 CHINEMAN REJOICING IN THE NAME OF Tin Ling, but all men called him Tarantula. He dwelt in the heart of a little colony of Cooley's about five miles from Port of Spain, Trinidad. The community worked upon adjacent sugar estates, and the village itself, with its quaint wooden huts, coconut palms, and plantain trees, stood amidst miniature savannas dotted with cattle. Further afield extended green and tawny jungles of sugar cane sloping to the inland mountains, and from point to point iron roofs and lofty chimneys of sugar factories met the eye. From these would come mighty hootings of steam whistles, signalling the distant workers to hurry with more cane, and along the dusty roads between hedges rustling with bright lizards, parched with sunshine, jolted tall wooden wagons piled with the polished cane and drawn by mild-eyed oxen. Everywhere round and about the little colony fluttered dusky forms, the men in scanty garments of white, with light turbans and snaky black hair on their shoulders. The women, gay and fluttering glowing draperies, decorated as to nose and ears with jewels sparkling and tinkling in their flat-footed walk with necklaces and bracelets, rings and anklets of silver. Here, within his hut, beneath the shadow of his mango-tree, dwelt tarantula. He made friends with the Coolidge. They were exiles from their fatherland, like himself, but that was the only point of similarity. The Indians worked hard, saved money, and looked forward to a time in the future when they should return to their homes in the goths of Bombay, while tarantula had no such ambition. After varied wanderings, chiefly in America, fate angered the man at Trinidad, and there he pursued his avocation of artist, lived from hand to mouth, handling his brush when his stomach was empty, lotus eating in the sun when his fortune permitted it. He painted fans and screens in which connection came his nickname to him. For a black spider, bloated in hair, was as much a mark of tarantula's handiwork as Mr. Whistler's black beetle is of that more modern master. Tarantula, to be plain, lived the life of a lazy scamp, and though, like his coolly friends, he affected a profound contempt for all negroes and the hybrid offspring of black and white that swarmed around him. Yet he could point to no worthier course of life than theirs. The Chinaman stood one day before the door of his dwelling-house. Infant coollies, goats, dogs, and black John Crows, were playing and feeding and wrangling in the high road. But the artist and his friends occupied themselves with a more interesting sight than the gutters presented. A new family of coollies had just arrived and were getting their household goods into an empty cottage. The old inhabitants extended helping hands and combined frank curiosity with free hospitality. Tarantula too presently made a show of assistance, but his aid was actuated from a secret motive suggested by his art. The latest arrivals consisted of a mother, father, and two children. It was one of these latter, a tall, graceful, dark-eyed maid who attracted the Chinaman so forcibly. Already he pictured her figuring, in little, on fans and umbrellas, who were appearing almost as large as life upon the lofty panels of some choice screen. Vayu was beautiful even in the eyes of her own people. At fourteen or earlier the coolly maidens are women, and then for a period, brief as the life enjoyed by many other tropic flowers, their beauty may be extraordinary. This girl, in her crimson robe with her sweet, refined face, braided hair, soft eyes, and delicately molded limbs, might have attracted greater artists than Tarantula. Desiring to create a favorable impression, the Chinaman came with savoury mess of steaming rice and curry, sweet potatoes, and ripe mangoes on a plantain leaf. His present was accepted, and from that time forth the artist ranked among the first friends of these new people. Indeed, all proved extremely friendly to Tarantula, accepting only Vayu herself. The maiden was coy, a circumstance which brought some novel sensations into our rascal's life. He set himself the task of winning her goodwill, and from a condition of passive interest, presently found emotions of active regard awakening for her in his vagabond heart. The pretty coolly girl made self-satisfied Tarantula dissatisfied. He compared his career with that of younger men, and grew jealous of the energetic Indians laboring towards their own advancement. He worked for Vayu, producing pretty things for her, and striving to delight her leisure when her day's work at the factory was done. He told her strange stories, moving adventures of varied sorts. He also taught her to fly kites, which he manufactured and maneuvered in expert Chinese fashion. Then as she became less reserved and showed increasing delight in his society, he found that she grew essential to his own happiness. Indeed, Vayu occupied the artist's waking thoughts and tinkled her silver bangles in his dreams, while she came, in brief time, to think much of him too. Albeit but a plain gentleman, no longer young, he was a man of mark and skill, enveloped in an artistic haze which, to the girl's mind, raised him above the males of her own people. But idle, improvident, and not oppressively moral, it must be confessed that Tarantula was quite lacking in qualities or prospects to justify a step so responsible, a relationship so respectable as that of marriage. This fact Vayu's parents appreciated, and they had already fixed their minds upon an individual of character far different to the artist. Hassan was a shrewd, laborious coolly, who had worked hard for many years and hoped anon when his contract with the proprietor of a neighboring sugar estate should expire to return a rich man to India. Apart from other considerations, Tarantula's case was hopeless. Had he been the most desirable inmate of the village, the iron law of caste could not have been broken for him. But, meanwhile, Vayu herself decided for the Chinaman on an occasion of kite-flying, and when upon the eve of the same day she heard how Hassan had asked for her hand behind her back and had received it from her parents, the poor girl was in great concern. She knew Hassan and respected him. But she fancied that upon such a mighty issue he should have approached her first and her father afterwards. She wept for some hours, then, of course, obeyed her superiors and agreed to wed Hassan in a week. But the next day, conceiving that such a matter would fall less terribly from her lips than another's, she secretly visited Tarantula to explain the circumstance. He was working on a handsome screen designed as a present to Vayu's mother. Four of the panels were decked with a foliage of bamboo and with great white storks catching little fishes. But upon the fifth and central panel blazoned forth a notable portrait of Vayu herself, clad in crimson garb with a glorious background of gold. Tarantula spread a mat for his love and laid aside his brushes. Then he placed fruits before her and bade her eat and be happy. But she would not, rather choosing to plunge straight to the heart of the harrowing matters that brought her. No, said she, I am come in evil hour on evil errand. The child of the Cooley must bend to its parent, and the cast of a Cooley maid must determine her lot. My father has made choice and my mother has chosen. Upon Hassan have they looked. From Tarantula they have turned away their eyes. So our hearts bleed. But presently they will grow whole again. It cannot be good that I should wed Tarantula, for my people are not his people. My God is not his God. I have no God any longer, he said in her language. His hands shook, and his little narrow eyes almost disappeared. He turned from her and looked silently upon the screen. Then suddenly he faced round in a furious hurricane of rage. His teeth were set. His thin hands clenched with their long nails crooked like a birch cloth. His wrinkled yellow forehead was drawn and dragged in a tangle of deep furrows over his flashing eyes. If your God hears, may he curse you and yours for this. Treacherous, fickle, untrue, vile, rightly called. Faithless as the winds of the air. May you— He stopped and beat his breast. His passion died in a moan, and he fell on his knees and wept and abased himself before her. She had risen and looked down sadly upon him. Cursed me not, Tarantula, for the curse of the rage stricken avails not. I am in the hands of them that brought me into life, and their will must I do. Hassan, you love him not, he interrupted. He shall be my lord, and I must learn to love him. Swear now to me that you love him not, he repeated fiercely. I love not Hassan over much, but he shall be my lord, and I must learn to love him. He rose slowly and flung open the door that she might depart. Truly the son of my being hath set, and night henceforth unfolds my goings. He said drearily, Grieve not for one poor maid, Tarantula. Your eyes are blinded, else you would quickly spy more beauty elsewhere, and other maids with brighter eyes and smaller hands than value has. I have lived long enough, he replied. Depart now to your house, and forgive the angry word rung from my heart by the sting of this sudden agony. Depart, and hear me ere you are gone. May values footsteps ever fall on scented flowers. May the great world love her. May her God open his right hand to her, and crown her days with all that is good. Farewell. Fare thee well, Tarantula. She vanished silently, and he fastened his door and rolled up the mat whereon she had sat, and put by the fruit he had placed before her. Then he stood by the screen, and his brow became black again, and his thin mouth grew hard as iron. The work of his hands was finished. That day he had designed to present it to Vayu's mother. Presently Tarantula put on an old straw hat and went to meet the Coolies returning from their labours. He singled out Hassan, a dark, good-looking Indian with a gleam of gold in his ears, and an expression of conscious superiority upon his face. Tarantula asked for a few words in private, and the other made no objection, so they turned aside down a deserted roadway, but Hassan had not been blind to Tarantula's wooing. He knew his rival must doubtless know of his success, and, deeming it but a mad thing to trust a man in such a case, looked to it that the long knife in his waistband was ready to his fingers. It appeared, however, that the artist's intentions were most friendly. Doubtless the matter of my thoughts is known to Hassan, he began. Today, having speech with Vayu, I learn of her parents' decision betwixt Hassan and Tarantula. It is enough. I cannot question such wisdom. You are, Hassan, born of their race, a labourer in the same field, a model of manhood. I am only tinling, a waif, a man of no repute. Unlovely, unloved. So be it. I drink the sour cup of the vanquished, and, as a token of peace between Hassan and Tarantula, as a sign of friendship between Tarantula and Hassan, I would have him take at my hands a gift of the best fruits of my labour. Set forth in crimson and gold, in a heaven of all the stars, I have depicted your love standing mid such devices as I use. I have portrayed Vayu. Come with me to-morrow, eat and drink, and bear the screen to your abode when you shall depart, so that men may know Hassan has a big heart, and Tarantula harbours no guile. The Cooley was perfectly ready to accept such terms. You speak with the lofty bearing of the Vedas, he made answer, and I rejoice that no star of evil discord has risen between us. For in the matter of maidens, sure many there are, and none worth strife between good men. Hassan accepts the noble art of Tarantula. Great is the wonder of it, for there goes abroad a saying on many tongues that never was such cunning ordering of colours. After further exchange of mighty compliments in which each tried to out-buy the other, the men separated and returned to their homes. Hassan came in due course, supped under the shadow of Tarantula's mango-tree, and departed at a late hour, as it was supposed, carrying with him the screen. But on the morning of the day that followed the Cooley's hut was found to be empty, nor could any trace of him be discovered. Tarantula's beautiful gift stood in the corner of Hassan's home, but the solemn storks peering from it spoke not, nor could the fair presentment of value explain the mystery. It wanted but three days to Hassan's wedding, and upon every side of his little hut appeared preparations for the reception of the coming bride. Then Tarantula told all he knew. Truly he was with me last night, said the artist. We ate and drank and were merry, and when dawn raised white fingers above the mountains he departed from me with a gift. Great search was made for the missing man. The canes, the woods, the savannas were all explored, but no sight of him, living or dead, rewarded the searchers, and mighty sorrow fell upon his fellows. The house of Vayu mourned deeply, and in Tarantula's hut there was sorrow too. For, he said, on the faces of those around me I read their thoughts. Tin Ling is not counted innocent in this matter, albeit Hassan was his own close friend. White words rise from black hearts, answered an old gray-headed Cooley. Love is a giant of the gods indeed, but balked love begets devils. Time powders a rock and strips naked the secrets of men's lives. We leave Hassan in the hand of time. The young Cooley's disappearance grew to be a nine-days wonder. His place knew him no more, and others took up his work where he had left it. For Tarantula, whatever might be the truth, he held his hand hidden, dressed himself in spotless white, the color of mourning in China, kept carefully away from Vayu, and conducted himself with extreme propriety. The hearts of the people had already begun to soften towards him, when nature, in her processes, brought a sudden explanation of Hassan's mystery. An explanation terrible in kind, and of a sort to swiftly sweep away the main actor of this drama. A week after the Cooley's disappearance, two negroes, standing on a little bridge outside the village, noticed a strange sight outlined against the sunset. Over a distant cane plantation, they flocked and flew an ink-black crowd of John Crows, the vulture scavengers of Trinidad. They fluttered and fought, balanced themselves on the swaying canes, and filled the air with cries. Such an incident spoke louder than words of a definite circumstance. Something did down-dar, said one negro. Something plenty did in the cane, answered the other. One dem Cooley boys killed his wife again, he added. I specced that so. They awful wicked dem Cooley's. A crowd presently noticed the eager vultures below. And amongst them stood Tarantula, and an English overseer from a neighboring factory. Man or beast, dead there, said the Englishman. Some of you niggers bustle down and see what's amiss. Yeah, it may be that poor devil has signed. Several blacks hurried off full of importance. Then the overseer turned to Tarantula, who was looking out where the John Crows fluttered, screaming under a fiery tropic sunset. I'll buy your screen for five dollars, Johnny. You like your screen? Pretty screen? Boss? No spiders? Not one. But pretty gal and whitey storks? Pretty value. I'll come to-night after dinner. You live by the big mango tree, don't you? Pretty gal, whitey storks? Pretty value, boss. Tarantula's thoughts were down in the cane. The men parted, and as the artist hurried home, he nearly fell in the gloaming over a John Crow. Then he stopped and smiled a bitter smile, and, stooping down, looked into the evil face of the vulture and spoke to it. Tinling, forget you. Tarantula, forget John Crow. The black policeman. Only one way for him now. The bird fluttered off, and the man, reaching his home, passed through the doorway and disappeared. Meantime, a noisy crowd started to the plantations, emptying cottage after cottage as it passed onwards and filling the roadway with chattering negroes and coonies. Under the last glimmer of daylight, a handful of natives and two negro policemen entered the cane, and after a brief while came forth again with all that was left of a dead man. They carried the corpse to the village, and half an hour later poor Hassan's fate was known. He had been stabbed in the back and then dragged down, naked, into the sugarcane. When the crop came to be cut, nothing but bleached bones would have been found. Bleached bones that tell no certain tale. Then spake up the ancient Cooley who had shown such suspicion in the past. His words pointed in direct fashion to one man, and scarce were they spoken before a whirling, shrieking crowd of Indians under lurid torchlight sped to wreak red revenge upon Tarantula. The door of the Chinaman's abode was locked, but the mob quickly tore it down and tumbled in. For a moment the dusky group stood motionless, turned to black marble before the sight that met them, under the waving flame and smoke of the lights they held aloft. Only crickets chirped in the hush. Then a savage yell of disappointment created out of a hundred throats, and the hindmost Cooleys thrust forward so that the feet of their leading companions stood in dark liquid snakes that wound over the wooden floor. In front of the Avengers stood a tall screen, and at the foot of the portrait of fair value lay the artist, humped up and stoned dead. Tarantula had saluted the world. He had made the happy dispatch after the hideous manner of his native land. A Frenchman sat in his bath eating mangoes. The crystal waters were pleasant and cool after a terribly hot night. The fruit was luscious and juicy to perfection, but neither one nor other gave Monsieur Marbeau much apparent satisfaction. His bathroom alone might have smoothed the cares of a less troubled mind. It was an ideal spot, full of white marble, with a widely opened window at the edge of the bath itself. Here, twining on trellises, a bright tangle of purple and yellow convolvulus fringed the aperture and extended graceful sprays even to the water's edge. Without, tall coconut palms met the view, and red mountain roses also, gleaming in a setting of dark green. Here waved feathery branches of lofty tamarins, and still more fairy foliage winnowed the sunlight above great polished canes of the bamboo. Faint odors from jasmine and orange blossoms scented the soft breeze, while beyond garden and forest, mellowed under fast dying mists of morning, rose the noble aclivities of a mountain, clothed in tropic robes of blue shadow, emerald light, and tawny gold, fringed by the tiny habitations of man, crowned with a silver cloud. Jacques Marbeau's West Indian home stood in a spot greatly favoured by nature at some distance inland from Port Castries, St. Lucia, and the lofty eminence he beheld, bold and bright against the blue of heaven, was more unfortunate, now an English fortress, formerly, in times long past, the theatre of fierce war. Neither his marble tub nor choice fruits brought pleasure to Jacques. He splashed the mango juice from his face, flung away the stone, and turned in his bath to look abroad. His brown, restless eyes wandered from one fair vista to another, but their glance always came back and fixed upon the same object, those distant vergerclad terraces of towering moor and fortunee. The man grumbled an oath to himself, grit his teeth together, and went so far as to extend a hairy arm and shake his fist at the mountain. Because he was English and a soldier, that was all the reason, only because of that, he said aloud to himself over and over again. Monsieur Marbeau's lack of self-command and self-restraint in the affairs of life had certainly placed him in many an awkward position, but for a significant circumstance. He chanced to be one of those lucky or unlucky mortals who reached quite a ripe age without reverses, trials or considerable sorrows. Life with him had been the happiest, most successful, sun-shiny business in the world. Indeed, since his advent at Saint Lucia, he had enjoyed a measure of prosperity and good fortune almost unexampled in the island's history. His ventures all turned out well. His estates flourished as far as any can be said to do so in the English West Indies. His store and emporium were the features of port castries and worth a Jew's eye, so people said. Marbeau was the universal provider of Saint Lucia, and it is not too much to say that his career up to the present time had been absolutely triumphant. For this cause the man's inner nature and disposition were unknown even to himself. Spoiled children of fortune may easily gain a reputation for mingled strength and sweetness of character, because to strike a high note and preserve a lofty and even religious tone when fate and chance conspire to make your existence a blessed dream on a bed of scented flowers is fairly simple. But no man mistakes this world for heaven more than once or twice in his life. The brighter the sunshine, the darker the cloud that suddenly blackens it. And Monsieur Marbeau was now writhing under his first great rebuff. A bolt from the blue had fallen, wounded him in a particularly tender spot, and wakened possibilities in his nature that had slept unknown, even unsuspected until then. These forces were leaping, armed and adult, from the man's head, were obscuring the vision of past prosperity and success, were uniting to magnify the present bitter wrong, were altogether blinding the memory and blotting the judgment of their Creator. A woman, greatly blessed in the undivided love of Jacques Marbeau, a woman as beautiful as God need make to fire the senses and break the hearts of her masters and her slaves, had refused him and married somebody else. That anything feminine could have so far damned and deflected the placid currents of his life was more than Marbeau's philosophy had power to accept. He had regarded the matter as accomplished from the first. He had taken his conquest as a foregone conclusion, and even crowed rather long and loud in male company before the event. But some of these clarion notes, unfortunately, coming to the lady's ears, induced her to make decision quicker than she might otherwise have done. It happened that one lieutenant field crossed her life just then. He was an Englishman, quartered with his regiment at Morne-Fortune, in addition to being handsome and possessed of a private income and a measure of intelligence beyond that of the average warrior, a British title loomed as a pleasant possibility in the dim future of the lieutenant's life. So Claire Garnier became Mrs. Claude Field and our friend Marbeau imagined, when the first news of the tremendous event crushed him, that never since the world began to spin had anybody before found themselves faced with such a heart-rending, unexpected, and mortifying catastrophe. So he sat in his bath and used intemperate language and cursed a very happy couple. For himself he regarded existence as a thing that was now finished. Broadly considered, it appeared to him that life was an invention of a demon, while, as for conscious intelligence, it must certainly be considered the supremist act of that fiend's malignity. The mangoes, with sweet juices streaming from their yellow flesh, were but as ashes and dust in his mouth. His cigarettes smacked of sulfur, processions of little blue devils walked along the edge of his marble bath, and some fell in. These climbed up to his shoulder, and, standing upon Tiptoe, buzzed their poison into the man's ear. So he continued and might have sat there until the evening, shaking his fist at Morne-Fortune, but for an incident. Something rustled in the foliage that twined over the window ledge on Marbeau's right hand, and, glancing down, he beheld a little snout on a thin neck, and two small, steely eyes cold as a fish's. The thing twisted its flat head here and there, while from time to time a quiver, as of a tiny flash of black forked lightning, played in and out of its jaws. Our Frenchman bounded with his eyes, perhaps quicker than ever he had done so before. Then, in a state of nature, he sped out of the apartment and shouted for a black boy. In the note of his voice was a sound that showed the man had been a good deal frightened. A young negro came pattering down the passage, and his master accosted him. Get a stick and be sharp. There's a fair delance in the bathroom. There's a fair delance in the bathroom. The devil came in from the garden, and I found it within two feet of me. Another moment, and I might have been a dead man. Fair delance, him too terrible, Massa. Me no likey wicked poison snake, me fetched a utter boy, Sare. You'll go yourself, Dan, and at once. He's in there, or else out under the convolvulus again. Anyway, you've got to kill him, and be smart, too. So said about it. And, mind, I must see him dead, or I'll have something to say. Monsieur Marbeau retired to his dressing room, and Dan, not particularly liking the task before him, whined to himself, used one or two of his master's favorite expressions, and went to get a stick. He found a long cane, then, opening the bathroom door, walked very cautiously in, and truly the Ethiop had need of caution for fair delance. Trigonosophilus Lanciolatus, to give him his scientific appellation, is the most poisonous creature nature breeds throughout the West Indies. Death lives in him, hid as Satan of old. About the first thing that Dan saw on entering his master's bathroom was the snake he came to kill. It crept along the edge of the bath as he watched it, then fell suddenly to the floor, and with graceful undulations wound across the chamber. The surface of the ground was covered with open woodwork in a lattice of squares, and at the negro's first careful and half-hearted approach, fair delance made a dive and disappeared, whereupon Dan, fearing the possible proximity of the deadly thing to his naked feet, mounted upon a chair with all possible dispatch. From this commanding point he watched his foe creep hither and thither. There was no egress below the wooden frame, and presently fair delance came sliding and gliding up again. Now he curled inquiringly along the junction of the floor and wall, seeking an outlet. And once Dan made a feeble poke at it with his cane. But the creature flashed away in an instant, and so lightning quick were its movements when roused that its pursuer began to grow alarmed for himself. If he caught me, I sigon nigger, he reflected. But just then, by the luckiest accident possible, Dan's chance came to him and he utilized it, with ready presence of mind scarcely to have been expected. The snake, continuing his sinuous progress, met a cigar box open in a corner. It contained a piece of soap and some fragments of old flannel. Into the box and under the flannel crawled fair delance, evidently designing to rest a while and mature further plans for escape. Then did Dan, with admirable courage, seize his opportunity, leave his chair, and, from a safe distance, with the help of his stick, tilt over the lid of the box and so capture the reptile within it. After a negro has done anything he considers in the least clever, his pride and egotism become supremely ridiculous. Dan, upon this successful issue to his task, held his head high in the air, made his prisoner quite secure, and then marched off to miss your marbeau. You told me kill that old fair delance, Sar. Har him am, all live. Alive? Have you caught it? Yes, Sar. Me no frayed of nasty snake. I caught him. I caught him with my own hand, Sar. I just caught him by the throat and he twine and twist and wriggle wriggle, but I no care. I put him into cigar box and har him am. How do I know he's there? You're such a liar, Dan. The negro appeared greatly hurt. De solemn truf for de lord, Sar. Dat massive fair delance, Indar. Wish I die if I no speak solemn truf that he cauch Indar. You get shotgun and shoot him through to box if you no trust Dan. Yes, I believe you, answered the master. He was silent for a moment, then spoke again. Leave it there for the present. And here's a dollar for you. You're a plucky boy to attempt such a thing and a fool to boot. If I find presently you have told me a lie, then I shall give you something else besides the dollar. Right, Sar. Thank you, Sar. I's a plucky boy. That's the word, Sar. Thank you plenty, Sar. Then the elated Dan withdrew to lord it over less fortunate friends. He already quite believed himself that he had captured fair delance by sheer force of arms. It was a historic achievement that he would someday hand down to his children. Monsieur Marbeau, meanwhile, completed his toilet. Waxed the points of his heavy mustache, thanked heaven for his recent escape, as became a good catholic, then adjourned with fair delance to another apartment, and here placed the cigar box upon a table. Hard buy were already arranged the materials for manufacture of a gin cocktail. Jacques himself mixed the ingredients of spirit, crushed ice, syrup, and so forth. After which, with a swizzle stick, he bubbled the decoction into a mass of white creamy foam and drank it at a draft. Then, turning for something to smoke, he actually attempted to open the snake's prison. It stood where he had placed it, beside similar receptacles. One cigar box is certainly very much like another. The same idea struck Marbeau and set him thinking. He sauntered into a glorious veranda, alive with light and scent and color. Far below, where his private glades and forests ended, stretched vast acres of sugarcane, and the breeze brushed and danced over their green tops in little waves of light. Beyond towered more unfortunate, but Monsieur Marbeau shook his fist no longer. His brains were busy, his eyes saw nothing. He became quite full of amazement at the tenor of his own reflections. Disappointment and adversity are no doubt among those circumstances which will sometimes suddenly introduce a man to himself. Marbeau had dived into his own heart and made a new acquaintance. Presently, Dan arrived with biscuits, coffee, brandy, and a request. Please, Sare, may I have Mass Affair de Lance what I caught in Barfroom? His master started and angrily refused. Certainly not! What should you want with it? For Obi-Man, Sare, he give me something good for him. Don't you know better, Dan? But you're like the rest. What's the good of hammering Christianity into your thick heads? We drive you to church like cattle, but let us turn our backs for an instant, and away you go from the holy place to your own superstitions and gods and evil spirits. No, I want the snake for a friend of mine in Barbados. Be off with you. The baffled Dan disappeared, and Monsieur Marbeau resumed a certain savage train of most curious, if not idle, reflections. All cigar boxes are so very much alike, he thought. It would be such a natural, such an obvious error. And the little blue devils were at his ear again, clustering each over the other to get in a word like bees at the mouth of a hive. By Eden Philpots Fair DeLance Chapter 2 On the evening of that day Mrs. Field trotted up the great winding road that rises from port castries to the fortified mountain above it. Her white pony was strong, and his burden a fairy-weight, so he cared little for the steepness of the path. At intervals the negro's cottages flanked by coco trees and plantains, capped with rough thatch, marked the way. And here and there, down through a break in the woods, came a vision of dark waters streaked with brightness from the flaming sunset sky above them. Nocturnal insect life already began to hum in chirrup, for night flies on speedy wings in the tropics and the day dies in an hour. Claire Field was a typical French beauty, with a charm of distinction that attracted some men even more than her physical glories, of figure, dark hair, violet eyes, and infinitely sweet expression. She had not over much intelligence, but possessed a striking gift of tact, which latter commodity, perhaps, best becomes a married woman, and is of the greatest practical value, more especially if her husband happened to be clever and unsociable and superior to mere amenities in small things. Young Lieutenant Field rode twenty yards behind his wife, but her white pony speedily increased the distance between them as he proceeded, for the small creature had nothing to carry, whereas the big black horse behind, though quite up to his master's weight, was not prepared to hurry against such a tremendous hill. I'm going on to dress, Claude, cried the little lady ahead. Her husband assented, and away she went. Presently Field overtook his colonel, a tubby officer on a tubby steed. Both man and horse were extremely warm, despite a fresh evening breeze that now swiftly brought night and cooling dues. Colonel Walters began grumbling at more infortunee, according to his custom. Positively, he said, these fearful heights grow steeper and steeper every time I struggle up them. I shall have to protest. It's wearing me out, not to mention my horse. He was a plump, cumbly beast once. Look at him now. We are becoming mere skeletons, the pair of us. Physically I'm ill-adapted to this climate and these precipitous districts. My liver and my temper are not what they were. There is little doubt I was meant to shine in a flat country and a temperate latitude, not on the top of a tropical mountain. Field sympathized, and touched a pleasanter subject. I saw a fat turtle being conducted up the hill to camp as I rode down, he said. The colonel brightened up. I rejoiced to hear it. Green Turtle is one of my few consolations in this island. They surmounted the hill and entered camp in twenty minutes, but Claire had reached her home and departed again before her husband arrived. It happened thus. Mrs. Field stopped the white pony at a little gray-walled villa with a red roof. Here, dismounting, she gave her steed into the keeping of a black man and, picking up her habit, tripped into the house. Just within a wide hall hung a whip-rack and below it stood a big turtle shell, held upside down upon a cane tripod. It was a general receptacle for chance-matters, gloves and the like, but just now it contained a somewhat bulky parcel that had evidently come by post. Glancing at it, Claire was startled to see that, even through the gathering gloaming, the broad and bold scrawl of direction upon this parcel was quite familiar to her. Moved with curiosity and no little surprise at such an unexpected event, the girl made further scrutiny and took the packet to a lamp in an adjoining room. There any shadow of doubt vanished. Jacques Marbeau had sent the package to her husband. That Claire should wait for fifteen minutes for an explanation to the mystery struck her as being quite out of the question. So she set about opening the parcel herself without any delay whatever. She tore off the outer covering, then another, and was finally about to lift a very ordinary-looking cigar box from the papers when its lid, which was unfastened, fell upon her hand. The girl could see nothing but some old fragments of white flannel. She noticed a faint smell of scented soap also, and then put her hand into the box to find what this strange gift might mean. Something cold and alive wriggled round her wrist in a second. She felt a sharp prick as of a pin, and rapidly drew back her hand. With it came the source of her surprise, a bright, slender shining thing that looked like a live necklace. Monsieur Marbeau's present fell silently and vanished, as Claire, dimly guessing the nature of her accident, screamed with terror and cried for her husband. Poor little white wild-eyed woman. Nothing upon God's earth could undo what was done. Ten short, agonized minutes were all that remained to her, all that remained of a life that had looked quite full of years and sunshine only a moment before. When Field entered his home with leisurely stride, a wilderness of horror-stricken, babbling black spoke the news, his wife was dead. It is a mistake for any woman at any time to open communications intended for her husband. End of section 22. Recording by Stephen Winterburn Section 23 of Lou Garou 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 Stephen Winterburn Lou Garou by Eden Philpots Fair Delance Chapter 3 Everybody was very sorry for the poor widower, and many pitied Monsieur Marbeau no less. That unfortunate gentleman, so it had appeared, had fallen victim to the most deplorable and unhappy accident it is possible to imagine. After further reflection upon the mourning already mentioned, Jacques finally put base thoughts away and determined upon a very noble line of conduct. He decided to let his reverse rankle no longer. He even set himself the task of securing Lieutenant Field's friendship and burying the past for all time. As an earnest or pledge of this great resolution, he wrote to his victorious rival and also sent the man a present. The gift was a box of the best cigars that Mother Earth had ever produced. But knowing that letters travel faster through the post than parcels, Monsieur Marbeau had delayed his note for a few hours, in order that Missive and Packet might reach their recipient together. Upon the same morning he had written to a scientific friend at Barbados to inform him that a live Fair Delance, imprisoned in a cigar box, would reach him by the next mail. In this case, however, he kept the snake back, for fear of any accident arising from its reaching its destination before the scientist was prepared to welcome it. By deliberate intervention of the devil, as it seemed, Jacques had made the awful mistake of mixing the two similar parcels and dispatching Fair Delance to Lieutenant Field. The letter he wrote at the same time was read at the inquiry. Everybody agreed that it was a very high-minded production. So history was made, and a simple poisonous worm changed the current lives of not a few, and ended one particularly beautiful existence. Lieutenant Field sold out and returned to his native land, while within the space of a short month after his departure from St. Lucia, Jacques Marbeau took a definite step also. There is no doubt that conscience is the worst companion in the world. Job's comforters are mere cheerful optimists compared to it. The Frenchman's unfortunate error preyed upon his spirits like a vampire. It even unsettled his reason, for, one morning, Dan found him quite dead in his beautiful bathroom. He had fired a pistol into that self-same ear the blue devils were want to buzz at. End of Section 23 Recording by Stephen Winterburn Section 24 of Luc Garou This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Luc Garou by Eden Philpots Bully Bottom You marked that man what were at the bar when we came in? The big noisy chap with the red face and bull neck, he must stand six feet two if an inch. So he do, or maybe more, and you seen how he skipped out into the fresh air when his eye dropped on me? He had certainly departed somewhat abruptly from the little noisy drinking saloon in Port of Spain. The chap rather bustled out, I admitted. Yes. And he always bustles when he sees me. He'll bustle in Kingdom come likewise if I'm down his alley, though I hope so shan't be. You didn't see his left hand, did you? No, I notice nothing particular. Ah, but it's the darndest queer hand in Trinidad for all that. He don't flourish it much now, but it was along a flourish in it too free that he came by his accident. I'll tell you the yarn if you're minded to listen. Bully-bottom, that cuss is called. I judge he've got the biggest body and the dirtiest heart in the West Indies. But it was me who's found him out and figured him up and subtracted what was bad and showed there weren't nothing left. He says he's American, which is a lie. He comes from one of them God-forgotten republics on the mainland, I judge. Left it sudden when they took to shooting, reckoning himself too big to be about where lead was flying round. However, here he came and soon found pals by virtue of his size and his size. He talked so darned large and bounced so fierce that our boys guessed he must be a big bug down on his luck and just come over to Port of Spain to lie low till his pards were in again over the water. But not he. He was a meaner, vileer cuss than the beechlyest bum in New York, a common card-sharp and black-legged thief. He is now, and maybe his carriedy head will be white before the devil's done stoking under his gridiron. It was this way. It was this way. After he joined our party, and afore he was known for what he is, the authorities got sick over the gambling that went on in certain quarters and reckoned to stick up our show and shut down on the whole party of us, especially on Sunday. The Sabbath was, and is, a tidy sporting day in these parts, but it was reckoned six days a week were enough to paint the old town red and that we'd best rest ourselves on the seventh. Well, we were industrious parties, and times being hard in Trinidad, as they mostly is, we reckoned we couldn't be idle on the Lord's Day because, you see, Satan's round busier that day than most any other. The question was how to best the powers, and I, single-handed, were the man would solve the riddle. There weren't no manner of use stopping ashore to play. That only meant free lodgings without the drink what's necessary to a man's constitution in these parts. But there was the gulf of pariah a-staring us in the face, and that give me the tip. A man's a right to take his day of rest aboard a steamboat if it pleases him so to do. That's what I says to the boys, and they tumbled, fully bottom quicker than any of them. We made a preliminary experiment or two on the strict quiet, and it worked miraculous. Then, finding it was a snip, we started the thing on a regular business track and ran it for all it was worth. The authorities seemed kinder pleased. Maybe they judged poor to Spain could thrash along without us one day in seventh. Maybe they guessed we was playing right into the end of the Lord, and would probably start some day and not come home. Anyway, they winked, and we had our bouts aboard outside the dragon's teeth, which is them islands you've come through into the gulf. It was cool and pleasant, and business-like also, because our boat, the pearl, were small and compact, and a difference of opinion had to be settled mighty smart, it being impossible to keep out of range if a fire and party was determined. We had merry times aboard for a month of Sundays, a sail in a way that quiet and respectable as one might have guessed we was just a cargo of missionaries, a gun to convert the mainland, a looking at nature's tropical picture books spread around us and breathing the fresh air and talking pretty. That was till we got through the dragon's teeth. Then, you bet, the scene changed, like a two-dime panorama. It was the devil's picture books as we looked at then, and not nature's no more. Liquor and language in the rigor of the game were the watchword. We played most everything, poker and yooker for choice. My old yooker. I've played it thirty years, and I know the game better than you know your alphabet. Others went for nap, or whatnot. But we was all busy mighty soon, making hay whilst the sun shone. Now I'm coming to bully. He was particular spry on them trips, and talked big enough for thunder. But he were no great shakes when it came to handle in the pictures. You might have judged he could bluff, but he weren't even equal to that. Not clever. I sized him down in two trips, not but what others hadn't already assured. But I judged his all men by personal acquaintance only, and I'd never played with this one before we went out into the Caribbean in the Pearl. Poker was his fancy, so he said. And we played brisk. Five of us under an awning forward. All went Mary, Isabelle, and Bully lost fifty dollars before we'd got properly seated. Bimby he lost fifty more. Then he dried up for that journey, and went and soaked in the bar aft, and made a remark or so as he'd better have thought than spoken. There was a misunderstanding in consequence, and my chum, Brad's, got his hair off along of something unkind, what Bully said of me, and went for bully all ends up. Brad's is only an eight stone man, you see, and Bully Bottom's weight might be fifteen stone or so. Therefore my party, Brad's, who trusted to nature's weapons as the saying is, got badly left. And when I come to have to catch the speaker's eye, I find Bully, crowing to his pals, and Brad's mighty cheek spitting his teeth into Neptune's bosom with his nose in a new pattern, and his frame of mind frightful. But I had done just nothing. I heard both sides, and sat tight, merely saying as I took no stock on secondhand stories, if you've got anything on your chest again me, I says to Bully, get it off, sonny, and let both sides lie low while we have it out with the weapons provided by civilization. But he swore Brad's was all wrong, and had insulted him something terrible, and he lied to me that he'd never said a word about my manner of play. One or two would have heard him, smiled as loud as a royal mail-steam whistle, and the subject dropped. I had done nothing, as I says. The day was Sunday. Besides, it weren't the last opportunity, so I waited to round till I'd got a better game, and just tidied Brad's and mopped him up and cooled him down. Things simmered, and bottom lost again next Sunday, but kept me out of his conversation, as though I'd been a decent word. Then, on the third picnic, a darned remarkable thing happened. Bully brought a strange pal, and didn't play himself, but introduced his part to our set, and hoped we'd extend the hand of friendship, which we'd done—the part, green leaf by name, being a tidy, quiet sort, and mighty agreeable in his manners. Well, he skinned us. There's no other word you can use for it. Poker were the pastime. He played smiling and slow and deliberate, and bottom, who sat over against him, merely looking on, chafed us and asked him where he'd learnt it from, and such like. I was playing myself, and I smelt the rat. Bluffs all right, but a man must fly into it sometimes, and Bully bottom's part never done so. He was always on the right side of the fence. Of course we'd seen the game, but not the trick. But the boys knew me, and finding I kept my mouth shut, they did the like, and went on losing as cheerful as kittens till I stopped. That was not till we started for home. Then I saw Brides, and we had a parliament, and I carried my bill, which was simple. Sunday come round again, and sure enough, when the pearl started, peaceful as a worm, for us hard-working souls to suck the fresh air as usual, there were Bully and his part, taking stock of the weather, and whistling hymns together. It made me feel good to look at him. Bully wouldn't play, being broke, so he said, and his pal let on as he was mighty unwilling, and only yielded to pressure, because he wanted to let us have our revenge, being a sportsman. Then I said I wouldn't play neither, but Brides, he showed for me, and I just bummed round looking at the different parties and watching the fun. Bully, he'd come with me at first, but seemed kinder absent, and I observed he kept turning his eyes to where his pal was at playing, calm as ever, but not doing so well, by no means, as on the Sunday before. Presently I sits down with the party right aft, and then, as I expected, Bully, seeing me grounded, sailed forward, and squatted over against his pal, same as he'd done before. From where I sat, I could see him flourishing his hands as per usual, and fidgeting with his cigarettes, and I also observed that his pal pulled himself together straight away, straight on in, mind you, from the time that Bully left up. I dawdled round behind a cigar, looking out the corner of my eye, and then I dropped on it. The dodge was not too new, but he certainly done it remarkable natural, and his slow going pal, dreamy and sleepy in his manner, and never apparently looking off his hand helped him wonderful. Of course, Bully were signalling like a shipwrecked crew in mid-ocean when a steamer sighted. He'd done it with his fingers and his eyes on the opposite joker's cards. I watched his fat hand, and seen his pal looking at it too, under his eyelids. He had three fingers up when I concluded to protest. You see this knife? Heavy and sharper and three razors are thirty. I was wearing it as usual, and I hesitated between that and a shooting-iron. Being a merciful man in a small way, I judged the knife was the right ticket for that journey, and I got behind Bully, and didn't lose no time. He had his three fat fingers sprawling at Brad's elbow, and the little one tucked in out of the cold, lucky for it to so. My knife come down like the stroke of doom, just half an inch above Bully's knuckles, and his remark, which was loud and forcible, drew everybody's attention to his trouble. What they seen was three fingers lying in a neat row on the table, and Bully, hopping round with his left hand under his right flipper. Everybody knew what them three fingers meant. A volume of sermons couldn't have spoke louder. Of course, Bully, judged lead would be his next dose, and he went down a hatch to get in a cabin and make a fight of it if he could, naturally guessing his time was right. But all into it, being the Lord's day, I guess, a kinder peace settled over everybody when they seen them fingers lying there. I flicked Bully's cheek and swindling claws into the Caribbean, one after the other, to feed sharks. Then I wiped my knife, and went round for a word with Bully's pal. He changed to more colors than a rainbow, but them colors died speedy and left him widest foam. He just turned out his pockets without a word, and pushed the money he'd won away into the middle of the table. Then he says, Thank you, boys, for not shooting. We both soon fought me as much as him, but I guess we'll learn better. He's my husband anyhow. I'll go now if you'll permit, and tell him there won't be no shooting. We blinked, I can tell you. That slim and slight she were, but she bolted down below to him, and nobody did anything more, as a kind of protest like, and they was the first to go ashore when we got back. A pretty down-in-the-mouth procession, too. The woman's dead now, been dead these several years for what I've told you happened a longish while ago, but Bully's left, and the longer he's left, the bigger balance he's running up against himself for his next billet. We never spoke after that little matter upon the pearl. He's an unforgiving cuss, and I'm darned if I don't think he'd do me an injury tomorrow supposing he could engineer it safe and peaceful from behind in the dark. Section 25 of Loop Garoo. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Wayne Cook. Loop Garoo by Eden Philpots. Section 25. The Enigma of the doubloons. Chapter 1. Enoch Wetterborn's Cryptogram. A stout, good-tempered-looking man sat wrestling with accounts. Beside him stood a big lime squash with ice and straws in it. From the corner of his mouth protruded a massive cigar. Mr. Hargan was clad in white ducks. He had taken off his collar and tie and turned up his shirt sleeves to facilitate the mathematical processes which his task demanded. But it was blazing hot, too hot even to cast the highly satisfactory columns of the Bonanza's store cash-book. He pushed the ledger away, rang a bell by his elbow, drank the squash at a draft, and mopped his round red face. A colored man answered his summons. Masabelle? Yes, why don't the letters come along? The mills must be landed by now. I heard the ship's gun fire more than an hour since. Mr. Hargan fanned himself and, going to the open window, glanced between a palm tree and the white walls of his store, to where the blue waters of a noble bay extended. The merchant dwelled at St. Thomas in the western Indies. He was a dain, owned a much-land, and he was a man who had no idea what he was going to do. The merchant dwelled at St. Thomas in the western Indies. He was a dain, owned a much-land, prospered in his business, and took more hopeful views of life than many of his fellow countrymen, who, like him, lived exiled from the home of their fathers. But who, unlike Lucky Alexis Hargan, would fortune unsuccessfully? Though the coming letters promised to be particularly interesting, something happened before their arrival which made the old merchant forget all about them for a time. His servant returned, brought with him the liquid refreshment, and made an announcement. Young gentleman in the office want to see you, sir. He come from the sultan from Bottles, and with him come to Bottles right from England. You'll tell me, I'll always say, busy. So I say very busy, tea-dispoded, but he didn't care. He see-few for all that. Then he shall send him in. The negro disappeared, and a moment afterward a sharp tap fell on Mr. Hargan's door. He bid the stranger enter, and a lad appeared. He was quite youthful, perhaps not more than seventeen, but he had a determined air about him, and a bright, straight glance in his eyes that rather attracted the older man. Take the seat, he said. Dane or Englishman? English, sir, answered the lad, sitting down and depositing a leather bag between his feet. Traveller? Rather, I have just come from Helm. Watch your line, asked the merchant. The boy looked puzzled, and then he laughed. I'm not that sort of traveller. My line is peculiar, extraordinary, in fact. I've come out on a wonderful business altogether. Any money in it? Something like ten thousand pounds, I hope. Mr. Hargan laughed. I doubt you're getting ten thousand pounds out of St. Thomas. I reckon I shall, in less than a lifetime, too. Your sanguine money doesn't go on heads this year. It wants a good deal of making. What are you to begin? With you, sir. Go ahead, then. Have you the philosopher's stone in your bag? Something like it, I hope. By the way, you have not asked my name yet. I'm called Tom Wetterborn. Does that suggest anything to you? The other thought and fanned himself an amused expression on his broad face. It does, and yet it does not, he answered. I've certainly heard the name and seen a two somewhere, but I know of no Wetterborns in St. Thomas, excepting your worshipful self. There were Wetterborns in the olden days, though. Right, now I remember the name. A man called Wetterborn once owned much land here. But that is a hundred years ago. More than a hundred. He was my great-great-uncle, Mr. Hagen. And the facts are these. The land you now possess here, which has been in your family for generations, once belonged to this ancestor of mine. I have not been able to learn the nature of the bargain now. Does it matter in the least? Ah, that is a good thing. You haven't come to take my acres away then. Laugh the merchant. Oh, no, answered Tom, quite seriously. Things were carried with a high hand in those old, trouble-less times. Nobody would be full enough to question a point of possession. But there is no doubt about the fact that the territory here, once my relations property, is the same territory which now belongs to you. None. I remember the name on the old papers handed me by my father nearly fifty years ago. That's all right. Now, before we come to business, Mr. Hagen, I want you to give me your word as a man of honor. You'll do the fair thing, sir. I'm youngish, but I've seen bad times and suffered a bit at the hands of my elders. I come to you and say that I believe I have in my head a way of making ten thousand pounds of net abouts out of St. Thomas. I must, however, secure your aid, or I cannot get on. I've come right out from England just to ask that. I'm certain you are not the man to go back on your word, certain of it when I look at you. I may fail in this, this business, or I may strike the right nail on the head. What I want to know is, how much of the ten thousand pounds, supposing it turns up, will you require for helping me? Depends on what sort of help you're looking for, my boy. I don't find the scent of capital if that's your game. It isn't. I've come to make money not to borrow it. The help I need is a simple permission to have a look at your land, with a view to some experiments. You may look at the land and welcome. Half of it is wilderness, down on the north side of the island somewhere. The more a wilderness, the better for me. It's in a wilderness I hope to make my fortune. Mr. Harkin looked at his visor suspiciously. It is hot, he said, better have something cooling. Don't think the climate's turned my head, sir. I never was more ready for business than today. The terms, that is the point. Bless you, I don't want any of your ten thousand pounds. I've got that and perhaps twice that, but it has taken me a lifetime to pile up. Your fortune, I fancy you say, was to be made pretty quickly? Very quickly, I hope. Three months, if all goes well. Six or seven at the outside. If it isn't made by then, it never will be. Well, my lad, now to your riddle. Crack straight on with it and I'll try not to laugh. But I expect to see your keeper come after you every minute. I do indeed. He chuckled ponderously, flung himself back in his chair, fanned himself, and listened to the eager youth. Tom Wetterborn took a pile of papers from his bag and then told his story. The great-great uncle of mine I speak of was called Enoch Wetterborn, and these memorabilia and data were written out by him before his death. He died in England, leaving no issue, and his fortune, which was very considerable, drifted by will into diverse channels, and ultimately vanished, as fortunes do. He made his money in the old slave days, and seems to have thriven upon this island in an atmosphere of yellow jack and rum. He evidently regarded himself as a worthy member of society, but I should think that could only have been by comparison with others. By his own account he must have been a fearful ruffian. Well, he left St. Thomas when the times grew wild, and perhaps the island too hot to hold him. In fact, toward the last, he appears to have made a bolt of it. Under reaching England, he seems to have had some dealings with the Danish government, and finally to have sold his property to your family, when Svensson Hagen, completing the purchases. These matters all sat down here, and these old papers themselves were handed to me by my late father's solicitors upon his death six months ago. I am an orphan, and the last young branch of the family. In fact, I am almost the last of the Wetterborns. I may be absolutely the last for all I know. These papers had no particular interest for me, but not long ago. I rummaged through them with a view to clearing out an old trunk for other uses. By the merest chance one attracted and interested me, I read it through then turned to others. All are at your disposal, Mr. Hagen, but too only am I now particularly concerned with. This is the first, written, as you will see, by old Enoch Wetterborn shortly before his death in London. The lad found a manuscript and read as follows. Being now like to die, and that right soon, I shall here set down a grave matter, much importing those of my blood that survive my going. When it came about that war and room of wars fell upon the Isle of St. Thomas, the seat of my home and fortunes, I straightway bethought me of the danger to my goods, for pillage followeth on the heels of carnage, and at such times it ever growth hard with the godly Christian man who seeketh peace and abideth by the law. I possessed a great store of slaves, a blight on the old women who would free them, and of land also a pretty packet of Spanish doubloons, mighty find innumerous being in value above thirty shillings apiece. This money with sundry precious jewels I put, where no one should chance upon them, and then happening by devilish and malicious slights to be myself accused of considerable offenses, the clamour of events moved me to speed from the midst of such un-Christian usages. To England I came, no beggar, but poorer than I should be by five thousand gold doubloons, and choice jewels not a few. And here I shall abide till I die, but the doubloons are there. It is not meat, I should set out the enigma of the hiding place in plain language, yet where bones will want to have brains of stout stuff, and let him, therefore, who hath with to do so, un-twine the cryptical conceit that shall repose, with this and other scripts and scrolls at my banker's house in Lombard Street, and let him who hath the pluck fathom the secret when he shall have read the riddle. This is the original enigma, said young Wetterborn, handing to Mr. Hargan and old and a much-stained fragment of paper. I found it after a long search. The bewildering document ran as follows. It was composed of eleven lines of continuous, random and nonsensical letters, with a few capital letters, two dashes, and seven asterisks also at seemingly random locations, and the number eighty-six in the middle. Mr. Hargan glanced over this lubrication and sniffed. The doubloons are pretty safe, I should judge, young sir, he said. Wouldn't it have been wiser to wait on the other side till you had solved this rigmarole, or proved there was no solution? I didn't start on a wild goose chase, believe me, answered Tom Wetterborn. I got to the bottom of this thing first, be sure. Mr. Hargan's respect for the lad increased slightly. Was there a bottom to it? he asked. Oh dear, yes, and a very shallow one too. It's simply riddle, really, though I dare say it amused the old chap to make it. Strangely enough, though, I solved the thing by a succession of flukes. A sharper man would perhaps have taken longer than I did. I should be sorry to have to clear the puzzle. Well, I had a bit of knowledge, you see, and that proved enormously valuable in straightening the thing. I knew the name of the man who wrote it. I also observed that this document, together with that I have read to you, evidently written about the same time, was unsigned. It struck me, therefore, that the old chap had probably ended his riddle with his own name. I thought the fifteen letters between the last three asterisks might be two complete words. And, if they were, they contained just the number of letters which my great-great-uncles two names contained. Thus, by the happiest chance, I started on the right road. See here. He took a piece of paper and wrote thus upon it. E-N-O-C-H-W-E-D-D-E-R-B-O-R-N, and underneath it the letters V-M-L-X-S-D-V-W-W-V-I-Y-L-I-M, which were the letters found between those last three asterisks. Fortunately, it was a long name, you see, embracing nine different letters. If the letters of the cipher were consistent, and if the letters in my relation's name corresponded in every case with those that represented in the puzzle, then I had no less than eighteen letters to work with. I made the experiment, with some eagerness, you may be sure. And the result, though not as striking as you may have expected and as I expected, nevertheless convinced me my supposition must be correct. He produced another paper showing the cryptograph in its second stage of disentanglement. The name comes out all right now, said Mr. Hargan. But you don't seem to have done much for the rest of the thing. Looks worse than ever, if possible. Yes, I was disappointed. And yet more than two-thirds of the letters are in their right places now. I can't see what there was about the affair to convince you of that. Look at the second line. There, towards the end, you will find the word vehicle. This remarkable fact confirmed my belief in my original discovery. Such a peculiar collection of letters, as formed with the word vehicle, could hardly, I fancy, have happened by chance. Here and there, too, if you examine the puzzle at this stage, you will see well-marked fragments of words and several words of one syllable, where, clearly begins the fourth line, whole, occurs in the seventh and again in the ninth. A phrase in the last line, but one, told me the rest of the secret. It looks pretty much like the rest. I'd refer to the eighteen letters between the two asterisks on that line. I had already suspected that these asterisks were merely full stops. I, therefore, took the letters D, E, Z, D, M, E, N, Q, E, L, L, N, O, Q, Z, L, E, S, and tried to spell them into words. In this passage, I had already got, as I believed, all the right letters, with the exception of Z and Q. Both occurred twice, and after an experiment or two, I found one, which told the other, and, by telling the other, confirmed itself. Substitute A for Z, and we get, dead men que no quales. You will see yourself what Q must stand for. Of course, exclaimed Mr. Hargan, catching a little of the detective spirit. Q stands for T, dead men tale no tales. There it is, plain as the nose on my face. Exactly, so my next step was to substitute these letters, A and T, for Z and Q. At the same time, of course, I was prepared to put Z in place of A and Q instead of T, but here a great difficulty met me. The letter A does not once occur in the code program, so I had not to trouble any more with the Z, but the letter T does occur five times, and I found that by placing Q instead of it, I did not add to the sense of the clearness in one of these five cases. In the next stage of the puzzle, therefore, while making A stand for Z and T for Q, I have not made Q stand for T, but left the five original T's in their places, marking them, however, in italics. Now what I think you will find daylight everywhere. The mysterious enigma of the doubloons certainly lost much of the puzzling nature in its third guise. Now it ran thus. And in a train land, at a distance eighty-six yard, Suram the most northern dash, Himplarbed em me comheuance, I set my slave to-dit, full stop. He, Maddie, whole, O of the two Durintin, Deck to hand therein, I laid me may wealth. Then the back-pulled the whole, And scattered Dara where earth remained. Dead men tell no tales. I revert with myself alone Enoch Wetterborn. Now I think we see what we're coming to, said Mr. Harkin, wiping his spectacles and screwing up his eyes. The mystery clears out fast. What did you do next? My next step was occupied with the T's of the original manuscript. Those I have here marked in italics. The fact that these were not cues, as they should have been, bothered me a good deal and led to a discovery that settled at what little difficulty remained. In the first case, the letters A-N-E-T-R-O-L-A-D looked remarkable. But the third T in the letters Triantal told me, as they doubtless tell you the truth, Triantal must be Triangle, for the word Three occurs just before. Make the italicized T's into cheese then, and we get the words Negro, Giant, Triangle, Dig, and Good. Then it was that in looking carefully at the results now reached, and trying to find upon what system, if any, the old man had constructed his puzzle, that I suddenly came upon the absurd truth. I found that Z stood for A, Y stood for B, and X stood for C. This transparent transposition obtained throughout. Look here. Tom Wetterborn wrote the alphabet, and beneath it a reverse of all the letters. A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P, Q, R, S, T, U, V, W, X, Y, Z. Z, Y, X, W, V, N, T, S, R, Q, P, O, N, M, L, K, J, I, H, G, F, E, D, C, B, A. There you are in a nutshell. It holds in every case accepting J and Q. By slip of his pen, the writer of the enigma wrote Q for T, instead of G for T. Doubtless in his original plan as above, he had made the letter G look like Q, and so put it down wrongly from the beginning to end. But when he wanted G, he looked forward to the top line and found that T stood for it clearly enough. The remarkable fact is that he did not use the letter J once. If he had done so, he must have instantly discovered his mistake. Wonderful, to be sure. And that clears it all up. Completely. Use the above-chartedly-simple code when it is still necessary to do so, and you will find the boldest, most concise statement possible. Here is the full solution. It requires no genius after all to come at it. I have only added a comma here and there. He gave Mr. Hargan a final paper from his bag. The enigma appeared clear enough now. On a night past, I rose betimes, called me a negro lad, fastened mules to a vehicle, and went abroad to the confines of my estate, who are three giant stones stand in a triangle, and at a distance of eighty-six yards from the most northern, he mocked M upon his face. I set my slave to dig. He made a hole of four good feet in depth, and therein I laid my wealth. Then the black filled the hole, and scattered afar what earth remained. Dead men tell no tales. I've returned with my mules alone. Enoch Wetterborn. The wicked old chap shot this wretched slave evidently, probably left him where he fell, and then went home, having made his secret absolutely secure. I've told you such of his subsequent history as I know myself. The question now is, are there any means of knowing what constituted the confines of his estate? If they are now built over, of course the quest is doomed. If they were built over, the money would probably have turned up, said Mr. Hargan. No, the confines of the estate are pretty much as they were when my grandfather became possessed of it. As to the giant stones, there are enough of them to make her search rather hopeless, I should fear. Still five thousand abloons might be worth a little trouble. I want no help, in fact. The quieter the thing is kept, the better. That I may have your permission to preserve this enigma to the end is all I ask. Then, forgive me for being so businesslike, but what share shall you claim, sir? Mr. Hargan was a rich man, with one daughter only, and she being already engaged to an affluent Barbados merchant. The elderly Dane had few cares. Moreover, Tom Wetterborn took his fancy. The lad was bright, resolute, clever, and modest before his bedders. As to that, my lad, as I have told you, we shall not quarrel. I have only one chick, and she is provided for. I'll be businesslike, too, and write the statement which will place you quite safe, even though the doubloons, when they do turn up, make me feel greedy. Tom thanked his new friend, and there were tears in the young fellow's eyes as he did so. He was already building castles in the air. It struck him that, in addition to the money, there might be among the precious jewels, also alleged to be hidden, some of a nature to please Mr. Hargan's daughter. Chapter 2 The Finding of the Triangle Tom said about his great task in a steady and methodical fashion. He found that Mr. Hargan's property extended considerably beyond the confines of the old Wetterborn estates, but the limits of the latter were clearly enough marked upon the map put before him. Of this he made a careful copy, then engaged a room at St. Thomas, and spent the first few days and long excursions over Mr. Hargan's lands. The old Dane took no little interest in the youth, and offered him aid of every sort, but Tom declined all help. I'm going to thrash the thing out with no assistance but your, sir, he said. You have already done more than I had a right to help. For the rest I'll tackle the job alone. I mean digging up those doubloons, myself. You'll find speed in pickwork, poor fun lad. Grandfunny, remember what I'm digging for. In the early dawn of the day before Tom started upon his preliminary task of clearly marking out the boundaries of his ancestors' estate, Mr. Hargan lent him a pony, and himself accompanied the youth on a long ride. The trip was uneventful, save for one incident. The older man's knowledge of the island enabled him to show Tom the ruined foundations of an old dwelling. She drank trance, et cetera, said Mr. Hargan. Look well at this rubbish heap, young sir. This is where he and the Gwaderborn once lived in pomp and state and savage blackardism. From here he started on that fateful morning more than a hundred years ago. Probably he sneaked off quietly at a very early hour indeed, put his mules into the shafts of his vehicle himself, and only divulged his purposes to one poor devil of a slave, whose knowledge presently cost in his life. Then the old rascal came plattering back home, got out of his cart and marched in doors to assumptions breakfast, and something strong with it. The mansion itself must have stood hard upon the northwestern boundary of the estate. This point the map showed clearly. It seemed probable, therefore, that Enoch had pushed for the more distant northeastern borders of his territory on that bygone morning. Or the callous old gentleman might, after all, have merely gone round the corner, as it were, and buried his doubloons close at hand. In that case he had doubtless put his murdered slave underground too. For the adjacent regions of the property, so nearer the Great House itself, were, of course, well known and more or less frequented. The young explorer's first task was a difficult one, and seemed likely to take him longer than he had bargained for. The margins of the old estate turned and twisted a good deal, and the greatest care and accuracy would clearly be necessary in following and defining them. Finally it was upon the northern mountain side that Tom Wetterborn began his work. Four and a half good miles of strong twine would be needed to mark the boundary. So, four and a half miles of twine he purchased at Mr. Hargan's Bonanza Store. Then he entered on his labors with a stout heart. Older heads would have taken more thought before action. Older hands would not have refused Mr. Hargan's offer of Negro labor for the preliminary arduous duties, but Tom had his own ideas and all his life before him. The knowledge gained from a site of Enoch Wetterborn's mansion had modified to some extent our treasure hunter's scheme. He had finally determined that the confines of the estate in the cryptogram must really denote a spot as distant from the house as possible. And this spot he found, first on the map, then in the forest. Here he set up a landmark and began working back from there. He traced out the boundary for half a mile on either side of the landmark, and determined thoroughly to search this tract, a mile in all, before proceeding. If, as he suspected, the triangle of giant stones lay somewhere within the 1700 and 60 yards he now traced out, further labor with the boundary line itself would be unnecessary. He soon found that the more the wit of his brain saved the sweat of his brow, the better. Eventually Tom investigated 300 yards the first day and a like extent of difficult land upon the second. Towards the evening of the third day there came an answering object to his quest, for a chance upon three boulders. One appointed Craig, the other's even larger in bulk, but less prominent to being lower and broader. Tom's discovery was made from a perch in a tree. It already climbed many under the impression that the giant rocks, when visible, would be better seen, and the relative positions more nearly appreciated from such a position. And here at last appeared a definite triangle. Each corner of it situate at about equal distances from the other two, with the tallest rock jutting up above the dense undergrowth, and standing due north from his fellows. Young Wetterborn nearly broke his neck tumbling down the tree. Then he made for the base of the adjacent boulder, praying very heartily on his way that this, in truth, might be him marked M on his face. But the day was done. He had no time to make any search that night. The three rocks stood at a distance of twenty-four yards apart, and noting their positions with care, Tom departed weary enough, but buoyed by grand hopes and fluttering on the verge of triumph. He slept little that night, and tramped back to the rocky triangle by four o'clock next morning. With the dawn he began his search again, and by breakfast time came upon what he so greatly desired to find. Time had eaten away the stone, dimmed the outlines, and roughened the edges of the scratched and deeply cut record, but a sort of yellow lichen grew within it, and the feature of the cryptogram was thus preserved. Only, instead of the letter M, graven upon the lonely rock, the letter N appeared. There was no possibility of making any error here, and the circumstance occupied young Witterborn's brains entirely until he found an obvious answer to it. M stood for N in his dead and gone relations puzzle. Doubtless it did so in the case of this particular letter, as elsewhere. Thus, after a century of silence, that secret sign came to the eye of one who could gaze with knowledge upon it and read its inner significance. Tom made a tremendous search in the immediate neighborhood through the rest of that day, but not so much as a bleached bone or a rusty pick rewarded him. This, however, was a matter of little moment. He had found the very center and egg of Enoch Witterborn's conceit. So, light at heart, he went back to his lodging, and during the evening detailed to Mr. Hargan the result of the day's work. After only a fortnight's labor I am almost in touch with the doubloons, said he. Poor lad! He did not know how often fate helps the earlier stages of an enterprise that subsequent rebuffs shall taste the more bitter. He had still to learn the fact that ambition half gratifies brings worse torture into life than complete failure. End of section 26