 Chapter 13 of the Stolen Veselus and Other Stories 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 Beth Thomas. The Stolen Veselus and Other Stories by H.G. Wells. The Hammapond Park burglary It is a moot point, with the burglaries to be considered as a sport, a trade, or an art. For a trade, the technique is scarcely rigid enough, and its claims to be considered an art are vitiated by the mercenary element that qualifies its triumphs. On the whole, it seems to be most justly ranked as a sport, a sport for which no rules are at present formulated and of which the prizes are distributed in an extremely informal manner. It was this informality of burglary that led to the regrettable extinction of two promising beginners at Hammapond Park. The stakes offered in this affair consisted chiefly of diamonds and other personal bric-a-brac belonging to the newly married Lady Aveling. Lady Aveling, as the reader will remember, was the only daughter of Mrs. Montagu Pangs, the well-known hostess. Her marriage to Lord Aveling was extensively advertised in the papers, the quantity and quality of her wedding presents, and the fact that the honeymoon was to be spent at Hammapond. The announcement of these valuable prizes created a considerable sensation in the small circle in which Mr. Teddy Watkins was the undisputed leader, and it was decided that, accompanied by a duly qualified assistant, he should visit the village of Hammapond in his professional capacity. Being a man of naturally retiring and modest disposition, Mr. Watkins determined to make this visit incognito, and after due consideration of the conditions of his enterprise, he selected the role of a landscape artist and the unassuming surname of Smith. He proceeded his assistant, who it was decided, should join him only on the last afternoon of his stay at Hammapond. Now the village of Hammapond is perhaps one of the prettiest little corners in Sussex. Many thatched houses still survive. The flint-billed church with its tall spire nestling under the down is one of the finest and least restored in the country, and the beech-woods and bracken jungles through which the road runs to the great house are singularly rich in what the vulgar artist and photographer call bits. So that Mr. Watkins, on his arrival with two virgin canvases, a brand-new easel, a paint box, portmanteau and ingenious little ladder made in sections after the pattern of the late lamented master Charles Peace, crowbar and wirecoils, found himself welcomed with effusion and some curiosity by half a dozen other brethren of the brush. It rendered the disguise he had chosen unexpectedly plausible, but it inflicted upon him a considerable amount of aesthetic conversation for which he was very imperfectly prepared. Have you exhibited very much? Said young Pawson in the barpala of the coach and horses where Mr. Watkins was skillfully accumulating local information on the night of his arrival. Very little, said Mr. Watkins, just a snack here and there. Academy? Of course, and the crystal palace. Did they hang you well? said Pawson. Don't rot, said Mr. Watkins. I don't like it. I mean, did they put you in a good place? What do you mean? Said Mr. Watkins suspiciously. One I'd think you were trying to make out I'd been put away. Pawson had been brought up by aunts and was a gentlemanly young man even for an artist. He did not know what being put away meant, but he thought it best to explain that he intended nothing of the sort. As the question of hanging seemed a sore point with Mr. Watkins, he tried to divert the conversation a little. Do you do figure work at all? No, never had a head for figures, said Mr. Watkins. Miss, Mrs. Smith, I mean, does all that. She paints, too, said Pawson. That's rather jolly. Very, said Mr. Watkins, though he really did not think so, and feeling the conversation was drifting a little beyond his grasp, added, I came down here to paint an hammer-pond house by moonlight. Really, said Pawson, that's rather a novel idea. Yes, said Mr. Watkins. I thought it a rather good notion when it occurred to me. I expect to begin tomorrow night. What? You don't mean to paint in the open by night? I do, though. But how will you see your canvas? Have a bloomin' cops, began Mr. Watkins, rising too quickly to the question, and then realising this, bawled to Mr. Ergan for another glass of beer. I'm going to have a thing called a dark lantern, he said to Pawson. But it's about new moon now, objected Pawson. There won't be any moon. They'll be the house, said Watkins. At any rate, I'm going, you see, to paint the house first and the moon afterwards. Oh, said Pawson, too staggered to continue the conversation. They do say, said old Ergan, the landlord, who had maintained his respectful silence during the technical conversation. As there's no less than three policemen from Aisleworth on duty every night at the house, countered this lady avalling their jewellery, one and one four and six last night of Second Footman, Tawson. Towards sunset next day, Mr. Watkins, Virgin Canvas, Aisle, and a very considerable case of other appliances in hand, strolled up the pleasant pathway through the beachwoods to Hammerpond Park, and pitched his apparatus in a strategic position commanding the house. Here he was observed by Mr. Raphael Sant, who was returning across the park from a study of the chalk pits. His curiosity having been fired by Pawson's account of the new arrival, he turned aside with the idea of discussing nocturnal art. Mr. Watkins was apparently unaware of his approach. A friendly conversation with Lady Hammerpond's butler had just terminated, and that individual, surrounded by the three pet dogs which it was his duty to take for an airing after dinner had been served, was receding in the distance. Mr. Watkins was mixing colour with an air of great industry. Sant, approaching more nearly, was surprised to see the colour in question was as harsh and brilliant and emerald green as it is possible to imagine. Having cultivated an extreme sensibility to colour from his earliest years, he drew in air sharply between his teeth at the very first glimpse of this brew. Mr. Watkins turned round. He looked annoyed. What on earth are you going to do with that beastly green? said Sant. Mr. Watkins realised that his zeal to appear busy in the eyes of the butler had evidently betrayed him into some technical error. He looked at Sant and hesitated. Pardon my rudeness, said Sant, but really, that green is altogether too amazing. It came as a shock. What do you mean to do with it? Mr. Watkins was collecting his resources. Nothing could save the situation but decision. If you come here and interrupt in my work, he said, I'm going to paint your face with it. Sant retired, for he was a humorous and a peaceful man. Going down the hill, he met Paulson and Wainwright. Either that man is a genius, or he is a dangerous lunatic, said he. Just go up and look at his green. And he continued his way, his countenance brightened by a pleasant anticipation of a cheerful affray round an easel in the gloaming, and the shedding of much green paint. But to Paulson and Wainwright, Mr. Watkins was less aggressive, and explained that the green was intended to be the first coating of his picture. It was, he admitted in response to a remark, an absolutely new method invented by himself. But subsequently he became more reticent. He explained he was not going to tell his own particular style, and added some scathing remarks upon the meanness of people hanging about to pick up such tricks of the masters as they could, which immediately relieved him of their company. Twilight deepened, first one then another star appeared. The rooks amid the tall trees to the left of the house had long since lapsed into slumberous silence. The house itself lost all the details of its architecture and became a dark grey outline. And then the windows of the salon brilliantly, the conservatory was lighted up, and here and there a bedroom window burnt yellow. Had anyone approached the easel in the park, it would have been found deserted. One brief, uncivil word in brilliant green sullied the purity of its canvas. Mr. Watkins was busy in the shrubbery with his assistant, who had discreetly joined him from the carriage-drive. Mr. Watkins was inclined to be self-congratulatory upon the ingenious device by which he had carried all his apparatus boldly right of all men, right up to the scene of operations. That's the dressing room, he said to his assistant. And as soon as the maid takes the candle away and goes down to supper, we'll call in. My, how nice the house do look to be sure against the starlight and with all its windows and lights. Swap me, Jim, I almost wish I was a painter chap. Have you fixed that there wire across the path from the laundry? He cautiously approached the house until he stood below the dressing room window and began to put together his folding letter. He was much to experience to practitioner to feel any unusual excitement. Jim was reconnoitering the smoking room. Suddenly, close by Mr. Watkins in the bushes, there was a violent crash and a stifled curse. Someone had tumbled over the wire which his assistant had just arranged. He heard feet running on the gravel pathway beyond. Mr. Watkins, like all true artists, was a singularly shy man, and he incontinently dropped his folding letter and began running circumspectly through the shrubbery. He was indistinctly aware of two people hot upon his heels, and he fancied that he distinguished the outline of his assistant in front of him. In another moment, he had vaulted the low stone wall bounding the shrubbery and was in the open park. Two thuds on the turf followed his own leap. It was a close chase in the darkness through the trees. Mr. Watkins was a loosely built man and in good training, and he gained hand over hand upon the horsely panting figure in front. Neither spoke, but as Mr. Watkins pulled up alongside a quarm of awful doubt came over him. The other man turned his head at the same moment and gave an exclamation of surprise. It's not Jim, thought Mr. Watkins, and simultaneously the stranger flung himself as it were at Watkins' knees and they were forthwith grappling on the ground together. Lend a hand, Bill, cried the stranger as the third man came up, and Bill did, two hands in fact, two feet. The fourth man, presumably Jim, had apparently turned aside and made off in a different direction. At any rate, he did not join the trio. Mr. Watkins' memory of the incidents of the next two minutes is extremely vague. He has a dim recollection of having his thumb in the corner of the mouth of the first man and feeling anxious about its safety. And for some seconds, at least, he held the head of the gentleman answering to the name of Bill to the ground by the hair. He was also kicked in a great number of places, apparently by a vast multitude of people. Then the gentleman who was not Bill got his knee below Mr. Watkins' diaphragm and tried to curl him up upon it. When his sensations became less entangled he was sitting upon the turf and eight or ten men, the night was dark and he was rather too confused to count, standing round him, apparently waiting for him to recover. He mournfully assumed that he was captured and would probably have made some philosophical reflections on the fickleness of fortune and internal sensations disinclined him for speech. He noticed very quickly that his wrists were not handcuffed and then a flasker brandy was put in his hands. This touched him a little. It was such unexpected kindness. He's a common round, said a voice which he fancied he recognized as belonging to the Hammerpond Second Footman. We've got him, sir, both of them! said the Hammerpond butler, the man who had handed in the flask, thanks to you. No one answered this remark, yet he failed to see how it applied to him. Fair dazed, said a strange voice. The villains half murdered him. Mr. Teddy Watkins decided to remain fair dazed until he had a better grasp of the situation. He perceived that two of the black figures round him stood side by side with a dejected air and there was something in the carriage of their shoulders that suggested to his experienced eye hands that were bound together. Two. In a flash he rose to his position. He emptied the little flask and staggered, obsequious hands assisting him, to his feet. There was a sympathetic murmur. Shake hands, sir, shake hands, said one of the figures near him. Permit me to introduce myself. I am very greatly indebted to you. It was the jewels of my wife, Lady Aveline, which attracted these scoundrels to the house. Very glad to make your lordship's acquaintance, said Teddy Watkins. I presume you saw the rascals making for the shrubbery and dropped down on them. That's exactly how it happened, said Mr. Watkins. You should have waited till they got in at the window, said Lord Aveline. They would get it hotter if they had actually committed the burglary. And it was lucky for you two of the policemen were out by the gates and followed up the three of you. I doubt if you could have secured the two of them, though it was confoundedly plucky of you all the same. Yes, I ought to have thought of all that, said Mr. Watkins. But one can't think of everything. Certainly not, said Lord Aveline. I am afraid they have mauled you a little, he added. The party was now moving towards the house. You walk, rather lame, may I offer you my arm? And instead of entering Hammerpond House by the dressing room window Mr. Watkins entered it, slightly intoxicated and inclined now to cheffleness again on the arm of a real, live pier and by the front door. This, thought Mr. Watkins, is burgling in style. The scoundrels, seen by the gaslight, proved to be mere local amateurs, unknown to Mr. Watkins, went to the pantry, and there watched over by three policemen, two gamekeepers with loaded guns, the Butler and Osler and a Carmen, until the dawn allowed their removal to Hazelhurst Police Station. Mr. Watkins was made much of in the saloon. They devoted a sofa to him, and would not hear of a return to the village that night. Lady Aveline was sure he was brilliantly original, and said her idea of Turner was just such another rough, half inebriated, deep-eyed, brave and clever man. Someone brought up a remarkable little folding ladder that had been picked up in the shrubbery and showed him how it was put together. They also described how wires had been found in the shrubbery, evidently placed there to trip up unwary pursuers. It was lucky he had escaped these snares. And they showed him the jewels. Mr. Watkins had the sense not to talk too much, and, in any conversational difficulty, fell back on his internal pains. At last he was seized with stiffness in the back and yawning. Everyone suddenly awoke to the fact that it was a shame to keep him talking after his affray, so he retired early to his room, the little red room next to Lord Aveline's suite. The dawn found a deserted easel bearing a canvas with a green inscription in the Hammerpond Park, and it found Hammerpond House in commotion. But if the dawn found Mr. Teddy Watkins and the Aveline Diamonds, it did not communicate the information to the police. End of Chapter 13 Chapter 14 of The Stolen Basilisk and Other Stories This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The Stolen Basilisk and Other Stories by H.G. Wells Amoth Genus Novo Probably you have heard of Hapli, not W.T. Hapli, the son, but the celebrated Hapli, the Hapli of Paraplanita Haplia, Hapli the entomologist. If so, you know at least of the great feud between Hapli and Professor Pawkins, though certain of its consequences may be new to you. For those who have not, a word or two of explanation is necessary, which the idle reader may go over with a glancing eye, his indolence, so incline him. It is amazing how very widely diffused is the ignorance of such really important matters as this Hapli-Pawkins feud. Those epic-making controversies, again, that have convolts the geological society are, I verily believe, almost entirely unknown outside of the fellowship of that body. I have heard men of fair general education even refer to the great scenes as these meetings as vestry meeting squabbles. Yet the great hate of the English geologist has lasted now half a century, and has left deep and abundant marks upon the body of the science. And this Hapli-Pawkins business, though perhaps a more personal affair, has stirred passion as profound, if not profounder. Your common man has no conception of the zeal that animates a scientific investigator, the fury of contradiction you can arouse in him. It is the odium theologicum in a new form. There are men, for instance, who would gladly burn Professor Ray Lancaster at Smithfield for his treatment of the mollusca in the encyclopedia. That fantastic extension of the cephalopods to cover the terrapods. But I wonder from Hapli and Pawkins. It began years and years ago with a revision of the microlepidoptera, whatever these may be, by Pawkins, in which he extinguished a new species created by Hapli. Hapli, who was always quarrelsome, replied by a stinging impeachment of the entire classification of Pawkins. Pawkins, in his rejoinder, suggested that Hapli's microscope was as defective as his powers of observation, and called him an irresponsible meddler. Hapli was not a professor at the time. Hapli, in his retort, spoke of blundering collectors and described as inadvertently, Pawkins' revision as a miracle of ineptitude. It was war to the knife. However, it would scarcely interest the reader to detail how these two great men quarreled and how the split between them widened until from the microlepidoptera there at war upon every open question in entomology. There were memorable occasions. At times, the royal entomological society meetings resembled nothing so much as the Chamber of Deputies. On the whole, I fancy Pawkins was nearer the truth than Hapli. But Hapli was skillful with his rhetoric, and had a turn for ridicule rare in a scientific man, was endowed with vast energy and had a fine sense of injury in the matter of the extinguished species. While Pawkins was a man of full presence, prosy of speech, in shape not unlike a water barrel, over-conscious with testimonials, and suspected of jobbing museum appointments. So the young men gathered around Hapli and applauded him. It was a long struggle, vicious from the beginning, and growing at last into pitiless antagonism. The successive turns of fortune now an advantage to one side and now to another, now happily tormented by some successive Pawkins. And now Pawkins, out-shown by Hapli, belong rather to the history of entomology than to this story. But in 1891, Pawkins, whose health had been bad for some time, published some work upon the mesoblast of the death's head moth. What the mesoblast of the death's head moth may be does not matter a wrap in this story. But the work was far below his usual standard, with Hapli at opening he had coveted for years. He must have worked night and day to make the most of his advantage. And in elaborate critique he rent Pawkins to tatters. One can fancy the man's disordered black hair, and in his queer dark eyes flashing as he went for his antagonist. And Pawkins made a reply, halting, ineffectual, with painful gaps of silence, and yet malignant, his will to wound Hapli, nor his incapacity to do it. A few of those who heard him, I was absent from that meeting, realized how ill the man was. Hapli had got his opponent down and meant to finish him. He followed with the simply brutal attack upon Pawkins, the form of a paper upon the development of moths in general. A paper showing evidence of a most extraordinary amount of mental labor, and yet couched in a violently controversial tone. Violent as it was, an editorial note witnesses that it was modified. It must have covered Pawkins with shame and confusion of face. It left no loophole. It was murderous in argument and utterly contemptuous in tone. An awful thing for the declining years of a man's career. The world of entomologists waited breathlessly for the rejoinder from Pawkins. They tried one, where Pawkins had always been game, but when it came, it surprised them. For the rejoinder of Pawkins was to catch the influenza, to proceed to pneumonia, and to die. It was perhaps as effectual as a reply as he could make under the circumstances and largely turn to the current of feeling against Hapli. The very people who had most gleefully cheered on those gladiators became serious at the consequence. There could be no reasonable doubt that the threat of defeat contributed to the death of Pawkins. There was a limit even to scientific controversy, said serious people. Another crushing attack was already in the press and appeared on the day before the funeral. I don't think Hapli exerted himself to stop it. People remembered how Hapli had hounded down his rival. Forgot his rival's defects. Scathing satire reads ill of a fresh mold. The thing provoked comment in the daily papers. This it was that made me think that you had probably heard of Hapli in this controversy. But, as I've already remarked, scientific workers live very much in a world of their own. Half the people, I daresay, who go along Piccadilly to the academy every year could not tell you where the learned societies abide. Many even think that research is a kind of happy family cage in which all kinds of men lie down in peace. In his private thoughts, Hapli could not forgive Pockens for dying. In the first place it was a mean dodge to escape the absolute pulverization Hapli had in hand for him. And in the second, it left Hapli's mind with a queer gap in it. For twenty years he had worked hard sometimes far into the night in seven days a week with micro soap, scalpel, collecting net and pin, and almost entirely with reference to Pockens. The European reputation he had won had come as an incident in that great antipathy. He had gradually worked up to a climax in this last controversy. It had killed Pockens, but it had also thrown Hapli out of gear, so to speak. And his doctor advised him to give up work for a time and rest. So Hapli went down to a quiet village in Kent and thought day and night of Pockens. In good things it was now impossible to say about him. At last Hapli began to realize in what direction the preoccupation tended. He determined to make a fight for it, started trying to read novels. But he could not get his mind off Pockens, white in the face, making that last speech. Every sentence a beautiful opening for Hapli. He turned to fiction and found it had no grip on it. He read the island knights' entertainments until his sense of causation was shocked beyond endurance by the Bottle Imp. Then he went to Kipling and found he proved nothing besides irreverent and vulgar. These scientific people have their limitations. Then unhappily he tried Byzant's inner house and the opening chapter set his mind upon learned societies and Pockens at once. So Hapli turned to chess and found it a little more soothing. He soon mastered the moves and the chief gambits and commoner closing positions and began to beat the vigor. But the cylindrical contours of the opposite king began to resemble Pockens standing up and gasping ineffectually against Czech mate and Hapli decided to give up chess. Perhaps the study of some new branch of science would be after all better diversion. The best rest is change of occupation. Hapli determined to pledge at Diatoms and he had one of his smaller microscopes in Halibut's monograph sent down from London. He thought that perhaps if he could get up a vigorous quarrel with Halibut he might be able to begin life afresh and forget Pockens and very soon he was hard at work in a subitual strenuous fashion at these microscopic denizens of the wayside pool. It was on the third day of the Diatoms that Hapli became aware of a novel addition to the local fauna. He was working late at the microscope and the only light in the room was the brilliant little lamp with a special form of green shade. Like all experienced microscopist he kept both eyes open it is the only way to avoid excessive fatigue. One eye was over the instrument and bright and distinct before that was the circular field of the microscope across which a brown diatom was slowly moving. With the other eye Hapli saw as it were without seeing. He was only dimly conscious of the brass side of the instrument the illuminated part of the tablecloth the sheet of note paper the foot of the lamp and the darkened room beyond. Suddenly his attention drifted from one eye to the other the tablecloth was of the material called tapestry by the shopman and rather brightly colored with a small amount of crimson and a pale blue upon a grayish ground. At one point the pattern seemed displaced and there was a vibrating movement of the colors at this point. Hapli suddenly moved his head back and looked with both eyes his mouth fell open with astonishment it was a large moth or butterfly its wings spread in butterfly fashion. It was strange that it should be in the room at all but the windows were closed strange that it should not have attracted his attention when fluttering to its present position strange that it should match the tablecloth stranger far that to him Hapli the great entomologist it is altogether unknown there was no delusion it was crawling slowly towards the foot of the lamp genus Novo by heavens and in England said Hapli staring then he suddenly thought of pockens nothing would have maddened pockens more and pockens was dead something about the head and the body of the insect became singularly suggested of pockens just as the chess king had been confound pockens said Hapli but I must catch this and looking round him for some means of capturing the moth he rose slowly out of his chair suddenly the insect rose struck to the edge of the lampshade Hapli heard the ping and vanished into the shadow in a moment Hapli had whipped off the shade set the whole room was illuminated the thing had disappeared but soon his practised eye detected it upon the wallpaper near the door as he went towards it poisoning the lampshade for capture before he was within striking distance however it had risen and was fluttering around the room after the fashion of its kind it flew with sudden starts and turns seeming to vanish here and reappear there once Hapli struck and missed then again the third time he hid his microscope the instrument swayed struck and overturned the lamp and fell noisily upon the floor the lamp turned over on the table and very luckily went out Hapli was left in the dark with a start he felt the strange moth blunder onto his face it was maddening he had no lights if he opened the door of the room the thing would get away in the darkness he saw pockens quite distinctly laughing at him pockens had ever an oily laugh he swore furiously and stamped his foot on the floor there was a timid wrapping at the door then it opened perhaps a foot very slowly the alarmed face of the landlady had a candle flame she wore a nightcap over her grey hair and had some purple garment over her shoulders what was that fearful smack she said has anything? the strange moth appeared fluttering about the chink of the door shut that door said Hapli and suddenly rushed at her the door slammed hastily Hapli was left alone in the dark then in the pause he heard his landlady scuttle upstairs and dragged something heavy across the room and put against it it became evident to Hapli that his conduct and appearance had been strange and alarming confound the moth and pockens however it was a pity to lose the moth now he felt his way into the hall and found the matches after sending his hat down upon the floor with a noise like a drum with the lighted candle he returned to the sitting room yet once for a moment it seemed that the thing was fluttering around his head Hapli very suddenly decided to give up the moth and go to bed but he was excited all night long his sleep was broken by dreams of the moth pockens and his landlady twice in the night he turned out and sourced his head in cold water one thing was very clear to him his landlady could not possibly understand about the strange moth especially as he had failed to catch it no one but an entomologist would understand quite how he felt she was probably frightened at his behavior and yet he failed to see how he could explain it he decided to say nothing further about the events of last night after breakfast he saw her in her garden and decided to go out to talk to her to reassure her he talked to her about beans and potatoes, bees, caterpillars and the price of fruit she replied in her usual manner but she looked at him a little suspiciously and kept walking as he walked said there was always a bed of flowers or a row of beans or something of the sort between them after a while he began to feel singularly irritated at this and to conceal his vexation went indoors and presently went out for a walk the moth, or butterfly trailing an odd flavor of pockens with it kept coming into that walk though he did his best to keep his mind off it once he saw it quite distinctly with its wings flattened out upon the stone wall that runs along the west edge of the park but going up to it he found it was only two lumps of gray and yellow lichen this, said Hably is the reverse of mimicry instead of a butterfly looking like a stone here's a stone looking like a butterfly once something hovered and fluttered around his head but by an effort of will he was repressioned out of his mind again in the afternoon Hably called upon the vicar and argued with him upon theological questions they sat in the little arbor covered with briar and smoked as they wrangled look at that moth, said Hably suddenly pointing to the edge of the wooden table where? said the vicar you don't see a moth on the edge of that table there? said Hably certainly not, said the vicar Hably was thunderstruck he gasped the vicar was staring at him clearly the man saw nothing the eye of faith is no better than the eye of science said Hably awkwardly I don't see your point said the vicar thinking he was part of the argument that night Hably found the moth crawling over his counter pain he sat on the edge of the bed in his shirt sleeves and reasoned with himself was it pure hallucination? he knew he was slipping and he battled for his sanity with the same silent energy he had formally displayed against pockens so persistent is mental habit that he felt as if it were a struggle with pockens he was well versed in psychology he knew that such visual illusions do come as a result of mental strain but the point was he did not only see the moth he had heard it when it touched the edge of the lampshade and afterwards when it hit against the wall it felt it strike his face in the dark he looked at it it was not at all dream like but perfectly clear and solid looking in the candlelight he saw the hairy body in the short feathery antenna in the jointed legs even a place where the down rubbed from the wing he suddenly felt angry with himself for being afraid of a little insect his landlady had got the servant to sleep with her that night because she was afraid to be alone in addition she had locked the door and put the chest of drawers against it they listened and talked in whispers after they had gone to bed but nothing occurred to alarm them about eleven they had ventured to put the candle out and both dozed to sleep they woke up with a start and sat up in bed listening in the darkness they heard slippered feet going to and fro in haply's room a chair was overturned there was a violent dab at the wall and a china mantel ornament that was placed upon the fender suddenly the door of the room opened and they heard him upon the landing they clung to one another listening he seemed to be dancing upon the staircase now he would go down three or four steps quickly then up again then hurry down into the hall they heard the umbrella stand go over and the fan light break then the bolt shot and the chain rattled he was opening the door they hurried to the window it was a dim grey night an almost unbroken sheet of watery cloud was sweeping across the moon the hedge and trees in front of the house were black against the pale roadway they saw haply looking like a ghost in his shirt and white trousers running to and fro in the road and beating the air now he would stop now he would dart very rapidly at something invisible now he would move upon it with stealthy strides he asked he went out of sight up the road towards the down then while they argued who should go down and lock the door he returned he was walking very fast and he came straight into the house closed the door carefully and went quietly up to his bedroom then everything was silent Mrs. Colville said happily calling down the staircase the next morning I hope I did not alarm you last night you may well ask that said Mrs. Colville the fact is I'm a sleepwalker the last two nights I have been without my sleeping mixture there is nothing to be alarmed about really I'm sorry I made such an ass of myself I will go over the down to shore him and get some stuff to make me sleep soundly I ought to have done that yesterday but half way over to the down by the chalk pits the moth came upon happily again he went on trying to keep his mind chest problems but it was no good the thing fluttered into his face and he struck at it with his hat in self defense then rage the old rage the rage he had so often felt against pockens came upon him again he went on leaping and striking at the eddying insect suddenly he trod on nothing and fell headlong there was a gap in his sensations and happily found himself sitting on the heap of flints to the opening of the chalk pits the leg twisted back under him the strange moth was still fluttering around his head he struck at it with his hand and turning his head saw two men approaching him one was the village doctor it occurred to happily that this was lucky then it came into his mind with extraordinary vividness that no one would ever be able to see the strange moth except himself and that behoved him to keep silent about it late that night however, after his broken leg was set he was feverish and forgot his self restraint he was lying flat on his bed and he began to run his eyes around the room to see if the moth was still about he tried not to do this but it was no good he soon caught sight of the thing resting close to his hand by the night light on the green tablecloth the wings quivered the sudden wave of anger he smote at it with his fist and the nurse woke up with a shriek he had missed it that moth, he said and then it was fancy nothing all that time he could see quite clearly the insect going around with the cornice and darting around the room and he could also see that the nurse saw nothing of it and looked at him strangely he must keep himself in hand he knew he was a lost man if he did not keep himself in hand but as the night waned the fever grew upon him and the very dread he had of seeing the moth made him see it about five just as the dawn was gray he tried to get out of bed and catch it though his leg was a fire with pain the nurse had to struggle with him on account of this they tied him down to the bed at this the moth grew bolder and once he felt it settle in his hair then because he struck out violently with his arms they tied these also at this the moth came and crawled over his face and happily wept swore screamed prayed for them to take it off him unavailingly the doctor was a block head a half qualified general practitioner and quite ignorant of mental science he simply said there was no moth had he possessed the wit he might still perhaps have slaved happily from his fate by entering into his delusion and covering his face with gauze as he prayed might be done but as I say the doctor was a block head and until the leg was healed happily was kept tied to his bed with the imaginary moth crawling over him it never left him while he was awake it grew to a monster in his dreams while he was awake he longed for sleep and from sleep he awoke screaming so now happily is spending the remainder of his days in a padded room worried by a moth that no one else can see the asylum doctor calls it hallucination but happily when he is in his easier mood and can talk says it is the ghost of pockens and consequently a unique specimen and well worth the trouble of catching The Stolen Bacchulus and Other Stories by H.G. Wells dim and almost cloud like in texture rose the mountains like suddenly frozen waves the sea was still safe for an imperceptible swell the sky blazed the man with a carved paddle stopped it should be somewhere here he said he shipped the paddle and held his arms out straight before him the other man had been in the four part of the canoe closely scrutinizing the land he had a sheet of yellow paper on his knee come and look at this Evans, he said both men spoke in low tones and their lips were hard and dry the man called Evans came swaying along the canoe until he could look over his companion's shoulder the paper had the appearance of a rough map by much folding it was creased and worn to the pitch of separation and the second man held the discolored fragments together where they had parted on it one could dimly make out an almost obliterated pencil the outline of the bay here said Evans is the reef and here is the cap he ran his thumbnail over the chart this curved and twisting line is the river I could do with a drink now and this star is the place you see the dotted line said the man with the map it is a straight line and runs from the opening of the reef to a clump of palm trees the star comes just where it cuts the river we must mark the place as we go into the lagoon it's queer said Evans after a pause what these little marks down here are for it looks like the plan of a house or something but what all these little dashes pointing this way and that may mean I can't get an ocean and what's the writing Chinese said the man with the map of course he was a Chinese said Evans they all were said the man with the map they both sat for some minute staring at the land while the canoe slowly drifted then Evans looked toward the paddle you return with the paddle now Hooker said he and his companion quietly folded up his map put it in his pocket passed Evans carefully and began to paddle his movements were languid like those of a man whose strength was nearly exhausted Evans sat with his eyes half closed watching the frothy breakwater the coral creep nearer and nearer the sky was like a furnace now for the sun was near the zenith though they were so near the treasure he did not feel the exultation he had anticipated the intense excitement of the struggle for the plan and the long night voyage from the mainland and the unprovisioned canoe had to use his own expression taking it out of him he tried to arouse himself by directing his mind to the ingots the Chinaman had spoken of but it would not rest there it came back headlong to the thought of sweet water rippling in the river and the almost unendurable dryness of his lips and throat the rhythmic wash of the sea upon the reef was becoming audible now and it had a pleasant sound in his ears the water washed along the canoe and the paddle dripped between each stroke presently he began to doze he was still dimly conscious of the island but a queer dream texture interwoven with his sensations once again it was the night when he and Hooker had hit upon the Chinaman secret he saw the moonlit trees the little fire burning and the black figures the three Chinaman silvered on one side by moonlight and on the other glowing from the firelight and heard them talking together in pidgin English for they came from different provinces Hooker had caught the drifter their talk first he had motion to him to listen fragments of the conversation were inaudible and fragments incomprehensible a Spanish galleon from the Philippines its treasure buried against the day of return lay in the background of the story a shipwrecked crew thinned by disease a quarrel or so and the needs of discipline and at last taking their boats never to be heard of again then Changhai only a year since wandering ashore had happened upon the Ingots hidden for 200 years had deserted his junk and reburied them with an infinite toil single-handed but very safe he laid great stress on the safety it was a secret of his now he wanted help to return and exhumed them presently the little map fluttered and the voices sank a fine story for two stranded British rastrels to hear Heaven's dream shifted to the moment when he had Changhai's pigtail in his hand the life of a Chinaman a sacred like a Europeans the cunning little face of Changhai first keen and furious like a startled snake and then fearful treacherous and pitiful became overwhelmingly prominent in the dream at the end Changhai had grinned a most incomprehensible and startling grin abruptly things became very unpleasant as they will do at times in dreams like Jeopard and threatened him he saw in his dream heaps and heaps of gold and Changhai intervening and struggling to hold him back from it he took Changhai by the pigtail how big the yellow brute was and how he struggled and grinned he kept growing bigger too then the bright heaps of gold turned to a roaring furnace and a vast devil surprisingly like Changhai with a huge black tail began to feed him with coals they burnt his mouth horribly another devil was shouting his name Evans, Evans you sleepy fool or was it Hooker he woke up they were in the mouth of the lagoon there are the three palm trees it must be in line with that clump of bushes said his companion mark that if we go to those bushes and get into the bush and a straight line from here we shall come to it when we come to the stream they could see now with the mouth of the stream opened out at the end of it Evans revived hurry up man he said or by heaven I shall have to drink seawater he gnawed his hand and stared at the gleam of silver among the rocks and green tangle presently he turned almost fiercely upon Hooker now he said so they reached the river mouth a little way up Hooker took some water in the hollow of his hand tasted it and spat it out a little further he tried again this will do he said and they began drinking eagerly curse this said Evans suddenly it's too slow and leaning dangerously over the floor part of the canoe and the water with his lips presently they made an end of drinking and running the canoe into the little creek we're about to land among the thick growth that overhung the water we shall have to scrabble through this to the beach to find our bushes and get the line to that place said Evans we had better paddle round said Hooker so they pushed out again into the river and paddled back down it to the sea where the clump of bushes grew here they landed pulled the light canoe far up the beach and then went up towards the edge of the jungle until they could see the opening of the reef and the bushes in a straight line Evans had taken a native implement out of the canoe it was L shaped and the transverse piece was armed with polished stone Hooker carried the paddle it is straight now in this direction said he pushed through this till we strike the stream then we must prospect they pushed through a closed angle of reeds broad fronds and young trees and at first it was toilsome going but very speedily the trees became larger and the ground beneath them opened out the blaze of the sunlight was replaced by insensible degrees by cool shadow the trees became at last vast pillars that rose up to a canopy of greenery far overhead the trees became at last vast pillars that rose up to a canopy of greenery far overhead dim white flowers hung from their stems and ropey creepers swung from tree to tree the shadow deepen on the ground blotched fungi and red brown incestation became frequent Evans shivered it seems almost cold here after the blaze outside I hope we are keeping to the straight said Hooker presently they saw far ahead a gap in the somber darkness where the white shafts of hot sunlight smote into the forest there was also brilliant green undergrowth and colored flowers then they heard the rush of water here is the river we should be close to it now said Hooker the vegetation was thick by the river bank great plants as yet unnamed grow among the roots of the big trees and spread rosettes of huge green fans towards the strip of sky many flowers and a creeper with shiny foliage clung to the exposed stems on the water of the broad quiet pool which the treasure seekers now overlooked there floated big oval leaves and a waxen pinkish white flower not unlike a water lily further as the river bent away from them the water suddenly frothed and became noisy in a rapid well said Evans we have swerved a little from the straight said Hooker this was to be expected he turned and looked into the dim cool shadows of the silent forest behind him if we beat a little way up and down the stream we should come to something you said began Evans he said there was a heap of stones said Hooker the two men looked at each other for a moment let us try a little downstream first said Evans they advanced slowly looking curiously about them suddenly Evans stopped what the devil is that he said Hooker followed his finger something blue he said it had come into view as they topped a gentle swell of the ground then he began to distinguish what it was he advanced suddenly with hasty steps until the body that belonged to the limp hand and arm had become visible his grip tightened on the implement he carried the thing was the figure of a Chinaman lying on his face the abandon of the pose was unsteakable the two men drew close together and stood staring silently at the ominous dead body it lay in a clear space among the trees nearby was a spade after the Chinese pattern and further off lay a scattered heap of stones close to a freshly dug hole somebody has been here before said Hooker clearing his throat then suddenly Evans began to swear even stamp upon the ground Hooker turned white but said nothing he advanced towards the prostrate body he saw the neck was puffed and purple and the hands and ankles swollen pah! he said and suddenly turned away towards the excavation he gave a cry of surprise he shouted to Evans he was following him slowly you fool it's all right here it's here still he then turned again and looked at the dead Chinaman and then again at the hole Evans hurried to the hole already half exposed by the ill-fated wretch beside them lay a number of dull yellow bars he bent down in the hole and clearing off the soil with his bare hands hastily pulled one of the heavy masses out as he did so a little thorn pricked his hand he pulled the delicate spike out with his fingers and lifted the ingot only gold or lead could weigh like this he said exultantly Hooker was still looking at the dead Chinaman he was puzzled he stole a march on his friends he said at last he came here alone and some poisonous stake has killed him I wonder how he found the place Evans stood with the ingot in his hands what did a dead Chinaman signify we shall have to take the stuff to the mainland piece mill and bury it there for a while how shall we get it to the canoe he took off his jacket and spread it on the ground and flung two or three ingots into it presently he found that another little thorn had punctured his skin this is as much as we can carry said he then suddenly with a queer rush of irritation what are you staring at Hooker turned to him I can't stand him he nodded towards the corpse it's like it's so like rubbish said Evans all Chinaman are alike Hooker looked into his face I'm going to bury that anyhow before I lend a hand with this stuff don't be a fool Hooker said Evans let that massive corruption bide Hooker hesitated and then his eye went carefully over the brown soil about them it scares me somehow he said the thing is said Evans what to do with these ingots shall we rebury them over here or take them across the straight in the canoe Hooker thought his puzzled gaze wandered among the tall tree trunks and up into the remote sunlit greenery overhead he shivered again as his eye rested upon the blue figure of the Chinaman he stared surgingly among the gray depths between the trees what's come to you Hooker said Evans have you lost your wits let's get that gold out of this place anyhow said Hooker he took the ends of the collar of the coat in his hands and Evans took the opposite corners and they lifted the mass which way said Evans to the canoe it's queer said Evans when they had advanced only a few steps still without paddling curse it he said but they ache I must rest they let the coat down Evans face was white and little drops of sweat stood out upon his forehead it's stuffy somehow in this forest then with an abrupt transition to unreasonable anger what is the good of waiting here all the day lend me a hand I say you have done nothing but moon as we saw the dead Chinaman Hooker was looking steadfastly at his companion's face he helped raise the coat bearing the ingots and then went forward perhaps a hundred yards in silence Evans began to breathe heavily can't you speak he said what's the matter with you said Hooker Evans stumbled and then with a sudden curse flung the coat from him he stood for a moment staring at Hooker and then with a groan clutched at his own throat don't come near me he said and went and lent against a tree then in a steadier voice I'll be better in a minute presently his grip upon the trunk loosened and he slipped slowly down the stem of the tree until he was a crumpled heap at its foot his hands were clenched convulsively his face became distorted with pain Hooker approached him don't touch me don't touch me said Evans in a stifled voice put the gold back on the coat can't I do anything for you said Hooker put the gold back on the coat as Hooker handled the ingots he felt a little prick on the ball of his thumb he looked at his hand and saw a slender thorn perhaps two inches in length Evans gave an inarticulate cry and rolled over Hooker's jaw dropped he stared at the thorn for a moment with dilated eyes then he looked at Evans who was now crumpled together on the floor his back bending and straightening spasmodically then he looked through the pillars of the trees and network of creeper stems to where in the dim gray shadow the blue clad body of the Chinaman was still indistinctly visible he thought of the little dashes in the corner of the plan and in a moment he understood God help me he said for those thorns were similar to those that diex poison and use in their blowing tubes he understood now what Chiang Hai's assurance of the safety of his treasure meant he understood that grin now Evans he cried but Evans was silent and motionless now save for a horrible spasmodic twitching of his limbs a profound silence brooded over the forest then Hooker began to suck furiously at the little pink spot on the ball of his thumb sucking for dear life presently he felt a strange aching pain in his arms and shoulders and his fingers seemed difficult to bend then he knew that sucking was no good abruptly he stopped and sitting down by the pile of ingots and resting his chin upon his hands and his elbows upon his knees stared at the distorted but still stirring body of his companion Chiang Hai's grin came in his mind again the dull pain spread towards his throat and grew slowly in intensity far above him a faint breeze stirred the greenery and the white petals of some unknown flower came floating down through the gloom End of Chapter 15 End of the Stolen Backlist and other stories by H.G. Wells