 1. Brother John. I do not suppose that any one who knows the name of Alan Quartomaine would be likely to associate it with flowers, and especially with orchids, yet as it happens it was once my lock to take part in an orchid hunt of so remarkable a character that I think its detail should not be lost. At least I will set them down, and if in the after-days anyone cares to publish them, well, he is at liberty to do so. It was in the year—oh, never mind the year, it was a long while ago when I was much younger—that I went on a hunting expedition to the north of the Limpopo River which borders on the Transvaal. My companion was a gentleman of the name of Scroop—Charles Scroop. He had come out to Durban from England in search of sport. At least that was one of his reasons. The other was a lady whom I will call Miss Margaret Manners, though that was not her name. It seems that these two were engaged to be married, and really attached to each other. Unfortunately, however, they quarreled violently about another gentleman with whom Miss Manners danced to four consecutive dances, including two that were promised to her fiancée at a hunt-ball in Essex where they lived. Explanations or rather argument followed. Mr. Scroop said that he would not tolerate such conduct. Miss Manners replied that she would not be dictated to. She was her own mistress and meant to remain so. Mr. Scroop exclaimed that she might, as far as he was concerned. She answered that she never wished to see his face again. He declared with emphasis that she never should and that he was going to Africa to shoot elephants. What is more, he went. Starting from his Essex home the next day without leaving any address, as it transpired afterwards, long afterwards, had he waited till the post came in he would have received a letter that might have changed his plans. But they were high-spirited young people, both of them, and played the fool after the fashion of those in love. Well, Charles Scroop turned up in Durban, which was but a poor place then, and there we met in the bar of the Royal Hotel. If you want to kill big game, I heard someone say, who it was, I really forget. There is the man to show you how to do it, Hunter Quartermaine, the best shot in Africa and one of the finest fellows, too. I sat still, smoking my pipe and pretending to hear nothing. It is awkward to listen to oneself being praised, and I was always a shy man. Then after a whispered colloquy, Mr. Scroop was brought forward and introduced me. I bowed as nicely as I could and ran my eye over him. He was a tall young man, with dark eyes and a rather romantic aspect, that was due to his love affair, but I came to the conclusion that I liked the cut of his jib. When he spoke, that conclusion was affirmed. I always think there is a great deal in a voice. Personally, I judge it almost as much as by the face. This voice was particularly pleasant and sympathetic, though there was nothing very original or striking in the words by which it was, so to speak, introduced to me. These were, How do you do, sir? Will you have a split? I answered that I never drank spirits in the day time, or at least not often, but that I should be pleased to take a small bottle of beer. When the beer was consumed, we walked up together to my little house on which is now called the Borea, the same in which, amongst others, I received my friends Curtis and Good in after-days, and there we dined. Indeed, Charlie Scroop never left that house until we started on our shooting expedition. Now I must cut all this story short, since it is only incidentally that it has to do with the tale I am going to tell. Mr. Scroop was a rich man, and he offered to pay all expenses of the expedition, while I was to take all the profit in the shape of ivory or anything else that might accrue. Of course, I did not decline his proposal. Everything went well with us on that trip, until its unfortunate end. We only killed two elephants, but of other game we found plenty. It was when we were near Delagoa Bay on our return that the accident happened. We were out one evening trying to shoot something for our dinner, when between the trees I caught sight of a small buck. It disappeared round a little promontory of rock which projected from the side of the cliff, walking quietly, not running in alarm. We followed after it. I was the first, and had just wriggled round these rocks, and perceived the buck standing about ten paces away. It was a bush-box. When I heard a rustle among the bushes on the top of the rock, not a dozen feet from my head, and Charlie Scroop's voice calling, "'Look out, quarter-man, he's coming!' "'Who's coming?' I answered in an irritated tone, for the noise had made the buck run away. Then it occurred to me, all in an instant, of course, that a man would not begin to shout like that for nothing, at any rate when his supper was concerned. So I glanced up above and behind me. To this moment I can remember exactly what I saw. There was the granite water-worn boulder, or rather several boulders, with ferns growing in their cracks of the maiden-hair tribe, most of them, but some had a silver sheen on the underside of their leaves. On one of these leaves, bending it down, sat a large beetle with red wings and a black body engaged in rubbing its antennae with its front paws. And above, just appearing over the top of the rock, was the head of an extremely fine leopard. As I write, I seem to perceive its square jowl outlined against the arc of the quiet evening sky, with the saliva dropping from its lips. This was the last thing which I did perceive for a little while, since at that moment the leopard, we call them tigers in South Africa, dropped upon my back and knocked me flat as a pancake. I presume that it also had been stalking the buck, and was angry at my appearance on the scene. Down I went, luckily for me, into a patch of mossy soil. All up, I said to myself, I felt the brutes wait upon my back pressing me down among the moss, and what was worse its hot breath upon my neck as it dropped its jaws to bite me in the head. Then I heard the report of Scroop's rifle, followed by furious snarling from the leopard which evidently had been hit. Also it seemed to think that I had caused its injuries, for it seized me by the shoulder. I felt its teeth slip along my skin, but happily they only fastened in the shooting-coat of tough corduroy that I was wearing. It began to shake me, then let go, to get a better grip. Now remembering that Scroop only carried a light single-barreled rifle, and therefore could not fire again, I knew, or thought I knew, that my time had come. I was not exactly afraid, but the sense of great impending chance became very vivid. I remembered not my whole life, but one or two little things connected with my infancy. For instance, I seemed to see myself seated on my mother's knee, playing with a little jointed goldfish which she wore upon her watch-chain. After this I muttered a word or two of supplication, and I think lost consciousness. If so, it can only have been for a few seconds. Then my mind returned to me, and I saw a strange sight. The leopard and Scroop were fighting each other. The leopard, standing on one hind leg, for the other was broken, seemed to be boxing Scroop, whilst Scroop was driving his big hunting-knife into the brute's carcass. They went down, Scroop undermost, the lion tearing at him. I gave a wriggle, and came out of that mossy bed. I recall a sucking sound my body made as it left the ooze. Close by was my rifle, uninjured and at full cock, as it had fallen from my hand. I seized it, and in another second had shot the leopard through the head just as it was about to seize Scroop's throat. It fell stone dead on top of him. One quiver, one contraction of the claws, in poor Scroop's leg, and all was over. There it lay as though it were asleep, and underneath was Scroop. The difficulty was to get it off him, for the beast was very heavy. But I managed at this at last with the help of a thorn bow I found which some elephant had torn from a tree. This I used as a lever. There beneath lay Scroop, literally covered with blood, though whether his own or the leopard's I could not tell. At first I thought that he was dead, but after I had poured some water over him from the little stream that trickled down the rock he sat up, and asked, inconsequently, What am I now? A hero, I answered. I have always been proud of that repartee. Then, discouraging further conversation, I set to work to get him back to the camp which fortunately was close at hand. When we had preceded a couple of hundred yards, he still making inconsequent remarks, his right arm round my neck and my left arm round his middle. Suddenly he collapsed in a dead faint, and his weight was more than I could carry. I had to leave him and fetch help. In the end I got into the tents by aid of the kaphiers and a blanket, and there made an examination. He was scratched all over, but the only serious wounds were a bite through the muscles of the left upper arm and three deep cuts in the right thigh, just where it joins the body, caused by a stroke of the leopard's claws. I gave him a dose of lordenum to send him to sleep and to dress these hurts as best I could. For three days he went on quite well. Indeed, the wounds had begun to heal healthily when some kind of fever took him, as I suppose, by the poison of the leopard's fangs or claws. Oh! what a terrible week was that which followed! He became delirious, raving continually of all sorts of things, and especially of Miss Margaret Manners. I kept up his strength as well as was possible with soup made from the flesh of game, mixed with a little brandy which I had. But he grew weaker and weaker. Also the wounds in the thigh began to separate. The kaphers whom we had with us were of little use in such a case so that all the nursing fell on me. Luckily beyond a shaking the leopard had done me no hurt, and I was very strong in those days. Still the lack of rest told on me since I dared not sleep for more than half an hour or so at a time. At length came a morning when I was quite worn out. There lay poor scroop turning and muttering in the little tent, and there I sat by his side, wondering whether he would live to see another dawn, or if he did, for how long I should be able to attend him. I called a kaphir to bring me my coffee, and just as I was lifting the panic into my lips with a shaking hand, help came. It arrived in a very strange shape. In front of our camp were two thorn trees, and from behind these trees the rays from the rising sun falling full on him. I saw a curious figure walking towards me in a slow, purposeful fashion. It was that of a man of uncertain age, for though the beard and long hair were white, the face was comparatively youthful, save for the wrinkles round the mouth, and the dark eyes were full of life and vigor. Tattered garments, surmounted by a torn chorus, or skin-rug, hung awkwardly upon his tall, thin frame. On his feet were velled shonin' of untanned hide. On his back a battered tin case was strapped, and in his bony, nervous hand he clasped a long staff made of the black and white wood, the natives call unsymbiti. On the top of which was fixed a butterfly net. Behind him was some kaphiers who carried cases on their heads. I knew him at once, since we had met before, especially on a certain occasion in Zululand, when he calmly appeared out of the ranks of a hostile native impi. He was one of the strangest characters in all South Africa. Evidently a gentleman in the true sense of the word, none knew his history. Although I know it now, and a strange story it is. Except that he was an American by birth, for in this matter at times his speech betrayed him. Also he was a doctor by profession, and to judge from his extraordinary skill one who must have seen much practice both in medicine and in surgery. For the rest he had means, though where they came from was a mystery, and for many years past had wandered about South and Eastern Africa, collecting butterflies and flowers. By the natives, and I might add by white people also, he was universally supposed to be mad. This reputation, coupled with his medical skill, enabled him to travel wherever he would without the slightest fear of molestation, since the kaphiers look upon the mad as inspired by God. Their name for him was Doggita, a ludicrous corruption of the English word doctor, whereas white folk called him indifferently Brother John, or Saint John. The second appellation he got from his extraordinary likeness when cleaned up and nicely dressed, to the figure by which the great American nation is typified in comic papers, as England is typified by John Ball. The first and third arose in the well-known goodness of his character, and a taste he was supposed to possess for living on locusts and wild honey, or their local equivalents. Personally, however, he preferred to be addressed as Brother John. Oh, who can tell the relief with which I saw him? An angel from heaven could scarcely have been more welcome. As he came, I poured out a second jar of coffee, and remembering that he liked it sweet, put in plenty of sugar. How do you do, Brother John? I said, proffering him the coffee. Greeting, Brother Allen, he answered. In those days he affected a kind of old Roman way of speaking, as I imagine it. Then he took the coffee, put his long finger into it to test the temperature, and stir up the sugar, drank it off as though it were a dose of medicine, and handed back the tin to be refilled. Bug-hunting, I queried. He nodded. That and flowers observing human nature and the wonderful works of God, wandering around generally. Where from last, I asked? Those hills nearly twenty miles away left them at eight in the evening, walked all night. Why, I said, looking at him, because it seemed as though someone were calling me. To be plain, you, Allen. Oh, you heard about my being here and the trouble? No, heard nothing, meant to strike out for the coast this morning. Just as I was turning in at eight, five, exactly, got to a message and started. That's all. My message, I began, then stopped, and asking to see his watch compared it with mine. Oddly enough, they showed the same time to within two minutes. It is a strange thing, I said slowly. But at eight, five last night, I did try to send a message for some help because I thought my mate was dying, and I jerked to my thumb towards the tent. Only it wasn't to you or any other man, Brother John. Understand? Quite. Message was expressed on, that's all. Expressed, and I guess registered as well. I looked at Brother John, and Brother John looked at me. But at the time we made no further remark. The thing was too curious, that is, unless he lied. But nobody had ever known him to lie. He was a truthful person, painfully truthful at times, and yet there are people who do not believe in prayer. What is it? he asked. Mould by leopard, wounds won't heal and fever. I don't think he can last long. What do you know about it? Let me see him. Well, he saw him and did wonderful things. That tin box of his was full of medicines and surgical instruments, which latter he boiled before he used them. Also he washed his hands till I thought the skin would come off them, using up more soap than I could spare. First he gave poor Charlie a dose of something that seemed to kill him. He said that he had that drug from the cafes. Then he opened up those wounds upon his thigh and cleaned them out and bandaged them with boiled herbs. Afterwards, when Scroop came to again, he gave him a drink that threw him into a sweat and took away the fever. The end of it was that in two days' time his patient sat up and asked for square meal, and in a week we were able to begin to carry him to the coast. Guess that message of your saved Brother Scroop's life! said old John as I watched him start. I made no answer. Here I may state, however, that through my own men I inquired a little as to Brother John's movements at the time of what he called the message. It seemed that he had arranged to march towards the coast on the next morning, but that, about two hours after sunset, suddenly he ordered them to pack up everything and follow him. This they did, and to their intense disgust those cafes were forced to trudge all night at the heels of Doggita as they called him. Indeed, so weary did they become that had they not been afraid of being left alone in an unknown country in the darkness, they said they would have thrown down their loads and refused to go any further. That is as far as I was able to take the matter, which may be explained by telepathy, inspiration, instinct, or coincidence. It is one as to which the reader must form his own opinion. Wearing our week together in camp and our subsequent journey to Delagoe Bay, and thence by ship to Durban, Brother John and I were very intimate with the limitations. Of his past, as I have said, he never talked, or of the real object of his wanderings which I learned afterwards. But of his natural history and ethnological, I believe that is the word, studies, he spoke a good deal. As in my humble way I also am an observer of such matters, and know something about African natives and their habits from practical experience, these subjects interested me. Amongst other things he showed me many of the specimens that he had collected during his recent journey. Insects and beautiful butterflies neatly pinned into boxes. Also a quantity of dried flowers pressed between sheets of blotting paper. Amongst them some which, he told me, were orchids. Observing that these attracted me, he asked me if I would like to see the most wonderful orchid in the whole world. Of course I said yes, whereon he produced out of one of his cases a flat package about two feet six square. He undid the grass mats in which it was wrapped, striped, delicately woven mats such as they make in the neighbourhood of Zanzibar. Within these was the lid of a packing-case. Then came more mats and some copies of the cape-journal spread out flat. Then sheets of blotting paper, and last of all between two pieces of cardboard, a flower and one leaf of the plant on which it grew. Even in its dried state it was a wondrous thing, measuring twenty-four inches from the tip of one wing or petal to the tip of the other, by twenty inches from the top of the back sheath to the bottom of the pouch. The measurement of the back sheath itself I forget, but it must have been quite a foot across. In colour it was or had been bright golden, but the back sheath was white, barred with lines of black, and in the exact centre of the pouch was a single black spot shaped like the head of a great ape. There were the overhanging brows, the deep-processed eyes, the surly mouth, the massive jaws, everything. Although at that time I had never seen a gorilla in the flesh I had seen a coloured picture of the brute and if that picture had been photographed on the flower the likeness could not have been more perfect. What is it, I asked, amazed. Sir, said Brother John, sometimes he used this formal term when excited, it is the most marvellous, sipary pridium in the whole world, and sir I have discovered it. A healthy root of that plant will be worth twenty thousand pounds. That's better than gold mining, I said. Well, have you got the root? Brother John shook his head sadly as he answered, no such luck. How's that that you have the flower? I'll tell you, Alan, for a year past and more I have been collecting in the black district of Gilwau and found some wondrous things. Yes, wonderful. At last about three hundred miles inland I came to a tribe, or rather a people that no white man had ever visited. They are called the Mazitu, a numerous and warlike people of bastard Zulu blood. I heard of them, I interrupted. They broke north before the days of Senzangakoma, two hundred years or more ago. Well, I could make myself understood among them because they still talk corrupt Zulu as do all the tribes in those parts. At first they wanted to kill me, but let me go because they thought that I was mad. Everyone thinks that I am mad, Alan. It's a kind of public delusion. Whereas I think that I am sane and that most other people are mad. A private delusion, I suggested hurriedly as I did not wish to discuss Brother John's sanity. Well, go on about the Mazitu. Later they discovered that I had skill in medicine, and the King Bausi came to me to be treated for a great external tumor. I risked an operation and cured him. It was anxious work. For if he had died I should have died, too, though that would not have troubled me very much. And he sighed, Of course, from that moment I was supposed to be a great magician. Also Bausi made a blood brotherhood with me, transfusing some of his blood into my veins and some of mine into his. I only hope he has not inoculated me with his tumors, which are congenital. So I became Bausi, and Bausi became me. In other words, I was as much chief of the Mazitu as he was, and shall remain so all my life. That might be useful, I said reflectively, but go on. I learned that on the western boundary of the Mazitu territory were great swamps. That beyond these swamps was a lake called Kirua, and beyond that a large and fertile land supposed to be an island with a mountain in its center. This land is known as Pongo, and so are the people who live there. That is the native name for the gorilla, isn't it? I asked, at least though a fellow who's been on the west coast told me. Indeed, then that's strange as you will see. Now these Pongos are supposed to be great magicians, and the God they worship is said to be a gorilla, which, if you are right, accounts for their name. Or rather, he went on, they have two gods. The other is that flower you see there. Whether the flower with the monkey's head on it was the first God and suggested the worship of the beast itself, or vice versa. I don't know. Indeed, I know very little. Just what I was told by the Mazitu and a man who called himself a Pongo chief. No more. What did they say? The Mazitu said that the Pongo people are devils who come by the secret channels through the reeds and canoes and stole their children and women whom they sacrificed to their gods. Sometimes too, they made raids upon them at night, howling like hyenas. The men they killed and the women and children they took away. The Mazitu want to attack them but cannot do so, because they are not water people and have no canoes, and therefore are unable to reach the island if it is an island. Also they told me about the wonderful flower which grows in the place where the ape god lives and is worshiped like the god. They had the story of it from some of their people who had been enslaved and escape. Did you try to get to the island? I asked. Yes, Alan. That is, I went to the edge of the reeds which lie at the end of a long slope of plain where the lake begins. Here I stopped for some time catching butterflies and collecting plants. One night when I was camped there by myself, for none of my men would remain so near the Pongo country after sunset, I woke up with a sense that I was no longer alone. I crept out of my tent, and by the light of the moon which was setting for dawn drew near, I saw a man who lent upon the handle of a very wide bladed spear which was taller than himself, a big man over six feet too high, I should say, and broad in proportion. He wore a long white cloak reaching from his shoulders almost to the ground. On his head was a tight fitting cap with lapettes also white. In his ears were rings of copper or gold, and on his wrists bracelets of the same metal. His skin was intensely black, but the features were not at all negroid. They were prominent and finely cut. The nose being sharp and the lips quite thin, indeed of an Arab type. His left hand was bandaged, and on his face was an expression of great anxiety. Lastly he appeared to be about 50 years of age. So still did he stand that I began to wonder whether he were one of those ghosts which the Mazito swore the Ponga wizards sent out to haunt their country. For a long time we stared at each other, for I was determined that I would not speak first or show any concern. At last he spoke in a low deep voice and in Mazito or a language so similar that I found it easy to understand. Is not your name Dogita, for white Lord? Are you not a master of medicine? Yes, I answered. But who are you who dare to wake me from my sleep? Lord, I am Calubi, the chief of the Pongo, a great man in my own land, Yonda. And why do you come here alone at night, Calubi, chief of the Pongo? Why do you come here alone, white Lord? He answered evasively. What do you want anyway? I asked. Oh, Dogita, I have been hurt. I want you to cure me. And he looked at his bandaged hand. Lay down that spear and open your robe that I may see you have no knife. He obeyed, throwing the spear to some distance. Now unwrap the hand. He did so. I lit a match, the sight of which seemed to frighten him greatly, although he asked no questions about it, and by its light examined the hand. The first joint of the second finger was gone. From the appearance of the stump which had been cauterized and was tied tightly with a piece of flexible grass, I judged that it had been bitten off. What did this? I asked. Monkey, he answered, poisonous monkey. Cut off the finger, or Dogita, or tomorrow I die. Why do you not tell your own doctors to cut off the finger? You who are Calubi, chief of the Pongo. No, no, he replied, shaking his head. They cannot do it. It is not lawful. And I cannot do it. For if the flesh is black, the hand must come off too. And if the flesh is black at the wrist, then the arm must be cut off. I sat down on my campstool and reflected. Really, I was waiting for the sun to rise since it was useless to attempt an operation in that light. The man Calubi thought that I had refused his petition and became terribly agitated. Be merciful, White Lord, he prayed. Do not let me die. I am afraid to die. Life is bad, but the death is worse. Oh, if you refuse me, I will kill myself here before you, and then my ghost will haunt you till you die also of fear and come to join me. What fee do you ask? Gold or ivory or slaves? Say, and I will give it. Be silent, I said, for I saw that if he went on thus he would throw himself into a fever which might cause the operation to prove fatal. For the same reason I did not question him about many things I should have liked to learn. I lit my fire and boiled the instruments. He thought I was making magic. By the time that everything was ready, the sun was up. Now I said, let me see how brave you are. Well, Alan, I performed that operation, removing the finger at the base where it joins the hand, as I thought there might be something in his story of the poison. Indeed, as I found afterwards on dissection and can show you, for I have the thing in spirits, there was, for the blackness of which he spoke, a kind of mortification, I presume, had correct almost to the joint, though the flesh beyond was healthy enough. Certainly that Calubi was a plucky fellow. He sat like a rock and never even winced. Indeed, when he saw that the flesh was sound, he uttered a great sigh of relief. After it was all over, he turned a little faint. So I gave him some spirits of wine mixed with water, which revived him. Oh Lord Doggita, he said, as I was bandaging his hand. While I live, I am yours, leave. Yet to do me one more service. In my land there is a terrible wild beast that would bit off my finger. It is a devil. It kills us and we fear it. I have heard that you white men have magic weapons which slay with a noise. Come to my land and kill me that wild beast with your magic weapon. I say calm, calm for I am terribly afraid. And indeed he looked it. No, I answered, I shed no blood. I kill nothing except butterflies and of these only a few. If you fear this brute, why do you not poison it? You black people have many drugs. No use, no use, he replied in a kind of wail. The beast knows poisons, some it's wollows and they do not harm it, others it will not touch. Moreover, no black man can do it hurt. It is white and it has been known from of old that if it dies at all, it must be by the hand of one who is white. A very strange animal, I began suspiciously, for I felt sure that he was lying to me. But just at that moment I heard the sound of my men's voices. They were advancing towards me through the giant grass, singing as they came that has yet a long way off. The kalubi heard it also and sprang up. I must be gone. He said, none must see me here. What fee, oh Lord of medicine, what fee. I take no payment for my medicine. I said, yet stay a wonderful flower grows in your country. Does it not a flower with wings and a cup beneath I would have that flower? Who told you of the flower? He asked, the flower is holy. Still, oh white Lord, still for you it shall be risked. Oh, return and bring with you one who can kill the beast and I will make you rich. Return and call to the reeds for the kalubi and the kalubi will hear and come to you. Then he ran to his spear snatched it from the ground and vanished among the reeds. That is the last I saw or am ever likely to see of him. But brother John, you got the flower somehow. Yes, Alan, about a week later when I came out of my tent one morning, there it was standing in a narrow mouth, or if and where pot filled with water. Of course I meant that he was to send me the plant, roots and all, that I suppose he understood that I wanted a bloom, or perhaps he dared not send the plant. Anyhow it is better than nothing. Why did you not go into the country and get it for yourself? For several reasons Alan, of which the best is that it was impossible. The mazutu swear that if anyone sees that flower he is put to death. Indeed, when they found that I had a bloom of it, they forced me to move to the other side of the country seventy miles away. So I thought that I would wait till I met with some companions who would accompany me. Indeed, to be frank Alan, it occurred to me that you were the sort of man who would like to interview this wonderful beast that bites off people's fingers and frightens them to death. And brother John stroked his long white beard and smiled, adding, odd that we should have met so soon afterwards, isn't it? Did you, I replied. Now did you indeed? Brother John, people say all sorts of things about you, that I have come to the conclusion that there's nothing the matter with your wits. Again he smiled and stroked his long white beard. CHAPTER II THE AUCTION ROOM I do not think that this conversation about the pongo savages who were said to worship a gorilla and a golden flower was renewed until we reached my house at Durban. Vither, of course, I took Mr. Charles Scroop, and Vither also came, brother John, who, as bedroom accommodation was lacking, pitched his tent in the garden. One night we sat on the steps smoking. Brother John's only concession to human weakness was that he smoked. He drank no wine or spirits. He never ate meat unless he was obliged, but I rejoiced to say that he smoked cigars, like most Americans, when he could get them. John, said I, I have been thinking over that yarn of yours, and have come to one or two conclusions. What may they be, Alan? The first is that you were a great donkey not to get more out of Colubi when you had the chance. Agreed, Alan, but amongst other things I am a doctor, and the operation was uppermost in my mind. The second is that I believe this Colubi had charge of the gorilla god as no doubt you guessed, also that it was the gorilla which bit off his finger. Why so? Because I have heard of great monkeys called socos that live in Central East Africa which are said to bite off men's toes and fingers. I have heard, too, that they are very like gorillas. Now you mention it, so have I, Alan. Indeed, once I saw a soco, though some way off, a huge brown ape which stood on its hind legs and drummed upon its chest with its fists. I didn't see it for long because I ran away. The third is that this yellow orchard would be worth a great deal of money if one could dig it up and take it to England. I think I told you, Alan, that I valued it at twenty thousand pounds, so that conclusion of yours is not original. The fourth is that I should like to dig up that orchard and get a share of the twenty thousand pounds. Brother John became intensely interested. Ah, he said, now we are getting to the point. I have been wondering how long it would take you to see it, Alan, but if you are slow, you are sure? The fifth, I went on, that such an expedition to succeed would need a great deal of money, more than you or I could find. Partners would be wanted, active or sleeping, but partners with cash. Brother John looked towards the window of the room in which Charlie's group was in bed, for being still weak he went to rest early. No, I said, he's had enough of Africa, and you told me yourself that it will be two years before he is really strong again. Also there's a lady in this case. Now listen. I have taken it on myself to write to that lady, whose address I found out while he didn't know what he was saying. I have said that he was dying, but that I hoped he might live. Meanwhile I added, I thought she would like to know that he did nothing but rave of her. Also that he was a hero, with a big H twice underlined. My word, I did lay it on about the hero business, with a spoon, a real hotel gravy spoon, if Charlie Scroop knows himself again when he sees my description of him while I'm a Dutchman, that's all. The letter caught the last mail, and will I hope, reach the lady in due course. Now listen again. Scroop wants me to go to England with him to look after him on the voyage, that's what he says. What he means is that he hopes I might put in a word for him with the lady if I should chance to be introduced to her. He offers to pay all my expenses, and to give me something for my loss of time. So as I haven't seen England since I was three years old, I think I'll take the chance. Brother John's face fell. Then what about the expedition, Alan? he asked. This is the first of November, I answered, and the wet season in those parts begins about now, and lasts till April. So it would be no use trying to visit your pongo friends till then, which gives me plenty of time to go to England and to come out again. If you'll trust that flower to me, I'll take it with me. Perhaps I might be able to find someone who would be willing to put down money on the chance of getting the plant on which it grew. Meanwhile, you are welcome to this house if you care to stay here. Thank you, Alan, but I can't sit still for so many months. I'll go somewhere and come back. He paused, and a dreamy look came into his dark eyes, then went on. You see, brother, it is laid on me to wander and wander through all this great land until—I know. Until you know what, I asked sharply. He pulled himself together with a jerk as it were, and answered with a kind of forced carelessness. Until I know every inch of it, of course. There are lots of tribes I have not yet visited. Including the pongo, I said. By the way, if I can get the money together for a trip up there, I suppose you mean to come too, don't you? If not, the thing's off as far as I am concerned. You see, I am reckoning on you to get us through the mozito and into pongo land by help of your friends. Certainly I mean to come. In fact, if you don't go, I shall start alone. I intend to explore pongo land, even if I never come out of it again. Once more I looked at him as I answered. You are ready to risk a great deal for a flower, John, or are you looking for more than a flower? If so, I hope you will tell me the truth. This I said as I was aware that Brother John had a foolish objection to uttering, or even acting, lies. Well, Alan, as you put it like that, the truth is that I heard something more about the pongo than I told you up-country. It was after I operated on that kalubi I would have tried to get in alone, but this I could not do then as I have said. What did you hear? I heard that they have a white goddess as well as a white god. Well, what of that, a female gorilla, I suppose? Nothing, except that goddesses have always interested me. Good night. You are an odd fish, I remarked after him. And what is more, you have got something up your sleeve. Well, I'll have it down one day. Meanwhile, I wonder whether the whole thing is a lie. No, not a lie. An hallucination. It can't be because of that orchid. No one can explain away the orchid. A queer people, these pongo, with their white god and goddesses and their holy flower. But after all, Africa is a land of queer people, and of queer gods too. And now the story shifts away to England. Don't be afraid, my adventurous reader, if I ever have one. It is coming back to Africa again in very few pages. Mr. Charles Scroop and I left Durban a day or two after my last conversation with Brother John. At Cape Town we caught the male, a wretched little boat, you would think it now, which after a long and wearisome journey at length landed us safe at Plymouth. Our companions on that voyage were very dull. I have forgotten most of them, but one lady I do remember. I imagine that she must have commenced life as a barmaid, for she had that orthodox tau hair and blousy appearance. At any rate she was the wife of a wine merchant who had made a fortune at the Cape. Unhappily, however, she had contracted too great a liking for her husband's wares, and after dinner was apt to become talkative. For some reason or other she took a particular aversion to me. Oh, I can see her now. Seated in that salon with the oil-lamp swinging over her head, she always chose the position under the oil-lamp because it showed off her diamonds, and I can hear her too. Don't bring any of your elephant-hunting manners here, Mr. Allen, with an emphasis on Allen, Quortemaine. They are not fit for polite society. You should go and brush your hair, Mr. Quortemaine. I may explain that my hair sticks up naturally. Then would come her little husband's horrified hush-hush, you are quite insulting, my dear. Oh, why do I remember it all after so many years when I have even forgotten the people's names? One of those little things that stick in the mind, I suppose. The Island of Ascension, where we called, sticks also with its long swinging rollers breaking in white foam, its bare mountain peak capped with green, and the turtles and the ponds, those poor turtles. We brought two of them home, and I used to look at them lying on their backs and the folks all flapping their fins feebly. One of them died, and I got the butcher to save me the shell. Afterwards I gave it as a wedding present to Mr. and Mrs. Scroop, nicely polished and lined. I meant it for a work basket and was overwhelmed with confusion when some silly lady said at the marriage and in the hearing of the bride and bridegroom that it was the most beautiful cradle she had ever seen. Of course, like a fool, I tried to explain whereon everybody tittered. But why do I write of such trifles that have nothing to do with my story? I mentioned that I had ventured to send a letter to Miss Margaret Manners about Mr. Charles Scroop, in which I said incidentally that if the hero should happen to live, I should probably bring him home by the next mail. Well, we got into Plymouth about eight o'clock in the morning on a mild November day, and shortly afterwards a tug arrived to take off the passengers and mails, also some cargo. I, being an early riser, watched it come and saw upon the deck a stout lady wrapped in furs, and by her side a very pretty, fair-haired young woman clad in a neat surge-dress and a pork-pie hat. Presently a steward told me that someone wished to speak to me in the saloon. I went and found these two standing side by side. I believe you are Mr. Allen Quartermain, said the stout lady. Where is Mr. Scroop, whom I understand you have brought home? Tell me at once. Something about her appearance and fierce manner of address alarmed me so much that I could only answer feverly. Below, madame, below. There, my dear, said the stout lady to her companion, I warned you to be prepared for the worst. Bear up. Do not make a scene before all these people. The ways of providence are just and inscrutable. It is your own temper that was to blame. You should never have sent the poor man off to these heathen contrasts. Then, turning to me, she added sharply, I suppose he is embalmed. We should like to bury him in Essex. Embalmed, I gasped. Embalmed! Why, the man is in his bath, or was a few minutes ago. In another second that pretty young lady who had been addressed was weeping with her head upon my shoulder. Margaret exclaimed her companion. She was a kind of heavy aunt. I had told you not to make a scene in public. Mr. Quartermain, as Mr. Scroop is alive, would you ask him to be so good as to come here? Well, I fetched him, half-shaved, and the rest of the business may be imagined. It is a very fine thing to be a hero with a big H. Henceforth, thanks to me, that was Charlie Scroop's lot in life. He has grandchildren now, and they all think him a hero. What is more, he does not contradict them. I went down to the lady's place in Essex, a fine property with a beautiful old house. On the night I arrived there was a dinner party of twenty-four people. I had to make a speech about Charlie Scroop and the leopard. I think it was a good speech. At any rate, everybody cheered, including the servants who had gathered at the back of the big hall. I remember that to complete the story I introduced several other leopards, a mother and two, three part-grown cubs, also a wounded buffalo, and told how Mr. Scroop had finished them off one after the other with a hunting-knife. The thing was to watch his face as the history proceeded. Luckily he was sitting next to me, and I could kick him under the table. It was all very amusing and very happy also, for these two really loved each other. Thank God that I, or rather Brother John, was able to bring them together again. It was during that stay of mine in Essex, by the way, that I first met Lord Ragnall and the beautiful Miss Holmes, with whom I was destined to experience some very strange adventures in the after-years. After this interlude I got to work. Someone told me that there was a firm in the city that made a business of selling orchids by auction. Flowers which at this time were beginning to be very fashionable among rich horticulturalists. This thought I would be the place for me to show my treasure. Doubtless messes May and Primrose—that was their world-famed style—would be able to put me in touch with opulent orchidists who would not mind venturing a couple of thousands on the chance of receding a share in a flower that, according to Brother John, should be worth untold gold. At any rate I would try. So on a certain Friday, about half-past twelve, I sought out the place of business of messes May and Primrose, bearing with me the golden Cypherpedium, which was now enclosed in a flat tin case. As it happened I chose an unlucky day and hour for on arriving at the office and asking for Mr. May, I was informed that he was away in the country valuing. Then I would like to see Mr. Primrose, I said. Mr. Primrose is round at the room selling, replied the clerk, who appeared to be very busy. Where are the rooms? I asked. Out of the door turned to the left, turned to the left again and under the clock, said the clerk, and closed the shutter. So disgusted was I with his rudeness that I nearly gave up the enterprise. Thinking better of it, however, I followed the directions given, and in a minute or two found myself in a narrow passage that led to a large room. To one who had never seen anything of the sort before, this room offered a curious sight. The first thing I observed was a notice on the wall to the effect that customers were not allowed to smoke pipes. I thought to myself that orchids must be curious flowers if they could distinguish between the smoke of a cigar and a pipe, and stepped into the room. To my left was a long table covered with pots of the most beautiful flowers that I had ever seen, all of them orchids. Along the wall and opposite were other tables closely packed with withered roots which I concluded were also those of orchids. To my inexperienced eye the whole lot did not look with five shillings, for they seemed to be dead. At the head of the room stood the rostrum where sat a gentleman with an extremely charming face. He was engaged in selling by auction so rapidly that the clerk at his side must have had difficulty in keeping a record of the lots and their purchasers. In front of him was a horseshoe table round which sat buyers. The end of this table was left unoccupied so that the porters might exhibit each lot before it was put up for sale. Standing under the rostrum was yet another table, a small one, upon which were about twenty pots of flowers even more wonderful than those on the large table. A notice stated that these would be sold at one thirty precisely. All about the room stood knots of men, such ladies as were present sat at the table, many of whom had lovely orchids in their buttonholes. These I found out afterwards were dealers and amateurs. They were a kindly-faced set of people and I took a liking to them. The whole place was quaint and pleasant, especially by contrast with the horrible London fog outside. Squeezing my small person into a corner where I was in nobody's way, I watched the proceedings for a while. Suddenly an agreeable voice at my side asked me if I would like to look at the catalogue. I glanced at the speaker and in a sense fell in love with him at once. As I have explained before, I am one of those to whom a first impression means a great deal. He was not very tall, though strong-looking and well-made enough. He was not very handsome, though none so ill-favoured. He was just an ordinary fair young Englishman, four or five and twenty years of age, with merry blue eyes and one of the pleasantest expressions that I ever saw. At once I felt that he was a sympathetic soul and full of the milk of human kindness. He was dressed in a rough-tweed suit, rather worn, with the orchid that seemed to be the badge of all this tribe in his buttonhole. Somehow the costume suited his rather pink and white complexion and rumpled fair hair, which I could see as he was sitting on his cloth hat. Thank you, no, I answered. I did not come here to buy. I know nothing about orchids, I added by way of explanation, except a few I have seen growing in Africa, and this one, and I tapped the tin case which I held under my arm. Indeed, he said, I should like to hear about the African orchids. What is it that you have in the case, a plant or flowers? One flower only, it is not mine. A friend in Africa asked me to, well, that is a long story which might not interest you. I'm not sure. I suppose it must be a Cymbidian scape from the sides? I shook my head. That is not the name my friend mentioned. He called it a Cypropidium. The young man began to grow curious. One Cypropidium in all that large case, it must be a big flower. Yes, my friend said it is the biggest ever found. It measures 24 inches across the wings. Petals, I think he called them, and about a foot across the back part. 24 inches across the petals, and a foot across the dorsal sepals, said the young man in a kind of gasp. And a Cypropidium. Sir, surely you are joking. Sir, I answered indignantly, I'm doing nothing of the sort. Your remark is tantamount to telling me that I am speaking a falsehood. But, of course, for all I know, the thing may be some other kind of flower. Let me see it, and the name of the goddess Flora let me see it. I began to undo the case. Indeed, it was already half open when two other gentlemen who had either overheard some of our conversation, or noted my companion's excited look edged up to us. I observed that they also wore orchids in their buttonholes. Hello, Summers! said one of them in a tone of false geniality. What have you got there? What has your friend got there? asked the other. Nothing, replied the young man who had been addressed as Summers. Nothing at all, that is, only a case of tropical butterflies. Oh, butterflies, said number one, and sauntered away, but number two, a keen-looking person with the eye of a hawk was not so easily satisfied. Let us see these butterflies, he said to me. You can't, ejaculated the young man. My friend is afraid lest the damp should injure their colors. Ain't you, Brown? Yes, I am, Summers, I replied, taking his cue and shutting the tin case with a snap. Then the hawk-eyed person departed, also grumbling for that story about the damp stuck in his throat. Orchidist! whispered the young man dreadful people. Orchidists! So jealous! Very rich, too, both of them. Mr. Brown, I hope that is your name, though I admit the chances are against it. They are, I replied. My name is Alan Cortemaine. Ah, much better than Brown. Well, Mr. Alan Cortemaine, there's a private room in this place to which I have admittance. Would you mind coming with that? Here the hawk-eyed gentleman strolled past again. That case of butterflies! With pleasure, I answered, and followed him out of the auction chamber down some steps through the door to the left, and ultimately into a little cupboard-like room lined with shelves full of books and ledgers. He closed the door and locked it. Now, he said, in a tone of the villain in a novel who has at last come face to face with the virtuous heroine. Now we are alone, Mr. Cortemaine. Let me see those butterflies. I placed the case on a deal table which stood under a skylight in the room. I opened it. I removed the cover of wadding, and there, pressed between two sheets of glass and quite uninjured after all its journeyings, appeared the golden flower, glorious even in death, and by its side the broad green leaf. The young gentleman called Summers looked at it till I thought his eyes would really start out of his head. He turned away muttering something and looked again. Oh, heavens! he said at last. Oh, heavens! is it possible that such a thing can exist in this imperfect world? You haven't faked it, Mr. Hough. I mean, Cortemaine, have you? Sir, I said, for the second time you are making insinuations. Good morning. And I began to shut up the case. Don't be off hand, he exclaimed, pity the weaknesses of a poor sinner. You don't understand. If only you understood, you would understand. No, I said, I am bothered if I do. Well, you will when you begin to collect orchids. I'm not mad, really, except perhaps on this point, Mr. Cortemaine. This in a low and thrilling voice. That marvellous sypropidium. Your friend is right. It is a sypropidium. It is worth a goldmine. From my experience of goldmines I can well believe that, I said tartly, and I may add, profetically. Oh, I mean a goldmine in the figurative and colloquial sense, not as the investor knows it, he answered. That is, the plant on which it grew is priceless. Where is the plant, Mr. Cortemaine? In a rather indefinite locality in Africa east by south, I replied. I can't place it two within three hundred miles. That's vague, Mr. Cortemaine. I have no right to ask it, seeing that you know nothing of me. But I assure you I am respectable, and in short, would you mind telling me the story of this flower? I don't think I should, I replied a little doubtfully. Then, after another good look at him suppressing all names and exact localities, I gave him the outline of the tale, explaining that I wanted to find to someone who would finance an expedition to the remote and romantic spot, where this particular Cypropedeum was believed to grow. Just as I finished my narrative, and before he had time to comment on it, there came a violent knocking at the door. Mr. Stephen, said a voice, are you there, Mr. Stephen? By Jove, that's Briggs, exclaimed the young man. Briggs is my father's manager. Shut up the case, Mr. Cortemaine. Come in, Briggs, he went on, unlocking the door slowly. What is it? It is a good deal, replied a thin and agitated person who thrust himself through the opening door. Your father, I mean Sir Alexander, has come to the office unexpectedly, and is in a nice taking because he can't find you there, sir. When he discovered that you had gone to the orchid sale, he grew furious, Sir Furious, and sent me to fetch you. Did he? replied Mr. Summers, in an easy and unruffled tone. Well, tell Sir Alexander I am coming at once. Now please go, Briggs, and tell him I am coming at once. Briggs departed not too willingly. I must leave you, Mr. Cortemaine, said Mr. Summers, as he shut the door behind him, but will you promise me not to show that flower to anyone until I return? I'll be back within half an hour. Yes, Mr. Summers, I'll wait half an hour for you in the sale-room, and I promise that no one shall see that flower till you return. Thank you, you are a good fellow, and I promise you shall lose nothing by your kindness if I can help it. We went together into the sale-room, where some thought suddenly struck Mr. Summers. By Jove, he said, I'd nearly forgot about that Adontoglossum. Where's Wooden? Oh, come here, Wooden, I want to speak to you. The person called Wooden obeyed. He was a man of about fifty, indefinite in colouring, for his eyes were very light, blue or grey, and his hair was sandy, tough looking, and strongly made, with big hands that showed signs of work, for the palms were horny, and the nails worn down. He was clad in a suit of shiny black, such as folk of the laboring class wear at a funeral. I made up my mind at once that he was a gardener. Wooden, said Mr. Summers, this gentleman here has got the most wonderful orchid in the whole world. Keep your eye on him, and see that he isn't robbed. There are people in this room, Mr. Cortemane, who would murder you and throw your body into the Thames for that flower, he added darkly. On receipt of this information Wooden rocked a little on his feet, as though he felt the premonitory movements of an earthquake. It was a habit of his when anything astonished him. Then fixing his pale eye upon me in a way which showed that my appearance surprised him, he pulled a lock of his sandy hair with his thumb and finger, and said, Servant, sir, and where might this hawk hid by? I pointed to the tin case. Yes, it's there, went on Mr. Summers, and that's what you've got to watch. Mr. Cortemane, if anyone attempts to rob you, call for Wooden, and he will knock them down. He is my gardener, you know, and entirely to be trusted, especially if it is a matter of knocking anyone down. I'll knock him down surely, said Wooden, doubling his great fist and looking round him with a suspicious eye. Now listen, Wooden, have you looked at that Adon to Glossom Parvo, and if so what do you think of it? And he nodded towards a plant which stood in the centre of the little group that was placed on a small table beneath the auctioneer's desk. It bore a spray of the most lovely white flowers. On the top petal, if it is a petal, and also on the lip of each of these rounded flowers, was a blotch or spot of which the general effect was similar to the iridescent eye on the tail feathers of a peacock. Whence, I suppose, the flower was named Parvo or Peacock? Yes, master, and I think it's the beautiful thing that I ever saw. There isn't Glossom in England like that there, Glossom paving, he added with conviction, and rocked again, as he said the word. But there's plenty after it. I'll say there is smelling round that blossom like dogs round a rowel. And, this triumphantly, they don't do that for nothing. Quite so, wooden, you have got a logical mind. But look here, we must have that Parvo whatever it costs. Now, the Governor has sent for me. I'll be back presently, but I might be detained. If so, you've got to bid on my behalf, or I don't trust any of these agents. Here's your authority, and he scribbled on a card. Wooden, my gardener, has directions to bid for me. S.S. Now, Wooden, he went on, when he had given the card to an attendant, who passed it up to the auctioneer. Don't you make a fool of yourself and let that Parvo slip through your fingers. In another instant, he was gone. What did the Master sigh, sir? asked Wooden of me, that I was to get that there paving whatever it cost. Yes, I said, that's what he said. I suppose it will fetch a good deal, several pounds. Maybe, sir, can't tell. All I know is that I've got to buy it as you can bear me, Witness Master. He ain't one to be crossed for money. What he wants you'll have, that is, if it be in the orchid line. As opposed you are fond of orchids too, Mr. Wooden. Fond of them, sir? Why, I loves them. Here he rocked. Don't feel for nothing else in the same way, not even for my old woman. Then with a burst of enthusiasm, no, not even for the Master himself, and I'm fond enough of him, God knows. But beg in your pardon, sir, where the pullet is for a lock. Would you mind holding that tin of yours, a little tighter? I've got to keep an eye on that, as well as on old paving, and I just see that chap with that tall atta looking at it suspicious. After this, we separated. I retired to my corner, while Wooden took his stand at the table, with one eye fixed on what he called the O-paving, and the other on me and my tin case. An odd fish truly, I thought to myself, positive the old woman, comparative his Master, superlative the orchid tribe, those were his degrees of affection, honest and brave, and a good fellow, though, I bet. The sale languished. There were so many lots of one particular sort of dried orchid, that buyers could not be found for them at a reasonable price, and many had to be bought in. At length, the genial Mr. Primrose, in the rostrum, addressed the audience. Gentlemen, he said, I quite understand that you didn't come here today to buy a rather poor lot of cartelia mossi. You came to buy, or even bid for, or to see so the most wonderful adontoglosson that has ever been flowered in this country. The property of a famous firm of importers whom I congratulate upon their good fortune, and having obtained such a gem. Gentlemen, this miraculous flower ought to adorn a royal greenhouse, but there it is, to be taken away by whoever will pay the most for it, for I am directed to see that it will be sold without reserve. Now, I think, he added, running his eye over the company, that most of our great collectors are represented in this room today. It is true that I do not see that spirited and liberal young orchidist Mr. Summers, but he has left his worthy head gardener Mr. Wooden, than whom there is no finer judge of an orchid in England. Here Wooden rocked violently, to bid for him, as I hope for the glorious flower of which I have been speaking. Now, as it is exactly half-past one, we will proceed to business. Smith, hand the adontoglosson parvo round, that everyone may inspect its beauties, and be careful you don't let it fall. Gentlemen, I must ask you not to touch it or to defile its purity with tobacco smoke. Eight perfect flowers in bloom, gentlemen, and four, no, five more to open, a strong plant in perfect health, six pseudo-bulbs with leaves and three without, two blackleads which I am advised can be separated off at the proper time. Now what bids for the adontoglosson parvo? Ah, I wonder who will have the honour of becoming the owner of this perfect, this unmatched production of nature. Thank you, sir, three hundred, four, five, six, seven in three places, eight, nine, ten. Oh, gentlemen, let us go on a little faster. Thank you, sir, fifteen, sixteen. It is against you, Mr. Wooden. Ah, thank you, seventeen. There came a pause in the fierce race for opavo, which I occupied in reducing seventeen hundred shillings to pounds sterling. My word, I thought to myself, eighty-five pounds is a goodish price to pay for one plant, however rare. Wooden is acting up to his instructions with a vengeance. The pleading voice of Mr. Primrose broke in upon my meditations. Gentlemen, gentlemen, he said, surely you are not going to allow the most wondrous production of the floral world, on which I repeat, there is no reserve to be knocked down at this miserable figure. Come, come. Well, if I must, I must, though after such a disgrace I shall get no sleep tonight. One, and his hammer fell for the first time. Think, gentlemen, upon my position. Think what the eminent owners, who with their usual delicacy have stayed away, will say to me when I am obliged to tell them that it is graceful truth. Two, and his hammer fell a second time. Smith, hold up that flower. Let the company see it. Let them know what they are losing. Smith held up the flower at which everybody glared. The little ivory hammer circled round Mr. Primrose's head. It was about to fall when a quiet man with a long beard, who hitherto had not joined in the bidding, lifted his head and said softly, 1800. Ah, exclaimed Mr. Primrose, I thought so. I thought that the owner of the greatest collection in England would not see this treasure slip from his grasp without a struggle. Against you, Mr. Wooden. Nineteen, sir, said Wooden, in a stony voice. Two thousand echoed the gentleman with a long beard. Twenty-one hundred, said Wooden. That's right, Mr. Wooden, cried Mr. Primrose. You are indeed representing your principle worthily. I feel sure that you do not mean to stop for a few miserable pounds. Not far knows it, ejaculated Wooden. I ask my orders and I'll act up to them. Twenty-two hundred, said Longbeard. Twenty-three echoed Wooden. Oh, damn, shouted Longbeard and rushed from the room. Odontical or some parvo is going for twenty-three hundred. Only twenty-three hundred, cried the auctioneer. Any advance on twenty-three hundred? What? None? Then I must do my duty. One. Two. For the last time? No advance? Three. Gone to Mr. Wooden, bidding for his principle, Mr. Summers. The hammer fell with a sharp tap, and at this moment my young friend sauntered into the room. Well, Wooden, he said, have they put the parvo up yet? It's up and down, sir. I've bought him right enough. The deuce you have! What did it fetch? Wooden scratched his head. Oh, don't rightly know, sir. Never was good at figures, not having much book learning, but it's twenty-three something. Twenty-three pounds? No. It would have brought more than that. By Gingo it must be two hundred and thirty. That's pretty stiff, but still it may be worth it. At this moment Mr. Primrose, who, leaning over his desk, was engaged in animated conversation with an excited knot of orchid fancy, as looked up. Oh, there you are, Mr. Summers, he said. In the name of all this company, let me congratulate you on having become the owner of the matchless Adontoglossum Parvo. For what, under all circumstances, I consider the quite moderate price of twenty-three hundred pounds. Really, that young man took it very well. He shivered slightly and turned a little pale, that is all. Wooden rocked to and fro like a tree about to fall. I and my tin box collapsed together in the corner. Yes, I was so surprised that my legs seemed to give way under me. People began to talk, but above the hum of the conversation, I heard young Summers say in a low voice, Wooden, you are a born fool. Also the answer, it's what my mother always told me, Master, and short to know if anyone did. But what's wrong now? I obeyed orders and bought— Oh, paving! Yes, don't bother, my good fellow. It's my fault, not yours. I'm the born fool. But Heaven's above. How am I to face this? Then recovering himself, he strolled up to the rostrum and said a few words to the auctioneer. Mr. Primrose nodded, and I heard him answer, Oh, that'll be all right, sir, don't bother. We can't expect an account like this to be settled in a minute. A month hence will do. Then he went on with the sale. End of chapter 2 Chapter 3 of Alan and the Holy Flower This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Alan and the Holy Flower by H. Ryder Haggard, Chapter 3 Sir Alexander and Stephen It was just at this moment that I saw standing by me a fine-looking stout man, with a square grey beard and a handsome but not very good tempered face. He was looking about him as one does who finds himself in a place to which he is not accustomed. Perhaps you could tell me, sir, he said to me, Whether a gentleman called Mr. Summers is in this room. I am rather short-sighted, and there are a great many people. Yes, I answered. He has just bought the wonderful orchard called Donterglosson Parvo. That is what they're all talking about. Er, has he? Has he indeed? And pray, what did he pay for the article? A huge sum, I answered. I thought it was two thousand three hundred shillings, but it appears it was two thousand three hundred pounds. The handsome elderly gentleman grew very red in the face, so red that I thought he was going to have a fit. For a few moments he breathed heavily. A rival collector, I thought to myself, and went on with the story which it occurred to me might interest him. You see, the young gentleman was called away to an interview with his father. I heard him instruct his gardener a man called Wooden to buy the plant at any price. At any price? Indeed. Very interesting. Continue, sir. Well, the gardener bought it, that's all, after tremendous competition. Look, there he is, packing it up. Whether his master meant him to go as far as he did, I rather doubt. But here he comes, if you know him. The youthful Mr. Summers, looking a little pale and astray, strolled up apparently to speak to me. His hands were in his pockets, and an unlighted cigar was in his mouth. His eyes fell upon the elderly gentleman, a sight that caused him to shape his lips as though to whistle, and drop the cigar. Hello, father. He said in his pleasant voice, I got your message, and have been looking for you, but never thought that I should find you here. Orcas aren't much in your line, are they? Didn't you indeed? replied his parent in a choked voice. No, I haven't much use for this stinking rubbish. And he waved his umbrella at the beautiful flowers. But it seems that you have, Stephen. This little gentleman here tells me that you've just bought a very fine specimen. I must apologise, I broke in addressing Mr. Summers. I had not the slightest idea that this big gentleman, here the sun smiled faintly, was your intimate relation. Oh, pray, don't, Mr. Quartermain. Why should you not speak of what will be in all the papers? Yes, father, I have bought a very fine specimen, the finest known, or at least wooden, has on my behalf, while I was hunting for you, which comes to the same thing. Indeed, Stephen, and what did you pay for this flower? I have heard a figure, but think that there must be some mistake. I don't know what you heard, father, but it seems to have been knocked down to me at twenty three hundred pounds. It's a lot more than I can find indeed, and I was going to ask you to lend me the money for the sake of the family credit, if not for my own. But we can talk about that afterwards. Yes, Stephen, we couldn't talk of that afterwards. In fact, there is no time like the present, we will talk of it now. Come to my office. And, sir, this was addressed to me, as you seem to know something of the circumstances, I will ask you to come also, and you to blockhead. This was to wooden, who just then approached with the plant. Now, of course, I might have refused an invitation conveyed in such a manner. But as a matter of fact, I didn't. I wanted to see the thing out, also to put in a word for young summers, if I got the chance. So we all departed from that room, followed by a tit of amusement from those of the company who had overheard the conversation. In the street stood a splendid carriage and pair, a powdered footman opened its door. With a ferocious bow, sir Alexander motioned to me to enter, which I did, taking one of the back seats, as it gave more room for my tin case. Then came Mr. Stephen, then wooden, bundled in, holding the precious plant in front of him like a wand of office. And, last of all, sir Alexander, having seen us safe, entered also. Where to, sir? asked the footman. Office! he snapped. And we started. Four disappointed relatives and a funeral coach could not have been more silent. Our feelings seemed to be too deep for words, so Alexander, however, did make one remark and, to me, it was, if you will remove the corner of that infernal tin box of yours from my ribs, I shall be obliged to you, sir. Your pardon, I exclaimed, and in my efforts to be accommodating dropped it on his toe. I will not repeat the remark he made, but I may explain that he was gouty. His son suddenly became afflicted with a sense of the absurdity of the situation. He kicked me on the shin, he even dared to wink, and then began to swell visibly with suppressed laughter. I was in agony, for if he had exploded I do not know what would have happened. Fortunately at this moment the carriage stopped at the door of a fine office. Without waiting for the footman, Mr. Stephen bundled out and vanished into the building. I supposed to laugh in safety. Then I descended with the tin case, then by command followed wooden with a flower, and lastly came, sir Alexander. Stop here, he said to the coachman, I shan't be long, be so good as to follow me, Mr. Whatcher name, and you too, Gardner. We followed, and found ourselves in a big room, luxuriously furnished in a heavy kind of way. Sir Alexander Summers, I should explain, was an enormously opulent bullion broker, whatever a bullion broker may be. In this room Mr. Stephen was already established, indeed he was seated on the window sill, swinging his leg. Now we are alone and comfortable. Growled Sir Alexander with sarcastic ferocity. As the boa constrictor said to the rabbit in the cage, I remarked. I did not mean to say it, but I had grown nervous, and the thought leapt from my lips in words. Again Mr. Stephen began to swell. He turned his face to the window as though to contemplate the wall beyond, but I could see his shoulders shaking. A dim light of intelligence shone in wooden's pale eyes. About three minutes later the joke got home. He gurgled something about boa constrictors and rabbits, and gave a short loud laugh. As for Sir Alexander, he merely said, I did not catch your remarks, sir. Would you be so good as to repeat it? As I appeared unwilling to accept the invitation he went on, perhaps then you would repeat what you told me in that sail-room. Why should I? I asked. I spoke quite clearly, and you seem to understand. You are right, replied Sir Alexander, to waste time is useless. He wheeled round on wooden, who was standing near the door, still holding the paper-wrapped plant in front of him. Now, blockhead, he shouted, tell me why you bought that thing. Wooden made no answer, only rocked a little. Sir Alexander reiterated his command. This time wooden set the plant upon a table and replied, If you are a spikin' to me, sir, that bite my name, and what's more, if you cause me so again, I'll punch your head wherever you may be. And very deliberately he rolled up the sleeves on his brawny arms, a sight at which I too began to swell with inward merriment. Look here, Father, said Mr. Stephen, stepping forward. What's the use of all this? The thing's perfectly plain. I did tell Wooden to buy the plant at any price. What is more, I gave him a written authority, which was passed up to the auctioneer. There's no getting out of it. It is true, it never occurred to me that it would go for anything like twenty three hundred pounds. The odd three hundred pounds was more my idea, but Wooden only abate his orders and ought not to be abused for doing so. That's what I call a master worth serving, remarked Wooden. Very well, young man, said Sir Alexander, you have purchased this article. Would you be so good as to tell me how you propose it should be paid for? I propose, Father, that you should pay for it, replied Mr. Stephen sweetly, two thousand three hundred pounds, or ten times that amount would not make you appreciably poorer. But if, as is probable, you take a different view, then I propose to pay for it myself. As you know, a certain sum of money came to me under my mother's will, in which you have only a life interest. I shall raise the amount upon that security, or otherwise. If Sir Alexander had been angry before, now he became like a mad bull in a china shop. He pranced round the room. He used language that should not pass the lips of any respectable merchant of bullion. In short, he did everything that a person in his position ought not to do. When he was tired, he rushed to a desk, tore a check from a book, and filled it in for the sum of twenty three hundred pounds to bearer, which check he blotted, crumpled up and literally threw at the head of his son. You worthless idle young scoundrel, he bellowed. I put you in this office here that you may learn respectable and orderly habits, and in due course succeed to a very comfortable business. What happens? You don't take a hape of the interest in bullion-broken, a subject of which I believe you to remain profoundly ignorant. You don't even spend your money, or rather my money, upon any gentleman-like vice, such as horse racing or cards, or even, well, never mind. Now you take to flowers, miserable beastly flowers, things that are cow eats and clerks growing back gardens. An ancient and Arcadian taste, Adam is supposed to have lived in a garden I ventured to interpolate. Perhaps you would ask your friend with a stumbly hair to remain quiet, snorted Sir Alexander. I was about to add, although for the sake of my name I meet your debts that I have had enough of this kind of thing, I disinherit you or will do if I live till 4 p.m. when the lawyer's office shuts, for thank God there are no entailed estates, and I dismiss you from the firm. You can go and earn your living in any way you please, by orchid hunting, if you like. He paused gasping for breath. Is that all, Father? asked Mr. Stephen, producing a cigar from his pocket. No, it isn't you cold, blooded young beggar. That house you occupy, Twickenham, is mine. You will be good enough to clear out, I wish to take possession. I suppose, Father, I am entitled to a weak's notice like any other tenant, said Mr. Stephen, lighting the cigar. In fact, he added, if you want to know, I think I shall ask you to apply for an ejection order. You will understand that I have arrangements to make before making a fresh start in life. Oh, curse your cheek, you cucumber! raged the infuriated merchant prince. Then an inspiration came to him. You think more of an ugly flower than of your father, do you? Well, at least I'll put an end to that. And he made a dash at the plant on the table with the evident intention of destroying the same. But the watching wooden saw, with a kind of lurch, he interposed his big frame between Sir Alexander and the object of his wrath. Touch, oh, piving, and I'll knock you down, he drawled out. Sir Alexander looked at oh, paving. He looked at wooden's leg of mutton fist, and changed his mind. Curse, oh, paving, he said, and everyone who has to do with it, and swung out of the room, banging the door behind him. Well, that's over, said Mr. Stephen gently, as he fanned himself for the pocket handkerchief. Quite exciting, while it lasted, wasn't it, Mr. Quartermain? But I have been there before, so to speak. And now what do you say to some luncheon? Pins is close by, and they have very good oysters. Only I think we'll drive round by the bank and hand in this check. When he's angry, my parent is capable of anything. He might even stop it. Wooden, get off down to Twickenham with Opaevo. Keep it warm, for it feels rather like frost. Put it in the stove for tonight, and give it a little, just a little tepid water, but be careful not to touch the flower. Take a four-wheeled cab, it's slow, but safe, and mine you keep the windows up, and don't smoke. I should be home for dinner. Wooden pulled his forelock, seized the pot in his left hand, and departed with his right fist raised. I suppose in case Sir Alexander should be waiting for him round the corner. Then we departed also, and after stopping for a minute at the bank to pay in the check, which I noted notwithstanding its amount, was accepted without comment, ate oysters in a place too crowded to allow of conversation. Mr. Quartermain said, my host, it is obvious that we cannot talk here, and much less look at that orchard of yours which I want to study at leisure. Now, for a week or so at any rate, I have a roof over my head, and in short, will you be my guest for a night or two? I know nothing about you, and of me you only know that I am the disinherited son of a father, to whom I have failed to give satisfaction. Still, it is possible that we might pass a few pleasant hours together talking of flowers and other things, that is, if you have no previous engagement. I have none, I answered. I am only a stranger from South Africa lodging at a hotel. If you will give me time to call for my bag, I will pass the night at your house with pleasure. By the aid of Mr. Summers smart dog-cart, which was waiting at a city-muse, we reached Twickenham while there was still half an hour of daylight. The house, which was called Verbina Lodge, was small, a square red brick building of early Georgian period, but the gardens covered quite an acre of ground, and were very beautiful, or must have been so in summer. Into the greenhouse we did not enter, because it was too late to see the flowers. Also, just when we came to them, wooden arrived in his four-wheeled cab, and departed with his master to see the housing of Opaevo. Then came dinner, a very pleasant meal. My host had that day been turned out upon the world, but he did not allow this circumstance to interfere with his spirits in the least. Also, he was evidently determined to enjoy its good things while they lasted, for his champagne and port were excellent. You see, Mr. Quatermain, he said, it's just as well we had that row which has been boiling up for a long time. My respected father has made so much money that he thinks I should go and do likewise. Now I don't see it. I like flowers, especially orchards, and I hate bullion-broken. To me the only decent places in London are that sail-room where we met, and the horticultural gardens. Yes, I answered rather doubtfully, but the matter seems a little serious. Your parent was very emphatic as to his intentions, and after this kind of thing, and I pointed to the beautiful silver and the port, how will you like roughing it in a hard world? Don't think I shall mind a bit. It would be rather a pleasant change. Also, even if my father doesn't alter his mind, as he may, for he likes me at bottom because I resemble my dear mother. Things ain't so very bad. I have got some money that she left me. Six thousand or seven thousand pounds. And I'll sell that at Donterglosson Parva for what it will fetch to Sir Joshua Treadgold. He was the man with a long beard, who you tell me ran up wooden to over two thousand pounds, or failing him to someone else. I'll write about it to-night. I don't think I have any debts to speak of, for the Governor has been allowing me three thousand pounds a year, at least that is my share of the profits paid to me in return for my bullion-broken labours, and except flowers I have no expensive tastes. So the devil take the past, here's to the future whatever it may bring, and he polished off the glass of port he held and laughed in his jolly fashion. Really he was a most attractive young man, a little reckless it is true, but then recklessness and youth mix well, like brandy and soda. I echoed the toast and drank off my port, for I like a good glass of wine when I can get it, as would anyone who has had to live for months on rotten water, although I admit that agrees with me better than the port. Now, Mr. Quartermain, he went on, if you have done, light your pipe, and let us go into the other room, and study that Cipropidium of yours. I shan't sleep to-night unless I see it again first. Stop a bit, though, or I'll get hold of that old-ass wooden before he turns in. Wooden, said his master when the gardener had arrived, this gentleman, Mr. Quartermain, is going to show you an orchid that is ten times finer than Opavo. Beg pardon, sir, answered Wooden, but if Mr. Quartermain says that he lies, it ain't in nature it don't bling nowhere. I opened the case and revealed the golden Cipropidium. Wooden stared at it and rocked. Then he stared again, and felt his head as though to make sure it was on his shoulders. Then he gasped. Well, if that their flower bait made up, it's a master one. If I could see that their flower blowing on the plant, I'd die happy. Wooden stopped talking and sit down, exclaimed his master, yes, there, where you can look at the flower. Now, Mr. Quartermain, will you tell us the story of that orchid from beginning to end? Of course, omitting its habitat, if you like, for it isn't fair to ask that secret. Wooden can be trusted to hold his tongue, and so can I. I remarked that I was sure they could, and for the next half hour talked almost without interruption, keeping nothing back, and explaining that I was anxious to find someone who would finance an expedition to search for this particular plant, as I believed the only one of its sort that existed in the world. How much will it cost? asked Mr. Summers. I lay it at two thousand pounds, I answered. You see, we must have plenty of men and guns and stores, also trade goods and presents. I call that cheap, but supposing Mr. Quartermain that the expedition proves successful and the plant is secured, what then? Then I propose that Brother John, who found it, and of whom I have told you, should take one-third of whatever it might sell for, that I, as captain of the expedition, should take one-third, and that whoever finds the necessary money should take the remaining third. Good! that's settled. What's settled? I asked. Why, that we should divide in the proportions you named, only I bargained to be allowed to take my whack in kind, I mean in plant, and to have the first option of purchasing the rest of the plant at whatever value may be agreed upon. But Mr. Summers, do you mean that you wish to find two thousand pounds and make this expedition in person? Of course I do. I thought you understood that. That is, if you will have me. Your old friend, the lunatic, you and I will together seek for and find this golden flower. I say that's settled. On the morrow, accordingly, it was settled with the help of a document signed in duplicate by both of us. Before these arrangements were finally concluded, however, I insisted that Mr. Summers should meet my late companion, Charlie Scroop, when I was not present, in order that the latter might give him a full and particular report concerning myself. Apparently the interview was satisfactory, at least so I judged from the very cordial and even respectful manner in which young Summers met me after it was over. Also I thought it my duty to explain to him with much clearness in the presence of Scroop as a witness the great dangers of such an enterprise as that on which he proposed to embark. I told him straight out that he must be prepared to find his death in it from starvation, fever, wild beasts, or at the hands of savages, while success was quite problematical and very likely would not be attained. You are taking these risks, he said. Yes, I answered, but they are incident to the rough trade I follow, which is that of a hunter and explorer. Moreover, my youth is past. I have gone through experiences and bereavements of which you know nothing that cause me to set a very slight value on life. I care little whether I die or continue in the world for some few added years. Lastly the excitement of adventure has become a kind of necessity for me. I do not think that I could live in England for very long. Also I am a fatalist. I believe that when my time comes I must go, that this hour is foreordained and that nothing I can do will either hasten or postpone it by one moment. Your circumstances are different. You are quite young. If you stay here and approach your father in a proper spirit, I have no doubt that he will forgive all the rough words he said to you the other day, for which indeed you know you gave him some provocation. Is it worthwhile throwing up such prospects and undertaking such dangers for the chance of finding a rare flower? I say this to my own disadvantage, since I might find it hard to discover anyone else who would risk two thousand pounds on such a venture, but I do urge you to weigh my words. Young Summers looked at me for a little while, then he broke into one of his hearty laughs and exclaimed, Whatever else you may be, Mr. Alan Cortemaine, you are a gentleman. No bullion-broker in the city could have put the matter more fairly in the teeth of his own interests. Thank you, I said. For the rest, he went on, I am too tired of England and want to see the world. It isn't the golden Cypropidium that I seek, and although I should like to win it well enough, that's only a symbol. What I seek are adventure and romance. Also, like you, I am a fatalist. God chose his own time to send us here, and I presume that he will choose his own time to take us away again. So I leave the matter of risks to him. Yes, Mr. Summers, I replied rather solemnly, you may find adventure and romance. There are plenty both in Africa, or you may find a nameless grave and some fever-haunted swamp, while you have chosen, and I like your spirit. Still, I was so little satisfied about this business that a week or so before we sailed, after much consideration, I took it upon myself to write a letter to Sir Alexander Summers, in which I set forth the whole matter as clearly as I could, not blinking the dangerous nature of our undertaking. In conclusion, I asked him whether he thought it wise to allow his only son to accompany such an expedition, mainly because of a not very serious quarrel with himself. As no answer came to this letter, I went on with our preparations. There was money in plenty, since the resale of Oppavo to Sir Joshua Treadgold at some loss had been satisfactorily carried out, which enabled me to invest in all things needful with a cheerful heart, never before had I been provided with such an outfit as that which preceded us to the ship. At length the day of departure came. We stood on the platform at Paddington, waiting for the Dartmouth train to start, for in those days the African mail sailed from that port. A minute or two before the train left, as we were preparing to enter our carriage, I caught sight of a face that I seemed to recognize, the owner of which was evidently searching for someone in the crowd. It was that of Briggs, Sir Alexander's clerk whom I had met in the sail-room. Mr. Briggs, I said as he passed me, are you looking for Mr. Summers, if so he is in here. The clerk jumped into the compartment and handed a letter to Mr. Summers, then he emerged again and waited. Summers read the letter and tore off a blank sheet from the end of it, on which he hastily wrote some words. He passed it to me to give to Briggs, and I could not help seeing what was written. It was, too late now, God bless you, my dear father, I hope we may meet again, if not try to think kindly of your troublesome and foolish son, Stephen. In another minute the train had started. By the way, he said, as we steamed out of the station, I heard from my father who enclosed this for you. I opened the envelope, which was addressed in a bold round hand that seemed to me typical of the writer. It read as follows, My dear sir, I appreciate the motives which caused you to write to me, and I thank you very heartily for your letter, which shows me that you are a man of discretion and strict honour. As you surmise, the expedition on which my son has entered is not one that commands itself to me as prudent. Of the differences between him and myself you are aware, for they came to a climax in your presence. Indeed, I feel that I owe you an apology for having dragged you into an unpleasant family quarrel. Your letter only reached me today, having been forwarded to my place in the country from my office. I should have at once come to town, but unfortunately I am laid up with an attack of gout which makes it impossible for me to stir. Therefore the only thing I can do is to write to my son, hoping that the letter which I send by a special messenger will reach him in time and avail to alter his determination to undertake his journey. Here I may add that although I have differed and do differ from him on various points, I still have a deep affection for my son and earnestly desire his welfare. The prospect of any harm coming to him is one upon which I cannot bear to dwell. Now, I am aware that any change of his plans at this eleventh hour would involve you in serious loss and inconvenience. I beg to inform you formally, therefore, that in this event I will make good everything and will in addition write off the two thousand pounds which I understand he has invested in your joint venture. It may be, however, that my son, who has in him a vein of my own obstinacy, will refuse to change his mind. In that event, under a higher power, I can only commend him to your care. And beg that you will look after him as though he were your own child. I can ask, and you can do no more. Tell him to write to me as opportunity offers, as perhaps you will, too. Also that, although I hate the sight of them, I will look after the flowers which he has left at the house at Twickenham. Your obliged servant, Alexander Summers. This letter touched me, and indeed made me feel very uncomfortable. Without a word, I handed it to my companion, who read it through carefully. Nice of him about the orchids, he said. My dad has a good heart, although he lets his temper get the better of him, having had his own way all his life. Well, what will you do? I asked. Go on, of course. I've put my hand to the plow, and I'm not going to turn back. I should be a cur, if I did, and what's more, whatever he might say, he'd think none the better of me. So please don't try to persuade me, it would be no good. For quite a while afterwards young Summers seemed to be comparatively depressed, a stage of mind that, in his case, was rare indeed. At last he studied the wintry landscape through the carriage window and said nothing. By degrees, however, he recovered, and when we reached Dartmouth was as cheerful as ever, a mood that I could not altogether share. Before we sailed I wrote to Sir Alexander, telling him exactly how things stood. And so, I think, did his son, though he never showed me the letter. At Durban, just as we were about to start up country, I received an answer from him, sent by some boat, that followed us very closely. In it he said that he quite understood the position, and whatever happened would attribute no blame to me, whom he should always regard with friendly feelings. He told me that, in the event of any difficulty or want of money, I was to draw on him for whatever might be required, and that he had advised the African bank to that effect. Further, he added, that at least his son had shown grit in this matter, for which he respected him. And now, for a long while, I must bid goodbye to Sir Alexander Summers, and all that has to do with England. End of Chapter 3