 Section 1 of Loop Guru. 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 Uggie's Ragdoll. Loop Guru by Eden Philpots. Section 1. In a little house at Dominica, hurst upon low yellow cliffs that overhang the Rizu River, dwelt Ruth Malion. Vila St. Joseph, with its white walls and purple roof, peeped from a perfect bower of palms, and orange and tamarind trees. Mrs. Malion's attendants were the Ethiopes of that sunny land. Her ever-present companion was the music-making stream that flowed beneath. Sometimes, in seasons of drought, the Rizu would dwindle to a mere silver ribbon, winding among the great boulders in its bed. But after heavy rains, a roaring torrent of yellow water, crowned with foam, flooded that exquisite valley, and, dashing seawards, widely stained the blue waters of the Caribbean, Mrs. Malion was the widow of a Dominica coffee-planter. Coffee, however, had begun to fail before her husband's death, and one of the open and always interesting questions in Dominica's society at the time of its narrative concerned her real position and possessions. Some said that the old lady's wealth must be very considerable. Others denied the assertion. Nobody really knew anything at all about the matter, not even her own heirs. The brothers, Roger and No-Warren, had equal claims upon their aunts. But whilst the elder was in every way an admirable youth and a credit to his native island, it is to be regretted that very little in his favor could be said of the younger. These lies vied with one another in attention to their age relative, and the secret rivalry of years accumulated in something very like Discord when Mrs. Malion began to favor Noel openly. Her lack of judgment in such a course formed matter for universal debate, and people arrived at the conclusion that if her intelligence was not absolutely failing the woman, at least she no longer knew a good nephew when she found him. For truly, Roger-Warren, considering his age, could point to a very exceptional record. He was staid, sober-minded, self-contained. He had identified himself with a small Maruvian movement at Dominica. He conducted his store in the town of Urzoo with equity and ability. He never tired of incoquinating noble principles among the blacks. He promised to be a burning and a shining light before very long. His younger brother, Noel, had nothing to recommend him, so Dominica declared. Never were two more opposite natures than his and Roger's. He let idle, dissolute, nocturnal existence, favored no religious body at all, lived on a trifling patrimony, the capital of which was fortunately beyond his reach, and only in one direction approached any regularity of conduct. He did not neglect Aunt Malion. To her he paid every attention and kindness, and the old lady enjoyed the society. Delighted in his comic chronicles of events in Dominica, found his light-hearted nature a pleasant sauce to the quiet autumn of her life. Noel-Warren was a jovial, reckless, good-hearted, thoughtless white. He fluttered through the pleasant places of life like a butterfly. He loved beauty and sediment, and the poetical side of things generally, but no negro ever hated work more cordially. Many expressed regard for Noel, none ever pretended respect. Mrs. Malion liked both the young men after her fashion, but she felt more at home with her naughty nephew. Roger made her nervous. He was so very good. His sentiments tickled her sense of humor, too. It was, in some measure, absurd to see so old ahead upon such useful shoulders. But while Roger was cold and unsympathetic, it was not exactly, for he appreciated her little jokes and her old world reminces of the prosperous days of Dominica. Though Mrs. Malion was quite alive to no sins and wickedness, yet she let them go rather easily by. He was such good company, and while thoughtless for all the world beside, always considered her. I find him very lovable and warm at heart, she said once, when her grave elder nephew exponulated from a sense of duty. He is a creature of sunshine, and I, who have seen much sorrow, enjoy you have him by me, for I want sunshine. Noel means well. Like many others, Aunt Ruth, who will someday find themselves in a place that is paved with good intentions. You might help him, but you make no effort to do so. You might speak a word in season, but you never do. Oh, how I wish, Aunt Ruth, you would occupy your own thoughts a little more with the future. Yes, Roger, I really must begin. You see, life, even in a venerable woman like myself, is so very entertaining and interesting. You have already passed the allotted span, said the model, with a sigh. But I don't think I'm so very bad, as old ladies go, answered Mrs. Malion. Her little brown face puckered up, and her bright eyes twinkled behind their glasses. At any rate, she continued, I will say the words in season. Noel is naturally good, but weak, like his father. Roger retired. He wanted to save his aunts if possible. There was still hope for her, but he feared his brother had gone beyond redemption. That afternoon, Mrs. Malion chatted with Noel in her little garden at Villa St. Joseph. The young man smoked a cigar, drank claret, and peeled a mango for his aunt. True to her promise, she touched upon the subject of Noel's delinquencies, and he admitted the magnitude and extent of them without hesitation. I am exceptionally bad. There's nobody that can doubt that, Aunt Ruth. But I have a theory which completely explains it. As she'd be pityed, not blamed, you see all men, as a rule, have their share of the old Adam. But look at Roger. He hasn't got any old Adam in him at all. Nature found out her mistake too late, and made up the balance by giving me double my portion. You're not really bad, only frighteningly thoughtless. I wish you could see more of Roger. It makes me feel so wicked to be in his society. He is so very elevating, rather depressing perhaps, but still very elevating and extremely good for us both. Wouldn't be fair to him, answered Noel. You cannot touch pitch without getting dirty, Aunt Ruth. He's such a particularly spotless young chap that any contact with me shows. He told me so himself, so it must be true. He has made one or two final attempts to reform me by letter. But they've all failed, I regret to say. The Meruvian people here liken him to Saint Paul, and fancy that I'm his thorn and the flesh. It may be so. I wish you would make an attempt to turn over a new leaf for my sake, Noel. I turn over so many lately, but they all get to look alike in a week or two. I will have another try, though. I don't vividly remember the former occasions, my dear boy. Oh, I do. Worst luck. No matter. I'll have another shot. Today's Thursday. I'll begin next Monday. But Noel's renewed experiments toward cleaner living proved even less happy than alleged previous efforts in the same direction. In fact, he fell more extensively than usual. And less than a month after his recorded conversation with his aunt, Roger brought to that lady a sad tale of the most discredible escapade. Henceforth, he said, all decent doors must be shut against no warn. He is my brother, but I assert that no man or woman who values his or her reputation should know him. I'll bite, Mrs. Merlion, as a West Indian of the old-fashioned sort, hardly looked upon Noel's latest adventures in the grave light that Roger did. Yet he was strong, she was weak, and finally he extorted from her a promise that, for the present at least, if only as a punishment, she would deny the hospitality of Villa St. Joseph to her younger nephew. The promise, once given, Ruth Merlion spent all her time and efforts to escape from it. But Roger, though it rung the young man's heart to do so, found his sense of duty assist him in keeping the old lady firm. He had got in the thin end of the wedge, and he prayed that it might still be possible to save her soul alive. End of section one. Section two of Luke Garoo This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording by Doug Fajardo. Luke Garoo by Ellen Philpots. Chapter two. Roger Warren was really a very good young man, and better than most young men. But then he belonged to that fortunate, fishy sort of youths, who always drink water from choice, and whose blood seems too thin to get very hot, even in the tropics. He felt strong, chiefly because he had never been gravely tried, as yet. But he had a practical weak spot, too. The mammon of unrighteousness fascinated him. This he hardly knew himself as yet. But the devil did. I say again, he was a good young man, though not as good as people thought, and not as good as he honestly believed himself to be. A humbug always humbugs himself, sooner or later. Then his actions are worth watching. Noel, on the other hand, was really weak and vicious, but he knew it. And after his last fiasco, he made yet another attempt to struggle from a sloth. Finding that his unassisted efforts towards better things never produced the smallest results, he cast about for aid, and boldly sought the same in a high quarter. Bishop Muldoon of Dominica was always ready to lend a helping hand to black sheep from any fold, or no fold at all. Noel was the sort of youngster he liked to tackle, and he willingly gave him the benefit of much excellent advice and admirable counsel. The sinner, weak as wetter, sentimental, good-hearted, impetuous, founded a comfortable and happy thing to have a complete new program thus mapped out for him. He obeyed the good bishop to the best of his ability, joined the Roman church as a preliminary, and started on the new steep road. His reformation was not instantaneous, far from it, but people who took the trouble to watch Noel th'warn carefully detected a change from the first. He was good oftener than formerly, and apparently with deliberate intention. Noel wrote once or twice to his aunt during this period, but received no answer. Then, about five months after the estrangement, he met his brother. Instead of passing as usual, Roger stopped him. I desire to speak with you, he said. Would you mind turning down this lane for a few moments? Here we shall not be interrupted, and not seen, huh? Come on! They proceeded over a rough grass-grown road flanked by mean negro huts. The place was lonely and almost deserted, at one door sat an old insane negro playing with a cat. Here and there in the road naked black babies and goats amused themselves. You must prepare for sad news," began Roger, opening the conversation. Aunt Ruth has become much weaker since last you saw her. She cannot be with us long now. Poor old lady. I'm very, very sorry to hear it. Bitterly sorry. Is she happy? Does she ever mention me? More in sorrow than anger. She forgives you everything, even this monstrous act of joining the Romans. She desired to see you a month or more ago, but I did not support her in the idea. You? What business was it of yours? Discuss calmly. In a measure it was my business. Our aunt has put herself in my hands, body and soul. I have no fear now for the latter. What touches you is the future of the property she leaves behind her. Concerning that, I am but little wiser than yourself. She has, however, appointed me as her executor and allowed me to learn that all her securities have long since been realized. Her money, how much or how little I know not, is actually within the walls of village St. Joseph. When I heard this, I considered it my duty to take up my own abode there. Our joint interests pointed to such a step. Aunt Ruth was glad that I should do so. You must not accuse me of even a selfish thought in this action. Our good aunt's will was made long ago. I am as ignorant of its contents as you are. But what is this objection to my seeing her? She is as much to me as you. I exercise my own judgment in this step. I cannot think that the presence of a Roman Catholic at her deathbed or near it is desirable. Oh, you're a broad-minded man. Thank God no. The broad-minded are to be found in the broad path as a rule. You must have narrow views if you would tread the narrow way. Well, you seem nicely calculated to soothe anybody's declining hours. That's certain. Aunt Ruth must have aged rather rapidly since I last saw her. But if you've been turning your attention to her soul, it is easily accounted for. Roger sighed. We need not prolong this conversation, I think, he said. And then the brothers separated. But the next morning they met again. For Noel, brooding upon the matter, determined to get more information at all costs or even force an interview upon his aunt if opportunity offered. The truth was that with a noblest possible motives Roger Warren had, in reality, adopted a course likely to shorten his aunt's millions life. As he told his brother, he had at last prevailed upon the old woman to turn her thoughts to the next world. But his method of performing that feat induced in the patient a semi-historical, semi-religious, semi-terror-stricken condition that kept her nerves forever on the fret and jar that brought her gray hairs with increasing speed and increasing misery to the grave. She was very grateful to her hard-featured nephew and very frightened of him. It seemed as though an angel from above had come down to ensure her eternal welfare. Roger's strength lay in his pictures of the world to come. He did not paint heaven as a particularly attractive spot, but his descriptions of the other place were terrific. They would have reformed a satyr. Sometimes, in feeble moments, Miss Mellian begged Roger to send for Noel, but his stern sense of duty made him equal to the task of refusing her. For the same reason he had destroyed Noel's letters and had not mentioned them to his aunt. His conscience told him that it must be done, for Ruth Mellian's eternal welfare was at stake. Luke 3 Noel swung along on his pony next morning and presently rode boldly up to the door of Villa St. Joseph. It was a quaint, beautiful portal, fringed with a great canopy of yellow and purple convovollus flanked by flaming red crotons shadowed by a lofty mahogany tree and approached up a short flight of red-brick steps. At the top of these, a gray-headed negris of ample proportions, clad in spotless white, with a brilliant turban over her dwindling wool, grinned with pleasure at the sight of the horseman. Loving praise! That you, Massa Noel? Yes, Martha, I'd rather think so. How's my aunt today, and how's your old man? Ah, Massa, Mellian Mellian, she's plenty good now. She thinks about nothing but the Lord now. She makes her peace with him and frowns over all other things. Massa Roger, he talk about hellfire and cheer Mellian up. There's no fear she no go to heaven, sa. But I'm sorry, I don't know what comes of me and my old man. But isn't anything being done? What's the matter with her? Does she see a doctor? No, sir! Answered in elderly Negro who came up at that moment. You did you see Massa Smith? But he, Roman Catholic, gentlemen. And Massa Roger, he say no Roman Catholic to fret her. And the old lady, she say all right. The Lord's doing for her now, Massa Noel. But I am damn glad to see you again all the same, sa. Yes, that's jolly fine, Gerard, burst out, Noel. But what did the Lord give us doctors for, do you suppose? It's wicked this sort of thing. She's only seventy-eight or something like that. There's a chance for a doctor yet. I call it murder, shutting her up like this and worrying and frightening her into her grave. As he spoke, the thin form of his brother appeared at the door. Roger was as angry as his convictions permitted him to be. His righteous wrath gave an unpleasant expression to his eyes. What is this? How dare you set foot here! he asked softly, keeping his voice well in control. Have you no consideration, even for a dying woman? She hears you. Your past returns to her mind. Your heart almost breaks to think of what you are. Take your presence from this house and do not dare again to criticize me or my actions. You use the word murder, Noel warned. Have a care. My patience is only that of a man. Curse you and all your canting hussites, cried the other hotly. Your righteous brood, absorbed in contemplating of its own holiness. Stand out of the way. My patience is gone too. Now I am here. I will see the old woman and take the consequences. You don't stop me anyhow. With the Lord's help I will, answered Roger stoutly. He barred the way, but no miracle was performed. Noel, his temper free, his passion red-hot, was a handful for the stronger men than his brother. He collared Roger by the scruff of the neck, shook him to his teeth rattled, and then flung him head-first down the steps into the garden. The conqueror hastened forward towards a room on the other side of the house, which he knew his aunt occupied. He stopped for a moment on the threshold of it and knocked, but there was no answer. Again he knocked without reply, and then, with a sudden sense of fear he could not explain, Noel pushed the door open and went in. A little figure in gray lay upon the ground. Mrs. Malian had started from her couch by the window to separate her nephews when she heard their voices in anger. There death had overtaken her. And now she was gone forever. Section 4. This sudden and unexpected tragedy quieted the brothers' feud. Noel, as a relief to his feelings, got upon his pony and gout back to Rosso for a doctor. Roger picked up his little dead aunt and carried her back to her couch. Great weeping and wailing arose from the black domestics. But beneath their sorrow lurked satisfaction of a sort and gloomy excitement. A weird, flesh-creeping pleasure which they extract from the circumstance of death, convincing himself that his aunt was really past all aid, Roger Warren put the winding blacks out of the room, closed the jealousies of the chamber, and waited quietly for the return of his brother with a medical man. All was over now, and he felt that the relief of knowing what Aunt Malian had really done with her money would be great, not, of course, that he cared over much himself. He looked at a massive brass-bound bureau of black oak which hid the secret. It struck him that it might be well to roughly acquaint himself with a position of affairs. Here was an opportunity. In a workbasket by the dead woman lay a bunch of keys. He opened the main door of the bureau to find that it contained no documents, only little bags and rolls of paper. Locking this again he made a further search, and suddenly chanced on what he sought with the Will of Testament of Ruth Malian writ large on the top of it. He just glanced through it to gather the general idea. This was quickly grasped, and the intelligence turned Roger Warren very white and cold, and set a strange, hazy mist dancing in his eyes. The rumored wealth of his aunt existed only in imagination. Her total fortune amounted to slightly more than five thousand pounds, and every penny of it was left to knoll. Villa Saint Joseph, and a beggarly acre or two of land, had been willed to Roger. He put his hands over his wet forehead and walked to the window. Then he turned and gazed at the gray face upon the bed. Its eyes had opened again. It almost looked at him and laughed. All your care and attention and anxiety wasted, it seemed to say. Roger sat down to reflect, and the devil came to take his share in the argument. Only he disguised himself. It was a fiery trial, bursting upon an disposition ill-armed to withstand this particular assault. My reward is not of this world, thought Roger. Then a voice spoke to him, and it said, Here is a case in which the Prince of Darkness must be fought with his own weapons. You do not want money. You never think of worldly wealth. But a great responsibility rests on your shoulders now. This ancient woman was twice a child, a Nile, imbecile, altogether incapable of conducting affairs. Fortunately, you can rectify her sad error. Providence has given you an opportunity to do so. Cast now this mad document into the flames, and possess yourself of the money. Hold it in trust for your brother, if you will, but do not suffer it to pass into his hands now. It is like giving it into the keeping of Belial. Do a grain of evil. That vast good may come, and so on and so on. The voice spoke at some length, and its arguments finally became very sophisticated and subtle. Truly, the spectacle of the struggle would have edified a third person. Roger thought that his conscience was speaking. He knelt down by his dead relation, and forgave her for her sin, and made the position a subject of prayer. Then he rose refreshed, locked up the bureau again, and put the keys where he had taken them from. But Miss Malion's will he placed in his pocket for the present. A moment afterwards he was summoned by a big deputation of Negresses, who thronged around the little entrance of Villa St. Joseph, and all spoke together in wild excitement. Roger paid them peace silent, and then old Martha, the woman already mentioned, explained their errand. These ladies come to know about singing tonight, Massa. They sing to keep Luke Garoo from the poor soul that's gone. Luke Garoo, him terrible busy just now, and the jumpies, they busy too. Done. He see Luke Garoo when Mars Jackson die, and Tom Wilson see him when his boy die. So these ladies come sing this night. Luke Garoo and jumpies, it must be explained, are horrid monsters akin to the vampire and werewolf. They are held to be particularly active at times of death. A corpse will drag them out of their secret hiding places, and any dead person, not sung or prayed for, prior to burial, will most surely be partially devoured or mutilated by the creatures. Singing, however, keeps them away. But nothing can kill them save a bullet concentrated in some place of worship. Weird and frightful tales are told of these demons, and the legends concerning them, while French in origin, have been greatly added to and improved upon by the mystery-loving negroes. They are a very terror to ignorant minds, and few blacks would care to speak lightly of them. In times of death, therefore, the silence of the night that succeeds is often broken by sobbing, wailing melodies, begun at sunset, and continued until dawn, at which time the power of these monsters is held to cease. Roger Warren reflected a moment before answering the eager crowd of women. Another time he would have preached a little sermon on the sin of such superstitious imaginings. But on this occasion he did not. Do you say something has been seen? He asked seriously. Yes, master, plenty Lucuru seen. Him awful is black, wicked Lucuru. Dan and Tom, they see him. You may sing here tonight, but not in the house. You can meet in the garden, be careful, and do no damage. That is all. The women marched chattering off to prepare for such a scene as they loved. To sing all night at a mournful occasion of this kind gives one a certain amount of distinction. And when it is a white man or woman for whom you sing, then you stand a reasonable chance of becoming celebrated. Soon afterwards Noel arrived with Dr. Smith of Rousseau. I can't hurt her soul now, said the medical man mournfully. And I can't mend her poor little body, either. She's gone for good. Sincope settled the matter. She probably made a sudden effort, and it was too much for her. Poor old lady. Gone. Gone. Ruth Malion was a landmark in time here. A link with the far past of Dominica. God rest her. End of Section 4. Section 5 of Lucuru. 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 Doug Fajardo. Lucuru by Aidan Philpott Chapter 5 That afternoon the brothers held solemn converse together. Our aunt's will is naturally in your thoughts, said Roger. Tomorrow we shall read it after the funeral. Do you know the contents yourself? I told you yesterday that I did not. Well, I don't want to see it. I expect nothing, said Noel. The Bureau, I understand, holds all there is. But I think it would be well to moderate our expectations. I have reason to believe that poor Aunt Ruth's wealth has been greatly exaggerated. It would not surprise me to find she was really living on her capital. Here a further deputation of Negroes awaited upon Roger to ask if they too might sing in the garden that night. He refused angrily. We don't want the place turned into a pandemonium because a good woman has gone to her rest, he declared. In a weak moment I granted permission to about fifty of you. That is more than sufficient. When the disappointed blacks had retired, Noel asked for an explanation. They come to sing and make night hideous here. You know their ridiculous and pernicious beliefs. Yes, but often those old superstitions have some backbone, answered Noel. His brother sneered. Does your creed accept other devils than its own? He asked. Do you believe in Negro fetish, as well as Roman Catholic? Strange things happen, answered the other. Very strange things happen, and have done so only recently. I credit fantastic vampires no more than do you. But late occurrences here had something besides pure imagination behind them. Yes, strong drink. If you can believe tipsy Negroes, your faith is remarkable. Has any responsible person ever seen one of these alleged demons by the dead? I think not. Noel made no answer, but turned to look for the last time at the woman who was gone. Necessary offices had been performed. Miss Malion lay on a plain beer, shrouded with white, in a center of the room where she had died. The windows were open, and through them a soft wind breathed, laden with the odor of Stephanotus. Over the distant hills, an afterglow of sunset still trembled. Nature was calm and peaceful, and in a hat mode, though not so calm as a little figure on the beer. Ruth Malion looked a tiny mite of a creature now, but death is solemn, even in a baby. Noel, being of sudden impulses, was deeply moved. He went to the window and plucked a handful of the sweet white flowers that trailed round it. Then, placing them on the breast of the dead, he knelt down beside her where Roger had knelt. Without, dark figures were already flitting among the palms. Women called to one another, and made final preparations for their night of music. When the last gleam of sunset light had faded away, they would begin to sing. Noel, hearing his brother approaching, rose quickly and stood by the window. Roger, who came for his aunt's keys, was leaving the room again when Noel turned and held out his hand. Be friends now, he said huskily. Shake hands and forgive me. I'm sorry for what happened this morning. Forget the past. She'd like us to. You've got nothing to blame yourself with, but I have so much. Be generous to one whose load is very heavy tonight. We make our own burdens, answered the other, extending a cold hand. God is aware, I wish you no ill. That was all he said, and Noel choked down his emotion pretty quickly. Then Roger locked the door of the death chamber, and went into another room. Do you stay here tonight? asked the younger brother. No. Those people will begin their singing almost immediately, and sleep must prove impossible. I returned to my own house. I need rest, for tomorrow will be a trying day. Our aunt is to be buried in the Morovian Cemetery at eleven o'clock. I know not if your views will permit you being present. Indeed, it is a question whether it would be decent for you to attend. I shall ask no man's opinion on that point. Remember the nature of the occasion. That is all. Then Roger proceeded to the outer gate, where a negro was waiting with his horse. He turned, however, first to see Noel off the premises, and also to give the old servants, Garad and his wife, a final word of instruction. Lock up everything, he said, and admit nobody after the undertaker has departed. Noel, on foot, watched the retreating form of his brother with mingled emotions. His reflections, however, were speedily centered in a recent idea, which was now growing into determination. He felt it a rebuke that his dead relation should pass the lonely hours of her last night above ground, unwatched and uncared for. No chance would ever offer of giving substance to a kind thought for her again. The act of a vigil by Aunt Millian's little body was in keeping with his new creed also. She had been very good to him, until his own sins closed her doors against him. Besides, there was comfort in the thought of watching by her. Comfort for him. And he felt sore and wanted comfort that night. Another argument for such a step presented itself. The alleged demons. Noel would have denied any impeachment of credulity, but an element of superstition formed a deep ingredient of his unstable character. He was irrational upon more points than one. Too prone at all times to give imagination the reign and hold reason back. His subsequent actions testified clearly to this fact. On reaching his home, he armed himself for the contemplated vigil, and, as if this were not enough, he entered the Roman Catholic chapel on his road back to the villa St. Joseph, and performed an act of superstition, pure and simple. The chapel was empty, save for an absorbed worshipper with her back turned. So Noel, approaching a little shell of holy water, immersed two pistol-bullets in it, having thus sanctified the missiles, he produced a heavy, old-fashioned weapon, and carefully loaded it with them. Then, rather ashamed of himself, he went on his way. Garad greeted the young man with some pleasure, and admitted him at once. Terrible, sad, and creepy-crawly in this house this night, sir, he declared. Me and Marfa, we's all alone with Missy Mellion. They sing out daar and dot good, but Lou Guru implanting near, for certain sure. The door of the apartment where the dead lay was locked, and, not caring to force it, Noel went round into the garden, from which he entered by the window. Then he threw back the jealousies, sat him down by the beer, and fell into a deep trance of thought. Section 6 of Lou Guru 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 Doug Fajardo Lou Guru by Eden Philpots Section 6 The night had now closed in, and the singing women were hard at work in the garden, their quaint, whining melodies, rising and falling, and sobbing throughout her gloom. Sometimes the music rose in a great crescendo of sound that echoed far into the night-hidden land. Sometimes the wild songs sank into a long, sustained drone, like the wail of Scottish pipes. But there was no moment of absolute silence. The mourners never stopped for an instant. Did they do so, Lou Guru would seize the opportunity for which he waited. Presently the distant mountains were fringed with light, and the dark hills clothed with a veil of silver-gray gauze as the moon rose, raining brightness upon the quiet world. Wondrous harmonies trembled out of the darkness. The palms were set in pearls. Beneath them the torches of the singers flashed with a glow of rooty flame, and round knoll, as he sat by death, their shone of radiance of soft glory also. Moonbeams kissed the small white face beside him. Twined bright fingers in Ruth Malion's gray hair, outlined her outstretched form, explored the dark corners of the chamber, gleamed with pencils and splashes of light on the middle work of the old bureau. The locked desk in the corner brought Noel Warren's own fortunes back to his mind. He expected nothing, deserved nothing, and yet there was a possibility that his aunt had not wholly forgotten him. But personal matters occupied a very few moments of his time. His reflections had already drifted back to the dead woman when the value of his vigil became manifest. The moon was stealing onwards and upwards. The mournful chant of the negruses still rang upon waking ears. Fireflies danced their intermittent fires dim under the moonshine. Tree frogs maintained a ceaseless chirrup in the palms. Then a woman shrill, sudden scream, cut the air like a knife. It was followed by another and another, and hastily approaching the window. Noel saw a vision of dark, hurrying figures and waving torches under the trees. The music stopped, for a moment, to instantly burst out again in deafening, educated chorus, where the terrified crowd had herded together in a mass as cattle before a beast of prey. In another moment, beneath him as he stood before the window, the listener heard something wrestling in the foliage, and almost before he could start back into the room, a silent black and hairy hand was upon the sill. Noel, with his heart beating like a hammer, knelt behind a chair in the darkest corner and cocked his pistol. As he did so, a shadow fell across the beer, and, looking to the window, the man's hair bristled up. His breath was caught in his throat. He shook at what he saw. Framed there stood an inky silhouette, a misshapen living thing. Half man, half ape. Half ape. The moonlight showed its hairy body, outlined its shaggy ears, and played like white fire in its round eyes as it turned to listen. Then, with slow and deliberate movement, it dragged itself over the window ledge and fell, silent as a spider, upon the floor. Crawling onwards, it stopped by the feet of the dead, and Noel, his nerves at the last pitch of tension, was about to shoot. But the thing moved away again, and, suddenly getting upon its feet, walked over to Ruth Malion's bureau. Man or demon, it wanted money, not blood. There was the tinkle of a key, and the heavy-set doors turned back. Not stopping to think, his past horror turned to rage, the armed man lifted his pistol, aimed between the eyes of the great bow-like head before him, and fired. A streak of tawny flame flashed from the darkness. A puff of smoke caught the light of the moon and made the room bright. The black figure, leaping into the air, turned without stretch hand, and vainly endeavored to stagger back to safety. But it did not reach the window. Bending under the smoke, Noel fired again, and, with a great groan choked in its head, the dark being fell crashing down. Once it struggled to its knees, but only for a moment. Then it rolled over, scratching the matting with its nails. In the window, a torch smoked and sputtered over a crowd of struggling women with shiny black faces and frightened eyes. At the same time, Gerard forced open the door behind Noel, and entered with lights. A crowd from the garden trod upon his heels, peeping over his shoulders and under his arms with hysterical excitement, and a screaming jabber of words. The room grew full of hurried forms in the mingled light of torch and moon, and a smell of burnt gunpowder tainted the air. The rabble made a semi-circle around the dead black creature, humped up in a corner. There it lay, silent as the little white form on the beer. But nobody dared go near it. Save only Noel. He, taking a light, pushed through the negroes, and approached his victim. Man, brute, or devil! The thing was dead enough now. It had fallen on its back, and its open, goggle eyes glimmered up at Noel as he bent over it. A dark stream wound over the floor from its side, seeing which young Warren guessed at the truth, or part of the truth. This is a mask, he cried. One of the carnival demon masks painted black. Help me quickly here. I've shot a man. It must be a nigger. See if anybody knows him. They tore the grinning mask off and found no negro. Only all that was left of Roger Warren. He had acted from the best possible motives, but been unfortunate. End of Chapter 6 Section 7 of Loop Guru 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 Doug Fajardo Loop Guru by Eden Philpots Section 7 A few curious facts came to light, after Ruth Malion and her nephew were laid to rest, and Noel Warren had been duly acquitted of the terrible charge brought against him. There was no shred or scrap of evidence to show why Roger had taken a venerable carnival costume from a lumber-room in his store, and, having donned it, had sellied forth to steal the property of his dead aunt. In reality, he had made an attempt upon money which would soon enough have become his own, for Ruth Malion's last will duly appeared in the old bureau. With the exception of a small bequest to Noel, from whom, with bitter sorrow, I am constrained to turn my face, Miss Malion had left everything to Roger. But, as so residuary legatee, the dead man's brother became possessed of the entire estate. Noel, a gloomy, haunted man now, could only believe, with the rest of his little world, that Roger, at the inscrutable will of the everlasting, had most sadly taken leave of his senses. His thoughts grew a burden to him, his life a curse. His brother's blood hung like a red paw between him and all realities of life. And on he set about leaving Dominica to seek some spot where the tragedy was not known. But, whilst looking through Roger's effects, winding up his brother's estate, and putting all things in order before his departure, Noel came upon an ancient document in one of his brother's coats. It was a will of Ruth Malion, nearly six months old, dated considerably before her last testament. Thank God I found the thing, and nobody else, said Noel warned to himself. Then he burnt it. End of Chapter 7 Section 8 of Lucarrou 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 Tracy Duckett Lou Garou by Eden Philpots John and Jane A negro lay at full length upon the little wharf of Kingstown, St. Vincent, in the West Indies. He chewed a sugarcane pensively and gazed with unspeculative eyes at the blue waters of the Caribbean. John Diggle was a full-blooded African, and rather an exceptional specimen of his race, for he enjoyed the advantages of fine physical proportions and good looks also, judged from an Ethiopian standpoint. As he bathed and blinked in the hot sunshine, his black skin shining with a rich chocolate gloss peeped from many a rent and rift in John's raiment, for he wore what he was pleased to consider his working clothes, albeit Mr. Diggle did extremely little work at the best and busiest of times. Now that emancipation has made all men free in the fertile islands of the western Indies, Qash's labors are very limited. Two days of toil a week are sufficient to provide him with every necessity, and he has no ambition for luxuries. Give him a thatched cottage peeping from between the great tattered leaves of plantain trees, add there to a patch of land where he may grow his sweet potatoes, throw in a coconut palm, sufficient sugarcane, and a wife to cherish or thrash, according to his humor, and your negro asks for nothing more. But John Diggle, while he owned most of these good things, and was the proud possessor of two mango trees into the bargain, yet lacked a helpmate, and while he sat upon the wharf and watched a shoal of flying fish flashing like little silver meteors in the bay as they fled and flew before greedy pursuers in sea and air, John sighed with the gravity of his reflections and shook his woolly head and set down his sugarcane, for the sweetness had gone out of it that morning. Mr. Diggle was in love with the blackest, straightest, prettiest little negro in St. Vincent, but his dear one had two strings to her bow, and she harped with great success upon each to the extreme discomfort of the other. His present uncertainty first reduced John to despair and then determined him to take definite action. He felt that when his mental condition became such that sugarcane no longer tasted sweet in the mouth, it was high time to make a move and press for a decided answer from Jane Smith. He had not proposed yet, accepting through the vague medium of great bunches of bananas or presents of land crabs and other delicacies. Nor had his rival made absolute offer of love so far as he knew, and now, while poor John lay sign and whining to himself under the blazing sun, he was screwing his courage to the sticking point and framing ardent sentences calculated to express the height and depth of his affection. He wished he could write a letter setting forth his sentiments, but the extent of Mr. Diggle's education did not embrace the possibility of such a performance. Specks I'll have to say it, he thought, and I'd utter a nigger I'll have to say it too. He don't know nothing about writing, tanked a lord. This reflection comforted John for a moment. Then another took its place. What if his rival had spoken? Of course he might do so at any moment. Mr. Diggle knew very little of love, except that it was a most unquieting, distracting condition. But he suspected that considerable delay in matters of the heart must be dangerous, and more especially when a tertium quid like Jeff Solomon's had taken up a strong position. Solomon's was a newcomer in St. Vincent. Nobody knew anything about him beyond the fact that he possessed more money than most of his kind, and that he had a very hateful and superior way of treating his fellow men, but managed to make himself highly popular with the ladies. There was a strain of white blood in him, upon the possession of which he took unreasonable credit to himself, and claimed relationship with some exalted, putty-colored people at Barbados. But the sole evidence of this lofty lineage in Mr. Solomon's appeared from the fact that, instead of being a mahogany-hued negro, he was a snuff-tinted one. He gave himself great heirs and graces at all times, and had become pretty generally disliked by his own sex and consequence. Lastly, of him it may be noted that his impudent face had a strange deep scar upon it, the origin of which was a much debated mystery among his acquaintances. So John Diggle, feeling that further delay must be useless, if not absolutely dangerous, rose up from his hard couch on the wharf, gave the remains of his sugar cane to a small boy who angled hard by, and then returned home to his cottage. The negro's preparations for his pending proposal were of a most elaborate nature. He rummaged out his Sunday clothes, polished up his best hat, a venerable white beaver of obsolete design, put on a sky-blue tie which his friends very rightly considered among the wonders of St. Vincent, and finally got into a pair of boots, articles which he cordially disliked and rarely wore, but felt were that day demanded by the dignity of the occasion. Then, taking a big walking-stick with a metal knob, he started, the admired of all beholders. His acquaintances were proud to know Mr. Diggle that afternoon. Indeed, John's progress presently amounted to a sort of triumphal procession, for a dozen ragged black girls and boys marched proudly in front of him, and an inquisitive adult or two brought up the rear. The central figure felt highly gratified at the ample attention he was commanding, even white men stopped and admired. He felt that he amounted to a pageant, and the idea gave him confidence. Jane would surely be bound to strike her colours before his blue tie. She might not care particularly for the man, but John quite failed to see how she could resist the clothes. All a negro's love of admiration and importance thrilled in Diggle's veins that afternoon, he felt that he was somebody, and his heart beat high with sanguine hope. He reflected, moreover, that a staunch ally already watched his interest in the camp of the enemy. Jane lived with her aunt, an ancient, much married negrus, who had survived three husbands, accumulated small worldly possessions from each intern, and now spent a quiet Indian summer of life in peaceful widowhood and comfortable circumstances. Antelvira knew men pretty thoroughly, and had rather a low opinion of them, taken as a sex, but she thought well of John Diggle. Him, probably in consideration of his extended property and two mango trees, she considered as an eligible, if not absolutely desirable, suitor for Jane, and she had secretly assured him that she was on his side and would exercise her influence. But very few aunts, whether black, white, or any other colour, have much authority or carry great weight with pretty young maids whose feet stand upon the exciting threshold of womanhood. Jane was a beauty. She had a strong will of her own, and a perfect belief in her judgment of male character. She proposed going her own way, wherever that might lead her, and a thousand widowed aunts would have made no difference to this determination. Mr. Diggle's black diamond lived inland, a mile or more out of Kingston, and presently leaving his juvenile bodyguard in the rear at the outskirts of civilization, he proceeded to climb the hills that rose beyond. Noble hills they were fringed and jammed with palms, richly wedded to their topmost heights, crowned with clouds of pearl that hung in the deep blue sky above. Nature triumphed in savage verger on their towering sides. Here glowed the fiery bells of the flamboyant. Here vast, weird cacti thrust upwards their thorny heads. Here tamarind, mango, lime, and palms struggled in luxuriant rivalry, linked and chained, each two other, with creeping tangles and twisted ropes of delicate foliage. Here the jagged boughs of frangipani broke the undergrowth and scented the air with sweet white blossoms. Here blazed the crimson spikes of the coral tree. John stood a while to rest by the shattered trunk of a dead giant, whose bleached lightning smitten branches towered above the living woods. Beneath him, billow upon billow of tawny forest extended, rolling downwards to where emerald planes of sugarcane and arrowroot lay between the mountain above and the little town below. While beyond the colony of red roofs and gray that glimmered under tropic sun, there stretched away to the dim horizon a great and glorious sapphire sea, gleaming with splashes of sunlight on tiny white sails, dimmed at one point by tangles of wind-blown smoke from a departing steamship. John Diggle sat down in the heart of the hot woods, watched the hummingbirds flickering on trembling wing before the flowers, noted the lizards that rustled to right and left, saw the air quivering over the hillside, and felt his recent hopeful emotions rapidly dying within him. There, alone in the lap of nature, John dimly suspected that he was but a small thing after all, and that even his white beaver and sky-blue tie might be taken in a wrong spirit and fail of success. Once he was almost tempted to relinquish the task for that day, but he braced himself to the ordeal, and allowing himself no further license, started straight way for the habitation of his love. Two hundred yards from the cottage, Mr. Diggle met no less a person than Jeff Solomon's coming towards him. This gentleman was also in holiday garb, so John guessed, and he appeared on good terms with himself and the world in general. Good afternoon to you, Massa Diggle. Fine day, Si. Very fine day, Si, and so John trying to look pleasanter than he felt. Use plenty dress up, Massa Diggle. Where's you, Gwan, this afternoon? That's my business aspects, Massa Solomon's. All right, Si, all right. I mean no offense. I sorry I spoke. Use very pertinent, nigger, to ask where I's Gwan. Explain Mr. Diggle hotly. I know ask you why you's Gwan. No, Si answered the other with a cool, most exasperating grin, and you know ask me where I's come from, because you know where that is. Good afternoon, Si, ha-ha. Use damn hard, nigger, Si. Answered John, then he proceeded to the cottage of Antelvira, and he sat on the floor in the living room. She was plucking a fowl and smoking her little clay pipe. Where's Missy Smith? Inquired John abruptly without preamble. Diggle's in the garden. Me God, Massa Diggle, that's beautiful, sure enough. And Antelvira stopped her occupation and beamed with undisguised admiration upon Mr. Diggle. Yes, he admitted, mopping his shining forehead and giving the beaver a final polish. Yes, I's smart, ma'am. In the garden, I'll go right long. That's Solomon's fussin' bout somewhere, da. No, he have gone, a most damn pertinent fellow, ma'am. Then the lover went out to meet his fate. Jane was sitting on a little wooden form under a palmetto in the garden. Her arms were folded, her head bent down, her eyes apparently fixed upon her ten black toes. She looked a bright and comely maiden, as negrises go, with big brown eyes and teeth her fairer sisters must have much envied her. The girl was clad in a white cotton frock extending slightly below her knees, and her crisp hair, done up in careful curls, was hidden for the most part under a big white turban with ends that flowed behind. Good afternoon, Massa Diggle, she said, not looking up. Same to you, Missy, he answered gravely. She cast a side-long glance at him and his splendid attire spoke his errand. No negro ever dressed like that, excepting he meant some great business, save on Sundays. Shall I sit down long, would you Jane? Yes, Massa Diggle. He shook her hand solemnly for about half a minute, then took off his hat, placed it by his side upon a red handkerchief, folded his hands over the great knob of his stick, and sat silently gazing at her. She endeavored to show indifference and failed. Use great man this evening, Massa Diggle. As come, Pawn Great Business, have you, Massa Diggle? Just so, and I wish you no call me Massa Diggle, but John instead. Then I call you John, Massa Diggle. There you go again. They both laughed with the quaint, pathetic negro calculation one must have heard to appreciate. Then John grew very much in earnest and spoke once more, this time to the point. Jane, I say just this to you. Did I love you? I love you ever so long since I first see you, and I got a huss and other things. Plenty comfortable for two folks. You have everything if you marry me, Jane. Does my Solomon's. He loved me too, said Jane. That's Solomon's damn pertinent nigger to love you, asserted John warmly. Him nothing on this island. Him not even proper color, Jimman. Him no nigger at all, declared Miss Smith. Him no colored person. Him nearly all to get a white, Jimman. Shoe him white, and John made a great pretense of being moved to uncontrollable laughter. Am that boot on my foot white? Am the land crabs I bring you for present white? Ha ha hoo. Am the devil white? Solomon's of nothing, neither black nor white. I wonder you think of a person, but neither black nor white, Jane. The girl did not answer, but an angry silky look came over her face. She moved as far away from him as the scanty seat would allow, and toward the edge of her apron, peevishly. Use colored, lady, and eyes colored, Jimman. And I loves you, began John again. Then she interrupted him. Why you speak disrespectful of my Solomon's? What he done to you? I no care nothing from our Solomon's, explained John, with extreme unconcern. Only I surprise you like him. I, I loves him, said Jane, looking away. Loves him? Yes, I does, and I does, and I ask one marry him right and proper at the chapel. Duh. There was a long pause, then John spoke again with a hollow voice indicative of shock and dismay. I's too sorry to be quenched with this, Missy Jane. Quite too sorry, because I thought that you love me a little piece. You no love me tall, then? No, I no love you tall. Me, God, that's terrible bad news, Missy Jane. She did not answer, and after a further brief period of silence, John proceeded. Suppose there was no mass of Solomon's, then? But there is. Suppose him not on this island, then? But him, am? John sighed and whined, and Jane sighed too, and they went in mournfully together to antelvira. She saw instantly the turn which matters had taken, provided some rum and water for John before he started upon his return journey, and upgraded Jane openly with her folly and obstinate behavior. Use quite too big fool of a gal, declared her aunt, whereupon Jane grew very sulky, and said she much doubted John's love. Then she returned to the little garden alone, and hid herself in a patch of pigeon peas and wept. John, meantime, consumed his rum and water, shook antelvira by the hand, remarked that he neither knew nor cared what would become of him, hinted that the lifeblood of, quote, unquote, Marse Solomon's, would flow pretty freely before long, and then departed. A very woe-begone face it was that peeped out between the white beaver and sky-blue tie as Mr. Diggle returned to his home. Life thenceforth, he told himself, must be a hollow farce. He thought first of killing his rival, then himself, then both. It struck him that if he took his own life and left his mango trees and other goods to Jane, she would at least keep his grave tidy and perhaps shed a tear there from time to time when she had leisure. But then a horrid vision of Solomon's and the beaver-hat and sky-blue tie filled John with a stern determination not to leave the world unaccompanied. Finally he decided to live on, at any rate for the present, and watch events. So he took off his boots and hung them around his neck, for the road was stony and rough and bad for shoe leather. Then he walked home, full of gloomy reflections. John Diggle was a model Christian on Sundays, but at other times he leaned in secret towards an old African cult of oboea. It was rather more comprehensive than Christianity for oboe-embraced religion, psychic, law, and various nameless arts, whereas the minister of the church had no talent saving his own line. It occurred to John that the oboe man could possibly provide a little bottle of poison at a low cost, or suggest some other definite means of dealing with Massa Solomon's. He too might furnish a cunning dose of quote-unquote love herbs for quote-unquote Missy Smith. There were in fact great possibilities to be hoped for from a visit to the oboe man, but Mr. Diggle's good sense told him that it was useless to approach his Christian pastor with these schemes. So two days later, having debated with himself and put the question from every point of view, John started to the residence of the priest of oboea. It lay hidden in the fringes of the forest where separated from the wildlands above by a lofty bamboo hedge the sugar king grew. John potted along, burying a few big green coconuts, and a fine head of bananas. These were presents for the mystic. As he turned the corner of a winding road, Mr. Diggle saw a white frock fluttering ahead, a slim straight back, a sprightly figure, and a snowy turban. These things made his heart thump briskly, for he knew to whom they belonged. It was Jane, apparently upon the same errand as himself. She started at seeing him, showed some emotion, and an inclination to run away into the woods like a wild thing, but John affected not to notice her concern. He shook hands in his usual ponderous, prolonged fashion, then asked her whether she was going. You know, love me, Missy Jane. But you know, hate me, eh? We's friends, Missy Jane. Yes, we's friends, Massa John. But I was very sick in my heart, and I was going to Obi to know the reason why, she answered. And I was going to Obi, too, being very sick in my heart, like you, Missy Jane. This was not strictly the aim of John's pilgrimage, but he felt justified in thus explaining it. They walked along in silence for half a mile, each occupied with private thoughts. Then, over the hill, from the other side of the island, came a weary foot sore negrus with a crying baby at her breast, a little boy limping before her, and a tiny girl wailing at her side. The entire party appeared extremely wretched, fatigued, and unhappy. Who's these? inquired John, but Jane knew not. They all drew up, and the worn-out mother asked them for pity's sake to give her little ones a morsel to eat. They were very hungry and miserable, and had been trudging through the hot sun for hours. John, a kind-hearted man enough, readily sacrificed one of his green coconuts, and broke off a dozen fat yellow bananas from the bunch he was carrying. Where are you come from? asked Jane, after the woman had drunk from the coconut, and sat down by the roadside with a great sigh of relief, while her offspring wallowed in the fruit. From bequia, she answered. Dar was a sail-and-boat-guine-round to Calamari River on this island, and they took me long. As terrible sad woman, Asa, because my husband's run way, and took all the money I save, and left me with free babies, and now they say he's come long to St. Vincent. The dessert of wife's experiences were an old story, and neither John nor Jane showed any particular wonder or concern at her tale. They only thought she must be a particularly sanguine sort of woman to start in pursuit of her lord. What him name? asked Mr. Diggle casually. Wilson him true name, Sarr, but him lots of names. I know him if I see him. Him jammin', with big scratch down to side to nose, where utter jammin' hit him with a chopper. John and Jane looked at one another. What if him go by the name of Solomon's, ma'am? Solomon's my name, Sarr, for I was married. Then I knows him, declared John. And this lady, she know him too. Go you straight long down to Kingston, and go to the police station, and ask for mass of Jeff Solomon's. Then go to the gubner's house, and see the gubner's clerk, Jimmum, and say who you is. If you're doing well, he take me back, perhaps. Then I make no fuss, said the poor wife. After which, with a look of hope rekindled in grateful expressions, not a few, she got her family into marching order and set off once more, leaving John and Jane alone. The girl showed a stoic indifference to this tremendous chance discovery which greatly mystified Mr. Diggle. He expected she would express her sorrow in the usual feminine way, but she did not. Terrible sad for you, Missy Jane, he said at length. Might been sadder, she said. How'd that? Might been married, me and him, for that lady came long. How'd then? John was bound to admit the concentrated horrors of such a position. And now, Jane. What do we do now? They stood in a lonely place together, and John, dropping his present to the OB man, turned boldly round, put his hands upon Jane's shoulders, and looked into her eyes. And now, Jane? He come to borrow money of me this morning, she said. You know, borrow my little money away from me, John. I give you money, Jane, and a house and mango trees, and I loves you plenty more than ever. Give me coconut, John, as thirsty and as awful queer. They sat down together and ate and drank until a certain gift designed for the OB man was much diminished. Use mine now, Jane. Say use mine. I want you to say use mine. Yes, John. I guess I's yours now. End of Section 8, Recording by Tracy Duckett. Section 9 of Loop Garoo. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording by Doug Fajardo. Loop Garoo by Eden Philpots. The Skipper's Bible. Devils go into his death without no sort of sky-piloting whatsoever. I looks after his body, feeds him handsome, but his soul, Lord knows that ain't in my line, said Dick Ferris, the mate of the flying fish. No, nor yet in anybody's line aboard this ship, answered the carpenter. The flying fish was, in truth, an ungodly vessel. From her Yankee captain, Joe Greenleaf, to Dick Ferris, an Englishman. From her cook to her cabin boy, they're obtained on board an ethical night, unlit by the least glimmer of dogmatic or other religion. The ship, bold briskly through the Caribbean Sea, bound for Kingston, Jamaica. She carried cargo and a few passengers, to one of whom the word spoken by Ferris had immediate reference. He was a negro decker, and a man of some importance, judging from the fact that a special erection of boards had been raised round him. But the circumstance of capital crime alone placed blackneal in his present position. He now rapidly approached the end of his voyage and his earthly pilgrimage, together. A fellow Ethiopian's blood was upon his head. Sentence of death had been passed, and the gallows waited for him at Kingston. Nobody paid the doomed man much attention, excepting Ferris. He, however, took lively interest in blackneal, listened to the recital of his misdeeds, and considered the extent of his punishment very unreasonable. It's like this here, Dick explained to his friends. I don't say as how he didn't kill a man. He did, and you and me had done the same in his place. His wife went in away with another nigger, and he laid wait and put daylight through the swine. He only punished the other chap for a crime which no judge couldn't punish, because there ain't a law against taking a man's wife if she's agreeable. I spoke to him yesterday, remarked the carpenter. I said, You're a mortal bad lot, Neil. There's no denying of it. And he said, That's so, Massa. Then I said, They'll hang you old man, sure as eggs as eggs. And why shouldn't they? And he says, Yes, sir, That's so. I is going my count. It's his future state as bothers him, declared Dick Ferris. So it would any man. We may think he ain't done much of a crime like, least ways I don't. But the law says he has, so he'll die with a sin on his soul. And you bet they'll take the judge's word for it in the next world, not in old niggers. Anyway, it's hard he can't have no sky-piloting, because he's a man, though black. You won't worry yourself about niggers when you've seen a bit more of them, Englishmen, sneered and ugly, misshapen seamen, with a hairy head like a bull and a deformed leg. Maybe not, but they're a blam site better in some whites. Tant everybody as kills of fellow creatures hanged, John Droop answered Dick sharply. It happened that Mr. Droop's past was open to grave criticism at one or two points, so the mate's remark restored immediate peace and general good humor. Then Ferris strode forward to see black Neil. The negro was sitting in his little temporary cabin on deck, sitting chained with heavy irons, his elbows on his knees, his head down between his hands. Well, how goes it? Did you have the grub cook sent along? Asked Dick, lighting his pipe. Yes, thank you, master. Plenty good grubs are, but I don't want nothing to eat much. No, I knows. Skypilot ends the tap which a hanker's at, or boy. Natural enough, too. But blame me if there's any aboard can help you there. Have a whiff. Thank you, master. Don't want no tobacco now. Black Neil shook his head and looked out over the dancing blue waters with great sunken eyes. He was an elderly negro. Deep wrinkles already furrowed his face, and his wool began to grow gray. It's very bad to the heart, sir. Feeling is all wrong with God Almighty. I's damn bad lot. Would never learn no prayers or nothing. And now I give the world to hear a minister speak up for me, or any other gentleman what could. Just so, just so, answered Dick. Then he sucked his pipe and was silent, while the other looked far away over the sea. Presently, Neil spoke again. I'm an accomplished man, sir, in my way. I can read plenty. If you have got the word now, or a book of hymn songs, seeing there's no minister or gentleman but can pray, I might do long with them. Ain't no good books here, my son. Devil, one of them. And you can read. Well, that beats anything. No man on this here craft can read, except me and the skipper and the cook. Have they got good books, sir? Not them. Least wise only navigation and charts. These ain't no good for your journey, I judge. Lord, it's hard. Can't you pump up a bit of a prayer know-how? You'd feel easier, like, if you could. The Negro only shook his head again. Ah, I know pray without something to start me off, sir. Well, keep your pecker up, anyhow. Oh, look around. Maybe the Deckers know a hymn or summit of the sort amongst them. But blame me, you did ought to have taken your last cruise in another ship for Sarton. Then he rolled off to see if the flying fish contained any shred or scrap of spiritual food for Black Neal. When the members of the crew found that their first mate extended such sympathy to the condemned Negro, they, too, for the most part, showed a fragment of humanity in their treatment of him. Men who would have kicked Black from before them, like dirt, under ordinary circumstances, felt that Black Neal's pecu-your-position entitled him to a little exceptional respect. Moreover, they considered his punishment was altogether excessive. He suffered for an action most of them deemed more laudable than wicked. Fellow Negroes, also, would peep over the partition which screened the culprit. If the Black Warder who guarded him was out of the way, they handed him bananas, sugarcane, and like luxuries. When the attendant sat in his place, they would simply roll their brown eyes and express pious hopes that their brother had made his peace with the Lord. But Black Neal had not done so, and was terribly anxious upon the subject—superstitious to the heart's core, like all his race, and in a measure fatalistic also. Death had now become a familiar idea, and its terrors were quite dwarfed and dimmed by the more terrific certainty of what awaited him most of the time. Beyond. He took his judge's word for it that he was a lost man, doomed to eternal fires for his sin. He remembered that the grim being in the Black Cap had urged him to make his peace with heaven. And now, with frantic desire, he yearned for some outlet to his penitence, for some religious channel through which even he might crawl within earshot of his outraged maker. Heaven seemed blind and dumb to the poor wretch. But when Ferris had left him, the memory of an old tune fell like a wakened echo on Black Neal's ear. He could not recall the words of the song. He only recollected that they were religious and treated of a golden shore. The air was better than nothing, and he lifted up his voice and whined again and again to himself. He was not a very bad negro, perhaps, but an unfortunate one. The victim of unhappy circumstances, of a concatenation not in the least unusual when an old man marries a young woman in the tropics. That night Dick Ferris recounted his recent conversation to an interested group. I told him, he said in conclusion, how do my knowledge there weren't no such thing as a Bible aboard this craft, nor yet a prayer book neither. Yes, there is, Mr. Ferris, piped the cabin boy. Eh? Don't say you've got one, sprig. No, I ain't, but you see this eye? And he pointed to a big black bruise on his cheek. That came along of a Bible. The boss have got one. The skipper! exclaimed two or three men in wildest surprise. He have. I was tidy in his cabin round, put in things ship shape, and he sees me hanging on the shelf over his bunk, dusting off it. There was a book atop with a polished black cover, and I picked it up to clean it. Then he says, take your dirty paws off the word of God, boy, and stop messing around and get out of here. So I ups and says, mean it no sauce. I was cleaning of the book, sir, as is an inch in dust and dirt. Then he lathered me proper for answering. Nobody appeared much interested in these personal experiences, but the fact that their captain, Mr. Greenleaf, possessed a Bible, called for a good deal of more or less profane contempt. Who'll ask for the loan of it? inquired Ferris. Not a man answered, and he spoke again. I would, and chance it, but it's useless. He hates me worse than poison, because I'm the only Englishman aboard. I reckon you'd get it, Belle, if any of us could. Belle, the carpenter already mentioned, was considered to be the captain's favorite. A distinction he denied. This man scratched his head and grumbled, and did not take kindly to the enterprise. The general's sense of the meeting went against him, however, and he prepared to depart. Tell the skipper it's for the nigger forward, as is going to be hung. He can't refuse it, even to a nigger. Seeing is how the poor sweep be placed, concluded Ferris. I he will, said the cook of the flying fish. Mark my words. He'll tell Belle to go to hell, which is rhyme, if not reason. Pretty soon, Belle returned, baffled. He says he ain't disposed to lend the word of God to a damned Blackguard Blackman. And he also says we're to shear off from Neil for the future. If he sees a hand alongside him again, the captain says that hand will hear from him direct. There's the goddamn Yankee Blighter, burst out, Dick. It shows how a man may have a Bible, yet never carry on as to let other folks guess it, commented Belle. They were lost in speculation as to how the skipper ever came to possess a Bible at all. Stole it, said one. Reckon it was given him by some as saw he wanted the use of it, suggested another. In that case his ship would be loaded right up with him, declared a third. Why ain't he sold it and made a bid on it, asked Ferris. Because none of his choice circle of friends who'd ever want to buy such a thing, answered the cook, who had just returned. When the men separated, Ferris went away, his muddy brain on fire, with the wickedness and un-Christian horror of such a circumstance. He had a rooted conviction that the Bible would make all the difference to Blackneel's position. If not in this world, at any rate, in the next. In the next. He was firmly convinced, therefore, that Providence had placed this by-bond board for the Negro's a special benefit. No matter had ever stirred his faculties so deeply. He could not get the subject out of his head, and the more he reflected upon it, the stronger grew his determination to move further and secure the book for Neil at all costs. None took the skipper's refusal to heart as he did. Indeed, their first indignation blunted, his comrades laughed at him for being in such anxiety about so trifling a business. But Dick could not regard the subject as trifling. It appeared to him that tremendous issues were involved. He was quite new to intercourse with the Negro's, and their interests and welfare seemed perfectly serious concerns. He debated with himself through long, moonlit watches, and his thoughts kept him awake in his bunk. Personally, he had never pretended to religion, none having come in his direction at any time. But the sight of a condemned sinner, friendless and comfortless, on the brink of the grave, the spectacle of a fellow man separated by a few days only from death and possible damnation, woke strange forces in the heart of Dick Ferris, and set his mental machinery working more briskly than ever it had worked before. He knew what a call meant. A friend of his had once received a call, and joined the Salvation Army upon the strength of it, and gained benefit therefrom, and passed it on to his family. And now an overwhelming impression grew stronger and stronger within him, which notion finally dominated the man and pointed to action. Black Neil, Dick told himself, must have the Skipper's Bible, and Providence had evidently marked him out as a means by which the soul-saving book should reach its destination. Eternal life for a perishing creature clearly lurked in his captain's cabin, so the mate of the flying fish determined to secure it. If physical force became necessary, then he would fight. The fact that such a course was rank mutiny, and might be punished as such, did not particularly appeal to him just then. Indeed, the consequences of his pending action failed to weigh with him in the least. After all, he reflected, the mounds of reasonable being. Like enough, he'll hand over the book and make no splutter. If he don't, well, he's been spoiling for a smack at me these two voyages. Now he shall have it. Anyway, it's a damn queer twist to get in the brain pan of a seafaring man, all over a blessed nigger, too, that nobody gives no count on. That night, Dick knocked at the captain's door, was told to go in, and entered to find a very unexpected picture. The Skipper lay upon his bunk smoking, and actually reading his Bible. What do you want? he asked shortly, glancing up. The other, from sheer amazement, clean forgot the elaborate remarks with which he had come prepared. He stood silent, irresolute, open mouth, gazing upon this wonder before him. What do you want, you fool? inquired Mr. Greenleaf once more. Then Dick found his tongue. Mm, that, Governor, he answered, pointing to the open book. His captain laughed, then swore. This ship's grown cuss religious of late, seems to me. Here are the seconds, come on the same wild goose chase. What the furies the matter? Taint for myself? I don't want no Bibles, answered first, stoutly. It's like this here, that nigger that's going to be hanged at Kingston's, getting blammed low and down in the mouth. He's off his feet and taken on pitiful. Cause why? Cause he ain't got no sky-piloting. You've got a Bible, and he can read, or so he says. Therefore I reckon to ask you to lend it out to him. I'll go bail, he won't do no harm to it. Oh, you reckon to that, did you? Well, I guess you'd best mind your own bloody business in the future, and not waste no more time fooling around that black sweep. I don't lend no Bible of mind to him or anyone. Ain't I reading it myself? Go forward. He went on reading, but Ferris stood his ground, and twisted his hat about in his hand. Why don't you go? Ain't the skipper's own cabin private from you devils? Well, it's like this here, answered Dick very slowly. Sometimes a man finds he ain't his own boss no more. I ain't. I feel the kind of call saying how Black Neal must have that Bible yarn. You see, blacks is calculated to have souls same as whites, and his soul's in a proper darn fix now. That book would make a powerful side of difference, just all the difference between a loft and below, maybe. So I ask of you, respectful, to lend it to Black Neal. And what'll you do if I says I'll see you damned first? Then I guess I'll take it, skipper. The two men looked at one another silently, and Ferris licked his great hands and rubbed them together in preparation. For a moment the only sound in the cabin was the rasping of his rough palms. Then Greenleaf spoke. Go right ahead then, take it, or try to. I've wanted bad to see what you were worth with your British gas inside. Go right ahead, I'll thrash you here, and then have you flogged on deck, and then best arrange for that later, boss. There was not much room in the captain's cabin for two big men to settle a quarrel by force of arms. And with such a confined area, the battle promised to be short and decisive. Dick grabbed the Bible, and Greenleaf hit him in the face, whereupon Dick dropped the book and turned his attention to his superior officer. Both men were soon struggling upon the floor, first one uppermost, then the other. The American was tall, life, and very active. But the other's bulk and weight told in that narrow ring. Stand up and fight with your fists, if you're English. Guessed Greenleaf from the dust, and Ferris let the other rise, and when he was on his feet again, squared up to strike. Both were fairly set going now, but the mate had the best of the exchanges. He was as tough as leather, and Greenleaf could not hit hard enough to stop him. Down they went again, Dick letting out right and left like a kicking pony. As they rose, Greenleaf, now aware that he had more than met his match in such close quarters, lifted his hand over his head, and snatched a revolver which hung upon the cabin wall. He was quick, but hardly quicker than the other. Ferris stashed in, and, with all his weight behind the blow, hit his skipper full and fair upon the forehead, as he fired. One man went down in a limp, senseless heap in the corner of his cabin. The other felt a red hot stab of pain in his shoulder, and then knew something wet and warm was trickling down his arm into his hand. He picked up the Bible, however, and staggered out into the alleyway. A crowd had there collected upon sound of the shot, and Dick pushed through them, explaining as he went. He's hit me somewhere in the shoulder, and I've about killed him. Let's go in and get him on his bunk and do what's possible. Then, leaving a line of red splashes on the deck, he went forward with his prize, and handed the Bible to Black Neal. The Negro classed the book with rejoicings, but was greatly concerned to know what had taken place. Don't talk. Read, boy. Read like mad. Stick to it. There's a chance yet if you only hold on to it and soak up all you can from it. I've knocked him silly, but he may come around. It's the skipper's own. He don't understand no Bibles, else he'd have fought fair and not fired on me. But he pretty nigh missed, whereas I didn't. You just buckle to it and read like hell. Then Ferris went to the galley to see after himself, and secure the cook's aid. This worthy was considered to possess no small medical ability, and presently he returned, full of importance from ministering to the captain. Fortunately for Dick, his shoulder had sustained but trifling injuries. The skipper's bullet did little more than touch him, inflicting in its progress a wound of an unimportant nature. While the cook washed his injury and bound it up, Ferris asked after Mr. Greenleaf. How's the old man? he said. Bad, seemingly. There's nothing broke as I can find, and he's breathing pretty free. But he ain't come to his senses yet. I reckon you've dented it in his skull somewhere. That's death, mind you. Guess there'll be another to swing along with Neil at Kingston, then, said Ferris. Then the hours fled by, and the entire ship's company grew more and more anxious to learn how their captain prospered. Sailors are not Job's comforters at best, and Dick heard enough before the dawn of the next day to depress him considerably. Yero is right, in a sense, having a call like to do it. Explain, Bel, who had a nice command of language and a luminous way of putting things. But the law don't take no heed of a call. What you've done is to mutiny and steal the skipper's property, and maybe murder him. Time will show. If he dies, it is murder. If he lives, it's merely a salt with intent to murder. And you'll get penal servitude. All for a nigger, too, grumbled the cook. Not for him, for his soul, said Dick, apologetically. Why are you so blammed, sure, and niggers has any souls, inquired John Droop. Where you gonna draw any line betwixt us and them, if they has souls? If a drunken, dirty-hearted, mean, lopsided, lout like you, you've got a good working soul to be saved. Then I guess there's a chance for everybody, and every color, monkeys included, answered the mate. When men like Richard Ferris takes to preaching aboard the flying fish, after knocking a life out of the skipper, then it's weary gratifying and weary convincing, no doubt. Retorted John, but the skipper was by no means dead. He recovered consciousness about nine hours after the battle, and it happened that the cook was with him at the time. To first thing he says, mighty faint in his throat is, where'd I hit Ferris? Then I says, you scratched his shoulder, sir, that's all. Then he grunted and put his hand to his head and says, I know where he hit me. After that he told me to bake the cabin dark and clear out, but I stuck on, knowing as how he should have food, and I made him bite a bit, owing to him being too feeble to refuse. But he swore forcibly and various, I reckon he's turned the corner. Thus the cook explained matters, and his prediction proved correct, for within two days the skipper had his chair brought up on deck, and presently appeared himself with a face every color of the rainbow. He sat and smoked, saying no word to anybody. Then a strange thing occurred, for Mr. Greenleaf suddenly arose, walked stiffly and lamely across the ship, and disappeared behind the partition which hid Black Neal. The negro, absorbed in his book, heard and heeded nothing. He conned his Bible at morning, noon, and night. Already he had sucked no small consolation from it, and found numerous passages and promises which appeared to have been especially written on his behalf. How are you going on, Nick? asked Greenleaf suddenly. Very nice, Massa, answered Black Neal. Then he looked up and saw who was speaking, and trembled as he clung to the Bible. There be the precious words, sir. I's getting straight with the Lord fast now. The word get me into heaven if you let me him a little more. They hang me up and I no care nothing, because I's going to the golden shore. So let be the precious word, Massa, going to the golden shore by way of the, well, I guess there's many better than you've been hung, and many worse. I'll leave it on one condition. If you ever get there, you can put a word in for this ship. Just a remark in a general sort of way. Needn't mention no names. Can't do no harm. Rub it into him up there. See, I didn't learn that book kind of easy. But now you've got it. You can hold on to it till we get to the Kingston. And here's a bit of lead pencil. Just mark the notions as seems sort of best to you. Mr. Greenleaf flung down a stump of pencil and went off without further speech. Like many of the extremely ignorant, he had heard and believed in a superstition that the dying or doomed have strange powers of inspiration extended to them. And he suspected that his Bible would greatly benefit from attention at Black Neal's hands. His mind had been busy during recent hours, and his reflections had brought him to a somewhat unexpected conclusion. The men talked over this mystery of their skipper's continued silence. He is nursing his mate to keep it red hot for you in port, said Bell to Dick Ferris. Not a shade of doubt. He's lying low and letting it fester in him. He's breaking his heart to flog you for all hands. Only he knows he ain't got strength to do you justice yet, declared the cook. But Ferris had heard from Black Neal's warder of the recent interview between the convict and the captain. He could not make much of it. Still, the matter of their conversation seemed to argue hopefully for Dick. He was alive, however, to the enormity of his offense, and did not permit himself to be sanguine. Upon the following day the skipper resumed his duties, and soon afterwards the flying fish sailed into Kingston Harbor. Nothing out of the common occurred at that port. There were rumors and whisperings, but Joe Greenleaf took no official or definite move in the matter of his mate. Work went on as usual. The vessel was unloaded and filled again, and Black Neal went almost joyfully to Gaol upon learning that every benefit of clergy there awaited him during the few remaining days of his existence. About a week afterwards, in the dawn of a golden morning, the flying fish sailed again, and as she swept away to sea, Dick stood for a moment and looked out at the shining town and a black speck that fluttered from a flagstaff. Then he found he was not alone. What you staring at, Ferris? asked somebody standing by him. It was the captain who spoke, and these were the first words which had passed between him and his mate, save upon ship matters, since their struggle. I'm looking at that black flag over the prison, captain. They've strung Neal up today. He's gone, poor devil. We had some difference, if I remember, touching that same nigger, said Greenleaf Cooley. We had. It's like this here. I'm main sorry I smashed you up so bad, but you didn't order a shoot, though I take it right of you to have kept your mouth shut, and a humbly thanks you. He said how as if he gets aloft we'll be through that Bible of mine, so I reckon to make a bargain with him. If he makes the port he tried for, I gave him the tip to put in a word for the flying fish, not mentioning no names, just free in general. And he promised, cause twas my Bible, smart, huh? I hope he'll remember. And you and me's better shake, I reckon.