing neighbours.

[Illustration: CAUGHT!--THE CAPTURE OF A FUTURE COMPETITOR.

_From a Photograph._]

These matches are under the strictest control, both as regards
discipline and fairness, and any candidate found guilty of dishonesty
in marking is punished by summary expulsion from his club. Stewards
controlling the judging parade up and down with their eyes upon the
markers, so that cheating under such close supervision is well-nigh
impossible.

As the most successful of the finches trilled forth its five hundred
and eighteenth “Chuie, chuie, chuie, chuie, chuiep” the order was
passed along the line to cease scoring and make known the final
results. With startling promptness each candidate sprang to his feet
and began to add his score. The owner of the champion bird, a cripple,
showed calm pleasure as he proceeded to replace in its box his little
favourite’s cage, upon which was painted a landscape which succeeded in
defying every law of perspective.

During the summer months these “concours” are held at very frequent
intervals in the country districts of both France and Belgium, and a
competitor is frequently the possessor of several birds, which are
usually caught by means of a net, but almost every method is productive
of quick results, for the chaffinch is an eager wooer, his addresses
to his lady-love rendering him totally blind to his own danger. He is
beset with rivals, and as the female bird invariably smiles upon the
strongest suitor she is the cause of innumerable battles, in which
it is usual for several lovers to be left dead upon the field. The
chaffinch is very easily trapped by using a tame finch to stir up his
jealousy. A limed twig is attached to the tame bird, who is allowed
to run about where the twittering of the wild birds is heard. As soon
as the latter become conscious of the presence of an alien in their
midst an onslaught is made, which generally ends in the capture of
one, if not more, of the attackers. Another method of capturing the
chaffinch, and the one most in vogue among the Flemish “Vinkeniers,”
is represented in two of the accompanying photographs. A stuffed finch
fixed to a small peg is placed in the grass, clearly visible to the
birds in the trees, while a live decoy, in a cage, carefully covered
up with loose grass and twigs, so as not to attract any attention, is
concealed not many yards away. A long net, spread out on the ground
between the two decoy birds, lies in readiness to make prisoners of the
little feathered warriors as soon as they cluster round the stuffed
bird, incited by the clamours of the caged enticer. A pull of the
long strings, leading into the ambush of the bird-catchers, may cause
as many as thirty finches at a time to fall into the hands of the
trappers.




[Illustration: THE FIGHT AT THE A-T RANCH.

BY FRANK BRANSTED.]

    The story of one of the most sanguinary “cattle wars” the
    West has ever known. The long-standing feud between the big
    cattlemen and the homesteaders, whose advent means the doom of
    the open range, led in this instance to a most extraordinary
    state of affairs, in which one side raised a regiment of
    ruffians to wipe out their enemies, while the other retorted by
    laying siege to their opponents’ head-quarters with rifle-pits
    and dynamite bombs! “The narrative is absolutely true,” writes
    the author, “only the names of the cattlemen concerned being
    changed.”


With a rattle of wheels over stones and frozen ground the buckboard
swung round the bend and down across the muddy creek flats. The driver,
Ranger Jones, one of the pioneers of Northern Wyoming, drew off his
leather glove and rubbed his chilled hands on the buffalo robe to
restore circulation. The sun was low in the west, and, after placing
his hand on the heavy Colt that lay reassuringly beside him on the
seat, he drew on his glove and spoke sharply to his team. A moment
later they struck the bridge, and after clattering across the shaky
wooden structure began the ascent of the south bank.

Scarcely had the buckboard left the bridge than from underneath it was
thrust the barrel of a rifle. A sharp report rang out, followed by two
others in rapid succession, and with his fingers groping vainly for his
pistol Ranger Jones, the best rider and one of the bravest men of the
Big Horn country, fell forward off the seat. Shot three times through
the back, he was dead before his head struck the dashboard.

Jones’s death was but one of the brutal murders that about 1890
horrified the settlers east of the Big Horns and north of the Powder
River. This country, which had formerly belonged exclusively to the
cattle kings, had of late years been invaded by homesteaders and other
settlers, who had begun to stretch their hated wire fences along the
creeks and around the water-holes on the alkali flats to the east.
Early in the winter all the settlers in this district had received
warnings that they had been tried by “a jury of their betters” and
found guilty of cattle rustling, and warning them that if they did not
leave the country within thirty days their lives would be forfeited.
These warnings were signed by the “White Cap Protective League.” The
letters, which were known to be the work of the Cattle Association, or
of some of its members, were for the most part disregarded.

The death of Ranger Jones fanned to a white heat the flames of rage
that had been aroused by the previous murders, and a meeting was
called at which Frank Benton, an ex-sheriff of Johnson County, was
by common assent adjudged the person guilty of Ranger Jones’s death,
and he was sentenced to die by the hand of the first of the settlers
who had a chance to pot him. It was further agreed to discover, if
possible, the ringleaders of the “White Caps,” and either to lynch them
or drive them from the country. But the searchers were unable to find
Benton, who, having heard of the plans laid for his taking-off, held a
hasty consultation with Dr. Hays and Ben Williams, two of the leading
cattlemen, and then boarded a train at Cheyenne and fled to Texas.
Once there, he began scouring the country for “bad men.” Any man who
had some other man’s blood on his hands found favour with Benton, and
at the little town of Utica, where he made his head-quarters, he soon
gathered together as choice a collection of “toughs” and murderers as
could be found in any one hundred square miles on earth. These men
he hired to go with him to Wyoming and kill “Rustlers.” They signed
a contract to stay with him for six months and were to receive fifty
dollars apiece per month, and one hundred dollars were to be divided
amongst the bunch for every man that they killed.

Late in April the band, consisting of sixty men, with Benton and a
negro cook, boarded a train on the M. K. T. for the north. At Omaha,
where they outfitted, they bought up practically all the ammunition in
the town, as well as large quantities of provisions, bedding, tents,
and other articles. They were joined here by Dr. Hays, who, after
expressing himself as being well pleased with the appearance of the men
selected, informed Benton that horses and supply wagons awaited him at
Douglas, Wyoming. Before parting from Benton he gave him a revised list
of some forty men of whom the cattle kings were desirous of ridding the
country.

On Thursday, the 27th of April, the little town of Douglas was
surprised and terrified by the appearance of sixty armed men who
alighted from the Elkhorn train. The strangers paid but little
attention to the townspeople, but hastened out to the E----Y ranch near
the town, where their horses awaited them. Here they pitched camp for
the night, and at daylight the next morning set off for the north-west,
camping that night on the banks of Wild Horse Creek, some forty miles
from Douglas. By Saturday night they were within sight of the Powder
River, but were halted by Benton in the hills south of the river until
it became dark, when they advanced, and, after fording the river,
camped in a large cottonwood grove for the night. At two o’clock in the
morning they were awakened, and followed their leader on foot for a
couple of miles, when, just as day was breaking, they came to a little
log-house near the banks of the Powder River. The building was on the
claim of a small rancher named Ben Champion, and stopping with him at
the time was another rancher named Billy Ray. Both men had received
White Cap notices, and were living together for greater security.

Swiftly the men under Benton--who were known thereafter as White
Caps--surrounded the ranch and lay concealed, awaiting the appearance
of the hapless ranchers, who were to be their first victims. About five
o’clock the door opened and Billy Ray stepped out.

“Get breakfast, Ben, and I will look after the horses,” he called out,
cheerily, as he started for the log stable near the river bank.

Half-way there he paused and partly turned as if to retrace his steps.
Thinking that they had been discovered in their hiding-place, Benton
gave the order to fire, and poor Ray fell riddled with bullets.

“Now for the house, boys! Get the other one!” yelled Benton, and he
headed a rush at the log building. The rush, however, ended in a wild
stampede for shelter, for, regardless of the bullets smashing into
the logs around him, Ben Champion appeared in the doorway with a
six-shooter in either hand streaming fire and lead. One White Cap lay
dead close beside the body of Billy Ray, and another one was painfully
trying to drag himself into shelter with a broken leg trailing behind
him.

From all sides a perfect hail of bullets was now poured into the log
cabin, and but for the seasoned logs stopping a large proportion of the
bullets no man could have lived inside for five minutes. As it was,
bullets were constantly getting in through the chinks and crevices
between the timbers. After the first charge failed, Champion, knowing
that it was only a question of time before the White Caps killed him,
sat down at his table and wrote a letter of farewell to his mother and
sisters in far-away Vermont. He also, from time to time, wrote down
short comments on the battle in progress. This blood-stained diary,
which is now the property of the State Historical Society at Cheyenne,
reads as follows:--

“Six o’clock.--It is just about an hour since they killed Billy, and,
while bullets have been buzzing around in here pretty lively ever
since, I am still untouched. I just wrote a letter to my mother.

“Seven o’clock.--As I was writing in this book before a bullet smashed
up my left arm pretty badly, but I have it tied up and the bleeding
stopped. Now I have got my revenge, too, for as I shifted from one end
of the shack to the other I caught one fellow trying to run up here
with a bunch of burning brush in his hands. He’ll not need brush to
keep warm where he is now.

“Nine o’clock.--Still on deck, but getting kind of wobbly on the pins
from loss of blood. Have been hit four times.

“Nine-forty a.m.--Well, good-bye everyone. They set a load of hay on
fire and let it run down the hill against the side of the shack and the
roof is all ablaze. I am waiting till the smoke settles over the main
bunch a little thicker and then I will try to get in amongst them with
my six-shooter, if I can, before they down me. Good-bye.--BEN.”

A whiff of wind from the north blew a heavy cloud of smoke low down
over a bunch of White Caps lying in the shelter of a small creek some
fifty yards from the cabin, and when it lifted Ben Champion stood
amongst them with a smoking revolver in his hand. A moment later he lay
dead on the sand with over forty bullets through his body, but in that
short space of time his deadly Colt had sent two more of the White Caps
to their last reckoning.

[Illustration: “BEN CHAMPION APPEARED IN THE DOORWAY WITH A SIX-SHOOTER
IN EITHER HAND STREAMING FIRE AND LEAD.”]

While the White Caps were burying their dead, the horses and wagons
were brought up and the outfit cooked their breakfast on the embers
of the burning logs. Then, placing their wounded comrade in a supply
wagon, they moved up the river in search of more victims. Surrounding
two ranches, they crept up to them, only to find them vacant; they were
too late, for their firing had attracted the attention of a rancher
named Whitmore as he stopped to water his horse at the ford a mile
below Champion’s ranch, and he had ridden up close enough to see the
finish of the unequal fight, and had then spurred his horse up the
river, warning the settlers that the much-talked-of White Cap invasion
had begun. The news spread over the country like wildfire, and, instead
of fleeing from the danger-zone, the ranchers and cow-punchers buckled
on their guns and headed for the scene of the fight. They started
in ones and twos, but as they got closer in they began to gather in
bunches of ten or twelve, all spoiling for a fight, if there was a
prospect of avenging the death of their comrades.

In vain did Benton and his regiment try to close with any of these
bunches; their horses were fresh, and they would run as long as chased
by the White Caps; but once let the chase cease and they were back
again, waiting for a chance to sneak up under cover of a hill or
ravine to pour in a volley of bullets and again take to their heels
if pursued. By three o’clock there were fully fifty men harassing
the White Caps, and Benton decided to make for the shelter of the
A--T ranch on Crazy Woman Creek, some fifty miles to the north-west.
The first few miles was an orderly march, but the “Rustlers,” as the
other side called them, were constantly increasing in numbers and
pressing in closer behind. At five o’clock Benton gave his men the
order to strap their ammunition on to the backs of the wagon horses
and to abandon the wagons and supplies. From an orderly march their
ride had now degenerated into a wild dash over the barren sage brush
flats for refuge in the far-off ranch. Darkness alone saved them from
extermination, and as it was, only forty-five powder-stained, worn-out
White Caps rode up to Dr. Hays’s A--T ranch just as the sun rose on
Monday morning.

After a hasty breakfast they set to work barricading the windows and
doors of the stout log-house, as well as building a fort of stones
around the well and cutting a trench from there to the house and the
barn, a large two-storey frame structure which was rendered almost
bullet-proof by lining it with bales of hay. Noon found them well
prepared for a siege--found, too, close on three hundred Rustlers
watching them from the surrounding hill-tops.

A long-range fusillade was kept up all day on Monday without effect on
either side, and Monday night also passed uneventfully. Tuesday found
the Rustlers entrenched in rifle-pits and stone forts within easy range
on all sides of the ranch buildings. They had received large quantities
of ammunition from Buffalo, which was only fifteen miles north of them,
and had also brought up the tents and provisions abandoned by the White
Caps near the Powder River. All day long the numbers of the Rustlers
kept constantly increasing, till by nightfall fully five hundred men
were pouring lead into the buildings and forts on the A--T. The firing
kept up all Tuesday night, and under cover of the darkness the Rustlers
advanced their rifle-pits to within two hundred yards of the ranch
buildings. Seated on the top of a pile of earth and thinking himself
safe in the darkness, young Tommy Arnold, of the Rustlers, fired a shot
at the dark mass of buildings in the valley. Quick as lightning came an
answering shot, fired at the flash of his gun, and young Arnold pitched
forward, shot through the breast. Angered at the death of Arnold,
several Rustlers digging a pit near him seized their rifles and poured
in a volley of bullets at the spot where they had seen the gun-flash
in the valley. With five further shots, however, the hidden marksman
wounded two of them and threw dirt into the faces of a couple more, so
that they were soon glad to quit the unequal duel. The man who did this
shooting was afterwards discovered to be an ex-United States marshal
from Oklahoma, named Smith. He was wounded on the last day of the
fight, and afterwards died from his wounds.

On Tuesday afternoon Bob Snelling and John Pettybone, two of the
richest ranchers among the Rustlers, rode over to Fort McKinney and
offered the commander there two thousand dollars for the use of his
cannon for one day. Of course, the commandant had to refuse, and he
further took warning, so that that night, when a party of Rustlers, led
by Tom Ray, arrived with the intention of stealing the gun they found
it had been wheeled into the guard-house and a sentry stationed over
it. Not to be daunted by these failures to secure a big gun, old Jack
Flagett, a veteran of the Civil War, essayed to make one. He secured a
team and drove to Buffalo, returning with a number of lengths of iron
piping. He first placed a three-inch pipe around a two-inch and pounded
the intervening space full of wet sand, repeating the performance with
a four and six inch pipe. The whole affair was then chained securely
to the stump of a tree on the top of a hill about five hundred yards
from the A--T buildings. Next the amateur artillerist rammed in a
couple of pounds of powder, and, for a projectile, put in five pounds
of dynamite. Then he called out to some near-by Rustlers: “Come over,
boys, and watch me blow that White Cap outfit to Hades!”

He was about to set a match to the touch-hole when one Fred Johnston
interfered.

“Better set it off with a fuse, Jack,” he said.

“Well, to satisfy you, I will,” replied Flagett; “but there is no
danger, as this gun can stand anything.”

A six-inch fuse was then placed in the gun and lighted, and everyone
retired into an adjacent pit, dragging old Jack with them. For a moment
all was silence; then came an awful ear-splitting report, and a cloud
of dust settled over the rifle pit. When it cleared away all trace of
Flagett’s cannon and the stump as well had disappeared. Not a piece
of either was ever found, though Hall Smith, who was in charge of the
cook-camp half a mile farther back, swore that he heard a piece of pipe
whistle over his head a few seconds after the explosion.

Wednesday night passed very quietly, the White Caps being short of
ammunition, and the Rustlers busy in the construction of a movable
fort on wheels. They placed three mountain wagons in the shape of the
letter V, and built a framework of poles between them. This frame they
covered with bales of hay and suspended other bales from it clear to
the ground. There was room within this curious fort for twenty men,
and loopholes were left in the front sides for firing through as they
slowly propelled it forward. It was the intention to roll this up
within throwing distance of the ranch buildings, and then to demolish
them with dynamite bombs.

On Thursday morning, just at sunrise, the ponderous engine began to
crawl forward on its half-mile journey. Slowly but surely it crept
along, till at ten o’clock it was less than three hundred yards from
the ranch. In vain did the White Caps concentrate their fire on the
moving fortress; their bullets were absorbed by the hay as water by a
sponge. Inside the beleaguered ranch all was excitement and terror.
Only too well did they know the fate that awaited them unless the grim
monster advancing on them was checked. Benton called his boys together.
“Boys, we must stop that fort or die like rats in a trap,” he said. “I
want twenty men to follow me. Each will take a torch in one hand and
his six-shooter in the other, and I promise one thousand dollars to the
first man to fire the hay walls of the fort.”

The moving fort was now less than a hundred yards from the house, and
the furious fire from the hills and pits that had covered its advance
died down as the Rustlers lay, with their loaded rifles silent, waiting
for some move on the part of the White Caps.

Within the ranch-house all was quiet. The twenty men selected for the
dash stood with their right hands clenched around the butts of their
heavy Colts and their lefts grasping kerosene-soaked torches. All eyes
were fixed on their leader, who stood next to big Ben Williams, who
was noiselessly removing the bars from the door. “Ready, boys!” came
in clear, low tones from Benton as the last bar was lifted from its
socket. Every man braced himself for the leap--ready, in fact, anxious,
to have the dreadful suspense at an end, though each well knew that
the opening of the door would be a signal for five hundred rifles to
sweep the space between the house and the fort with a perfect hail of
lead. Quickly the door swung open, and Benton leaped out. His eyes
swept the surrounding hills; then he turned and tried to leap back into
the protection of the log walls again. But all in vain! Quicker than
thought came a flash of fire from a loophole in the fort, and Benton
fell in the doorway with a bullet from Tom Champion’s rifle through his
lungs.

“Keep back, boys!” he gasped. “Stay inside. You’re saved--the troops
are coming.” They dragged him in, but these were his last words; the
heavy hand of the avenging angel had fallen on him, and he had gone for
a final reckoning.

“To the loopholes, boys!” shouted Williams, who had now taken command.
“Shoot as you never shot before. If we can hold them in check for five
minutes we are saved.”

From loopholes and cracks thirty-five rifles concentrated their fire
on the hay fort, and the furious storm of lead caused Champion and the
twenty men behind the bales to lie low and hug the ground. They knew
that the fire could not long be sustained at that rate, and that when
it slackened they could advance with fewer casualties. Glancing from
a loophole to the north, Tom Champion saw two lines of brown-coated
men, riding furiously in the midst of a cloud of dust, sweep over the
hills less than a mile away. “Boys, the troops are coming!” he shouted.
“Quick! light a fuse and try a throw from here.”

Hastily the bomb was prepared and thrown. The five-pound parcel of
dynamite circled through the air and fell only ten feet short of the
wall. For an instant there was silence; then came the explosion, and
for a few minutes all was hid in a blinding cloud of dust. When it
settled it revealed a gaping hole in the side of the house and the dim
forms of men inside striving desperately to replace the dislocated logs.

“To the loopholes, boys! Pick them off!” cried Champion, but before
a shot could be fired, between them and the house swept a line of
cavalry, and the fight at the A---T had passed into history.

Clothed in the uniform and authority of the United States army, fifty
men from the Thirteenth Cavalry robbed five hundred raging Rustlers of
their prey. No true American can fire on the army uniform, and cursing
and furious, but powerless to interfere, the Rustlers could only stand
by and watch thirty-five men--all that were left of the invaders--come
forth and surrender themselves to Captain Watterson and his men, to be
transported to Cheyenne for trial for the murder of Ray, Champion, and
others. They were ultimately released without the formality of a trial
after some of the moneyed cattle kings had conferred with the State
officials.

[Illustration: “BENTON FELL IN THE DOORWAY WITH A BULLET FROM TOM
CHAMPION’S RIFLE THROUGH HIS LUNGS.”]

Dr. Hays, Ben Williams, and other of the leading cattlemen fled from
the country, never to return. Their buildings were burned, their horses
and cattle shot on sight by the Rustlers, while their calves bore the
brand of the first man to see them. Many a wealthy rancher in that
district to-day owes his start to the calves he gathered up when the
big outfits went to pieces.

So ended one of the most sanguinary cattle wars that the West has
ever witnessed. All that remains to-day to recall it is a group of
bullet-scarred buildings, surrounded by weed-grown rifle-pits, some two
hours’ ride south-east of Buffalo, near the junction of Muddy Creek
with the north fork of the Crazy Woman.




THE WIDE WORLD: In Other Magazines


A HETEROGENEOUS COLLECTION.

[Illustration]

For one wishing to study the ways of the lowest dregs of this earth,
I would advise him to give the slums of London a rest, and watch
the throngs who besiege the offices of the agents who undertake to
supply the cattlemen with help at Montreal. German and Russian Jews,
Dukhobhors, Italians, negroes, Dr. Barnardo boys, homesick for their
beloved slums; broken-down “sharks” and “confidence men” from the
large cities of the States; one-time moneyed youths from the larger
English towns, who have run through the capital given them to start
in business, and are returning on the chance of getting more. All
bustling and hustling each other after the same prize--a free passage
to London, the home, and often the grave, of the desperate.--“THE
CAPTAIN.”


TRAVELLING IN ICELAND.

By the average individual (unless he happens to be a salmon-fisher)
Iceland is imagined to be a place somewhere within the region of
the Arctic Circle and to be a land of eternal winter. The fishing
enthusiast knows it only as a paradise of his craft and values it
accordingly. Some tourists visit the island for a week or so in summer,
and get as far as Thingvellir, or if they are not too saddle-sore they
may see Geysir. But only a very select few have travelled for weeks on
the hardy little ponies and known to the full the exceeding delight
of day after day spent in the wonderful Icelandic air and of riding
through the green valleys and fording the numberless rivers and streams
of Iceland. To those who can ride and are keen on an open-air life and
who are lovers of scenery the island should appeal, and this should
apply even more so to those tired of the ways of cities, for there are
no railways in Iceland, no motors, and there were until very recently
no telegraphs.--“WOMAN’S LIFE.”


A LUCKY FALL OF SNOW.

On the Trans-Siberian Railway not long ago some train-wreckers,
anticipating the Continental express, had been busily engaged for some
hours tearing up the permanent way. But, in the meantime, so heavy a
fall of snow had occurred that the mail had been completely blocked
some few miles before reaching the work of destruction. In this way
the robbers were defeated of their prey, and the gangs of workmen who
afterwards went out to clear the line discovered the damage on digging
away the snow.--“TIT-BITS.”


WOMEN’S SPORT IN SWEDEN.

In no other European country do sports occupy so large a place in
women’s lives as they do in Sweden. This is especially the case in
winter, when traffic and social intercourse are hindered by the snow
and, but for outdoor games and exercises, life in the great castles and
country estates would be monotonous and dull for the women of the upper
classes. This is the time, however, when the Swedish ladies most enjoy
themselves, for they pass their days in skating, skiing, tobogganing,
coasting, and in training for the races which take place at Stockholm
and in most of the more populated parts of the country.--“THE
LADIES’ FIELD.”


AN UNCONVENTIONAL AMUSEMENT.

The “Mengeleusha,” or “slippery place,” near Kuala Kangsar, Perak,
Federated Malay States, is a solid piece of granite, about seventy or
eighty feet long, standing in a stream of water and forming a sort of
waterfall. The water flowing down this rock makes it as slippery as
glass, and the amusement is to slide down the rock and splash into
the pool beneath. This snapshot shows an Englishman half-way down the
slide.--“THE STRAND MAGAZINE.”

[Illustration]




Odds and Ends.

A Battle-Royal “You Dirty Boy”--Bavarian “Death-Boards”--An
Extraordinary Sacrifice, etc., etc.


Our first photograph represents what must have been a battle-royal, and
one which ended fatally for all concerned. It took place during the
night, in the back yard of a house in Central Queensland, Australia,
and the combatants were all found dead in the morning exactly as seen
in the photograph. It is supposed that the snake must have bitten the
kitten, and the mother cat, coming to its rescue, fought the snake and
broke its back, but not before she had been fatally bitten herself.
Cats are well known to be very clever at breaking snakes’ backs with
their claws.

[Illustration: A BATTLE ROYAL WHICH ENDED FATALLY FOR ALL
CONCERNED--THE SNAKE KILLED THE KITTEN, AND THE MOTHER, COMING TO THE
RESCUE, KILLED THE SERPENT, BUT SUCCUMBED HERSELF TO THE SNAKE’S BITE.

_From a Photograph._]

The top snapshot on the next page was taken during a tramp through the
jungly district around Sourabaya, a small town in Java. The picture
shows a Javanese woman washing her child under a falling stream of
water. Evidently the youngster is not enjoying the performance,
and evinces his disapproval of the proceedings by kicking out in
all directions and struggling vigorously. As a result of these
contortions the outline of his body in the picture is rather obscure.
It is interesting to note how the water has been brought to the
rudely-constructed circle of masonry which serves as a reservoir.
Having no system of pipes to facilitate the distribution of water, the
natives fall back on Nature to assist them in this direction. They cut
down betelnut trees, split them in half from top to bottom, and scoop
out the inside substance, thus making a series of cylindrical troughs.
These are dried in the sun, after which a number of them, joined end to
end and placed at a gentle slope, will convey water from any natural
source to within convenient distance of a village or group of houses.
The end of one of these artificial water-courses is seen in the picture.

[Illustration: “YOU DIRTY BOY”--A JAVANESE MOTHER WASHING HER CHILD IN
A “HOME-MADE AQUEDUCT.”

_From a Photograph._]

Here is a curious little snapshot from Java. The ancient cannon seen
in the photograph is situated near the railway station at Batavia, the
capital of the island, and is believed by the natives to possess the
peculiar power--particularly strange in the case of so incongruous an
object as a cannon--of enabling childless married people to raise a
family. In pursuance of this strange belief many offerings are placed
by the superstitious near the cannon; three are seen in the foreground
of the photograph. Another legend which attaches to this particular
gun is to the effect that when it and another piece of ordnance, which
is also situated somewhere in the island, are brought together, the
Javanese will become a great and independent nation.

[Illustration: AN ANCIENT CANNON TO WHICH PEOPLE MAKE OFFERINGS IN THE
BELIEF THAT IT ASSIST THEM TO RAISE A FAMILY.

_From a Photograph._]

In the eastern half of Bavaria, on the borders of Bohemia, lies the
so-called Bavarian Forest. This part of the country, although it boasts
beautiful scenery, is seldom visited by tourists, probably for the
reason that the charms of the region are little known even in Germany.
This part of Bavaria has been in many ways untouched by civilization,
and owing to its seclusion from the outer world some very strange
customs are still in vogue, strongly reminding one of the Middle Ages.
One of these strange customs, strictly observed by the population,
is the way in which they keep alive the memory of their dead by the
erection of what are called “totenbretter,” or “death-boards.” These
are wooden planks cut in the shape of tombstones and roughly painted.
Sometimes they bear also the image of a saint. They are erected--often
in a row of thirty and more--on the roadside, in fields and meadows,
near chapels and crucifixes, in the village streets--in short,
everywhere; they are even nailed to houses and barns. They do not mark
burial-places, as might be supposed. As soon as a person has died the
corpse is put on a board, and there it lies in state until it is put
into the coffin shortly before the funeral. These boards, then, are the
so-called “death-boards,” and after the funeral they are cut into a
suitable shape, and decorated with an inscription containing the name
of the deceased, his age, and, in most cases, some lines of poetry.
These short poems, which are, of course, meant in sober earnest, are
occasionally very amusing. The boards are then stuck somewhere near
the road, or in the fields, where they sometimes accumulate to an
alarming number. In the poorer districts these boards are not always
cut into shape and painted, but are simply deposited just as they are
at the foot of some crucifix, where they remain untouched until they
moulder away. It must be admitted that the custom, though interesting,
seems open to objection from a hygienic point of view, nor is it very
exhilarating for the tourist to be reminded of death wherever he may
turn.

[Illustration: BAVARIAN “DEATH-BOARDS”--THEY DO NOT MARK BURIAL-PLACES,
AND ARE TO BE FOUND IN ALL SORTS OF ODD SITUATIONS.

_From a Photo. by Kester, Berlin._]

This wonderful fungus, found in the Garo Hills in Assam, has been
supplied by Nature with a delicate network of fine translucent
material, which seems to be intended to protect the stalk from the
attacks of insect life. The head of the plant, on the other hand,
is covered with some substance which attracts minute flies in great
numbers. For further defence Nature has given this weird fungus the
power of spreading around it a most offensive smell.

[Illustration: AN EXTRAORDINARY FUNGUS--IT GROWS IN A NIGHT AND BY
MID-DAY HAS ENTIRELY WITHERED.

_From a Photograph._]

The beautiful white tracery grows up in the night, commences to droop
as soon as the first rays of the sun reach it, and by midday has
entirely withered away.

[Illustration: IN SOME PARTS OF CHINA IT IS STILL CONSIDERED A VERY
MERITORIOUS ACT FOR A WIDOW TO COMMIT SUICIDE AFTER THE DEATH OF HER
HUSBAND--THIS PHOTOGRAPH SHOWS A WIDOW ABOUT TO MAKE AWAY WITH HERSELF
IN THE PRESENCE OF AN IMMENSE AND ADMIRING CROWD.]

Old customs die very hard in China, and in several parts of the
Celestial Empire it is still considered a high act of virtue for a
woman to commit suicide after the death of her husband. According to
the law the proceeding is actually legal in some provinces, and such is
the state of public opinion that in districts where it is officially
prohibited the authorities rarely interfere. The striking photograph
which we reproduce on this page shows one of these extraordinary
voluntary sacrifices about to take place, with the widow herself,
clad in white--the Chinese mourning colour--the gallows erected for
the occasion, and the immense crowd gathered to witness the gruesome
spectacle.

[Illustration: AN ARIZONA BEDROOM--SO HOT IS THE CLIMATE, AND SO
NUMEROUS THE INSECTS AND REPTILIAN PESTS, THAT THE DWELLERS ON THE
VERGE OF THE DESERT FIND IT NECESSARY TO SLEEP IN WIRE CAGES SIMILAR TO
THAT HERE SHOWN.

_From a Photograph._]

The desert bordering on the Colorado River, in Southern Arizona, is
probably the hottest part of the United States in summer, where the
condition humorously generalized at “a hundred and forty in the shade,
and no shade,” prevails from June until September. The intense heat
of the sun-baked houses then makes them unbearable even at night to
the average sleeper, and open-air sleeping apartments are accordingly
needful for comfort. The photograph shows one of these airy adjuncts
to a desert home. The wire screen that encloses the little room, like
a bird-cage, serves to keep out pestiferous insects, snakes, and other
vermin.

[Illustration: THE MAP-CONTENTS OF “THE WIDE WORLD MAGAZINE,” WHICH
SHOWS AT A GLANCE THE LOCALITY OF EACH ARTICLE AND NARRATIVE OF
ADVENTURE IN THIS NUMBER.]


Transcriber's Note:

Table of Contents added.

Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Wide World Magazine - Vol. 22, No.
131, February 1909, by Various

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 51061 ***