 A Piece of Stake With the last morsel of bread, Tom King wiped his plate clean of the last particle of flour gravy and chewed the resulting mouthful in a slow and meditative way. When he arose from the table, he was oppressed by the feeling that he was distinctly hungry. Yet he alone had eaten. The two children in the other room had been sent early to bed in order that in sleep they might forget that they had gone supperless. His wife had touched nothing and had sat silently and washed him with solicitous eyes. She was a thin, worn woman of the working class, though signs of an earlier prettiness were not wanting in her face. The flour for the gravy she had borrowed from the neighbor across the hall, the last two half-penis, had gone by the bread. He sat down by the window in a rickety chair that protested under his weight, and quite mechanically he put his pipe in his mouth and dipped into the side pocket of his coat. The absence of any tobacco made him aware of his action and, with a scowl for his forgetfulness, he put the pipe away. His movements were slow, almost hulking, as though he were burdened by the heavy weight of his muscles. He was a solid-bodied, stolid-looking man, and his appearance did not suffer from being over-precessing. His rough clothes were old and slouchy. The uppers of his shoes were too weak to carry the heavy re-soling that was itself of no recent date, and his cotton shirt, a cheap two-shelling affair, showed a frayed collar and erratical paint stains. But it was Tom King's face that advertised him unmistakably for what he was. It was the face of a typical prize-fighter, of one who had put in long years of service in the squared ring, and by that means developed and emphasized all the marks of the fighting beast. He was distinctly a lowering continence, and that no feature of it might escape notice it was clean-shaven. The lips were shapeless and constituted a mouth harsh to excess that was like a gash in his face. The jaw was aggressive, brutal, heavy. The eyes, slow of motion and heavy-litted, were almost expressionless underneath the shaggy, indrun brows. The bare animal that he was, the eyes were the most animal-like feature about him. They were sleepy, lion-like, the eyes of a fighting animal. The forehead slanted quickly back to the hair, which, clipped close, showed every bump of a villainous-looking head. A nose twice broken and molded variously by countless blows, and a cauliflower ear permanently swollen and distorted to twice its size, completed his adornment while the beard, fresh-shaven as it was, sprouted in the skin and gave the face a blue-black stain. All together it was the face of a man to be afraid of in a dark alley or lonely place. And yet Tom King was not a criminal, nor had he ever done anything criminal. Outside of brawls common to his walk in life, he had harmed no one. Nor had he ever been known to pick a quarrel. He was a professional, and all the fighting brutishness in him was reserved for his professional appearances. Outside the ring he was slow-going, easy-natured, and, in his younger days, when the money was flesh, too open-handed for his own good. He bore no grudges and had few enemies. Fighting was a business with him. In the ring he struck to hurt, struck to maim, struck to destroy. But there was no animus in it. It was a plain business proposition. Audiences assembled and paid for the spectacle of men knocking each other out. The winner took the big end of the purse. When Tom King faced the wall-a-mole of Goudjir twenty years before, he knew that the Goudjir's jaw was only about four months healed after having been broken in a new castle bout. And he had played for that jaw and broken it again in the ninth round, not because he bore the Goudjir any ill-will, but because that was the surest way to put the Goudjir out and win the big end of the purse. Nor had the Goudjir borne him any ill-will for it. It was the game. Both knew the game and played it. Tom King had never been a talker, and he sat by the window, morosely silent, staring at his hands. The veins stood out on the backs of the hands, large and swollen, and knuckles smashed and battered and malformed, testified to the use to which they had been put. He had never heard that a man's life was the life of his arteries, but well he knew the meaning of those big, upstanding veins. His heart had pumped too much blood through them at top pressure. They no longer did the work. He had stretched the elasticity out of them, and with their distension had passed his endurance. He tired easily now. No longer could he do a fast twenty rounds, hammer and tongs, fight, fight, fight from gong to gong, with fierce rally on top of fierce rally, beaten to the ropes, and in turn beating his opponent to the ropes, and rallying in ferrester and faster and all that last twentieth round, with a house on its feet, and yelling, himself rushing, striking, ducking, raining showers of blows, upon showers of blows, and receiving showers of blows in return. And all the time the heart faithfully pumping the surging blood through the adequate veins. The veins swollen at the time had always shrunk down again, though each time, imperceptibly at first not quite, remaining just a trifle larger than before. He stared at them, and at his battered knuckles, and for the moment, caught a vision of the youthful excellence of those hands, before the first knuckle had been smashed on the head of Benny Jones, otherwise known as the Welsh Terror. The impression of his hunger came back on him. Blimey, but couldn't I go a piece of stike? He muttered, aloud, clenching his huge fists, and spitting out a smothered oaf. I tried both Berks and Solies, his wife said, half apologetically. And they wouldn't, he demanded. Not a half penny, Bert said. She faltered. Go on, what'd he say? As how he was thinking Sandell would do ye tonight, and as how your score was comfortable big as it was, Tom King grunted, but did not reply. He was busy thinking of the Bolteria he had kept in his younger days, to which he had fed stakes without end. Berk would have given him credit for a thousand stakes, then. But times had changed. Tom King was getting old, and old men fighting before second-rate clubs couldn't expect to run bills of any size with the tradesmen. He had got up in the morning with a longing for a piece of stike, and the longing had not abated. He had not had a fair training for this fight. It was a drought year in Australia. Times were hard. And even the most irregular work was difficult to find. He had had no sparring, partner, and his food had not been of the best nor always sufficient. He had done a few days' navy work when he could get it, and he had run around the domain in the early mornings to get his legs in shape. But it was hard training without a partner, and a wife, and two kitties that must be fed. Credit with the tradesmen had undergone very slight expansion when he was matched with Sandell. The secretary of the Gayety Club had advanced him three pounds, the loser's end of the purse, and beyond that had refused to go. Now and again he managed to borrow a few shelling from old pals who would have lent more only that it was a drought year and they were hard put themselves. No, and there was no use in disguising the fact. His training had not been satisfactory. He should have had better food and no worries. Besides, when a man is forty, it is harder to get into condition than when he is twenty. What time is it, Lizzie? He asked. His wife went across the hall to inquire and came back. Quarter before eight. They'll be starting the first bout in a few minutes, he said. Only a tryout. Then there is a four-round spar between Dealer Wells and Gridley, and a ten-round go between Starlight and some sailor bloke. I don't come on for over an hour. At the end of another silent ten minutes he rose to his feet. Truth is, Lizzie, I ain't had proper training. He reached for his hat and started for the door. He did not offer to kiss her, he never did on going out, but on this night she dared to kiss him, throwing her arms around him and compelling him to bend down to her face. She looked quite small against the massive bulk of the man. Good luck, Tom, she said. You gotta do him. I. I gotta do him, he repeated. That's all there is to it. I just gotta do him. He laughed with an attempted hardiness while she pressed more closely against him. Across her shoulders he looked around the bear room. It was all he had in the world, with the rent overdue and her and the kitties. And he was leaving it to go out into the night to get meat for his mate and cubs, not like a modern working man going to his machine-grind, but in the old primitive, royal, animal way by fighting for it. I gotta do him, he repeated this time with a hint of desperation in his voice. If it's a win, it's thirty quid, and I can pay all that's own with a lump of money left over. If it's a lose, I get not. Not even a penny for me to ride home on the tram. The secretaries give all that's coming from the loser's end. Goodbye, old woman, I'll come straight home if it's a win. And I'll be waiting up, she called to him along the hall. It was full two miles to the gaiety, and as he walked along he remembered how in his palmy days he had once been the heavy weight champion of New South Wales. He would have ridden in a cab to the fight, and how most likely some heavy backer would have paid for the cab and ridden with him. There were Tommy Burns and that Yankee nigger Jack Johnson, and they rode about in motorcars, and he walked. And, as any man knew, a hard two miles was not the best preliminary to a fight. He was an olden, and the world did not wag well with oldens. He was good for nothing now except navy work, and his broken nose and swollen ear were against him, even in that. He found himself wishing that he had learned to trade. It would have been better in the long run. But no one had told him, and he knew deep down in his heart, that he would not have listened if they had. It had been so easy. Big money, sharp glorious fights, periods of rest and loafing in between, a following of eager flatterers, the slaps on the back, the shakes of the hand, the toffs glad to buy him a drink for the privilege of five minutes talk, and the glory of it, the yelling houses, the whirlwind finish, the referees, King Wends, and his name in the sporting columns, next day. Those had been times. But he realized now, in a slow, ruminating way, that it was the oldens he had been putting away. He was youth, rising, and they were age, sinking. No wonder it had been easy. They, with their swollen veins and battered knuckles, and worry in the bones of them from the long battles they had already fought. He remembered the time he had put out old Stasher Bell at Rushcutters Bay in the 18th round, and how old Bell cried afterwards in the dressing room like a baby. Perhaps old Bell's rent had been overdue. Perhaps he had at home a Mrs. and a couple of kitties. And perhaps Bell, that very day of the fight, had had a hungering for a piece of steak. Bell had fought game, and taken incredible punishment. He could see now, after he had gone through the mill himself, that Stasher Bell had fought for a bigger steak that night twenty years ago, then had young Tom King, who had fought for glory and easy money. No wonder Stasher Bell had cried afterwards in the dressing room. Well, a man had only so many fights in him to begin with. It was the iron law of the game. One man might have a hundred hard fights in him, another man only twenty, each according to the make of him and the quality of his fiber, had a definite number, and when he had fought them he was done. Yes, he had had more fights in him than most of them, and he had had far more than his share of hard grueling fights, the kind that worked the heart and lungs to bursting, that took the elastic out of the arteries and made hard knots of muscle out of youth's sleek suppleness, that wore out nerve and stamina and made brain and bones weary from excessive effort and endurance overwrought. Yes, he had done better than all of them. There were none of his old fighting partners left. He was the last to the old guard. He had seen them all finished, and he had had a hand in finishing some of them. They had tried him out against the oldens, and one after another he had put them away, laughing when, like old Stouser Bell, they had cried in the dressing room. And now he was an olden, and they tried out the youngsters on him. There was that bloke Sandell. He had come over from New Zealand with a record behind him. But no one in Australia knew anything about him, so they put him up against old Tom King. If Sandell made a showing, he would be given better men to fight with bigger purses to win, so it was to be depended upon that he would put up a fierce battle. He had everything to win by it, money and glory and career. And Tom King was the grizzled old chopping block that guarded the highway to fame and fortune. And he had nothing to win except 30 quid to pay to the landlord and the tradesman. And as Tom King thus ruminated there came to his stolid vision the form of youth, glorious youth rising excellent and invincible, supple of muscle and silken of skin, with heart and lungs that had never been tried and torn, and that laughed at limitation of effort. Yes, youth was the nemesis. It destroyed the old ones, and reck not that in so doing it destroyed itself. It enlarged its arteries and smashed its knuckles, and was in turn destroyed by youth. For youth was ever youthful. It was only age that grew old. At Castle Ray Street he turned to the left, and three blocks along came to the gaiety. A crowd of young loricans hanging outside the door made respectful way for him, and he heard one say to another, that's him. That's Tom King. Inside, on the way to his dressing room, he encountered the secretary, a keen-eyed, shrewd-faced young man who shook his hand. How are you feeling, Tom? He asked. Fit is a fiddle, King answered, though he knew that he lied, and that if he had a quid he would give it right there for a good piece of steak. When he emerged from the dressing room, his seconds behind him, and came down the aisle to the squared ring in the center of the hall, a burst of greeting and applause went up from the waiting crowd. He acknowledged salutations right and left, though few of the faces did he know. Most of them were the faces of kiddies unborn when he was winning his first laurels in the squared ring. He leaped lightly to the raised platform and ducked through the ropes to his corner, where he sat down on a folding stool. Jack Ball, the referee, came over and shook his hand. Ball was a broken-down, pugilist who, for over 10 years, had not entered the ring as a principal. King was glad that he had him for a referee. They were both oldens. If he should rough it with Sandel a bit beyond the rules, he knew Ball could be depended upon to pass it by. Aspiring young heavyweights, one after another, were climbing into the ring and being presented to the audience by the referee. Also, he issued their challenges for them. Young Pronto, Bell announced, from North Sydney challenges the winners for a 50-pound side bet. The audience applauded and applauded again of Sandel himself sprang through the ropes and sat down in his corner. Tom King looked across the ring at him curiously. For in a few minutes they would be locked together in merciless combat, each trying with all the force of him to knock the other into unconsciousness. But little could he see, for Sandel, like himself, had trousers and sweaters on over his ring costume. His face was strongly handsome, crowned with a curly mop of yellow hair, while his thick, muscular neck hinted at bodily magnificence. Young Pronto went to one corner and then the other, shaking hands with the principles and dropping down out of the ring. The challenges went on. Every youth climbed through the ropes. Youth unknown, but insatiable, crying out to mankind that was strength and skill, it would match issues with the winner. A few years before, in his own heyday of invincibleness, Tom King would have been amused and bored by these preliminaries. But now he sat fascinated, unable to shake the vision of youth from his eyes. Always were these youngsters rising up in the boxing game, springing through the ropes and shouting their defiance, and always were the oldens going down before them. They climbed to success over the bodies of the oldens. And ever they came, more and more youngsters, youth unquenchable and irresistible. And ever they put the oldens away, themselves becoming olden and traveling the same downward path while behind them, ever pressing on them, was youth eternal. The new babies grown lusty and dragging their elders down, with behind them more babies to the end of time. Youth that must have its will and that will never die. Thing glanced over to the press box and nodded to Morgan, or the sportsman, in Corbett, of the referee. Then he held out his hands, while Sid Sullivan and Charlie Bates, his second, slipped on his gloves and laced them tight, closely watched by one of Sandell's seconds, who first examined critically the tapes on King's knuckles. The second of his own was in Sandell's corner, performing a lack of office. Sandell's trousers were pulled off, and as he stood up, his sweater was skinned off over his head. And Tom King, looking, saw youth incarnate, deep-chested, heavy-thued, with muscles that slipped and swid like life-things under the white satin skin. The whole body was a crawl with life, and Tom King knew that it was a life that had never oozed its freshness out through the aching pores during the long fights, wherein youth paid its toll, and departed not quite as young as when it entered. The two men advanced to meet each other, and as the gong sounded in the seconds clattered out of the ring with the folding stools, they shook hands and instantly took their fighting attitudes. And instantly, like a mechanism of steel and springs, balanced on a hair-trigger Sandell was in and out and in again, landing a left to the eyes or right to the ribs, ducking a counter, dancing lightly away and dancing menacingly back again. He was swift and clever. It was a dazzling exhibition. The house yelled its approbation. But King was not dazzled. He had fought too many fights and too many youngsters. He knew the blows for what they were. Too quick and too deaf would be dangerous. Evidently Sandell was going to rush things from the start. It was to be expected. It was the way of youth expanding its splendor and excellence in wild insurgents and furious onslaught, overwhelming opposition with its own unlimited glory of strength and desire. Sandell was in and out, here, there, and everywhere, light-footed and eager-hearted, a living wonder of white flesh and stinging muscle that wove itself into a dazzling fabric of attack, slipping and leaping like a flying shuttle from action to action through a thousand actions, all of them centered on the destruction of Tom King, who stood between him and Fortune. And Tom King patiently endured. He knew his business, and he knew youth now that youth was no longer his. There was nothing to do till the other had lost some of his steam, was his thought, and he grinned to himself as he deliberately ducked so as to receive a heavy blow on the top of his head. It was a wicked thing to do, yet eminently fair according to the rules of the boxing game. A man was supposed to take care of his own knuckles, and if he insisted on hitting an opponent on top of the head, he did so at his own peril. One could have ducked lower and let the blow whizz harmlessly past, but he remembered his own early fights and how he smashed his first knuckle on the head of the Welsh terror. He was but playing the game. That duck had accounted for one of Sandle's knuckles. Not that Sandle would mind it now. He would go on superbly regardless, hitting as hard as ever throughout the fight. But later on, when the long-ringed battles had begun to tell, he would regret that knuckle and look back and remember how he smashed it on Tom King's head. The first round was all Sandle's, and he had the house yelling with the rapidity of his whirlwind rushes. He overwhelmed King with avalanches of punches, and King did nothing. He never struck once, contending himself with covering up, blocking, and ducking, and clenching to avoid punishment. He occasionally feigned, shook his head when the weight of a punch landed, and moved stolidly about, never leaping or springing or wasting an ounce of strength. Sandle must foam the froth of youth away before discrete age could dare to retaliate. All King's movements were slow and methodical, and his heavy-litted, slow-moving eyes gave him the appearance of being half asleep or dazed. Yet they were eyes that saw everything, that had been trained to see everything through all his 20 years and awed in the ring. They were eyes that did not blink or waver before an impending blow, but cootily saw in measured distance. Seated in his corner for the minutes rest at the end of the round, he lay back without stretched legs, his arms resting on the right angle of the ropes, his chest an abdomen heaving frankly and deeply as he gulped down the air driven by the towels of a second. He listened with closed eyes to the voices of the house. Why don't you fight, Tom? Many were crying. You ain't afraid of them, are you? Muscle-bound he heard a man in the front row comment. He can't move quicker. Two to one on Sandle and queds. The gong struck and the two men advanced from their corners. Sandle came forward fully three quarters of the distance, eager to begin again, but King was content to advance the shorter distance. It was in line with his policy of economy. He had not been well trained and he had not had enough to eat and every step counted. Besides, he had already walked two miles to the ringside. It was a repetition of the first round with Sandle attacking like a whirlwind and with the audience indignantly demanding to know why King did not fight. Beyond fainting and several slowly delivered and ineffectual blows, he did nothing save block, install, and clench. Sandle wanted to make the pace fast while King, out of his wisdom, refused to accommodate him. He grinned with a certain wistful pathos in his ring-battered continence and went on cherishing his strength with the jealousy of which only age is capable. Sandle was youth and he threw his strength away with the munificent abandon of youth. To King belonged the ring-general ship the wisdom bread of long, aching fights. He watched with cool eyes and had, moving slowly, and waiting for Sandle's froth to foam away. To the majority of the onlookers it seemed as though King was hopelessly outclassed and they voiced their opinions and offers of three to one on Sandle. But there were wise ones, a few, who knew King of old time and covered what they considered easy money. The third round began as usual, one-sided, with Sandle doing all the leading and delivering all the punishment. A half-minute had passed when Sandle, overconfident, left in opening. King's eyes and right arm flashed in the same instant. It was his first real blow, a hook with a twisted arch of the arm to make it rigid and with all the way to the half pivoted body behind it. It was like a sleepy-seeming lion, suddenly thrusting out a lightning paw. Sandle, caught on the side of the jaw, was felt like a bollock. The audience gasped and murmured, awestruck applause. The man was not musclebound, after all, and he could drive a blow like a trip hammer. Sandle was shaken. He rolled over and attempted to rise, but the sharp yells from his seconds to take the count restrained him. He knelt on one knee, ready to rise, and waited, while the referee stood over him, counting the seconds loudly in his ear. At the ninth, he rose in fighting attitude, and Tom King, facing him, knew regret that the blow had not been an inch nearer the point of the jaw. That would have been a knockout, and he could have carried the 30 quid home to the missus and the kitties. The round continued to the end of its three-minute sandle for the first time respectful of his opponent, and King's flow of movement and sweepy-eyed as ever. As the round neared its close, King warned of the fact by sight of the seconds, crouching outside, ready for the spring and through the ropes, work the fight around to his own corner. And when the gong struck, he sat down immediately on the waiting stool, while sandle had to walk all the way across the diagonal of the square to his own corner. It was a little thing, but it was a sum of little things that counted. Sandle was compelled to walk that many more steps, to give up that much energy, and to lose a part of the precious minute of rest. At the beginning of every round, King left slowly out from his corner, forcing his opponent to advance the greater distance. The end of every round found the fight maneuvered by King into his own corner so that he could immediately sit down. Two more rounds went by in which King was parsimonious of effort and sandle prodigal. The latter's effort to force a fast pace made King uncomfortable, for a fair percentage of the multitude in his flow showered upon him went home. Yet King persisted in his dogged slowness despite the crying out of the young hot heads for him to go in and fight. Again, in the sixth round, sandle was careless. Again, Tom King's fearful right flashed out to the jaw, and again sandle took the nine seconds count. By the seventh round, sandle's pink of condition was gone, and he settled down to what he knew was to be the hardest fight in his experience. Tom King was an olden, but a better olden than he had ever encountered, an olden who never lost his head, who was remarkably able at defense, whose blows had the impact of a knotted club, and who had a knockout in either hand. Nevertheless Tom King dared not hit often. He never forgot his battered knuckles, and knew that every hit must count if the knuckles were the last out to fight. As he sat in his corner, glancing across at his opponent, the thought came to him that the sum of his wisdom and sandle's youth would constitute a world's champion heavyweight. But that was the trouble. Sandle would never become a world champion. He lacked the wisdom, and the only way for him to get it was to buy it with youth. And when wisdom was his, youth would have been spent in buying it. King took every advantage he knew. He never missed an opportunity to clinch, and in affecting most of the clinches his shoulder drove stiffly into the other's rib. In the philosophy of the ring the shoulder was as good as a punch so far as damage was concerned, and a great deal better so far as concerning expenditure of effort. Also in the clinches King rested his weight on his opponent, and was loath to let go. This compelled the interference of the referee, who tore them apart, always assisted by Sandle, who had not yet learned to rest. He could not refrain from using those glorious flying arms and writhing muscles of his. And when the other rushed into a clinch striking shoulder against rib, and with head resting under Sandle's left arm, Sandle almost invariably swung his right behind his own back and into the projecting face. It was a clever stroke, much admired by the audience, but it was not dangerous, and was therefore just that much wasted strength. But Sandle was tireless and unaware of limitations, and King grinned and doggedly endured. Sandle developed a fierce right to the body, which made it appear that King was taking an enormous amount of punishment, and it was only the old ringsters who appreciated the deaf touch of King's left glove to the other's bicep just before the impact of the blow. It was true the blow landed each time, but each time it was robbed of its power by that touch on the biceps. In the ninth round, three times inside a minute, King's right hooked its twisted arch to the jaw, and three times Sandle's body, heavy as it was, was leveled to the mat. Each time he took the nine seconds allowed him and rose to his feet, shaken and jarred, but still strong. He had lost much of his speed, and he wasted less effort. He was fighting grimly, but he continued to draw up on his chief asset, which was youth. King's chief asset was experience. As his vitality had dimmed and his vigor abated, he had replaced them with cunning, with wisdom born of the long fights, and with a careful shepherding of strength. Not alone had he learned never to make his purplish movement, but he had learned how to seduce an opponent and just throwing his strength away. Again and again by faint of foot and hand and body, he continued to unveil Sandle into leaping back, ducking or countering. King rested, but he never permitted Sandle to rest. It was the strategy of age. Early in the 10th round King began stopping the others' rushes with straight lefts to the face, and Sandle, run wary, responded by drawing the left, then by ducking it and delivering his right and the swinging hook to the side of the head. It was too high up to be vitally effective, but when first it landed, King knew the old, familiar descent of the black veil of unconsciousness across his mind. For the instant, or for the slightest fraction of an instant, rather, he ceased. In the one moment he saw his opponent ducking out of his field of vision in the background of white, watching faces. In the next moment he again saw his opponent in the background of faces. It was as if he had slept for a time and just opened his eyes again, and yet the interval of unconsciousness was so microscopically short that there had been no time for him to fall. The audience saw him totter and his knees give, and then saw him recover and tuck his chin deeper into the shoulder of his left shoulder. Several times Sandle repeated the blow, keeping King partially dazed, and then the latter worked out his defense, which was also a counter. Fending with his left, he took a half step backwards, at the same time uppercutting with the whole strength of his right. So accurately was it time that it landed squarely on Sandle's face in the fall, downward sweep of the duck, and Sandle lifted in the air and curled backward, striking the mat on his head and shoulders. Twice King achieved this, then turned loose and hammered his opponent to the ropes. He gave Sandle no chance to rest or to set himself, but smashed blow in upon blow till the house rose to its feet, and the air was filled with an unbroken roar of applause. But Sandle's strength and endurance were superb, and he continued to stay on his feet. A knockout seemed certain, and a captain of police appalled at the dreadful punishment, arose by the ringside to stop the fight. The gong struck for the end of the round, and Sandle staggered to his corner, protesting to the captain that he was sound and strong. To prove it, he threw two back air springs and the police captain gave in. Tom King leaning back in his corner, and breathing hard was disappointed. If the fight had been stopped, the referee, per force, would have rendered him the decision and the purse would have been his. Unlike Sandle, he was not fighting for glory or career, but for thirty quid, and now Sandle would recuperate in the minute of rest. Youth will be served, this saying flashed in the King's mind, and he remembered the first time he had heard it, the night when he had put a waste-ocher bell. The toff who had bought him a drink after the fight and patted him on the shoulder used those words. Youth will be served. The toff was right, and on that night and the long ago he had been youth. Tonight youth sat in the opposite corner. As for himself, he had been fighting for half an hour now, and he was an old man. Had he fought like Sandle, he would not have lasted fifteen minutes, but the point was that he did not recuperate. Those upstanding arteries and that sorely-tried heart would not enable him to gather strength in the intervals between the rounds, and he had not had sufficient strength in him to begin with. His legs were heavy under him and beginning to cramp. He should have not walked those two miles to the fight, and there was the stake which he had got up longing for that morning. A great and terrible hatred rose up in him for the butcher who had refused him credit. It was hard for an old man to go into a fight without enough to eat, and a piece of stake was such a little thing, a few pennies at best, yet it meant thirty quid to him. With the gong that opened the eleventh round, Sandle rushed, making a show of freshness which he did not really possess. King knew it for what it was, a bluff as old as the game itself. He clinched to save himself, then going free, allowed Sandle to get set. This was what King desired. He feigned with his left, drew the answering duck and swinging upward hook, then made the half-step backward, delivered the uppercut full to the face and crumpled Sandle over to the mat. After that he never let him rest, receiving punishment himself but inflicting far more, smashing Sandle to the ropes, hooking and driving all manner of blows into him, tearing away from his clenches or punching him out of attempted clenches, and even when Sandle would have fallen, catching him with one uplifting hand and with the other immediately smashing him into the ropes where he could not fall. The house by this time had gone mad, and it was his house, nearly every voice yelling, go at Tom, get him, get him, you've got him, Tom, you've got him. It was to be a whirlwind finish and that was what a ringside audience paid to see. And Tom King, who for half an hour had conserved his strength, now expended it projedly at one great effort he knew he had in him. It was his one chance, now, or not at all. His strength was waning fast and his hope was that before the last of it ebbed out of him, he would have beaten his opponent down for the count. And as he continued to strike and force, coolly estimating the weight of his blow and the quantity of damage done, he realized how hard a man Sandle was to knock out. Stamina and endurance were his to an extreme degree and they were the virgin stamina and endurance of youth. Sandle was certainly a coming man, he had it in him. Only out of such rugged fiber were successful fighters fashioned. Sandle was reeling and staggering but Tom King's legs were cramping and his knuckles going back on him. Yet he steeled himself to strike the fierce blows every one of which brought anguish to his tortured hands. Though now he was receiving practically no punishment, he was weakening as rapidly as the other. His blows went home but there was no longer the weight behind them and each blow was the result of a severe effort of will. His legs were like lead and they dragged visibly under him while Sandle's backers, cheered by this symptom, began calling encouragement to their man. King was spurred to a burst of effort. He delivered two blows in succession, a left, a trifle too high to the solar plexus and a right cross to the jaw. They were not heavy blows yet so weak and dazed with Sandle that he went down and like quivering. The referee stood over him, shouting the count of the fatal seconds in his ear. If before the tenth second was called, he did not rise, the fight was lost. The house stood in the hushed silence. King rested on trembling legs. The mortal dizziness was upon him and before his eyes the sea of faces sagged and swayed while to his ears, as from a remote distance, came the count of the referee. Yet he looked upon the fight as his. It was impossible that a man so punished could rise. Only youth could rise and Sandle rose. By the fourth second he rolled over on his face and groped blindly for the ropes. By the seventh second he had dragged himself to his knee where he rested, his head rolling groggily on the shoulders. As the referee cried nine, Sandle stood upright in proper stalling position. His left arm wrapped around his face, his right wrapped around the stomach. Thus were his vital points guarded while he lurched forward toward King in the hope of affecting a clinch and gaining more time. At the instant Sandle arose, King was at him, but the two blows he delivered were muffled on the stalled arms. The next moment Sandle was in the clinch and holding on desperately while the referees drove to drag the two men apart. King helped to force himself free. He knew the rapidity with which youth recovered and he knew that Sandle was his if he could prevent that recovery. One stiff punch would do it. Sandle was his, indubitably his. He had out-generaled him, out-fought him, out-pointed him. Sandle reeled out of the clinch, bounced on the hairline between defeat or survival. One good blow would topple him over and down and out. And Tom King, in a flash of bitterness, remembered that piece of stake and wished that he had it then behind the necessary punch he must deliver. He nerfed himself for the blow, but it was not heavy enough nor swift enough. Sandle swayed but did not fall, staggering back to the ropes and hanging on. King staggered after him, and, with a pang like that of disillusion, delivered another blow, but his body had deserted him. All that was left of him was a fighting intelligent that was dimmed and crowded from exhaustion. The blow that was aimed for the jaw struck no higher than the shoulder. He had willed the blow higher, but the tired muscles had not been able to obey. And from the impact of the blow, Tom King himself reeled back and nearly fell. Once again he strove. This time his punch missed altogether, and from absolute weakness he fell against Sandle and quenched, holding on to save himself from sinking to the floor. King did not attempt to free himself. He had shot his bolt. He was gone, and youth had been served. Even in the quench he could feel Sandle growing stronger against him. When the referee thrust them apart there before his eyes, he saw our youth recuperate. From instant to instant Sandle grew stronger. His punches, weak and futile at first, became stiff and accurate. Tom King's blurred eyes saw the gloved fist driving at his jaw, and he welled to guard it by interposing his arm. He saw the danger, willed the act, but the arm was too heavy. It seemed burdened with a hundred weight of lead. It would not lift itself, and he strove to lift it with his soul. Then the gloved fist landed home. He experienced a sharp snap that was like an electric spark, and simultaneously the veil of blackness enveloped him. When he opened his eyes again he was in his corner, and he heard the yelling of the audience like the roar of the surf at Bondi Beach. A wet sponge was being pressed against the base of his brain, and Sid Sullivan was blowing cold water in a refreshing spray over his face and chest. His gloves had already been removed, and Sandal, bending over him, was shaking his hand. He bore no ill will toward the man who had put him out, and he returned the grip with a hardiness that made his battered knuckles protest. Then Sandal stepped to the center of the ring, and the audience hushed his pandemonium to hear him accept young Prado's challenge and offer to increase the side bet to one hundred pounds. King looked unapathetically while a second smop of the streaming water from him dried his face and prepared him to leave the ring. He felt hungry. It was not the ordinary, gnawing kind, but a great faintness, a palpitation at the pit of the stomach that communicated itself to all his body. He remembered back into the fight, to the moment when he had sandal swaying and tottering on the hairline balance of defeat. Ah, that piece of steak would have done it. He had lacked just that for the decisive blow, and he had lost. It was all because of the piece of steak. His seconds were half-supporting him as they helped him through the ropes. He tore free from them, ducked through the ropes, unaided, and leaped heavily to the floor, following on their heels as they forced a passage for him down the crowded center aisle. Leaving the dressing room for the street and the entrance to the hall, some young fellow spoke to him. Why didn't you go in and get him when you had him? The young man asked. Ah, go to hell, said Tom King, and passed down the steps to the sidewalk. The doors at the public house at the corner were swinging wide, and he saw the lights and the smiling barmaids. Heard the many voices discussing the fight and the prosperous clink of money on the bar. Someone called to him to have a drink. He hesitated perceptibly, then refused, and went on his way. He had not a copper in his pocket, and the two-mile walk home seemed very long. He was certainly getting old. Crossing the domain, he sat down suddenly on the bench, unnerved by the thought of the missus sitting up for him, waiting to learn the outcome of the fight. That was harder than any knockout, and it seemed almost impossible to face. He felt weak and sore, and the pain of his smashed knuckles warned him that even if he could find a job at Navy work, he would be a week before he could grip a pick handle or a shovel. The hunger palpitation at the pit of his stomach was sickening. His wretchedness overwhelmed him, and into his eyes came an unwanted moisture. He covered his face with his hands, and as he cried, he remembered Stouscher Bill and how he had served him that night in the long ago. Poor old Stouscher Bill. He could understand now why Bill had cried in the dressing room. The End of A Piece of Stake by Jack London A Piece of Stake was read by Tom Crawford in Cool, California, USA, in November 2009. The Oblong Box by Edgar Allen Poe. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Dorelline Kaplan Some years ago I engaged passage from Charleston, South Carolina to the city of New York in the fine-package chip independence Captain Hardy. We were to sail on the 15th of the month, June, weather permitting, and on the 14th I went on board to arrange some matters in my stateroom. I found that we were to have a great many passengers, including a more than usual number of ladies. On the list were several of my acquaintances, and among other names, I was rejoiced to see that of Mr. Cornelius Wyatt, a young artist for whom I entertained feelings of warm friendship. He had been with me a fellow student at C. University, where we were very much together. He had the ordinary temperament of genius and was a compound of misanthropy, sensibility, and enthusiasm. To these qualities he united the warmest and truest heart which ever beat in a human bosom. I observed that his name was carded upon three staterooms, and upon again referring to the list of passengers, I found that he had engaged passage for himself, wife, and two sisters, his own. The staterooms were sufficiently roomy, and each had two births, one above the other. These births, to be sure, were so exceedingly narrow as to be insufficient for more than one person. Still I could not comprehend why there were three staterooms for these four persons. I was just at that epoch in one of those moody frames of mine which make a man abnormally inquisitive about trifles, and I confess with shame that I busyed myself in a variety of ill-bred and preposterous conjectures about this matter of the supernumerary stateroom. It was no business of mine, to be sure, but with nonetheless pertinacity did I occupy myself in attempts to resolve the enigma. At last I reached a conclusion which wrought in me great wonder why I had not arrived at it before. It is a servant, of course, I said. What a fool I am. Not sooner to have thought of so obvious a solution. And then I again repaired to the list. But here I saw distinctly that no servant was to come with the party, although, in fact, it had been the original design to bring one, for the words and servant had been first written and then overscored. Oh, extra baggage to be sure, I now said to myself. Something he wishes not to be put in the hold. Something to be kept under his own eye. Ah, I have it a painting or so. And this is what he had been bargaining about with Nicolino, the Italian Jew. This idea satisfied me, and I dismissed my curiosity for the nonce. Why it's two sisters I knew very well, and most amiable and clever girls they were. His wife he had newly married, and I had never yet seen her. He had often talked about her in my presence, however, and in his usual style of enthusiasm. He described her as a surpassing beauty, wit, and accomplishment. I was, therefore, quite anxious to make her acquaintance. On the day in which I visited the ship, the fourteenth, Wyatt and Party were also to visit it, so the captain informed me, and I waited on board an hour longer than I had designed, in hope of being presented to the bride. But then an apology came. Mrs. W. was a little indisposed and would decline coming on board until tomorrow at the hour of sailing. The morrow having arrived, I was going from my hotel to the wharf when Captain Hardy met me and said that, owing to circumstances, a stupid but convenient phrase, he rather thought the independence would not sail for a day or two, and that when all was ready, he would send up and let me know. This I thought strange, for there was a stiff, subtly breeze, but as the circumstances were not forthcoming, although I pumped for them with much perseverance, I had nothing to do but to return home and digest my impatience at leisure. I did not receive the expected message from the captain for nearly a week. It came at length, however, and I immediately went on board. The ship was crowded with passengers and everything was in the bustle attended upon making sail. Wyatt's party arrived in about 10 minutes after myself. There were the two sisters, the bride and the artist, the latter in one of his customary fits of moody misanthropy. I was too well used to these, however, to pay them any special attention. He did not even introduce me to his wife. This courtesy devolving perforce upon his sister Marion, a very sweet and intelligent girl, who, in a few hurried words, made us acquainted. Mrs. Wyatt had been closely veiled, and when she raised her veil in acknowledging my bow, I confess that I was very profoundly astonished. I should have been much more so, however, had not long experience advised me not to trust with too implicit a reliance the enthusiastic descriptions of my friend, the artist, when indulging in comments upon the loveliness of woman. When beauty was a theme, I well knew with what facility he soared into the regions of the purely ideal. The truth is, I could not help regarding Mrs. Wyatt as a decidedly plain-looking woman. If not positively ugly, she was not, I think, very far from it. She was dressed, however, in exquisite taste, and then I had no doubt that she had captivated my friend's heart by the more enduring graces of the intellect and soul. She said very few words and passed it once into her stateroom with Mr. W. My old inquisitiveness now returned. There was no servant. That was a settled point. I looked therefore for the extra baggage. After some delay, a cart arrived at the wharf with an oblong pine box which was everything that seemed to be expected. Immediately upon its arrival, we made sail and in a short time were safely over the bar and standing out to sea. The box in question was, as I say, oblong. It was about six feet in length by two and a half in breadth. I observed it attentively and liked to be precise. Now this shape was peculiar and no sooner had I seen it than I took credit to myself for the accuracy of my guessing. I had reached the conclusion, it will be remembered, that the extra baggage of my friend the artist would prove to be pictures, or at least a picture, for I knew he had been for several weeks in conference with Nicolino. And now here was a box which from its shape could possibly contain nothing in the world but a copy of Leonardo's Last Supper and a copy of this very Last Supper done by Rubini the Younger at Florence. I had known for some time to be in the possession of Nicolino. This point, therefore, I considered as sufficiently settled. I chuckled excessively when I thought of my acumen. It was the first time I had ever known why to keep from me any of his artistical secrets, but here he evidently intended to steal a march upon me and smuggle a fine picture to New York under my very nose, expecting me to know nothing of the matter. I resolved to quiz him well now and hereafter. One thing, however, annoyed me not a little. The box did not go into the extra stateroom. It was deposited in Wyatt's own, and there, too, it remained, occupying very nearly the whole of the floor, no doubt to the exceeding discomfort of the artist and his wife. This, the more especially as the tar or paint with which it was lettered in sprawling capitals, emitted a strong disagreeable, and to my fancy, a peculiarly disgusting odor. On the lid were painted the words, Mrs. Adelaide Curtis, Albany, New York, the charge of Cornelius Wyatt, Xquire, this side up to be handled with care. Now, I was aware that Mrs. Adelaide Curtis of Albany was the artist's wife's mother, but then I looked upon the whole address as mystification, intended especially for myself. I made up my mind, of course, that the box and contents would never get farther north than the studio of my misanthropic friend in Chamber Street, New York. For the first three or four days we had fine weather, although the wind was dead ahead, having chopped brown to the northward, immediately upon our losing sight of the coast. The passengers were consequently in high spirits and disposed to be social. I must accept, however, Wyatt and his sisters who behave stiffly, and I could not help thinking uncourteously to the rest of the party. Wyatt's conduct I did not so much regard. He was gloomy even beyond his usual habit. In fact, he was morose, but in him I was prepared for eccentricity. For the sisters, however, I could make no excuse. They secluded themselves in their state rooms during the greater part of the passage and absolutely refused, although I repeatedly urged them, to hold communication with any person on board. Mrs. Wyatt herself was far more agreeable, that is to say, she was chatty, and to be chatty is no slight recommendation at sea. She became excessively intimate with most of the ladies and, to my profound astonishment, evinced no equivocal disposition to coquette with the men. She amused us all very much. I say amused and scarcely know how to explain myself. The truth is, I soon found that Mrs. W was far often laughed at than with. The gentleman said little about her, but the ladies in the little while pronounced her a good-hearted thing, rather indifferent-looking, totally uneducated, and decidedly vulgar. The great wonder was how Wyatt had been entrapped into such a match. Wealth was the general solution, but this I knew to be no solution at all, for Wyatt had told me that she had neither brought him a dollar nor had any expectations from any source whatever. He had married, he said, for love, and for love only, and his bride was far more than worthy of his love. When I thought of these expressions on the part of my friend, I confess that I felt indescribably puzzled. Could it be possible that he was taking leave of his senses? What else could I think? He so refined, so intellectual, so fastidious, with so exquisite a perception of the faulty, and so keen an appreciation of the beautiful? To be sure, the lady seemed especially fond of him, particularly so in his absence, when she made herself ridiculous by frequent quotations of what had been said by her beloved husband, Mr. Wyatt. The word husband seemed forever to use one of her own delicate expressions forever on the tip of her tongue. In the meantime, it was observed by all on board that he avoided her in the most pointed manner and, for the most part, shut himself up alone in his state room, where, in fact, he might have been said to live altogether, leaving his wife at full liberty to amuse herself as she thought best in the public society of the main cabin. My conclusion from what I saw and heard was that the artist, by some unaccountable freak of fate, or perhaps in some fit of enthusiastic and fanciful passion, had been induced to unite himself with a person altogether beneath him, and that the natural result, entire and speedy disgust, had ensued. I pitied him from the bottom of my heart, but could not, for that reason, quite forgive his uncommunicativeness in the matter of the last supper. For this I resolved to have my revenge. One day he came upon deck, and taking his arm, as had been my want. I sauntered with him backward and forward. His gloom, however, which I considered quite natural under the circumstances, seemed entirely unabated. He said little, and that moodily and with evident effort. I ventured a gesture to, and he made a sickening attempt at a smile, poor fellow. As I thought of his wife, I wondered that he could have hard to put on even the semblance of mirth. I determined to commence a series of covert insinuations, or innuendos, about the oblong box, just to let him perceive, gradually, that I was not altogether the but, or victim, of his little bit of pleasant mystification. My first observation was, by way of opening, a masked battery. I said something about the peculiar shape of that box, and as I spoke the words, I smiled, knowingly, winked, and touched him gently with my forefinger in the ribs. The manner in which Wyatt received this harmless pleasantry convinced me at once that he was mad. At first he stared at me, as if he found it impossible to comprehend the witticism of my remark. But as its point seemed slowly to make its way into his brain, his eyes, in the same proportion, seemed protruding from their sockets. Then he grew very red, then hideously pale. Then, as if highly amused with what I had insinuated, he began a loud and boisterous laugh, which, to my astonishment, he kept up, with gradually increasing vigor, for 10 minutes or more. In conclusion, he fell flat and heavily upon the deck. When I ran to uplift him, to all appearance, he was dead. I called assistance, and with much difficulty we brought him to himself. Upon reviving, he spoke incoherently for some time. At length we bled him and put him to bed. The next morning he was quite recovered, so far as regarded as mere bodily health. Of his mind I say nothing, of course. I avoided him during the rest of the passage by advice of the captain, who seemed to coincide with me altogether in my views of his insanity, but cautioned me to say nothing on this head to any person on board. Several circumstances occurred immediately after this fit of Wyatt, which contributed to heighten the curiosity with which I was already possessed. Among other things this. I had been nervous, drank too much strong green tea, and slept ill at night. In fact, for two nights I could not be properly said to sleep at all. Now my state room opened into the main cabin, or dining room, as did those of all the single men on board. Wyatt's three rooms were in the after cabin, which was separated from the main one by a slight sliding door, never locked even at night. As we were almost constantly on a wind, and the breeze was not a little stiff, the ship heeled to Leeward very considerably, and whenever her starboard side was to Leeward, the sliding door between the cabin slid open, and so remained, nobody taking the trouble to get up and shut it. But my birth was in such a position that when my own state room door was open, as well as the sliding door in question, and my own door was always open on account of the heat, I could see into the after cabin quite distinctly, and just at that portion of it too, where we situated the state rooms of Mr. Wyatt. Well, during two nights, not consecutive, while I lay awake, I clearly saw Mrs. W. about 11 o'clock upon each night steel cautiously from the state room of Mr. W. and entered the extra room, where she remained until daybreak, when she was called by her husband and went back. That they were virtually separated was clear. They had separate apartments, no doubt, in contemplation of a more permanent divorce, and here after all I thought was the mystery of the extra state room. There was another circumstance too, which interested me much. During the two wakeful nights in question, and immediately after the disappearance of Mrs. Wyatt into the extra state room, I was attracted by certain singular, cautious, subdued noises in that of her husband. After listening to them for some time with thoughtful attention, Wyatt length succeeded perfectly in translating their import. They were sounds occasioned by the artist and prying open the oblong box by means of a chisel and mallet, the latter being apparently muffled or deaden by some soft woolen or cotton substance in which its head was enveloped. In this manner, I fancied I could distinguish the precise moment when he fairly disengaged the lid, also that I could determine when he removed it altogether and when he deposited it upon the lower berth in his room. This latter point I knew, for example, by certain slight taps which the lid made in striking against the wooden edges of the berth as he endeavored to lay it down very gently, there being no room for it on the floor. After this, there was a dead stillness and I heard nothing more upon either occasion until nearly daybreak, unless, perhaps, I may mention a low sobbing or murmuring sound so very much suppressed as to be nearly inaudible if indeed the whole of this latter noise were not rather produced by my own imagination. I say it seemed to resemble sobbing or sign, but of course it could not have been either. I rather think it was a ringing in my own ears. Mr. Wyatt, no doubt, according to custom, was merely giving the rain to one of his hobbies, indulging in one of his fits of artistic enthusiasm. He had opened his oblong box in order to feast his eyes on the pictorial treasure within. There was nothing in this, however, to make him sob. I repeat, therefore, that it must have been simply a freak of my own fancy distempered by good Captain Hardy's green tea. Just before dawn, on each of the two nights of which I speak, I distinctly heard Mr. Wyatt replace the lid upon the oblong box and force the nails into their old places by means of the muffled mallet. Having done this, he issued from his state room fully dressed and proceeded to call Mrs. W. from hers. We had been at sea seven days and were now off Cape Hatteras when there came a tremendously heavy blow from the Southwest. We were in a measure prepared for it, however, as the weather had been holding out threats for some time. Everything was made snug, a low and a loft, and as the wind steadily freshened, we lay to what length under spanker and foretop sail, both double reefed. In this trim, we rode safely enough for 48 hours, the ship proving herself an excellent sea boat in many respects and shipping no water of any consequence. At the end of this period, however, the gale had freshened into a hurricane and our aftersail split into ribbons, bringing us so much in the trough of water that we shipped several prodigies, one immediately after the other. By this accident, we lost three men overboard with the caboose and nearly the whole of the larboard bulwarks. Scarcely had we recovered our senses before the foretop sail went into shreds when we got up a stormstay sail and with this did pretty well for some hours, the ship heading the sea much more steadily than before. The gale still held on, however, and we saw no signs of its abating. The rigging was found to be ill-fitted and greatly strained, and on the third day of the blow, about five in the afternoon, our mizzen mast in a heavy lurch to windward went by the board. For an hour or more, we tried in vain to get rid of it on account of the prodigious rolling of the ship, and before we had succeeded, the carpenter came after and announced four feet of water in the hold. To add to our dilemma, we found the pumps choked and nearly useless. All was now confusion and despair, but an effort was made to lighten the ship by throwing overboard as much of her cargo as could be reached and by cutting away the two masts that remained. This we at last accomplished, but we were still unable to do anything at the pumps, and in the meantime, the leak gained on us very fast. At sundown, the gale had sensibly diminished in violence, and as the sea went down with it, we still entertained faint hopes of saving ourselves in the boats. At 8 p.m., the clouds broke away to windward, and we had the advantage of a full moon, a piece of good fortune which served wonderfully to cheer our drooping spirits. After incredible labor, we succeeded at length in getting the longboat over the side without material accident, and into this we crowded the whole of the crew and most of the passengers. This party made off immediately, and after undergoing much suffering, finally arrived in safety at Oakwood Coke Inlet on the third day after the wreck. Four team passengers with the captain remained on board, resolving to trust their fortunes to the jolly boat at the stern. We lowered it without difficulty, although it was only by a miracle that we prevented it from swamping as it touched the water. It contained, when afloat, the captain and his wife, Mr. Wyatt and party, a Mexican officer, wife, four children, and myself with a negro valet. We had no room, of course, for anything except a few positively necessary instruments, some provisions, and the clothes upon our backs. No one had thought of even attempting to save anything more. What must have been the astonishment of all then, when having preceded a few fathoms from the ship, Mr. Wyatt stood up in the stern sheets and coolly demanded of Captain Hardy that the boat should be put back for the purpose of taking in his oblong box. Sit down, Mr. Wyatt, replied the captain somewhat sternly. You will capsize us if you do not sit quite still. Our gunwale is almost in the water now. The box, vociferated Mr. Wyatt, still standing. The box, I say, Captain Hardy, you cannot. You will not refuse me. Its weight will be but a trifle. It is nothing, mere nothing, by the mother who bore you for the love of heaven, by your hope of salvation I implore you to put back for the box. The captain for a moment seemed touched by the earnest appeal of the artist. But he regained his stern composure and merely said, Mr. Wyatt, you are mad. I cannot listen to you. Sit down, I say, or you will swamp the boat. Stay, hold him, seize him. He's about to spring overboard. There, I knew it, he's over. As the captain said this, Mr. Wyatt, in fact, sprang from the boat. And as we were yet in the lee of the wreck, succeeded by almost superhuman exertion getting hold of a rope which hung from the four chains. In another moment, he was on board and rushing frantically down into the cabin. In the meantime, we had been swept to stern of the ship and being quite out of her lee were at the mercy of the tremendous sea which was still running. We made a determined effort to put back, but our little boat was like a feather in the breath of the tempest. We saw at a glance that the doom of the unfortunate artist was sealed. As our distance from the wreck rapidly increased, the madman, for as such only could we regard him, was seen to emerge from the companion way, up which by dint of strength that appeared gigantic, he dragged bodily the oblong box. While we gazed in the extremity of astonishment, he passed rapidly several turns of a three-inch rope first around the box and then around his body. In another instant, both body and box were in the sea, disappearing suddenly at once and forever. We lingered a while sadly upon our oars with our eyes riveted upon the spot. At length, we pulled away. The silence remained unbroken for an hour. Finally, I hazarded a remark. Did you observe, Captain, how suddenly they sank? Was not that an exceedingly singular thing? I confess that I entertained some feeble hope of his final deliverance when I saw him lash himself to the box and commit himself to the sea. They sank as a matter of course, replied the Captain, and that, like a shot, they will soon rise again, however, but not till the salt melts. The salt, I ejaculated, hush, said the Captain, pointing to the wife and sisters of the deceased. We must talk of these things at some more appropriate time. We suffered much and made a narrow escape, but fortune befriended us as well as our mates in the longboat. We landed in fine, more dead than alive after four days of intense distress upon the beach opposite Roanoke Island. We remained there a week, were not ill-treated by the wreckers, and at length obtained passage to New York. About a month after the loss of the independence, I happened to meet Captain Hardy in Broadway. Our conversation turned naturally upon the disaster, and especially upon the sad fate of poor Wyatt. I thus learned the following particulars. The artist had engaged passage for himself, wife, two sisters, and a servant. His wife was indeed, as she had been represented, a most lovely and most accomplished woman. On the morning of the 14th of June, the day in which I first visited the ship, the lady suddenly sickened and died. The young husband was frantic with grief, but circumstances imperatively forbade the deferring of his voyage to New York. It was necessary to take to her mother the corpse of his adored wife. And on the other hand, the universal prejudice which would prevent his doing so openly was well known. Nine-tenths of the passengers would have abandoned the ship rather than take passage with a dead body. In this dilemma, Captain Hardy arranged that the corpse, being first partially embalmed and packed with a large quantity of salt in a box of suitable dimensions, should be confayed on board as merchandise. Nothing was to be said of the lady's decease. And as it was well understood that Mr. Wyatt had engaged passage for his wife, it became necessary that some person should personate her during the voyage. This the deceased lady's maid was easily prevailed upon to do. The extra stateroom originally engaged for this girl during her mistress's life was now merely retained. In this stateroom, the pseudo-wife slept, of course, every night. In the daytime she performed to the best of her ability the part of her mistress, whose person it had been carefully ascertained was unknown to any of the passengers on board. My own mistake arose naturally enough through too careless, too inquisitive, and too impulsive a temperament. But of late, it is a rare thing that I sleep soundly at night. There is a countenance which haunts me, turn as I will. There is an hysterical laugh which will forever ring within my ears. End of the Oblong Box by Edgar Allen Poe. A Push Dance by Henry Lawson. This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. A Push Dance by Henry Lawson. Tap, tap, tap. The little schoolhouse and residence in the scrub was lighted brightly in the midst of the close, solid blackness of that moonless December night when the skies and stars were smothered and suffocated by drought haze. It was the evening of the school children's feast. That is to say the children had been sent and let go, and the younger ones fetched through the blazing heat to the school one day early in the holidays, and raced, sometimes in couples tied together by the legs, and caked and bund, and finally improved upon by the local chad band and got rid of. The schoolroom had been cleared for dancing, the maps rolled and tied, the desk and blackboard stacked against the wall outside. Tea was over and the trestles and boards where on had been spread better things than had been provided for the unfortunate youngsters, had been taken outside to keep the desks and blackboards company. On stools running end-to-end along one side of the room set about 20 more or less blooming country girls have from about 15 to 20 odd. On the rest of the stools running end-to-end along the other wall set about 20 more or less blooming chaps. It was evident that something was seriously wrong. None of the girls spoke above the hushed whisper, none of the men spoke above a hushed oath. Now and then two or three sided out, and if you had followed them you would have found they went outside to listen hard into the darkness and to swear. Tap, tap, tap. The rose moves uneasily and some of the girls turned pale faces nervously towards the side door in the direction of the sound. Tap, tap. The tapping came from the kitchen at the rear of the teacher's residence and was uncomfortably suggestive of a coffin being made. It was also accompanied by a sickly indescribable owner. More like that of warm, cheap glue than anything else. In the school room was a painful scene of strained listening. Whenever one of the men returned from outside or put his head in at the door all eyes were fussing at him in the flesh of a single eye and then withdrawn hopelessly. At the sound of a horse's step all eyes and ears were on the door until someone muttered, it's only the horses in the paddock. Some of the girls' eyes began to glisten suspiciously and at last the bell of the party. A great dark-haired pink-and-white blue-mountain girl who had been sitting for a full minute staring before her with blue eyes unnaturally bright suddenly covered her face with her hands, rose and started blindly from the room from which she was steered in a hurry by two sympathetic and rather upset girlfriends. And as she passed out she was heard sobbing hysterically I can't help it, I did want to dance, it's a shame I can't help it, I want to dance I rode twenty miles to dance and I want to dance. A tall strapping young bushman rose without disguise and followed the girl out. The rest began to talk loudly of stock, dogs and horses and other bush things. But above their voices rang out that of the girl from outside being man comforted. I can't help it, I did want to dance I had such a job to get mother and father to let me come and now... The two girlfriends came back he says to leave it to him I whispered in replies when an interrogatory glance from the schoolmistress It's no use Jack, came the voice of group you don't know what father and mother is I won't be able to get away again for not till I'm married perhaps The schoolmistress glanced uneasily along the row of girls I'll take her into my room and make her lie down she whispered to her sister who was staying with her she'll start some of the other girls presently it's just the weather for it and she passed out quietly that schoolmistress was a woman of penetration A final tap tap from the kitchen then a sound like the squawk of a hurt or frightened child and the faces in the room turned quickly in that direction and brightened but there came a bang and a sound like dam and hopelessness settled down a shout from the out of darkness and most of the men and some of the girls rose and hurried out fragments of conversation heard in the darkness it's three horses I tell you it's two horses I tell you it's three you lay you put the stuff up a clack of gate thrown open who is it Tom? voices from gate were gilling Johnny Mears they got Johnny Mears then rose yells and a cheers such as seldom heard in scrub lands out in the kitchen long day Regan grabbed from the far side of the table where he had thrown it a burst and battered Constantina which he had been for the last hour vainly trying to patch and make airtight and holding it out toward the back door between his palms as a football as hell he let it drop and fetched it neatly onto the toe of his riding boot he was a beautiful kick but Constantina shot out into the blackness from which was projected in return first a short sudden howl then a face with one eye glaring and the other covered by an enormous brick-colored hand and a voice that wanted to know who shot that lurid loaf of bread but from the school room was heard the loud free voice of Joe Matthews, MC take your partners hurry up take your partners I've got Johnny Mears with his fiddle end of story The Griffin and the Minor Cannon by Frank R Stockton this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Reading by Greg Marguerite The Griffin and the Minor Cannon by Frank R Stockton over the great door of an old, old church which stood in a quiet town of far away land there was carved in stone the figure of a large griffin the old-time sculptor had done his work with great care but the image he had made was not a pleasant one to look at it had a large head with enormous open mouth and savage teeth from its back arose great wings armed with sharp hooks and prongs it had stout legs in front with projecting claws but there were no legs behind the body running out into a long and powerful tail finished off at the end with a barbed point this tail was coiled up under him and sticking up just back of his wings the sculptor or the people who had ordered this stone figure had evidently been very much pleased with it for little copies of it also in stone had been placed here and there along the sides of the church not very far from the ground so that people could easily look at the manponder on their curious forms there were a great many other sculptures on the outside of this church saints, martyrs, grotesque heads of men, beasts and birds as well as those of other creatures which cannot be named because nobody knows exactly what they were but none were so curious and interesting as the great griffin over the door and the little griffins on the sides of the church a long, long distance from the town in the midst of dreadful, wild, scarcely known to man there dwelt the griffin whose image had been put up over the churchgoer in some way or other the old time sculptor had seen him and afterward to the best of his memory had copied his figure in stone the griffin had never known this until hundreds of years afterward he heard from a bird, from a wild animal or in some manner which is not now easy to find out that there was a likeness of him on the old church in the distant town now this griffin had no idea how he looked he had never seen a mirror and the streams where he lived were so turbulent and violent that a quiet piece of water which would reflect the image of anything looking into it could not be found being as far as could be ascertained the very last of his race he had never seen another griffin therefore it was that when he heard of this stone image of himself he became very anxious to know what he looked like and at last he determined to go to the old church and see for himself what manner of being he was so he started off from the dreadful wilds and flew on and on until he came to the countries inhabited by men where his appearance in the air created great consternation but he alighted nowhere keeping up a steady flight until he reached the suburbs of the town which had his image on its church here late in the afternoon he alighted in a green meadow by the side of a brook and stretched himself on the grass to rest his great wings were tired for he had not made such a long flight in a century or more the news of his coming spread quickly over the town and the people frightened nearly out of their wits by the arrival of so extraordinary a visitor fled into their houses and shut themselves up the griffin called loudly for someone to come to him but the more he called the more afraid the people were to show themselves at length he saw two laborers hurrying to their homes in the fields and in a terrible voice he commanded them to stop not daring to disobey the men stood trembling what is the matter with you all cried the griffin is there not a man in your town who is brave enough to speak to me I think said one of the laborers his voice shaking so that his words could hardly be understood that perhaps the minor cannon would come go call him then said the griffin I want to see him the minor cannon who filled a subordinate position in the church had just finished the afternoon services and was coming out of a side door with three aged women who had formed the weekday congregation he was a young man of a kind disposition and very anxious to do good to the people of the town apart from his duties in the church where he conducted services every weekday he visited the sick and the poor counseled and assisted persons who were in trouble and taught a school composed entirely of the bad children in the town with whom nobody else would have anything to do whenever the people wanted something difficult done for them they always went to the minor cannon thus it was that the laborer thought of the young priest when he found that someone must come and speak to the griffin the minor cannon had not heard of the strange event which was known to the whole town except himself and the three old women and when he was informed of it and was told that the griffin had asked to see him he was greatly amazed and frightened me he exclaimed he has never heard of me what should he want with me oh you must go instantly cried the two men he is very angry now because he has been kept waiting so long and nobody knows what may happen if you don't hurry to him the poor minor cannon would rather have had his hand cut off than go out to meet an angry griffin but he felt that it was his duty to go or it would be a woeful thing if injury should come to the people of the town because he was not brave enough to obey the summons of the griffin so pale and frightened he started off well said the griffin as soon as the young man came near I am glad to see that there is someone who has the courage to come to me the minor cannon did not feel very courageous but he bowed his head is this the town said the griffin where there is a church with a likeness of myself over one of the doors the minor cannon looked at the frightful creature before him and saw that it was without doubt exactly like the stone image on the church yes he said you are right well then said the griffin will you take me to it I wish very much to see it the minor cannon instantly thought that if the griffin entered the town without the people knowing what he came for some of them would probably be frightened to death and so he sought to gain time to prepare their minds it is growing dark now he said very much afraid as he spoke that his words might enrage the griffin and objects on the front of the church cannot be seen clearly it would be better to wait until morning if you wish to get a good view of the stone image of yourself that will suit me very well said the griffin I see you are a man of good sense I am tired and I will take a nap here on this soft grass while I cool my tail in the little stream that runs near me the end of my tail gets red hot when I am angry or excited and it is quite warm now so you may go but be sure to come early tomorrow morning and show me the way to the church the minor cannon was glad enough to take his leave and harried into the town in front of the church he found a great many people assembled to hear his report of his interview with the griffin when they found that he had not come to spread ruin and devastation but simply to see his stony likeness on the church they showed neither relief nor gratification but began to up braid the minor cannon for consenting to conduct the creature into the town what could I do? cried the young man if I should not bring him he would come himself and perhaps end by setting fire to the town with his red hot tail still the people were not satisfied and a great many plans were proposed to prevent the griffin from coming into town some elderly persons urged that the young men should go out and kill him but the young men scoffed at such a ridiculous idea then someone said that it would be a good thing to destroy the stone image the griffin would have no excuse for entering the town and this proposal was received with such favor that many of the people ran for hammers, chisels and crowbars with which to tear down and break up the stone griffin but the minor cannon resisted this plan with all the strength of his mind and body he assured the people that this action would enrage the griffin beyond measure for it would be impossible to conceal from him that his image had been destroyed during the night but the people were so determined to break up the stone griffin that the minor cannon saw that there was nothing for him to do but stay there and protect it all night he walked up and down in front of the church door keeping away the men who brought ladders by which they might mount to the great stone griffin and knock it to pieces with their hammers and crowbars after many hours the people were obliged to give up their attempts and went home to sleep but the minor cannon remained at his post till early morning and then he hurried away to the field where he had left the griffin the monster had just awakened and rising to his forelegs and shaking himself he said that he was ready to go into the town the minor cannon therefore walked back the griffin flying slowly through the air at a short distance above the head of his guide not a person was to be seen in the streets and they proceeded directly to the front of the church where the minor cannon pointed out the stone griffin the real griffin settled down in the little square before the church and gazed earnestly at his sculptured likeness for a long time he looked at it first he put his head on one side and then he put it on the other then he shut his right eye and gazed with his left after which he shut his left eye and gazed with his right then he moved a little to one side and looked at the image then he moved the other way after a while he said to the minor cannon who had been standing by all this time it is it must be an excellent likeness that breath between the eyes that expansive forehead those massive jaws I feel that it must resemble me if there is any fault to find with it it is that the neck seems a little stiff but that is nothing it is an admirable likeness admirable the griffin sat looking at his image all the morning and all the afternoon the minor cannon had been afraid to go away and leave him and had hoped all through the day that he would soon be satisfied with his inspection and fly away home but by evening the poor young man was utterly exhausted and felt that he must eat and sleep he frankly admitted this fact to the griffin and asked him if he would not like something to eat he said this because he felt obliged in politeness to do so but as soon as he had spoken the words he was seized with dread lest the monster should demand half a dozen babies or some tempting repast of that kind oh no said the griffin I never eat between the equinoxes at the vernal and at the autumnal equinox I take a good meal and that lasts me for half a year I am extremely regular in my habits and do not think it healthful to eat at odd times but if you need food go and get it and I will return to the soft grass where I slept last night and take another nap the next day the griffin came again to the little square before the church and remained there until evening steadfastly regarding the stone griffin over the door the minor canon came once or twice to look at him and the griffin seemed very glad to see him but the young clergyman could not stay as he had done before for he had many duties to perform nobody went to the church but the people came to the minor canon's house and anxiously asked him how long the griffin was going to stay I do not know he answered but I think he will soon be satisfied with regarding his stone likeness and then he will go away but the griffin did not go away morning after morning he came to the church but after a time he did not stay there all day he seemed to have taken a great fancy to the minor canon and followed him about as he pursued his various avocations he would wait for him at the side door of the church for the minor canon held services every day morning and evening though nobody came now if anyone should come he said to himself I must be found at my post when the young man came out the griffin would accompany him in his visits to the sick and poor and would often look into the windows of the school house where the minor canon was teaching his unruly scholars all the other schools were closed but the parents of the minor canon's scholars forced them to go to school because they were so bad they could not endure them all day at home griffin or no griffin but it must be said they generally behaved very well when that great monster sat up on his tail and looked in at the school room window when it was perceived that the griffin showed no signs of going away all the people who were able to do so left the town the canons and the higher officers of the church had fled away during the first day of the griffin's visit leaving behind only the minor canon and some of the men who opened the doors and swept the church all the citizens who could afford it shut up their houses and traveled to distant parts and only the working people and the poor were left behind after some days these ventured to go about and attend to their business for if they did not work they would starve they were getting a little used to seeing the griffin and having been told that he did not eat between equinoxes they did not feel so much afraid of him as before day by day the griffin became more and more attached to the minor canon he kept near him a great part of the time and often spent the night in front of the little house where the young clergyman lived alone this strange companionship was often burdensome to the minor canon but on the other hand he could not deny that he derived a great deal of benefit and instruction from it the griffin had lived for hundreds of years and had seen much and he told the minor canon many wonderful things it is like reading an old book said the young clergyman to himself but how many books would I have had to read before I would have found out what the griffin has told me about the earth, the air, the water about minerals and metals and growing things and all the wonders of the world thus the summer went on and drew toward its close and now the people of the town began to be very much troubled again