 The Bet 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 Josh Kibbe one It was a dark autumn night The old banker was pacing from corner to corner of his study Recalling to his mind the party he gave in the autumn 15 years before There are many clever people at the party and a much interesting conversation They talked among other things of capital punishment the guests among them not a few scholars and journalists for the most part Disapproved of capital punishment. They founded obsolete as a means of punishment unfitted to a Christian state and immoral Some of them thought that capital punishment should be replaced universally by life imprisonment. I don't agree with you said the host I myself have experienced neither capital punishment nor life imprisonment But if one may judge a priori then in my opinion capital punishment is more moral and more humane than imprisonment Execution kills instantly life imprisonment kills by degrees Who is the more humane executioner one who kills you in a few seconds or one who draws the life out of you incessantly for years They're both equally immoral remarked one of the guests because their purpose is the same to take away life The state is not god. It has no right to take away that which it cannot give back if it should so desire Among the company was a lawyer a young man of about 25. I'm being asked his opinion. He said Capital punishment and life imprisonment are equally immoral, but if I were offered the choice between them I would certainly choose the second. It's better to live somehow than not to live at all There ensued a lively discussion the banker who was then younger and more nervous Suddenly lost his temper banged his fist on the table and turning to the young lawyer cried out It's a lie. I bet you two millions you wouldn't stick in a cell even for five years If you mean it seriously replied the lawyer, then I bet I'll stay not five but 15 15 Done cried the banker gentleman. I stake two millions Agreed you stake two millions. I my freedom said the lawyer So this wild ridiculous bet came to pass The banker who at that time had too many millions to count spoiled and capricious was beside himself with rapture During supper. He said to the lawyer jokingly Come to your senses young roan before it's too late Two millions are nothing to me But you stand to lose three or four of the best years of your life I say three or four because you'll never stick it out any longer Don't forget either you unhappy man that voluntary is much heavier than enforced imprisonment The idea that you have the right to free yourself at any moment will poison the whole of your life in the cell I pity you And now the banker pacing from corner to corner recalled all this and asked himself Why did I make this bet? What's the good the lawyer loses 15 years of his life and I throw away two millions Will it convince people that capital punishment is worse or better than imprisonment for life? No, no all stuff and rubbish A my party was the caprice of a well-fed man on the lawyer's pure greed of gold He recollected further what happened after the evening party It was decided that the lawyer must undergo his imprisonment under the strictest observation in a garden wing of the banker's house It was agreed that during the period he would be deprived of the right to cross the threshold To see living people to hear human voices and to receive letters and newspapers He was permitted to have a musical instrument to read books to write letters to drink wine and smoke tobacco By the agreement he could communicate but only in silence with the outside world Through a little window specially constructed for this purpose Everything necessary books music wine He could receive in any quantity by sending a note through the window The agreement provided for all the minutest details Which made the confinement strictly solitary and it obliged the lawyer to remain exactly 15 years from 12 o'clock of november 14th 1870 to 12 o'clock of november 14th 1885 the least attempt on his part to violate the conditions to escape if only for two minutes before the time Freed the banker from the obligation to pay him the two millions During the first year of imprisonment the lawyer as far as it was possible to judge from his short notes Suffered terribly from loneliness and boredom from his wing day and night came the sound of the piano He rejected wine and tobacco Wine he wrote excites desires and desires of the chief foes of a prisoner Besides nothing is more boring than to drink good wine alone and tobacco spoils the air in his room During the first year the lawyer was sent books of a light character novels with a complicated love interest stories of crime and fantasy comedies and so on In the second year the piano was heard no longer and the lawyer asked only for classics In the fifth year music was heard again and the prisoner asked for wine Those who watched him said that during the whole of that year. He was only eating drinking and lying on his bed He on to often and talked angrily to himself Books he did not read sometimes at night. He would sit down to write He would write for a long time and tear it all up in the morning more than once he was heard to weep In the second half of the sixth year the prisoner began zealously to study languages philosophy and history He fell on these subjects so hungrily that the banker hardly had time to get books in a form In the space of four years about 600 volumes were bought at his request It was while that passion lasted that the banker received the following letter from the prisoner My dear jailer, I am writing these lines in six languages Show them to experts let them read them if they do not find one single mistake I beg you to give orders to have a gun fired off in the garden by the noise I shall know that my efforts have not been in vain The geniuses of all ages and countries speak in different languages But in them all burns the same flame Oh if you knew my heavenly happiness now that I can understand them The prisoner's desire was fulfilled two shots were fired in the garden by the banker's order Later on after the tenth year the lawyer sat a movable before his table and read only the new testament The banker found it strange that a man who in four years had mastered 600 erudite volumes Should have spent nearly a year in reading one book easy to understand it by no means thick The new testament was then replaced by the history of religions and theology During the last two years of his confinement the prisoner read an extraordinary amount quite haphazard Now he would apply himself to the natural sciences then he would read Byron or Shakespeare Notes used to come from him in which he asked to be sent at the same time a book on chemistry A textbook on medicine a novel and some treaties on philosophy or theology He read as though he were swimming in the sea among broken pieces of wreckage And in his desire to save his life was eagerly grasping one piece after another Two The banker recalled all this and thought Tomorrow at 12 o'clock he receives his freedom Under the agreement I shall have to pay him two millions If I pay it's all over with me. I am ruined forever Fifteen years before he had too many millions to count But now he was afraid to ask himself which he had more of money or debts Gambling on the stock exchange risky speculation and the recklessness of which he could not rid himself even in old age had gradually brought his business to decay And the fearless self-confident proud man of business had become an ordinary banker Trimbling at every rise and fall in the market That cursed bet murmured the old man clutching his head in despair Why didn't the man die? He's only 40 years old He will take away my last farthing, marry, enjoy life And I will look on like an envious beggar and hear the same words from him every day I'm obliged to you for the happiness of my life Let me help you No, it's too much The only escape from bankruptcy and disgrace Is that the man should die The clock had just struck three The banker was listening And the house everyone was asleep And one could hear only the frozen trees whining outside the windows Trying to make no sound he took out of his safe the key of the door Which had not been opened for fifteen years put on his overcoat And went out of the house The garden was dark and cold It was raining A damp penetrating wind Howled in the garden and gave the trees no rest Though he strained his eyes the banker could see neither the ground Nor the white statues Nor the garden wing nor the trees Approaching the garden wing he called the watchman twice There was no answer Evidently the watchman had taken shelter from the bad weather and was now asleep somewhere in the kitchen or the greenhouse If I have the courage to fulfill my intention, thought the old man, the suspicion will fall in the watchman first of all In the darkness he groped for the steps in the door and entered the hall of the garden wing then poked his way into a narrow passage and struck a match Not a soul was there Someone's bed with no bedcloths on it stood there and an iron stove loomed dark in the corner The seals on the door that led into the prisoner's room were unbroken When the match went out the old man trembling from agitation peeped into the little window In the prisoner's room a candle was burning dimly The prisoner himself sat by the table Only his back, the hair on his head and his hands were visible Opened books were strewn about on the table, the two chairs and on the carpet near the table Five minutes passed and the prisoner never once stirred Fifteen years confinement had taught him to sit motionless The banker tapped on the window with his finger, but the prisoner made no movement in reply Then the banker cautiously tore the seals from the door and put the key into the lock The rusty lock gave a horse groan in the door creaked The banker expected instantly to hear a cry of surprise in the sound of steps Three minutes passed and it was as quiet inside as it had been before He made up his mind to enter Before the table set a man, unlike an ordinary human being It was a skeleton with tight-drawn skin With long curly hair like a woman's and a shaggy beard The color of his face was yellow of an earthly shade The cheeks were sunken, the back long and narrow and the hand upon which he leaned his hairy head was so lean and skinny that it was painful to look upon His hair was already silvering with gray and no one who glanced at the senile emaciation of the face would have believed that he was only forty years old On the table before his bended head lay a sheet of paper on which something was written in a tiny hand Poor devil thought the banker He's asleep and probably seen millions in his dreams I have only to take and throw this half-dead thing on the bed Smother him a moment with the pillow and the most careful examination will find no trace of unnatural death But first let us read what he has written here The banker took the sheet from the table and read Tomorrow at twelve o'clock midnight I shall obtain my freedom and the right to mix with people But before I leave this room and see the sun I think it necessary to say a few words to you On my own clear conscience and before God who sees me I declare to you that I despise freedom Life, health, and all that your books call the blessings of the world For fifteen years I have diligently studied earthly life True I saw neither the earth nor the people But in your books I drank fragrant wine Sang songs, hunted deer and wild boar And the forests, loved women And beautiful women, like clouds ethereal Created by the magic of your poet's genius Visited me by night and whispered to me Wonderful tales, which made my head drunken In your books I climbed the summits of Elbrus and Mont Blanc And saw from there how the sun rose in the morning And in the evenings effused the sky, the ocean And the mountain ridges with the purple gold I saw from there how above me lightning's glimmered Cleaving the clouds I saw green forests, fields, rivers, lakes, cities I heard sirens singing and the playing of the pipes of pan I touched the wings of beautiful devils Who came flying to me to speak of God In your books I cast myself into bottomless abysses Worked miracles, burned cities to the ground Preached new religions, conquered whole countries Your books gave me wisdom All that unwearing human thought created in the centuries Is compressed to a little lump in my skull I know that I am cleverer than you all And I despise your books Despise all worldly blessings and wisdom Everything is void, frail, visionary and delusive as a mirage Though you be proud and wise and beautiful Yet will death wipe you from the face of the earth Like the mice underground And your posterity, your history, and the immortality Of your men of genius will be as frozen slag Burnt down together with the terrestrial globe You are mad and gone the wrong way You take falsehood for truth and ugliness for beauty You would marvel if suddenly Apple and orange tree should bear frogs and lizards Instead of fruit, and if roses should begin to breathe The odor of a sweating horse So do I marvel at you Who have bartered heaven for earth I do not want to understand you That I may show you indeed my contempt for that by which you live I wave the two millions of which I once dreamed as of paradise And which I now despise That I shall deprive myself of my right to them I shall come out from here five minutes before the stipulated term And thus shall violate the agreement When he had read The banker put the sheet on the table Kissed the head of the strange man And began to weep He went out of the wing Never at any other time Not even after his terrible losses on the exchange Had he felt such contempt for himself as now Coming home, he lay down on his bed But agitation and tears kept him a long time from sleeping The next morning, the poor watchman came running to him And told him that they had seen the man who lived in the wing Climb through the window into the garden He had gone to the gate and disappeared The banker instantly went with his servants to the wing And established the escape of his prisoner To avoid unnecessary rumors He took the paper with the renunciation from the table And, on his return, locked it in his safe End of The Bet by Anton Chekhov A cowboy college needed to educate young men to this profession by Bill Nye No one can go through the wide territory of Montana today without being strongly impressed with the wonderful growth of the great cattle growing and grazing industry of that territory And yet Montana is but the northern extremity of the great grazing belt Which lies at the foot of the Rocky Mountains Extending from the British possessions on the north to the Mexican border on the south Extending eastward, too, as far as the arable lands of Dakota, Nebraska, and Kansas Montana, at this season of the year, is the paradise of the sleek, high-headed two-year-old Texan steer With his tail over the dashboard As well as the stock yearling born on the range Beneath the glorious mountain sky And under the auspices of Roundup Number 21 I do not say this to advertise the stock-growing business Because it is already advertised too much anyway So many millionaires have been made with free grass And the early rising automatic branding iron That every man in the United States who has a cow That can stand the journey seems to be about to take her west And embark in business as a cattle king But let me warn the amateur cowman that in the great grazing regions It takes a good many acres of thin grass To maintain an adult steer in affluence for 12 months And the great pastures at the base of the mountains Are being pretty well tested Moreover, I believe that these great conventions of cattleman With free grass and easily acquired fortunes Are naturally advertised Will tend to overstock their ranges at last And founder the goose that now lays the golden egg This, of course, is none of my business But if I don't now and then refer to matters That do not concern me, I would be regarded as reticent My intention, however, in approaching the great cow industry Which, by the way, is anything but an industry Being, in fact, more like a seductive manner Whereby a promissory note acquires 2% per month Without even stopping to spit on its hands Has to refer incidentally to the proposition of an English friend of mine This friend, seeing at once the great magnitude of the cow industry And the necessity for more and more cowboys Has suggested the idea of establishing a cowboys college Or training school For self-made young men who desire to become accomplished The average Englishman will most always think of something That nobody else would naturally think of Now our cattleman would have gone on for years With his great sterium porium Without thinking of establishing an institution Where a poor boy might go and learn to rope a 4-year-old In such a way as to throw him on his stomach With a sickening thud The young Maverick Savant could take a kindergarten course In the study of cow brands Here, a wide field opens up to the scholar The adult steer in the great realm of beef Is now a walking Chinese washbill A Hindu poem in the original junk shop alphabet A four-legged Greek inscription Punctuated with Jimjams A stenographer's notes on a riot A bird's eye view of a premature explosion In a hardware store The cowboy who can at once grapple with the great problem Of where to put the steer with the B bar B on the left shoulder Key circle G on the left side Heart D heart on the right hip Left ear crop Waddle to waddle And seven hands round with dash B dash On the right shoulder Vented waddle on do lap vented And PDQ COD and NG Vented on the right side keeping track of the transfers Range and post office of last owner Has certainly got a future Which lies mostly ahead of him But now that the idea has been turned loose I shall look forward to the time When wealthy men who have been in the habit of dying And leaving their money to other institutions Will meet with a change of heart And begin to endow the Cowboys College And the Maverick Hotbed of Bronco Sciences We live in an age of rapid advancement In all branches of learning And people who do not rise early in the morning Will not retain their position in the procession I look forward with confidence to the day When no cowboy will undertake to ride the range Without a diploma Educated labor is what we need Cowboys who can tell you in scientific terms Why it is always the biggest steer That eats pigeonweed in the spring And why he should swell up and bust On a rising Chicago market I hope that the day is not far distant When in the holster of a cowboy We will find the Iliad instead of the Kiliad The Abridge Dictionary Instead of Mr. Remington's great work on homicide As it is now on the ranges You might ride till your Mexican saddle aches Before you could find a cowboy Who carries a dictionary with him For that reason the language used on the general roundup Is at times grammatically incorrect And many of our leading cowboys spell Cavillard with a K A college on riding, roping, branding, cutting out, Corraling, loading and unloading And handling cattle generally Would be a great boon to our young men Who are at present groping in dark And pitiable ignorance Of the habits of the untutored cow Let the young man first learn How to sit up three nights in succession Through the bad March snowstorm And hold a herd of restless cattle Let him then ride through the hot sun And alkali dust a week or two Subsisting on a chunk of disagreeable side pork Just large enough to bait a trap Then let his horse fall on him And injure his constitution and preamble All these things would give the cow student an idea Of how to ride the range The amateur who has never tried to ride a skittish And sulky range has still a great deal to learn Perhaps I have said too much on this subject But when I get thoroughly awakened On this great porterhouse stake problem I am apt to carry the matter too far The end of a cowboy college needed For the education of men to this profession By Bill Nye Detected by the camera by Lucy Maud Montgomery 1874 to 1942 This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information, all to volunteer Please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Peter Tomlinson Detected by the camera by Lucy Maud Montgomery One summer I was attacked by the craze For amateur photography It became chronic afterwards And I and my camera had never since been parted We have had some odd adventures together And one of the most novel of their experiences Was that in which we played the part of chief witness Against Ned Brooke I may say that my name is Amy Clark That I believe I am considered the best amateur photographer In our part of the country That is all I need to tell you about myself Mr. Carroll had asked me to photograph his place for him When the apple orchards were in bloom He has a picturesque old-fashioned country house Behind a lawn of the most delightful old trees And flanked on each side by the orchards So I went one June afternoon With all my accoutrements Prepared to take the Carroll establishment in my best style Mr. Carroll was away but was expected home soon So he waited for him As all the family wished to be photographed Under the big maple at the front door I prowled around among the shrubbery At the lower end of the lawn And after a great deal of squinting from various angles I had last fixed upon the spot From which I thought the best view of the house might be obtained Then Gertie and Lillian Carroll And I got into the hammocks And swung at our leisure Enjoying the cool breeze Squeaking through the maples Ned Brooke was hanging around as usual Watching us furtively Ned was one of the hopeful members of a family That lived in a tumbledown shanty Just across the road from the Carrolls They were wretchedly poor And old Brooke, as he was called And Ned were employed a good deal by Mr. Carroll More out of charity than anything else, I fancy The Brooks had a rather shady reputation They were notoriously lazy And it was suspected that their line of distinction Between their own and their neighbour's goods Was not very clearly drawn Many people censored Mr. Carroll For encouraging them at all But he was too kind-hearted to let them suffer Actual want and, as a consequence, One or other of them was always dodging about his place Ned was a lank, towel-headed youth of about fourteen With shifty, twinkling eyes That could never look you straight in the face His appearance was anything but prepossessing And I always felt, when I looked at him, That if anyone wanted to do a piece of shady work by proxy Ned Brooke would be the very lad for the business Mr. Carroll came at last And we all went down to meet him at the gate Ned Brooke also came shuffling along To take the horse And Mr. Carroll tossed the reins to him And at the same time handed a pocketbook to his wife Just as well to be careful where you put that He said, laughingly, There's a sum in it Not to be picked up on every gooseberry bush Gilman Harris paid me this morning For that bit of woodland I sold him last fall Five hundred dollars I promised that you and the girls Should have it to get a new piano So there it is for you Thank you, said Mrs. Carroll delightedly However, you'd better put it back in your pocket till we go in Amy is in a hurry Mr. Carroll took back the pocketbook And dropped it carelessly Into the inside pocket of the light overcoat that he wore I happened to glance at Ned Brooke just then And I could not help noticing The sudden crafty eager expression that flashed over his face He eyed the pocketbook in Mr. Carroll's hands Fertively, after which he went off with the horse In a great hurry The girls were exclaiming and thanking their father And nobody noticed Ned Brooke's behaviour but myself And it soon passed out of my mind Come to take the place, are you Amy? Said Mr. Carroll Well, everything is ready, I think I suppose we'd better proceed Where shall we stand? You'd better group us as you think best Whereupon I proceeded to arrange them in due order Under the maple Mrs. Carroll sat in a chair While her husband stood behind her Gertie stood on the steps With a basket of flowers in her hand And Lillian was at one side The two little boys, Teddy and Jack, Climbed up into the maple And little Dora, the dimple six-year-old Stood gravely in the foreground With an enormous grey cat Hugged in her chubby arms It was a pretty group in a pretty setting And I thrilled with professional pride As I stepped back for a final Knowing squinted at all Then I went to my camera Slipped in the plate Gave them due warning And took off the cap I took two plates to make sure And then the thing was over But as I had another plate left I thought I might as well take a view of the house by itself So I carried my camera to a new place And I just got everything ready to lift the cap When Mr. Carroll came down and said If you girls want to see something pretty Come to the backfield with me That will wait till you come back, won't it, Amy? So we all betook ourselves to the backfield A short distance away Where Mr. Carroll proudly displayed Two of the prettiest little Jersey cows I had ever seen We returned to the house by way of the back lane And as we came in sight of the main road My brother Cecil drove up And said that if I were ready I'd better go home with him And save myself a hot dusty walk The carols all went down to the fence To speak to Cecil But I dashed hurriedly down through the orchard Leapt over the fence into the lawn And ran to the somewhat remote corner Where I'd left my camera I was in a desperate hurry For I knew Cecil's horse Did not like to be kept waiting So I never even glanced at the house But snatched off the cap Counted two and replaced it Then I took out my plate Put it in the holder and gathered up my traps I suppose I was about five minutes at it all And I had my back to the house the whole time And when I laid all my things ready And emerged from my retreat There was nobody to be seen about the place As I hurried up through the lawn I noticed Ned Brook walking at a smart pace down the lane But the fact did not make any particular impression on me At the time And was not recalled until afterwards Cecil was waiting for me So I got in the buggy and we drove off On arriving home I shut myself up in my dark room And proceeded to develop the first two negatives Of the carol house-stead They were both excellent The first one being a trifle the better So I decided to finish from it I intended also to develop the third But just as I finished the others A half dozen city cousins swooped down upon us And I had to put away my paraphernalia Emerged from my dark retreat And fly around to entertain them The next day Cecil came in and said Did you hear, Amy, that Mr. Carrol has lost a pocketbook With five hundred dollars in it No, I exclaimed How? When? Where? Don't overwhelm a fellow I can answer only one question Last night As to the how, they don't know And as to the where Well, if they knew that There might be some hope of finding it The girls are in a bad way The money was to get them there long before piano, it seems And now it's gone But how did it happen, Cecil? Well, Mr. Carrol says that Mrs. Carrol handed the pocketbook back to him At the gate yesterday And he dropped it in the inside pocket of his overcoat I saw him do it, I cried Yes, and then, before he went to be photographed He hung his coat up in the hall It hung there until the evening And nobody seems to have thought about the money Each supposing that someone else had put it carefully away After tea Mr. Carrol put on the coat And went to see somebody over at Netherby He says the thought of the pocketbook never crossed his mind He had forgotten all about putting it in that coat pocket He came home across the fields about eleven o'clock And found that the cows had broken into the clover hay And he had a great chase before he got them out When he went in, just as he entered the door The remembrance of the money flashed over him He felt in his pocket, but there was no pocketbook there He asked his wife if she had taken it out She had not, and nobody else had There was a hole in the pocket That Mr. Carrol says it was too small for the pocketbook to have worked through However, it must have done so Unless someone took it out of his pocket at Netherby And that is not possible, because he never had his coat off And it was in an inside pocket It's not likely that they will ever see it again Someone may pick it up, of course But the chances are slim Mr. Carrol doesn't know his exact path across the fields And if he lost it while he was after the cows It's a bluer show still They've been searching all day, of course The girls are awfully disappointed A sudden recollection came to me of Ned Vrook's face As I had seen it the day before at the gate Coupled with the remembrance of seeing him walking down the lane At a quick pace, so unlike his usual shambling gate While I ran through the lawn How do they know it was lost, I said Perhaps it was stolen before Mr. Carrol went to Netherby They think not, said Cecil Who would have stolen it? Ned Vrook, I saw him hanging around And he never saw such a look As came over his face when he heard Mr. Carrol Say there was five hundred dollars in that pocketbook Well, I did suggest to them that Ned might know something about it For I remembered having seen him go down the lane While I was waiting for you But they won't hear of such a thing The Vrooks are kind of protégés of theirs You know, and they won't believe anything bad of them If Ned did take it, however There's not a shadow of evidence against him No, I suppose not, I answered thoughtfully But the more I think it over The more I'm convinced that he took it You know, we all went to the back field To look at the jerseys And all that time the coat was hanging there in the hall And not a soul in the house And it was just after we came back That I saw Ned scuttling down the lane so fast I mentioned my suspicions to the Carrols a few days afterwards When I went down with the photographs And found that they had discovered no trace of the lost pocketbook But they seemed positively angry When I hinted that Ned Vrook Might know more about its whereabouts than anyone else They declared that they would As soon think of suspecting one of themselves as Ned And altogether they seemed so offended at my suggestion That I held my peace And didn't irritate them by any more suppositions Afterwards, in the excitement of our cousin's visit The matter passed out of my mind completely They stayed two weeks And I was so busy the whole time That I never got a chance to develop that third plate And in fact I'd forgotten all about it One morning soon after they went away I remembered the plate And decided to go and develop it Cecil went with me And we shut ourselves up in our den Lit our Ruby lantern and began operations I did not expect much of the plate Because it had been exposed and handled carelessly And I thought that it might prove to be underexposed Or light struck So I left Cecil to develop it While I prepared the fixing bath Cecil was wishling away When suddenly he gave a tremendous Phew of astonishment and sprang to his feet Amy, Amy, look here, he cried I rushed to his side and looked at the plate As he held it up in the rosy light It was a splendid one And the carol house came out clear With the front door and the steps in full view And there, just in the act of stepping from the threshold Was the figure of a boy with an old straw hat on his head And, in his hand, the pocket-book He was standing with his head turned towards the corner of the house As if listening, with one hand holding his ragged coat open And the other poised in mid-air with the pocket-book As if he were just going to put it in his inside pocket The whole scene was as clear as noonday And nobody with eyes in his head Could have failed to recognise Ned Brooke Goodness, I gasped In with it, quick And we doused the thing in the fixing bath And then sat down breathlessly and looked at each other I say, Amy, said Cecil What a sell this will be on the carols Ned Brooke couldn't do such a thing Oh no, the poor injured boy At whom everyone has such an unlawful pick I wonder if this will convince them Do you think they can get it all back, I asked It's not likely he would have dared to use any of it yet I don't know We'll have a try anyhow How long before this plate will be dry enough to carry down to the carols As circumstantial evidence Three hours or thereabouts, I answered But perhaps sooner I'll take two prints off when it's ready I wonder what the carols will say It's a piece of pure luck That the plate should have turned out so well After the slap-dash way in which it was taken and used I say, Amy, isn't this quite an adventure At last the plate was dry and I printed two proofs We wrapped it up carefully and marched down to Mr Carols You never saw people so overcome with astonishment as the carols were When Cecil, with the air of a statesman unfolding the evidence of some dreadful conspiracy against the peace and welfare of the nation, produced the plate and the proofs and held them out before them Mr Carol and Cecil took the proofs and went over to the Brooke Shanty They found only Ned and his mother at home At first Ned, when taxed with his guilt, denied it But when Mr Carol confronted him with the proofs He broke down in a spasm of terror and confessed all His mother produced the pocketbook and the money They had not dared to spend a single cent of it And Mr Carol went home in triumph Perhaps Ned Brooke ought not to have been let off so easily as he was But his mother cried and pleaded And Mr Carol was too kind-hearted to resist So he did not punish them at all, save by utterly discarding the whole family and their concerns The place got too hot for them after the story came out And in less than a month all moved away Much to the benefit of Mapleton End of Detected by the Camera by Lucy Mord Montgomery A Fatal Thirst by Bill Nye 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 Dale Grossman A Fatal Thirst by Bill Nye From the London Lancet we learned that many years ago A case was recorded by Dr Otto of Copenhagen In which 495 needles passed through the skin of a hysterical girl Who had probably swallowed them during a hysterical paroxysm But they all emerged from the regions below the diaphragm And were collected in groups, which gave rise to inflammatory swellings of some size One of these contained a hundred needles Quite recently, Dr Bigger described before the Society of Surgery in Dublin A case in which more than 300 needles were removed from the body of a woman It was very remarkable in how few cases the needles were the cause of death And how slight an interference with functioned their presence and movement caused It would seem from the cases on record that needles in the system Rather assist the digestion and promote longevity For instance, we will suppose that the hysterical girl above alluded to With 495 needles in her stomach should absorb the midsummer cucumber Think how interesting those needles would make it for the great colic promoter We can imagine the cheerful smile of the cucumber as it enters the stomach And, bowing cheerfully to the follicles standing around, hangs its hand upon the walls of the stomach Stands its umbrella in the corner and proceeds to get in its work All at once the cucumber looks surprised and grieved about something It stops in its heaven-born colic generation and pulls a rusty needle out of its person Maddened by the pain it once more attacks the digestive apparatus And once more accumulates a choice job lot of needles Again and again it enters into the unequal contest each time losing ground and gaining ground Till the poor cucumber with assorted hardware sticking out in all directions Like the hair on a cat's tail at last curls up like a caterpillar and yields up the victory Still this needle business will be expensive to husbands if wives once acquire the habit And allow it to obtain the mastery over them If a wife once permits this demoned appetite for cambrick needles to get control of the house It will soon secure a majority of the senate and then there will be trouble The woman who once begins to tamper with cambrick needles is not safe She may think that she has power to control her appetite But it is only a step to the maddening thirst for the darning needle And perhaps the buttonhook and carpet stretcher It is safer and better to crush the first desire for needles than to undertake when it is too late Reformation from the abject slavery to this hellish thirst We once knew a sweet young creature with dewy eye and breath like Timothy Hay Her merry laugh rippled out from the summer air like the joyful music of a bald-headed bobblex Everybody loved her and she loved everybody too But in a thoughtless moment she swallowed a cambrick needle This did not satisfy her The cruel thraldom had begun Whenever she felt depressed and gloomy There was nothing that would kill her Inuit and melancholy But the fatal needle-cushion From this she became more reckless Till there was hardly an hour that she was not under the influence of needles If she couldn't get needles to assuage her mad thirst She would take hairpins or door-keys She gradually pined away to a mere skeleton She could no longer sit on one foot and be happy Life for her was filled with opaque gloom and sadness At last she took an overdose of sheep shears and monkey wrenches one day And on the following morning her soul had lit out for the land of eternal summer We should learn from this to shun the maddening needle-cushion As we would a viper and never tell a lie The end of A Fatal Thirst by Bill Nye In Densher, from Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship by Johann Goethe, translated by Thomas Carlisle This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org This is from Book 7, Chapter 9 On returning to Lothario's castle, Wilhelm found that changes had occurred Jarno met him with the tidings that Lothario's uncle being dead, the baron had himself set out to take possession of the heritage You come in time, said he, to help the Abbey and me Lothario has commissioned us to purchase some extensive properties of land in this quarter He has long contemplated the bargain, and we now got cash and credit just in season The only point which made us hesitate was that a distant trading house had also views upon the same estates At length we have determined to make common cause with it, as otherwise we might outbid each other without need or reason The trader seems to be a prudent man, at present we are making estimates and calculations And must also settle economically how the lands are to be shared, so that each of us may have a fine estate The papers were submitted to our friend, the fields, meadows, houses were inspected, and though Jarno and the Abbey seemed to understand the matter fully, Wilhelm could not help desiring that Teresa had been with them In these labours several days were spent, and Wilhelm had scarcely time to tell his friends of his adventures and his dubious fatherhood This incident to him, so interesting, they treated with indifference and levity He had noticed that they frequently in confidential conversation while at table or in walks Would suddenly stop short and give their words another application Whereby showing at least that they had on the anvil many things which were concealed from him He bethought him of what Lydia had said, and he put the greater faith in it as one entire division of the castle Had always been inaccessible to him The way to certain galleries, particularly to the ancient tower, with which externally he was so well acquainted He had often sought, and hitherto in vain One evening Jarno said to him, we can now consider you as ours with such security That it were unjust if we did not introduce you deeper into our mysteries It is right that a man when he first enters upon life should think highly of himself Should determine to attain many eminent distinctions Should endeavor to make all things possible But when his education has proceeded to a certain pitch It is advantageous for him that he learned to lose himself among a mass of men That he might learn that he learned to live for the sake of others And to forget himself in an activity prescribed by duty It is then that he first becomes acquainted with himself For it is conduct alone that compares us with others You shall soon see what a curious little world is at your very hand and how well you are known in it Tomorrow morning before sunrise be dressed and ready Jarno came at the appointed time, he led our friend through certain known and unknown chambers of the castle Then through several galleries, till at last they reached a large old door, strongly framed with iron Jarno knocked, the door went up a little, so as to admit one person Jarno shoved in our friend, but did not follow him Bill him found himself in an obscure and narrow stand, all was dark around him And when he tried to go a step forward, he found himself hemmed in A voice not altogether strange to him cried, Enter! and he now discovered that the sides of the place where he was were merely hung with tapestry Through which a feeble light glimmered into him Enter! cried the voice again, he raised the tapestry and entered The hall in which he now stood appeared to have at one time been a chapel Instead of the altar he observed a large table raised some steps above the floor And covered with a green cloth hanging over it On top of this a drawn curtain seemed as if it hit a picture On the sides were spaces beautifully worked And covered in with fine wire netting like the shelves of a library Only here, instead of books, a multitude of rolls had been inserted Nobody was in the hall, the rising sun shown through the window right on Velhelm And kindly saluted him as he came in Be seated cried a voice which seemed to issue from the altar Velhelm placed himself in a small armchair which stood against the tapestry where he had entered There was no seat but this in the room Velhelm had to be content with it though the morning radiance dazzled him The chair stood fast and he could only keep his hand before his eyes But now the curtain which hung above the altar went asunder with a gentle rustling And showed within a picture frame a dark empty aperture A man stepped forward at it in a common dress saluted the astonished looker on And said to him, do you not recognize me? Among the many things which you would like to know Do you feel no curiosity to learn where your grandfather's collection Of pictures and statues are at present? Have you forgot the painting which you want so much delighted in? Where, think you, is the sick king's son now languishing? Velhelm, without difficulty, recognized the stranger, Whom in that important night he had conversed with at the inn Perhaps continued his interrogator. We should now be less at variance in regard to destiny and character Velhelm was about to answer when the curtain quickly flew together Strange, said Velhelm to himself, can chance occurrences have a connection? Is what we call destiny but chance? Where is my grandfather's collection? And why am I reminded of it in these solemn moments? He had not leisure to pursue his thoughts, the curtain once more Parted, and a person stood before him, whom he instantly perceived To be the country clergyman that had attended him and his companions On that pleasure sale of theirs. He had a resemblance to the abbey, though he seemed to be a Different person, with a cheerful countenance, in a tone of dignity He said, to guard from air is not that instructor's duty, but to Lead the airing pupil. Nay, to let him quaff his error in deep satiating drafts, This is the instructor's wisdom. He who only tastes his air will long dwell with it, Will take delight in it as in a singular felicity, While he who drains it to the dregs, well, if he be not crazy, find it out. The curtain closed again, and Velhelm had a little time to think. What air can he mean? said he within himself, But the error which has clung to me through my whole life, That I sought for cultivation where it was not to be found, That I fancied I could form a talent in me, While without the smallest gifts for it. The curtain dashed asunder faster than before, An officer advanced, and set in passing, Learned to know the men who may be trusted. The curtain closed, and Velhelm did not long consider till he found This officer to be the one who had embraced him in the Count's park, And had caused his taking Yarno for a crimp, How that stranger had come hither, who he was, were riddles to our friend. If so many men, cried he, took interest in thee, Know thy way of life, and how it should be carried on, Why did they not conduct thee with greater strictness, With greater seriousness, why did they favor thy silly sports, Instead of drawing thee away from them? Dispute not with us, cried a voice, Thou art saved, thou art on the way to the goal, None of thy follies wilt thou repeat, None wilt thou wish to repeat, No luckier destiny can be allotted to a man. The curtain went asunder, and in full armor stood the old King of Denmark in the space. I am thy father's spirit, said the figure, And I depart in comfort, since my wishes for thee Are accomplished in a higher sense than I myself contemplated. Steep regions cannot be surmounted, saved by winding paths On the plain, straight roads conduct from place to place. Farewell, and think of me when thou enjoyest what I have provided for thee. Wilhelm was exceedingly amazed and struck. He thought it was his father's voice, and yet in truth it was not. The present and the past alike confounded and perplexed him. He had not meditated long when the abbey came to view, And placed himself behind the green table. Come hither, cried he, to his marvelling friend. He went and mounted up the steps. On the green cloth lay a little roll. Here is your indenture, said the abbey. Take it to heart. It is of weighty import. Wilhelm lifted, opened it, and read. Indenture. Art is long, life short. Judgment, difficult. Opportunity, transcendent. To act is easy. To think hard. To act according to our thoughts, is troublesome. Every beginning is cheerful. The threshold is the place of expectation. The boy stands astonished. His impressions guide him. He learns sportfully. Seriousness comes on him by surprise. Imitation is born with us. What should be imitated is not easy to discover. The excellent is rarely found. More rarely valued. The height charms us. The steps to it do not. With the summit in our eye, we love to walk along the plain. It is but a part of art that can be taught. The artist needs it all. Who knows at half speaks much, and is always wrong. Who knows at holy inclines to act, and speaks seldom or late. The former have no secrets and no force. The instruction they can give is like baked bread. Savory and satisfying for a single day. But flour cannot be sown, and seed-corn ought not to be ground. Words are good, but they are not the best. The best is not to be explained by words. The spirit in which we act is the highest matter. Action can be understood and again represented by the spirit alone. No one knows what he is doing while he acts a right. But of what is wrong, we are always conscious. Whoever works with symbols only is a pedant, a hypocrite or a bungler. There are many such, and they like to be together. Their babbling detains the scholar. Their obstinate mediocrity vexes even the best. The instruction which the true artist gives us opens the mind. For, where words fail him, deeds speak. The true scholar learns from the known to unfold the unknown, and approaches more and more to being a master. Enough, cried the abbey, the rest in due time. Now look round you among these cases. Wilhelm went and read the titles of the roles. With astonishment he found Lothario's apprenticeship, Yarno's apprenticeship, and his own apprenticeship placed there, with many others whose names he did not know. May I hope to cast a look into these roles? In this chamber there is now nothing hid from thee. May I put a question? Without scruple, and you may expect a positive reply, if it concerns a matter which is nearest your heart, and ought to be so. Good then. Ye marvelous sages, whose sight has pierced so many secrets. Can you tell me whether Felix is in truth my son? Hail to you for this question, cried the abbey, clapping hands for joy. Felix is your son. By the holiest that lies hid among us. I swear to you, Felix is your son. Nor, in our opinion, was the mother that is gone unworthy of you. Receive the lovely child from our hands. Turn round and venture to be happy. Wilhelm heard a noise behind him. He turned round, and saw a child's face peeping archely through the tapestry, at the end of the room. It was Felix. The boy playfully hid himself so soon as he was noticed. Come forward, cried the abbey. He came running. His father rushed towards him, took him in his arms, and pressed him to his heart. Yes, I feel it, cried he, thou art mine. What a gift of heaven have I to thank my friends for. Whence or how comeest thou my child at this important moment? Ask not, said the abbey. Hail to thee, young man. Thy apprenticeship is done. Nature has pronounced thee free. And of indenture, from Wilhelm Meister's apprenticeship and travels, by Johann Goethe, translated by Thomas Carlyle. My Friend the Murderer by Arthur Conan Doyle Number 481 is no better, doctor, said the headwater, in a slightly reproachful accent, looking in round the corner of my door. Confound 481, I responded from behind the pages of the Australian sketcher, and 61 says his tubes are painting him. Couldn't you do anything for him? He is a walking drug-shop, said I. He has the whole British pharmacopia inside him. I believe his tubes are as sound as yours are. Then there's seven and a hundred and eight. They are chronic, continued the water, glancing down a blue slip of paper. And twenty-eight knocked off work yesterday, said lifting things, gave him a stitch in the side. I want you to have a look at him, if you don't mind, doctor. There's 81 too, him that killed John Adamson in the Corinthian brig. He's been carrying on awful in the night, shrieking and yelling he has, and no stopping him either. All right, I'll have a look at him afterward, I said, tossing my paper carelessly aside, and pouring myself out a cup of coffee. Nothing else to report, I suppose, water? The official protruded his head a little further into the room. Big pardon, doctor, he said, in a confidential tone, but I notice, as 82 has a bit of a cold, and it would be a good excuse for you to visit him and have a chat, maybe. The cup of coffee was arrested half way to my lips, as I stared in amazement at the man's serious face. An excuse, I said, an excuse. What the juice are you talking about, MacPherson? You see me trudging about all day at my practice, when I'm not looking after the prisoners, and coming back every night as tired as a dog, and you talk about finding an excuse for doing more work? You'd like it, doctor, said Warder MacPherson, insinuating one of his shoulders into the room. That man's story is worth listening to, if you could get him to tell it, though he's not what you'd call free in his speech. Maybe you don't know who 82 is. No, I don't, and I don't care, either, I answered, in the conviction that some local ruffian was about to be foisted upon me as a celebrity. He's Maloney, said the Warder, him that turned Queen's evidence after the murders that blew man's dick. You don't say so, I ejaculated, laying down my cup in astonishment. I had heard of this ghastly series of murders, and read an account of them in a London magazine long before setting foot in the colony. I remembered that the atrocities committed had thrown the Birken hair-crimes completely into the shade, and that one of the most villainous of the gang had saved his own skin by betraying his companions. Are you sure, I asked? Oh, yes, it's him right enough. Just you draw him out a bit and he'll astonish you. He's a man to know, is Maloney. That's to say, in moderation. And the head grinned, bobbed, and disappeared, leaving me to finish my breakfast and ruminate over what I had heard. The sergentship of an Australian prison is not an enviable position. It may be indurable in Melbourne or Sydney, but the little town of Perth has fewer attractions to recommend it, and those few had been long exhausted. The climate was detestable, and the society far from congenial. Sheep and cattle were the staple support of the community, and their prices breeding, and diseases the principal topic of conversation. Now as I, being an outsider, possessed neither the one nor the other, and was utterly callous to the new dip and the rot and other kindred topics, I found myself in a state of mental isolation and was ready to hail anything which might relieve the monotony of my existence. Maloney, the murderer, had at least some distinctiveness and individuality in his character, and might act as a tonic to a mind sick of the common places of existence. I determined that I should follow the warder's advice and take the excuse for making his acquaintance. When, therefore, I went upon my usual machutinal round, I turned the lock of the door, which bore the convict's number upon it, and walked into the cell. The man was lying in a heap upon his rough bed as I entered, but, uncalling his long limbs, he started up and stared at me with an incident look of defiance on his face, which augured badly for our interview. He had a pale, set face and sandy hair and a steely blue eye, with something feline in its expression. His frame was tall and muscular, though there was a curious bend in his shoulders, which almost amounted to a deformity. An ordinary observer meeting him in the street might have put him down as a well-developed man, fairly handsome, and of studious habits, even in the hideous uniform of the rossinist convict establishment, he imparted a certain refinement to his carriage, which marked him out among the inferior ruffians around him. I'm not on the sick list! he said gruffly. There was something in the hard, rasping voice which dispelled all softer illusions, and made me realise that I was face to face with the man of the Lena Valley and Blumenstijk, the bloodiest bush ranger that ever stuck up a farm or cut the throats of its occupants. I know you're not, I answered. Water MacPherson told me you had a cold, though, and I thought I'd look in and see you. Blast, Water MacPherson, and blast you, too, yelled the convict in a paroxysm of rage. Oh, that's right, he added in a quieter voice. Hurry away, report me to the governor. Do. Get me another six months or so. That's your game. I'm not going to report you, I said. Eight square feet of ground, he went on, disregarding my protest, and evidently working himself into a fury again. Eight square feet, and I can't have that without being talked to and stared at, and, oh, blast the whole crew of you. And he raised his two clenched hands above his head and shook them in passionate invective. You've got a curious idea of hospitality, I remark, determined not to lose my temper, and saying almost the first thing that came to my tongue. To my surprise, the words had an extraordinary effect upon him. He seemed completely staggered at my assuming the proposition for which he had been so fiercely contending, namely that the room in which he stood was his own. I beg your pardon, he said. I didn't mean to be rude. Won't you take a seat? And he motioned towards a rough trestle which formed the headpiece of his couch. I sat down rather astonished at the sudden change. I don't know that I like Maloney better under this new aspect. The murderer had, it is true, disappeared for the knots, but there was something in the smooth tones and obsequious manner which powerfully suggested the witness of the Queen who had stood up and sworn away the lives of his companions in crime. How's your chest? I asked, putting on my professional air. Come, drop it, Doctor, drop it! He answered showing a row of white teeth as he resumed his seat upon the side of the bed. It wasn't anxiety after my precious health that brought you along here. That story won't wash at all. You came to have a look at wolf-toned Maloney, forger, murderer, Sydney slider, ranger and government peach. That's about my figure, ain't it? There it is, plain and straight. There's nothing mean about me. He paused as if he expected me to say something. But as I remained silent he repeated once or twice. There's nothing mean about me. And why shouldn't I? He suddenly yelled, his eyes gleaming and his whole satanic nature reasserting itself. We were bound to swing one and all, and they were none the worse if I saved myself by turning against them. Every man for himself, say I, and the devil take the luckiest. You haven't a plug with tobacco, Doctor, have you? He taught the peace of Barrett's, which I handed him, as reverently as a wild beast. It seemed to have the effect of soothing his nerves, for he settled himself down in the bed and reassumed his former deprecating manner. You wouldn't like it yourself, you know, Doctor, he said. It's enough to make any man a little queer in his temper. I'm in for six months this time for a thought, and very sorry I shall be to go out again, I can tell you. My mind's at ease in here, but when I'm outside, what with the government and what with Tattoo Tom of Hawkesbury, there's no chance of a quiet life. Who is he, I asked? He's the brother of John Grimthorpe, the same that was condemned on my evidence, and an infernal scamp he was too, spawn of the devil, both of them. This tattooed one is a murderous ruffian, and he swore to have my blood after that trial. It's seven years ago, and he's following me yet. I know he is, though he lies low and keeps dark. He came up to me in Valorat in 75. You can see on the back of my hand here where the bullet clipped me. He tried again in 76 at Port Phillip, but I got the drop on him and wounded him badly. He knifed me in 79, though in a bar in Adelaide, and that made our account about level. He's loafing round again now, and he'll let daylight into me, unless by some extraordinary chance someone does as much for him. And Maloney gave a very ugly smile. I don't complain of him so much, he continued. Looking at it in this way, no doubt it is a sort of family matter that can hardly be neglected. It's the government that fetches me. When I think of what I've done for this country, and then of what this country has done for me, it makes me fairly wild. Clean drives me off my head. There's no gratitude nor common decency left, doctor. He brooded over his wrongs for a few minutes, and then proceeded to lay them before me in detail. Here's nine men, he said. They've been murdering and killing for a matter of three years, and maybe a life a week wouldn't more than average the work that they've done. The government catches them, and the government tries them, but they can't convict. And why? Because the witnesses have all had their throats cut, and the whole job's been very neatly done. What happens then? What happens then? Up comes a citizen called Wolf Tone Maloney. He says, the country needs me, and here I am. And with that he gives his evidence, convicts the lot, and enables the beaks to hang them. That's what I did. There's nothing mean about me. And now what does the country do in return? Dogs me, sir, spies on me, watches me night and day, turns against a very man that works so very hard for it. There's something mean about that, anyway. I didn't expect them to night me, nor to make me colonial secretary. But damn it! I did expect that they would let me alone. Well, I remonstrated, if you choose to break laws and assault people, you can't expect to be looked over on account of former services. I don't refer to my present imprisonment, sir, said Maloney, with dignity. It's the life I've been leading since that cursed trial that takes a soul out of me. Just you sit there on that trestle, and I'll tell you all about it, and then look me in the face and tell me that I've been treated fair by the police. I shall endeavour to transcribe the experience of the convict in his own words, as far as I can remember them, preserving his curious perversions of right and wrong. I can answer for the truth of his facts, whatever may be said for his deductions from them. Months afterward, inspector H.W. Han, formerly governor of the jail at Dunedin, showed me entries in his ledger, which corroborated every statement. Maloney reeled the story off in a dull, monotonous voice, with his head sunk upon his breast and his hands between his knees. The glitter of his serpent-like eyes was the only sign of the emotions which were stirred up by the recollection of the events which he narrated. You've read of Vloomensdijk, he began, with some pride in his tone. We made it hot while it lasted, but they ran us to earth at last, and a trap called Braxton, with a damned Yankee, took the lot of us. That was in New Zealand, of course, and they took us down to Dunedin, and there they were convicted and hanged. One and all they put up their hands in the dock and cursed me till your blood would have run cold to hear them, which was scurvy treatment, seeing that we had all been pals together, but they were a blagged lot and thought only of themselves. I think it is as well that they were hung. They took me back to Dunedin Jail and clapped me into the old cell. The only difference they made was that I had no work to do and was well fed. I stood this for a week or two, until one day the governor was making his rounds and I put the matter to him. How's this? I said. My conditions were a free pardon and you're keeping me here against the law. He gave a sort of smile. Should you like very much to get out? he asked. So much, said I, that unless you open that door I have an action against you for illegal detention. He seemed a bit astonished by my resolution. You're very anxious to meet your death, he said. What do you mean? I asked. Come here and you'll know what I mean, he answered, and he led me down the passage to a window that overlooked the door of the prison. Look at that, said he. I looked out and there were a dozen or so rough-looking fellows standing outside the street. Some of them smoking, some playing cards on the pavement. When they saw me they gave a yell and crowded round the door, shaking their fists and hooting. They wait for you, watch and watch about, said the governor. There the executive of the vigilance committee. However, since you are determined to go, I can't stop you. To call this a civilized land, I cried, unless a man be murdered in cold blood in open daylight. When I said this the governor in the water and every fool in the place grinned as if a man's life was a rare good joke. You've got the law on your side, says the governor, so we won't detain you any longer. Show him out, water. He'd have done it too, the black-hearted villain, if I hadn't begged and prayed and offered to pay for my board and lodging, which is more than any prisoner ever did before me. He let me stay on those conditions, and for three months I was caged up there with every larrikin in the township clamoring at the other side of the wall. That was pretty treatment for a man who had served his country. At last one morning up came the governor again. Well, Maloney, he said, how long are you going to honor us with your society? I could have put a knife into his cursed body and would too, if we had been alone in the bush, but I had to smile and smooth him and flatter for I fear that he might have me sent out. You're an infernal rascal, he said. Those were his very words to a man that had helped him all he knew how. I don't want any rough justice here, though, and I think I see my way to getting you out of Dunedin. I'll never forget you, Governor, said I, and by God I never will. I don't want your thanks nor your gratitude, he answered. It is not for your sake that I do it, but simply to keep order in the town. There's a steamer start from the West Key to Melbourne tomorrow and will get you aboard it. She had advertised at five in the morning, so have yourself in readiness. I packed up a few things I had and was smuggled out by back door just before daybreak. I hurried down, took my ticket under the name of Isaac Smith, and got safely aboard the Melbourne boat. I remember hearing her screw grinding into the water as the walks were cast loose, and looking back at the lights of Dunedin, as I leaned on the bullocks, with the pleasant thought that I was leaving them behind me forever. It seemed to me that a new world was before me, and that all my troubles were being cast off. I went down below and had some coffee, and came up again feeling better than I had done, since the morning that I woke to find that cursed Irishman that took me standing over me with a six-shooter. The day had dawned by that time, and we were steaming along by the coast, well out of sight of Dunedin. I left about for a couple of hours, and when the sun got well up, some of the other passengers came on deck and joined me. One of them, a little perky sort of fellow, took a good long look at me, and then came over and began talking. Mining, I suppose, says he. Yes, I says. Made your pile, he asks. Pretty fair, says I. I was at it myself, he says. I worked at the Nelson Fields for three months, and spent all I made in buying a salted claim, which busted up the second day. I went at it again, though, and struck it rich, but when the gold wagon was going down to the settlements, it was stuck up by those cursed rangers, and not a red sense left. That was a bad job, I says. Broke me, ruined me clean. Never mind, I've seen them all hanged for it. That makes it easier to bear. There's only one left, the villain that gave the evidence. I'd die happy if I could come across him. There are two things I have to do if I meet him. What's that? says I, carelessly. I've got to ask him where the money lies. They never had time to make away with it, and it's cachéed somewhere in the mountains, and then I've got to stretch his neck for him, and send his soul down to join the men that he betrayed. It seemed to me that I knew something about that caché, and I felt like laughing, but he was watching me, and it struck me that he had a nasty, vindictive kind of mind. I'm going up on the bridge, I said, for he was not a man whose acquaintance I cared much about making. He wouldn't hear of my leaving him, though. We're both miners, he says, and we're pals for the voyage. Come down to the bar, I'm not too poor to shout. I couldn't refuse him well, and we went down together, and that was the beginning of the trouble. What harm was I doing any one on the ship? All I asked for was a quiet life, leaving others alone and getting left alone myself. No man could ask fairer than that, and now just you listen to what came of it. We were passing the front of the lady's cabin, on our way to the saloon, when out comes a servant lass, a freckled currency she-devil, with a baby in her arms. We were brushing past her when she gave a scream like a railway whistle and nearly dropped the kid. My nerves gave a sort of jump when I heard that scream, but I turned and begged her pardon, letting on that I thought I might have trod on her foot. I knew the game was up, though, when I saw her white face and her leaning against the door and pointing. It's him, she cried. It's him. I saw him in the courthouse. Oh, don't let him hurt the baby. Who is it? asked the steward, and half a dozen others in a breath. It's him, Maloney, Maloney the murderer. Oh, take him away, take him away. I don't like to remember what happened just at that moment. The furniture and me seemed to get kind of mixed, and there was cursing and smashing, and someone shouting for his gold, and a general stamping round. When I got steadied a bit, I found somebody's hand in my mouth, from what I gathered afterwards, I concluded that it belonged to that same little man with a vicious way of talking. He got some of it out again, but that was because the others were choking me. A poor chap can get no fair play in this world when once he is down. Still, I think he will remember me till the day of his death. Longer, I hope. They dragged me out to the poof and held a damned court-martial on me, mind you, me, that had thrown over my pals in order to serve them. What were they to do with me? Some said this, some said that, but it ended by the captain deciding to send me ashore. The ship stopped. They lowered a boat and I was hoisted in, the whole gang of them hooting at me from over the bullocks. I saw a man I spoke of tying up his hand, though, and I felt that things might be worse. I changed my opinion before we got to the land. I had reckoned on the shore being deserted and that I might make my way inland, but the ship had stopped too near the heads and a dozen beachcombers and such like had come down to the water's edge and were staring at us, wondering what the boat was after. When we got to the edge of the surf, the cocks inhaled them, and after singing out who I was, he and his men threw me into the water. You may well look surprised, neck and crop into ten feet of water with sharks as thick as green parrots in the bush, and I heard them laughing as I floundered to the shore. I soon saw it was a worse job than ever. As I came scrambling out through the weeds, I was collared by Big Chat with a velveteen coat, and half a dozen others got round me and held me fast. Most of them looked simple fellas enough, and I was not afraid of them, but there was one in a cabbage tree hat that had a very nasty expression on his face, and the big man seemed to be chummy with him. They dragged me up the beach, and then they let go their hold of me, and stood round in the circle. Well, mate, says the man with the hat, we've been looking out for you for some time in these parts. And very good of you too, I answers. None of your jaw, says he. Come, boys, what shall it be, hanging, drowning, or shooting? Look sharp. This looked a bit too like business. No, you don't, I said. I've got government protection, and it'll be murder. That's what they call it, answered the one in the velveteen coat, as cheery as a piping crow. And you're going to murder me for being a ranger? Ranger be damned, said the man. We're going to hang you for peaching against your pals, and that's an end of the palaver. They slung a rope round my neck and dragged me up to the edge of the bush. There were some big she-oaks and blue gums, and they pitched on one of these for the wicked deed. They ran a rope over a branch, tied my hands and told me to say my prayers. It seemed as if it was all up, but providence interfere to save me. It sounds nice enough sitting here and telling about it, sir, but it was sick work to stand with nothing but the beach in front of you and the long white line of surf with a steamer in the distance and a set of bloody-minded villains round you thirsting for your life. I never thought I'd owe anything good to the police, but they saved me that time. A troop of them were riding from Hawke's Point station to Dunedin, and hearing that something was up, they came down through the bush and interrupted the proceedings. I've heard some bands in my time, Doctor, but I never heard music like the jingle of those trapped spurs and harness as they galloped out onto the open. They tried to hang me even then, but the police were too quick for them, and the man with the hat got one over the head with a flutter of a sword. I was clapped onto a horse, and before evening I found myself in my old quarters in the city jail. The governor wasn't to be done, though. He was determined to get rid of me, and I was equally anxious to see the last of him. He waited a week or so until the excitement had begun to die away, and then he smuggled me aboard a three-masted schooner bound for Sydney with tallow and hides. We got far away to sea without a hitch, and things began to look a bit more rosy. I made sure that I'd seen the last of the prison anyway. The crew had a sort of an idea who I was, and if there had been any rough weather they'd have hoved me overboard, like enough, for they were a rough ignorant lot and had a notion that I brought bad luck to the ship. We had a good passage, however, and I was landed safe and sound upon Sydney Key. Now, just you listen to what happened next. You'd have thought that they would have been sick of ill-using me and following me by this time, wouldn't you now? Well, just you listen. It seems that a cursed seamer started from Dunedin to Sydney on the very day we left and got in before us, bringing news that I was coming. Blessed if they hadn't called a meeting, a regular mass meeting at the docks to discuss about it, and I marched right into it when I landed. They didn't take long about arresting me, and I listened to all the speeches and resolutions. If I'd been a prince, there couldn't have been more excitement. The end of all was that they agreed that it wasn't right that New Zealand should be allowed to foist their criminals upon her neighbours, and that I was to be sent back again by the next boat. So they posted me off again, as if I was a damn parcel, and after another 800 mile journey, I found myself back for the third time, moving in the place that I started from. By this time I had begun to think that I was going to spend the rest of my existence travelling about from one port to another. Every man's hand seemed turned against me, and there was no peace or quiet in any direction. I was about sick of it by the time I'd come back, and if I could have taken to the bush, I'd have done it, and chanced it with my old pals. They were too quick for me, though, and kept me under lock and key, but I managed in spite of them to negotiate that cachet I told you of, and sewed the gold up in my belt. I spent another month in jail, and then they slipped me aboard a bark that was bound for England. This time the crew never knew who I was, but the captain had a pretty good idea, though he didn't let on to me that he had any suspicions. I guessed from the first that the man was a villain. We had a fair passage, except a gala two off the cape, and I began to feel like a free man when I saw the blue loom of the old country, and the saucy little pilot boat from Falmouth danced towards us over the waves. We ran down the channel, and before we reached Grey's End I had agreed with the pilot that he should take me ashore with him when he left. It was at this time that the captain showed me that I was right in thinking him a meddling, disagreeable man. I got my things packed, such as they were, and left him talking earnestly to the pilot, while I went below for my breakfast. When I came up again we were fairly into the mouth of the river, and the boat in which I was to have gone ashore had left us. The skipper said the pilot had forgotten me, but that was too thin, and I began to fear that all my old troubles were going to commence once again. It was not long before my suspicions were confirmed, a boat darted out from the side of the river, and a tall cove with a long black beard came aboard. I heard him ask the mate whether they didn't need a mud pilot to take them up in the reaches, but it seemed to me that he was a man who would know a deal more about handcuffs than he did about steering, so I kept away from him. He came across the deck, however, and made some remark to me, taking a good look at me the while. I don't like inquisitive people at any time, but an inquisitive stranger with a glue about the roots of his beard is the worst of all to stand, especially under the circumstances. I began to feel that it was time for me to go. I soon got a chance and made good use of it. A big collier came a thwart the vows of our steamer, and we had to slacken down to dead slow. There was a barge of stern, and I slipped down by a rope and was into the barge before anyone missed me. Of course I had to leave my luggage behind me, but I had the belt with the nuggets around my waist, and the chance of shaking the police off my track was worth more than a couple of boxes. It was clear to me now that the pilots had been a traitor, as well as the captain, and had set the detectives after me. I often wish I could drop across those two men again. I hung about the barge all day as she drifted down the stream. There was one man in her, but she was a big ugly craft, and his hands were too full for much looking about. Toward evening, when it got a bit dusky, I struck out for the shore and found myself in a sort of marsh place, a good many miles to the east of London. I was soaking wet and half dead with hunger, but I trudged into the town, got a new rig out at a slop shop, and after having some supper, engaged a bed at the quietest lodgings I could find. I woke pretty early, a habit you pick up in the bush, and lucky for me that I did so. The very first thing I saw when I took a look through the chink in the shutter was one of those infernal policemen standing right opposite and staring up at the windows. He hadn't epulets nor a sword, like our traps, but for all that there was a sort of family likeness and the same busybody expression. Whether they followed me all the time, or whether the woman that let me the bed didn't like the looks of me is more than I have ever been able to find out. He came across as I was watching him and noted down the address of the house in a book. I was afraid that he was going to ring the bell, but I suppose his orders were sent me to keep an eye on me, for after another good look at the windows he moved on down the street. I saw that my only chance was to act at once. I threw on my clothes, opened the windows softly, and, after making sure there was nobody about, dropped out onto the grounds and made off as hard as I could run. I travelled a matter of two or three miles when my wind gave out, and as I saw a big building with people going in and out, I went in to and found that it was a railway station. A train was just going off Fadova to meet the French boat, so I took a ticket and jumped into a third class carriage. There were a couple of other chaps in the carriage, innocent looking young beggars, both of them. They began speaking about this and that, while I sat quiet in the corner and listened. Then they started on England and foreign countries and such like. Look ye now, doctor. This is a fact. One of them begins jawing about the justice of England's laws. It's all fair and above board, says he. There ain't any secret police nor spying, like they have abroad, and a lot more of the same sort of wash. Rather rough on me, wasn't it? Listening to the damn young fool with the police following me about like my shadow. I got to Paris, right enough, and there I chained some of my gold, and for a few days I imagined I'd shaken them off, and began to think of settling down for a bit of rest. I needed it by that time, for I was looking more like a ghost than a man. You've never had the police after you, I suppose. Well, you needn't look offended. I didn't mean any harm. If ever you had, you'd know that it wastes a man away like a sheep with the rot. I went to the opera one night, and took a box, for I was very flush. I was coming out between the acts, when I met a fellow lounging along in the passage. The light fell on his face, and I saw that it was the mud pilot that had boarded us in the Thames. His beard was gone, but I recognized the man at a glance, for I have a good memory for faces. I tell you, Doctor, I felt desperate for a moment. I could have knifed him, but I didn't know what to do. I would have knifed him if he had been alone, but he knew me well enough never to give me the chance. It was more than I could stand any longer, so I went right up to him and drew him aside, where we'd be free from all the lounges and theatre-goers. How long are you going to keep it up? I asked him. He seemed a bit flustered for a moment, but then he saw there was no use beating about the voice, so he answered straight. Until you go back to Australia, he said. Don't you know, I said, that I served the government and got a free pardon? He grinned all over his ugly face when I said this. We know all about you, Maloney, he answered. If you want a quiet life, just you go back where you came from. If you stay here, you're a marked man, and when you are found tripping, it will be a lifer for you, at the least. Free trades are fine thing, but the market's too full of men like you for us to need to import any. It seemed to me that there was something in what he said, though he had a nasty way of putting it. For some days back I'd been feeling a sort of homesick. The ways of the people weren't my ways. They stared at me in the street, and if I dropped into a bar, they stopped talking an edge away a bit, as if I was a wild beast. I soon have had a find of old stringybark, too, than a bucketful of their rotgut liquors. There was too much damn propriety. What was the use of having money if you couldn't dress as you liked, nor bust in properly? There was no sympathy for a man, if he shot about a little, when he was half over. I've seen a man dropped at Nelson many a time with less row than they'd make over a broken window-pane. The thing was slow, and I was sick of it. You want me to go back, I said? I've my order to stick fast to you until you do, he answered. Well, I said, I don't care if I do. All I bargain is that you keep your mouth shut and don't let on who I am, so that I may have a fair start when I get there. He agreed to this, and we went over to Southampton the very next day, where he saw me safely off once more. I took a passage round to Adelaide, where no one was likely to know me, and there I settled, right under the nose of the police. I'd been there ever since, leading a quiet life, but for little difficulties like this one I'm in for now, and for that devil tattooed Tom of Horksbury. I don't know what made me tell you all this, doctor, unless it is that being lonely makes a man inclined to jaw when he gets a chance. Just you take warning from me, though. Never put yourself out to serve your country, for your country would do precious little for you. Just let them look after their own affairs, and if they find difficulty in hanging a set of scoundrels, never mind shipping in, but let them alone to do as best they can. Maybe they'll remember how they treated me after I'm dead, and be sorry for neglecting me. I was rude to you when you came in, and swore a trifle promiscuous, but don't you mind me, it's only my way. You'll allow, though, that I have cause to be a bit touchy-known again, when I think of all that's past. You're not going, are you? Well, if you must, you must, but I hope you will look me up at odd times when you are going your rounds. Oh, I say, you've left the balance of that cake of tobacco behind you, haven't you? No, it's in your pocket. That's all right. Thank you, Doctor. You're a good sort, and as quick at a hint as any man I've met. A couple of months after narrating his experiences, Wolf-Tone Maloney finished his term and was released. For a long time I neither saw him nor heard of him, and he'd almost slipped from my memory until I was reminded in a somewhat tragic manner of his existence. I'd been attending a patient some distance off in the country, and was riding back, guiding my tired horse among the boulders, which strewed the pathway, and endeavouring to see my way through the gathering darkness, when I came suddenly upon a little wayside in. As I walked my horse up toward the door, intending to make sure of my bearings, before proceeding further, I heard the sound of a violent altercation within the little bar. There seemed to be a chorus of ex-postulation, or remonstrance, above which two powerful voices rang out loud and angry. As I listened there was a momentary hush. Two pistol shots sounded almost simultaneously, and with a crash the door burst open, and a pair of dark figures staggered out into the moonlight. They struggled for a moment in a deadly wrestle, and then went down together among the loose stones. I had sprung off my horse, and, with the help of half a dozen rough fellows from the bar, dragged them away from one another. A glance was sufficient to convince me that one of them was dying fast. He was a thick-set burly fellow, with a determined cast of countenance. The blood was welling from a deep stab in his throat, and it was evident that an important artery had been divided. I turned away from him in despair, and walked over to where his antagonist was lying. He was shot through the lungs, but managed to raise himself up on his hand, as I approached and peered anxiously up into my face. To my surprise I saw before me the haggard features, and flaxen hair of my prison acquaintance, Maloney. Ah, Doctor! he said, recognising me. How is he? Will he die? He asked the question so earnestly that I imagined he had softened at the last moment, and feared to leave the world with another homicide upon his conscience. Truth, however, compelled me to shake my head mournfully, and to intimate that the wound would prove a mortal one. Maloney gave a wild cry of triumph, which brought the blood welling out from between his lips. Here, boys! he gasped to the little group around him. There's money in my inside pocket. Damn the expense. Drinks round. There's nothing mean about me. I drink with you, but I'm going. Give the doc my share, for he's as good. Here he's had fell back with a thud, his eyes glazed, and the soul of wolf-tone Maloney. Forger, convict, ranger, murderer, and government peach drifted away into the great unknown. I cannot conclude without borrowing the account of the fatal quarrel, which appeared in the column of the West Australian Sentinel. The curious will find it in the issue of October 4, 1881. Fatal of Frey, W. T. Maloney, a well-known citizen of New Montrose and proprietor of the yellow boy gambling saloon, has met with his death under rather painful circumstances. Mr. Maloney was a man who had led a checkered existence, and whose past history is replete with interest. Some of our readers may recall the Lena Valley murders, in which he figured as a principal criminal. It is conjectured that during the seven months that he owned a bar in that region, from 20 to 30 travellers were hocused and made away with. He succeeded, however, in evading the vigilance of the officers of the law, and allied himself with the bush-rangers of Blumenstein, whose heroic capture and subsequent execution are matters of history. Maloney extricated himself from the fate which awaited him by turning Queen's evidence. He afterward visited Europe, but returned to West Australia, where he has long played a prominent part in local matters. On Friday evening he encountered an old enemy, Thomas Grimthorpe, commonly known as Tattooed Tom, of Hawksbury. Shots were exchanged, and both were badly wounded, only surviving a few minutes. Mr. Maloney had the reputation of being not only the most wholesale murderer that ever lived, but also of having a finish and attention to detail in matters of evidence which has been unapproached by any European criminal.