The Black Cat

    April 1896.

    =The Mystery of the Thirty Millions=,      { T. F. Anderson.
                                               { H. D. Umbstaetter.
    =The Man at Solitaria=,                      Geik Turner.
    =The Compass of Fortune=,                    Eugene Shade Bisbee.
    =A Surgical Love Cure=,                      James Buckham.
    =The Williamson Safe Mystery=,               F. S. Hesseltine.
    =How Small the World=,                       E. H. Mayde.

    5 CENTS




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                              The Black Cat

              A Monthly Magazine of Original Short Stories.

            No. 7.       APRIL, 1896.        5 cents a copy,
                                             50 cents a year.

   Entered at the Post-Office at Boston, Mass., as second-class matter.

      =IMPORTANT.=—The entire contents of this magazine are covered
       by copyright and publishers everywhere are cautioned against
        reproducing any of the stories, either wholly or in part.

    Copyright, 1896, by the Shortstory Publishing Company. All rights
                                reserved.




The Mystery of the Thirty Millions.

BY T. F. ANDERSON AND H. D. UMBSTAETTER.


At eight o’clock on the morning of March 14, 1903, the Anglo-American
liner, the _Oklahoma_, left her dock in North River on her regular trip
to Southampton.

The fact of her departure, ordinarily of merely local interest, was
telegraphed all over the United States and Canada, and even to London
itself; for there was a significance attached to this particular trip
such as had never before marked the sailing of an ocean steamship from
these shores.

It was not because the great vessel numbered among her crowd of
passengers a well-known English duke and his young bride, the grand-niece
of a world-famous New York railroad magnate, that her sailing was
heralded by such a blowing of trumpets, nor because she also had upon her
lists the names of the august British ambassador to the United States,
returning home on a brief furlough, the noted French tragedian, fresh
from his American triumphs, and a score of other illustrious personages
whose names were household words in a dozen countries.

The presence of all these notables was merely incidental. What made this
trip of the _Oklahoma_ an event of international interest was the fact
that at this, the apparent climax of the great gold exporting movement
from the United States, now continued until it had almost drained the
national treasury of its precious yellow hoard, and had precipitated
a commercial crisis such as never before had been experienced, the
_Oklahoma_ was taking to the shores of insatiate John Bull the largest
lump amount of gold ever shipped upon a single vessel within the memory
of man.

Not even in the memorable gold exporting year of 1893, ten years
previous, had any such sum as this been sent abroad at one time.

It was not the usual paltry half million or million dollars that she was
carrying away in her great strong room of steel and teak wood, but thirty
million dollars’ worth of shining eagles and glinting bars, hastily
called across the ocean because of the adverse “balance of trade” and the
temporary mistrust of American securities by the fickle Europeans.

The mere insurance premium on this vast sum was in itself a comfortable
fortune. Business men wondered why such a large amount was intrusted to
one steamer. Suppose she should collide in the fog and sink, as one great
ship had done only a few weeks before—what would become of the insurance
companies then?

Suppose some daring Napoleon of crime should hatch a startling conspiracy
to seize the steamer, intimidate the crew and passengers, and possess
himself of the huge treasure? “It would be a stake well worth long
risks,” thought some of the police officials, as they read the headlines
in the evening papers.

The _Oklahoma_ was a fast sailer. Her five hundred feet of length and her
twelve thousand tons of displacement were made light work of by the great
clanking, triple-expansion engines when their combined force of fifteen
thousand horse power was brought to bear upon her twin screws. Under
ordinary conditions she ought to have made port on the other side in time
to let her passengers eat late dinner on the sixth day out. Incoming
steamers reported a brief spell of nasty weather in mid-ocean, however,
and so her failure to reach Southampton on the sixth and even the seventh
day was not particularly remarked.

The great American public had been busy with other weighty matters in the
interim, including a threatened secession of the silver-producing States;
and the departure of this modern argosy with her precious freight had
almost passed into history. For history in the year 1903 was anything
that had happened farther than a week back—a day, if it was not of
overwhelming importance.

If the big ship’s arrival had been cabled on the eighth day, or
even early on the ninth, it would still have found the public in a
comparatively calm state of mind, for the mid-Atlantic storm would
naturally account for a multitude of lost hours; but when the ninth
lapped over onto the tenth and the tenth onto the eleventh and twelfth,
with no tidings of the tardy steamer, surprise grew into anxiety and
anxiety into an international sensation.

Of course all sorts of plausible theories were advanced by the steamship
agents, the newspapers, and other oracles, including that of the
inevitable broken shaft; and these might have sufficed for a day or two
longer had it not been for another and much more startling theory that
suddenly came to the surface and threw two continents into a fever of
trepidation and suspense.

It was the following announcement in a leading New York morning paper
that roused excitement to fever heat: “A new and most astounding phase
has come over the case of the mysteriously missing _Oklahoma_. It has
just been given out from police headquarters that ‘Gentleman Jim’
Langwood, the noted cracksman and forger, whose ten years’ sentence
at Sing Sing expired only a few weeks ago, was in the city several
days previous to the sailing of the _Oklahoma_ and went with her as a
passenger, under an assumed name. Even at that very time the central
office detectives were looking for him, as a tip had been sent around
that he was up to some new deviltry. One of those clever people whom
nothing ever escapes had seen him go aboard almost at the last minute,
and gave an accurate description of his personal appearance, which was
evidently but slightly disguised.

“Langwood is probably the only criminal in the country who would ever
conceive and try to execute such a stupendous undertaking, and it is
something more than a suspicion on the part of the New York police that
he has smuggled on board a couple of dozen well-armed desperadoes, who
could easily hold the entire crew and passengers in check and make them
do their bidding, for a time, at least. The idea is so replete with
thrilling possibilities that the entire community stands aghast at it.”

It is to be noted that the public always “stands aghast” in such a case
as this; but it is more to the point just now to say that the article
went on, through a column or more, to describe in minute detail the
circumstances attendant upon the departure of “Gentleman Jim” even to
the number and shape of the bundles he had in his arms. The famous
robber was very boyish in appearance, and one of the last persons in
the world whom a chance acquaintance would think of looking up in the
rogues’ gallery. Evidently he was “out for the stuff,” in most approved
stage villain style, with more millions in the stake than even Colonel
Sellers, of nineteenth century fame, had ever dreamed of. Of course this
theory, which was already accepted as a fact, especially in police and
newspaper circles, was quickly cabled across, and created such a profound
sensation on the other side that even the London papers had to give it
that prominent position which is usually reserved for American cyclones,
crop failures, and labor outbreaks.

Upon the phlegmatic British government it acted much like an electric
shock and nearly threw the foreign office into a panic; for was not the
British minister plenipotentiary himself a passenger on the ill-fated
_Oklahoma_, and possibly at that very hour being butchered in cold blood
by a lot of Yankee cut-throats?

The thought was too horrible for a moment’s endurance, and forthwith the
cablegrams began to flash thick and fast between the foreign office and
the British legation at Washington.

The result was that, within a few hours after the appearance of the
paragraph, one of the fastest and most powerful of her majesty’s
cruisers, quickly followed by a second and a third, hastily steamed from
Portsmouth Roads, the three spreading out north, west, and south, like a
great marine fan, as they hurried to the rescue of the _Oklahoma_ and the
British ambassador.

Meanwhile, at the Boston, Brooklyn, and League Island navy yards three or
four of Uncle Sam’s white war dogs were getting up steam for a similar
errand, and a small fleet of ocean-going steamers, specially chartered by
New York, Boston, and Chicago newspapers to go in search of the absent
leviathan, were already threading their way through the Narrows.

Not for years had there been such world-wide interest in an ocean
expedition. The newspapers commanded an unheard of sale, for everybody
was on the tiptoe of expectation concerning the fate of the missing
steamer, her six hundred passengers and her thirty millions of gold.

While the public was thus feverishly awaiting the news, certain
discoveries were being made by the New York police, which only went to
confirm their previous suspicions. Four or five other hardened graduates
from state prison were found to be absent from their accustomed haunts in
the East Side slums, although known to have been in the city just before
the _Oklahoma_ sailed, as was “Gentleman Jim,” himself.

These discoveries had their natural effect upon the public mind, and the
friends of those on board the steamer began to despair of hearing that
even human life had been respected by the piratical band.

As to the British foreign office, this cumulative evidence threw it into
a perfect frenzy, and it was only by a miracle that a declaration of war
against the United States was averted.

Three days passed by after the departure of the big searching fleets,
during which time all incoming steamers reported that they had not found
a single trace of the _Oklahoma_ either in the northern or southern
route. Vessels from the Mediterranean, the West Indies, South America,
all made the same ominous report.

The tension was terrible. Thousands could not even sleep on account of
the mental strain, and the minds of some of the weaker actually gave way
beneath it. The public by this time was convinced beyond a reasonable
shadow of doubt that the robbers had successfully carried out their
fiendish plan; but how? and when? and where?

When they opened their newspapers on the morning of the eighteenth day of
suspense, they found the answer to the question, and the greatest marine
mystery of centuries was solved.

In the small hours of the night there had flashed across the European
continent, and under the dark waters of the Atlantic, this startling
message from the representative of the _Union Press Association_:—

    “LISBON, April 1.—The missing _Oklahoma_ is disabled at Fayal,
    Azores, where she was discovered by the _Union Press_ special
    expedition. Many of the half-starved crew and passengers are
    on the verge of insanity. The officers tell a most astounding
    story of the steamer’s exciting and almost fatal adventures. On
    the third night out, the _Oklahoma_ suddenly came under some
    mysterious but irresistible influence by which she was carried
    rapidly out of her course towards the south. Every effort was
    made by the officers to bring the ship back to her course, but
    the big liner seemed drifting helplessly at the mercy of some
    powerful current. The compasses were useless, and the wheel
    no longer exercised the slightest control over the steamer’s
    movements.

    “Naturally the anxiety of the officers was in no way diminished
    when on the morning of the next day, which was then the
    fourth day out, another vessel,—a long low-setting craft of
    shining steel,—was discovered off the _Oklahoma’s_ starboard
    bow, about a mile ahead, but moving in the same direction. By
    careful observations it was discovered that the course of the
    two steamers was identical. Both were apparently under the
    same mysterious influence. Instead of sighting a rescuer, the
    _Oklahoma_ had, so it seemed, only discovered another victim of
    the irresistible current!

    “Time and again the _Oklahoma_ attempted to signal the
    companion ship, but the latter made no reply. Close observation
    revealed that she was built on the whaleback principle, with
    nothing above decks save ventilators and signal mast,—but
    failed to discover any sign of human being.

    “By afternoon their continued failure to bring the liner back
    to her course had so wrought upon the minds of her officers
    that their anxiety infected the spirits of the passengers, who
    were now aroused to the real danger that menaced them.

    “When the fifth day dawned, with the _Oklahoma_ hundreds of
    miles out of the regular transatlantic course, the gravity of
    the situation could no longer be concealed. Distress signals
    were kept flying, and all possible steam was put on with the
    idea of overhauling the companion ship and giving or receiving
    aid. To the amazement of both officers and passengers, however,
    in spite of every effort, the _Oklahoma_ failed to gain a
    single inch on the other vessel. Before they had time to
    attempt an explanation of this remarkable fact, amazement gave
    way to consternation. For just a moment a third vessel had
    appeared on the horizon like a messenger of hope; but no sooner
    had she been sighted than with the swiftness of lightning the
    mysterious companion craft turned half around and darted away
    to the southeast, with the _Oklahoma_ following as helplessly
    as though she were in tow.

    “In that moment the awful truth was revealed. The steel vessel
    was nothing more nor less than a floating loadstone, which by
    some mysterious power was dragging the great ocean monster
    hither and thither as easily as a magnet draws a toy ship from
    one side to the other of a mimic pond!

    “Who was she, and what was her motive? Almost before those on
    board had asked the question, the answer flashed upon them. The
    thirty millions of gold! Beyond a doubt, it was their capture
    which she was planning to accomplish, either by luring the
    _Oklahoma_ from the regular path of ocean travel, and looting
    her and her passengers at leisure, or by compelling her to run
    aground upon some remote rock or shoal.

    “With this revelation a new horror unveiled itself. Equipped
    as they were only with the supplies for a short trip across
    the Atlantic, the overwrought minds of many saw starvation
    looming up before them. That night not a soul sought his
    berth. From time to time consultations were held between the
    chief officers, and many-colored rockets spit and blazed their
    signals of distress incessantly across the sky.

    “At length, soon after dawn of the sixth day, orders were given
    to bank fires and hoist sail in the hope that the _Oklahoma_ as
    a sailing vessel might free herself from the awful influence
    that chained her.

    “But the effort was vain. Wind and sail proved as useless as
    wheel and compass against the fatal power of that mysterious
    craft which drew the _Oklahoma_ after her as irresistibly as
    though the two vessels were united by an unseen hawser.

    “The steamer had now become a scene of indescribable horror.
    Mealtime, bedtime,—all the customary routine was disorganized;
    and daily prayer meetings were conducted among the more
    emotional of the passengers.

    “Finally, seven days after she had left New York, the officers
    of the big liner united in one last desperate effort to offset
    the magnetic influence of the mysterious ‘pirate.’ The fires
    were revived in the engine room, the steam pressure in all the
    boilers was run up to the ‘blowing off’ point; then, suddenly,
    the reversing mechanism was applied and a shudder ran through
    the great floating city as the twin screws began to back water.

    “For a few minutes there ensued a titanic tug of war such as
    the beholders had never before witnessed. The water astern
    was lashed into a lather of foam, and for a brief moment the
    triumph of steam over magnetism seemed assured.

    “Only for a moment, however, for the cheer that had ascended
    from the anxious scores on the deck of the _Oklahoma_ when
    she slowly began to back had scarcely died away when with a
    mighty crash a vital section of the overtaxed engines gave way,
    followed by a hoarse yell of consternation from the excited
    engineers and stokers—and both screws were helpless and still.

    “With this failure hope was well-nigh extinguished; and the
    _Oklahoma_, with her precious freight and her 643 human souls,
    abandoned all active effort to escape. With not a sail of any
    kind in sight, she passively rolled and plunged southward for
    seven days after her strange and terrible pilot, from which,
    to add to the horror of the situation, no human sign had yet
    been given. The supply of rockets was now exhausted, and food
    was doled out in minute portions as to members of a shipwrecked
    crew in order to husband supplies.

    “On the afternoon of the fourteenth day, when the exhausted
    passengers had reached the verge of distraction, a gleam
    of hope appeared on the horizon in the shape of a solitary
    steamer, bearing down from the southwest. A glance through
    the telescope proved her to be a fast and formidable British
    cruiser, evidently en route from South America to England.

    “At this news a mighty shudder, half of hope, half of fear,
    seized the crowd assembled upon the deck. Would the British
    cruiser come to their assistance, and if so, would she, too,
    become a victim of the magnetic craft? For a moment their fate
    hung in the balance; then from three hundred throats rang out
    a hoarse cry of joy as the mysterious craft swerved, turned
    sharply and shot away over the surface of the Atlantic due
    north.

    “The spell was broken. The big liner with her six hundred human
    souls and thirty millions in gold was freed from the power
    that had for so long held her captive. But crippled as she was
    by the accident to her machinery she was unable to proceed
    unaided, and was taken in tow by the British steamer, the
    _Midlothian_, and a day later was brought safely into port at
    Fayal.

    “The _Union Press_ steamer is the first to bring the
    thrilling news. The first officer of the _Oklahoma_ and the
    saloon passengers, including Sir Gambrel Roufe, the British
    ambassador, accompanied your correspondent to Lisbon. A relief
    steamer is urgently needed, as the _Oklahoma’s_ engines are
    both disabled, and she will not be able to proceed for several
    weeks.

    “The passenger thought to be ‘Gentleman Jim’ Langwood, proves
    to be the Duke of Medfordshire, now on his wedding trip with
    his young millionaire American bride.”

Hardly had the excitement caused by this startling intelligence
subsided, when it was once more aroused by a despatch from Providence,
R. I., announcing the capture in the act of robbing a jewelry store of
“Gentleman Jim” Langwood, and a gang of four other oldtimers, and by the
following even more important cablegram from the Russian representative
of the _Union Press_:—

    “ST. PETERSBURG, April 2.—The identity of the mysterious craft
    by which the _Oklahoma_ was drawn from her course has been
    established beyond a doubt. The vessel is a Hypnotic Cruiser,
    recently completed by a Russian inventor, named Slobodenski,
    and possessed of an electric apparatus by which any vessel can
    be brought completely under its control.

    “Whether the Hypnotic Cruiser’s bedevilment of the _Oklahoma_
    was merely a trial of power, or whether plunder was intended,
    can only be surmised. But naval lawyers say that this marvelous
    new invention will revolutionize naval warfare and necessitate
    the passage of stringent laws to cover a crime for which at
    present no penalty exists.”




The Man at Solitaria.

BY GEIK TURNER.


Solitaria will be found indicated on the map by a circle half as large
as that which represents Chicago. That is Solitaria as it is advertised.
In reality it consists of a side-track and watering tank on the Great
Western Railroad, and a little wooden box opposite, courteously called a
station, which is inhabited by a man whose aim in life is to watch the
side-track and telegraph along the line how it is occupied at various
hours of the day and night. Just to the east the Great Western makes
its only distinct curve for miles through a little piece of woods. To
the west it stretches straight across the face of Indiana, mottled with
a million half-burned stumps, and cut into big squares by incalculable
miles of rail fence.

The man at Solitaria got to thinking it over—he had a great deal of time
to do this—and he made up his mind that matters were going all wrong. In
the first place, he thought he ought to be allowed more than twenty-five
dollars a month for his services, and that, considering he had been
running Solitaria alone for fifteen years, they ought to give him an
assistant to talk to—to talk to and to allow him an occasional chance
to sleep. These were, of course, entirely personal matters. But finally
he made up his mind the whole thing was run wrong. It stood to reason;
they never gave it any rest. Day after day and night after night they had
sent freight trains and express trains, and express trains and freight
trains chasing each other along the road till they had got it so it was
all going to break down pretty soon,—the road, and the cars, and the men,
and he himself—especially he himself; he saw that plainly. They were all
going to stop short, one of these days, and fly to pieces.

Now, take himself, for instance: was it right that they should have kept
running their trains by his door twenty-four hours out of the day, and
365 days a year, for fifteen years, disturbing him and depriving him of
what little sleep belonged to him? Yet all night long they persisted in
sending their freights jarring and clanking by and their express trains
shrieking and making up time along the level grade. He got so he knew
those whistles by name—he could hear them shriek for miles and miles in
either direction—coming nearer and nearer, till the train rushed by in a
cloud of yellow light. Then the next one came. It was bad enough at that,
but when they got to calling him names it was more than he could bear.

Besides, there was the electricity those trains kept making and storing
up in his station, faster than he could ever hope to get rid of it. It
was taking his life away. He went out and watched the wheels of the
freight trains crunching, and grinding, and squealing by, and he could
see it just rolling off and running into the station. Then nights it came
stealing over him, and numbing him, just as soon as he tried to get a
little sleep, which, heaven knew, he was entitled to. Anybody knows that
trains running by like that, day and night, store up more electricity
in a station than a man can bear, especially if he is all alone. But
they paid no attention to that. He often thought he would write to the
division superintendent, who had been a telegraph operator himself, and
ought to think of such things, and tell him to stop it. But this plan he
never carried out; he had asked for things before.

Now, whatever might be said, no one could accuse the Man at Solitaria of
not giving the matter sufficient thought. For months during the summer
he sat out on the platform of his box, in the baking sun daytimes, and
through the close, airless Indiana nights, looking down the tracks
between train times, and considering the question. He saw clearly they
did not recognize the power and importance of the man they were wronging.
He knew perfectly well, for instance, that any time he chose he could
turn the switch to the side-track and stand an express train on its head
in the ditch. That would be fascinating, certainly. Indeed, he considered
the proposal seriously for a number of weeks, and figured carefully on
what train he would better take; but finally thought better of this plan,
too. It would only stop one train, which wasn’t what he wanted at all.
The Man at Solitaria felt the responsibility of his position; he decided
to run the whole railroad himself.

Of course, he recognized that there would be opposition to this scheme
on the part of the president and directors of the road, and the division
superintendent,—especially the superintendent,—the Man knew the division
superintendent. But that railroad must be run right. As a first step
in that direction the Man saved up money and laid in a large supply of
canned meats; he also secured two forty-four caliber revolvers and half a
dozen boxes of cartridges.

Of course, the management of the Great Western Railroad didn’t know what
was going on in the mind of the Man—especially as he carried on most of
his communication with human beings by telegraph. It didn’t care much,
either, as long as he kept awake eighteen hours a day and watched the
side-track and told them how it was occupied. Consequently, no one knew
of his intention of operating the road, and no one knew or probably ever
will know why he chose such an unpleasant day for starting it.

It wasn’t unpleasant in the sense that it was rainy—it was merely hot.
Along down the track the heat rose in great zigzags, where the yellow sun
beat down and baked a crust over the surface of Indiana. There was not
a breeze in the air, not a sound except the occasional call of a quail
from some distant rail fence, or the cry of a seventeen-year locust in a
dead tree. On the sunny side of the station at Solitaria the thermometer
took its stand at 118 degrees, and refused to be moved, and the air was a
semi-solid mass of cinders.

The Man at Solitaria made up his mind he would shut down his railroad
at six o’clock. He laid in a good supply of water and loaded up his
revolvers; then he shut up the station and made a kind of barricade of
old ties around his telegraph instrument, and sat down inside and waited.

No. 64, the fast freight from the West, was due at 6.10 o’clock to draw
up on the siding. No. 24, the fast express from the East, was due at
6.17. At 6.03 the Man telegraphed the station east that the freight was
on the side-track and the main line was clear. The freight was not yet in
sight. At 6.13 it reached the station, hurrying to make up lost time,
and ran off the track; some one had turned the switch half way. The big
engine jumped the rails, crashed up on the station platform, and stopped,
without being overturned; three cars went off with it. The brakemen came
running up along the train, and the engineer and fireman climbed down
out of the cab, swearing and looking for the operator. Just then the
express could be heard rushing along from the east, and two brakemen
started up the track to head it off, on the dead run. At 6.16 the train
appeared in sight. When she came around the curve and saw the freight she
just stiffened right out and slid. It wasn’t quite soon enough, however.
She struck the freight cars just before she came to a stop, smashing a
cylinder and nearly jerking the heads off the passengers. All the windows
and doors of the coaches flew open with a slam, and the train hands and
passengers began to swarm out like hornets out of a hornets’ nest. The
trainmen started forward on the run to see what was the matter and to
look up the operator and find out what he was trying to do.

The Man opened a window in front of the station, with a revolver in his
hand, and told them that what he was trying to do was none of their
business. He was operating this damned road now, and he wanted them to
understand it. Besides, he didn’t want them on his platform. By way of
emphasis, he fired a couple of shots as close to their feet as he could
without hitting them. They got off, and he shut down the window with a
bang. Somebody went around and tried a window in the rear, and he fired
two shots through the glass. It was just as well they didn’t try it
again, for he would have nailed them the next time.

Then the trainmen went off to a respectful distance and discussed the
situation, and the passengers retreated behind the coaches. The Man sat
down and telegraphed that the express had gone by, but that No. 64 had
a hot box on the side-track, which might keep it there for some time,
so that No. 31, the westbound freight, had better be sent along. He
would hold No. 64 for it. So No. 31 came along. It nearly paralyzed the
passengers of the express train when they heard it on the line, but the
brakemen stopped it all right in time to prevent it from landing on the
back of the coaches.

By this time the station at Solitaria presented an unwonted and active
scene. Three trains were huddled up around the place, two of them tangled
together in a heap. The engine of No. 64 stood up inquiringly on the
station platform, like a big dog waiting to be let in. The trainmen
and the passengers still stood around and discussed ways and means and
swore at the Man and the infernal heat. Several times they had tried
to approach the Man, but the Man at Solitaria was unapproachable. A
big passenger from the West had declared he would go up, anyway, as a
little thing like that had a comparatively mild effect on his nerves,
and a small passenger from the East had tried the effect of kind words
and moral suasion; but the big six-shooters of the Man had an equally
discouraging effect on both.

In fact, the exhilaration of running a railroad was beginning to exercise
a strange fascination on the Man at Solitaria. This was only natural,
after all. The way he ran things was a good deal like firing railroad
trains at a mark, with the certainty of hitting it, if nobody interfered.
He recognized, however, that there was need of great discretion and
intelligence in the matter. The train despatcher was already making the
telegraph instrument chatter like a sewing-machine, asking the station to
the west what had become of the express, which, of course, the station
west didn’t know.

The Man sent word down the line that a brakeman had come into the station
and said there was a big wreck at a culvert three miles west. It was a
bad wreck, with a great many killed, and the wrecking train should be
sent at once. The train could run right by his station to the place, as
the line was clear. In fifteen minutes the wrecking train was drawing out
of the Centerville station, seventeen miles east, with all the doctors
that could be raised in the vicinity, and coming down the line sixty
miles an hour in a halo of hot cinders. If it hadn’t been for a line of
brakemen stationed up above the curve, there would have been a great
opening for young doctors in Centerville. As it was, the train stopped so
short on the curve that the front trucks of the engine ran off and the
one passenger coach was jolted full of a mixture of frightened doctors
and medicine vials.

By this time the Man had been operating the road for an hour and a half,
and the excitement of the thing was growing intense, especially among
the disgruntled officials he had superseded. Trains were beginning to
stack up at the stations east and west, waiting for developments, and the
train despatcher was beating such a devil’s tattoo on his instrument,
trying to find out what was going on, anyhow, that the Man used up a
great deal of patience and ingenuity trying to shoot him. As for the
division superintendent, who had come on the wrecking train, his hair was
rapidly growing white. But, as long as he could not effect a compromise
with the Man, there was nothing he could do. The Man was engaged at
present furnishing information on Solitaria to the outside world, and
it was futile to try to conceive what his rich imagination would prompt
him to do next. On the other hand, the freight engine on one side and
the engine of the wrecker on the other cooped up the only able engine on
the track, and made advance or retreat impossible as long as the wrecker
couldn’t turn to and haul itself up on the track. But the Man refused to
compromise. The division superintendent finally gave it up and started
overland for the next telegraph station, ten miles away.

In the meanwhile matters were coming to a desperate crisis in the
parade before the station at Solitaria. It was growing dark. Under the
circumstances there was cause for excitement, although there was a line
of brakemen, armed with lanterns, stretched out half a mile either
way. It was generally agreed that the lamps in the cars should be left
unlighted in deference to the opinion of the women, who thought lights
would afford too good a mark, supposing the Man should decide to turn
his attention to a little target practise. The engineers and express
messengers lit theirs, however, and the headlights on the two middle
engines were started, and threw a yellow glare on the cars before them.
The Man paid no attention to matters of this kind, so long as he saw they
did not interfere with his plans for operating his road.

About this time a couple of brakemen put their heads together and,
getting in back of the tender of the express engine, began to fire chunks
of coal through the window at the Man when he was telegraphing. They
figured that it would make the Man mad and that he might exhaust his
ammunition upon the tender. It did set him going for awhile, and the
sound of smashing glass, the crack of the revolver, and the spat of the
bullets up against the tender roused considerable interest, especially
among the women. Then the Man made up his mind not to shoot any more;
they couldn’t do him much harm, anyway, from behind the tender, and he
decided to devote no more of his official time to them. So they knew no
more about his supply of ammunition than before. Besides, the thing was
beginning to be too much for the women in the cars, who got an idea from
the noise that something was going on or was about to, and the conductors
called the brakemen off. They were afraid they might get the Man too much
excited.

As it got darker, however, the ideas of the men on the outside began
to crystalize. About everything possible had been tried and failed. At
8.30 o’clock a determined minority decided to go gunning for the Man. It
seemed a rather inhuman thing to do, but there was no knowing what was
going to turn up. It was really a case of self-defense. Accordingly a
messenger was sent across the fields to a farmhouse for a shotgun.

At this time a ridiculous thing happened. The Man went to sleep. This
seems incredible until it is remembered that he had been up very late
the night before arranging the schedule for his road. As for the men
on the outside, they thought at first he was merely leaning forward
over his instrument; then some one suggested that he might be asleep,
but the crowd was against him, the popular theory being that he was
probably playing some trick. The beams of one of the headlights streamed
in the front window of the station and showed him very plainly. He
made an interesting, if not entirely charming picture in the yellow
light,—especially his white face and his straggly black hair. If he had
made the slightest move the crowd would have seen it; but he didn’t. So
after he had lain perfectly still for ten minutes many said that they
were comfortably sure that he was really asleep. A young physician who
watched him awhile said they couldn’t wake him with a club,—it was one
of the peculiar symptoms of what ailed him,—and suggested that now was
the golden opportunity for those whose business it was, to gather him
in without the slightest danger to themselves. There was a long and
unanimous silence, during which the theory of subterfuge on the part of
the Man gained ground. Finally the doctor said he would be one of two men
to go in after him; a freight brakeman said he would be the other. They
went to the rear of the station and opened a catch in a window where a
piece of coal had broken out a light, raised the sash, and crawled in.
The crowd kept watch of the Man, prepared to yell if he stirred. But he
didn’t stir. The two men crawled up behind the barricade, around in front
where the headlight streamed in and jumped. Then the crowd came through
the front windows, and the Man was gathered in.

Now this is the plain and unvarnished tale of how the Man at Solitaria
ran the Great Western Road. There is no probability that he will resume
the management. Nevertheless he inaugurated one improvement for which
the traveling public should be grateful. The new Man at Solitaria has an
assistant.

[Illustration]




The Compass of Fortune.

BY EUGENE SHADE BISBEE.


A few days after his return to New York from twenty years’ prospecting in
South America, Alfred Leighton found the following letter at his hotel:—

                             “BUENA VISTA, TARRYVILLE-ON-THE-HUDSON,
                             April 26, 189—.

    “_Dear Alfred_: A moment ago, to my astonishment and delight,
    I ran across your name among yesterday’s hotel arrivals. I
    won’t waste words in telling you what pleasure this news gives
    me, but write at once to ask you to come up here with bag and
    baggage, so that we may talk over old times and compare notes
    as to how the world has used us since we parted thirty years
    ago.

    “Telegraph when you are coming, and I will meet you at the
    train.

                          “Yours, as of yore,

                                                 “MELVILLE BARRETT.”

For a moment after finishing the letter Leighton stood dumfounded, his
mind swiftly gathering up the threads of long-forgotten experiences and
friendships. It was now almost thirty years since he and Melville Barrett
had chummed together at college, but the letter and the signature were
enough to recall the brilliant, luckless fellow who had been Leighton’s
roommate during the latter’s senior year. As nearly as he could remember,
Barrett, in spite of his mental gifts, had never got on in the world,
and, at last accounts, had gone West where he had dropped out of sight
apparently for good and all. And now, behold, he had turned up again in
the character of a landed proprietor! Had Barrett at last struck it rich?

Five hours later when, after a drive in a well-appointed landau through
a winding avenue, the carriage stopped at a big colonial mansion, and
Leighton was ushered into an imposing hallway, carpeted with oriental
rugs and decorated with tropical plants and curios from many lands, his
mind recurred to the same question. And during the dinner that followed,
served by well-trained servants, in a tapestry-hung dining-room, and
the hour spent examining the rare plants in the adjoining conservatory,
Leighton found himself varying the question by the mental inquiry,—“How
had Barrett struck it rich?”

For an answer to this question he had not long to wait. As the two men
sat together before the open fire in the library, over their Havanas and
after-dinner, coffee, reviving the experiences of years ago, Barrett
suddenly exclaimed, turning to his companion:—

“I suppose you are surprised to find me, at last, a property holder,
instead of the luckless, poverty-stricken chap you used to know. Very
likely, you’ve been wondering whether I have fallen heir to a fortune.”
Then, hardly noticing his friend’s evasive answer, he continued: “I have
come into a fortune, but not through the death of friend or relative. In
fact, the manner in which it was gained was so extraordinary that neither
I nor the friend who shared the adventure have cared to speak about it.
And people simply know that, like so many others, we struck it rich in
the land of gold. But you, who were the companion of my college days, and
so know that I never took any stock in the supernatural, will, I am sure,
believe what I have to tell you, especially as I hold the proof. If its
duplicate can be produced by human hands, then I am ready to accept any
commonplace explanation that the maker may offer.

“The whole thing is as great a mystery to me to-day as when it happened,
eighteen years ago. My friend Mitchell and I had been hunting in the
mountains of Southern California for a couple of weeks, and were
returning by easy stages to the stock ranch where we both were employed.
One evening, about the third day of our journey, we made camp in one of
the most picturesque spots in all that beautiful country. A deep green
valley stretched before us, high, snow-crowned mountains on either side,
while far away down the silver stream that flowed through the valley
could be seen the undulating country of the grape and orange—a full
hundred miles away.

“Mitchell had finished his duties as cook, and we had despatched a
delicious supper of broiled venison, potatoes, and coffee, just as the
sun was sinking beyond our vision. The camp fire gave forth a cheery glow
as we sat and smoked our pipes, recounting the day’s sport; while every
now and then the stillness was broken by the deep howl of a gray mountain
wolf,—a blood-chilling sound even to an old hunter, and thus altogether
different from the bark and yelp of the coyote of the plains. Twenty
years ago the Sierra Nevadas were alive with game, and many a time have
I sat by the ashes of our fire on a morning early, and thrown stones at
an inquisitive black-tail deer, undismayed by his first sight of man. On
this evening, however, after we had finished our smoke and looked after
our horses and pack-mules, we rolled in our blankets, and, with saddles
for pillows and our heavy sombreros covering our faces, were soon asleep.

“My next conscious thoughts were of warmth on my face, and I sat up
suddenly to find the sun just above the treetops. Giving Mitchell a
rousing slap on the back, I set about getting a fire, at which task he
joined me a moment later. Soon we had started a tiny blaze, but the
dew-damp wood would not catch according to my fancy and I stooped to blow
it. It caught, and I raised my head. As I did so I saw the strangest
figure that ever met my eyes.

“At first Mitchell did not see it, for, though near, it stood just behind
him. But as my look of amazement caught Mitchell’s eye, with a ‘What the
devil is the matter with—?’ he turned his head; and the words died on
his lips. What had so astonished me was nothing more nor less than the
form of a man, but a man whose like I had never seen nor imagined. In
the first place he seemed to be at the very least seven feet high, and,
even shrouded as he was by the folds of his odd costume, magnificently
proportioned. He was garbed in a flowing gown of white, wound around
by a broad crimson sash, into which were stuck two daggers and a long
curved sword with a handle of gold set with jewels; while a huge turban
of oriental fashion, snow-white like his gown, crowned his head. Beneath
the turban gleamed two eyes, small, but piercingly brilliant, while the
lower part of the dark oval face was half hidden by his most remarkable
feature, a moustache, jet black, and as long as the horns of a big
steer—a comparison which its graceful curves still further suggested.
What finally riveted our attention, however, was neither the man’s garb
nor his features, but an object that he held in the curve of his right
arm.”

“And that was—?”

“Nothing more nor less than a human skull, of a size that seemed to
indicate a man of even larger stature than the one before us. All these
details flashed upon my mind like an image on the sensitive plate of a
camera, but before I could have counted twenty with deliberation, he
placed the skull upon the ground, and then, straightening himself up,
pointed with one outstretched hand over my head, as though indicating
something in the distance. Naturally, we both turned in the direction
of that gesture, but seeing nothing unusual in the landscape, faced
about again towards the figure. Then we looked at each other in blank
astonishment. The man had vanished as completely as a soap bubble
bursting in air!”

“Hidden?” said Leighton, laconically.

“Impossible; our camp stood in a perfectly open glade, at least two
hundred yards from the nearest tree, so he could not possibly have
reached a hiding place in the ten seconds our heads had been turned.

“As we stood there dumfounded, our eyes scrutinizing each other, the
plain, the sky overhead, and finally the ground, Mitchell gave a cry of
astonishment.

“‘Why, there’s the skull!’ he exclaimed. ‘The man was real after all.’

“Sure enough, there was the skull, lying on the ground scarcely two
yards from where we stood. For a moment neither of us stirred. Then with
a common impulse we rushed forward and together raised the grewsome
souvenir from the ground. At first it seemed much like any human skull
except that it was unusually large, and polished so that its top
glistened like a billiard ball. As we turned it around, however, a cry
of astonishment broke from both. The eye sockets were not empty, but
contained a pair of the oddest sort of eyes. They were perfect in shape
and expression, and though carved from what seemed to be deep blue
glass, looked almost too lifelike for pleasurable contemplation. But
what added to the uncanny effect of the lidless blue orbs was the fact
that they moved, being evidently set on some sort of bearing. So weirdly
fascinating was the strange object that the sun was high before we could
compose ourselves sufficiently to sit down to our morning meal; and
even then our conversation was entirely of the skull and of the strange
visitor who had come and gone so mysteriously. In comparing notes we
found that our remembrance of that visitor’s dress and appearance agreed
to the minutest details. Consequently if there had been any delusion
it was one in which both had shared. But if the experience had been
a delusion, how account for the skull? From time to time we glanced
toward the spot where we had placed the uncanny object, half expecting
that, too, would vanish. But no. It remained just where we had left it,
its top glistening in the sun, its lidless blue eyes gleaming with an
almost human expression. As I looked, for perhaps the twentieth time,
at the grewsome thing I observed that the eyes were turned toward the
left, and seemed gazing fixedly at the hillside above our camp. Seized
by a strange idea I arose and turned the skull in the direction of the
hill towards which the eyes looked. They stared straight ahead. Then I
turned it in the other direction, and, to my astonishment, they looked
towards the right. To make sure, I slowly turned it from one side to the
other, and all the while the eyes kept their gaze riveted on the same
spot. I had called Mitchell to observe the experiment, and he laughingly
suggested that the skull was looking for the man who brought it there
and then deserted it. But I was more serious. I had an idea concerning
this strange phenomenon and was resolved to test the matter to the end.
Holding the skull in one hand, I walked forward, every now and then
turning the skull, whose eyes always turned in the same direction, as
the needle of a compass points toward the north. I had in this manner
gradually approached the hill, when it seemed as if the eyes had actually
taken on a more intense gaze, and that that gaze was directed to a
particular portion of the rocks which seemed to form a small recess. I
moved forward more rapidly, the eyes continuing to stare at this place
until I had reached the recess itself. The next moment I found myself
within a natural enclosure, surrounded on three sides by precipitous
rock, so steep as to be almost barren of vegetation, save here and there
a clinging vine. Again I looked at the skull. Beyond a doubt its deep
blue eyes were directed towards a particular portion of the rocky wall
marked by a small depression, shaped like a diamond. Setting the grewsome
thing upon a flat rock, I purposely turned the side of the jaw toward
the point where the eye had been directed, and breathlessly awaited the
result. Slowly, steadily, those lidless eyes turned until they rested
again on the diamond-shaped depression.”

“And Mitchell?” said his hearer, “did this convince him?”

“Not at first, for he remained near our fire, watching my movements still
with an incredulous smile. The smile faded, however, when a moment later
I called him to my side and saying, ‘Watch the eyes and tell me what
you think,’ began turning the skull slowly around on the flat rock. The
eyes held their focus on the diamond-shaped incision, and I stood up and
confronted my friend.

“‘Well,’ said he, and this time his accent indicated great agitation,
‘I believe you are right, and there’s some mystery here; let’s get to
the bottom of it. I’ll go to the camp for an axe.’ Ten minutes later he
returned with the only available tool we possessed, and I began hacking
feverishly at the rocky wall, keeping the mark upon which the eyes were
riveted as our guide. Before long we had a big slice of the rocky soil
cut away, and Mitchell had just taken his turn at the work, when his axe
suddenly buried itself in what seemed to be a soft shell of rock, the
momentum throwing him flat on his face. The next moment a section of the
earth, quite six feet each way, gave way, revealing to our astonished
eyes a deep excavation. In the bright light of the morning sun which
shone full upon it, lighting up its interior to the rear wall, it seemed
about fifty feet inward.”

“A sort of cave?” said Leighton.

“Yes, but one made by human hands, as we discovered as soon as we crossed
the threshold. The walls were cut and carved in many curious devices,
while around the three sides ran a shelf cut in the rock, on which
reposed many bones piled in regular heaps. A glance revealed the fact
that they were human bones,—we were in some prehistoric sarcophagus.
Presently, as our eyes became accustomed to the subdued light, we began
to look about us more closely. I was examining a pile of bones at the
end farthest from the opening, comparing them with the skull in our
possession, when, finding them apparently of the usual size, I tossed a
thigh bone carelessly back on the shelf. It struck the pile with more
force than I had intended, and they all came tumbling to the floor; but
as they fell they revealed what appeared then, and subsequently proved to
be, a crystal casket. It was about eighteen inches long by six high, and
a foot wide; and, as I took hold of it, it moved with my hand. Carrying
it to the opening I set it down in the light. Then, for the first time,
I saw that it was filled with a blue substance, whose nature I could not
clearly make out, owing to the dust and dirt covering the case. Upon
examining the lid I found that it was not hinged but simply set on over
the top. A quick jerk brought it away, and there before our staring eyes
lay a huge heap of blue stones, all cut, and polished to a dazzling
brilliancy.

“‘Sapphires!’ cried Mitchell, and his eyes bulged from his head.

“‘Are you certain?’ I asked, almost breathless from amazement.

“‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘Look at them,’ and he took a handful of the
beautiful stones. ‘You never saw glass like that.’

“I thought as he did, but, being no judge of such things, was not too
ready to let my hopes soar, only to be dashed to earth again. There must
have been at least two pecks of them, ranging in size from a small pea to
stones as big as the end of my thumb,—and all perfectly cut. Suddenly, as
we stood gazing incredulously at the gleaming stones, my thoughts flew
to the skull, and I ran to fetch it. As I brought it into the light I
saw that its gaze was now riveted on the casket, the lidless blue orbs
seeming actually to gloat over the piles of blue stones. A new thought
flashed through my mind. Could it be—? Yes—undoubtedly—the eyes that we
had thought only bits of blue glass were themselves sapphires, but larger
and finer than any in the casket.

“Well, Mitchell and I were practical, first of all. As soon as we had
recovered from our amazement we made a thorough search of the cave.
Finding nothing more, however, we took ourselves and our precious burdens
to the camp, and that very night we started for San Francisco.”

“And the stones proved really sapphires?” said Leighton.

“Sapphires! I should say so. The leading jewelers to whom we showed a few
specimens upon our arrival in San Francisco, two days later, pronounced
them gems of the first water, and gladly paid us twenty thousand dollars
for sixty of the smaller stones. Upon parting company we divided the
sapphires equally between us, and since then I have visited every capital
of Europe, in each of which the stones have been pronounced flawless.”

“And that’s how you struck it rich?”

“Yes, but so far I have converted less than half of them into money. The
remainder I have placed in the casket in a New York safe deposit vault,
but the skull—”

As he spoke he gestured toward an ebony cabinet just above his head.
There, behind a glass door, stood a huge skull, whose lidless blue eyes,
looking out toward the distant city, seemed to pierce every obstacle
between itself and the casket of sapphires over which it still kept watch
and ward.

[Illustration]




A Surgical Love-Cure.

BY JAMES BUCKHAM.


One dull, gray afternoon in November I was sitting in my office
in Raymond Square, deeply absorbed in an article in my _Medical
Journal_,—the description of an experiment conducted by a famous French
surgeon for the purpose of determining whether sight could be restored
to a blind person by engrafting the live nerve of a dog’s eye upon the
shriveled and atrophied nerve of the patient’s eye. So engrossed was I in
the fascinating details of the experiment that I did not hear the door of
my office open, nor was I aware of the presence of a second person until
a peculiarly deep-toned, rich, and musical voice broke upon my ear.

“Have I the honor of addressing Doctor Marston?”

I looked up, and saw before me a tall and graceful young man,
smooth-shaven, and dressed in the characteristic clerical garb of the
Church of England. His face was singularly handsome, of the clear-cut
Grecian type, and was lighted by a pair of large, thoughtful brown eyes.
With the exception of the mouth, the whole face was both intellectual and
spiritual; but there was a certain fulness and sensuous curve of the lips
which suggested a strongly emotive and possibly passionate nature under
this calm and priestly exterior.

“Yes, I am Doctor Marston,” I said, replying to the young clergyman’s
question. “Can I be of any service to you?”

“On one condition—possibly,” replied the young man, taking the seat which
I indicated, and fixing his thoughtful brown eyes searchingly upon mine.
For a moment we sat gazing intently at each other, and then I said,
somewhat abruptly:—

“I beg to know the condition, sir.”

“It is this,” he replied; “that if I entrust my case to you, you will
promise to keep it entirely secret, scientifically or otherwise, until
after my death, should that occur before your own. And, in any case, you
must agree never to reveal my name in connection with the affair.”

For some moments I sat turning over this peculiar proposition in my mind,
conscious all the while that the brown eyes were fixed patiently, but
anxiously, upon my face. At length I replied:—

“I have never as yet been called upon to undertake a case guarded by such
secrecy as you seem desirous to throw about your own, and, to be frank,
I dislike to commit myself to any transaction of the sort,—at least,
until I know something of the nature of the trouble and the reasons for
suppressing any mention of it. This much, however, I will agree to do. If
you will describe the nature of your disease, I will then decide whether
I ought to accept the case on the conditions imposed. Whether I accept or
refuse it, I will agree to keep the matter a total secret, except so far
as your own proposition gives me liberty to speak.”

A slight smile flitted over the young clergyman’s face. “Very well,”
he said; “I accept your word of honor, as a gentleman should, and will
proceed at once to describe the malady which has, perhaps justly,
awakened your suspicions. To come at once to the point, then, know that,
impelled by your well-deserved reputation as an anatomist, I have applied
to you to perform a surgical operation _for the cure of love-sickness_!”

I started, the suspicion that flitted through my mind mirroring itself
unconsciously in my dilated eyes.

“Ah, no!” exclaimed my companion seriously, reading the tell-tale
revelation of my face. “I am not insane. My mind is as clear and logical
at this moment as it ever was in my life, and the request which I make,
a little reflection will prove to you, is not only reasonable, but
scientific.

“First, however, let me state to you the circumstances which make me
desirous to rid myself of the passion which I have confessed, thereby
anticipating the question which is sure to rise to your lips. You are
aware, of course, that the High Church movement in this country, as well
as in England, has resulted in the formation of certain brotherhoods
of the clergy, bound together by vows more or less approaching in
strictness those which govern the clergy of the Church of Rome?”

“I was not aware of the fact,” I replied, as the young clergyman paused
for an answer.

“It is indeed so,” he continued. “You will not be surprised, then, to
know that by the vows of the Brotherhood of St. Michael, to which I
consecrated myself soon after the days of my novitiate, celibacy is as
strictly enjoined as upon the priesthood of the Church of Rome.”

“Indeed!” I exclaimed, carried away by some sudden feeling, which I
cannot even now defend. “The more fools—”

But here I stopped, the great brown eyes with something like a flash of
Olympic lightning piercing and enchaining mine. In another instant the
deep, rich voice proceeded:—

“For ten years I have kept every vow of the brotherhood referring to
woman, without a single spiritual struggle—wearing these restraints as
Samson wore his chains. But something less than six months ago I met a
woman—”

The young clergyman paused, throwing his head back against the green
baize of the easy-chair in which he sat. For a moment I thought he had
fainted, and sprang for a cordial; but, without taking his slowly opening
eyes from the ceiling, he motioned me back, and continued, while an
indescribably sweet and almost transfiguring smile lit his pale face:—

“A woman, said I? An angel! A vision of transcendent loveliness! She
came into my life as a new star comes across the disk of an astronomer’s
telescope, shedding its undiscovered light from eternity for him alone.
O my Ethel! My angel! My lips yearn toward yours, my arms grope out to
clasp you!—My God! What am I saying?”

The young priest sprang from his chair and stood trembling before me.
His face was livid with the exercise of some tremendous mental effort,
and I could see that the white nails of his clenched hands were driven
deep into the flesh. For a full minute he stood thus, and then his strong
frame relaxed, and he sank back into his chair, white as the paper on
which I write, and weak as a babe. This time I pressed the cordial to
his lips, and he did not refuse it. Presently he looked up with a faint
smile, and said, “Now, sir, you see what my malady is. I have no need to
describe it any farther.”

I stepped to the window and gazed up into the gray sky, as if looking for
a solution of my perplexity. But my mind remained as blank as the dull
expanse above the city roofs. Was this man insane, or was he really, as
he said, in his right mind? Could the force of a mere amorous passion for
a beautiful woman so carry away one of his character unless the man’s
mental integrity was impaired? I turned suddenly, in response to the
young clergyman’s voice. He had risen, and was advancing towards me.

“Do you believe in phrenology, Doctor Marston?”

“Most assuredly I do not.”

“Will you perform an experiment upon me to test the reasonableness of
your doubt?”

“Do you mean by that, will I assume your case surgically?”

“Exactly.”

I turned to the window again. Here was certainly an opportunity to
contribute something to the discussion of a vexed scientific question.
Are the functions of the brain localized in its structure? So say Gall,
and Spurzheim, and not a few other eminent anatomists. Well, every
practical experiment looking towards the solution of this question has
its value. Here was a strong, vigorous man, evidently possessed by the
amative mania. It would be an operation of little difficulty and no great
degree of danger to uncover the occipital protuberance at the base of the
brain, where phrenologists claim that the organ of love is situated, and
then—

“Well, will you take the case?”

The clergyman’s hand was on my shoulder. I turned and looked him squarely
in the face. “Is it understood that you assume all the risk, and that you
do not hold me responsible for the psychological result of an experiment
which, so far as I am concerned, is purely physical in its character?”

“Certainly. We will have it so understood.”

“Then you may call at my office to-morrow morning at eleven. Eat a light
breakfast, and, as far as possible, avoid excitement of every kind.”

It seemed strange instruction to be giving a clergyman; but the young man
understood and nodded approval. In a few minutes he took his departure,
and I returned to my _Medical Journal_—but not to read.

Precisely at eleven o’clock the next morning my singular patient walked
into the office. I at once remarked upon his changed appearance. His
face looked haggard, and there were heavy, dark rings under his eyes,
appearing almost black at the inner corners of the lids.

“I have seen _her_,” he explained heavily. “She was at All Saints Chapel
this morning. It was impossible for me to retire, or I should have done
so. I had to fight my desire to look at her, to speak to her. I had to
fight like a wild lion, and it has told on me, as you can see. But, thank
God, it is over now!”

“I hardly think you are in a fit condition to endure a surgical
operation,” I objected.

“For God’s sake, do not put it off any longer, doctor!” exclaimed the
young clergyman, clutching my hand. “I would rather die than endure
another day of such moral agony.”

“Very well,” I said; “I do not consider the experiment a dangerous one in
any case—only exhausting.”

Five minutes later my patient, divested of coat, vest, and collar, lay
stretched on the operating table. In five minutes more he was under the
influence of ether.

My first procedure was to shave the dark, soft, silken hair from the
lower part of the young man’s head. I then made two V-shaped incisions
with a lancet at the base of the skull, where phrenologists locate the
organ of amativeness, and raised the flap of skin from the skull. The
next thing was to get at the brain itself, and this I accomplished by
boring two fine holes through the skull with the smallest trephine known
in surgery. The portion of the brain thus exposed, I was amazed to find,
was in a highly inflamed condition. Instead of attempting to relieve
the surcharged brain with any instrument, I now placed a leech at each
orifice, and allowed a considerable amount of blood to be thus withdrawn.
I then dressed the wound antiseptically, and closed it with sutures.

My patient soon came out from under the influence of the anesthetic,
but appeared very weak. I lifted him in my arms and carried him to the
couch in my private room. Enjoining strict quiet, and, if possible,
sleep, I left him alone for a couple of hours. At the end of that time,
considering it safe to permit him to talk, I reentered the room with
considerable curiosity, not to say agitation, and asked him how he was
feeling. To my astonishment, he grasped my hand warmly, exclaiming that
he would consider me his greatest benefactor as long as he lived. “For,”
he cried, “you have saved my soul from its otherwise certain ruin. Thank
God! I feel now no more emotion at the thought of that woman than of any
other of her sex.”

I brought my patient some refreshment, and at three o’clock he left my
office in high spirits, promising to return again the next day to report
upon his condition.

For three weeks the Rev. Alexander Maeck—as I will call my clerical
patient—haunted my office every day, and we became fast friends. During
all this time he was entirely free from disturbing sentiments. The flames
of love, he declared, were quenched, and he was supremely happy.

So favorably, I must confess, did this experiment dispose me towards the
neglected science of phrenology that I at once began to direct my studies
in that direction, and soon accumulated a large number of expensive books
on the subject. I also began to write up the details of my experiment, so
as to get the matter into permanent shape while it was still fresh in my
mind.

About six weeks after the occurrences above related, and just after I
had posted an order for several hundred dollars’ worth of phrenological
works, the letter-carrier came into my office and presented me with a
large, square, cream-colored envelope. I tore it open carelessly, removed
the enclosure from the inner envelope, and bent over two beautifully
engraved cards which fell upon the table. They bore the names of Rev.
Alexander Maeck and Miss Ethel Plympton.

The wedding was a strictly private affair: and perhaps the most
remarkable thing connected with it was the fact that the would-be
annihilator of Cupid was permitted to kiss the bride.




The Williamson Safe Mystery.

BY F. S. HESSELTINE.


One morning in the spring of 1894, the attention of persons walking along
Sudbury Street, Boston, was attracted to a huge iron safe that was being
put out from the warerooms of a well-known safe company, which for many
years had done business on that street.

The way was blocked, and all passage by cars and teams prevented while
a number of men, with great effort, by the aid of blocks, rollers, and
windlass, drew the huge mass of iron onto the platform of a stout dray by
which it was to be transported to its destination.

Of course passers-by wondered and queried as to the purpose and possible
use of a safe of such unusual form and dimension. But the curiosity of
the questioners remained unsatisfied; no one standing by knew, and the
merchant with his employees was too busy to answer those who ventured to
interrupt with their inquiries.

This much, however, was evident: the safe was not new; indeed, the style
and appearance of it indicated that it had been built many years ago
for some special purpose, in which it had doubtless seen long service.
Altogether the appearance of this strange object so excited my curiosity
that, although I was in a hurry to reach my office, I waited until the
thing was finally loaded and moved slowly off up the street. Then I
entered the store of the safe company, and, being well acquainted with
the manager, I asked if he could give me the old safe’s history.

He replied that there was a strange story connected with it, known now
only to himself. For certain reasons it never had been known except to
two people, and they had been sacredly bound, one by personal interest
and the other by a solemn vow, never to divulge the secret. “This
promise,” he said, “has been faithfully and sacredly kept; but now all
those in any way connected with or affected by it have passed beyond the
dark river. The safe, which has stood here for many years like a specter,
reminding me of the dead past, has now, to my great relief, vanished
forever, and I know no good reason why the strange story should not be
told. While I may withhold or change names in the recital, that which I
am about to relate is true, and is capable to some extent of verification.

“More than fifty years ago a stranger of good appearance, whose speech
and manner indicated that he was of English birth, entered the shop of
one Kershaw, a manufacturer on the corner of Chardon and Green Streets,
in this city, inquired for the proprietor, and stated that he wanted
constructed a strong, fire-proof safe, giving the description and
dimensions desired. By his conversation he appeared familiar with such
work, and stated plainly how he wanted this constructed and the kind of
lock required,—the keyless combination not having then been invented. In
answer to inquiries he said that he was about to open a jewelry store in
Hanover Street, that he did not intend to do a retail business, but would
carry a considerable stock for wholesale, visiting for trade dealers in
neighboring cities. He added, also, that as he would be absent from his
store from time to time, he desired a safe of large dimensions where his
stock could be safely stored during his absence, as well as at night. He
required no shelving in the safe, and wanted it of unusual depth, that he
might put directly into it the cases and trunks in which he would keep or
carry his stock.

“Being convinced of the stranger’s responsibility by a large advance
deposit, and by the promise of full payment on completion and delivery,
Mr. Kershaw accepted his order, and in due time the safe was completed
and delivered. Soon after a sign was put up on the store,—‘J. Williamson,
Wholesale Dealer in Watches and Jewelry.’ No great display was made in
the window. Goods were received and shipped by the rear entrance opening
on an alley-way. Apparently, but little business was done at the store,
and frequently Mr. Williamson was absent visiting his customers or buying
additional stock in New York City. He contracted no indebtedness, paying
cash for everything. He expressed a lack of confidence in banks and
bankers, saying that he had once lost a large sum by the failure of a
bank in which he deposited, and for the future should be his own banker.

“Shortly after he began business he took up his residence on Sheafe
Street in the North End of the city, and attended regularly the Baldwin
Place Baptist Church. No subscription paper or contribution box ever
passed him without a fairly liberal donation.

“In disposition he was quiet and retiring, and rarely spoke except in
response to some inquiry. His earlier life he never referred to except in
reply to one or two persons who ventured the question, when he briefly
stated that he was the second son of a well-to-do English squire, that
at an early age he found that there was no future for him in the old
country, and that when little more than a boy he came to New York where
he acquired a knowledge of business, and by diligence and economy saved
enough to start in business.

“Within a year after his arrival in Boston Mr. Williamson sought the hand
of the eldest daughter of a respectable merchant, a deacon in the church
which he attended, producing at the same time letters from New York
indorsing his worth and character. Having thus satisfied her parents,
he was accepted and with little delay married. Very soon after he was
received, on profession of his faith, into the church, and by his quiet,
correct life, liberality, and honest dealing, secured the confidence and
respect of all who knew him.

“About this time a strange epidemic of crime swept over the Puritanic
city of Boston. The houses of the wealthy were entered and robbed of
their valuable contents. Packages of money were boldly seized within the
very enclosures of the bank, the thief escaping through some passageway
or by fastening behind him the door through which he escaped; the
satchels of bank messengers, filled with valuable contents, were suddenly
snatched, and the robber eluded pursuit. At night persons were garroted
and robbed on the public street. The police force was small and, although
they exercised unusual diligence, every few days some new and startling
crime, committed with wonderful skill and boldness, was announced. It was
thought that a gang of experienced criminals had made a descent upon the
city so long exempt from crime, and every stranger was under suspicion
and carefully watched.

“One night, not long after his marriage, Mr. Williamson was found on
Charlestown Bridge in a dazed, exhausted condition, and assisted to his
home. When sufficiently recovered he stated that while crossing the
bridge he was suddenly seized from behind, his throat grasped so that he
could not cry out, and his pocketbook, containing a large sum of money,
taken from him. He struggled to free himself from his unknown assailant
until he gasped for breath, and fell exhausted, unconscious.

“On the following day Mr. Williamson offered a liberal reward for the
arrest of the highwayman, but as he had not seen him he could give no
clue to aid in the detection of the criminal. Some of the persons robbed,
however, who had caught a glimpse of the thief, described a dark person
with heavy black hair, wearing blue glass spectacles; and, as it was
believed that he and the assailant of Williamson were one, search was
made for a person answering this description.

“One evening the whole city was startled by the news of a crime just
committed, bolder than any that had preceded it. The store of Davis &
Palmer, jewelers on Washington Street, had been entered between the hours
of seven and eight P. M., and the most valuable part of their stock
taken, the trays containing many valuable watches, diamonds, and jewelry,
having all been emptied. As was customary, the store was closed at seven
o’clock and a night-watchman came on duty within an hour after. On this
evening when the watchman entered he found the cases stripped of their
valuable contents and immediately gave the alarm. The police were sent
for and an investigation began. It was soon discovered that persons near
the store had seen a sleigh drive up, a man alight, unlock and enter the
store. Not long after he came out bringing two heavily laden bags, one
after the other, which he placed in the sleigh and drove away. At the
time no suspicion had been excited, as there was nothing peculiar about
his manner of entering or leaving the store. From his course of action
the thief was evidently well acquainted with the fact that there was a
brief period between the closing of the store and the arrival of the
watchman; and, having at some time, doubtless, obtained an impress of the
key and made a duplicate, the task of entering and robbing the store at a
time when it was least expected was an easy one.

“In those days there was no detective force or special police to
investigate crime and capture the criminals. The attention of the few
policemen employed by the city was given wholly to the preservation of
order, and to preventing a breach of the peace. There was, however,
a force of a few constables who served civil processes and worked as
private detectives for a reward, headed by an old experienced officer,
Captain Darius Clapp; and when it was known that a large reward had been
offered for the discovery and return of the goods irrespective of the
arrest and conviction of the criminal, Clapp devoted himself at once
to that object. As a first step he visited every stage-office, stable,
vessel, and mode of egress from the city, but to no purpose. The owner of
the sleigh was found, but could give no information except that it had
been hired in the afternoon by a dark-haired man wearing colored glasses,
and that late in the evening the team was found without any driver in
Haymarket Square.

“As weeks passed and the mystery seemed no nearer a solution, the strange
robbery became the universal topic of conversation. Every clue and
suspicion was followed up. Strangers were arrested and obliged to prove
their innocence. Everybody became a detective.

“Some weeks after the robbery, a stranger came to the express office
with a trunk which he wished transported to New York. Something in the
manner of the man, an unnatural, half-disguised appearance, excited
the suspicion of the alert, sharp-eyed express agent, who had been
cautioned by Captain Clapp, and while he proceeded to make out the
receipt he secretly sent a messenger to the constable. Upon his arrival
that official instantly began to question the stranger, demanding to
know the contents of the trunk. His inquiries were frankly answered with
proper explanation, and the key produced that the captain might verify
the same by examination. The innocent frankness of the stranger disarmed
the constable, and, half apologizing for not accepting his statements as
sufficient, the captain stooped to unlock the trunk, when suddenly the
stranger leaped by him and out through the door, barring it after him by
thrusting a stout cane through the iron handle. Throwing himself against
the door the captain soon broke the improvised bolt and rushed off in
pursuit, following the fugitive down through Dock Square, Marshall, and
Hanover Streets, into a narrow court leading from the last street, where
the man had disappeared. But though there was no outlet other than that
by which he had entered, a thorough search of this place a few moments
after failed to discover the fugitive, or the way of his escape. After
the houses opening on the court were searched without discovering any
trace of the probable thief, the proprietors of the stores fronting
Hanover Street on each side and having rear entrances, were sent for.
Among these was Mr. Williamson, but as it was ascertained at his
residence that he was absent from the city, entrance was gained to his
store by a side window. Here, however, as in the other stores, no person
or sign of one was found. The burglar, for such an examination of the
trunk at the express office proved him to be, was never captured, nor was
trace of him discovered, although diligent search of that neighborhood
was made by the whole police force.

“Not long after, the city was again startled, this time by the
announcement in the morning papers of the mysterious disappearance
and probable murder of Mr. Williamson. He was known to carry large
sums of money upon his person, and as there was no good explanation of
his absence, it was thought most probable that he had been robbed and
murdered. In fact there were some who reported hearing at night cries for
help in the vicinity of his store, and a hat which had been found one
morning on the street near his store, proved to be one worn by him on the
morning when he last left his home.

“Information was sought by advertisement in the newspapers with promise
of liberal reward, but all investigation proved unavailing.

“After some weeks of vain inquiry and search, the general suspicion that
he had been murdered and his body thrown over the Charlestown Bridge
became a settled conviction; but his faithful, trusting wife refused
to believe him dead, and her father finally proceeded to New York to
see what information, if any, could be gained from those with whom his
son-in-law had had dealings in that city.

“What he ascertained there I do not know, but immediately on his return
he came to my employer for a workman to go to the store and open in
his presence the safe containing the stock stored therein. After some
drilling the bolt was sprung and the door swung open, disclosing a sight
at which I started back affrighted and amazed, and which so horrified the
troubled and anxious father that he fell like a dead man on the floor.
There within the safe lay the dead body of Mr. Williamson, the trusted
and respected jewelry merchant!

“On recovering consciousness, the good deacon, heartbroken, implored me
for his sake and the fair name of his daughter never to make known the
sight then revealed, and to assist him in concealing all evidence which
would tend to disclose it. To both these requests I at once consented,
and that night I helped him to carry out the body privately for burial—no
matter where.

“An examination of the safe disclosed a hardly discernible aperture
drilled through the back near the top, from which, on the inside, hung
a flexible tube by which respiration was made possible for a person
enclosed, and through which noise from without could reach the inmate.

“On the inside of the door a hole had been cut so that the key could be
inserted and the bolt thrown. The handle of this key had broken off,
leaving the key in the lock. There were indications that food and water
had been stored in the safe, but none remained; even the shoes bore
marks of the teeth, as if gnawed for sustenance. A black wig and blue
glass spectacles lay on the floor of the safe. Seeing all this, we soon
conjectured for what purpose this safe was made and used—a temporary
place of quick retreat. We wondered if the key was broken by accident in
the haste to elude that last pursuit, or in attempting to re-open the
door. We thought we knew now, though each was silent, the mystery of the
many recent crimes; but one thing was certain, they ceased and the author
of them was never found or arrested.”




How Small the World.

BY E. H. MAYDE.


I.

_The letter of Mr. Robert Fairfax to the Rev. Arthur Selbourne,
Innasittie, Colorado_:

                                                MANCHESTER, July 24, 1892.

Right you are, Old Hoss, and no mistake. Europe was a great lark—all the
better for having been as unexpected as a wedding fee in advance. I’m
mighty glad I’ve seen it all. I used to be afraid that foreign scenery
would make that of home seem tame in comparison. It has, on the contrary,
been rather enhanced for me, and New England continues to stir my aged
blood as nothing else does.

I stopped over a day in New York, and dined with Ellis, who told me
about poor Jack Simms. Awfully sad case. Of course you know he was eager
for the operation—it really was the last hope—and went into it with
the greatest amount of pluck and nerve. Ellis is interne at St. Luke’s
hospital, and was with Jack all the time, and, up to the last day,
believed he’d pull through: but it was no go. Jack’s life was insured
for ten thousand dollars, and his wife’s uncle had just left her thirty
thousand dollars. So he had the comfort of knowing she was provided for.
It’s a lucky thing, for she has weak lungs or something of that sort. It
strikes me that women as a race are pretty delicate in spite of their
modern fad for athletics.

I saw Adams and Lennox Vandewater in Boston. Van looks rather peaked.
Adams says he’s just made his annual proposal to the girl he’s been in
love with for six years (nobody knows who she is) and she has rejected
him again. Van never recuperates in less than three months, so Adams has
consented to go across with him, and they’re going to bike about England
during August and September. Adams’s legs must be a better match for his
head than they were in college.

I’ve run down here for a week with my mother and sister who are at the
Masconomo. Have strolled along the shore this afternoon, and wish you
were here to enjoy this comfortable ledge of rock and the strong salt
air, and to talk over old times. I put a writing pad in my pocket, and
the faithful fountain permits one side of a conversation at least.
I’m confoundedly sleepy, however,—don’t grin like a dog when you read
that,—and think I’ll stretch out and take a snooze, in the hope of
imparting a little brilliancy to my style.

_Evening._ My dear fellow, I am madly in love. Fact, and you may as well
take it seriously. I went to sleep, as I intended to, and dreamed I
was discussing methods of executing criminals with your wife, when, in
reply to some remark of mine, she said, “I always use a kitchen knife.”
Then some one laughed and I woke up. Then a Voice—such a _delicious_
voice—said, “Don’t grin like a dog,” and I thought I must be dreaming,
for it was all mixed up with you, and you know I had just written those
very words. Then the Voice went on, “Billy said it was inane, but I
didn’t care, for the result was just as good as his.” Then followed a
most amusing talk, which must have lasted fifteen minutes. You need
not put on a look of professional disapproval at my eavesdropping. I
pledge you my word, I hadn’t the faintest idea I was doing it until
it was too late. You see, I was half asleep and half awake at first,
and when I discovered that I was all awake I hadn’t the nerve to get
up and apologize for being there, and walk away. It would have been
as embarrassing for her as for me. Besides, though she was talking
confidentially to some woman friend, she hadn’t said a word which there
was the slightest objection to my hearing, so I thought best to lie
still. I was completely hidden by the ledge, though she couldn’t have
been six feet distant. It was immensely amusing. The Voice was relating
her experiences in keeping house for some one she called Billy on “the
ranch”—location unknown. For a long time I thought “Billy” was her
husband, and it seemed to me he ought to be a happy man, for she called
him a saint (not the canonized kind: she meant a brick), and she said
Billy called her a better cook than his mother. But it turned out that
Billy is her brother. He’s married now, and she apparently dotes on the
‘twins.’ Once they—_i.e._, the Voice and Billy—had a Mr. Adams to dine
with them, and as he was from Boston I think it may be our Adams, and,
perhaps, through him I can get a clue to her identity. You think this
is all nonsense, but I assure you I’m in dead earnest. She’s the most
interesting girl I’ve ever seen—or ever haven’t seen—for I know little
enough about her appearance. I looked over the ledge after they’d gone
away (they couldn’t see me) and saw them walking off towards the road,
and she wears tan shoes and a blue dress. I’m going forth to hunt those
articles to-morrow. Why shouldn’t I be the happy man I supposed Billy to
be?

I pity Van more than I did when I began this letter.

If Adams’s reply is favorable, and I find her and she’ll have me, I’ll
send for you to come on and tie the knot. You may impart this information
to your wife (I know you can’t keep it to yourself), for she once told
me that she took comfort in the most incipient stages of love-making,
because there was always the possibility of a fee ahead. My best regards
to that mercenary woman.

                                  Yours,

                                                                      BOB.

P. S. What do you suppose she uses a kitchen knife for? It must be
something unusual.


II.

_The letter of Mr. Winthrop Adams to Mr. Robert Fairfax,
Manchester-by-the-Sea, Massachusetts._

                                                    BOSTON, July 27, 1892.

_Dear Fax_:—Sorry enough to hear of your accident. A sprained ankle is no
joke. Thought you were the most surefooted of men.

I append the memorandum you ask for of all the Williams of my
acquaintance. Are you writing a paper on The Influence of Christian Names
on Christian Character? And, if so, why in thunder don’t you begin at the
other end of the alphabet?

Van and I sail on the second. He’s dumpier than ever before. What a girl
she must be to refuse a million, and Van thrown in!

                                  Yours,

                                                           WINTHROP ADAMS.

_Memorandum._ (Ages only approximate.) William A. Curtis, fifty, lawyer,
widower, New York; Wm. B. Slater, twenty-six, physician, bachelor, Iowa;
Wm. Thorndike, thirty, merchant, ?, Charleston, S. C.; Wm. Martin, forty,
teamster, married, Boston; Wm. Berkeley Vandewater (our Van’s father);
Wm. (generally called Billy) Posey, (colored), seventy-five, janitor,
Boston; Wm. Winthrop Adams, my three-months’-old nephew, still unmarried,
Boston.

I don’t recall any other Williams whom I have met within the last two
years.


III.

_The telegram of the Rev. Arthur Selbourne to Mr. Robert Fairfax,
Manchester-by-the-Sea, Mass._

                                         INNASITTIE, COL., August 2, 1892.

Probably uses it instead of a fork.

                                                             A. SELBOURNE.

Collect.


IV.

_The letter of Miss Polly Forsythe to Mrs. Arthur Selbourne, Innasittie,
Col._

                                          PRIDE’S CROSSING, July 24, 1892.

_My dearest Lucie_:—I have the most delightful and most disgusting things
to tell you. First to the first. Of course you know all about poor Nannie
Simms’s trouble and about her husband’s death a month ago, at St. Luke’s
Hospital. Perhaps you do not know, however, the only gleam of comfort in
the whole sad affair—that she has a very comfortable fortune. Old Mr.
Dupuy left her thirty thousand dollars, and when poor Jack died it was
found that his life was insured for ten thousand dollars. It is _so_
fortunate, for she is all alone in the world, and not a bit strong. Of
course she’s perfectly heartbroken, but she’s just as brave and sweet
as you might know she would be. She says she can never be sufficiently
thankful for this year they’ve had together. You know at one time there
was talk of postponing the marriage for a year, and when Jack was taken
ill he reminded her of that. She sent for me immediately, and Carrie was
quite well, so I came right on. I really think it’s better now that she
and Billy and the babies should be by themselves. They have a very good
servant, and a nice motherly woman for a nurse. But this is a digression.
Jack’s family dote on Nannie, and they all want her to go and live with
them, but she says she couldn’t bear it just yet, and so she has asked
me to be her companion for a year, until she feels able to decide on her
future.

Dr. Ellis, an awfully nice young surgeon, and a college classmate of
Jack’s, has been just as kind as he could be to Nannie. He says she
mustn’t stay North this winter, but we haven’t yet decided where we are
going; perhaps to Florida, and perhaps abroad. We came down here a week
ago, and it is perfectly enchanting, but we are going away to-morrow on
account of the horridest thing that happened this afternoon. Now, Lucie,
before you read another line you must _promise_ not to breathe a word of
this to Arthur. Well, this afternoon Nannie and I walked down to the West
Manchester rocks. We sat with our backs against a nice ledge and looked
off over the quiet sea and talked for hours. When we got up to go I had
an experience before which Robinson Crusoe’s footprint on the sand sinks
into nothingness. Right on the other side of the ledge against which we
had been leaning I saw, not a footprint, but a foot. Two feet, in fact,
and attached to them two legs. All, evidently, the property of _a man_. I
felt as if every drop of blood in my body flew into my face, but I never
said a word to Nannie until we got back to the road. Then she looked
around, very carefully, of course, and there was that disgusting creature
looking over the ledge at us. Did you ever know _anything_ so horrid?
If I’d only his legs to judge by—that was all of him I saw, because the
rest of him was hidden by a rock—I should have thought him a gentleman,
for he wore fine russet shoes and blue trousers. I never want to see that
combination again as long as I live. But no gentleman _could_ have done
so rude a thing as to listen to a long conversation like ours. I dare say
you will think this is funny, but I’m sure you won’t laugh when you hear
the rest of the story.

What made it so _perfectly dreadful_ was that Lennox has proposed to me
again—for the sixth time, my dear,—and I was telling Nannie all about it.
Of course, Lennox Vandewater’s name is as well known here as Jay Gould’s
or George Washington’s, and you know how perfectly horrid men are, and
how they always think girls boast of their offers. And you know, too,
Lucie, that you and Nannie are the only living souls that know about that
affair, and that Lennox told Nannie himself. And you, dear thing, never
would have known it at all if you hadn’t overheard his first proposal,
and that ridiculous declaration that he was going to repeat it annually
until I accepted him or married some one else. Dear me! I never imagined
then he’d keep his word. I do really think the constancy of man is awful.

Of course, now you’ll want to hear how it happened, and I suppose you
might as well know. Lennox had something to do with the company in which
Jack’s life was insured, and he came to see Nannie several times on
business. Of course he saw me, but somehow his manner was different, and
I really thought he meant to be just nice and friendly. Once or twice
I saw him alone, but he never even _looked_ at me in a way to make me
suspicious, and always before that when we’ve been alone together—well it
has been

    “The embrace of pining eyes,”

all the time. The last afternoon he called—with some papers and things
for Nannie—she was in bed with a headache. He explained the business
matters to me, and then we actually _talked politics_—not a word of
anything else, I assure you—for half an hour. Then he told me he was
going to Boston that night by the Fall River Line, and bade me good-by.
But just as he reached the door he turned around as if he’d forgotten
something, shut the door, put his back against it, and said, “Polly, will
you be my wife?”

I was utterly taken aback. “Lennox,” I said, “how long do you mean to
keep up this absurd performance?”

“It isn’t a complimentary way of alluding to my offers of marriage,” he
replied calmly, “but I intend to repeat them until you are engaged.”

“Then,” I said desperately, “I will be engaged to the very next man that
offers himself to me.”

“How good of you,” said he, “to afford me such unexpected encouragement.
I will be that happy man, Polly.” And with that he dropped on his knees
and said, “Polly, _will_ you be my wife?”

Now, Lucie, of course, this was perfectly ridiculous, and who could
imagine Lennox Vandewater behaving so? I don’t know what made me do what
I did, except that I had been under a severe strain with Nannie, and was
rather unstrung, but instead of laughing I burst into a fit of hysterical
crying. Lennox came to his senses—and his feet—immediately. When I got
myself pulled together again I thought we might as well “have it out”
then and there, and I prayed that I might say the right thing. I told
him how much I admired him, and valued his friendship, and that I had
really, honestly tried to love him, but I couldn’t—in that way. I told
him about the imaginary scenes I had gone through with him, in which he
announced his proposed departure to South Africa as a missionary (only
I really think Lennox isn’t an ideal missionary), and that I had always
gone through the parting without a pang. I told him I longed to hear of
his marriage; and I was going on to use further arguments to convince him
that I didn’t love him, but at this point he said, “Well, I guess you
needn’t rub it in any more, Polly,” and I looked up and saw that his face
was quite white. I can’t tell you the rest, but—I don’t think Lennox will
propose to me again, though we—well, we “parted friends.”

Now, my dear Lucie, THAT was the tale I told to those russet shoes....
Was ever anything so—oh, words fail!

And Nannie, you know, has always believed I some day would marry Lennox,
so it was about as hard to convince _her_ that I couldn’t love him as it
had been to convince him. Luckily, it didn’t take six years in her case;
though, if it had, those russet shoes would have starved to death instead
of living to tell the tale. That would have been some comfort. After all
this conversation Nannie was so “low in her mind” about my affairs that
I put forth my best efforts at entertaining her, and actually made her
laugh telling her about Billy’s and my experiences on the ranch. And then
the whole day was spoiled by this awful discovery. I’m sure I know now
exactly how a woman feels when she finds the long-looked-for man under
the bed. This, my dear, is the end of the tale of woe. And quite time,
too. It will make a hole in my salary to pay the postage.

I’ll send you a postal when we are settled in some secluded spot where
shoes and trousers are unknown—and the wearers of those articles.

Meantime, I am thinking more about myself than ever before in my life.
Every morning when I unfold the paper I expect to see in enormous
headlines:

                        DISCOVERY OF L—N—X V—D—R’S
                                BEST GIRL,

                                    or

                              DID P—Y F—S—E
                      REFUSE HIM SIX TIMES OR SEVEN?

Good-by, you dear, sweet, patient, long-suffering woman. Arthur little
imagines how much I’ve contributed towards making you a model wife.

                              Your dejected

                                                                    POLLY.


V.

_That part of Miss Forsythe’s conversation overheard by Mr. Robert
Fairfax._

_To Mrs. Nannie Simms_:—_I_ always use a kitchen knife. Don’t grin like a
dog. Billy said it was inane, but I didn’t care, for the result was just
as good as his. You see we had no end of fun experimenting with all sorts
of things. The ranch was twenty miles from the nearest town, and I ‘got
my hand in’ at almost everything from cooking to carpentering. We even
painted the house in the most artistic style, mixing our own colors. It
was _such_ fun, ladling up little dabs of paint from a circle of cans,
and stirring up the mixture. We were trying to get a red like the cover
of my prayer book. And we did it, too. We had only one kind of wall
paper, and it required ‘treatment.’ It was a pretty bluish gray, with
scraggly daisies on it. We painted one room in olive green, floors and
woodwork, and that killed out all the blue, and gave us a gray and green
apartment. And another room, painted in dark brown, brought out the blue
and gave us a blue room.

Then the cooking was a great picnic. You see the most I’d ever done was
to stir up the ingredients of cake, according to Miss Parloa and Mrs.
Lincoln, and then—the cook baked them. What I wanted to learn was how
to get a dinner for a hungry man. Billy was a perfect saint. You can’t
imagine what blunders I made, with no one to give any help. But I’d wade
through it all again to know what I know now, and Billy says I’m a better
cook than mother.

One day we had a narrow escape from a tragedy. An accident on the
railroad had delayed our supplies a week. Meantime we had to live off
the country, and such things as we could get at ‘the store.’ Well, I
was going to have fish-balls for dinner—Billy loves them. I didn’t know
how codfish shrinks, and I put on what I thought was enough, and when
it came out of the water it had wizzled up into a little worm. However,
it made six fish-balls, and I thought we were all right, but when Billy
walked in,—brotherlike—without warning, with Mr. Adams, of Boston,—did
you know about his coming out to the ranch?—I had what Mrs. Stearns used
to call “an inward spasm.” I made a mental inventory of the contents of
the pantry while I was expressing my joy at meeting Mr. Adams—it _was_
a joy, too,—and I thought of “the woman who hesitates.” I went into the
kitchen and put those six fish-balls—they weren’t fried—back into the
bowl, and mixed them all up together. Then I made them over into nine,
just as big round, but thin to the point of emaciation. In the hen house
I found five nice fresh eggs, and I fried these, and “garnished” the
platter of fish-balls. And we had potatoes, and good bread and butter,
and coffee, and I really believe Mr. Adams thought he had a fine dinner.
He said the meal was a “taste of Boston.” We went hunting the next day,
and Billy shot a wild turkey, and that time we did have a dinner. Billy
was quite proud of my shooting. He taught me to use a rifle, and we had
fine times together. Then the evenings were delightful, sitting in front
of our great fireplace, and reading aloud; and afterwards music by the
firelight. It was just as nice after Billy married and Carrie came.
She fitted in beautifully, and they are very happy. And the twins are
darlings, the sweetest things. Really, if I begin on them I shall talk
till night, and you must be tired to death now. Let’s walk towards home.

Oh! I—I turned my foot. It’s all right now. Come along—this way—there!
Give me your hand; that’s it. I was just going to say that—


VI.

_Mrs. Arthur Selbourne’s good-night remarks._

_To Mrs. Jack Simms._—You are really growing fat, Nannie, dear. I was
sure this Colorado air would build you up. Yes, it is a lovely country,
with a charm that is all its own. Something of life will come back to you
here—if only added strength to bear its pain. Good-night, dear; sleep
well.

_To Miss Forsythe._—Yes, Dr. Ellis and Mr. Fairfax are coming to-morrow.
Nannie really seems to look forward with pleasure to meeting another of
Jack’s old friends. You know she has never met Mr. Fairfax, though she’s
heard so much about him. How much better she seems! You have been the
best tonic she could have had.

I want to caution you about one thing in regard to Mr. Fairfax.
He, of course, only knows your brother as Poindexter, and he has
m—m—m—er—associations with the name of Billy, so I wouldn’t use it before
him if I were you—that is, if you happen to remember—it isn’t important.
Good-night.

_To Mr. Selbourne._—I’m glad they’re coming by the afternoon train,
everything is so lovely in that light. And I’m satisfied about the rooms.
Men are always easy to entertain. I wish we could get that man up from
Denver, for the piano is dreadfully in need of tuning, and I do want to
have some good music while they are here. You know Nannie—Arthur, are you
asleep? _Well!_


VII.

IN THE CANON.

_Miss Forsythe and Mr. Fairfax._

_Miss Forsythe._—Yes, of course. But ever since the great baseball game
you have been one of Billy’s heroes, and—

_Mr. Fairfax._—_Billy’s?_

_Miss Forsythe._—Oh, I beg your pardon. “Poin,” I meant to say.

_Mr. Fairfax._—But why did you say “Billy”? And who is Billy? And why did
you beg my pardon?

_Miss Forsythe._—Billy is my pet name for Poin. You know he went to
Williams, and was so fond of it I called him Billy. Almost all my friends
before that were Harvard men.

_Mr. Fairfax._—But why did you beg my pardon?

_Miss Forsythe._—I—Mr. Fairfax, forgive me if I hurt you, but I can only
explain by telling you frankly that before you came, Mrs. Selbourne
cautioned me—I don’t know why—against using that name before you. She
said it held associations for you—and I thought—

_Mr. Fairfax._—You thought?

_Miss Forsythe._—That perhaps there was some one you had loved—and lost—

_Mr. Fairfax._—No; not that. I am inclined to think the associations are
with some one I have loved and found. I will tell you that story some
other day. Meantime, you were saying—?


VIII.

THE RECTORY DINING-ROOM.

Mrs. Selbourne, Mrs. Simms, Miss Forsythe, Mr. Fairfax, and Dr. Ellis,
all intently regarding a large box that has just been brought up from the
express office.

_Mrs. Selbourne._—We can’t open it until Arthur comes home, for he has
the key of the tool-closet in his pocket, and the cover is screwed on.

_Miss Forsythe._—Oh, yes, we can. _My_ screw driver is never to be found,
and I always use a kitchen knife.

_Mrs. Selbourne_ (aside, to Mr. Fairfax, as she passes him on her way
to the kitchen).—This only means that I am a mercenary woman, and take
comfort in the most incipient stages of love-making.

_Mr. Fairfax._—To me it means that you are an angel.


IX.

“SOME OTHER DAY.”

_Mr. Fairfax and Miss Forsythe._

_Mr. Fairfax._—And when I woke up you were talking about Billy and the
ranch, and I fell in love then and there with the sweetest voice and the
dearest girl in all the world.... And it _was_ our Adams, after all. He’s
abroad now with Vandewater. I suppose you’ve heard that story about Van,
and the girl he’s proposed to annually for the last six years?

_Miss Forsythe._—Yes, I’ve known him all my life.

_Mr Fairfax._—Well, _can_ you tell who the girl is?

_Miss Forsythe._—No, I can’t.


X.

IN THE CHURCH.

_The Rev. Arthur Selbourne._—Forasmuch as Robert and Polly have consented
together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this
company; and, thereto, have given and pledged their troth each to the
other; and have declared the same by giving and receiving a ring, and by
joining hands; I pronounce that they are man and wife in the name of the
Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

[Illustration]




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Dr. PARKHURST in the _Independent_, Dec. 12, 1895:

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Measured by this Standard, the Caligraph Typewriter

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Our illustrated Catalogue for 1896 will be sent on request. Ask also for
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       *       *       *       *       *

Who cares for PUBLIC OPINION!

What we all want is SATISFACTION.

If the Daugherty-Visible Typewriter

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We want you to have a machine on trial. Be your own judge. Catalogues
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       *       *       *       *       *

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       *       *       *       *       *

Consumption AND ITS CURE

TO THE EDITOR:—I have an absolute remedy for Consumption. By its timely
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In writing please say you saw this in The Black Cat.

       *       *       *       *       *

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       *       *       *       *       *

Our Mammoth New 1896 Flower Seed Offer.

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       *       *       *       *       *

The Mysterious Card Unveiled!

There will shortly be published in THE BLACK CAT, under the above title,
a sequel to “The Mysterious Card,”—the startling tale which aroused more
universal interest, and caused a greater sensation than any other story
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The entire first edition (150,000 copies) of THE BLACK CAT for February,
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The sequel to this marvelous story graphically unveils one of the darkest
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the loss of friends, fortune, wife, and home.

Buy THE BLACK CAT of your newsdealer for five cents a copy, or send
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       *       *       *       *       *

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       *       *       *       *       *

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 Rooms 127, 128, 129, and 130 Manhattan Building, 66 Broadway, New York.
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       *       *       *       *       *

Great Innovations 1896

’96 brings to the front many bicycles having valuable improvements, born
of experience and demanded by the cyclist. To keep up with the times and
demand, the manufacturers of the “Search Light” have produced for 1896
a Bicycle Lantern full of innovations which experience has shown were
necessary to constitute a first-class lantern and give satisfaction.

The introduction of the patent attachment for either head or fork—the
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Sold by all cycle dealers or delivered free for the price, $5.00.

                          Bridgeport Brass Co.,
                             Bridgeport, Ct.

                         or 19 Murray St., N. Y.
                         85-87 Pearl St., Boston.
                          17 No. 7th St., Phila.

Send for Catalogue No. 2.

       *       *       *       *       *

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may save doctors’ bills, to say nothing of a severe sickness.

PABST Malt Extract

will brace, build. Give vim and bounce. Get it and thus take your own
advice.

                                          Lafayette, Ind., 8-22,’95.

    Ever since your excellent “Best” Tonic has been placed upon the
    market, my family has been a big consumer of this preparation
    and I have found it a grateful stimulant, appetizer, tissue
    builder and tonic. I consider it one of the very few
    preparations that really do all that is claimed for it and
    unhesitatingly recommend it to my patients.

                                                     DR. CHAS. HUPE.

SUPREME AWARD WORLDS FAIR

THE ART OF BREWING WAS DEVELOPED BY THE GERMANS

MILWAUKEE BEER FAMOUS

PABST HAS MADE IT SO

       *       *       *       *       *

TALLY-HO

The most powerful light and the light which is thrown the greatest
distance ahead of the bicycle is that from the Tally-Ho Bicycle Lantern.
It will not jar out or blow out. Made of brass, finished in black japan
and nickel like a coach-lamp, or in full nickel. Burns kerosene. It locks
on the head of your bicycle. Try one. Beautifully Illustrated Booklet of
Bicycle Sundries Free.

                     THE BRIDGEPORT GUN IMPLEMENT CO.
                      313 & 319 BROADWAY, NEW YORK.

       *       *       *       *       *

What is the use of Patent Leather?

When I can polish my shoes with

Brown’s French Dressing

_SOLD EVERYWHERE_

_Superior to all others for the following reasons_:

1. It gives a superior Polish.

2. It does not crack or rub off on the skirts.

3. Unlike all others, it does not crack or hurt the leather, but on the
contrary acts as a preservative.

4. Has been manufactured over forty years and always stood at the head.

Ask your dealer for ...

Brown’s French Dressing

And be sure to accept no other.

       *       *       *       *       *

To Lovers of Fascinating Tales Cleverly Told.

We will mail, postage paid, upon receipt of 25 cents, the first five
numbers of THE BLACK CAT, from Oct., ’95, to Feb., ’96 (third edition),
inclusive, containing thirty-nine

    Stories of Adventure
    Stories of Mystery
    Stories of Detective Life
    Stories of Love
    Stories of Pathos
    Stories of Humor

All these stories are original, complete, captivating, and
copyrighted,—“the cleverest tales that genius can produce and money can
buy.”

Address, THE SHORTSTORY PUBLISHING CO., 144 High St., Boston, Mass.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Black Cat

FOR MAY,

Which will contain the following extraordinary stories, all original,
complete, and copyrighted, will be

“The Banner Number.”

=For Fame, Money, or Love?=—By R. OTTOLENGHI. The startling story of a
mysterious invention that threatened the entire destruction of spoken
language, and which did destroy three men’s belief in womankind.

=A No Account Niggah.=—By LEONARD M. PRINCE, U.S.A. How a despised
coffee-colored mulatto recruit in the regular army, alone and unaided,
intercepted a band of hostile Apaches, is told in this touching tale by
an officer experienced in Indian campaigns.

=A Hundred Thousand Dollar Trance.=—By EUGENE SHADE BISBEE. The thrilling
recital of the most costly and astounding hypnotic experiment ever made,
told just as it happened in the famous Bohemian Club of a well-known city.

=The Misfit Gown.=—By ELMER COOK RICE. In this strikingly original and
humanly interesting tale are described for the first time the wire
pullings, heart burnings, and white-hot excitement attending an election
in a modern woman’s club.

=The Shifting Sand.=—By C. C. VAN ORSDALL. A marvelous treasure-trove,
revealed first by the wind-blown sands of the Northwest to a man engaged
in digging his own grave, but concealed again for eighteen years by the
same agency, forms the pivotal point around which moves this exciting
tale of love and adventure.

The above will positively be

THE GREATEST STORY MAGAZINE EVER ISSUED

at any time or at any price, and the publishers earnestly invite a
comparison of THE BLACK CAT for May with any issue of any magazine or
volume of short stories ever published, either in this country or abroad.

As their present facilities for production are limited to 225,000 copies
per month, all orders for this “Banner Number” of THE BLACK CAT should
be placed at once with newsdealers. Those who have no newsdealer should
send five cents in stamps for a copy, or fifty cents for a full year’s
subscription, direct to THE SHORTSTORY PUBLISHING CO., Boston, Mass.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is only one best braid.—You will know it by the clasp—=GOFF’S=.
Sold everywhere or will be masked to match any goods in color—3 yds. roll
5 cents; 3¼ yds. roll 6 cents.

D. GOFF & SONS, Pawtucket, R. I.

       *       *       *       *       *

O TO O

Everything in Carpets, Rugs, Hangings, and Upholstery, from the Oriental
to the Occidental, from the superb antique to the attractive modern,
from the choicest luxury to the plainest every-day necessity—if it’s
worth having, you’ll find it among our stock, and at prices that bring
wholesale and retail buyers from everywhere. John H. Pray, Sons & Co.,
658 Washington St., opposite Boylston St., Boston, Mass.

       *       *       *       *       *

RIDGE’S FOOD FOR INFANTS _AND_ INVALIDS

THE MOST RELIABLE FOOD IN THE WORLD FOR INFANTS AND CHILDREN

SOLD BY DRUGGISTS

THE BEST DIET FOR INVALIDS AND OLD PEOPLE

FOUR SIZES .35 .65 1.25 1.75

_Woolrich & Co._ ON EVERY LABEL.

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSEX

10c. Feeds 10 Plants 1 year. Ask your dealer for the _10c._ package.

If he does not keep it send us 16c. in stamps, and we will send it by
return mail.

Flower Food FOR House Plants AND Window Gardens

    Latest
    Cheapest
    Best

Produces Healthy growth and Generous flowering.

                            Russia Cement Co.
                            GLOUCESTER, MASS.

       *       *       *       *       *

Milk-Weed Cream

    A SKIN TONIC
    A SKIN FOOD
    A SKIN CORRECTIVE
    A SKIN BEAUTIFIER

The wonders of chemistry have evolved nothing else to equal its benign
effects upon the complexion.

    “As fragrant as the roses,
    As harmless as the dew.”

Removes pimples, black-heads, eruptions, tan, sunburn, and wrinkles.
Price 50c. by mail, or at druggists. Write for free sample to

Frederick F. Ingram & Co., Detroit, Mich.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Orient For LADIES.

Graceful, Easy Running, Safe

Built like this.

An embodiment of all the most desirable features.

A Most Desirable Wheel.

WRITE FOR CATALOGUE.

                            Waltham Mfg. Co.,
                      240 Broadway, New York, N. Y.

       *       *       *       *       *

About Lamps

(Something you may not know)

Would you care to have a lamp that you could sit by without the least
uneasiness, and safely leave in the room for hours without fear of
_flame-climbing_—a lamp that is _odorless_—will not _soil table
covers_—_run over_ in filling—nor bother you with _loose chimney springs_?

And would it please you to know about all the latest things in lamps, and
_why_ no one _now_ has any excuse for using old-fashioned Illuminators
when ’tis easy to get modern lamps of brass that are as perfect as
science and skill can make them?

If so, please send for our beautiful Illustrated catalogue, free to all,
of THE “NEW” ROCHESTER LAMP [made at Bridgeport].

Bridgeport Brass Co., Bridgeport, Conn., or 19 Murray St., N. Y.

A lamp such as is described above will be delivered free for =$1.20=, or
with Chimney and Shade =$1.75=. Address 19 Murray St., N. Y., 85-87 Pearl
St., Boston, 17 No. 7th St., Phila., or Bridgeport, Conn.

                                                      BRIDGEPORT BRASS CO.

       *       *       *       *       *

American People Read Standard Newspapers

That’s why

The Boston Daily Standard

Has the LARGEST CIRCULATION of any REPUBLICAN NEWSPAPER in New England, a

Fact

THAT ANY NEWSDEALER WILL PROVE.

Its CONSTANTLY INCREASING advertising patronage shows for itself how

It Pays

To interest STANDARD readers. If you are not one, WHY NOT?

                                                     Send for sample copy.

       *       *       *       *       *

Stock Buyers and Bankers

Take care of money—subject to check—give interest on deposits.

Buy and sell for cash or margin ONLY the securities listed on New York
Stock Exchange

Investors of money

Givers of stock information, by mail or wire.

A member of our firm always on floor of Stock Exchange.

                           Wayland Trask & Co.,
                          18 Wall St., New York.

       *       *       *       *       *

Puritana

_It Cures from head to foot._

_It makes the Weak Strong._

Nature’s Cure

Puritana cures disease by naturalizing and vitalizing the Power Producer
of the human system,—the stomach.

                             PRIZE FORMULA OF
                      Prof. Dixi Crosby, M.D., LL.D.
                            DARTMOUTH COLLEGE

It cures case after case, _from head to foot_, whether the suffering is
due to disordered _Blood, Liver, Stomach, Kidneys, Lungs, Brain, Nerves,
or Skin_.

If you are a sufferer get of your druggist this great disease-conquering
discovery, (the price is $1 for the complete treatment, consisting of
one bottle of Puritana, one bottle of Puritana Pills, and one bottle
of Puritana Tablets), all inclosed in one package, or write to the
undersigned, and you will bless the day when you heard of Puritana. The
Puritana Compound Co., Concord, N. H.

       *       *       *       *       *

_This_ BLACK CAT sees itself everywhere

and is surprised at its large number of copies.

SAPOLIO brightens everything—

Floors, Walls, Tins, Woodwork Oilcloths, Metals, All hard surfaces