 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE by James Oliver Kerwood. Thornton wasn't the sort of man in whom you'd expect to find the devil lurking. He was big, blond, and broad-shouldered. When I first saw him I thought he was an Englishman. That was at the post at Lac-Lebiche, six hundred miles north of civilization. Scotty and I had been doing some exploration work for the government, and for more than six months we hadn't seen a real white man who looked like home. We came in late at night, and the Factor gave us a room in his house. When we looked out of our window in the morning we saw a little shack about a hundred feet away, and in front of that shack was Thornton, only half dressed, stretching himself in the sun, and laughing. There wasn't anything to laugh at, but we could see his teeth shining white, and he grinned every minute while he went through a sort of setting up exercise. When you begin to analyze a man there is always some one human trait that rises above all others, and that laugh was Thornton's. Even the wolfish sledge-dogs at the post would wag their tails when they heard it. We soon established friendly relations, but I could not get very far beyond the laugh. Indeed, Thornton was a mystery. Debar, the Factor, said that he had dropped into the post six months before with a pack on his back and a rifle over his shoulder. He had no business, apparently. He was not a perpectory, and it was only now and then that he used his rifle, and then only to shoot at marks. One thing puzzled Debar more than all else. Thornton worked like three men about the post, cutting winter firewood, helping to catch and clean the tons of whitefish which were stored away for the dogs in the company's ice-houses, and doing other things without end. For this he refused all payment except his rations. Scotty continued eastward to Churchill, and for seven weeks I bunked with Thornton in the shack. At the end of those seven weeks I knew little more about Thornton than at the beginning. I never had a closer or more congenial chum, and yet in his conversation he never got beyond the big woods, the mountains, and the tangled swamps. He was educated and a gentleman, and I knew that in spite of his brown face and arms, his hard muscles and splendid health, he was three quarters tenderfoot. But he loved the wilderness. I never knew what life could hold for a man until I came up here, he said to me one day, his gray eyes dancing in the light of a glorious sunset. I'm ten years younger than I was two years ago. You've been two years in the north? A year and ten months, he replied. Something brought to my lips the words that I had forced back a score of times. What brought you up here, Thornton? Two things, he said quietly, a woman and a scoundrel. He said no more, and I did not press the matter. There was a strange tremble in his voice, something that I took to be a note of sadness, but when he turned from the sunset to me his eyes were filled with a yet stranger joy, and his big boyish laugh rang out with such wholesome infectiousness that I laughed with him in spite of myself. That night, in our shack, he produced a tightly bound bundle of letters, about six inches thick, scattered them out before him on the table, and began reading them at random, while I sat bolstered back in my bunk, smoking and watching him. He was a curious study. Every little while I'd hear him chuckling and rumbling. His teeth a gleam, and between these times he'd grow serious. Once I saw tears rolling down his cheeks. He puzzled me, and the more he puzzled me the better I liked him. Every night for a week he spent an hour or two reading those letters over and over again. I had a dozen opportunities to see that they were a woman's letters, but he never offered a word of explanation. With the approach of September I made preparations to leave for the south by way of Moose Factory and the Albany. Why not go the shorter way, by the reindeer-lake water-route to Prince Albert? asked Thornton. If you'll do that I'll go with you. His proposition delighted me, and we began planning for our trip. From that hour there came a curious change in Thornton. It was as if he had come into contact with some mysterious dynamo that had charged him with a strange nervous energy. We were two days in getting our stuff ready, and the night between he did not go to bed at all, but sat up reading the letters, smoking, and then reading over again what he had read half a hundred times before. I was pretty well hardened, but during the first week of our canoe trip he nearly had me bushed a dozen times. He insisted on getting away before dawn, laughing, singing, and talking, and urged on the pace until sunset. I don't believe that he slept two hours a night. Often when I woke up I'd see him walking back and forth in the moonlight, humming softly to himself. There was almost a touch of madness in it all, but I knew that Thornton was sane. One night, our fourteenth down, I awoke a little after midnight, and as usual looked about for Thornton. It was a glorious night. There was a full moon over us, and with the lake at our feet, and the spruce and balsam forest on each side of us, the whole scene struck me as one of the most beautiful I had ever looked upon. When I came out of our tent Thornton was not in sight. Away across the lake I heard a moose calling. Back of me an owl hooted softly, and from miles away I could hear faintly the howling of a wolf. The night sounds were broken by my own startled cry as I felt a hand fall without warning upon my shoulder. It was Thornton. I had never seen his face as it looked just then. "'Isn't it beautiful, glorious?' he cried softly. "'It's wonderful,' I said. "'You won't see this down there, Thornton.' "'Nor hear those sounds,' he replied, his hand tightening on my arm. "'We're pretty close to God up here, aren't we?' "'She'll like it. I'll bring her back.' "'She,' he looked at me, his teeth shining in that wonderful silent laugh. "'I'm going to tell you about it,' he said. "'I can't keep it in any longer. Let's go down by the lake.' We walked down and seated ourselves on the edge of a big rock. "'I told you that I came up here because of a woman and a man,' continued Thornton. "'Well, I did. A man and woman were husband and wife, and I,' he interrupted himself with one of his chuckling laughs, there was something in it that made me shudder. "'No use to tell you that I loved her,' he went on. "'I worshipped her. She was my life, and I believe she loved me as much. I might have added that there was a third thing that drove me up here, what remained of the rag end of a man's honor.' "'I begin to understand,' I said as he paused. "'You came up here to get away from the woman, but this woman, her husband, for the first time since I had known him, I saw a flash of anger leap into Thornton's face. He struck his hand against the rock. Her husband was a scoundrel, a brute, who came home from his club, drunk, a cheap money-spender, a man who wasn't fit to wipe the mud from her little feet, much less call her wife. He ought to have been shot. I can see it now, and well, I might as well tell you, I'm going back to her.' "'You are?' I cried. "'Has she got a divorce? Is her husband still living?' "'No, she hasn't got a divorce, and her husband is still living. But for all that, we've arranged it. Those were her letters I've been reading, and she'll be at Prince Albert waiting for me on the fifteenth, three days from now. We shall be a little late, and that's why I'm hustling so. I have kept away from her for two years, but I can't do it any longer, and she says that if I do, she'll kill herself. So there you have it. She's the sweetest, most beautiful girl in the whole world, eyes the color of those blue flowers you have up here, brown hair, and—but you've got to see her when we reach Prince Albert. You won't blame me for doing all this, then.' I had nothing to say. At my silence, he turned toward me suddenly, with that happy smile of his, and said again, "'I tell you that you won't blame me when you see her. You'll envy me, and you'll call me a confounded fool for staying away so long. It has been terribly hard for both of us. I'll wager that she's no sleepier than I am tonight, just from knowing that I'm hurrying to her.' "'You're pretty confident, I could not help sneering. I don't believe I'd wager much on such a woman. To be frank with you, Thornton, I don't care to meet her, so I'll decline your invitation. I have a little wife of my own, as true as steel, and I'd rather keep out of an affair like this. You understand?' "'Perfectly,' said Thornton, and there was not the slightest ill-humour in his voice. "'You think I am a cur? If you have stolen another man's wife, yes.' "'And the woman? If she is betraying her husband, she is no better than you.' Thornton rose and stretched his long arms above his head. "'Isn't the moon glorious?' he cried exultantly. She has never seen a moon like that. She has never seen a world like this. "'Do you know what we're going to do? We'll come up here and build a cabin, and she'll know what a real man is at last. She deserves it, and we'll have you up to visit us, you and your wife, two months out of each year. But then,' he turned and laughed squarely into my face, "'You probably won't want your wife to know her.' "'Probably not,' I said, not without embarrassment. "'I don't blame you,' he exclaimed, and before I could draw back, he had caught my hand and was shaking it hard in his own. "'Let's be friends a little longer, old man,' he went on. "'I know you'll change your mind about the little girl and me when we reach Prince Albert.' I didn't go to sleep again that night, and the half-dozen days that followed were unpleasant enough, for me at least. In spite of my own coolness toward him, there was absolutely no change in Thornton. Not once did he make any further allusion to what he had told me. As we drew nearer to our journey's end, his enthusiasm and good spirits increased. He had the bow end of the canoe, and I had abundant opportunity of watching him. It was impossible not to like him, even after I knew his story. We reached Prince Albert on a Sunday, after three days' travel in a buckboard. When we drove up in front of the hotel, there was just one person in the long veranda looking out over the Saskatchewan. It was a woman reading a book. As he saw her, I heard a great breath heave up inside Thornton's chest. The woman looked up, stared for a moment, and then dropped her book with a welcoming cry such as I had never heard before in my life. She sprang down the steps, and Thornton leaped from the wagon. They met there a dozen paces from me, Thornton catching her in his arms, and the woman clasping her arms about his neck. I heard her sobbing, and I saw Thornton kissing her again and again, and then the woman pulled his blonde head down close to her face. It was sickening, knowing what I did, and I began helping the driver to throw off our donage. In about two minutes I heard Thornton calling me. I didn't turn my head. Then Thornton came to me, and as he straightened me around by the shoulders I caught a glimpse of the woman. He was right. She was very beautiful. I told you that her husband was a scoundrel and a rake, he said gently. Well, he was. And I was that scoundrel. I came up here for a chance of redeeming myself, and your big glorious north has made a man of me. Will you come and meet my wife? And of the other man's wife, by James Oliver Curwood. Recording by Roger Maline. Political Economy by Mark Twain. 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. Political Economy by Mark Twain. Political Economy is the basis of all good government. The wisest men of all ages have brought to bear upon this subject the— Here I was interrupted and informed that a stranger wished to see me down at the door. I went and confronted him and asked to know his business, struggling all the time to keep a tight reign on my seething political economy ideas and not let them break away from me or get tangled in their harness. And privately I wished the stranger was in the bottom of the canal with a cargo of wheat on top of him. I was all in a fever, but he was cool. He said he was sorry to disturb me, but as he was passing he noticed that I needed some lightning rods. I said, yes, yes, go on, what about it? He said there was nothing about it in particular, nothing except that he would like to put them up for me. I am new to housekeeping, have been used to hotels and sporting houses all my life. Like anybody else of similar experience I try to appear to strangers, to be an old housekeeper. Consequently I said in an offhand way that I had been intending for some time to have six or eight lightning rods put up, but the stranger started and looked inquiringly at me, but I was serene. I thought that if I chanced to make any mistakes he would not catch me by my countenance. He said he would rather have my custom than any man's in town. I said, all right, and started off to wrestle with my great subject again. When he called me back and said it would be necessary to know exactly how many points I wanted put up, what parts of the house I wanted them on, and what quality of rod I preferred. It was close quarters for a man not used to the exigencies of housekeeping, but I went through it creditably, and he probably never suspected that I was a novice. I told him to put up eight points, and put them all on the roof, and use the best quality of rod. He said he could furnish the plain article at twenty cents a foot, coppered twenty-five cents, zinc-plated spiral twist at thirty cents. That would stop a streak of lightning any time no matter where it was bound, and render its errand harmless and its further progress apocryphal. I said apocryphal was no slouch of a word emanating from the source it did, but philology aside, I liked the spiral twist and would take that brand. Then he said he could make two hundred and fifty feet answer. But to do it right, and make the best job in town of it, and attract the admiration of the just and the unjust alike, and compel all parties to say they never saw a more symmetrical and hypothetical display of lightning rods since they were born, he's supposed he really couldn't get along without four hundred, though he was not vindictive and trusted he was willing to try. I said go ahead and use four hundred, and make any kind of job he pleased out of it, but let me get back to my work. So I got rid of him at last, and now after half an hour spent in getting my train of political economy thoughts coupled together again, I am ready to go on once more. Richest treasures of their genius, their experience of life, and their learning, the great lights of commercial jurisprudence, international confraternity, and biological deviation of all ages, all civilizations, and all nationalities from Zoroaster down to Horace Greeley have—here I was interrupted again and required to go down and confer further with that lightning rod man. I hurried off, boiling and surging with prodigious thoughts wound in words of such majesty that each one of them was in itself a straggling procession of syllables that might be fifteen minutes passing a given point, and once more I confronted him. He so calm and sweet, I so hot and frenzied. He was standing in the contemplative attitude of the Colossus of Rhodes, with one foot on my infant tuberose, and the other among my pansies. His hands on his hips, his hat-brim tilted forward, one eye shut, and the other gazing critically and admiringly in the direction of my principal chimney. He said now there was a state of things to make a man glad to be alive, and added, I leave it to you if you ever saw anything more deliriously picturesque than eight lightning rods on one chimney. I said I had no present recollection of anything that transcended it. He said that in his opinion nothing on earth but Niagara Falls was superior to it in the way of natural scenery. All that was needed now, he verily believed, to make my house a perfect balm to the eye, was to kind of touch up the other chimneys a little, and thus add to the generous coup d'air, a soothing uniformity of achievement which would allay the excitement naturally consequent upon the coup d'etat. I asked him if he learned to talk out of a book and if I could borrow it anywhere. He smiled pleasantly and said that his manner of speaking was not taught in books, and that nothing but familiarity with lightning could enable a man to handle his conversational style with impunity. He then figured up an estimate, and said that about eight more rods scattered about my roof would about fix me right, and he guessed five hundred feet of stuff would do it, and added that the first eight had got a little the start of him, so to speak, and used up a mere trifle of material more than he had calculated on, a hundred feet or along there. I said I was in a dreadful hurry, and I wished we could get this business permanently mapped out so that I could go on with my work. He said, I could have put up those eight rods and marched off about my business. Some men would have done it. But no, I said to myself this man is a stranger to me, and I will die before I'll wrong him. There ain't lightning rods enough on that house, and for one I'll never stir out of my tracks till I've done as I would be done by. And I told him so. Stranger, my duty is accomplished. If the recalcitrant and deflogistic messenger of heaven strikes your—there, now, there, I said, put on the other eight, add five hundred feet of spiral twist, do anything and everything you want to do, but calm your sufferings and try to keep your feelings where you can reach them with the dictionary. Meanwhile, if we understand each other now, I will go to work again. I think I have been sitting here a full hour this time, trying to get back to where I was when my train of thought was broken up by the last interruption. But I believe I have accomplished it at last, and may venture to proceed again. wrestled with this great subject, and the greatest among them have founded a worthy adversary, and one that always comes up fresh and smiling after every throw. The great Confucius said that he would rather be a profound political economist than chief of police. Cicero frequently said that political economy was the grandest consummation that the human mind was capable of consuming, and even our own Greeley has said vaguely but forcibly that political. Here the lightning-rod man sent up another call for me. I went down in a state of mind bordering on impatience. He said he would rather have died than interrupt me, but when he was employed to do a job, and that job was expected to be done in a clean workman-like manner, and when it was finished in fatigue urged him to seek the rest in recreation, he stood so much in need of, and he was about to do it, but looked up and saw at a glance, that all the calculations had been a little out. And if a thunderstorm were to come up in that house, which he felt a personal interest in, stood there with nothing on earth to protect it, but sixteen lightning-rods, let us have peace, I shrieked. Put up a hundred and fifty. Put some on the kitchen. Put a dozen on the barn. Put a couple on the cow. Put one on the cook. Scatter them all over the persecuted place till it looks like a zinc-plated, spiral twisted, silver-mounted cane-break. Move! Use up all the material you can get your hands on, and when you run out of lightning-rods, put up ram-rods, cam-rods, stair-rods, piston-rods, anything that will pander to your dismal appetite for artificial scenery and bring respite to my raging brain and healing to my lacerated soul. Holy unmoved! Further than to smile sweetly, this iron being simply turned back his wristbands daintily and said he would now proceed to hump himself. Well, all that was nearly three hours ago. It is questionable whether I am calm enough yet to write on the noble theme of political economy, but I cannot resist the desire to try, for it is the one subject that is nearest to my heart and dearest to my brain of all this world's philosophy. Economy is heaven's best boon to man. When the loose but gifted Byron Lay in his Venetian exile, he observed that if it could be granted him to go back and live his misspent life over again, he would give his lucid and unintoxicated intervals to the composition not of frivolous rhymes, but of essays upon political economy. Washington loved this exquisite science. Such names as Baker, Beckwith, Judson, Smith are imperishably linked with it, and even Imperial Homer in the ninth book of the Iliad has said, Fiat, Ustitia, Ruat, Kildum, Postmortum, Unum, Antebellum, Hic, Facet, Hac, Ex parte, Reis, Politicum, E, Conomico, Est. The grandeur of these conceptions of the old poet, together with the felicity of the wording which closed them, and the sublimity of the imagery whereby they are illustrated, have singled out that stanza and made it more celebrated than any that ever. Now, not a word out of you, not a single word. Just state your bill and relapse into impenetrable silence for ever and ever on these premises. $900. Is that all? This check for the amount will be honored at any respectable bank in America. What is that multitude of people gathered in the street for? How? Looking at the lightning rods, bless my life, did they never see any lightning rods before? Never saw such a stack of them on one establishment, did I understand you to say? I will step down and critically observe this abolition of ignorance. Three Days Later We are all about worn out. For four in twenty hours our bristling premises were the talk and wonder of the town. The theaters languished for their happiest scenic inventions were tame and commonplace compared with my lightning rods. Our street was blocked night and day with spectators and among them were many who came from the country to sea. It was a blessed relief on the second day when a thunderstorm came up and the lightning began to go for my house as the historian Josephus quaintly phrases it. It cleared the galleries, so to speak. In five minutes there was not a spectator within half a mile of my place. But all the high houses about that distance away were full, windows, roof and all, and well they might be. For all the falling stars and fourth of July fireworks of a generation put together and rained down simultaneously out of heaven in one brilliant shower upon one helpless roof would not have any advantage of the pyrotechnic display that was making my house so magnificently conspicuous in the general gloom of the storm. By actual count the lightning struck at my establishment seven hundred and sixty four times in forty minutes. But tripped on one of those faithful rods every time and slid down the spiral twist and shot into the earth before it probably had time to be surprised at the way the thing was done. And through all that bombardment only one patch of slates was ripped up and that was because for a single instant the rods in the vicinity were transporting all the lightning they could possibly accommodate. Well, nothing was ever seen like it since the world began. For one whole day and night not a member of my family stuck his head out of the window but he got the hair snatched off it as smooth as a billiard ball. And if the reader will believe me not one of us ever dreamt of stirring abroad. But at last the awful siege came to an end because there was absolutely no more electricity left in the clouds above us within grappling distance of my insatiable rods. Then I sallied forth and gathered daring workmen together, and not a bite or a nap did we take till the premises were utterly stripped of all their terrific armament except just three rods on the house, one on the kitchen, and one on the barn. And behold, these remain there even unto this day. And then, and not till then, the people ventured to use our street again. I will remark here in passing that during that fearful time I did not continue my essay upon political economy. I am not even yet settled enough in nerve and brain to resume it. To whom it may concern. Parties having need of three thousand two hundred and eleven feet of best quality zinc-plated spiral twist lightning rod stuff, and sixteen hundred and thirty-one silver-tipped points, all in tolerable repair and although much worn by use, still equal to any ordinary emergency, can hear of bargains by addressing the publisher. Political Economy by Mark Twain Punch Brothers Punch by Mark Twain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Roger Maline. Punch Brothers Punch by Mark Twain. Will the reader please to cast his eye over the following lines and see if he can discover anything harmful in them? Conductor, when you receive a fare, punch in the presence of the passenger. A blue trip slip for an eight cent fare, a buff trip slip for a six cent fare, a pink trip slip for a three cent fare, punch in the presence of the passenger. Punch Brothers, punch with care, punch in the presence of the passenger. I came across these jingling rhymes in a newspaper a little while ago, and read them a couple of times. They took instant and entire possession of me. All through breakfast they went waltzing through my brain, and when at last I rolled up my napkin I could not tell whether I had eaten anything or not. I had carefully laid out my day's work the day before, thrilling tragedy in the novel which I am writing. I went to my den to begin my deed of blood. I took up my pen, but all I could get it to say was, punch in the presence of the passenger. I fought hard for an hour, but it was useless. My head kept humming, a blue trip slip for an eight cent fare, a buff trip slip for a six cent fare, and so on and so on, without peace or respite. The day's work was ruined. I could see that plainly enough. I gave up and drifted downtown, and presently discovered that my feet were keeping time to that relentless jingle. When I could stand it no longer I altered my step, but it did no good. Those rhymes accommodated themselves to the new step and went on harassing me just as before. I returned home and suffered all the afternoon, suffered all through an unconscious and unrefreshing dinner, suffered and cried, and jingled all through the evening. Went to bed and rolled, tossed, and jingled right along, the same as ever. Got up at midnight, frantic, and tried to read. But there was nothing visible upon the whirling pages, except punch, punch in the presence of the passenger. By sunrise I was out of my mind, and everybody marveled and was distressed at the idiotic burden of my ravings. Punch, oh, punch, punch in the presence of the passenger. Two days later, on Saturday morning, I arose, a tottering wreck, and went forth to fulfill an engagement with a valued friend, the Reverend Mr. X, to walk to the Talcott Tower ten miles distant. He stared at me, but asked no questions. We started. Mr. X talked, talked, talked as is his want. I said nothing. I heard nothing. At the end of a mile, Mr. X said, Mark, are you sick? I never saw a man look so haggard and warned and absent-minded. Say something. Do. Drarily, without enthusiasm, I said, Punch, brothers, punch with care, punch in the presence of the passenger. My friend, eyed me blankly, looked perplexed, then said, I do not think I get your drift, Mark. There does not seem to be any relevancy in what you have said. Certainly nothing sad. And yet maybe it was the way you said the words. I never heard anything that sounded so pathetic. What is— But I heard no more. I was already far away with my pitiless, heartbreaking, blue-trip slip for an eight-cent fare, buff-trip slip for a six-cent fare, pink-trip slip for a three-cent fare, punch in the presence of the passenger. I do not know what occurred during the other nine miles. However, all of a sudden Mr. X laid his hand on my shoulder and shouted, Oh, wake up! Wake up! Wake up! Don't sleep all day. Here we are at the tower, man. I have talked myself deaf and dumb and blind and never got a response. Just look at this magnificent autumn landscape. Look at it. Look at it. Feast your eye on it. You have traveled. You have seen boaster landscapes elsewhere. Come now. Deliver an honest opinion. What do you say to this? I sighed wearily and murmured. A buff-trip slip for a six-cent fare, a pink-trip slip for a three-cent fare, punch in the presence of the passenger. Reverend Mr. X stood there, very grave, full of concern, apparently, and looked long at me. Then he said, Mark, there is something about this that I cannot understand. Those are about the same words you said before. There does not seem to be anything in them, and yet they nearly break my heart when you say them. Punch in the—how is it they go? I began at the beginning and repeated all the lines. My friend's face lighted with interest. He said, Why, what a captivating jingle it is. It is almost music. It flows along so nicely. I have nearly caught the rhymes myself. Say them over just once more, and then I'll have them, sure. I said them over. Then Mr. X said them. He made one little mistake which I corrected. The next time, and the next, he got them right. Now a great burden seemed to tumble from my shoulders. That torturing jingle departed out of my brain, and a grateful sense of rest and peace descended upon me. I was light-hearted enough to sing, and I did sing, for half an hour, straight along as we went jogging homeward. Then my freed tongue found blessed speech again, and the pent-talk of many a weary hour began to gush and flow. It flowed on and on, joyously, jubilantly, until the fountain was empty and dry. As I rung my friend's hand at parting, I said, Haven't we had a royal good time? But now I remember you haven't said a word for two hours. Come, come, out with something. The reverend Mr. X turned a lackluster eye upon me, drew a deep sigh, and said, without animation, without apparent consciousness, punch, brothers, punch with care, punch in the presence of the passenger. A pang shot through me, as I said to myself, Poor fellow, poor fellow, he has got it now. I did not see Mr. X for two or three days after that. Then on Tuesday evening he staggered into my presence and sank dejectedly into a seat. He was pale, worn, he was a wreck. He lifted his faded eyes to my face and said, Ah, Mark, it was a ruinous investment that I made in those heartless rhymes. They have ridden me like a nightmare, day and night, hour after hour, to this very moment. Since I saw you, I have suffered the torments of the lost. Saturday evening I had a sudden call, by telegraph, and took the night train for Boston. The occasion was the death of a valued old friend who had requested that I should preach at his funeral sermon. I took my seat in the cars and set myself to framing the discourse. But I never got beyond the opening paragraph. For then the train started and the car wheels began their clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack. And right away those odious rhymes fitted themselves to that accompaniment. For an hour I sat there and set a syllable of those rhymes to every separate and distinct clack the car wheels made. Why, I was as fagged out then as if I had been chopping wood all day. My skull was splitting with headache. It seemed to me that I must go mad if I sat there any longer, so I undressed and went to bed. I stretched myself out in my berth, and, well, you know what the result was. The thing went right along, just the same. Clack, clack, clack, a blue trip slip. Clack, clack, clack, for an eight-cent fare. Clack, clack, clack, a buff trip slip. Clack, clack, clack, for a six-cent fare. And so on, and so on, and so on, punch in the presence of the passenger. Sleep? Not a single wink. I was almost a lunatic when I got to Boston. Don't ask me about the funeral. I did the best I could, but every solemn individual sentence was meshed and tangled and woven in and out with punch, brothers, punch with care, punch in the presence of the passenger. And the most distressing thing was that my delivery dropped into the undulating rhythm of those pulsating rhymes, and I could actually catch absent-minded people nodding time to the swing of it with their stupid heads. And, Mark, you may believe it or not, but before I got through, the entire assemblage were placidly bobbing their heads in solemn unison, mourners, undertaker, and all. The moment I had finished, I fled to the anti-room in a state bordering on Frenzy. Of course it would be my luck to find a sorrowing and aged maiden aunt of the deceased there, who had arrived from Springfield too late to get into the church. She began to sob and said, Oh, oh, he is gone, he is gone, and I didn't see him before he died. Yes, I said, he is gone, he is gone, he is gone, oh, will this suffering never cease? You loved him, then. Oh, you too loved him. Loved him? Loved who? Why, my poor George, my poor nephew. Oh, him, yes, oh, yes, yes, certainly, certainly, punch, punch, oh, this misery will kill me. And bless you, bless you, sir, for these sweet words. I too suffer in this dear loss. Were you present during his last moments? Yes, I, whose last moments? His, the dear departed's. Yes, oh, yes, yes, yes, I suppose so, I think so, I don't know. Oh, certainly I was there, I was there. Oh, what a privilege, what a precious privilege! And his last words. Oh, tell me, tell me his last words. What did he say? He said, he said, oh, my head, my head, my head. He said, he said, he never said anything but punch, punch, punch in the presence of the passenger. Oh, leave me, madam. In the name of all that is generous, leave me to my madness, my misery, my despair. A buff-trip slip for a six-cent fare, a pink-trip slip for a three-cent fare, endurance can no further go. Punch in the presence of the passenger. My friend's hopeless eyes rested upon mine a pregnant minute, and then he said impressively, Mark, you do not say anything. You do not offer me any hope. But, ah, me, it is just as well. It is just as well. You could not do me any good. The time has long gone by when words could comfort me. Something tells me that my tongue is doomed to wag forever to the jigger of that remorseless jingle. There, there it is, coming on me again, a blue-trip slip for an eight-cent fare, a buff-trip slip for a jigger. Thus murmuring faint and fainter, my friend sank into a peaceful trance and forgot his sufferings in a blessed respite. How did I finally save him from an asylum? I took him to a neighbouring university and made him discharge the burden of his persecuting rhymes into the eager ears of the poor, unthinking students. How is it with them now? The result is too sad to tell. Why did I write this article? It was for a worthy, even a noble purpose. It was to warn you, reader, if you should come across those merciless rhymes to avoid them, avoid them as you would to pestilence. End of Punch Brothers Punch by Mark Twain. Recording by Roger Moline. Lady Carlotta stepped out onto the platform of the small way side station and took a turn or two up and down its uninteresting length to kill time till the train should be pleased to proceed on its way. Then, in the roadway beyond, she saw a horse struggling with a more than ample load and a carter of the sort that seems to bear a sullen hatred against the animal that helps him to earn a living. Lady Carlotta promptly be took her to the roadway and put rather a different complexion on the struggle. Certain of her acquaintances were want to give her plentiful admonition as to the undesirability of interfering on behalf of a distressed animal, such interference being none of her business. Only once has she put the doctrine of non-interference into practice, when one of its most eloquent exponents had been besieged for nearly three hours in a small and extremely uncomfortable tree by an angry boar pig, while Lady Carlotta on the other side of the fence had proceeded with the watercolor sketch she was engaged on and refused to interfere between the boar and his prisoner. It is to be feared that she lost the friendship of the ultimately rescued lady. On this occasion, she merely lost the train, which gave way to the first sign of impatience it had shown throughout the journey and steamed off without her. She bore the deserts with philosophical indifference. Her friends and relations were thoroughly well used to the fact of her luggage arriving without her. She wired a vague non-committal message to her destination to say that she was coming on by another train. Before she had time to think what her next move might be, she was confronted by an imposingly attired lady who seemed to be taking a prolonged mental inventory of her clothes and looks. You must be, Miss Hope, the governess I've come to meet, said the apparition, in a tone that admitted a very little argument. Very well, if I must, I must, said Lady Carlotta to herself with dangerous meekness. I am Miss Cabarral, continued the lady, and where pray is your luggage? It's gone astray, said the alleged governess, falling in with the excellent rule of life that the absent are always to blame. The luggage had, in point of fact, behaved with perfect correctitude. I've just telegraphed about it, she added, with a nearer approach to truth. How provoking, said Mrs. Cabarral, these railway companies are so careless. However, my maid can lend you things for the night, and she led the way to her car. During the drive to the Cabarral mansion, Lady Carlotta was impressively introduced to the nature of the charge that had been thrust upon her. She learned that Claude and Wilfred were delicate sensitive young people, that Irene had the artistic temperament highly developed, and that Viola was something or other else of a mold equally commonplace among children of that class and type in the 20th century. I wish them not only to be taught, said Mrs. Cabarral, but interested in what they learn. In their history lessons, for instance, you must try to make them feel that they are being introduced to the life stories of men and women who really lived, not merely committing a mass of names and dates to memory. French, of course, I shall expect you to talk at mealtime several days in the week. I shall talk French four days of the week, and Russian in them reigning three. Russian, my dear Miss Hope, no one in the house speaks or understands Russian. That will not embarrass me in the least, said Lady Carlotta coldly. Mrs. Cabarral, to use a colloquially expression, was knocked off her perch. She was one of those imperfectly self-assured individual who are magnificent and autocratic as long as they are not seriously opposed. The least show of unexpected resistance goes a long way towards rendering them cowed and apologetic. When the new governess failed to express wondering admiration of the large newly purchased and expensive car, and lightly alluded to the superior advantages of one or two makes which had been just put on the market, the discomforture of her patroness became almost abject. Her feelings were those which might have animated a general of ancient war-faring days on beholding his heaviest battle-elephant, ignimoniously driven off the field by slingers and javelin throwers. At dinner that evening, although reinforced by her husband, who usually duplicated her opinions and lent her moral support generally, Mrs. Cabarral regained none of her lost ground. The governess not only helped herself well and truly to wine, but held forth with considerable show of critical knowledge on various vintage matters concerning which the Cabarral's were in no way is able to pose as authorities. Previous governesses had limited their conversations on the wine topic to a respectful and doubtless sincere expression of a preference for water. When this one went so far as to recommend a wine firm in whose hands you could not go very far wrong, Mrs. Cabarral thought at time to turn the conversation into more usual channels. We got very satisfactory references about you from Canon Teat, she observed. A very estimable man, I should think. Drinks like a fish and beats his wife, otherwise a very lovable character, said the governess imperturbably. My dear Ms. Hope, I trust you are exaggerating, exclaimed the Cabarral's in unison. One must in justice admit that there is some provocation, continued the romancer. Mrs. Teep is quite the most irritating bridge player that I have ever sat down with. Her leads and declarations would condone a certain amount of brutality in her partner, but to sows her with the contents of the only soda water siphon in the house on a Sunday afternoon, when one couldn't get another, argues an indifference to the comfort of others which I cannot altogether overlook. You may think me hasty in my judgments, but it was practically on account of the siphon incident that I left. We will talk of this some other time, said Mrs. Cabarral hastily. I shall never allude to it again, said the governess with decision. Mr. Cabarral made a welcome diversion by asking what studies the new instructress proposed to inaugurate on the morrow. History to begin with, she informed him. Ah, history, he observed sajely. Now in teaching them history, you must take care to interest them in what they learn. You must make them feel that they are being introduced to the life stories of men and women who really lived. I've already told her all that. Interpose, Mrs. Cabarral. I teach history on the Schwartz Metriclum method, said the governess loftily. Ah, yes, said her listeners, thinking it expedient to assume an acquaintance at least with the name. What are you children doing out here? demanded Mrs. Cabarral the next morning, on finding Irene sitting rather glumly at the head of the stairs, while her sister was perching in an attitude of depressed discomfort on the window seat behind her, with a wolfskin rug almost covering her. We are having a history lesson, came the unexpected reply. I am supposed to be Rome, and Viola up there is the she-wolf, not a real wolf, but the figure of one that the Romans used to set store by, I forget why, Claude and Wilfred have gone to fetch the shabby women. The shabby women? Yes, they've got to carry them off. They didn't want to, but Mr. Hope got one of father's five bats, and said she'd give them a number nine spanking if they didn't, so they've gone to do it. A loud, angry screaming from the direction of the lawn, drew Mrs. Cabarral thither in hot haste, fearful lest the threatened castigation might even now be in process of inflection. The outcry, however, came principally from the two small daughters of the lodgekeeper who were being hauled and pushed toward the house by the panting and disheveled Claude and Wilfred, whose task was rendered even more arduous, by the incessant, if not very effectual, attacks of the captured maiden's small brother. The governess, five's bat in hand, sat negligently on the stone balustrade, presiding over the scene with the cold impartiality of a goddess of battles. A furious and reported chorus of, I'll tell mother, rose from the lodge children, but the lodge mother who was hard of hearing was for the moment immersed in the preoccupation of her wash tub. After an apprehensive glance in the direction of the lodge, the good woman was gifted with the highly militant temper which is sometimes a privilege of deafness. Mrs. Quabarro flew indignantly to the rescue of the struggling captives. Wilfred, Claude, let those children go at once. Miss Hope, what is the meaning of this scene? Early Roman history, the Sabine women don't you know? It's the Schwarzmetter Kloem method, to make children understand history by acting it themselves. Fixes it in their memory, you know? Of course, if thanks to your interference, your boys go through life thinking the Sabine women ultimately escaped, I really cannot be held responsible. You may be very clever and modern, Miss Hope, said Mrs. Quabarro firmly, but I should like you to leave here by the next train. Your luggage will be sent after you as soon as it arrives. I'm not certain exactly where I shall be for the next few days, said the dismissed instructors of youth. You might keep my luggage till I wire my address. There are only a couple of trunks and some golf clubs and a leopard cub. A leopard cub? Gasp, Mrs. Quabarro. Even in her departure, this extraordinary person seemed destined to leave a trail of embarrassment behind her. Well, it's rather left off being a cub, it's more than half grown, you know. A fowl every other day and a rabbit on Sundays is what it usually gets. Raw beef makes it too excitable. Don't trouble about getting the car for me, I'm rather inclined for a walk. And Lady Carlotta strode out of the Quabarro horizon. The advent of the genuine Miss Hope, who had made a mistake as to the day on which she was due to arrive, caused a turmoil which the good lady was quite unused to inspiring. I'm not sure if I'm sure. Obviously the Quabarro family had been woefully befooled, but a certain amount of relief came with the knowledge. How tiresome for you, dear Carlotta, said her hostess when the overdue guest ultimately arrived. How very tiresome losing your train and having to stop overnight in a strange place. Oh, dear no, said Lady Carlotta. Not at all tiresome. For me. End of the Schwarzmetter Kloem method. Recording by Alan Winterout. Boomcoach.blogspot.com. At that time, in Kentucky, said the Honorable Mr. K, the law was very strict against what is termed Games of Chance. About a dozen of the boys were detected playing Seven Up or Old Sledge for money, and the grand jury found a true bill against them. Jim Sturges was retained to defend them when the case came up, of course. The more he studied over the matter and looked into the evidence, the planer it was that he must lose a case at last. There was no getting around that painful fact. Those boys had certainly been betting money on a Game of Chance. Even public sympathy was roused in behalf of Sturges. People said it was a pity to see him mar his successful career with a big prominent case like this, which must go against him. But after several restless nights an inspired idea flashed upon Sturges, and he sprang out of his bed, delighted. He thought he saw his way through. The next day he whispered around a little among his clients and a few friends, and then when the case came up in court he acknowledged the Seven Up and the betting, and as his sole defense had the astounding affrontery to put in the plea that Old Sledge was not a Game of Chance. There was the broadest sort of a smile all over the faces of that sophisticated audience. The judge smiled with the rest, but Sturges maintained a countenance whose earnestness was even more severe. The opposite counsel tried to ridicule him out of his position, and did not succeed. The judge jested in a ponderous judicial way about the thing, but did not move him. The matter was becoming grave. The judge lost a little of his patience, and said the joke had gone far enough. Jim Sturges said he knew of no joke in the matter. His clients could not be punished for indulging in what some people chose to consider a Game of Chance until it was proven that it was a Game of Chance. Judge and counsel said that would be an easy matter, and forthwith called Deacons Job, Peter's Burke, and Johnson, and Domine's Wirt and Miggles to testify, and they unanimously and with strong feeling put down the legal quibble of Sturges by pronouncing that Old Sledge was a Game of Chance. What do you call it now? said the judge. I call it a Game of Science, retorted Sturges, and I'll prove it too. They saw his little game. He brought in a cloud of witnesses and produced an overwhelming massive testimony to show that Old Sledge was not a Game of Chance, but a Game of Science. Instead of being the simplest case in the world, it had somehow turned out to be an excessively naughty one. The judge scratched his head over it a while and said there was no way of coming to a determination because just as many men could be brought into court who would testify on one side as could be found to testify on the other, but he said he was willing to do the fair thing by all parties and would act upon any suggestion Mr. Sturges would make for the solution of the difficulty. Mr. Sturges was on his feet in a second. In panel a jury of six each, luck versus science, give them candles and a couple of decks of cards, send them into the jury room and just abide by the result. There was no disputing the fairness of the proposition. The four deacons and the two dominies were sworn in as the Chance Jurymen, and six inveterate old seven-up professors were chosen to represent the science side of the issue. They retired to the jury room. In about two hours, Deacon Peters sent into court to borrow three dollars from a friend. Sensation. In about two hours more, Dominique Miggles sent into court to borrow a steak from a friend. Sensation. During the next three or four hours, the other Dominique and the other deacons sent into court for small loans, and still the packed audience waited, for it was a prodigious occasion in Bull's Corner, and one in which every father of a family was necessarily interested. The rest of the story can be told briefly. About daylight the jury came in and Deacon Job, the foreman, read the following. Verdict. We the jury in the case of the Commonwealth of Kentucky versus John Wheeler et al. have carefully considered the points of the case and tested the merits of these several theories advanced, and do hereby unanimously decide that the game commonly known as old sledge or seven-up is eminently a game of science and not of chance. In demonstration whereof it is hereby and herein stated iterated, reiterated, set forth and made manifest that during the entire night the chance men never won a game or turned a jack, although both feats were common and frequent to the opposition. And furthermore, in support of this our verdict we call attention to the significant fact that the chance men are all busted and the science men have got the money. It is the deliberate opinion of this jury that the chance theory concerning seven-up is a pernicious doctrine and calculated to inflict untold suffering and pecuniary loss upon any community that takes stock in it. That is the way that seven-up came to be set apart and particularized in the statute books of Kentucky as being a game not of chance but of science and therefore not punishable under the law, said Mr. K., that verdict is of record and holds good to this day. End of Science versus Luck by Mark Twain Something will turn up. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Corrie Samuel. Something will turn up by David Mason. You, Mr. Rapp. Stanley Rapp blinked, considering the matter. He always thought over everything very carefully. Of course, some questions were easier to answer than others. This one, for instance, he had very few doubts about his name. Uh, Stanley Rapp said. Yes, yes. He stared at the bearded young man. Living in the village, even on the better side of it, one saw beards every day, all shapes and sizes of beard. This one was not a psychoanalyst beard or a folk singer beard, not even an actor beard. This was the scraggly variety, almost certainly a poet beard. Mr. Rapp, while holding no particular prejudice against poets, had not sent for one. He was sure of that. Then he noticed the tool case in the bearded young man's hand, let a large, lightning service, TV, hi-fi. Oh, Stanley said, nodding. You're the man to fix the TV set. You know it, Dad, the young man said, coming in. He shut the door behind him and stared around the apartment. What a wild pad! Where the idiot barks, hey? The pleasantly furnished, neat little apartment was not what Mr. Rapp had ever thought of as a wild pad. But the village had odd standards, Mr. Rapp knew. Chacon Asongu, he had said, on moving into the apartment ten years ago. Not allowed, of course, because he had only taken one year of French and would never have trusted his accent. But Chacon Asongu, anyway. The television set, Mr. Rapp said, translating. Oh, yes. He went to the closet door and opened it. Reaching inside, he brought out an imposingly large TV set, mounted on a wheeled table. The bearded repairman whistled. In the closet? The repairman said, admiringly. Crazy. You go in there to watch it, or you let it talk to itself. Oh, well, I don't exactly watch it at all. Mr. Rapp said, a little sadly. I mean, I can't. That's why I called you. Lightnings here have no fear. The bearded one said, approaching the set with a professional air. Like in the closet, hey? He bent over the set, appraisingly. I thought you were a square, pops, but I can see your— Hey! This is like too much. Man, I don't want to pry, but why is this box upside down? I wish I knew. Mr. Rapp said. He sat down and leaned back, sighing. This was going to be difficult, he knew. He had already had to explain it to the last three repairmen, and he was getting tired of explaining. Although he thought, somehow, that this young man might understand it a little more quickly than the others had. I've had a couple of other repairmen look it over. Mr. Rapp told the bearded one. They—well, they gave up. Dilla Tants commented the beard. Oh, no, Mr. Rapp said. One of them was from the company that made it, but they couldn't do anything. Let's try it, the repairman said, plugging the cord into a wall socket. He returned to the set and switched it on, without changing its upside-down position. The big screen lit almost at once. A pained face appeared, with a large silhouetted hammer striking the image's forehead in a rhythmic beat. Immediate relief from a headache, a bland voice said, as the pictured face broke into a broad smile. The repairman shuddered and turned down the sound, staring at the image with widened eyes as he did so. Dad, I don't want to bug you, the repairman said, his eyes still on the screen. Only, look, the set is upside-down, right? Right, said Mr. Rapp. Only the picture. The repairman paused, trying to find the right phrase. I mean, the pictures flipped, like it's wrong side up too, only right side up now. Exactly, said Mr. Rapp. You see, that's the trouble. I put the set upside-down because of that. Cool, the repairman said, watching the picture. I mean, so why worry? You got a picture, right? You want me to turn the picture around? I can do that with a little fiddling around inside the set. Uh-oh. Dad, something's happening. The repairman bent closer, staring at the picture. It was now showing a busty young woman's singer. Her mouth opened, but silent, since the sound was turned down. She was slowly rotating as Rapp and the bearded repairman watched, turning until her face, still mouthing silent song, hung upside-down on the screen. It always does that, Rapp said. No matter which way I put the set, the pictures always upside-down. No man, the repairman said, bleedingly. Look, I took a course. I mean, the best school you dig, it don't work that way. It just can't. It does, though, Rapp pointed out. And that's what the other repair people said, too. They took it out, and brought it back, and it still did it. Not when they had it in their shops, but the minute it came back here, the picture went upside-down again. Wow! the repairman said, backing slowly away from the set, but watching it with the tense gaze of a man who expected trouble. After a minute, he moved toward it again, and took hold of the cabinet's sides, lifting. I don't want to put you down, pops, he said, grunting. Only, I got to see this. Over she goes. He set it down again, right side up. The picture, still the singer's face, remained in a relatively upright position for another moment, and then slowly rolled over, upside down again. You see, Mr. Rapp said, shrugging. I guess I'll have to buy another set, except I'd hate to have it happen again, and this one did cost quite a lot. You couldn't trade it in, either, the repairman agreed. Not to me, anyway. Suddenly he snapped his fingers. Hey, now! Sideways? You mean on its side? Just for kicks. The repairman gripped the set again. On the side. He set the cabinet down on one side, and stepped back to regard the picture again. Slowly the picture turned once more, and once again relative to the usual directions of up and down. The picture was stubbornly, completely inverted. It's on to that, too, the repairman said, gloomly. He sat down on the floor and assumed a kind of yoga posture, peering between his legs. You could try it this way, pups. I'm pretty stiff, Mr. Rapp told him, shaking his head. Yeah, the repairman said, re-inverting himself. For a long while he sat, pulling his beard thoughtfully, a look of deep thought on his face. The reversed singer faded out, to give place to an earnestly grinning announcer who pointed emphatically to a large upside down sign, bearing the name of a product. Watching it this way could get to be a fad, the repairman said, at last almost inaudibly. He fell silent again, and Mr. Rapp, sadly, began to realise that even this bearded and confident young man had apparently been stopped, like the others. The way I look at it, like, there's a place where science hangs up, the bearded one spoke, finally. Like, I don't want to put down my old guru at the Second Avenue School of Electronics, he added, solemnly. But you got to admit that there are things not dreamed of in your philosophy, Horatio, you dig? My name isn't Horatio, Mr. Rapp objected. I was quoting, the repairman told him. I mean, this is a thing like, outside material means, supernatural sort of. Did you cross up any witches lately, pups? Oh, dear! Mr. Rapp said, sadly. He shook his head. No, I haven't. Er, offended any witches. Not that I know of. He regarded the inverted picture for a moment. Then, as the repairman's words began to sink in, Mr. Rapp looked at him apprehensively. Witches, Mr. Rapp asked. But, I mean, that's all superstition, isn't it? And anyway, well, television sets. They used to dry up cows, but who keeps cows? The bearded one said, ominously. Why not television sets? Like, I happen to be personally acquainted with several witches, and like that. The village is full of them. However, he rose and stalked toward the set, his eyes glittering in a peculiar way. You're a lucky one, Daddy O. Back in my square days, I did some reading up on the hookups between poetry and magic. Now I'm a poet. Therefore, and to wit, I'm also a magician. On this hang-up, I'm going to try magic. Electronics won't work, that's for sure. But, Mr. Rapp was not quite sure why he disapproved, but he did. On the other hand, the repairman appeared to be very definitely sure of what he was doing, as he peered into the back of the television set. Have you ever tried, ah, this method before? Never ran into any hexed TV sets before, the repairman said, straightening up. Don't worry, though. I got the touch, like with poetry. Same thing, in fact. All magic spells rhyme, see? Well, I used to rhyme back before I really started swinging. Anybody can rhyme, and the rest is just instinct. He had been scribbling something on a notepad as he spoke. Now he bent down to take another look at the back of the set, and nodded with an air of assurance. The tube layout, the repairman told Mr. Rapp, exhibiting his notebook. That and Ohm's law, and a couple of Hindu bits I picked up listening to the UN on the radio, makes a first-class spell. Mr. Rapp backed away nervously. Look, if it's all the same to you. Don't flip. The repairman consulted his notebook, and moved to stand in front of the screen. The picture showed a smiling newscaster pointing to a map which indicated something ominous. Cool, man, the repairman said. Here we go. He lifted his hands in an ecclesiastical gesture, and his voice became a deep boom. Six SN7AC5, six and seven millivolts are running down the line. E equals R times A, that's the way it goes, round the other way, Super Chandra Bowles. Afterward, Mr. Rapp was never quite sure exactly what happened. He had an impression of a flash of light, and an odd, indefinite sound, rather like the dropping of a cosmic garbage-can lid. But possibly neither the light nor the sound actually happened. At any rate there were no complaints from the neighbours later on. However, the lighted screen was certainly doing something. Crazy, the repairman said, in odd tones. Mr. Rapp, his view partly blocked by the repairman, could not see exactly what was happening on the screen. However, he caught a brief glimpse of the newscaster's face. It was right side up, but no longer smiling. Instead the pictured face wore a look of profound alarm, and the newsman was apparently leaning far forward, his face almost out of focus because of its nearness to the lens. Just for a moment, Mr. Rapp could have sworn he saw a chair floating up, past the agonised expression on the screen. Then the screen went grey, and a panel of lettering appeared, shaking slightly. Our picture has been temporarily interrupted. Normal service will be restored as soon as possible. Please stand by. I was going to give you a bill, the repairman said. Only maybe we'd better just charge it up to customer relations. The letters remained steady on the screen, and Mr. Rapp studied them. They were right side up. You fixed it? Mr. Rapp said a little uncertainly. I mean, it's working. I ought to pay. I goofed, the repairman said. He picked up his tools and moved towards the door. Like, I won't mention it to anybody if you won't, but I goofed, all right. Didn't you see the picture? But whatever you did, it worked, Mr. Rapp said. The picture's right side up. I know, the repairman said. Only somewhere there's a studio that's upside down. I just goofed, pups, that's all. He closed the door behind him, leaving Mr. Rapp still staring at the immobile, right side up message on the glowing screen. End of Something Will Turn Up by David Mason. Please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by James Christopher. Told at the club by Sergeant Kame. Speaking of Anting Anting, said a man at the clubhouse on the bank of the Pising River in Manila one evening, I have had an experience in that line myself, which was rather striking. An American officer at the club that evening had just been telling us about a native prisoner captured by his command sometime before in one of the smaller islands, who, when searched, had been found to be wearing next to his skin a sort of undershirt, on which was roughly painted a crude map of certain of the islands of the archipelago. This shirt, it seemed, the officer went on to explain, the man regarded as a powerful Anting Anting, which would be able to protect him from injury in any of the islands represented on it. That he had been taken alive, instead of having been killed in the fight in which he was captured, the man firmly believed to be due to the fact that he was wearing the shirt at the time. A native servant and the employee of one of the officers of the company had explained later that such an Anting Anting as this was highly prized, and that it increased in value with its age. Only certain wise men had the right to add a new island to the number of those painted on the garment. And before this could be done, the wear of the shirt must have performed some great deed of valor in that particular island. The magic garment was worn only in time of war, or when danger was known to threaten, and was bequeathed from father to son, or sometimes change ownership in a less peaceful way. What was the experience which you have referred to, I finally asked the man who had spoken, when he did not seem inclined to go on of his own accord. The man hesitated a moment before he replied to my question, and something in his manner then, or perhaps when he did speak, made me feel as if he was sorry that he had spoken at all. It is a story I do not like to tell, he said, and then hastily added a little later as if an explanation. I mean, I do not like to tell it because I cannot help feeling, when I do tell it, that people do not believe me to be telling the truth. Some years ago, he continued, I went down to the island of Mindoro to hunt Temuru, one of the few large wild animals of the islands, a queer beast halfway between a wild hog and a buffalo. I hired as a guide and tracker a wiry old mangan native who seemed to have an instinct for finding a Temuru trail, and following it, where my less skillful eyes could see nothing but undisturbed forest, and who also seemed to have absolutely no fear, a thing which was even more remarkable than his skill, since the natives as a general thing are notably timid about getting in the way of an angry Temuru. As a matter of fact, I did not blame them so very much for this, after I had had one experience myself in trying to dodge the wild charge of one of these animals infuriated by a bullet which I had sent into his body. Perico, though, that was the old man's name, never seemed to have the least fear. I was surprised then one morning when the weather and forest were both in prime condition for a hunt, to have my guide flatly refuse to leave our camp. Nothing which I could say or do had the least influence upon him. I reasoned and threatened and coaxed and swore, but all to no effect. When I asked him why he would not go, what was the matter, was he ill? He did not seem to be inclined to answer it first, except to say that he was not ill. But finally, later in the day, he explained to me he had had a warning, that it would not be safe for him to go hunting that day, that his life would be in danger if he did. Perico had been about the islands much more than most of the men of his tribe. He had even been to Manila once or twice, and so not only knew much more about the world than most Mangans did, but it also picked up enough of the Spanish language so that he could speak it fairly well. In this way, he was able to tell me finally how the warning had come to him, and why he put so much confidence in it. He also told me this was why he had been so brave about the hunting before. He knew that he was not in any danger so long as he was not forewarned. When he had been warned, he avoided the danger by staying quietly in camp, or in some place of safety. Even after he had told me as much as this, Perico would not explain to me just how the warning had come. Until at last, he said that the stone had told him. This stone, he said, was a wonderful anting-anting, which had been in his family for many years. His father had given it to him, and his grandfather had given it to his father. Once many, many years before, there had been an ancestor of his who had been famous through all the tribe for his goodness and wisdom. This man, when very old, had one day taken shelter under a tree from a furious storm. While he was there, fire from the sky had come down upon the tree, and when the storm was over, the man was found dead. Grasp tightly in one of the dead man's hands was found a small, flat stone, smooth cut and polished, which no one of his family had ever seen him have before. Naturally, the stone was looked upon as a precious anting-anting sent down from the sky, and was religiously washed until its mysterious properties were understood. And it was learned that it had the power to forewarn his owner against impending evil. When danger threatened its owner, Perico said, the stone glowed at night with a strange light which he believed was due to its celestial origin. At all other times it was a plain dull stone. The night before, for the first time in months, the stone had flashed forth its strange light, and as a result, its owner would do nothing which would place him in any danger which he could avoid. I thought of all the strange stories I had read and heard of meteors falling from the sky, and of phosphoric rocks, and of little-known chemical elements which were mysteriously sensitive to certain atmospheric conditions, and wondered if Perico's stone could be any of these. All my requests to be allowed to see the wonderful stone, however, proved fruitless. Perico was obdurate. There was a tradition that it must not be looked at by daylight, he said, and that the eyes of no one but its owner should gaze upon it. And so for eight beautiful days of magnificent hunting weather, that aggravating heathen stone kept us idle there in the midst of the Mandora Forest. I could not go alone, and Perico simply would not go so long as a stone glowed at night, as he informed me each morning it had done. It was in vain that I fretted, and offered him twice and four times, and finally, with a desire to see how much in earnest the man really was, ten times his regular wages, if he would go with me for just one hunt. He simply would not stir out of the camp, until, on the morning of the ninth day, he met me with a cheerful face, and said, Signor, we will hunt today, the stone is black once more. And hunt we did, that day and many more, for the stone remained accommodatingly dark after that, and we had good luck, too. When I came back to Manila, I brought Perico with me. He had begun to have serious trouble with one of his eyes, which threatened to render him unable to follow the work of hunting, of which he was so fond. I tried to make him believe that this was a danger of which he claimed he had been warned by the stone, but he would not agree to this, saying that his anting-anting had always foretold only of violent death, or some serious bodily injury. In Manila, I had him see that José Rizal, who afterwards became so prominent in the political troubles of the islands, and who had such a tragic later history. Signor Rizal, who had studied in Europe, was a skillful oculist, and an operation which he performed on Perico's eye was entirely successful. I kept the old man with me until he was fully recovered, and then sent him back to his native island. Before he went, he thanked me over and over again for what I had done, and kept telling me that sometime he would pay me for it all. I laughed at him at first, not thinking what he meant, until, just before he was to go to the boat, he clasped my hand in both his, and said, Signor, I have no children to leave the anting-anting of my family to. When I die, it shall be yours. I would have laughed again then, had it not been that the poor old fellow was so much an earnest that it would have been cruel. As it was, I thanked him, and told him I hoped he would live many years to be the guardian of the stone, and to be guarded by it himself. After Perico had gone, I forgot all about him. Imagine my surprise then, when a little more than a year afterward, I received a small packet from a man whom I knew in Caliupin, the Seaport of Mindoro, and a letter, telling me that my old guide was dead, and that during the illness which had preceded his death, he had arranged to have the packet which came with the letter sent to me. The package and letter reached me one morning. Of course I knew what Perico had sent me, and foolish as it may seem, a bit of tenderness for the old man's genuine faith in his talisman made me, mindful of his admonition that the stone must not be exposed to the light of day, restrained my curiosity to open the package until I was in the rooms that night. What I found, when at last I held the mysterious charm in my hands, was a smooth, dark, flint-like disc, about an inch and a half in diameter, and perhaps half an inch in thickness. Whatever the stone might have done for its former owners, or might do for me at some other time, it certainly had no errand to perform that night. It was just a plain, dark stone, and no matter how long I looked at it, or in what position, it did not change its appearance. Finally, half provoked with myself at my thoughts, I put the stone into a little cabinet in which were the other curious souvenirs of my travels in the islands, and forgot it. Two years after that, it became necessary for me to go to Europe. I had taken passage on one of the regular steamers from Manila to Hong Kong, and was to reship from there. As I expected to return in a few months, I did not give up my lodgings. But before I started, I packed away much of my stuff for safekeeping. As I was busy at the office during the day, I did most of this packing in the evenings. In the course of this work, I came to the little cabinet of which I have spoken, and threw it open in order to stuff it with cotton, so that the contents would not rattle around when moved. The man who was telling the story stopped at this point so long, that we who sat there in the smoking room of the club listening to him were afraid he was not going to continue. At last, he said, this is the part of the story which I do not like to tell. On the black velvet lining of the cabinet, surrounded by the jumble of curios among which it had been tossed, lay old Perico's stone, not the plain dark stone which I had put there, but a faintly glowing circle of lustrous light. I shut the lid of the cabinet down, locked the box, and put the key in my pocket, but I did no more packing that night. I came down here to the club, and stayed as long as I could get anybody to stay with me, and talked of everything under the sun, except the one thing which I was all the time thinking about. The next day I told myself I was a fool, and crazy into the bargain, and that my eyes had deceived me. And then, in spite of all this, when I went home at night, I could hardly wait for dust to come that I might open the cabinet. The stone lay on the velvet, just as the night before, as if it were a thing on fire. I said to myself that I would have some common sense, and would exercise my willpower, and went on with my packing with furious energy, but I did not put the cabinet where I could not get at it. The boat for Hong Kong, on which I had taken passage, was to sail the next night. I finished my work, said goodbye to my acquaintances, and went on board. Fifteen minutes before the steamer sailed, I had my luggage tumbled from her deck back onto the wharf, and came ashore. Swearing at myself for a fool, and knowing that I would be well laughed at and quizzed for my fickleness by everyone who knew me. The man stopped again. After a little, one of the men who had been listening to him said, in a voice which sounded strangely softened, I remember, that was the calling the name of a steamer, which brought to us all the recollection of one of the most awful sea tragedies of those terrible tropic waters, where sometimes sea and wind seemed to be in league to buff it and destroy. Yes, said the man who had told the story, no person who sailed on board of her that night was ever seen again, and only bits of wreckage on one of the northern reeds gave any hint of her fate. End of, told at the club, by Sergeant Cain. Recording by James Christopher, JXChristopher at Yahoo.com