 The Black Poodle by F. Anstay. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Roger Maline. The Black Poodle by F. Anstay. I have set myself the task of relating in the course of this story without suppressing or altering a single detail the most painful and humiliating episode in my life. I do this not because it will give me the least pleasure, but simply because it affords me an opportunity of extenuating myself which has hitherto been wholly denied to me. As a general rule, I am quite aware that to publish a lengthy explanation of one's conduct in any questionable transaction is not the best means of recovering a lost reputation. But in my own case, there is one to whom I shall never more be permitted to justify myself by word of mouth even if I found myself able to attempt it. And as she could not possibly think worse of me than she does at present, I write this, knowing it can do me no harm and faintly hoping that it may come to her notice and suggest a doubt whether I am quite so unscrupulous a villain so consummate a hypocrite as I have been forced to appear in her eyes. The bare chance of such a result makes me perfectly indifferent to all else. I cheerfully expose to the derision of the whole reading world the story of my weakness and my shame, since by doing so I may possibly rehabilitate myself somewhat in the good opinion of one person. Having said so much, I will begin my confession without further delay. My name is Algonon Weatherhead, and I may add that I am in one of the government departments, that I am an only son and live at home with my mother. We had had a house at Hammersmith until just before the period covered by this story when, at least expiring, my mother decided that my health required country air at the close of the day, and so we took a desirable villa residence on one of the many new building estates which have lately sprung up in such profusion in the home counties. We have called it Wisteria Villa. It is a pretty little place, though last of a row of detached villas, each with its tiny rustic carriage gate and gravel sweep in front, and long enough for a tennis court behind which lines the road leading over the hill to the railway station. I could certainly have wished that our landlord, shortly after giving us the agreement, could have found some other place to hang himself in than one of our attics, for the consequence was that a housemaid left us in violent hysterics about every two months, having learnt the tragedy from the trade's people and naturally seen as something immediately afterwards. Still, it is a pleasant house, and I can now almost forgive the landlord for what I shall always consider an act of gross selfishness on his part. In the country, even so near town, a next-door neighbor is something more than a mere numeral. He is a possible acquaintance who will at least consider a newcomer as worth the experiment of a call. I soon knew that a shooter garden, the next house to our own, was occupied by a Colonel Currie, a retired Indian officer, and often, as across the low boundary wall, I caught a glimpse of a graceful girlish figure flitting about amongst the rosebushes in the neighboring garden. I would lose myself in pleasant anticipations of a time not far distant when the wall which separated us would be metaphorically leveled. I remember, how vividly, the thrill of excitement with which I heard from my mother on returning from town one evening that the Curries had called and seemed disposed to be all that was neighborly and kind. I remember, too, the Sunday afternoon on which I returned to their call, alone, as my mother had already done so during the week. I was standing on the steps of the Colonel's villa, waiting for the door to open, when I was startled by a furious snarling and yapping behind, and, looking round, discovered a large poodle in the act of making for my legs. He was a cold black poodle with half of his right ear gone and absurd little thick mustaches at the end of his nose. He was shaved in the Shan-Lion fashion, which is considered, for some mysterious reason, to improve a poodle, but the barber had left sundry little tufts of hair which studded his haunches capriciously. I could not help being reminded, as I looked at him, of another black poodle which Faust entertained for a short time with unhappy results, and I thought that a very moderate degree of incantation would be enough to bring the fiend out of this brute. He made me intensely uncomfortable, for I am of a slightly nervous temperament, with a constitutional horror of dogs and a liability to attacks of diffidence on performing the ordinary social rights under the most favorable conditions, and certainly the consciousness that a strange and apparently savage dog was engaged in worrying the heels of my boots was the reverse of reassuring. The Curry family received me with all possible kindness. So charmed to make your acquaintance, Mr. Weatherhead, said Mrs. Curry, as I shook hands. I see, she added pleasantly, you've brought the doggie in with you. As a matter of fact, I had brought the doggie in at the ends of my coat-tails, but it was evidently no unusual occurrence for visitors to appear in this undignified manner, for she detached him quite as a matter of course, and as soon as I was sufficiently collected, we fell into conversation. I discovered that the Colonel and his wife were childless, and the slender, willowy figure I had seen across the garden was that of Lillian Roseblade, their niece and adopted daughter. She came into the room shortly afterwards, and I felt, as I went through the form of an introduction, that her sweet, fresh face shaded by soft masses of dusky brown hair more than justified all the dreamy hopes and fancies with which I had looked forward to that moment. She talked to me in a pretty, confidential, appealing way, which I never heard her dearest friend's censure, as childish and affected, but I thought then that her manner had an indescribable charm and fascination about it, and the memory of it makes my heart ache now with the pain that is not all pain. Even before the Colonel made his appearance, I had begun to see that my enemy, the poodle, occupied an exceptional position in that household. It was abundantly clear by the time I took my leave. He seemed to be the center of their domestic system, and even lovely Lillian revolved contentedly around him as a kind of satellite. He could do no wrong in his owner's eyes. His prejudices, and he was a narrow-minded animal, were rigorously respected, and all domestic arrangements were made with a primary view to his convenience. I may be wrong, but I cannot think that it is wise to put any poodle upon such a pedestal as that. How this one, in particular, as ordinary a quadrupet has ever breathed, had contrived to impose thus upon his infatuated proprietors I never could understand. But so it was. He even engrossed the chief part of the conversation, which, after any lull, seemed to veer round to him by a sort of natural law. I had to endure a long biographical sketch of him. What a society paper would call an anecdotal photo. And each fresh anecdote seemed to me to exhibit the depraved malignity of the beast in a more glaring light and render the doting admiration of the family more astounding than ever. Did you tell Mr. Weatherhead, Lily, about Bingo? Bingo was the poodle's preposterous name. And Tax? No. Oh, I must tell him that. It'll make him laugh. Tax is our gardener down in the village. Do you know Tax? Well, Tax was up here the other day, nailing up some trellis work at the top of a ladder, and all the time there was Master Bingo sitting quietly at the foot of it, looking on. Wouldn't leave it on any account. Tax said he was quite company for him. Well, at last, when Tax had finished and was coming down, what do you think that rascal there did? Just sneaked quietly up behind him and nipped him on both calves and ran off. Been looking out for that whole time. Deep that, eh? I agreed with an inward shudder that it was very deep, thinking privately that if this was a specimen of Bingo's usual treatment of the natives, it would be odd if he did not find himself deeper still before. Probably just before he died. Poor, faithful old doggy, murmured Mrs. Curry. He thought Tax was a nasty burglar, didn't he? He wasn't going to see Master Rob, was he? Capital house dog, sir, struck in the colonel. Dad, I shall never forget how he made poor Heavisides run for it the other day. Ever met Heavisides of the Bombay Fusiliers? Well, Heavisides was staying here, and the dog met him one morning as he was coming down from the bathroom. Didn't recognize him in pajamas and a dressing gown, of course, and made at him. He kept poor old Heavisides outside the landing window on the top of the cistern for a quarter of an hour, till I had to come home and raise the siege. Such were the stories of that abandoned dog's blunder-headed ferocity to which I was forced to listen, while all the time the brute sat opposite me on the hearth-road, blinking at me from under his shaggy mane with his evil, bleared eyes, and deliberating where he would have me when I rose to go. This was the beginning of an intimacy which soon displaced all ceremony. It was very pleasant to go in there after dinner, even to sit with the colonel over his claret, and hear more stories about bingo, for afterwards I could go into the pretty drawing-room, and take my tea from Lillian's hands, and listen while she played Schubert to us in the summer twilight. The poodle was always in the way, to be sure, but even his ugly black head seemed to lose some of its ugliness and ferocity when Lillian laid her pretty hand on it. On the whole I think that the Curry family were well disposed towards me, the colonel considering me as a harmless specimen of the average eligible young man, which I certainly was, and Mrs. Curry showing me favor for my mother's sake for whom she had taken a strong liking. As for Lillian, I believed I saw that she soon suspected the state of my feelings towards her, and was not displeased by it. I looked forward with some hopefulness to a day when I could declare myself with no fear of a repulse. But it was a serious obstacle in my path that I could not secure bingo's good opinion on any terms. The family would often lament this pathetically themselves. You see, Mrs. Curry would observe in apology, bingo is a dog that does not attach himself easily to strangers, though for that matter I thought he was unpleasantly ready to attach himself to me. I did try hard to conciliate him. I brought him propitiatory buns, which was weak and ineffectual as he ate them with avidity, and hated me as bitterly as ever, for he had conceived from the first a profound contempt for me and a distrust which no blandishments of mine could remove. Looking back now, I am inclined to think it was a prophetic instinct that warned him of what was to come upon him through my instrumentality. Only his approbation was wanting to establish for me a firm footing with the Currys and perhaps determine Lillian's wavering heart in my direction. But, though I wooed that inflexible poodle with an aciduity I blushed to remember, he remained obstinately firm. Still, day by day, Lillian's treatment of me was more encouraging. Day by day, I gained in the esteem of her uncle and aunt, I began to hope that soon I should be able to disregard canine influence altogether. Now, there was one inconvenience about our villa, besides its flavor of suicide, which it is necessary to mention here. By common consent, all the cats of the neighborhood had selected our garden for their evening reunions. I fancy that a tortoise-shell kitchen cat of ours must have been a sort of leader of local feline society. I know she was at home with music and recitations on most evenings. My poor mother found this interfere with her after dinner nap, and no wonder, for if a cohort of ghosts had been shrieking and squealing as Calpurnia puts it, in our back garden, or it had been fitted up as a crash for a nursery of goblin infants in the agonies of teething, the noise could not possibly have been more unearthly. We sought for some means of getting rid of the nuisance. There was poison, of course, but we thought it would have an invidious appearance and even lead to legal difficulties if each dawn were to discover an assortment of cats expiring in hideous convulsions in various parts of the same garden. Firearms, too, were open to objection and would scarcely assist my mother's slumbers, so for some time we were at a loss for a remedy. At last, one day, walking down the strand, I chanced to see, in an evil hour, what struck me as the very thing. It was an air gun of superior construction displayed in a gunsmith's window. I went in at once, purchased it, and took it home in triumph. It would be noiseless and would reduce the local average of cats without scandal. One or two examples, and feline fashion would soon migrate to a more secluded spot. I lost no time in putting this to the proof. That same evening, I lay in wait after dusk at the study window protecting my mother's repose. As soon as I heard the long-drawn wail, the preliminary sputter, and the wild stampede that followed, I let fly in the direction of the sound. I suppose I must have something of the national sporting instinct in me, for my blood was tingling with excitement. But the feline constitution assimilates lead without serious inconvenience, and I began to fear that no trophy would remain to bear witness to my marksmanship. But all at once I made out a dark, indistinct form slinking in from behind the bushes. I waited till it crossed a belt of light which streamed from the back kitchen below me, and then I took careful aim and pulled the trigger. This time, at least, I had not failed. There was a smothered yell, a rustle, and then silence again. I ran out with the calm pride of a successful revenge to bring in the body of my victim, and I found underneath a laurel no predatory tomcat, but, as the discerning reader will no doubt have foreseen long since, the quivering carcass of the colonel's black poodle. I intend to set down here the exact unvarnished truth, and I confess that at first, when I knew what I had done, I was not sorry. I was quite innocent of any intention of doing it, but I felt no regret. I even laughed, madman that I was, at the thought that there was the end of bingo at all events. That impediment was removed. My weary task of conciliation was over forever. But soon the reaction came. I realized the tremendous nature of my deed, and shuddered. I had done that which might banish me from Lillian's side forever. All unwittingly I had slaughtered a kind of sacred beast, the animal around which the curry household had wreathed their choicest affections. How was I to break it to them? Should I send bingo in with a card tied to his neck and my regrets and compliments? That was too much like a present of game. Aught I not to carry him in myself? I would wreathe him in the best crepe I would put on black for him. The curries would hardly consider a taper in a white sheet, or sap cloth and ashes, an excessive form of atonement, but I could not grovel to quite such an abject extent. I wondered what the colonel would say. Simple and hearty as a general rule, he had a hot temper on occasions, and it made me ill as I thought. Would he, and worse still, would Lillian believe it was really an accident? They knew what an interest I had in silence in the deceased poodle. Would they believe the simple truth? I vowed that they should believe me. My genuine remorse and the absence of all concealment on my part would speak powerfully for me. I would choose a favorable time for my confession. That very evening I would tell all. Still, I shrank from the duty before me, and as I knelt down sorrowfully by the dead form and respectfully composed his stiffening limbs, I thought that it was unjust of fate to place a well-meaning man whose nerves were not of iron in such a position. Then, to my horror, I heard a well-known ringing tramp on the road outside and smelt the peculiar fragrance of a Burmese cheroot. It was the colonel himself who had been taking out the doomed bingo for his usual evening run. I don't know how it was exactly, but a sudden panic came over me. I held my breath and tried to crouch down, unseen behind the laurels. But he had seen me and came over at once to speak to me across the hedge. He stood there, not two yards from his favorite's body. Fortunately, it was unusually dark that evening. Ha! There you are, eh? he began heartily. Don't rise, my boy, don't rise. I was trying to put myself in front of the poodle and did not rise, at least only my hair did. You're out late, aren't you? he went on. Laying out your garden, eh? I could not tell him that I was laying out his poodle. My voice shook as with a guilty confusion that was veiled by the dusk I said it was a fine evening, which it was not. Cloudy, sir, said the Colonel. Cloudy, rain before morning, I think. By the way, have you seen anything of my bingo in here? This was the turning point. What I ought to have done was to say mournfully, Yes, I'm sorry to say I've had a most unfortunate accident with him. Here he is. The fact is, I'm afraid I've shot him. But I couldn't. I could have told him at my own time in a prepared form of words, but not then. I felt I must use all my wits to gain time and fence with the questions. Why, I said with a lid in the airiness, He hasn't given you the slip, has he? Never did such a thing in his life, said the Colonel, warmly. He rushed off after a rat or a frog or something a few minutes ago, as I stopped to light another chariot, I lost sight of him. I thought I saw him slipping under your gate, but I've been calling him from the front there, and he won't come out. No, and he never would come out any more, but the Colonel must not be told that just yet. I termed for eyes again. If, I said unsteadily, if he had slipped in under the gate, I should have seen him. Perhaps he took it into his head to run home? Oh, I shall find him on the doorstep, I expect, the knowing old scamp. Why, what do you think is the last thing he did now? I could have given him the very latest intelligence, but I dared not. However, it was altogether too ghastly to kneel there and laugh at anecdotes of bingo told across bingo's dead body. I could not stand that. Listen, I said suddenly. Wasn't that his bark? There, again. It seems to come from the front of your house, don't you think? Well, said the Colonel, I'll go and fasten him up before he's off again. How your teeth are chattering. You've caught a chill, man. Go indoors at once, and if you feel equal to it, look in half an hour later about Grog time, and I'll tell you all about it. Compliments to your mother. Don't forget about Grog time. I had got rid of him at last, and I wiped my forehead, gasping with relief. I would go around in half an hour, and then I should be prepared to make my melancholy announcement. For even then, I never thought of any other course until suddenly it flashed upon me with terrible clearness that my miserable shuffling by the hedge had made it impossible to tell the truth. I had not told a direct lie, to be sure, but then I had given the Colonel the impression that I had denied having seen the dog. Many people can appease their consciences by reflecting that whatever may be the effect their words produce, they did contrive to steer clear of a downright lie. I never quite knew where the distinction lay, morally, but there is that feeling. I have it myself. Unfortunately, prevarication has this drawback that if ever the truth comes to light, the prevaricator is in just the same case as if he had lied to the most shameless extent, and for a man to point out that the words he used contain no absolute falsehood will seldom restore confidence. I might, of course, still tell the Colonel of my misfortune and leave him to infer that it had happened after our interview, but the poodle was fast becoming cold and stiff, and they would most probably suspect the real time of the occurrence. And then Lillian would hear that I had told a string of falses to her uncle over the dead body of their idolized bingo, an act, no doubt, of abominable desecration of unspeakable profanity in her eyes. If it would have been difficult before to prevail on her to accept a bloodstained hand, it would be impossible after that. No, I had burnt my ships. I was cut off forever from the straightforward course. That one moment of indecision had decided my conduct in spite of me. I must go on with it now and keep up the deception at all hazards. It was bitter. I had always tried to preserve as many of the moral principles which had been instilled into me as can be conveniently retained in this grasping world, and it had been my pride that, roughly speaking, I had never been guilty of an unmistakable falsehood. But henceforth, if I meant to win Lillian, that boast must be relinquished forever. I should have to lie now with all my might without limit of scruple to dissemble incessantly and wear a mask as the poet Bun beautifully expressed it long ago over my hollow heart. I felt all this keenly. I did not think it was right, but what was I to do? After thinking all this out very carefully, I decided that my only course was to bury the poor animal where he fell and say nothing about it. With some vague idea of precaution, I first took off the silver collar he wore and then hastily interred him with a garden trowel and succeeded in removing all traces of the disaster. I fancy I felt a certain relief in the knowledge that there would now be no necessity to tell my pitiful story and risk the loss of my neighbor's esteem. By and by, I thought, I would plant a rose-tree over his remains, and some day, as Lillian and I, in the noontide of our domestic bliss, stood before it, admiring its creamy luxuriance, I might, perhaps, find courage to confess that the tree owed some of that luxuriance to the long-lost bingo. There was a touch of poetry in this idea that lightened my gloom for the moment. I need scarcely say that I did not go around a shooter-garden that evening. I was not hardened enough for that yet. My manner might betray me, and so I very prudently stayed at home. But that night my sleep was broken by frightful dreams. I was perpetually trying to bury a great gaunt poodle, which would persist in rising up through the damp mold as fast as I covered him up. Lillian and I were engaged, and we were in church together on Sunday, and the poodle, resisting all attempts to eject him, forbade our bands with sepulchral barks. It was our wedding day, and at the critical moment the poodle leaped between us and swallowed the ring. Or we were at the wedding breakfast, and bingo, a grisly black skeleton with flaming eyes, sat on the cake and would not allow Lillian to cut it. Even the rose-tree fancy was reproduced in a distorted form. The tree grew, and every blossom contained a miniature bingo, which barked, and as I woke I was desperately trying to persuade the colonel that they were ordinary dog roses. I went up to the office next day with my gloomy secret gnawing my bosom, and whatever I did the specter of the murdered poodle rose before me. For two days after that I dared not go near the curries until at last one evening after dinner I forced myself to call, feeling that it was really not safe to keep away any longer. My conscience smoked me as I went in. I put on an unconscious, easy manner, which was such a dismal failure that it was lucky for me that they were too much engrossed to notice it. I never before saw a family so stricken down by a domestic misfortune as the group I found in the drying room, making an ejected pretense of reading or working. We talked at first, and hollowed talk it was on indifferent subjects, till I could bear it no longer and plunged boldly into danger. I don't see the dog, I began. I suppose you found him all right the other evening, colonel? I wondered as I spoke whether they would not notice the break in my voice, but they did not. Why, the fact is, said the colonel heavily, gnawing his gray mustache. We've not heard anything of him since. He's run off. Gone, Mr. Weatherhead, gone without a word, said Mrs. Currie, plantively, as if she thought the dog might at least have left an address. I wouldn't have believed it of him, said the colonel. It has completely knocked me over. Haven't been so cut up for years, the ungrateful rascal. Oh, Uncle, pleaded Lillian. Don't talk like that. Perhaps Bingo couldn't help it. Perhaps someone has shot him. Shot, cried the colonel angrily. By heaven, if I thought there was a villain on earth capable of shooting that poor, inoffensive dog, I'd—why should they shoot him, Lillian? Tell me that. I hope you won't let me hear you talk like that again. You don't think he's shot, eh, Weatherhead? I said, heaven, forgive me that I thought it highly improbable. He's not dead, cried Mrs. Currie. If he were dead, I should know it somehow. I'm sure I should. But I'm certain he's alive. Only last night I had such a beautiful dream about him. I thought he came back to us, Mr. Weatherhead, driving up in a handsome cab. And he was just the same as ever. Only he wore blue spectacles, and the shaved part of him was painted a bright red. And I woke up with the joy. So you know, it's sure to come true. It will be easily understood what torture conversations like these were to me, and how I hated myself as I sympathized and spoke encouraging words concerning the dog's recovery when I knew all the time he was lying hid under my garden mold. But I took it as a part of my punishment and bore it all uncomplainingly. Practice even made me an adept in the art of consolation. I believe I really was a great comfort to them. I had hoped that they would soon get over the first bitterness of their loss and that bingo would be first replaced and then forgotten in the usual way. But there seemed no signs of this coming to pass. The poor Colonel was too plainly fretting himself ill about it. He went pottering about forlornly, advertising, searching and seeing people, but all, of course, to no purpose, and it told upon him. He was more like a man whose only son and heir had been stolen than an Anglo-Indian officer who had lost a poodle. I had to affect the liveliest interest in all his inquiries and expeditions and to listen to and echo the most extravagant eulogies of the departed and the wear and tear of so much duplicity made me at last almost as ill as the Colonel himself. I could not help seeing that Lillian was not nearly so much impressed by my elaborate concern as her relatives, and sometimes I detected an incredulous look in her frank brown eyes that made me very uneasy. Little by little a rift widened between us until at last in despair I determined to know the worst before the time came when it would be hopeless to speak at all. I chose a Sunday evening as we were walking across the green from church in the golden dust and then I ventured to speak of her, of my love. She heard me to the end and was evidently very much agitated. At last she murmured that it could not be unless, no, it never could be now. Unless what, I asked. Lillian, Miss Roseblade, something has come between us lately. You will tell me what that something is, won't you? Do you want to know, really? She said, looking up at me through her tears. Then I'll tell you, it's Bingo. I started back overwhelmed. Did she know all? If not, how much did she suspect? I must find out that at once. What about Bingo? I managed to pronounce with a dry tongue. You never loved him when he was here, she sobbed. You know you didn't. I was relieved to find it was no worse than this. No, I said candidly. I did not love Bingo. Bingo didn't love me, Lillian. He was always looking out for a chance of nipping me somewhere. Surely you won't quarrel with me for that. Not for that, she said. Only, why do you pretend to be so fond of him now and so anxious to get him back again? Uncle John believes you, but I don't. I can see quite well that you wouldn't be glad to find him. You could find him easily if you wanted to. What do you mean, Lillian? I said hoarsely. How could I find him? Again, I feared the worst. You're in a government office, cried Lillian. And if you only chose, you could easily get government to find Bingo. What's the use of government if I can't do that? Mr. Travers would have found him long ago if I'd asked him. Lillian had never been so childishly unreasonable as this before, and yet I loved her more madly than ever. But I did not like this allusion to Travers, a rising barrister, who lived with his sister in a pretty cottage near the station and had shown symptoms of being attracted by Lillian. He was away on circuit just then, luckily, but at last even he would have found it a hard task to find Bingo. There was comfort in that. You know that isn't just Lillian, I observe. But only tell me, what do you want me to do? But bring back Bingo, she said. Bring back Bingo, I cried in horror. But suppose I can't. Suppose he's out of the country or dead. What then, Lillian? I can't help it, she said, but I don't believe he is out of the country or dead. And while I see you pretending to uncle that you cared awfully about him and going on doing nothing at all, it makes me think you're not quite, quite sincere. And I couldn't possibly marry anyone while I thought that of him, and I shall always have that feeling unless you find Bingo. It was of no use to argue with her. I knew Lillian by that time. With her pretty caressing manner she united a latent obstinacy which she was hopeless to attempt to shake. I feared too that she was not quite certain as yet whether she cared for me or not, and that this condition of hers was an expedient to gain time. I left her with a heavy heart. Unless I proved my worth by bringing back Bingo within a very short time, Travers would probably have everything his own way, and Bingo was dead. However, I took heart. I thought that perhaps if I could succeed in my earnest efforts in persuading Lillian that I really was doing all in my power to recover the poodle, she might relent in time and dispense with his actual production. So, partly with this object, and partly to appease the remorse which now revived and stung me deeper than before, I undertook long and weary pilgrimages after office hours. I spent many pounds in advertisements. I interviewed dogs of every size, color, and breed, and, of course, I took care to keep Lillian informed of each successive failure. But still her heart was not touched. She was firm. When I went on like that, she told me, I was certain to find Bingo one day. Then, but not before, would her doubts be set at rest. I was walking one day through the somewhat squalid district which lies between Bow Street and High Holborn, when I saw in a small theatrical costume-years window a handbill stating that a black poodle had followed a gentleman on a certain date, and the finder renovated before a stated time would be sold to pay expenses. I went in and got a copy of the bill to show Lillian, and although by that time I scarcely dared to look a poodle in the face, I thought I would go to the address given and see the animal, simply to be able to tell Lillian I had done so. The gentleman whom the dog had very unaccountably followed was a certain Mr. William Blag, who kept a little shop near Endel Street and called himself a bird fancier, though I should scarcely have credited him with the necessary imagination. He was an evil-browed ruffian in a fur cap with a broad broken nose and little shifty red eyes, and after I told him what I wanted, he took me through a horrible little den stacked with piles of wooden wire and wicker prisons, each quivering with restless twittering life, and then out into a backyard in which were two or three rotten old kennels and tubs. That dares him, he said, jerking his thumb to the farthest tub. Followed me all the way home from Kensington Gardens, he did. Come out, will you? And out of the tub there crawled slowly with a snuffling whimper and a rattling of its chain, the identical dog I had slain a few evenings before, at least so I thought for a moment and felt as if I had seen a specter. The resemblance was so exact, in size, in every detail, even to the little clumps of hair about the hind parts, even to the lop of half an ear, this dog might have been the doppleganger of the deceased bingo. I suppose, after all, one black poodle is very like any other black poodle of the same size, but the likeness startled me. I think it was then that the idea occurred to me that here was a miraculous chance of securing the sweetest girl in the whole world and at the same time atoning for my wrong by bringing back gladness with me to shoot her garden. It only needed a little boldness, one last deception, and I could embrace truthfulness once more. Almost unconsciously, when my guide turned round and asked, Is that your dog, yarned? I said hurriedly, yes. Yes, that's the dog I want. That's bingo. He don't seem to be a put-in-office self-out about seeing you again, observed Mr. Blag as the poodle studied me with calm interest. Oh, he's not exactly my dog, you see, I said. He belongs to a friend of mine. He gave me a quick furtive glance. Then maybe you're mistook about him, he said, and I can't run no risks. I was a-going down in the country this year where evening to see a party as Liz and Wisteria willa. He's been a-advertising about a black poodle, he has. But look here, I said, that's me. He gave me a curious leer. No offense, you know, Governor, he said, but I should wish for some evidence as to that, a four-rock part with a valuable dog like this here. Well, I said, here's one of my cards. Will that do for you? He took it and spelt it out with a pretense of great caution. But I saw well enough that the old scoundrel suspected that if I had lost a dog at all, it was not this particular dog. Ah, he said as he put it in his pocket. If I part with him to you, I must be clear of all risks. I can't afford to get into trouble about no mistakes. Unless you likes to leave him for a day or two, you must pay a cordon, you see. I wanted to get the hateful business over as soon as possible. I did not care what I paid, Lillian was worth all the expense. I said I had no doubt myself as to the real ownership of the animal, but I would give him any sum and reason and would remove the dog at once. And so we settled it. I paid him an extortionate sum and came away with a duplicate poodle, a canine counterfeit which I hoped to pass off at Shooter Garden as the long-lost bingo. I know it was wrong. It even came unpleasantly near dog stealing. But I was a desperate man. I saw Lillian gradually slipping away from me. I knew that nothing short of this could ever recall her. I was sorely tempted. I had gone far on the same road already. It was the old story of being hung for a sheep. And so I fell. Surely some who read this will be generous enough to consider the peculiar state of the case and mingle a little pity with their contempt. I was dining in town that evening and took my purchase home by a late train. His demeanor was grave and intensely respectable. He was not the animal to commit himself by any flagrant indiscretion. He was gentle and tractable too and in all respects an agreeable contrast and character to the original. Still it may have been the after-dinner workings of conscience, but I could not help fancying that I saw a certain look in the creature's eyes because we were unaware that he was required to connive at a fraud and rather resented it. If he would only be good enough to bag me up. Fortunately, however, he was such a perfect facsimile of the outward bingo that the risk of detection was really inconsiderable. When I got him home I put bingo's silver collar around his neck congratulating myself on my forethought in preserving it and took him in to see my mother. She accepted him as what he seemed without the slightest misgiving. But this, though it encouraged me to go on, was not decisive. The spurious poodle would have to encounter the scrutiny of those who knew every tuft of the genuine animal's body. Nothing would have induced me to undergo such an ordeal as that of personally restoring him to the curries. We gave him supper and tied him up in the lawn where he howled doltily all night and buried bones. The next morning I wrote a note to Mrs. Curry expressing my pleasure at being able to restore the last one and another to Lillian containing only the words, will you believe now that I am sincere? Then I tied both round the poodle's neck and dropped him over the wall into the Colonel's garden just before I started to catch my train to town. I had an anxious walk home from the station that evening. I went round by the longer way, trembling the whole time lest I should meet any of the Curry household to which I felt myself entirely unequal just then. I could not rest until I knew whether my fraud had succeeded or if the poodle to which I had entrusted my fate had basely betrayed me. But my suspense was happily ended as soon as I entered my mother's room. You can't think how delighted those poor Currys were to see Bingo again, she said at once, and they said such charming things about you, Algi, Lillian particularly, quite affected she seemed, poor child, and they wanted you to go round and dine there and be thanked tonight. But at last I persuaded them to come to us instead, and they're going to bring the dog to make friends. Oh, and I met Frank Travers. He's back from circuit again now, so I asked him in, too, to meet them. I drew a deep breath of relief. I had played a desperate game, but I had won. I could have wished, to be sure, that my mother had not thought of bringing in Travers on that of all evenings, but I hoped that I could defy him after this. The Colonel and his people were the first to arrive, he and his wife being so effusively grateful that they made me very uncomfortable indeed. Lillian met me with downcast eyes and the faintest possible blush, but she said nothing just then. Five minutes afterwards, when she and I were alone together in the conservatory, where I had brought her on pretense of showing a new begonia, she laid her hand on my sleeve and whispered, almost shyly, Mr. Weatherhead, Algonon, can you ever forgive me for being so cruel and unjust to you? And I replied that, upon the whole, I could. We were not in that conservatory long, but before we left it, beautiful Lillian Roseblade had consented to make my life happy. When we re-entered the drawing room, we found Frank Travers, who had been told the story of the recovery, and I observed his jaw fall as he glanced at our faces and noted the triumphant smile, which I have no doubt mine more, and the tender dreamy look in Lillian's soft eyes. Poor Travers. I was sorry for him, although I was not fond of him. Travers was a good type of the rising young common-law barrister, tall, not bad-looking, with keen dark eyes, black whiskers, and the mobile forensic mouth, which can express every shade of feeling from deferential assent to cynical incredulity, possessed, too, of an endless flow of conversation that was decidedly agreeable, if a trifle too laboriously so. He had been a dangerous rival. But all that was over now. He saw it himself at once, and during dinner sank into dismal silence, gazing pathetically at Lillian, and sighing almost obtrusively between the courses. His stream of small talk seemed to have been cut off at the main. You've done a kind thing, Weatherhead, said the Colonel. I can't tell you all that dog is to me and how I miss the poor beast. I've quite given up all hope of ever seeing him again, and all the time there was Weatherhead, Mr. Travers, quietly searching all London till he found him. I shan't forget it. It shows a really kind feeling. I saw by Travers' face that he was telling himself he would have found fifty bingos in half the time if he had only thought of it. He smiled a melancholy assent to all the Colonel said, and then began to study me with an obviously depreciatory air. You can't think, I heard Mrs. Currie telling my mother, how really touching it was to see poor, dear bingo's emotion at seeing all the old familiar objects again. He went up and sniffed at them all in turn, quite plainly recognizing everything, and he was quite put out to find that we had moved his favorite ottoman out of the drawing room. But he is so penitent, too, and so ashamed of having run away. He hardly dares to come when John calls him, and he kept under a chair in the hall all the morning. He wouldn't come in here, either, so he had to leave him in your garden. He's been sadly out of spirits all day, said Lillian. He hasn't bitten one of the trade's people. Oh, he's all right, the rascal, said the Colonel cheerily. He'll be after the cats again as well as ever in a day or two. Ah, those cats, said my poor innocent mother. Algae, you haven't tried the air-gun on them again lately, have you? They're worse than ever. I troubled the Colonel to pass the clarré. Travers laughed for the first time. That's a good idea, he said in that carrying bar-mess voice of his, an air-gun for cats. Make good bags, eh, weatherhead? I said that I did, very good bags, and felt I was getting painfully red in the face. Oh, Algae is an excellent shot. Quite a sportsman, said my mother. I remember, oh, long ago, when we lived at Hammersmith. He had a pistol, and he used to strew crumbs in the garden for the sparrows and shoot at them out of the pantry window. He frequently hit one. Well, said the Colonel, not much impressed by these sporting reminiscences. Don't go rolling over our bingo by mistake, you know, weatherhead, my boy. Not but what you have assorted right after this. Only don't. I wouldn't go through it twice for anything. If you really won't take any more wine, I said hurriedly, addressing the Colonel and Travers. Suppose we all go out and have our coffee on the lawn? It'll be cooler there. For it was getting very hot indoors, I thought. I left Travers to amuse the ladies. He could do no more harm now. And taking the Colonel aside, I seized the opportunity, as we strolled up and down the garden path, to ask his consent to Lillian's engagement to me. He gave it cordially. There's not a man in England, he said, that I'd sooner see her married to after today. You're a quiet, steady young fellow, and you have a good kind heart. As for the money, that's neither here nor there. Lillian won't come to you without a penny, you know. But really, my boy, you can hardly believe what it is to my poor wife and me to see that dog. Why, bless my soul, look at him now. What's the matter with him, eh? To my unutterable horror, I saw that this miserable poodle, after begging unnoticed at the tea table for some time, had retired to an open space before it, where he was now industriously standing on his head. We gathered round and examined the animal curiously, as he continued to balance himself gravely in this abnormal position. Good gracious, John, cried Mrs. Currie. I never saw Bingo do such a thing before in his life. Very odd, said the Colonel, putting up his glasses. Never learned that from me. I'd tell you what I fancy it is, I suggested wildly. You see, he was always a sensitive, excitable animal, and perhaps the sudden joy of his return has gone to his head. Upset him, you know. They seemed disposed to accept the solution, and indeed I believe they would have credited Bingo with every conceivable degree of sensibility. But I felt myself that if this unhappy animal had many more of these accomplishments, I was undone. Before the original Bingo had never been a dog of parts. It's very odd, said Travers, reflectively, as the dog recovered his proper level. But I always thought that it was half the right ear that Bingo had lost. So it is, isn't it? said the Colonel. Left, eh? Well, I thought myself it was the right. My heart almost stopped with terror. I had altogether forgotten that. I hastened to set the point at rest. Oh, it was the left, I said positively. I know it because I remember so particularly thinking how odd it was that it should be the left ear and not the right. I told myself this should be positively my last lie. Why odd, asked Travers, with his most offensive, socratic manner. My dear fellow, I can't tell you, I said impatiently. Everything seems odd when you come to think it all about it. Algernon, said Lillian later on, will you tell Aunt Mary and Mr. Travers and me how it was you came to find Bingo? Mr. Travers is quite anxious to hear all about it. I could not very well refuse. I sat down and told the story all my own way. I painted black, perhaps rather bigger and blacker than life, and described an exciting scene in which I recognized Bingo by his collar in the streets, and claimed and bore him off then and there in spite of all opposition. I had the inexpressible pleasure of seeing Travers grinding his teeth with envy as I went on, and feeling Lillian's soft, slender hand slide gently into mine as I told my tale in the twilight. All at once, just as I reached the climax, we heard the poodle barking furiously at the hedge which separated my garden from the road. There's a foreign-looking man staring over the hedge, said Lillian. Bingo always did hate foreigners. There certainly was a swarthy man there, and though I had no reason for it then, somehow my heart died within me at the sight of him. Don't be alarmed, sir, cried the Colonel. The dog won't bite you unless there's a hole in the hedge anywhere. The stranger took off his small straw hat with a sweep. Ah, I am not afraid, he said, and his accent proclaimed him a Frenchman. He is not enraged at me. May I ask, is it permit to speak with Mr. Vesaret? I felt I must deal with this person alone, for I feared the worse, and asking them to excuse me, I went to the hedge and faced the Frenchman with a frightful calm of despair. He was a short, stout little man with blue cheeks, sparkling black eyes, and a vivacious walnut-colored countenance. He wore a short, black alpaca coat and a large white cravat with an immense oval malachite brooch in the center of it, which I mentioned because I found myself staring mechanically at it during the interview. My name is Weatherhead. I began with the bearing of a detected pickpocket. Can I be of any service to you? Of a great service, he said emphatically, you can restore to me the puddle which I see there. Nemesis had called it last in the shape of a rival claimant. I staggered for an instant. Then I said, oh, I think you were under a mistake. That dog is not mine. I know it, he said. There has been lethal mistake. So if the dog is not to you, you can give him back to me, ain't? I tell you, I said, that puddle belongs to the gentleman over there. And I pointed to the colonel, seeing that it was best now to bring him into the affair without delay. You are wrong, he said doggedly. The puddle is my puddle. And I was direct to you. It is your name on Zekart. And he presented me with that fatal card which I had been foolish enough to give to Blag as a proof of my identity. I saw it all now. The old villain had betrayed me and to earn a double reward had put the real owner on my track. I decided to call the colonel at once and attempt to brazen it out with the help of his sincere belief in the dog. Hey, what's that? What's it all about? said the colonel, bustling up, followed at intervals by the others. The Frenchman raised his hat again. I do not want to make trouble, he began. But there is little mistake. My word of honor, sir, I see my own puddle in your garden. When I appealed to this gentleman to restore it, he referred me to you. You must allow me to know my own dog, sir, said the colonel. Why, I've had him from a pup. Bingo, old boy, you know your master, don't you? But the brute ignored him altogether and began to leap wildly at the hedge in frantic efforts to join the Frenchman. It needed no Solomon to decide his ownership. I tell you, you have got the wrong puddle. It is my own dog, my arzore. He remembered me well, you see. I lose him in his three, four days. I see and notice that he is found, and yet I go to the address. They tell me, oh, he is reclaimed. He has gone visit a stranger who has advertised. They show me he placard. I follow here, and yet I arrive, I see my puddle in his garden before me. But look here, said the colonel impatiently. It's all very well to say that, but how can you prove it? I give you my word that the dog belongs to me. You must prove your claim, eh, Travers? Yes, said Travers judicially, mere assertion is no proof. It's oath against oath at present. Aton, in instant. Your puddle, was he highly trained? Had he some talents? A dog of his tricks, eh? No, he's not, said the colonel. I don't like to see dogs taught to play the fool. There's none of that nonsense about him, sir. Ah, remarkin' well, then. Azor, mon choux, danse d'Aulandpeur. And on the foreigners whistling a lively air, that infernal puddle rose on his hind legs, and danced solemnly about, halfway round the garden. We inside followed his movements with dismay. Why, dash it all, cried the disgusted colonel. He's dancing along like a damn moan bank. But it's my bingo for all that. You are not convinced? You shall see more. Azor, ici. For Bismarck, Azor. The puddle barked ferociously. For Gambetta, he wagged his tail and began to leap with joy. Mure pour la patrie. And the two accomplished animal rolled over as if killed in battle. Where would bingo have picked up so much French? cried Lillian incredulously. Or so much French history, added that serpent travers. Shall I command them to jump or reverse himself? inquired the obliging Frenchman. We've seen that. Thank you, said the colonel gloomily. Upon my word, I don't know what to think. It can't be that that's not my bingo after all. I'll never believe it. I tried a last desperate stroke. Will you come round to the front? I said to the Frenchman. I'll let you in, and we can discuss the matter quietly. Then, as we walk back together, I asked him eagerly what he would take to abandon his claims and let the colonel think the puddle was his after all. He was furious. He considered himself insulted. With great emotion he informed me that the dog was the pride of his life. It seems to be the mission of black puddles to serve as domestic comforts of this priceless kind. That he would not part with him for twice his weight in gold. Figured, he began, as we joined the others, says this gentleman here has offered me money for his dog. He agrees that it is to me, you see. Vervelezin, there is no more to be said. Why, weatherhead, have you lost faith, too, then? said the colonel. I saw that it was no good. All I wanted now was to get out of it credibly and get rid of the Frenchman. I'm sorry to say, I replied, that I'm afraid I've been deceived by the extraordinary likeness. I don't think, on reflection, that that is bingo. What do you think, travers? asked the colonel. Well, since you asked me, said travers, with quite unnecessary dryness, I never did think so. Nor I, said the colonel. I thought from the first that that was never my bingo, why, bingo would make two of that beast. And Lillian and Herant both protested that they had had their doubts from the first. Zenyuprimit, did I remove him? said the Frenchman. Certainly, said the colonel. And after some apologies on our part for the mistake, he went off in triumph with a detestable poodle frisking after him. When he had gone, the colonel laid his hand kindly on my shoulder. Don't look so cut up about it, my boy, he said, you did your best. There was a sort of likeness to anyone who didn't know bingo as we did. Just then the Frenchman again appeared at the hedge. A thousand pardons, he said, but I find this upon my dog. It is not to me. Suffer me to restore of his many compliments. It was bingo's collar. Travers took it from his hand and brought it to us. This was on the dog when you stopped that fellow, didn't you say? he asked me. One more lie, and I was so weary of falsehood. Yes, I said reluctantly. That was so. Very extraordinary, said Travers. That's the wrong poodle beyond a doubt. But when he's found, he's wearing the right dog's collar. Now, how do you account for that? My good fellow, I said impatiently, I'm not in the witness box. I can't account for it. It's a mere coincidence. But look here, my dear weatherhead, argued Travers. Whether in good faith or not, I never could quite make out. Don't you see what a tremendously important link it is? Here's a dog who, as I understand the facts, had a silver collar with his name engraved on it around his neck at the time he was lost. Here's that identical collar turning up soon afterwards around the neck of a totally different dog. We must follow this up. We must get at the bottom of it somehow. With a clue like this, we're sure to find out either the dog himself or what's become of him. Just try to recollect exactly what happened. There's a good fellow. This is just the sort of thing I like. It was the sort of thing I did not enjoy at all. You must excuse me tonight, Travers, I said uncomfortably. You see, just now it's rather a sore subject for me, and I'm not feeling very well. I was grateful just then for a reassuring glance of pity and confidence from lily and sweet eyes which revived my drooping spirits for the moment. Yes, we'll go into it tomorrow, Travers, said the colonel. And then, hello, why, there's that confounded Frenchman again. It was indeed. He came prancing back delicately with a malicious enjoyment on his wrinkled face. Once more, I returned to apologize, he said. My poodle has permitted himself as a grave indiscretion to make a very big oil at the bottom of his garden. I assured him that it was of no consequence. Perhaps, he replied, looking steadily at me through his keen, half-shot eyes, you will not say that when you regard the whole. And you others, I speak to you. Sometimes von Luce says something which is quite near all the time. It is very droll, no? My word! Ha, ha, ha! And he ambled off with an aggressively fiendish laugh that chilled my blood. What the deuce did he mean by that, eh? said the colonel blankly. Don't know, said Travers. Suppose we go on and inspect the whole. But before that, I had contrived to draw near it myself in deadly fear, lest the Frenchman's last words had contained some innuendo which I had not understood. It was light enough still for me to see something at the unexpected horror of which I very nearly fainted. That thriced accursed poodle which I had been insane enough to attempt to foist upon the colonel must, it seems, have buried his supper the night before very near the spot in which I had laid bingo, and in his attempts to exhume his bone had brought the remains of my victim to the surface. There the corpse lay on the very top of the excavations. Time had not, of course, improved its appearance, which was ghastly in the extreme, but still plainly recognizable by the eye of affection. It's a very ordinary hole, I gasped, putting myself before it and trying to turn them back. Nothing in it, nothing at all. Except one Algonon weatherhead Esquire, eh? whispered Travers jacosely in my ear. No, but persisted the colonel advancing. Look here, has the dog damaged any of your shrubs? No, no, I cried piteously. Quite the reverse. Let's all go indoors now, it's getting so cold. See, there's a shrub or something uprooted, said the colonel, still coming nearer that fatal hole. Why, hello, look there, what's that? Lillian, who was by his side, gave a slight scream. Uncle, she cried, it looks like, like bingo! The colonel turned suddenly upon me. Do you hear, he demanded in a choke voice, you hear what she says, can't you speak out? Is that our bingo? I gave it up at last. I only longed to be allowed to crawl away under something. Yes, I said in a dull whisper as I sat down heavily on the garden seat. Yes, that's bingo. Misfortune, shoot him, quite an accident. There was a terrible explosion after that. They saw at last how I had deceived them and put the very worst construction upon everything. Even now I writhe impotently at times and my cheeks smart and tingle with humiliation as I recall that scene. The colonel's very plain speaking, Lillian's passionate reproaches and contempt and her aunt's speechless prostration of disappointment. I made no attempt to defend myself. I was not perhaps the complete villain they deemed me, but I felt dully that no doubt it all served me perfectly right. Still, I do not think I am under any obligation to put their remarks down in black and white here. Travers had vanished at the first opportunity, whether out of delicacy or the fear of breaking out into an unseasonable mirth, I cannot say. And shortly afterwards the others came to where I sat silent with bowed head and bade me a stern and final farewell. And then, as the last gleam of Lillian's white dress vanished down the garden path, I laid my head down on the table amongst the coffee cups and cried like a beaten child. I got leave as soon as I could and went abroad. The morning after my return I noticed, while shaving, that there was a small square marble tablet placed against the wall of the colonel's garden. I got my opera glass and read, and pleasant reading it was, the following inscription. In affectionate memory of bingo, secretly and cruelly put to death in cold blood by a neighbor and friend, June, 1881. If this explanation of mine ever reaches my neighbor's eyes, I humbly hope that they will have the humanity either to take away or tone down that tablet. They cannot conceive what I suffer when curious visitors insist, as they do every day, in spelling out the words from our windows and asking me countless questions about them. Sometimes I meet the curries about the village, and as they pass me with averted heads, I feel myself growing crimson. Traverse is almost always with Lillian now. He has given her a dog, a fox terrier, and they take ostentatiously elaborate precautions to keep it out of my garden. I should like to assure them here that they need not be under any alarm. I have shot one dog. End of The Black Poodle. Recording by Roger Maline. The native pilot who is to take the gunboat Utica around from Ilo Ilo to Capiz is a traitor. I have just discovered indisputable proof of that fact. He has agreed to run the gunboat aground on a ledge near one of the Gigantes Islands, on which a force of insurgence is to be hidden, large enough to overpower the men on the gunboat in her disabled condition. Do not let her leave Ilo Ilo until you have a new pilot and one you are sure of. Dimoni. Captain James Dimoni of the American Army in the Philippine Islands folded the dispatch which he had just written and sealed it. Then, calling in orderly to him, he said, Send Sergeant Johnson to me. Captain Dimoni's company was then at Pesai, a small inland town in the island of Panay. He had been dispatched by the American general commanding at Ilo Ilo, the chief seaport of Panay, to march to Capiz, a seaport town on the opposite side of the island, to assist from the land side a small force of Americans besieged there by the natives. While the gunboat Utica was to steam around the north-eastern promontory of the island and cooperate from the water side of the town in its relief. The distance across the island was about 50 miles, while that by water, by the route which the Utica must traverse, was about 200 miles. Captain Dimoni, starting first, had covered half the march laid out for him, without incident until, halting at Pesai, halfway across the island and well up in the mountains, he had been so fortunate as to obtain the information which he was about to send back to the commander at Ilo Ilo. Panay had been up to this time one of the most quiet islands in the group. He had met with no opposition in his march so far, and it was believed that the only natives on the island who were under arms were those living in the north-eastern part of the territory. It was a force of these that had invested to peace. Sergeant Johnson, sir, the orderly reported, very well sent him in. A young man wearing a faded brown duck uniform, tightly buttoned leggings, and a wide-rammed gray hat entered the tent. I have sent for you, Sergeant, said Captain Dimoni, for two reasons. One is that I want a man who is brave, and one whom I can trust. The sergeant then has had slightly an acknowledgment of the implied compliment. His cheeks looking a trifle darker shade of brown, where the blood had flushed the skin beneath its double-deep coat of tan. The other reason, the officer went on, is that I want a man of whose muscle and endurance as a runner, and whose scale as a boatman, I have had some proof. In spite of the difference in rank and the seriousness of the situation which the officer knew and the man guessed, the two men looked at each other and smiled. For one was a Harvard man, and the other had come from Yale. The gunboat Utica is to leave Ilo Ilo at midnight tonight. It is of the very greatest importance that this dispatch, handing in the letter, be delivered to the American general at Ilo Ilo before the vessel gets under way. I entrust it to you to see that it is delivered. You ought to have no trouble in getting there in ample season, the captain continued, spreading out a map so that the other man could see it. I cannot spare any men for an escort for you, because my force is already far too small for what we have to do. Instead of following back the road we took in coming here, which would be impassable for anyone but a man on foot. Even if I had a horse for you, which I have not, I think you can make better time by another route. Six miles from here, pointing to the map, you will reach the same river which we crossed at a point farther up the stream. Get a boat there and go down the river some 15 or 20 miles, until you come to a native village built ahead of steep falls in the stream. I am told that until you reach there, the river is navigable, and that the current is so swift much of the way that you can make rapid progress. At that village you will have to leave your boat, but from that place you will find the clearly marked path to Ilo Ilo. The quicker you start the better, and as I have told you, I entrust it to you to see that the general will have to catch before the Utica leaves port. It was ten o'clock in the forenoon when the sergeant had been sent for to come to headquarters. Half an hour later he had started, the letter tightly wrapped in a bitter rubber blanket before he had placed it inside his jacket. For he had already had enough experience with the native boats to know how unstable they would be in the current of a rapid river. The five miles from Pessae to the river were easily made, in spite of the fact that it was midday, for there was a good path which, for nearly all the distance was shaded by lofty trees. When he reached the river the sergeant bought from a man whom he found there a native banca for three dollars, a sum of money which would have made a native rich. In this boat he started on his voyage down the river. A native banca is a dugout, a canoe hollered out from the trunk of a tree. It is propelled and guided by a short, broad-bladed paddle, and is as unstable as the lightest racing shell, although not anywhere nearly so easy to send through the water. It was unfortunate for the sergeant that he did not know what he could not, since the map did not show it, that the place where the path touched the river first was on the upper side of a huge oxfo bend. If he had kept on by land a third of a mile's walk farther through the swamp would have brought him to the river again at a point to reach which by water, following the river's windings, he would have to paddle three or four miles. Another thing which was unfortunate, that he could not know the nature of the man from whom he bought the banca, any better than he could know the nature of the river, did not suspect that he was dealing with a tulisani, to whom the little bag of money which the officer had shown when he had paid for the boat had looked like boundless wealth to see which was to plan to possess. A tulisani is to the Philippine islands what a brigand is to Italy, a bandit to Spain, a highwayman to England, and a train robber to America. A man who lives by his wits and stops at no means to gain his object. The banca, by the way, was stolen property. He had the American soldier when he stooped to step cautiously into the slippery boat and taken the purse from his dead body had he not been far-sighted enough to see that the purse might be had and much more money beside. The tulisani knew that the American soldiers were at Passai. Although he did not find it best to come to town himself in general, he never had any trouble finding men to go there for him and bring him news or carry messages. No bandit leader who promptly carves an ear off the man who does allegedly is half so feared as a Filipino tulisani, whom his fellows know to be the possessor of a powerful anting-anting. And this man's anting-anting was famous for the wonders which it had done. The tulisani knew that the American soldiers were at Passai and that the man who led them lived in one of the white tents they had set up there. This man in the brown clothes, which looked so tight that it made the Filipino tire just to look at them, could be no common soldier, else he would not be paying three big silver dollars for a banca. Anything was to happen to this man, that is, if he was to disappear and still not be dead and the officer in the white tent should know of it. The leader of the white soldiers would no doubt pay much money to have this man brought safely back. Consequently, the man in the brown clothes with the fat money purse should be made to disappear. That was the way the tulisani reasoned. It was the three dollars, the rest of the money in the purse, and the ransom which the leader of the white men would pay, which influenced the Filipino. The Asiatic high women cared a leaf of a forest tree for patriotism. So long as he got the money, white men and brown men were all alike to him, American soldiers and Filipino insurgents. So the native, going into the forest a little way back from the river, looked until he found a tree, the roots of which growing out from well up the trunk had made a sort of great wooden drum. Taking a stout stick of hardwood which had been leaned against a tree, he had been there before. He struck the hollow tree three heavy blows, the sound of which went echoing off through the forest. Then the man listened. Not long, for from far, very far away there came an answer, one below. And then after a moment's pause, two more. The drum beach which followed and the pauses for the faint replies were like listening to a giant's telegraph. The soldier, peddling steadily out around the river's winding course, heard the noise and wonder curiously what it was. The natives who heard it said, the trees meaning that someone was making them talk. To the tulisane, the sounds meant that he was bringing his partner to help him. Just as at night the far off long-drawn cry of a panther calls the creature's mate to share the prey. Sergeant Johnson, still paddling, after he would have said that with the help of the current he had put four good miles of the river behind him, saw a tiny ripple in the water ahead of the boat, but in a stream so rapid thought nothing of it. An instant later, a coconut fiber rope stretched across the river and just below the surface of the water had turned his skittish boat bottom upward. The tulisane you see, had seen the sergeant's revolver and thought wisest to attack him wet. Drenched, blowing for breath before he knew what happened the soldier found himself dragged to the bank, disarmed, robbed, his hands bound behind him and his feet hobbled. He could speak Spanish and soak into tulisanes. Words told him that his captors, only two in number, meant him to march as bold as he was along a path which they pointed out. But it took several sharp pricks from a campelin which one of them carried to make him start. For the path led away from the river, away from Psi, from Ilo Ilo, and the Utica, which he would have given his life itself rather than fail to reach in time. Only a little way back from the river the path began to lead the lowland, mounting up to the hills among which the tulisanes had their camp. Sometimes one of the brigands led the way, with the prisoner between them, and sometimes both drove him before them, securing the knowledge that in his helpless condition he could not escape. The captain's message, in its rubber case, still lay undisturbed and dry within the messenger's jacket. For that he was glad, although his heart sank as every step carried him farther away from the destination of the dispatch, and from the chance of it being delivered in season. The means which Providence uses to accomplish the ends which it desires are marvelous, and those of us who do not believe in Providence say, a strange coincidence. The day before, back among the mountains of Panay, a little old Montees woman who had never heard of God or of America, and whose only dress had been 30 yards of fine bamboo plating coiled round and round her body had died. When the dead body had been set properly upright beneath the tiny hut, which had been the woman's home, and food and drink placed beside it for the long journey which the spirit was to take. The hut was abandoned, as is the custom of the tribe, and the men of the family, the woman's sons and nephews started out with freshly sharpened lances and machetes. For this is the only religion of the Montees, that no one must be left to go alone upon the long journey, and so when one of a family dies, the men relatives do not stay their hands until someone, the first person met, is slain by them to go on the journey as an escort. Only if they seek three days through the wood and find no human being, then, after the third day, a beast may be slain, and the law of blood still be satisfied. The sons and nephews of the Montees woman had marched for thirty-six hours, and the steel of their weapons had not been dim by any moisture other than the dew, when, suddenly rounding a turn on the mountain path, they met three men. The first of the three at the moment was a Tulasani leader, and him in thirty seconds they had driven six lances through. His partner, with a scream of terror, dashed into the trackless forest and disappeared. He need not. The demand for a sacrifice was appeased, and the men who had killed the Tulasani cared as little for his companion as they did for the white man who had been his prisoner. All they wanted now was to get back to the Montees country and to the new huts which their woman would have been building in their absence. The white man's words they could not understand, but his gestures were intelligible, and before they parted, he to hurry back towards the river, and they towards the Montees country, they had cut the cords which bound the soldiers' hands and hobbled his feet, and thus had left him free to make such haste as he could. He soon was well nigh gone when the messenger reached the river at the place where he had been dragged from it, and practically all his journey was yet before him, wearied as he was. For once though Fortune favored him. His dugout had grounded on a sandy island hardly a dozen rods below where it had been overturned, and swimming out to it, he soon had righted it and was on his way again. At first the forest on each side was a tropic swamp. Then the river grew more swift, with here and there rapids in which it took all his skill and skillfully paddled to keep his boat from being upset. The ground had begun to grow higher here, and back from the banks there were rank-gross of hemp and palm trees. A few miles farther and he was in the mountains, the river winding about like a lane of water between walls which were almost perpendicular, and covered with a densest bright green foliage, in which parrots croaked hoarsely, and monkeys chattered sleepily as they settled themselves for the night. The walls of the living canyon grew narrower The river here was as still as a lake, and the current so sluggish that only his labor with the paddle sent the bonka forward. It grew dark quickly and fast, down in the bottom of this mountain gorge, and by and by by the twilight glow on the tops of the banks when he would peer up at them, grew fainter. The soldier strained his eyes to look ahead. Would the living green canyons of that river never end? It was dark now, except that the stars in the narrow line of sky above the gorge sent down to make the surface of the water gleam faintly and mark out his course. He drew his paddle from the water, and holding it so that the drops which trickled from it would make no noise, listened breathlessly for the sound of the falls which marked the sight of the village he was to find, and added leaf his boat for the land again. A night bird screamed in the forest, and then there was utter silence until a soft splash in the water beside him revealed the ugly head of a huge black crocodile following the dugout. The stars in the lane of sky above grew dim, and a stronger light which faintly illuminated the river gorge told him that the full moon had risen, although not yet high enough to light his course directly. After a time the gorge grew wider, and its sides less steep and high. And then at last he heard the roar of the falls and found the village, and had landed. What time it might be now the sergeant did not dare to guess. A sleepy native pointed out to him the path, stared when he must hurry on to Elo-Elo that night, and flatly refusing to be his guide went back to bed. The forest path was rankly wet with night dew, and dimly lighted by the moon. The soldier hurried forward, only to find that in his haste he had missed the main path. Slowly and anxiously he retraced his way until he found the right road again, and then went forward slowly enough now to go with care. And so at last he saw before him the city of Elo-Elo, only to learn, when he was challenged by a picket, that it was one o'clock, and that the Utica had steamed out of the harbor an hour before. Useless as he feared the dispatch might be now, sergeant Johnson insisted that it be delivered at once, and that he be given an opportunity to ask to be allowed to tell the general why he was so late. When that officer, roused from sleep, had read the dispatch and heard the story briefly, for there were other things to be thought of then. He told the young man, you have done well, for he is. And after all perhaps you may not be too late. But before he explained what he meant by the last part of his sentence, the general called for one of his aides, and as soon as a man could be brought, hastily gave him certain orders with instructions that they were to be communicated to the officers whom they concerned as quickly as was possible, regardless of how sound asleep those gentlemen might be. Then, because he was at heart a kindly man, and because he felt that the water soaked, thorn-torn for him, pale with weariness and anxiety, had done his best, the general told him what was the nature of the dispatch, and why even then he might yet be in time. For by another of the fortunate dispensations of Providence, or if you please, by a strange coincidence, that very afternoon another American gunboat had unexpectedly steamed into the harbor of Elo-Elo, and dropped anchor. The general had sent messages to the commander of the Ogdensburg, explaining the situation to him, and as soon as that officer understood the matter he replied, you did just right. We will start in pursuit of the Utica as soon as we can get up steam and do our best to overtake her. Could they overtake her? That was the question. She had a good three hour start, for daylight was breaking before the Ogdensburg could be got under way, and the registered speed of the boats was about equal. At any rate, there was doubt enough as to what the result would be, so that when the Ogdensburg reached the town of Conception 50 miles up the coast from Elo-Elo, and the Utica was seen to be lying at anchor in the harbor there, the commander of the Ogdensburg said words which were as thankful as they were emphatic. For just beyond Conception harbor began the narrow channels of the Gigantes islands, in some of which he had feared to find the gunboat wrecked. When the captain of the Utica came to know why he was pursued, and what he had escaped, he was as grateful for the faulty cylinder head which had delayed him, as the night before he had been exasperated The pilot, charged with his treachery, proved at once that the charge was true by turning Trader again, and offering to buy the safety of his own neck by guiding the boats, to where they could shell the woods in which the natives were hidden. End of A Question of Time The Lottery Ticket by Anton Chekhov 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 Andrew Macbeth The Lottery Ticket by Anton Chekhov Ivan Dmitrić, a middle class man who lived with his family on an income of 1200 a year and was very well satisfied with his lot, sat down on the sofa after supper, and began reading the newspaper. I forgot to look at the newspaper today, his wife said to him as she entered the table. Look and see whether the list of drawings is there. Yes it is, said Ivan Dmitrić, but hasn't your ticket lapsed? No, I took the interest on Tuesday. What is the number? Series 9 499 Number 26 All right, we will look. 9, 499 and 26. Ivan Dmitrić had no faith in lottery luck, and would not as a rule have consented to look at the lists of winning numbers, but now as he had nothing else to do and as the newspaper was before his eyes he passed his finger downwards along the column of numbers. And immediately, as though in mockery of his skepticism no further than the second line from the top, his eye was caught by the figure 9, 4, 9, 9. Unable to believe his eyes he hurriedly dropped the paper on his knees without looking to see the number of the ticket and just as though someone had given him a douche of cold water he felt an agreeable chill in the pit of his stomach. Tingling and terrible and sweet. Mascha 9, 499 is there, he said in a hollow voice. His wife looked at his astonished and panic-stricken face and realised that he was not joking. 9, 499, she asked returning pale and dropping the folded tablecloth on the table. Yes, yes, it really is there. And the number of the ticket? Oh yes, there's the number of the ticket too. But stay, wait! No, I say. Anyway, the number of our series is there. Anyway, you understand? Looking at his wife, Ivan Dimitrych gave a broad, senseless smile like a baby when a bright object has shown it. His wife smiled too. It was as pleasant to her as to him that he only mentioned the series and did not try to find out the number of the winning ticket. To torment and tantalise oneself with hopes of possible fortune is so sweet, so thrilling. It is our series, said Ivan Dimitrych after a long silence. So there is a probability that we have won. It's only a probability, but there it is. Well, now look. Wait a little. We have plenty of time to be disappointed. It's on the second line from the top. So the prize is 75,000. That's not money, but power. Capital. And in a minute I shall look at the list and there, 26, eh? I say, what if we really have won? The husband and wife began laughing and staring at one another in silence. The possibility of winning bewildered them. They could not have said, could not have dreamed what they both needed that 75,000 for, what they would buy, where they would go. They thought only of the figures 9, 4, 9, 9, and 75,000 and pictured them in their imagination while somehow they could not think of the happiness itself which was so possible. Ivan Dimitrych holding the paper in his hand walked several times from corner to corner and only when he had recovered from the first impression began dreaming a little. And if we have won, he said, why? It will be a new life. It will be a transformation. The ticket is yours. But if it were mine, I should, first of all, of course, spend 25,000 on real property in the shape of an estate. 10,000 on immediate expenses, new furnishing, travelling, paying debts and so on. The other 40,000 I would put in the bank and get interest on it. Yes, an estate, that would be nice, said his wife, sitting down and dropping her hands in her lap. Somewhere in the Tula or Oriole provinces, in the first place we shouldn't need a summer villa and besides it would always bring in an income and pictures came crowding on his imagination, each more gracious and poetical than the last. And in all these pictures he saw himself well-fed, serene, healthy, felt warm, even hot. Here, after eating a summer soup, cold as ice, he lay on his back on the burning sand close to a stream or in the garden under a lime tree. It is hot. His little boy and girl are crawling about near him, digging in the sand or catching ladybirds in the grass. He does his sweetly, thinking of nothing and feeling all over that he need not go to the office today, tomorrow or the day after. Or, tired of lying still, he goes to the hayfield or to the forest for mushrooms or watches the peasants catching fish with a net. When the sun sets he takes a towel and soap and saunters to the bathing shed where he undresses at his leisure, slowly rubs his bare chest with his hands, and goes into the water. And in the water, near the opaque, soapy circles, little fish flit to and fro and green water-weeds nod their heads. After bathing there is tea with cream and milk rolls. In the evening a walk or vint with the neighbours. Yes, it would be nice to buy an evening's wife also dreaming. And from her face it was evident that she was enchanted by her thoughts. Ivan Dimitrić pictured to himself autumn with its rains, its cold evenings, and its St. Martin's summer. At that season he would have to take longer walks about the garden and beside the river, so as to get thoroughly chilled and then drink a big glass of vodka and eat a salted mushroom or a slumber, and then drink another. The children would come running from the kitchen garden, bringing a carrot and a radish smelling of fresh earth, and then he would lie stretched full length on the sofa, and in leisurely fashion turn over the pages of some illustrated magazine or covering his face with it and unbuttoning his waistcoat give himself up to slumber. The St. Martin's summer is followed by cloudy, gloomy summer. It rains day and night. The bare trees weep. The wind is damp and cold. The dogs, the horses, the fowls, all are wet, depressed, downcast. There is nowhere to walk. One can't go out for days together. One has to pace up and down the room looking despondently at the grey window. It is dreary. Ivan Dimitrić stopped and looked at his wife. I should go abroad, you know, Masha, he said. And he began thinking how nice it would be in late autumn to go abroad somewhere to the south of France, to Italy, to India. I should certainly go abroad, too, his wife said. But look at the number of the ticket. Wait! Wait! He walked about the room and went on thinking. It occurred to him what if his wife really did go abroad. It is pleasant to travel alone or in the society of light, careless women who live in the present and not such as think and talk all the journey about nothing but their children, sigh and tremble with dismay over every fathering. Ivan Dimitrić imagined his wife in the train with a multitude of parcels, baskets and bags. She would be sighing over something, complaining that the train made her headache that she had spent so much money. At the stations, she would continually be having to run for boiling water, bread and butter. She wouldn't have dinner because of its being too dear. She would begrudge me every farthing he thought with a glance at his wife. The lottery ticket is hers, not mine. Besides, what is the use of her going abroad? What does she want there? She would shut herself up in the hotel and not let me out of her sight. I know. And for the first time in his life his mind dwelt on the fact that she had grown elderly and plain and that she was saturated through and through with the smell of cooking while he was still young, fresh and healthy and might well have got married again. Of course, all that is silly nonsense, he thought. But why should she go abroad? What would she make of it? And yet she would go, of course. I can fancy. In reality, it is all one to her, whether it is Naples or Klin. She would only be in my way. I should be dependent upon her. I can fancy how, like a regular woman, she will lock the money up as soon as she gets it. She will hide it from me. She will look after her relations and grudge me every farthing. Ivan Dimitrych thought of her relations. All those wretched brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles would come crawling about as soon as they heard of the winning ticket would begin whining like beggars and forning upon them with oily, hypocritical smiles, wretched, detestable people. If they were given anything they would ask for more, while if they were refused they would swear at them, slander them and wish them every kind of misfortune. Ivan Dimitrych remembered his own relations and their faces at which he had looked impartially in the past, struck him now as repulsive and hateful. They are such reptiles, he thought, and his wife's face, too, struck him as repulsive and hateful. Anger surged up in his heart against her and he thought malignantly. She knows nothing about money and so she is stingy. If she won it she would give me a hundred rubles and put the rest away under lock and key. And he looked at his wife not with a smile now, but with hatred. She glanced at him, too, and also with hatred and anger. She had her own daydreams, her own plans, her own reflections. She understood perfectly well what her husband's dreams were. She knew who would be the first to try and grab her winnings. It's very nice making daydreams at other people's expense is what her eyes expressed. Her husband understood her look. Hatred began stirring again in his breast, and in order to annoy his wife he glanced quickly to spite her at the fourth page on the newspaper and read out triumphantly. Series 9499 Number 46 Not 26 Hatred and Hope both disappeared at once and it began immediately to conceive to Yvonne Dimitric and his wife that their rooms were dark and small and low-pitched that the supper they had been eating was not doing them good but lying heavy on their stomachs that the evenings were long and wearisome. What the devil's the meaning of it said Yvonne Dimitric beginning to be ill-humoured. Wherever one steps there are bits of paper under one's feet and never swept one is simply forced to go out damn nation take my soul entirely I shall go and hang myself on the first aspen tree end of story recording by