 The Oblong Box by Edgar Allen Poe. Some years ago I engaged passage from Charleston, SC to the City of New York in the fine-packet ship Independence, Captain Hardy. We were to sail on the fifteenth of the month, June, weather permitting, and on the fourteenth I went on board to arrange some matters in my state room. I found that we were to have a great many passengers, including a more than usual number of ladies. On the list were several of my acquaintances, and among other names I was rejoiced to see that Mr. Cornelius Wyatt, a young artist for whom I entertained feelings of warm friendship. He had been, with me, a fellow student at C. University where we were very much together. He had the ordinary temperament of genius, and was a compound of misanthropy, sensibility, and enthusiasm. To these qualities he united the warmest and truest heart which ever beat in a human bosom. I observed that his name was carted upon three state rooms, and upon again referring to the list of passengers I found that he had engaged passage for himself, wife, and two sisters, his own. The state rooms were sufficiently roomy, and each had two births, one above the other. These births, to be sure, were so exceedingly narrow as to be insufficient for more than one person. Still, I could not comprehend why there were three state rooms for these four persons. I was, just at that epoch, in one of those moody frames of mind which make a man abnormally inquisitive about trifles, and I confess with shame that I busied myself in a variety of ill-bred and preposterous conjectures about this matter of the supernumery state room. It was no business of mine, to be sure, but with none the less pertinicity did I occupy myself in attempts to resolve the enigma. At last I reached a conclusion which wrought in me great wonder why I had not arrived at it before. It is a servant, of course, I said. What a fool I am not sooner to have thought of so obvious a solution. And then I again repaired to the list, but here I saw distinctly that no servant was to come with the party. Although, in fact, it had been the original design to bring one, for the words and servant had been first written and then overscored. Oh, extra baggage, to be sure, I now said to myself, something he wishes not to be put in hold, something to be kept under his own eye. Ah, I have it, a painting or so, and this is what he has been barging about with Nicolino the Italian Jew. This idea satisfied me, and I dismissed my curiosity for the nuns. Why its two sisters I knew very well, and most amiable and clever girls they were. His wife he had newly married, and I had never yet seen her. He had often talked about her in my presence, however, and in his usual style of enthusiasm. He described her as of surpassing beauty, wit, and accomplishment. I was, therefore, quite anxious to make her acquaintance. On the day in which I visited the ship, the fourteenth, wide and party were also to visit it, so the captain informed me, and I waited on board an hour longer than I had designed in hope of being presented to the bride, but then an apology came. Mrs. W. was a little indisposed, and would decline coming on board until tomorrow at the hour of sailing. The morrow having arrived, I was going from my hotel to the wharf, when Captain Hardy met me and said that, owing to circumstances, a stupid but convenient phrase, he rather thought the independence would not sail for a day or two, and that when all was ready he would send up and let me know. This I thought strange, for there was a stiff southerly breeze, but as the circumstances were not forthcoming, although I pumped for them with much perseverance, I had nothing to do but to reherm home and digest my impatience at leisure. I did not receive the expected message from the captain for nearly a week. It came at length, however, and I immediately went on board. The ship was crowded with passengers, and everything was in the bustle attendant upon making sail. White's party arrived in about ten minutes after myself. There were the two sisters, the bride and the artist, the latter in one of his customary fits of moody misanthropy. I was too well used to these, however, to pay them any special attention. He did not even introduce me to his wife, this courtesy devolving, perforce, upon his sister Marianne, a very sweet and intelligent girl, who in a few hurried words made us acquainted. Mrs. Wyatt had been closely veiled, and when she raised her veil in acknowledging my bow, I confessed that I was very profoundly astonished. I should have been much more so, however, and not long experience advised me not to trust, with too implicit a reliance, the enthusiastic descriptions of my friend the artist, when indulging in comments upon the loveliness of women. When beauty was the theme, I well knew with what facility he soared into the regions of the purely ideal. The truth is, I could not help regarding Mrs. Wyatt as a decidedly plain-looking woman. If not positively ugly, she was not, I think, very far from it. She was dressed, however, in exquisite taste, and then I had no doubt that she had captivated my friend's heart by the more enduring graces of the intellect and soul. She said very few words and passed at once into her stateroom with Mr. W. My old inquisitiveness now returned. There was no servant, that was a settled point. I looked, therefore, for the extra baggage. After some delay a cart arrived at the wharf with an oblong pine box, which was everything that seemed to be expected. Immediately upon its arrival we made sail, and in a short time we're safely over the bar and standing out to sea. The box in question was, as I say, oblong. It was about six feet in length by two-and-a-half in breadth. I observed it attentively and liked to be precise. Now this shape was peculiar and no longer had I seen it than I took credit to myself for the accuracy of my guessing. I had reached the conclusion it will be remembered that the extra baggage of my friend the artist would prove to be pictures, or at least a picture, for I knew he had been for several weeks in conference with Nicolino, and now here was a box, which from its shape could possibly contain nothing in the world but a copy of Leonardo's Last Supper, and a copy of this very Last Supper, done by Rubini the Younger at Florence, I had known for some time to be in the possession of Nicolino. This point, therefore, I considered as sufficiently settled. I chuckled excessively when I thought of my acumen. It was the first time I had ever known why it to keep from me any of his artistical secrets, but here he evidently intended to steal a march upon me and smuggle a fine picture to New York, under my very nose, expecting me to know nothing of the matter. I resolved to quiz him well, now and hereafter. One thing, however, annoyed me not a little. The box did not go into the extra stateroom. It was deposited in why its own, and there, too, it remained, occupying very nearly the whole of the floor, no doubt to the exceeding discomfort of the artist and his wife. This, the more especially as the tar, or paint, with which it was lettered in sprawling capitals, emitted a strong, disagreeable, and to my fancy, a peculiarly disgusting odor. On the lid were painted the words, Mrs. Adelaide Curtis, Albany, New York, charge of Cornelius Wyatt Esquire, this side up, to be handled with care. Now, I was aware that Mrs. Adelaide Curtis of Albany was the artist's wife's mother, but then I looked upon the whole address as a mystification intended especially for myself. I made up my mind, of course, that the box and contents would never get farther north than the studio of my misanthropic friend in Chambers Street, New York. For the first three or four days we had fine weather, although the wind was dead ahead, having chopped round to the northward immediately upon our losing sight of the coast. The passengers were, consequently, in high spirits and disposed to be social. I must accept, however, Wyatt and his sisters who behaved stiffly, and I could not help thinking uncourteously to the rest of the party. Wyatt's conduct I did not so much regard. He was gloomy even beyond his usual habit, in fact he was more rose, but in him I was prepared for eccentricity. For the sisters, however, I could make no excuse. They secluded themselves in their staterooms during the greater part of the passage, and absolutely refused, although I repeatedly urged them, to hold communication with any person on board. Mrs. Wyatt herself was far more agreeable. That is to say she was chatty, and to be chatty is no slight recommendation at sea. She became excessively intimate with most of the ladies, and to my profound astonishment evinced no equivocal disposition to coquette with the men. She amused us all very much. I say amused and scarcely know how to explain myself. The truth is I soon found that Mrs. W. was far off in her laughed at than with. The gentleman said little about her, but the ladies in a little while pronounced her a good-hearted thing, rather indifferent looking, totally uneducated, and decidedly vulgar. The great wonder was how Wyatt had been entrapped into such a match. Health was the general solution, but this I knew to be no solution at all, for Wyatt had told me that she neither brought him a dollar nor had any expectations from any source whatever. He had married, he said, for love and for love only, and his bride was far more than worthy of his love. When I thought of these expressions on the part of my friend, I confessed that I felt indescribably puzzled. Could it be possible that he was taking leave of his senses? What else could I think? He so refined, so intellectual, so fastidious, with so exquisite a perception of the faculty and so keen an appreciation of the beautiful. To be sure, the lady seemed especially fond of him, particularly so in his absence, when she made herself ridiculous by frequent quotations of what had been said by her beloved husband Mr. Wyatt. The word husband seemed forever to use one of her own delicate expressions, forever, on the tip of her tongue. In the meantime it was observed by all on board that he avoided her in the most pointed manner, and for the most part shut himself up alone in his state room, where, in fact, he might have been said to live altogether, leaving his wife at full liberty to amuse herself as she thought best in the public society of the main cabin. My conclusion from what I saw and heard was that the artist, by some unaccountable freak of fate, or perhaps in some fit of enthusiastic and fanciful passion, had been induced to unite himself with a person altogether beneath him, and that the natural result, entire and speedy disgust had ensued. I pitied him from the bottom of my heart, but could not, for that reason, quite forgive his incommunicativeness in the matter of the last supper. For this I resolved to have my revenge. One day he came up on deck, and taking his arm, as had been my want, I sauntered with him backward and forward. His gloom, however, which I considered quite natural under the circumstances, seemed entirely unabated. He said little, and that moodily, and with evident effort. I ventured a jest or two, and he made a sickening attempt at a smile. Poor fellow! As I thought of his wife I wondered that he could have heart to put on even the semblance of mirth. At last I ventured to home thrust. I determined to commence a series of covert insinuations or innuendos about the oblong box, just to let him perceive, gradually, that I was not altogether the but or victim of his little bit of pleasant mystification. My first observation was by way of opening a masked battery. I said something about the peculiar shape of that box, and as I spoke the words I smiled knowingly, winked, and touched him gently with my forefinger in the ribs. The manner in which Wyatt received this harmless pleasantry convinced me at once that he was mad. At first he stared at me as if he found it impossible to comprehend the witticism of my remark, but as its point seemed slowly to make its way into his brain, his eyes, in the same proportions, seemed protruding from their sockets. Then he grew very red, then hideously pale, then as if highly amused with what I had insinuated, he began to allowed and boisterous laugh, which, to my astonishment, he kept up, with gradually increasing vigor, for ten minutes or more. In conclusion, he fell flat and heavily upon the deck. When I ran to uplift him to all appearances, he was dead. I called assistance, and with much difficulty we brought him to himself. Upon reviving he spoke incoherently for some time. At length we bled him and put him to bed. The next morning he was quite recovered, so far as regarded his mere bodily health. Of his mind I say nothing, of course. I avoided him during the rest of the passage by advice of the captain, who seemed to coincide with me altogether in my views of his insanity, but cautioned me to say nothing on this head to any person on board. Several circumstances occurred immediately after this fit of whites which contributed to heighten the curiosity with which I was already possessed. Among other things, this. I had been nervous, drank too much strong green tea, and slept ill at night. In fact, for two nights I could not be properly said to sleep at all. Now my state-room opened into the main cabin or dining-room, as did those of all the single men on board. My three rooms were in the after-cabin, which was separated from the main one by a slight sliding door, never locked even at night. As we were almost certainly on a wind, and the breeze was not a little stiff, the ship healed to Leeward very considerably, and whenever her starboard side was to Leeward, the sliding door between the cabin slid open and so remained, nobody taking the trouble to get up and shut it. But my birth was in such a position that when my own state-room door was open, as well as the sliding door in question, and my own door was always open on account of the heat, I could see into the after-cabin quite distinctly, and just at that portion of it, too, where were situated those state-rooms of Mr. Wyatt. Well, during two nights, not consecutive, while I lay awake, I clearly saw Mrs. W, about eleven o'clock upon each night, still cautiously from the state-room of Mr. W, and entered the extra room, where she remained until daybreak when she was called by her husband and went back. That they were virtually separated was clear. They had separate apartments, no doubt in contemplation of a more permanent divorce, and here, after all, I thought, was the mystery of the extra state-room. There was another circumstance, too, which interested me much. During the two wakeful nights in question, and immediately after the disappearance of Mrs. Wyatt into the extra state-room, I was attracted by certain singular, cautious, subdued noises in that of her husband. After listening to them for some time with thoughtful attention, I at length succeeded perfectly in translating their import. They were sounds occasioned by the artist in prying open the oblong box by means of a chisel and mallet, the latter being apparently muffled or deadened by some soft woollen or cotton substance in which its head was enveloped. In this manner I fancied I could distinguish the precise moment when he fairly disengaged the lid, also that I could determine when he removed it all together and when he deposited it upon the lower birth in his room, this latter point I knew, for example, by certain slight taps which the lid made in striking against the wooden edges of the birth, as he endeavored to lay it down very gently, there being no room for it on the floor. After this there was a dead stillness, and I heard nothing more upon either occasion until nearly daybreak, unless, perhaps, I may mention a low sobbing or murmuring sound, so very much suppressed as to be nearly inaudible if, indeed, the whole of this latter noise were not rather produced by my own imagination. I say it seemed to resemble sobbing or sighing, but of course it could not have been either. I rather think it was a ringing in my own ears. Mr. Wyatt, no doubt, according to custom, was merely giving the rain to one of his hobbies, indulging in one of his fits of artistic enthusiasm. He had opened his oblong box in order to feast his eyes on the pictorial treasure within. There was nothing in this, however, to make him sob. I repeat, therefore, that it must have been simply a freak of my own fancy, distempered by Good Captain Hardy's green tea. Just before dawn, on each of the two nights of which I speak, I distinctly heard Mr. Wyatt replace the lid upon the oblong box, and force the nails into their old places by means of the muffled mallet. Having done this he issued from his stateroom fully dressed, and proceeded to call Mrs. W. from hers. We had been at sea seven days, and were now off Cape Hatteras when there came a tremendously heavy blow from the southwest. We were, in a measure, prepared for it, however, as the weather had been holding out threats for some time. Everything was made snug, aloe and aloft, and as the wind steadily freshened, we lay too at length under spanker and foretop sail, both double-reefed. In this trim we rode safely enough for forty-eight hours, the ship proving herself an excellent sea-boat in many respects, and shipping no water of any consequence. At the end of this period, however, the gale had freshened into a hurricane, and our aftersail split into ribbons, bringing us so much in the trough of the water that we shipped several prodigious seas, one immediately after the other. By this accident we lost three men overboard with the caboose, and nearly the hull of the larboard bulwarks. Scarcely had we recovered our senses before the foretop sail went into shreds, when we got up a storm-stay sail, and with this did pretty well for some hours the ship heading the sea much more steadily than before. The gale still held on, however, and we saw no signs of its abating. The rigging was found to be ill-fitted and greatly strained, and on the third day of the blow, about five in the afternoon, our mizzen mast, in a heavy lurch to windward, went by the board. For an hour or more we tried in vain to get rid of it, on account of the prodigious rolling of the ship, and before we had succeeded the carpenter came after and announced four feet of water in the hold. To add to our dilemma we found the pumps choked and nearly useless. All was now confusion and despair, but an effort was made to lighten the ship by throwing overboard as much of her cargo as could be reached, and by cutting away the two masts that remained. This we at last accomplished, but we were still unable to do anything at the pumps, and in the meantime the leak gained on us very fast. At sundown the gale had sensibly diminished its violence, and as the sea went down with it we still entertained faint hopes of saving ourselves in the boats. At eight p.m. the clouds broke away to windward, and we had the advantage of a full moon, a piece of good fortune which served wonderfully to cheer our drooping spirits. After incredible labor we succeeded at length in getting the longboat over the side without material accident, and into this we crowded the hull of the crew and most of the passengers. This party made off immediately, and after undergoing much suffering finally arrived in safety at Oakra Coke Inlet on the third day after the wreck. Fourteen passengers with the captain remained on board, resolving to trust their fortunes to the jolly boat at the stern. We lowered it without difficulty, although it was only by a miracle that we prevented it from swapping as it touched the water. It contained, when afloat, the captain and his wife, Mr. Wyatt and party, a Mexican officer, wife, four children, and myself, with a negro valet. We had no room, of course, for anything except a few positively necessary instruments, some provisions, and the clothes upon our backs. No one had thought of even attempting to save anything more. What must have been the astonishment of all, then, when having preceded a few fathoms from the ship, Mr. Wyatt stood up in the stern sheets in coolly demand in of Captain Hardy that the boat should be put back for the purpose of taking in his oblong box. "'Sit down,' Mr. Wyatt,' replied the captain, somewhat sternly. "'You will capsize us if you do not sit quite still. Our gunwell is almost in the water now.' "'The box,' vociferated Mr. Wyatt, still standing. "'The box,' I say. "'Captain Hardy, you cannot. You will not refuse me. Its weight will be but a trifle. It is nothing, mere nothing. By the mother who bore you, for the love of heaven, by your hope of salvation I implore you to put back for the box.'" The captain for a moment seemed touched by the earnest appeal of the artist, but he regained his stern composure and merely said, "'Mr. Wyatt, you are mad. I cannot listen to you. Sit down, I say, or you will swamp the boat. Stay, hold him, seize him. He is about to spring overboard. There, I knew it, he is over.' As the captain said this, Mr. Wyatt, in fact, sprang from the boat, and as we were yet in the lee of the wreck, succeeded by almost in superhuman exertion in getting hold of a rope which hung from the four chains. In another moment he was on board and rushing frantically down into the cabin. In the meantime we had been swept astern of the ship, and being quite out of her lee were at the mercy of the tremendous sea which was still running. We made a determined effort to put back, but our little boat was like a feather in the breath of a tempest. We saw at a glance that the doom of the unfortunate artist was sealed. As our distance from the wreck rapidly increased, the madman, for as such only could we regard him, was seen to emerge from the companion-way, up which, by dint of strength that appeared gigantic, he dragged, bodily, the oblong box. While we gazed in the extremity of astonishment he passed rapidly several turns of a three-inch rope, first around the box, and then about his body. In another instant both body and box were in the sea, disappearing suddenly at once and forever. We lingered awhile sadly upon our oars, with our eyes riveted upon the spot. At length we pulled away. The silence remained unbroken for an hour. Finally I hazarded a remark. Did you observe, Captain, how suddenly they sank? Was not that an exceedingly singular thing? I confessed that I entertained some feeble hope of his final deliverance when I saw him lash himself to the box and commit himself to the sea. They sank as a matter of course, replied the Captain, and that like a shot. They will soon rise again, however, but not till the salt melts. The salt? I ejaculated. Hush, said the Captain, pointed to the wife and sisters of the deceased. We must talk of these things at some more appropriate time. We suffered much and made a narrow escape, but fortune befriended us, as well as our mates in the long boat. We landed, in fine, more dead than alive after four days of intense distress upon the beach opposite Roanoke Island. We remained here a week, were not ill-treated by the wreckers, and at length obtained a passage to New York. About a month after the loss of the independence, I happened to meet Captain Hardway in Broadway. Our conversation turned naturally upon the disaster, and especially upon the sad fate of poor Wyatt. I thus learned the following particulars. The artist had engaged passage for himself, wife, two sisters, and a servant. His wife was indeed, as she had been represented, a most lovely and most accomplished woman. On the morning of the 14th of June, the day in which I first visited the ship, the lady suddenly sickened and died. The young husband was frantic with grief, but circumstances imperatively forbade the deferring his voyage to New York. It was necessary to take to her mother the corpse of his adored wife, and, on the other hand, the universal prejudice which would prevent his doing so openly was well known. Nine-tenths of the passengers would have abandoned the ship rather than take passage with a dead body. In this dilemma Captain Hardy arranged that the corpse, being first partially embalmed and packed with a large quantity of salt in a box of suitable dimensions, should be conveyed on board as merchandise. Nothing was to be said of the lady's decease, and, as it was well understood that Mr. Wyatt had engaged passage for his wife, it became necessary that some person should personate her during the voyage. This the decease ladies made was easily prevailed on to do. The extra stateroom, originally engaged for this girl during her mistress's life, was now merely retained. In this stateroom the pseudo-wife slept, of course, every night. In the daytime she performed, to the best of her ability, the part of her mistress, whose person, it had been carefully ascertained, was unknown to any of the passengers on board. My own mistake arose, naturally enough, through too careless, too inquisitive, and too impulsive a temperament. But, of late, it is a rare thing that I sleep soundly at night. There is a countenance which haunts me, turn as I will. There is a hysterical laugh which will forever ring within my ears. End of The Oblong Box. The discovery that Cirilla was the daughter of Jonas Medebrook, born Jones, was a great triumph for PhiloGubb. But, while the Riverbank Eagle made a great hurrah about it, PhiloGubb was not entirely happy over the matter. Having won a reward of ten thousand dollars for discovering Cirilla and five hundred dollars for recovering Mr. Medebrook's golf cup. Mr. Gubb might have ventured to tell Cirilla of his love for her, but for three reasons. The first reason was that Mr. Gubb was so bashful that it was impossible for him to speak his love openly and immediately. If Cirilla had returned to Riverbank with her father, Mr. Gubb would have courted her by degrees. Or, if Cirilla had weighed only two hundred pounds, Mr. Gubb might have had the bravery to propose to her instantly. But she weighed one thousand pounds, and it required five times the bravery to propose to a thousand pounds than was required to propose to two hundred pounds. The second reason was that Mr. Dorgan, the manager of the sideshow, would not release Cirilla from her contract. She's a beauty of a fat lady, said Mr. Dorgan, and I've got a five-year contract with her, and I'm going to hold her to it. Mr. Medebrook and Mr. Gubb would have been quite hopeless when Mr. Dorgan said this if Cirilla had not taken them to one side. "'Listen, dearies,' she said. "'He's a mean old brute. But don't you fret. I got a hunch how to make him cancel my contract in a perfectly refined and ladylike manner. Right now I start in Banton and Diodon in the scientificest manner, and the way I can lose three or four hundred pounds when I set out to do it is something grand. It won't be no time at all until I'm thin and wisp-like, and Mr. Dorgan will be glad to get rid of me.'" This information greatly cheered Mr. Gubb. While he admired Cirilla just as she was, a rapid mental calculation assured him that she would still be quite plump at seven hundred pounds, and he knew he could love seven-tenths of Cirilla more than he could love seven-tenths of any other lady in the world. The third reason had to do with the ten-thousand-dollar reward. When Mr. Gubb and Mr. Medebrook were proceeding homeward on the train, Mr. Medebrook brought up the subject of the reward again. "'I'm going to pay you that ten-thousand-dollars, Gubb,' he said. "'But I'm going to pay it so it will be worth a lot more than ten-thousand dollars to you.'" "'You are very overly kind,' said Mr. Gubb. "'It's because I know you are fond of Cirilla,' said Medebrook. Mr. Gubb blushed. "'So I ain't going to give you ten-thousand-dollars cash,' said Mr. Medebrook. "'I'm going to do a lot better by you than that. I'm going to give you goldmine stock.' "'The only trouble... Goldmine stock sounds quite elegantly nice,' said Mr. Gubb. "'The only trouble,' said Mr. Medebrook, is that the goldmine stock I want to give you is in a block of twenty-five-thousand-dollars. It's nice stock. It's as neatly engraved as any stock I ever saw, and it is genuine common stock in the utterly hopeless goldmine company.'" "'The name sounds sort of unhopeful,' ventured Mr. Gubb timidly. "'That shows you don't know anything about goldmines,' said Mr. Medebrook cheerfully. "'The reason I... The reason the miners gave it that name is because this mine lies right between two of the best goldmines in Minnesota. One of them is the utterly good goldmine, and the other is the far from hopeless. So when the miners named this mine, they took part of the names of the two others, and called this one the utterly hopeless. That's the way I... The way it's always done.' "'It's very cleverly bright,' said Mr. Gubb. "'It's an old trick. I should say an old and approved method,' said Mr. Medebrook. "'So what I'm going to do, Mr. Gubb, is let you in on the ground floor of this mine. It's a chance I wouldn't offer to everybody. This mine hasn't paid out all its money in dividends. I tell you, as an actual fact, Mr. Gubb, that so far it hasn't paid out a cent in dividends, not even to the preferred stock. No, sir. And it ain't one of those mines that has been mined until all the gold is mined out of it. No, sir. Not an ounce of gold has ever been taken out of the utterly hopeless mine. Not an ounce.' "'It is all there yet?' exclaimed Mr. Gubb.' "'All there ever was,' said Mr. Medebrook. "'Yes, sir. If you want me to, I'll give you a handwritten guarantee that the utterly hopeless mine has never paid a cent in dividends, and that not an ounce of gold has ever been taken out of the mine. That shows you I'm square about this. So what I'm going to do,' he said impressively, "'is turn over to you a block of twenty-five thousand dollars worth of utterly hopeless gold mine stock and apply the ten thousand dollars I owe you as part of the purchase price. All you need to do, then, is pay me the other fifteen thousand dollars as rapidly as you can.' "'That's very kindly generous of you,' said Mr. Gubb, gratefully. "'And that isn't all,' said Mr. Medebrook. "'I own every single share of the stock of that mine, Mr. Gubb, and as soon as you get the fifteen thousand dollars paid up, I'll advance the price of that stock one hundred percent. Yes, sir, I'll double the price of the stock, and what you own will be worth fifty thousand dollars.' There were tears in Philo Gubb's eyes as he grasped Mr. Medebrook's hand. "'And all I ask,' said Mr. Medebrook, is that you hustle up and pay that fifteen thousand dollars as quickly as you can, so that,' he added, "'you'll be worth fifty thousand dollars all the sooner.'" Upon reaching Riverbank, Mr. Medebrook took Mr. Gubb to his home and turned over to him the stock in the utterly hopeless mine. "'And here,' said Mr. Medebrook, "'is a receipt for ten thousand five hundred dollars, and you can give me back that five hundred I paid you for recovering my golf-cup. That's to show you everything is fair and square when you deal with me.' "'Now you owe me only fourteen thousand five hundred dollars.'" Well, Mr. Gubb was handing the five hundred dollars back to Mr. Medebrook. The colored butler entered with a telegram. Mr. Medebrook tore it open hastily. "'Good news already,' he said, and handed it to Mr. Gubb. It was from Cirilla, and said, "'Be brave. Have lost four ounces already. Kind regards, and best love to Mr. Gubb.'" With only partial satisfaction Mr. Gubb left Mr. Medebrook and proceeded downtown. He now had a double incentive for seeking the rewards that fall to detectives, for he had Cirilla to win, and the utterly hopeless gold mine stock to pay for. He started for the pie wagon, for he was hungry, but on the way certain suspicious actions of Joe Henry, the liveryman who had twice beaten him up while he was working on the dynamiter case, stopped him, and it was much later when he entered the pie wagon. As Philo Gubb entered, Billy Getz sat on one of the stools and stirred his coffee. He held a dime novel with his other hand, reading, but pie wagon Pete kept an eye on him. He knew Billy Getz and his practical jokes. If unwatched for a moment the young whippersnapper might empty the salt into the sugar-ball or play some other prank that came under his idea of fun. Billy Getz was a good example of the spoiled only son. He went in for all the vice that there was in town, and to occupy his spare time he planned practical jokes. He was thirty years old, rather bald, had a pale and leathery skin, and a perternaturally serious expression. In his pranks he was aided by the group of young poker playing cigarette-smoking fellows known as The Kitters. Billy Getz, as he read the last line of the thrilling tale of The Pale Avengers, talked to the book in his pocket and looked up and saw Philo Gubb. The hawk eyes of Billy Getz sparkled. Hello, detective, he cried. Sit down and have something. You're just the man I've been looking for. Was asking Pete about you not a minute ago, wasn't I, Pete? Pywagan, Pete nodded. Yes, sir, said Billy Getz eagerly. I've got something right in your line, something big, mighty big, and, say, detective, have you ever read The Pale Avengers? I ain't had that pleasure, Mr. Getz, said Philo Gubb, straddling a stool. What's the matter? You're out of breath, said Pywagan. I've been runnin', said Philo Gubb. I had to run a little. Detectatives have to run at times, occasionally. You bet they do, said Billy Getz earnestly. You ain't been after the dynamiters, have you? I am from time to time working upon that case, said Philo Gubb with dignity. Well, you be careful. You be mighty careful. We can't afford to lose a man like you, said Billy Getz. You can't be too careful. Got any of the ghouls yet? Not yet, said Philo Gubb, stiffly. It's a difficult case for one that's just graduated out of a detective school. It's like lesson nine says, I got to proceed cautiously when workin' in the dark. Or they'll get you before you get them, said Billy Getz, like in The Pale Avengers. Here, I want you to read this book. It'll teach you some things you don't know about crooks, maybe. Thank you, said Philo Gubb, taking the dime novel. Anything that can help me in my detective career is real welcome. I'll read it, Mr. Getz, and look out. He shouted, and in one leap was over the counter and crouching behind it. Billy Getz turned toward the door where a short red-faced man was standing with a pine slab held in his hand. Intense anger glittered in his eyes, and he darted to the counter, and leaning over, brought the slab down on Philo Gubb's back with a resounding whack. Here, here, none of that stuff in here, Joe, cried pie-wagon Pete, grasping the intruder's arm. I'll kill him, that's what I'll do, shouted the intruder, snooping around my place and following me up and down all the time. I told him I wasn't going to have him doggen me and pester in me. I beat him up twice, and now I'm going to give him the worst licking he ever had. Come out of there, you half-baked ostrich, you. Now you stop that, said pie-wagon Pete sternly. You're going to be sorry if you beat him up. He don't mean no harm. He's just foolish. He don't know no better. All you got to do is explain it to him right. Explain, said Joe Henry. I'd look nice explaining anything, wouldn't I? Hand him over here, Pete. Now listen, shouted pie-wagon Pete angrily. You ain't everything. I'm your partner, ain't I? Well, you let me fix this. He winked at Joe Henry. You let me explain to Mr. Gubb, and if he ain't satisfied, why, to all right. For a moment Joe Henry studied pie-wagon's face, and then he put down the slap. All right. You explain, he said ungraciously, and Philo Gubb raised his white face above the counter. Upon the passage of the state prohibitory law, every saloon in Riverbank had been closed, and there had been growlings from the saloon element. Five of the leading prohibitionists had received threatening letters, and a few nights later the houses of four of the five were blown up. Cags of powder had been placed in the cellar windows of each of the four houses, wrecking them, and the fifth house was saved only because the fuse there was damp. Luckily no one was killed, but that was not the fault of the dynamiters, as everyone called them. The town and state immediately offered a reward of $5,000 for the arrest and conviction of the dynamiters, and detectives flocked to Riverbank. Real detectives came to try for the Nobel Prize. Amateur detectives came in hordes. Citizens who were not detectives at all tried their hands at the work. For the first few days, rumors of the immediate capture of the ghouls were flying everywhere, but day followed day, and week followed week, and no one was incarcerated. The citizen detectives went back to their ordinary occupations. The amateur detectives went home. The real detectives were called off on other and more promising jobs, and soon the field was left clear for Philo Gub. Not that he made much progress. Each night he hid himself in the dark doorway of Wilcox Hall, waiting to pick up lesson four rule for some suspicious looking person, and having picked him up, he proceeded to trail and shadow him. Lesson four rules four to seventeen. Six times, twice by Joe Henry, he was well beaten by those he followed. It became such a nuisance to be followed by Philo Gub in false mustache or whiskers that it was a public relief when Billy Getz and other young fellows took it upon themselves the duty of being shadowed. With hats pulled over their eyes and coat collars turned up, they would pass the dark doorway of Wilcox Hall, let themselves be picked up, and then lead poor detective Gub across rubbish encumbered vacant lots over mud flats or among dark lumber piles, only to give him the slip with infinite ease when they tired of the game. But Philo Gub was back the next night, waiting in the shadow of the doorway of Wilcox Hall. He did not progress very rapidly toward the goal of the reward, but he counted it all good practice. But being beaten twice in succession by Joe Henry aroused his suspicion. Joe Henry ran a small carting business. He had three teams and three drays and a small stable on Locust Street on the alley corner. He was a great friend of Piwagon Pete and he aided the Piwagon. Philo Gub, after leaving Mr. Metterbrook, had not intentionally picked up Joe Henry. On his way to the Piwagon it had been necessary for him to pass the alley opposite Joe Henry's stable, and his detective instinct told him to hide himself behind a manure bin in the alley and watch the stable. In the warm June dusk he had grouched there, watching and waiting. Mr. Gub could see into the stable, but there was not much to see. The stable boy sat at the door. His chair tipped back until a few minutes after 11 when one of Joe Henry's drays drove up with a load of bowed hay. Philo Gub heard the voices of the men as they hoisted the hay to the hayloft, and he saw Joe Henry helping with the hoisting rope. The hay was wooder soaked. Wooder dripped from it onto the floor of the stable. But nothing exciting occurred, and Philo Gub was about to consider this a dull evening's work when Joe Henry appeared in the doorway, a pitchfork in one hand and the slab of pine in the other. He looked up and down the street, and then with surprising agility sprang across the street toward where Philo Gub lay hid. With a wild cry Philo Gub fled. The pitchfork clattered at his feet but missed him, and he had every advantage of long legs and speed. His heels clattered on the alley pave, and Joe Henry's clattered farther and farther behind at each leap of the Correspondent School detective. All right, you explain, said Joe Henry sullenly. Now, you ain't to pre the word of this. Cross your heart hope to die, Philo Gub. Nor you neither, Billy, said pie wagon Pete. Listen, me and Joe Henry ain't what we let on to be. That's why we don't want to be followed. We're detectives, regular detectives, from Chicago, and we're hired by the Law and Order League to run down them ghouls. We're right close on to them now, ain't we, Joe? And that's why we don't want to have no one bothering us. You wouldn't want no one shadowing you when you was on the trail, would you, gubby? No, I don't feel like I would, admitted Philo Gub. That's right, said pie wagon Pete approvingly. And when these here dynamite ghouls is the kind of murderers they is, and me and Joe is expecting to be murdered by them any minute, it makes Joe nervous to be followed and spied on. Don't it, Joe? You bet, said Joe. I'm libel to turn and moller up anybody I see sneaking up on me. I can't take chances. So you won't interfere with Joe in the pursuit of his duty no more, will you, gubby? said pie wagon Pete. I don't aim to interfere with nobody, Peter, said Philo Gub. I just want to pursue my own duty as I see it. I won't follow Mr. Henry no more if he don't like it, but I got a duty to do, and a full graduate of the Rising Sun Detective Agency Correspondent School of Detecting, I got to do my level best to catch them dynamite-ers myself. Joe Henry frowned, and pie wagon Pete shook his head. If you'll take my advice, gubby, he said, you'll drop that case right here and now. You don't know what dangerous characters them ghouls are. If they start to get you. You want to read that book. The pale Avengers I just gave you, said Billy Getz, and then you'll know more. Well, I won't interfere with you, Mr. Henry, said Philo Gub, but I'll do my duty as I see it. Fear don't frighten me. The first words in lesson one is these. The detective must be a man devoid of fear. I can't go back on that. If them ghouls want to kill me, I can't object. Detectating is a dangerous employment, and I know it. He went out and closed the door. There, said pie wagon Pete, ain't that better than beating him up? Maybe, said Joe Henry grudgingly. Chances are he's such a dummy he'll go right ahead following me and needs a good scare thrown into him. Billy Getz slid from his stool and ran his hands deep into his pockets, jingling a few coins and a bunch of keys. Want me to scare him? He asked pleasantly. Say, you can do it too, said Joe Henry eagerly. You're the feller that can kid him to death. Go ahead. If you do, I'll give you a case of six-star. Ain't that so, Pete? Absolutely, said pie wagon. That's a bet, said Billy Getz pleasantly. Leave it to the kidders. Philo Gub went straight to his room at the widow Murphy's and, having taken off his shoes and coat, leaned back in his chair with his feet on the bed and opened the Pale Avengers. He had never before read a dime novel, and this opened a new world to him. He read breathlessly. The style of the story was somewhat like this. The picture on the wall swung aside and Detective Brown stared into the muzzles of two revolvers and the sharp eyes of the youngest of the Pale Avengers. A thrill of horror swept through the detective. He felt his doom was at hand, but he did not cringe. Your time has come, said the Avenger. Be not too sure, said Detective Brown hauntedly. Are you ready to die? Ever ready. The detective extended his hand toward the table on which his revolver lay. A cruel laugh greeted him. It was the last human voice he was to hear, as if by magic the floor under his feet gave way. Down, down, down a thousand feet he was precipitated. He tried to grasp the well-like walls of masonry, but in vain nothing could stay him. As he plunged into the deep water of the Oobliad, a fiendish laugh echoed in his ears. The Pale Avengers had destroyed one more of their adversaries. Until he read this thrilling tale, Philo Gub had not guessed the fiendishness of malefactors when brought to bay. And yet here it was in black and white. The Oobliad, a dark, dank dungeon hidden beneath the ground, was a favorite method of killing detectives, it seemed. Generally speaking, the Oobliad seemed to be the prevailing fashion in vengeful murder. Sometimes the bed sank into the Oobliad. Sometimes the floor gave way and cast the victim into the Oobliad. Sometimes the whole room sank slowly into the Oobliad, but death for the victim always lurked in the pit. Before getting into bed, Philo Gub examined the walls and the floor and the ceiling of his room. They seemed safe and secure, but twice during the night he awoke with a cry, imagining himself sinking through the floor. Three nights later, as Philo Gub stood in the dark doorway of the Wilcox building, waiting to pick up any suspicious character, Billy Getz slipped in beside him and drew him hastily to the back of the entry. Hush! Not a word, he whispered. Did you see a man in the window across the street? The third window on the top floor. No, whispered Philo Gub. Was, was there one? With a rifle, whispered Billy Getz. Ready to pick you off. Come. It is suicide for you to try to go out the front way now. Follow me. I have news for you. Step quietly. He led the paper hanger through the back corridor to the open air and up the outside back stairs to the third floor and into the building. He tapped lightly on a door and it was opened the nearest crack. Friends, whispered Billy Getz, and the door opened wide and admitted them. The room was the club room of the kidders, where they gathered night after night to play cards and drink illicit whiskey. Green shades over which were hung heavy curtains protected the windows. A large round table stood in the middle of the floor under the gas lights, a couch was in one corner of the room, and these with the chairs and a formless heap in a far corner over which a couch cover was thrown constituted all the furniture except for the iron cuspidores. Here the young fellows came for their sport, feeling safe from intrusion, for the possession of whiskey was against the law. There was a fine of five hundred dollars, one half to the informer, for the misdemeanor of having whiskey in one's possession, but the kidders had no fear. They knew each other. For the moment the cards were put away and the couch cover hid the four cases of Six-Star that represented the club's stock of liquor. The five young men already in the room were sitting around the table. "'Sit down, Detective Gub,' said Billy Getz. Here we are safe. Here we may talk freely, and we have something big to talk tonight.' Filo Gub moved a chair to the table. He had to push one of the cuspidores aside to make room, and as he pushed it with his foot he saw an oblong of paper lying in it among the sand and cigar stubs. It was a Six-Star whiskey label. He turned his head from it with his bird-like twist of the neck and let his eyes rest on Billy Getz. "'We know who dynamited those houses,' said Billy Getz suddenly. "'Do you know Jack Harburger?' "'No,' said Filo Gub. I don't know him.' "'Well, we do,' said Billy Getz. He's the slickest ever. He was the boss of the gang. Read this.' He slid a sheet of note paper across to Filo Gub and the detective read it slowly. "'Billy, send me five hundred dollars quick. I've got to get away from here. J.H.' "'And we made him our friend,' said Billy Getz resentfully. Why, he was here the night of the dynamiting, wasn't he, boys?' "'He sure was,' said the kidders. "'Now he's nothing to us,' said Billy Getz. "'Now, what do you say, Detective Gub? If we fix it so you can grab him, will you split the reward with us?' "'Half for you and half for me,' asked Filo Gub, his eyes as big as poker chips. "'Three thousand for you and two for us was what we figured was fair,' said Billy Getz. "'You ought to have the most. You put in your experience and your education and detective work.' "'And that ought to be worth something,' admitted Filo Gub. So it was agreed. They explained to Filo Gub that Jack Harburger was the son of old Harburger of the Harburger House at Dirlingport, and that they could count on the clerk of that hotel to help them. Billy Getz would go up and get things ready, and the next day Filo Gub would appear at the hotel—in disguise, of course—and do his part. The clerk would give him a room next to Jack Harburger's room and see that there was a hidden opening in the partition, and Billy Getz, pretending he was bringing the money, would ring a full confession from Jack Harburger. Then Filo Gub need only step into the room and snap the handcuffs on Jack Harburger and collect the reward. They shook hands all around finally, and Billy Getz went to the window to see that no ghoul was lurking in the street, ready to murder Filo Gub when he went out. As he turned away from the window, the toe of his shoe caught in the fringe of the couch-cover and dragged it partially from the odd-shaped pile in the corner. With a quick sweep of his hand, Billy Getz replaced the cover. But not before Filo Gub had seen the necks of a full case of bottles, and had caught the glint of the label on one of them, bearing the six silver stars, like that in the Cuspidore. Billy Getz cast a quick glance at the correspondent school detective's face, but Filo Gub, his head well back on his stiff neck, was already gazing at the door. Two days later, Filo Gub, with his telescope-velice in his hand, boarded the morning train for Dirlingport. The river was on one of its rampages, and the water came close to the tracks. Here and there, on the way to Dirlingport, the water was over the tracks, and in many places the wagon-road, which followed the railway, was completely swamped, and the passing vehicles sank in the muddy water to their hubs. The year is still known as the year of the big flood in Riverbank. The water had flooded the front street cellars, and in Dirlingport the sewers had backed up, flooding the entire lower part of town. When the train reached Dirlingport, Filo Gub, with his telescope-velice, which contained his twelve correspondent school lessons, the Pale Avengers, a pair of handcuffs, his revolver, and three extra disguises, walked toward the Harburger House. He was already thoroughly disguised, wearing a cold black beard and a red moustache, and an iron-grey wig with long hair. Luckily he passed no one. With that disguise he would have drawn an immense crowd. Nothing like it had ever been seen on the streets of Dirlingport, or elsewhere for that matter. A full block away, Filo Gub saw the sign of the hotel, and he immediately became cautious as a detective should. He crossed the street and observed the exits. There was a main entrance on the corner, a ladies' entrance at the side, and an entrance to what had once been the bar room. From the fire escape one could drop to the street without great injury. Filo Gub noted all these and then walked to the alley. There were two doors opening on the alley, one a cook's door and the other evidently leading to the cellar. At the latter a dray stood, and as Filo Gub paused there two men came from the store and laid a bale of hay on the dray, pushing it forward carefully. They did not toss it carelessly onto the dray but slid it onto the dray, and the hay was wet. Moreover the two men were two of Joe Henry's men, and that was odd. It was odd that Joe Henry should send a dray the full thirty miles to Dirlingport to get a load of wet hay when he could get all the dry hay he wanted in Riverbank. But it did not impress Filo Gub. He hurried to the main entrance of the hotel and entered. The lobby of the Harburger house was large and gloomy in its old-fashioned black walnut woodwork, except for one man sitting at a desk by the window and writing industriously, and the clerk behind the counter the lobby was untenanted. To the left a huge stairway led to the gloom above for the hotel boasted no elevator except the huge baggage lift which had been put in in the palmy days of the house when the great river packets were still a business factor. Filo Gub walked across the lobby to the clerk's desk. The industrious penman by the window glanced over his shoulder. He looked more like a hotel clerk than like a traveling salesman, but Filo Gub gave this no thought. The clerk behind the desk put his fingers on his lips. Shhh! he whispered. Are you Detective Gub? Good. I've been expecting you. Have you a gun? In my telescope case, whispered Filo Gub. Take this one, said the clerk, handing the paper hanger detective a glittering revolver. Be careful. Come. I'll show you the room. He came from behind the desk and picked up Filo Gub's telescope police and led the way up the dingy stairway. Luckily for Billy Getz's great practical joke, Filo Gub had never seen Jack Harburger, or he would have recognized him in the plump little man carrying his telescope police. Up three flights of dark stairs, Jack Harburger led Filo Gub and at the landing of the fourth floor he stopped. You were taking a risk, a big risk coming undisguised, he said. But I am disguised, said Filo Gub. These here is false whiskers and hair. What? exclaimed Jack Harburger. Wonderful work. A splendid makeup detective, you fooled me with it and I was on my guard. You'll do. Bend down like an old man. That's it. Now listen, I have cut a hole through the wall from your room into Jack's. You can hear every word he speaks. Have you a pencil and paper? Good. Jot down every word you hear and don't make a sound. If you are discovered, well, they're a desperate gang. Come. He led the way through a long dark corridor that turned and twisted. At the extreme end he stopped, put down the telescope police and drew a key from his pocket. That's Jack's room. He breathed softly. And you go in here. Sorry it isn't a better room. We had to use it and you be here long anyway. He opened the door. It was a large door that swung outward and it occupied one half of one side of the room. The floor of the room was carpeted and the walls were papered as was the ceiling. There was no window but an electric light burned in the center of the ceiling. Across the far side of the room stood a narrow iron bed with a small bureau beside it. Jack Harburger pointed to a hole in the wallpaper. That's your ear hole, he whispered, and Filo Gubb stepped into the room. Instantly the door slammed behind him. The key turned in the lock and he heard a heavy iron bar clank as it fell into place outside. He was a prisoner. Caught like a rat in a trap and he knew it. He threw himself against the door but it did not give. The electric light above his head went dark. He put out his hand and the wall gave slightly. He drew the revolver and waited, dreading what might next occur. He heard soft footsteps outside the door and raising the revolver pulled the trigger. The trigger snapped harmlessly. He had been tricked. Tricked all around. Is the oobliet prepared? whispered a voice outside. All ready for him. Twelve feet of water. He'll drown like a rat. Good. A slow death. Like a rat in a trap. Like we serve the other two. Then get rid of his body the same way. A stone on it and the river? Yes. They'll never come up again. The voices died away along the corridor and Filo Gubb was left in utter silence. Oobliet. The fate of the detectives of the pale adventures was to be his. Suddenly the room began to quiver. The floor and the walls trembled and creaked and Filo Gubb threw himself once more against the door. He shouted and beat upon it with his hands. Inch by inch creaking and swaying the room glided downward. The door seemed to glide upward beyond the ceiling giving place to a solid wall. He turned and beat on the side of the room and it gave forth a hollow sound. As he moved the room swayed under his feet. He was doomed. Alone in the darkness his fear suddenly gave way to a feeling of pride. He was dangerous enough then to be thought worthy of death. His last drop of doubt oozed out of his mind. He was. He must be a great detective or such means would not have been taken to get rid of him. He felt a sort of calm joy in this. His murderers knew his prowess. Locked in the room going down to certain death he exalted and if he was as great as all that it could not be that his position was hopeless. Time and again Carl Carroll the boy detective had been in equally precarious positions but in the end he had brought the pale avengers low. And what a boy untrained could do a graduate of the Rising Sun Correspondent School of Detecting ought to be able to do. He drew his knife from his pocket and cut into the wallpaper of the side wall. Being a paper hanger the first touch of his hand against the side wall had told him the wallpaper was pasted on canvas and not on a solid wall and now he ripped the canvas away. The wall was of rough boards, scarred and marred. The opposite wall was the same. He kneeled on the bed and tried the rear wall. He felt the plastered wall gliding upward. He stood on the bed and ripped the canvas sealing away. As he ripped the sealing away light entered the cage from a dirty skylight far above. Just over his head a heavy iron grating covered the cage, barring him in, but high up he could see the great drum from which the cable slowly unwound as the car descended. He was in an elevator, but this knowledge gave him small comfort. Cage, room or elevator, call it what he choose, it was relentlessly descending into the flooded cellar. He watched the drum with fascinated eyes as the wire cable unwound itself. He lay back on the bed, his feet hanging to the floor and stared upward. He could not take his eyes from the revolving drum. It was like a clock marking the moments he still had to live. But suddenly he was galvanized into action. Over his feet something cold ran, making him jerk them from the floor. It was the water of the obliquette, and he gazed on it with horror as it rose inch by inch toward him. Slowly as the car dropped the water crept up. It reached the first drawer of the small bureau. It crept up to the side rails of the bed. It wet the mattress, and still it rose. He stood on the bed and grasped the iron grating above his head. Stop! whispered a voice above his head, and the creaking cage stopped. Gubb! Detective Gubb! whispered the voice, and Filo Gubb looked upward. Listen, Detective Gubb! said the voice. One touch of my hand on the lever, and you will be dropped beneath the wooders, never to appear again except dead. One only chance remains for your life, and blackened with crime, though we are, we offer you that chance. If you will swear to leave this state, never to return, we will spare you. What say you, Filo Gubb? It was an offer no mortal could refuse. Life after all is sweet. Filo Gubb, the relentless correspondent school detective opened his mouth, but as he turned his head upward, he closed it again, and licked his lips twice. No, Dern Yee! he shouted angrily. I won't ever do no such thing. There was a hurried whispering of many voices above him. Think well, said the voice again. We will give you until midnight to reconsider your rashness, until midnight, Detective Gubb. You can't scare me! shouted Filo Gubb. Until midnight, repeated the voice, and then there was silence. Filo Gubb immediately drew his heavy pocket-knife from his pocket and began cutting out one of the panels of the door that shut him in on one side. He did not work heritally. He was not at all frightened. Looking up he had seen the drum, and there was no more cable on the drum to be unwound. The car could descend no farther. His feet were as wet as they could get. Unless the river rose to unbelievable height, he could not be drowned in the makeshift oobliate, unless he voluntarily lay down in the shallow water and inhaled it. He worked on the panel slowly, but with the earnestness of a very angry victim of a hoax. The panel fell outward with a splash and floated away. Filo Gubb bent sideways and squeezed out of the small opening into the cellar. The huge cellar was dusky in the dim light that entered through the cobwebbed panes high in the wall. It was an immense place, and now knee-deep in water, except for a gangway of boards laid on low trestles which led from one side of the cellar to the cellar door. There were coal bins and vegetable bins, like woodery bays leading from the general cellar sea, and strange appliance to discover in a hotel cellar a small hay-bailing press stood on an extemporized platform against one wall, and alongside it, on a long table such are seen in factories, bails of hay, some complete and some torn open, and cases. The cases were labeled blue river canned tomatoes, but one split across the end gave evidence that their contents were not canned tomatoes at all. Through the crack in the case glittered the six silver stars of the six-star whiskey. There were twenty-six of the cases. Philo-Gub waited to the raised gangway and walked to the cellar door. It was double-barred on the inside, and he lifted the bars cautiously and stepped into the alley, closing the door carefully behind him. He pulled his false whiskers and wig from his face and stuffed them in his pockets and hurried down the alley. When he returned, Billy Getz, Jack Harburger, and six of the kidders were holding high revel in the closed bar room of the Harburger house, but they all fell silent when the door opened and the sheriff of Durling County entered, with Philo-Gub and three deputies in company. It was evident that the sheriff did not consider Philo-Gub a joke. Search warrant, Jack, he said to Harburger, Detective Gub of Riverbank has been doing some sleuthing in your hotel. He says we want to have a look at the cellar. The next morning, the Riverbank Eagle was full of Philo-Gub again. Through the superb acumen of that wonderful detective, three stores of whiskey had been discovered and confiscated—one in the cellar of the Harburger house at Durlingport, one in Joe Henry's stable at Riverbank, and a smaller one in the room in the Wilcox building frequented by the kidders. How I'd done it? said Philo-Gub to one of his admirers. I'd done it like a detective does it—a detective that wants to detect—picks up some feller that looks suspicious like—like it says in Lesson Four Rule Four, and then he shadows and trails him like it says in Lesson Four Rules Four to Seventeen—and then something's bound to happen. But how can you tell what's going to happen? asked his admirer. Well, sir, said Philo-Gub. That's the beauty of the detective business. You don't ever know what's going to happen until it happens. End of The Oubliette by Ellis Parker Butler. Quicksilver Cassandra by J. K. Baines It was altogether queer, and Jingleberry, to this day, does not entirely understand it. He had examined his heart as carefully as he knew how, and had arrived at the entirely reasonable conclusion that he was in love. He had every symptom of that malady. When Miss Marion Chapman was within range of his vision, there was room for no one else there. He suffered from that peculiar optical condition which enabled him to see but one thing at a time when she was present, and she was that one thing, which was probably the reason why in his mind's eye she was the only woman in the world, for Marion was ever present before Jingleberry's mental optic. He had also examined as thoroughly as he could in Hypothesis the heart of this only woman, and he had, or thought he had, which amounts to the same thing, reason to believe that she reciprocated his affection. She certainly seemed glad always when he was about. She called him by his first name, and sometimes quarreled with him as she quarreled with no one else. And if that wasn't a sign of love in a woman, then Jingleberry had studied the sex all his years, and they were thirty-two, for nothing. In short, Marion behaved so like a sister to him that Jingleberry, knowing how dreams and women go by contraries, was absolutely sure that a sister was just the reverse from that relationship which in her heart of hearts she was willing to assume towards him, and he was happy in consequence. Believing this, it was not at all strange that he should make up his mind to propose marriage to her. Though, like many other men, he was somewhat chicken-hearted in coming to the point. Four times had he called upon Marion for the sole purpose of asking her to become his wife, and four times had he led up to the point and then talked about something else. What quality it is in man that makes a coward of him in the presence of one he considers his dearest friend is not within the province of this narrative to determine, but Jingleberry had it in its most virulent form. He had often got so far along in his proposal as Marion, er, will you, will you, and there he had as often stopped, contenting himself with such commonplace conclusions as, go to the matinee with me tomorrow, or ask your father for me if he thinks the stock market is likely to strengthen soon, and other amazing substitutes for the words he so ardently desired yet feared to utter. But this afternoon, the one upon which the extraordinary events about to be narrated took place, Jingleberry had called Resolve not to be balked in his determination to learn his fate. He had come to propose, and propose he would, Ruat Calum. His confidence in a successful termination to his suit had been reinforced that very morning by the receipt of a note from Miss Chapman asking him to dine with her parents and herself that evening, and to accompany them after dinner to the opera. Surely that meant a great deal, and Jingleberry conceived that the time was ripe for a blushing yes to his long deferred question, so he was here in the Chapman parlor waiting for the young lady to come down and become the recipient of the interesting interrogatory, as it is called in some sections of Massachusetts. I'll ask her the first thing, said Jingleberry, buttoning up his Prince Albert, as though to impart a possibly needed stiffening to his backbone. She will say yes, and then I shall enjoy the dinner and the opera so much the more. Ahem. I wonder if I am pale. I feel sort of, um, there's a mirror, that will tell. Jingleberry walked to the mirror, an oval, guilt-framed mirror, such as was very much the Vogue fifty years ago, for which reason alone, no doubt, it was now admitted to the golden white parlor of the House of Chapman. Blessed things these mirrors, said Jingleberry, gazing at the reflection of his face. So reassuring. I'm not at all pale. Quite the contrary. I'm red as a sunset. Good omen that. The sun is setting on my bachelor days, and my scarf is crooked. Ah. The ejaculation was one of pleasure, for pictured in the mirror Jingleberry saw the form of Marion entering the room through the portier. How do you do, Marion? Been admiring myself in the glass, he said, turning to greet her. I—er—here he stopped, as well he might, for he addressed no one. Miss Chapman was nowhere to be seen. Dear me, said Jingleberry, rubbing his eyes in astonishment. How extraordinary! I surely thought I saw her, why I did see her. That is, I saw her reflection in the glass. Ha! She caught me gazing at myself there and has hidden. He walked to the door and drew the portier aside, and looked into the hall. There was no one there. He searched every corner of the hall and of the dining-room at its end, and then returned to the parlor, but it was still empty. And then occurred the most strangely unaccountable event in his life. As he looked about the parlor, he, for the second time, found himself before the mirror. But the reflection therein, though it was of himself, was of himself with his back turned to his real self, as he stood gazing amazedly into the glass. And besides this, although Jingleberry was alone in the real parlor, the reflection of the dainty room showed that there he was not so, for seated in her accustomed graceful attitude in the reflected armchair was nothing less than the counterfeit presentment of Marian Chapman herself. It was a wonder Jingleberry's eyes did not fall out of his head, he stared so. What a situation it was to be sure to stand there and see in the glass a scene which, as far as he could observe, had no basis in reality, and how interesting it was for Jingleberry to watch himself going through the form of chatting pleasantly there in the mirror's depths with the woman he loved. It almost made him jealous, though the reflected Jingleberry was so entirely independent of the real Jingleberry. The jealousy soon gave way to consternation, for to the wondering suitor the independent reflection was beginning to do that for which he himself had come. In other words, there was a proposal going on there in the glass, and Jingleberry enjoyed the novel sensation of seeing how he himself would look when passing through a similar ordeal. Altogether, however, it was not as pleasing as most novelties are, for there were distinct signs in the face of the mirrored Marian that the mirrored Jingleberry's words were distasteful to her, and that the proposition he was making was not one she could entertain under any circumstances. She kept shaking her head, and the more she shook it, the more the glazed Jingleberry seemed to implore her to be his. Finally, Jingleberry saw his quick silver counterpart fall upon his knees before Marian of the glass, and hold out his arms and hands towards her in an attitude of prayerful despair, where upon the girl sprang to her feet, stamped her left foot furiously upon the floor, and pointed the unwelcome lover to the door. Jingleberry was fairly staggered. What could be the meaning of so extraordinary a freak of nature? Surely it must be prophetic. Fate was kind enough to warn him in advance, no doubt. Otherwise it was a trick, and why should she stoop to play so paltry a trick as that upon him? Surely fate would not be so petty. No, it was a warning. The mirror had been so affected by some supernatural agency that it divined and reflected that which was to be, instead of confining itself to what Jingleberry called simultaneity. It led, instead of following or acting coincidentally with the reality, and it was the part of wisdom, he thought, for him to yield to its suggestion and retreat, and as he thought this he heard a soft, sweet voice behind him. I hope you haven't got tired of waiting, Tom, it said, and turning, Jingleberry saw the unquestionably real Marian standing in the doorway. No, he answered shortly. I have had a pleasant, very entertaining ten minutes, but I must hurry along, Marian, he added. I only came to tell you that I have a frightful headache and, er, I can't well manage to come to dinner or go to the opera with you tonight. Why, Tom, pouted Marian, I am awfully disappointed I had counted on you, and now my whole evening will be spoiled. Don't you think you can rest a little while and then come? Well, I, I want to, Marian, said Jingleberry, but to tell the truth, I, I really am afraid I am going to be ill. I've had such a strange experience this afternoon, I, tell me what it was, suggested Marian sympathetically, and Jingleberry did tell her what it was. He told her the whole story from beginning to end, what he had come for, how he had happened to look in the mirror, and what he saw there. And Marian listened attentively to every word he said. She laughed once or twice, and when he had done, she reminded him that mirrors have a habit of reversing everything, and somehow or other Jingleberry's headache went, and, well, everything went. End of a quick silver Cassandra, recording by Rosie. Silence, a fable, by Edgar Allan Poe. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Silence, a fable, by Edgar Allan Poe. The mountain pinnacle slumber, valleys, cracks, and caves are silent. Listen to me, said the demon, as he placed his hand upon my head. The region of which I speak is a dreary region in Libya, by the borders of the river Zaira, and there is no quiet there, nor silence. The waters of the river have a saffron and sickly ewe, and they flow not onward to the sea, but palpitate forever and forever beneath the red eye of the sun, with a tumultuous and convulsive motion. For many miles on either side of the river's oozy bed is a pale desert of gigantic water lilies. They sigh one and to the other in that solitude, and stretch towards the heaven their long and ghastly necks, and not to and fro their everlasting heads. And there is an indistinct murmur which cometh out from among them like the rushing of septorine water, and they sigh one and to the other. But there is a boundary to Daryon, the boundary of the dark, horrible, lofty forest. There, like the waves about the Hebrides, the low underwood is agitated continually. But there is no wind throughout the heaven, and the tall primeval trees rock eternally hither and thither with a crashing and mighty sound. And from their highest summits one by one drop everlasting juice, and at the roots strange poisonous flowers lie writhing in perturbed slumber, and overhead with a rustling and loud noise, the grey clouds rush westwardly forever until they roll a cataract over the fiery wall of the horizon. But there is no wind throughout the heaven, and by the shores of the river Zyra there is neither quiet nor silence. It was night and the rain fell, and falling it was rain, but having fallen it was blood. And I stood in the morals among the tall lilies and the rain fell upon my head, and the lilies sighed one and to the other in the solemnity of their desolation, and all at once the moon arose to the thin ghastly mist and was crimson in color. And my eyes fell upon a huge gray rock which stood by the shore of the river and was lighted by the light of the moon, and the rock was gray and ghastly and tall, and the rock was gray. Upon its front were characters engraven in the stones, and I walked through the morals of water lilies until I came close into the shore that I might read the characters upon the stone, but I could not decipher them, and I was going back into the morals when the moon shone with a fuller red, and I turned and looked again upon the rock and upon the characters, and the characters were desolation, and I looked upwards, and there stood a man upon the summit of the rock, and I hid myself among the water lilies that I might discover the action of the man, and the man was tall and stately in form and wrapped up from his shoulders to his feet in the toga of old Rome, and the outlines of his figure were indistinct, but his features were the features of a deity, for the mantle of the night and of the mist and of the moon and of the dew had left uncovered the features of his face, and his brow was lofty with thought and his eye wild with care, and in the few furrows upon his cheek I read the fables of sorrow and the weariness and disgust with mankind, and the longing after solitude, and the man sat on the rock and leaned his head upon his hand and looked out upon the desolation, he looked down into the low and quiet shrubbery and up into the tall primeval trees and up higher at the rustling heaven and into the crimson moon, and I lay close within shelter of the lilies and observed the actions of the man, and the man trembled in the solitude, but the night waned and he sat upon the rock, and the man turned his attention from the heaven and looked out upon the dreary river Zyra and upon the yellow ghastly waters and upon the pale legions of the water lilies, and the man listened to the sighs of the water lilies and to the murmur that came up from among them, and I lay close within my cupboard and observed the actions of the man, and the man trembled in the solitude, but the night waned and he sat upon the rock, then I went down into the recesses of the Moaz and waded afar in among the wilderness of the lilies and called into the hippopotamia which dwelt among the fence in the recesses of the Moaz, and the hippopotamia heard my call and came with the behemoth unto the foot of the rock and roared loudly and fearfully beneath the moon, and I lay close within my cupboard and observed the actions of the man, and the man trembled in the solitude, but the night waned and he sat upon the rock, then I cursed the elements with the curse of tumult, and the frightful tempest gathered in the heaven where before there had been no wind, and the heaven became livid with the violence of the tempest, and the rain beat upon the head of the man, and the floods of the river came down, and the river was tormented into foam, and the water lilies shrieked within their beds, and the forests crumbled before the wind, and the thunder rolled, and the lightning fell, and the rock rocked to its foundation, and I lay close within my cupboard and observed the actions of the man, and the man trembled in the solitude, but the night waned and he sat upon the rock, then I grew angry and cursed with the curse of silence, the river and the lilies and the wind, and the forest and the heaven, and the thunder and the size of the water lilies, and they became accursed and were still, and the moon seized to totter up its path way to heaven, and the thunder died away, and the lightning did not flash, and the clouds hung motionless, and the water sunk to their level and remained, and the trees seized through rock, and the water lilies sighed no more, and the murmur was heard no longer from among them, nor any shadow of sound throughout the vast, illimitable desert, and I looked upon the characters of the rock, and they were changed, and the characters were silence, and my eyes fell upon the countenance of the man, and his countenance was one with terror, and hurriedly he raised his head from his hand, and stood forth upon the rock and listened, but there was no voice throughout the vast, illimitable desert, and the characters upon the rock were silence, and the man shuddered and turned his face away, and flat far off in haste, so that I beheld him no more. Now there are fine tills in the volumes of the Magi, in the iron-bound melancholy volumes of the Magi. Therein, I say, are glorious histories of the heaven, and of the earth, and of the mighty sea, and of the genii that overruled the sea, and the earth, and the lofty heaven. There was much law, too, in the sayings which were set by the sibles, and holy, holy things were heard of old by the dim leaves that trembled around the donor, but, as Allah liveth, that fable which the demon told me as he sat by my side in the shadow of the tomb, I hold to be the most wonderful of all. And as the demon made an end of his story, he fell back within the cavity of the tomb, and laughed, and I could not laugh with the demon, and he cursed me because I could not laugh, and the links which dwelleth forever in the tomb came out there from, and lay down at the feet of the demon, and looked at him steadily in the face, and of silence a fable.