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Title: The Black Cat (Vol. I, No. 1, October 1895)

Author: Various

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Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLACK CAT (VOL. I, NO. 1,
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  The Black Cat (Vol. I, No. 1)

  October
  1895

  [Illustration]

  Contents

  In Gold Time.
  Roberta Littlehale.

  The Unturned Trump.
  Barnes MacGreggor.

  The Secret of the White Castle.
  Julia Magruder.

  Miss Wood,—Stenographer.
  Granville Sharpe.

  Her Hoodoo.
  Harold Kinsabby.

  In a Tiger Trap.
  Charles Edward Barns.

  The Red-Hot Dollar.
  H. D. Umbstaetter.

  5
  CENTS

  THE SHORTSTORY PUBLISHING CO. 144 HIGH ST., BOSTON, MASS.

  Copyright, 1895 by The Shortstory Publishing Co.




[Illustration: WILLIAMS' SHAVING STICK.

  "_It's just like cream, isn't it puss?_"]

  Williams' Shaving Soaps
  have been famous for 50 years.

  Sold by dealers everywhere.

  THE J. B. WILLIAMS CO.,
  Glastonbury, Conn.
  London, 64 Great Russel St., W. C.

  Copyright, 1895, by The J. B. Williams Co.




  The Black Cat (Vol. I, No. 1)

  A Monthly Magazine of Original Short Stories.

  No. 1.       OCTOBER, 1895.        5 cents a copy.
                                     50 cents a year.

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




                          CONTENTS
    Title                            Author               Page
    In Gold Time.                    ROBERTA LITTLEHALE.     1
    The Unturned Trump.              BARNES MACGREGGOR.      6
    The Secret of the White Castle.  JULIA MAGRUDER.        11
    Miss Wood,—Stenographer.         GRANVILLE SHARPE.      17
    Her Hoodoo.                      HAROLD KINSABBY.       29
    In a Tiger Trap.                 CHARLES EDWARD BARNS.  36
    The Red-Hot Dollar.              H. D. UMBSTAETTER.     42
    Advertisements.                                         50




In Gold Time.

BY ROBERTA LITTLEHALE.


He was straight, and grizzled, and keen of eye. He had worked, and
fought, and gambled his way through the lawlessness and passion of the
State's early life into the decency and uprightness of a successful
contractor.

His name was Bill Bowen.

As a civil engineer, I came more or less in contact with him, and
rejoiced in the largeness of his mental mold, as well as in the
business sense of security he let me enjoy.

One summer's night we took a drive to a distant town on the San Joaquin
River. We were to look at stone for bridge building, and the blistering
heat of the day made us willing to lose our sleep for the more
comfortable traveling by starlight.

The horses jogged lazily through the coarse, thick dust on the river's
levee, and the insects from the grain fields and the frogs from the
sloughs had things wholly to themselves until Bill suddenly interrupted.

"Mrs. Chase is pretty enough yet to understand why she sent two fellows
to the devil, isn't she?"

"What are you talking about?" I answered.

"Oh," said Bill, pulling himself up, "I forgot you didn't struggle with
the rest of us through those groggy days."

I knew Bill well enough to let him relapse just so many minutes; then
I said: "Judge Chase's wife is lovelier at sixty than most girls at
sixteen, but I hadn't an idea she figured so romantically in the early
days as to send anybody overboard."

"H'm," replied Bill reflectively.

The horses traveled on without attention, and I waited in patience.

"You know what it was like," he began at last. "Men with guns from all
over the Union and gold the heaven we sweated for. Prayers, and court,
and the gambling tables all running under one roof, and nary a woman's
face showing up in the mass to give us courage. To be sure, there were
vixenish ribs o' Satan who robbed, and killed, and drank with the worst
of us; but until '51 we'd never the woman for reverence. Then, by
degrees, the lawyers and a stray merchant or two aired their families,
but things wasn't dizzy till pretty Grace Blanchard got out with her
father.

"Understand, she carried herself as she'd ought to; but, understand,
there was men among us as was born and bred to live with blood. The
mass of us had to take out our satisfaction in looking at her; but for
two the favor in old Blanchard's eyes was easy reading, and it wasn't
long seeing the course the straw took.

"Ned Emory was a long, lean, blond fellow, with a blamed fine face and
a way that made friends of the toughest. They said he looked a swell
when he called at the Blanchards', but I never saw him but like the
rest of us,—red-shirted and overalled, and an angle to his pistols
that made him a joy.

"George Stokes—'Shorty,' we called him—was a man with an answer that
ripped like a knife and a head that made success of everything, because
it could work crooked as well as straight. He'd been on the bench, but
he'd located a vein at Mariposa, and was overseeing up there in '52.
Naturally, he lost opportunities, not being right on the spot, and the
danger began.

"The Blanchard house was swelled larger than most of the cabins, and
had two long windows that opened onto a porch. Things might never have
been so bad but for those two lidless eyes in front.

"One fatal night Shorty Stokes rode into the settlement,—but I'm
getting ahead of affairs."

Bill tossed his cigar into the tules, and hurried the horses into
effort as the interest of his reminiscence swept him on.

"The girl carried herself after the fashion of high steppers, and
neither fellow could swear where he stood. It was laughter and spirit
for both of them, they said, and nip and tuck for the yielding. The
pace was the sort that exhausts men, and Shorty's brain for lawyering
cooked up a scheme for his rescue. He was for their going together some
night before her, and, after a formal marriage proposal, each argue his
claim and fitness for ten minutes by the clock, their honor at stake to
stand by her decision.

"It got about afterwards that Emory wouldn't consent till he saw the
devil to pay in Shorty's earnestness, and they swore with their fists
in each other's to carry the thing through to the finish. The date and
hour were arranged for the following Sunday night at eight, and they
drank to it with gall in the cup.

"When the evening came the clock had already struck eight when Stokes
reached the Blanchard house.

"The lights from the room fell over the porch, and from the shadow of
the steps he saw the something that in all the world he couldn't bear
to see,—Emory crossing the room to take Grace Blanchard in his arms;
Emory with passion paling his face and Grace Blanchard in the beauty of
a disturbing humility.

"He cursed as he watched them cling to each other, and he cursed his
way back to the saloons and his Mariposa mining.

"The next day he turned up again in the settlement, with liquor enough
aboard to put a wheel in his head, and, after a losing fling at the
tables, he started to find Emory.

"After a little ineffectual riding, he leaped from the back of his
vicious-eyed piebald at the corner that bulged thickest with saloons,
and stood close to the stirrup with his hand on his hip. Some one who
noticed him said his face had the steely intensity of a razor edge.

"Then out of the crowd, unconscious, with the music of love in his
heart, swung Ned Emory. His hat was pushed back on his fair hair, and
he was whistling the overflow out of his veins.

"In one instant a bullet rang through the air, followed by another.
Emory fell in his own blood, and a horseman was riding off wildly and
safe through the shower of bullets that rained around him. Every
man with a cayuse tore in pursuit, but they only brought back eight
half-dead horses. Stokes had staked relay beasts at different points
along the road, and was then safe in the chaparral cañons toward the
north.

"The gambling dens choked up with the crowds; gold-dust was heaped on
gold-dust for the reward of the cowardly hound. Murders weren't rare
then, but there was only one Ned Emory, remember.

"Four of us wouldn't drop the search. We let the blood-money men get
out of the way, and then we worked as we'd toil for only our own.

"There was scarcely no scent to follow, for Stokes had bribed the
greasers who furnished his horses; but we forced our way along on
nothing. Day and night we rode with our eyes open, sometimes bullying
and sometimes begging. It began to seem hopeless. The days were running
into summer again.

"One afternoon, toward twilight, we rested on the crest of a mountain
where the path took a sudden turn away from a two-hundred-foot
precipice.

"We were torn with the snapping branches of the greasewood, and full
of extremest dirt and disgust. Suddenly we heard the rustle of a step
on the fallen leaves. Under a live oak, not thirty yards away, on the
very edge of the cliff, stood Shorty Stokes. He had not heard us, and
he stood looking at the moon which hung a sickle in the hot sky. The
evening star was showing.

"The four of us were like stones. He could have got to Guinea before
motion'd have come to us. Then, simultaneously with our steps forward,
he turned and looked into our faces.

"It was a moment to test the nerve of any man. He stood it as we were
used to seeing him face all things.

"'I suppose I'm the man you're after,' he said.

"He said it with the dignity of a parson.

"In a second he had thrown down his pistols. He unsheathed his knives
and dropped them to the ground.

"'Take me,' he said.

"Four of us looked into the unflinching clearness of his eyes. As we
hesitated, he spoke again.

"'Listen. It is not in excuse that I speak, nor in weakening. It is to
tell you that those among you who are men will follow my steps under
like circumstances.

"'Emory gave me his hand and his oath, in the manner of his frankness,
to stand by an arranged agreement.

"'We were to meet at eight o'clock on that Sunday night. A—a
beautifully good woman was to decide on our argument which man she
would marry. In riding to meet my engagement I happened on an accident.
Within half a mile of the settlement, close onto time, my piebald went
back on his haunches and the groan of a man came up from the roadside.
I found an overloaded miner, hurt in the leg, and the hope in my own
heart aroused my sympathy. I mounted the man on my beast and headed him
back toward camp.

"'Walk as I never walked, I reached the meeting place three minutes
late. Ah—God—out in the darkness I saw Emory taking advantage of the
delay.

"'None of you is so much a cur as to let the life run in a man who,
under his honor, couldn't yield a rival three minutes' grace.

"'But, with the camp against me and Emory the friend of the sorriest, I
couldn't face the music when the justice was done.

"'It is not mercy I ask. It is life hereafter. Come.'

"With a common impulse we started forward, only to halt in a frozen
horror as Stokes' bronco threw up his head in alarm to watch with us
the backward somersaulting of his master's body over the precipice.

"Though there was but one verdict, even Chase said as we rode down over
the mountain that night, 'Emory might have given Shorty a few minutes'
grace.'"

[Illustration]




The Unturned Trump.

BY BARNES MACGREGGOR.


The ferry-boat, "Rappahannock," had an experience in the winter of 1873
that will never be forgotten by any of her passengers.

During one of her regular trips between New York and Brooklyn this boat
suddenly quitted her respectable, though somewhat monotonous, career,
and became a common tramp, without port or destination.

The day awoke in fog such as the oldest inhabitant had never seen. The
East River was blocked with ice and soon became a shrieking bedlam of
groping and bewildering craft, whose pilots could scarcely see their
hands before their faces.

At half past nine the "Rappahannock" left Brooklyn, well laden with
passengers, and started on her customary trip almost directly across
the river—a very short and unusually easy voyage. Before even reaching
the middle of the stream, however, the ice and fog had thrown her
completely out of her course. Back and forth, up and down stream, the
pilot vainly groped, amid the shrieking whistles, ringing of fog bells,
and loud crash of ice boulders, until, in the confused clangor, he had
entirely lost his bearings.

When, after long and perilous battling with ice jams and many
hair-breadth escapes from collisions, he suddenly sighted the landing
place on the New York side, he found it occupied by a sister boat,
which had been driven there to avoid destruction. He backed out, only
to be lost again, and for three hours this boat, now become a mere
tramp, wandered aimlessly up and down the East River with its load of
excited passengers, whose emotions ranged anywhere between the rage
and impatience of the belated Wall Street speculator, to whom the
delay might mean a loss of fifty thousand dollars, to the hysteria of
a nervous little woman who had left her baby alone at home, and who
begged the other helpless passengers for the love of heaven to help her
set her feet once more on land.

Between these two extremes of impatience and excitement was a small
proportion of passengers who remained calm, even endeavoring to while
away the time by exchanging pleasantries and making wagers as to the
time of their deliverance. Among these was a group of men in the cabin
who, after having read and re-read the morning papers, were casting
about for some other method of killing time. One suggested a game of
cards.

"Cards!" laughed one of his companions in misery. "Who'd carry cards on
a ferry-boat? Who, outside of a lunatic asylum, would start on a ten
minutes' voyage provided with games to pass away the time?"

"Here is a euchre deck which is at your service."

The speaker, evidently a globe-trotter, drew from under the bench
a traveling-bag, so much worn and embellished by tags, labels, and
hieroglyphics that it resembled some old veteran just returned from the
wars and still covered with surgeons' plasters. From this he produced a
pack of cards and tendered it to the man who had suggested a game.

"Certainly, if you will join us; but what shall we do for a table?"

"Here is a camp-stool," said the man of the world. And in a moment four
men were sitting around it, cutting for deal, which chanced to fall to
the stranger.

The cards were distributed rapidly, and the dealer was about to turn
the trump when a loud shriek pierced the air and a woman opposite
suddenly sank fainting to the floor.

The tension among the passengers had become so great that a panic
seemed imminent.

"Don't be alarmed, gentlemen; it is nothing serious," said the dealer
calmly. "The lady simply caught sight of her own frightened face in the
mirror, and the shock caused her to faint. It reminds me of a thrilling
experience an American traveler had while bumping through Syria. But,
pardon me, the game!"

Once more he made a movement to turn the trump, when one of the party
exclaimed:—

"There can't be a better time or place than this for telling a
thrilling experience."

"Yes," said another; "do give us some other kind of bumping than we are
having here. Let's have the story before we begin the game."

The stranger leaned back, passed his cigar case, and, having lighted a
weed himself, began:—

"It is an unwritten law among the wild Bedouins east of the Red Sea
that if an infidel traveler is attended on his journey by one of the
faithful he is safe from the attacks of Mohammedan robbers. As long
as the 'Frank,' as all foreigners are called, is under the protection
of the Star and Crescent, the rascal's hand is stayed, and as they
meet, the villain, who would otherwise show no quarter, salutes with
the grave suavity of a courtier. But let that same traveler become
separated from the Arab guard that he has bribed to give him safe
conduct through his own bandit-infested country, and he becomes
legitimate prey. He will be plundered and perhaps killed, or, worse,
if the robber thinks that cruelty will extort any secrets of hidden
spoil, tortured or held for ransom, with each day's delay losing a few
fingers, which are forwarded to the captive's friends to signify that
the rascals mean business.

"The party in which this American was traveling had been entering Syria
from the south, and were progressed some twelve days from the sacred
base of old Sinai. At a place called Bir-es-Sheba, on the regular
caravan route to and from Mecca from the north, they heard of some
interesting archeological treasures just unearthed some two days'
journey to the east, and, having made the detour, the party snugly
encamped by the side of a beautiful stream under the shadow of the
Tubal chain of mountains.

"The treasures were vastly exaggerated, as is the custom with
everything oriental, and they soon determined to turn back to the
caravan route and 'bump' on up into Syria—'bumping' being the familiar
term for camel riding, and a very expressive word at that. But on
the afternoon of the first resting-day some one suggested a jaunt to
a famous old well, where it was said were some very ancient tumuli.
But, knowing the Bedouins to be conscientious liars, and sick of this
unrewarded chase for phantom treasures, the American begged to be left
behind in charge of two tents, which were pitched side by side on the
bank of the stream.

"This was at last agreed upon, the whole party except himself going
off on their three days' trip, leaving their comrade stretched at full
length on a rug, his _narghili_, or water pipe, lighted for company.

"This oriental atmosphere, gentlemen, is a powerful drug. Do what you
will to fight against it, its subtle charm holds you captive. The man
succumbed to its influences and went fast asleep.

"Out of this sweet, trance-like repose he suddenly bounded into the
horrible consciousness of a torturing pain in one of his hands, as
though some wild beast was crunching the bones. But, as he writhed
to his knees to grapple with the foe, he saw instead three swarthy,
evil-faced Bedouins bending over him with ghoulish glee. One had just
cut off, with a hideous dirk-knife, the first three fingers of his
left hand. In an instant it flashed upon him that these were to be
sent to his friends with a demand for ransom. He was correct in this
supposition, for no sooner had the bleeding hand been rudely bandaged
than two of his captors set out upon this mission, leaving him in care
of the third, who was heavily armed.

"No one knew better than the prisoner how impossible such a ransom
would be. His fellow-travelers had brought as little money into Syria
as would meet their actual necessities while there. He therefore began
to cast desperately about in his mind for a loophole of escape before
the fellows should return with these unsatisfactory tidings, which
would result, no doubt, in further mutilations.

"As his gaze swept the tent for something suggesting a plan for
deliverance, he saw it had been gutted of everything except two
articles,—his light silk coat, which hung upon the partition between
the two tents, and the tourist's shaving mirror which it concealed.
The coat had been overlooked because it was as grimy as the tent wall
itself.

"In moments like this one grasps at straws. As it is said a drowning
person reviews his past experiences perfectly in a brief moment, so to
this man, facing desperate odds, came a desperate suggestion.

"He called loudly on a supposed protector in the adjoining tent to come
to the 'window,' and prove to his captor that he was under protection
of a Moslem. As he spoke he slowly drew the coat from before the mirror
in front of which the sheik was standing.

"No words can express the unutterable consternation pictured upon
that blazing face, livid with fright and wonder, as for the first
time it saw its own awful reflection, not knowing it was its own. One
instant he stood stock-still, fascinated, horrified, overwhelmed; then
collapsed, just as that lady did but a moment ago, and the American
quickly possessed himself of his captor's arms and was master of the
situation.

"And now, gentlemen," concluded the story teller, "we will have our
game."

As he spoke he again reached forward to turn the trump. There was a
quickly drawn breath of horror from those who observed him, for the
first three fingers of his left hand were missing.

Before he could turn the card, a savage lurch of the boat, accompanied
by the creaking of timbers, announced the arrival of the Rappahannock
at her New York slip—and the trump was never turned.

[Illustration]




The Secret of the White Castle.

BY JULIA MAGRUDER.


When I became the occupant of the Chateau Blanc, in the neighborhood of
Fontainebleau, I found that my wish for a place of complete seclusion
was likely to be realized to the full. I was not in a state of mind for
society, and I had deliberately given myself three months in which to
fight out a certain battle with myself, for which I needed solitude and
reflection.

When the old woman who acted as keeper and caretaker of the place
took me through it, on a tour of inspection, there were three things
which, in spite of my preoccupation with my own affairs, struck me very
forcibly. The first was the forlorn remnants of the body of a white
swan, which must once have been a creature of splendid size and shape.
My informant told me that this swan had been a great pet of the former
owner of the chateau, until some accident had killed it; after which
it had been stuffed and fastened in its place upon the surface of the
little lake under his window. There it was still—what remained of
it—a mass of weather-beaten and dirty feathers.

Another thing that compelled my strong attention was a certain picture
which hung in the bedroom of the late owner, and which I was informed
was his own portrait, painted by himself. This room, by the way, was
sinister and mysterious in its effect beyond any I had ever entered.
One reason for this was the fact that all the furniture, which was
elaborately carved and which must once have been of beautiful polish
and color, had been ruthlessly covered with a coat of black paint,—the
bed, the table, chairs, wardrobe, chests of drawers, and even the great
leather easy-chair which was placed just under the picture, facing the
opposite wall.

It was a wretched piece of work, that picture, representing a man
dressed in some sort of court dress of the last century, and it would
have seemed ineffectual and amateurish to the last degree but for the
truly marvelous expression of the eyes, which were fixed on a certain
spot in the wall opposite with an earnestness and intensity which made
me feel that there was some hidden significance in this look. The man
not only looked at the spot himself, but he compelled me to do the
same, and forced me, by the insistent command of his eyes, to look
again and again.

And yet there was nothing to see. The wall was perfectly bare in that
place and covered with a meaningless sort of wallpaper, which gave me
no encouragement whatever.

Another thing that I noticed specially, with a feeling of being
imperiously directed to do so, was a large rusty key that hung on the
wall directly under the picture. When I inquired of the old woman what
this key belonged to she answered that she had never known, but that
it had been hung there by the late proprietor and had been undisturbed
since his death. That event had occurred a great many years ago, and
it was owing to the provisions of the will left by him that no one
had ever occupied the house in the interval. The prescribed time had
only just expired, and I was the first person to rent the chateau, the
revenue from which was to go to a nephew, who lived abroad.

The somberness of the black chamber suited my frame of mind, and I
decided on taking it for my room. Besides this, the picture, the key,
and the white swan all interested me, and, as it was the first time
that an outside interest had made any headway against the melancholy
of my own thoughts, these objects, far from cheerful as they were in
themselves, afforded a grateful diversion.

So continually did I wonder why the picture looked always and could
compel me to look at that one spot, and why the key had been hung in
that place and had kept its position so many years undisturbed, as
if some ghostly guardian watched over it, and why, ever and always,
the old white swan compelled me, as if by some irresistible power, to
connect it with these other things, that I kept myself awake at night,
weaving all sorts of stories concerning these objects, and spent half
my days in looking from the picture to the wall, and back again to the
key, and then out of the window at the battered effigy of a noble bird
beneath it, until the confusion of mind thus produced seemed likely to
drive me crazy.

I expended all the ingenuity of which I was master in questioning the
old woman, who had lived here in the time of the former owner, but the
satisfaction of my curiosity in that direction was rather meager.

She told me that her former master had had a wife whom he adored, fair
as an angel, and gifted with a divinely beautiful voice, such as none
had ever heard, before or since. This young wife had been snatched
from him by a sudden and frightful death. The fever which seized her
had been so contagious, the woman said, that every one had fled the
premises, except one woman servant and the master himself. These, with
the help of the doctor, had nursed the young wife through her brief
illness until its end.

My informant had heard it said that the circumstances of her death were
very peculiar,—that, in her delirium, on the very last night of her
illness, those who had ventured to linger about the premises had heard
her singing more gloriously than ever in her life; that it had reminded
them of the great white swan, which but the night before had sung its
last sweet song on the lake, in the moonlight, and had been found dead
in the morning.

The woman who had remained to help the master in his last sad
ministrations to his dying and dead wife had gone away the day after
the funeral, and had never been heard of since.

That funeral, in the quaint old church but a few paces from the house,
had been, from the woman's account, a melancholy affair enough.
Scarcely any one dared to come to it, so malignant had been this
fever, and it was feared that the few men who were willing to act as
pall-bearers would not be equal to the task; but the poor lady had
always been slight and fairy-like in figure, and so wasted was she
from this consuming fever that the bearers declared that her weight
was scarcely more than that of an empty coffin. The woman further said
that, as the small funeral cortege was leaving the church, it had
surprised every one to see the husband, who was directly behind the
coffin, pause abruptly under a statue of the Virgin, and single out,
from the great bunch of white ribbons which hung there, the long strip
which his young wife had placed there on the day of her marriage to
him, less than a year before. It was an old custom connected with this
church. Every girl ever married there had conformed to it, and some of
the ribbons were yellow with time and almost dropping to pieces. The
longest and freshest bit of all had been put there by the beautiful and
beloved young creature now lying dead in the flower of her youth and
loveliness.

No one ever knew, the woman went on to say, how the master spent his
days after the funeral was over. He had forbidden every servant to
return, and turned a deaf ear to the rings and knocks of visitors.
Months had passed, and no one held speech with him. They knew he was
alive, because people who had looked through the palings had seen him
walking in the garden, and one person reported having seen him carry
from the house the stuffed body of the great swan and fasten it in its
place on the lake, where it could be plainly seen from his window. He
must have embalmed or stuffed it himself, the old woman said, for he
was known to have remarkable knowledge and skill in such strange arts,
and had once had a great room filled with birds and beasts, which he
had preserved by methods studied in foreign lands.

As was inevitable, after hearing all this, my interest in the picture,
and swan, and the key deepened sensibly. There was certainly a spell of
the supernatural about these things for me. I had only to stand near
the spot on which the eyes of the picture were fastened to experience
the strangest, the most overwhelmingly significant sensations I had
ever known. The spot was haunted by a _presence_ for me, and as often
as I stood there I would feel my heart throb and cease throbbing, my
breath pant and cease panting, my very flesh turn cold and moist with
consciousness and apprehension. I tried to account for all this on
natural grounds, but I found it was quite impossible to do so.

One day—it was the 19th of August—a hot, sultry, close, indescribably
gloomy day, when the heavy clouds that lowered seemed only to darken
the whole earth without giving forth one drop of moisture, the old
woman came to my room and chanced to mention that it was the time of
the death of the young mistress of the Chateau Blanc. She had died, it
appeared, just at midnight between the 19th and 20th of August. After
giving me this information, she said good-evening and left me to the
reflections which it aroused.

I can scarcely call them reflections. They took the form, rather, of
a sort of compulsion that was laid upon me to obey a certain force by
which I felt myself suddenly dominated.

It was the picture that did it; this was certain, for, as often as
I faltered, one look into that insistent, commanding, coercing face
compelled me to go on. In obedience to its bidding, I did as follows:—

I went to an old desk in the room, and took from it some simple
carpenters' tools, with which I deliberately cut through, first, the
wall-papering, and then a thin boarding, which covered all the space
between a door and window opposite the picture. When this was done I
saw—I cannot say whether most to my satisfaction or my horror, that I
stood opposite a door,—a regular, ordinary door, with panels, hinges,
and, more than all, a keyhole. I glanced at the picture. It seemed to
me that the canvas positively lived with expression.

The eyes commanded me to get the rusty key. I got it, fitted it in
the lock, in which it turned with difficulty, and then, with my heart
almost choking me with its throbs, my knees shaking under me, my body
covered with a cold sweat, and my tongue dry in my mouth, I opened the
door.

As it creaked on its rusty hinges, I saw, by the light of the candle
which I held in my hand, a mass of cobwebs, heavily weighted with the
dust of years, and, through these, a woman's figure.

It was clad—for I obeyed the eyes, which commanded me to examine it,
though my heart was cold with terror—in what I made out to be a white
silk gown, above which was the face, withered and awfully livid, as
I had heard the faces of embalmed corpses appear years after death.
Still, it was recognizable as a real human face, and was surrounded
by masses of yellow hair, which, even through the dust and cobwebs,
gleamed with the brightness of gold. The hands held something in their
shrunken fingers,—a white ribbon, with the date of her marriage and
death upon it, her husband's name and her own, and these words, which,
under the compelling eyes of the picture, I laboriously studied out:—

"I have been able to keep you near me, even in death. I have never been
separated from you, or from what was you to me once. But when death
shall come to me you will have no power over my body, and they will
take me from you. That I am unable to help. I think only of this: you
cannot suffer for it, since you have so long ceased to be, and by that
time my suffering also will be over. I shall put my spirit into the
eyes of my picture, which will watch over you still."

I looked from the paper to the picture. It seemed dull and
inexpressive,—mere canvas and paint. The power of the eyes was gone.
Their spell over me was broken.

Suddenly I felt within me a long-absent yearning for human
companionship,—for life and love. I had come to this place impelled
by a morbid and unhealthy desire for solitude, and my experiences here
had made me more morbid and unhealthy still. They had culminated now
in this awful revelation of disappointment and death, which threw into
brilliant contrast the bright possibilities which still remained to me,
and I resolved to go back into the world and do my best to deserve and
win these.

[Illustration]




Miss Wood,—Stenographer.

BY GRANVILLE SHARPE.


It was Detective Gilbert who told the story to a group of boarders
seated on the piazza of one of the quaint old Rhinelander houses. These
dwellings, though situated on West Eleventh Street, in the very heart
of New York, present an almost rural spectacle, with their green lawns,
wide piazzas, and vine-covered balconies.

"It was one day about two years ago," said Mr. Gilbert, "that I
received a card on which was engraved the name, 'Miss Julia Wood.' The
name was a familiar one. When my wife was living Miss Wood had been an
intimate friend of hers and a frequent visitor to our house. Since then
I had lost trace of the girl, and knew only that, owing to her father's
death and the straitened circumstances of herself and her sister, she
had taken up the study of stenography and typewriting, with the idea of
earning her living. So when she rose to meet me in the reception-room
I was startled by her changed appearance and the haggard, anxious
expression of her face."

"'Mr. Gilbert, I am in great trouble,' she exclaimed, as I shook hands
with her, and then, without further preliminaries, she stated her case.

"'You know, Mr. Gilbert, that for over a year I have been studying
stenography and typewriting, and you can understand that lately I have
been very anxious to find a place. At first, I supposed that this would
not be difficult, but I soon discovered that my lack of practical
experience stood in the way of my getting anything at all. In fact, it
was not until this week that even a temporary opening presented itself.'

"Here Miss Wood paused for a moment, as if to summon all her strength,
and then continued:—

"'About eleven o'clock yesterday morning, my teacher, Mr. Lacombe,
came to the door of the practice room, where I was at work, and,
calling me to one side, said:—

"'"Miss Wood, didn't you tell me that you understood the deaf and dumb
alphabet?"

"'"Perfectly," I answered.

"'As you know, Mr. Gilbert, my little sister Helen is deaf and dumb,
and that is why I understand the sign-language almost as well as I do
spoken English.

"'"I thought so," said Mr. Lacombe, "and am glad, for your sake, that
you do, for I've just had an application from a lady who wants a deaf
and dumb stenographer."

"'"But I am not deaf and dumb," I protested.

"'"No, but you understand the sign-language, and that is the main
point. You see, this woman wants some notes taken from a deaf and dumb
relative, who uses, of course, the deaf and dumb alphabet, and she
thinks, I suppose, that a person who understands the sign-language
must be a deaf mute, also. She says that this relative of hers is ill;
possibly hasn't long to live. So no doubt you're wanted for some sort
of an _ante mortem_ examination; one, maybe, that's connected with
some family scandal or secret that they don't want to leak out. Just a
matter for discretion, that's all.

"'"Of course I don't want to urge you into this against your will,"
he added, "but I know how much you want a position and a chance for
practical experience. Besides, this engagement is only for a week,
perhaps even less, and the salary is fifty dollars and all expenses
paid. The main question is whether you care to be deaf and dumb for
that time."

"'For just a moment I hesitated. Certainly the conditions were very
queer. Still, there was the money,—how much fifty dollars would mean
for my poor little sister! There was the experience, and there was,
yes—I must confess it—there was the charm of adventure. You know you
always said that I was of an adventurous disposition, and that spirit
has grown since I have been thrown upon my own resources, and have made
up my mind that I must make my own way in the world, as if I were a
man. As for acting the part of a deaf mute, that seemed a simple matter
to me, who know so well the habits of the deaf and dumb, through
constant association with poor little Helen.

"'Money, experience, and adventure! The combination was too much for my
prudence. In less time than it would take to buy a handkerchief I had
accepted the position. Forty-five minutes after the time that I walked
into Mr. Lacombe's office I sat on a Southern-bound train, rushing
towards a place I'd never heard of before, the companion of a woman who
was an utter stranger to me, and bound on an errand of which I knew
practically nothing.

"'You see, in the rush of preparation I'd no chance for reconsidering
my decision. Indeed, when I was led into Mr. Lacombe's inner office and
introduced to my prospective employer, Mrs. Westinghouse, by means,
of course, of pencil, and paper, and gestures, I hardly noticed in my
excitement what manner of woman she was. I had enough to think of in
keeping to the character I had assumed and in preparing in half an
hour's time for a week's journey; for almost the first demand made by
the strange woman was that I should go with her upon the noon train.
The invalid had no doubt only a few days left to live, she explained,
and every minute was precious.

"'Upon reading my pencilled explanation that I must go home to say
good-by to my sister and get a few articles for my trip, she thrust a
ten-dollar bill into my hand, telling me to use that to buy whatever I
needed. Mr. Lacombe, she signified, could explain matters to my sister,
and with that she hurried me down the stairs and into a cab waiting
below. In this I was whirled away, first to a big department store and
then to the railroad station, arriving just in time for the noon train,
so it wasn't until I was seated in the local express and had actually
started that I had a chance to review the situation and to examine my
companion.'

"'What sort of a woman was she?' I interrupted.

"'Oh, she appeared perfectly respectable, and tried to make herself
agreeable by keeping me busy answering questions on my pad, but
something in her cold gray eyes, or, perhaps, in her high metallic
voice, chilled my ardor. For the first time I realized my position.
Here I was about to enter into the lives of unknown people, under an
assumed character, and one that might involve me in matters of a
secret, perhaps a dangerous nature. By this time, however, it was too
late for me to retreat. All that I could do was to vow, as I did with
all my heart, that no matter what I learned while with these people I
would make no use of it.

"'Upon leaving the train, after a ride of about two hours and a half,
I found myself in Rockwood, a desolate little way station in the
most dreary section I had ever seen. The only sign of life was a top
carriage, drawn by a pair of lean horses and driven by the son of my
companion, a man about thirty years of age. He had handsome features,
but, somehow, his bloodshot eyes and dissipated look impressed me even
more unfavorably than had his mother's appearance. I was directed to
take the back seat, and Mrs. Westinghouse sat in front beside her son.

"'As we drove off the young man put a question at once which I did not
hear, but his mother in her usual voice assured him that I was a deaf
mute and had been secured at a large salary for that reason. Then they
proceeded with their conversation without restriction, but the road was
so stony and our speed so great that I caught only a little of it. What
I heard did not serve to make me feel any easier. They spoke of some
person, who appeared to be a relative, with the most dreadful epithets,
and appeared to be planning some way to bring him to terms, should he
prove obstinate after they arrived with the stenographer. Before we had
gone a mile I was not only sick of my bargain, but ready to jump from
the carriage to escape it.

"'The aspect of the country, also, was enough to make the most
hilarious person feel melancholy. It was rocky, sterile, and almost
uninhabited. The few farmhouses we passed were, all save one,
untenanted and falling to pieces. The fields were covered with a thick
growth of bayberry bushes or stunted firs.

"'The house was, as nearly as I can judge, about three miles from the
station. It had once been a fine mansion, but showed signs of neglect
and age. The paint was worn off in patches; the floor of the piazza was
rotten. The inside of the house, however, was fairly comfortable, the
furniture being extremely old-fashioned and quaint.

"'I could hardly touch a mouthful of supper, and soon excused myself
from the table. Wandering around the piazza which skirted the house,
I came upon a rear view of the premises. Here I had another surprise,
for, detached from the main house and several yards away, stood a long,
low brick building with a huge chimney, like a smoke-stack, proceeding
from it. Its windows were close against the roof, and probably about
twelve feet from the ground, while the only entrance seemed to be by
way of a rough bridge extending from a curious door on a line with
these windows to a window in the second story of the dwelling-house.

"'While I stood gazing at this remarkable building I noticed that Mrs.
Westinghouse had followed me. I could no longer restrain my curiosity,
but pointed to the mysterious building and raised my eyebrows. With an
impatient gesture, as though she resented my inquisitiveness, the lady
caught up my writing-pad and scribbled: "It is my brother's laboratory;
he is a metallurgist. We wish you to come and take a dictation from
him."

"'Then, leading me upstairs, she unlocked a door and ushered me into a
large apartment, in which, at that moment, I saw only one object,—a
man stretched upon a couch. The coverings, thrown away from the neck
and face, revealed both to be shockingly emaciated; the eyes were wild
and staring, the lips drawn away from the teeth, which were white and
even. But there was strength even in that dying despair—at the first
glance I saw that. There was a look of dogged endurance in every line
and feature.

"'"Now, Alfred," wrote Mrs. Westinghouse upon my pad and signifying
to me that this was my introduction, "here is Miss Wood, a deaf and
dumb stenographer we have brought from New York, so there's no longer
any reason for your keeping your precious secret. She understands the
signs, and can put your words on paper as fast as you can give them
to her." Then, passing the pad to the invalid, she turned to her son.
"Victor, love," she said, "the writing paper, pencils, and a little
table for Miss Wood."

"'"Here they are," said the young man, rolling the table towards me
with an ingratiating leer.

"'I glanced at the invalid. He gave no sign of having read his
relative's communication, but lay quite still and breathed softly in
gasps. I should not have been surprised to have seen him drawing his
last breath at any moment.

"'The woman stood looking at him appealingly until she caught his
eye; then she covered her face with her handkerchief, pretending to
be overcome by emotion. A moment later she turned aside to Victor and
hissed, "Oh, is it too late? If I only knew some torture that would
wring from him that secret which would bring us millions."

"'Then, controlling herself, she went on more calmly: "Sit down, Miss
Wood, and take the dictation."

"'I saw Victor looking at me and had the presence of mind to remain
perfectly quiet, without noticing what she said, for, indeed, I had
now begun to feel that I was among desperate people, and that it would
be best for my well-being to carry out my role as I had begun it.
Apparently satisfied that I was as unfortunate as I claimed to be, she
signified by motions that I was to seat myself and write as soon as her
brother should dictate.

"'I did so, but while Victor had been occupied in arranging my utensils
and Mrs. Westinghouse was absorbed in her pretended emotions the man
on the bed had turned his eyes and looked straight into mine. The
effect was tremendous. I felt calmed. There was almost an understanding
between us. At least, there was sympathy.

"'As I seated myself and caught up my pencil, he raised his white hands
and began to sign to me:—

"'"Show no fright at whatever I say. Pretend to take notes, or you will
betray yourself."

"'Acting on his suggestion, I began tracing disjointed sentences upon
the paper.

"'Then, after allowing me a few moments to recover from the effects of
this startling communication, he went on:—

"'"This is no place for you. These people are desperate characters, and
if they suspected what I am saying might injure you."

"'Again a pause, during which I shaded my face with one hand and
scrawled senseless marks over the paper with the other. Beneath my
lowered lids I could see that two pair of eyes, one bloodshot and the
other steely gray, were watching me from a shadowy recess on the other
side of the bed. I realized that the slightest expression of my real
feelings might prove fatal. I set my teeth hard. My old adventurous
spirit returned. As mechanically as though I were taking a school
dictation, I followed the movements of the trembling white hand and
traced those meaningless marks.

"'Apparently, mother and son were satisfied with their scrutiny, for
they soon retired to the other end of the long room. As they went, I
heard her murmur to Victor:—

"'"Come; the old miser won't forget his own flesh and blood. At any
rate, that girl shall stay in the house until her notes are written out
in plain English and the experiments made. I gave that foolish teacher
of hers a wrong address."

"'At this she turned on me suddenly, and nothing on earth could have
prevented my face revealing the fright that was on me. I could hide my
terror only by sneezing violently into my handkerchief.

"'As soon as they had withdrawn to the farther end of the room the
invalid hastened to communicate as rapidly as possible the state of
affairs in this strange household. The woman, Mrs. Westinghouse, was,
so he said, his sister-in-law, the widow of his only brother, and
Victor was, of course, his nephew. On the death of his brother, the man
who now lay dying had invited the widow and her son, then a handsome
lad, to make their home with him, and, indeed, had treated Victor as
his adopted son and probable heir. About three years ago, however,
Victor, who had acted as his uncle's assistant in the laboratory, had
repaid his generosity by attempting to steal from him the secret which
he had spent years in perfecting. Failing in this, he had forged his
benefactor's name for a sum amounting to a large share of his fortune,
and had applied the proceeds to the payment of gambling debts. Since
then, Mr. Westinghouse, though allowing Victor to go free, had refused
to see either him or his mother, and it was only now, when he was
on his death-bed, that they returned, uninvited, with the hope of
extracting from the sick man the only wealth remaining to him,—his
recent discovery.

"'At this point the invalid stopped abruptly, and looked once more deep
into my eyes. Then, with a sigh that seemed one of satisfaction, he
continued:—

"'"They think, because they hold me as prisoner here upon my death-bed,
have deprived me of society, and spirited away my faithful man-servant,
the only person who understood my sign-language, that they can force my
secret from me. But your face tells me that I can trust you, that you
are not their accomplice."

"'"Indeed I am not," I signed hastily. "I came here ignorant of what
I was to do, and now they say that I must stay until the notes are
written out and the experiment is made. If it fails it is likely to go
hard with both of us."

"'The invalid received my communication quietly, without asking how
I gained my knowledge. Then, after asking and receiving answers to
several questions in regard to my history, he nodded as if satisfied,
and signed me to take down with extreme accuracy what he should give
me. He then dictated by means of the sign alphabet what seemed like a
technical article, many words of which he was obliged to spell for me,
and including the finest weights and measures relating to metallurgy.
After he had completed it he asked me to read it to him by signs, so
that he could be sure that it was correct. When I had done so he looked
up, smiled faintly to see that mother and son had left the room, and
beckoned me to him. He took my hands, clasped them in his, and then
signed: "Swear that you will never permit that paper to fall into the
hands of Mrs. Westinghouse or her son."

"'In my fright I took the oath.

"'"Guard it well," he signified, "for it is a fortune beyond your
dreams. Now sit down and take a bogus paper, which you must give to
Mrs. Westinghouse. But first conceal this paper in your dress."

"'I did so. He then dictated another paper, different in every way from
the first as to its methods; and then motioned that I must write out
the second paper as soon as possible, give it to Mrs. Westinghouse, and
then effect my escape before the fraud was discovered.

"'As I looked at him doubtingly, he added: "Trust me. I will provide
the way."

"'"But you?" I said.

"'He tried to laugh. "I shan't live twenty-four hours," he said.

"'I asked if they were to blame. He shrugged his shoulders. "Her son's
treachery robbed me of health and fortune. And now in their fiendish
greed to inherit the secret they have locked me in this room and tried
to wring it from me by their soft words and wheedling caresses. But
they shall not succeed. They shall never know this."

"'As he spoke he drew from under his pillow a small blade in a sheath.
It was a bright brownish yellow; the edge was sharp as a razor. He
handed it to me, signifying that I was to keep it.

"'Hardly had I sheathed the strange weapon and concealed it in the
folds of my bodice when the door opened and the woman again entered. I
showed her the pages that I had taken and pencilled a note, saying that
the formula was complete, but that it would take at least half a day to
write it out, as it contained many unfamiliar terms which I should need
to refer to a dictionary. For just a moment the woman scanned my face
and that of the invalid with that strange air of suspicion that never
wholly deserted her.

"'Apparently, what she saw satisfied her, for she signified her
pleasure that I had succeeded in gaining the information in so short
a time, and added that, as it was now past midnight, I might leave
the rest of my work for the next day. Upon this, she led me to a room
opening out of her own, indicating that she thought I might feel less
lonely if I were near her. Later, I heard the key turn softly in the
lock on the outside of the door leading from my room into the hall,
and—well, you can imagine that I got very little sleep that night.

"'Early the next morning the woman unlocked my door, and, after I
had eaten a hasty breakfast, led me to a library well equipped with
reference books, where, so she wrote, I was to finish my work.

"'Then she left me, locking me in once more.

"'I had reached about the middle of the false formula when the
door opened and the woman entered in great haste. From her hurried
movements and the anxious expression of her face I judged that some new
complication had arisen. I was right. Snatching up my pad, the woman
wrote, "He is sinking fast. The experiment must begin at once. How much
of the formula remains?"

"'I wrote: "Over one half."

"'"Never mind," she wrote in return. "Victor can begin with what you
have. Give me the papers. You may finish the rest in my brother's room
and bring it to us in the laboratory."

"'As we entered the invalid's room, I tried to exchange a look with the
sick man, but the woman drew me away to a large French window at the
end farthest from the bed, and, opening the sashes, which swung inward,
motioned me to look out. To my surprise, I saw that the bridge that I
had noticed the night before as connecting the house and laboratory
was approached from this window. It was a rough affair, resembling
those used on shipboard, and consisted of a wide plank guarded only by
two ropes stretched one on either side of the plank, about three feet
above it, as a sort of guard rail. On the laboratory side the bridge
terminated at what seemed to be a heavy door, made of one solid piece
of timber and provided one third of the way from the top with two small
windows, or, rather, panes of glass, about eight inches square. Behind
each there was a heavy iron bar.

"'Hastily signifying that I must cross the bridge in order to bring
her the remainder of the formula, the woman sent Victor ahead and then
turned to follow. Before going she intimated to me that while I wrote
I was to remain beside this window where I could see any sign from the
workers in the laboratory and be seen by them.

"'For the next two hours nothing was to be heard in the room save the
scratching of my pen over the paper and the labored breathing of the
dying man. He seemed to be sinking rapidly, but whenever he caught
my glance would smile reassuringly, as though to say: "Do not be
afraid. All will come right." As the hands of the clock on the mantel
approached the hour of eleven, however, he appeared to grow suddenly
stronger; a faint color tinged his cheeks, and he half rose in bed,
as though awaiting some new developments. On the stroke of eleven he
turned to me and signed: "It is time to go."

"'"But there are still a few pages to write out," I answered.

"'"It's all right," he rejoined. "It is enough. Only go—go at once. It
is your way of escape."

"'For a moment I hesitated. The words sounded senseless; sick men, I
reasoned, had strange fancies. But the glance of his eyes was sane; it
was more,—it was convincing.

"'Without another word, I gathered up my papers and started across
the bridge. It swayed, but only slightly. There was not the slightest
danger of an accident. And yet in my passage across that bridge I
trembled violently. When finally I reached the strangely guarded door I
had barely strength enough to knock upon the heavy timbers. There was
no reply. Evidently they were absorbed in their experiment, I thought,
and knocked again. Still no reply, though this time I seemed to hear a
faint movement within. I tried to peer through the tiny window-panes
in the door. They were somewhat above the level of my face and partly
obscured by the iron bars. So I raised myself on tiptoe and, shading my
eyes with my hands, looked in.

"'For a moment I could see nothing. Then, as I became accustomed to the
gloom, I made out a few objects near by,—a charcoal stove, a table
holding a pair of scales, pincers, blowpipe, a graduating glass, and
other apparatus with which I was unfamiliar. At the farther end of
the table sat a motionless female figure, the head thrown back, one
hand clutching a crumpled sheet of paper, while the other hung limply
at her side. Directly opposite a man sat, also motionless, his bowed
head resting on the edge of the table. As I looked, I fancied the hand
holding the paper twitched slightly.

"'I shifted my position. A faint light fell upon the face of the woman.
It was that of Mrs. Westinghouse, but white and rigid, with sightless,
staring eyes.

"'"They are dead!" I cried, as I rushed back into the room of the dying
man. Then, recollecting myself, I succeeded in repeating my words with
fingers that trembled so that I could hardly give the signs.

"'For a moment he seemed unmoved; then, with a ghastly smile, he
signalled:—

"'"This is your time to escape."

"'"But you—"

"'"Never mind me. All I care for is to keep my secret from them.
Remember your vow—and now go—go—and God bless you."

"'I grasped his hand, then rushed from the room. I snatched my hat and
coat in the hall below, and ran out of the house and down the road,
never stopping until I reached the station. There I took the next train
and reached the city only half an hour ago.'"

Here Mr. Gilbert began to light a cigar, as though his story were
finished.

"But what became of the dying man—of the mother and son—the little
stenographer?"

"Oh, yes, to be sure," said the detective; "you wish to know the
sequel. Well, I went up there that day with two or three men and
found everything as she'd described it. The mother and son had simply
been evidently stupefied by drugs purposely introduced into the false
formula, and soon recovered their senses, but the uncle had breathed
his last. Mrs. Westinghouse had been smart enough to get a physician,
who was there when we arrived, and who, honestly enough, I suppose,
ascribed his death to natural causes. We could do nothing from lack of
evidence."

"But the secret,—the mysterious formula?"

"Ah, that is the saddest part of the whole affair. Half crazed by her
horrible experience in this house, and recalling her vow to make no use
of any information gained while there, Miss Wood had no sooner escaped
than she tore the true formula into pieces and threw it away. Had she
kept it, it would undoubtedly have brought her an enormous fortune, for
an expert metallurgist who examined the strange dagger given to her by
the dying man pronounced it to be an example of a priceless art,—that
of tempering copper to the consistency of steel,—a process understood
by the ancients, but lost now these thousands of years."

[Illustration]




Her Hoodoo.

BY HAROLD KINSABBY.


It was because the doctor insisted that my system needed ozone that I
went to Colorado on a hunting trip. It was there that I met her, and it
was there, by the way, that I became convinced that when a man with a
lame lung undertakes to hunt ozone in the wilds of the Rocky Mountains
he ought to provide himself with a guide. I went alone, and that's why
I got lost.

For two days I had tramped, half starved, toward the rising sun, with
the hope of reaching some cattle ranch near Denver. On the morning of
the third day, as I was trudging through a thick undergrowth, I was
suddenly startled by a woman's voice:—

"You didn't happen to spy a little speckled heifer back yonder, did
you, stranger?"

It is said that upon the approach of a human being the first impulse of
a man who has been lost in the woods is that biblically ascribed to the
wicked, namely, "to flee when no man pursueth." But at this time I was
too far gone with hunger and weariness to flee from anything.

I simply leaned against a tree trunk and awaited the appearance of the
voice's owner. She came riding a bronco across the crest of a hillock.
She was slight and wiry, and she wore her huge sombrero and man's
canvas shooting-coat with an air that at first suggested the cowboy. A
later glimpse of feminine drapery, however, proclaimed her something
infinitely more interesting,—a real Rocky Mountain cow-girl in all her
glory.

"No," I answered weakly to her repeated question as to the heifer's
whereabouts. "No, I've seen neither hoof nor hide of your heifer, which
is lucky for you, as I should probably have eaten it if I had."

"You do look hungry," said the strange horsewoman; and as she spoke
the bold lines of her aquiline face relaxed into an expression of
womanly solicitude.

"Here, take this," she added in a business-like tone, producing from a
bag that lay, meal sack fashion, across her saddle, a can of pressed
beef and a square foot or so of corn bread. "No," as I tried to speak,
"never mind explanations. Have some lunch with me and talk afterwards;
that is, if you ain't afraid to eat with a cow-girl.

"You see," she continued, when we were comfortably seated on a
moss-grown log that served as a whole set of dining-room furniture, "I
know myself what it is to get lost and nearly starve to death. 'Having
experienced misfortune myself, I know how to pity others.'"

I choked over a morsel of corn bread and stared at my companion
with ill-bred astonishment. A cow-girl who quoted Virgil, even in a
translation, was something not dreamed of in my philosophy.

"Yes, I don't wonder that you look surprised," said my hostess
good-naturedly. "I suppose I don't look as though I was up in the
classics, but the fact is I'm a graduate of Iowa Wesleyan University,
and I've studied Latin, Shakespeare, geometry, and all the rest.

"Yes," musingly, "once I expected to pursue a literary career. Indeed,
my professors all told me that I might become the George Eliot or Mrs.
Browning of America. But that speckled heifer I was asking you about
just now knocked all my plans into a cocked hat."

"How was that?" I asked.

"Well, it was like this," said the cow-girl college graduate, as she
pushed aside her corn bread, untasted, and, planting her elbows upon
her knee, propped her chin upon her palms, man fashion. "In the spring
of 1885, several years after I had graduated, my father died, and
mother and I came to Colorado and bought a ranch at Plum Creek, some
twenty-three miles south of Denver. You see, my father had been an
invalid, and ever since I can remember we'd been chasing round from
pillar to post, trying to find a climate that agreed with him; so this
was really what you might call the first chance I had to go to work in
earnest. It was a lovely quiet spot, an ideal place, I thought, for
communing with nature and pursuing a literary career. But it was not so
to be. Like—what's his name with a tender heel?"

"Achilles?" I suggested.

"Yes, like Achilles, I had one weak spot that was going to be my ruin.
I was crazy about pets. Why, if it hadn't been for that weak spot I
might be wearing literary laurel instead of lassoing cattle—but this
is neither here nor there. What I was going to say was that before I'd
been settled on that ranch three days some men came our way driving a
herd of Texas cattle to Denver, and, as a late snowstorm came up just
then, they decided to camp on good feed in the hills in front of my
ranch. That afternoon they came over to our house to buy bread, and
while they were there they mentioned to me that they had a nice cow
that had just calved, and offered if I would buy the cow to throw in
the calf, as they were just going to kill it. Well, here was where
my weak spot came in. No sooner did I hear about those animals than
nothing would do but that I should have them for pets. Besides, the cow
was offered mighty cheap, only eighteen dollars, while I'd been going
without milk rather than pay the fifty or seventy-five dollars asked
for a milch cow; so now I thought was my chance to close a good bargain
and get two nice pets, beside. Yes, sir, I even planned while the men
were gone after those animals how I would domesticate them in a few
days."

"And it took longer?" I asked.

"Domesticate! I might as well have tried to domesticate an active
volcano—but I mustn't anticipate.

"My first impression of my pet cow wasn't exactly encouraging. I had
imagined her ambling serenely up to the house, mild-eyed and gentle,
with the little calflet trotting at her side. Instead, she was dragged
upon the scene by four men who had spent at least an hour in catching
her and bringing her to me. The calf, meantime, after an equally
exciting chase had been led up and tied to a large plum bush.

"However, I wasn't one to let a little thing like that phase me. I was
determined to make friends with that cow; so when, about two hundred
yards from the house, the men threw her and took off the rope I
advanced with that idea. But I wasn't half so anxious to make friends
as the cow was. As soon as she set eyes on me—and if ever an animal
had the evil eye, that cow did—she made a bee line for yours truly.

"'Look out,' shouted the men. But I was already footing it pretty
lively towards the thicket where the calf was tied, the cow after me,
snorting like a steam engine almost in my ear. The next thing that
I knew I had slipped and fallen on the ice in the north side of the
bushes with the cow on top. I believe that I tried to grab the creature
by her horns, with a wild hope that I might hold her down until the men
came to the rescue.

"I might as well have tried to hold down a hurricane. As she rose so
did I, and was on my feet twenty yards away before she could see where
she was at. Just as she rushed from the bush and lunged after me, I saw
a rope swing through the air, and the next thing that devil-possessed
cow knew she was tied to a clump of thicket and left to meditate upon
the evil of her ways."

"What did the men say to this?" I asked.

"Of course they made out that they were awfully surprised at the cow's
antics, fearfully scared at my close call, and all that; but I saw them
grinning and chuckling as if they were ready to burst as they rode off,
and I felt dead sure they'd planned to have a double funeral, cow and
calf both, if they hadn't found a tender-foot to unload them on.

"However, I never was one to give in that I was beaten by anything,
first off, especially by a cow. Besides, that idea of having two nice
pets had got a great hold on me. I made up my mind that if kindness
could reclaim that erring cow she should be coddled like an infant.
So next morning, bright and early, I started for the plum bush where
she and the calf were tied, determined to make peace. Fortunately, two
gentlemen, who had heard of the episode of the day before, rode over
to see me that morning and joined me on my peace-making expedition. No
sooner did the cow see me within thirty feet of her than she gave a
fearful surge; the rope that she was tied with—worn thin by rubbing
against the tree all night—gave way, and the cow made for me as though
fifty devils had taken possession of her and were urging her on.

"I tell you I didn't stop to think about the power of kindness on the
brute creation. I simply yelled, 'Murder,' and made for a sand gulch
near by as though a band of wild Indians were on my trail. As I reached
the gulch and dropped ten feet or so down the steep bank, digging my
heels into the loose sand to stop myself, that acrobatic cow sailed
straight over my head and lit about twenty yards below. At first I
thought that she was dead, but no such luck. In a moment she got up,
looking foolish and dazed, but very much alive, and began shaking her
head and pawing fiercely, when the two gentlemen reached down and
lifted me out, as much as to say, 'This is what I'll do when I get hold
of you.'"

"Which she didn't, I hope," I put in.

"No, indeed; you can be precious sure that I took particular care that
she didn't have another chance to get hold of me or to get back into
the yard again. For an hour or so after she had hoisted herself out
of the gulch she stood outside the fence that separated the yard from
the field, shaking her head and pawing whenever she saw any of us at
the doors or windows. At last, towards evening, she trotted off with a
zigzag wabble down the bank towards the creek among the willows, and
there she lay in ambush, you might say, so that for a week after we
didn't dare to go down to make a garden or do anything else, for fear
of having that cow descend like a wolf on the fold."

"And after that week?" I inquired.

"Well, finally she grew bolder, and ventured on the mesa near the
railroad track, where she made war on the section hands, and I was
warned that I must take her out of the field or they would shoot her.
So to prevent her from demoralizing the entire neighborhood I had
her killed and used her for beef. And tough eating she was," said my
hostess, laughing; "but in any case she was better dead than alive, for
there wasn't room for that cow and me in the same country."

"But you've been telling me about the cow. What about the heifer? I
thought that you said that she was the cause—"

"Oh, yes. The heifer was the calf. Now, whether the cow disowned the
calf, or the calf the cow, I never found out. Anyway, the day that
the cow disappeared into the bottom land that little calf trotted up
to the house and tearfully begged to be loved. Well, you might have
thought I'd had enough of pets for one while, but, no; the helplessness
of that poor little calf so went to my heart that for weeks I rode nine
miles every day for milk, and fed it to that little creature with my
own hands."

"A sort of foster-mother," I suggested.

"Yes, I was a mother to that little orphan calf. But, if you'll
believe me, it was a case of 'how sharper than a serpent's tooth is an
ungrateful child,' or however that goes. Yes, sir, that calf followed
in the evil course of its mother, only if anything it was worse, sort
of like Agrippina and her son, Nero, only this was a daughter.

"You see, the cow was perfectly open about her evil deeds, but the
calf was underhanded. After trotting around me, looking as innocent
as though butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, she'd all of a sudden
disappear, and come back after a few days with an ear torn and the skin
raked off her side; and pretty soon I'd hear that she'd been attacking
horses or fighting other cows.

"One day she chased an unlucky workman out onto the railroad bridge
and kept him there until a train came along and the engineer slackened
enough to take him on and carry him to Plum Station. Another time
she got after a tramp that was camping on the bottom land among the
willows, and forced him to take refuge in the forks of a crooked tree,
where he roosted until one of us went down and called off Miss Bossie.
In fact, the only return that calf ever made for all my loving care was
to scare away tramps. If I could have kept her around the house just
for that purpose she would have been one of the best investments I ever
made.

"But as years went by that calf became more and more abandoned to evil.
She would wander farther and farther from home, until now I spend half
my nights worrying about her and more than half the day following her
up and taking her home with me."

"I should think you'd get rid of the creature," I interrupted.

"Kill her? Yes, I suppose that would be the most sensible thing to do,
but you know how it is about always loving the prodigal son the most.
Yes, sir; wherever that animal goes it takes my heart with it, and,
though it's nigh onto eleven years old, I never can think of it as
anything but a pet calf."

"And so it was bringing up that heifer that interfered with your
literary career?"

"Interfered? Well, I should say so! Back at the start I did publish
some poems in the local papers, and I read one or two essays at the
Zion Church literaries. But people wouldn't believe they were original.
No woman, they said, who spent her time chasing wild cows over the
country could write odes to spring and essays on Shakespeare.

"My literary career was killed, blighted in the bud. And, as my income
was small and I had to do something to make out a living, I've just
turned my hand to anything that came along.

"Instead of gaining fame as the American George Eliot, I've been called
Colorado Cow-girl and Bronco Buster. Instead of wielding the pen, I've
driven a four-horse stage, branded cattle, broken saddle horses, sung
in a church choir, run a blacksmith's shop, kept school, given music
lessons, run a hotel, taught painting, carried mail, roughed it on
horseback all the way from Colorado to Oregon, and taken a hand in
pretty much everything else, except shoveling wind off the roof. But
there"—breaking off suddenly—"you aren't interested in all this. What
you want now is rest and shelter.

"Take my outfit and make tracks for Wilkins ranch. Just give the pony
his head and he'll land you all right.

"It's over that way," rising and gesturing toward the southeast.

I tried to protest against this plan, but the Colorado cow-girl was
already several yards away.

"That's all right; meet you later at the ranch," she cried, turning for
a moment before she plunged into the thicket. "But first," she added,
with almost maternal solicitude, "I think I'll just look around and see
if I can't find that little speckled heifer."




In a Tiger Trap.

BY CHARLES EDWARD BARNS.


The royal Malay tiger is no gentleman. If he were, the following would
never have been told.

Punda-Tsang was an innkeeper. He was sole proprietor of the
Ballawari-Dâk, which is a very big name for a very small native
hotel about sixty miles north of Penang, and on the high road to the
hunting-steppes of the Bukit, or hill-country. The quaint little
hospice clung to the mountain side like a swallow's nest, high over the
jungle-bedded Sungei, whose foaming, crashing torrents came down from
the upper mountains like an endless charge of white cavalry to the sea.
Punda was a good sort of a Malay, which means a bad sort of anything
else. That is, he would plunder only on the securest principles, and
never quarrel with a bigger man nor a better armed one than he. In this
he differed from other Malays, who would plunder and knife upon no
principle or provocation whatever, if they thought there was a ten-anna
piece in the job.

But a deeper reading of this prosperous boniface of the jungles
revealed the fact that he was capable of love,—yes, even a tender,
human affection; and that little Iali, his five-year-old daughter, was
the object of a worship in his heart even more fervent than that which
he bestowed upon the five home-made clay gods before which, in a dark
corner of the Dâk, he burned a vast deal of ill-smelling punk. The
second year of Tsang's married life had hardly begun when his beautiful
wife was bitten by a yellow viper while gathering healing herbs down
in the valley. When they found the poor creature she was dying—with a
little new-born babe in her arms. This calamity the bereaved husband
regarded as a direct visitation of the clay gods in the corner; only
the day before he had robbed a Kling hunter of his rifle, leaving
the poor fellow to make his way unarmed down to the sea, where he ran
upon a pair of half-starved _kukangs_, a vicious species of Malay
chimpanzee, in fleeing from which he fell over the cliff and was dashed
to pieces. And Punda-Tsang always felt that that yellow viper was sent
direct from the land of the judging gods to avenge the blood of the
poor Kling hunter. But there was one thing that mitigated the harshness
of this vengeance,—the presence of the little child, whom he tenderly
cherished, and whom he had called Iali, which is to say "forgiven."
But even were not the little creature a messenger of forgiveness to
the penitent savage heart, she was more than worthy his worship and
love,—this child of the tropic forest, restless and agile as a young
panther, with lustrous black eyes and a wild, wayward nature, much
spoiled by the wayfarers and fawned upon by the coolies that swarmed
about the compound.

One day two British naval officers stopped at the Dâk on their way
down from a hunt in the hill country. We were seated under the palms
before the bungalow after tiffin, smoking cheroots, while I listened to
their exploits with interest. Suddenly four native Malays approached,
wheeling a live tiger in a clumsy wooden cage, and halted before the
Dâk. They were going to dispose of him to a naturalist down on the
coast, who had a method of killing and stuffing animals by which the
marvelous luster of their skins was preserved. The forest king was
certainly a magnificent specimen. If you have never seen a live tiger
fresh from the jungles, take my word for it, the ordinary caged tiger
at the Zoo is as much like the former as canned strawberries are like
the fresh, lustrous fruit of June. The Englishmen evidently thought so,
too, as they concluded to buy him, and swear that they had captured
him, and then to present the beast to the London Zoo. They bought the
animal for forty Mexican dollars, sent the natives back rejoicing, and
started down towards the coast, while Punda-Tsang, not contented with
exacting fifty per cent commission from the poor fellows for using his
Dâk for a tiger mart, committed the meanest act of his life. He slyly
sawed one of the cage bars nearly through in four places. Then he went
to work planning to waylay the tiger on his way back to his haunts
after he should break loose, which he knew would happen before the
Englishmen could get many miles down the valley. He quietly pursued his
planning until late that night, when he heard upon good authority that
the tiger had broken jail and nearly killed one of his owners. Then he
prepared to put his plans into action.

Here we reach the illustration of the first-mentioned fact, of
which Tsang was ready to take advantage: that the Malay tiger is no
gentleman. He knew that the beast will never walk up leisurely and
take his bite like a smooth and oily clubman at a free lunch, but that
the very instant that he smells blood he will drop flat, and, even if
the feast is a mile away, will begin a slow, creeping journey towards
it, wasting hours, perhaps, and working up a terrific hunger in the
meantime. When he has approached within twenty feet of the prize,
quivering with desire and terrible with greed, he will leap into the
air like a cannon ball and plunge down upon his victim. Punda-Tsang
knew all this; so he dug a pit down the valley, constructed a network
of branches over it, and laid the quarter of a bullock upon it. Then
he waited for the tiger to scent the blood and make his slow, crawling
journey, knowing that when he made the grand twenty-foot leap he
would go crashing through the network into the pit below. Then Tsang
planned he would starve the beast, let down a cage baited with more
fresh meat, and, sliding the bars from above, haul the captured tiger
out and sell him over again. All of this might have happened, but it
didn't. Events somewhat stranger and more terrible for Punda-Tsang
interfered, doubtless as another direct visitation of the vengeance of
the little clay gods in the bungalow corner, half concealed in clouds
of punk-smoke.

As little Iali was the innkeeper's constant solace and companion, she
went with him to the pit-digging, her father explaining to her the
manner of capturing the "four-footed jungle-god," which facts, instead
of frightening the child, only helped to increase the stock of her
play gods and demons which she molded deftly from the red clay of
the ravine. With the appearance of the new moon, that mascot of the
Orientals, the pit was baited. For two days nothing was heard of the
tiger, and Punda-Tsang began to fear that he had gone back to the hills
by another route.

On the afternoon of the third day I sat on the cliff's edge, watching
the mists rise from the roaring river bottom, a phenomenon which
always accompanies the closing day. Suddenly there was a great
shuffling of sandals about the compound, and I knew something
extraordinary was taking place. I turned quickly; the big form of
Punda-Tsang, the innkeeper, burst upon me suddenly, his flat face as
pallid as a demon's, ferocious, but with the ferocity of nameless fear.

"Iali!" cried he hoarsely. "Have you seen Iali?"

"No!" I replied, almost in a whisper. He did not wait, but sped towards
the so-called bullock-sheds, which were really caves cut in the
solid rock beyond the Dâk. I had become attached to the child, whose
marvelous beauty had charmed, and whose weird ways mystified me. But I
had never been alone with her, knowing that any accident happening to
Iali while in my keeping would result seriously for me—perhaps cost
me my life. The coolies were flying hither and thither, making the
air ring with their loud wails. Such agitation on the part of these
vagabonds roused me to a realization of the child's danger. Suddenly
I turned my eyes and thoughts in the direction of the ravine where
the tiger trap lay. I recalled vividly the child's interest in the
"jungle-god" who was to be captured in the deep pit; and, knowing the
little creature's absolute fearlessness, thought that, acting upon some
childish impulse, she might have strayed down the narrow path to the
pit. Meanwhile the wailing about me increased.

I dropped over the ledge, soon reaching the pathway by a short route.
As I penetrated the jungle, now suffused with mist in the ruby glow of
the expiring day, I realized with what risks to myself I was entering
this dangerous spot, all unarmed. I was still debating whether or not
to return for a weapon of defense, when, as I leaped over a soft spot
in the red clay, I saw two footprints that shot terror into my heart;
one was that of a mammoth tiger, the other belonged to a little child.
I dropped down beside them. No. There was no mistaking them, so clear
and fresh were both. I rose to my feet, my head whirling, my ears
half-deafened by the noise of the jungle insects and the increasing
roar of that river beyond. Then I crept forward, scarcely daring to
breathe, my heart beating faster and faster with apprehension.

The distance to that tiger pit seemed to be doubled, and the time that
elapsed before reaching it everlasting. The crackling of the leaves
and twigs on the moss beneath my feet added to my trepidations. Almost
before I realized it I had reached the big trap, and then halted short,
thrilled by the sound of something human. I looked up. Through the
deepening mists and intervening boughs I saw the little child-figure
of Iali creeping out upon the withered branches over the pit. For the
instant I had no power to move, nor dared I speak, lest, overcome with
sudden fright, the frail little one might lose her foothold. Suddenly
a new horror disclosed itself. What were those two glaring, cold,
yet fiery points just beyond the pit, burning their way through the
shadows? My God! It was the tiger. He was lying flat on the ground,
couchant, paws extended, quivering, ready for the fatal spring.

In moments like these one's reasoning powers become super-human. I saw
that in all probability either Iali or I was to be sacrificed, which
one depended merely upon the caprice of the wild beast. I had heard
that the calm, steady, fearless stare of a human is more terrifying to
wild animals than guns that kill. On the instant I resolved to practise
it; it was my only expedient. So I stared at those two coldly bright
and glowing points of light like a madman, without a quiver, without a
doubt.

Suddenly I saw the little figure waver on the dead branches over the
mouth of the pit, and then—oh, horrors! with a weak cry poor little
Iali had lost her foothold and slipped slowly through the yielding
boughs into the cave beneath. For a moment all was silent. Then I
heard her childish prattle. The soft sand had broken Iali's fall and
saved her life, while I was brought face to face with the most awful
problem of my life. For what seemed hours, I stood like a pillar of
stone, the sweat pouring down my neck, my tongue hot and parched. One
show of fear would, I knew, be fatal. The "jungle-gods" are keen, like
demons, measuring strength with man. How long could I keep up this
maddening strain?—how long force upon the king-beast this illusion of
my superior will?

Suddenly, as I stood like one in a trance, facing this growing problem,
I was conscious of a stir in the reeds and underbrush at my right
hand. Though the sound caused me to tremble, I dared not take my eyes
from the crouching monster beyond. The next instant, a strange, huge
shape crept stealthily out of the underwood, and advanced into the
clearing toward the pit,—a ponderous black monster with the body of a
beast, but lifting through the grass the head and shoulders of a human
colossus. It was a mammoth orang-outang!

The tiger crouched lower. He seemed to be as nonplussed, as stunned by
the intrusion of this huge interloper as I was. In motionless silence,
he transferred his burning gaze to the mammoth monster.

Advancing to the very edge of the pit, the huge ape slipped, but he
recovered. Sly beast! He saw that the branches were only a blind.
Then he walked around the edge of the trap, and knelt down like a
human being, slowly, deliberately reaching out his long hairy arm till
his giant hand clutched that bullock bone. Oh, what joy that calm,
providential deed brought to my heart! Then, to my intense relief,
the orang slowly dragged the great mass of flesh off the network of
branches upon the solid ground.

For a moment longer the gleam of those two terrible eyes, now like
peepholes into hell, followed the unsuspecting pilferer. Then came a
rustle, a strange shriek like sudden thunder, a bound, and a roar, and
the "jungle-god" had sprung into the air, and came down like a flashing
avalanche full upon the broad body of the kneeling orang. A single
paw struck the mammoth ape in the small of the back, and never shall
I forget the sound of that blow which broke the bones of the orang's
spine like a cannon ball. With an almost human groan, the rescuer of
my life and hers I came to save gave up the booty, together with his
own life. Then the tiger, with a final flash of eyes full into my own,
snatched up the carcass of the bullock in his flaming jaws, and slid
off into the thick of the jungle.

I have often wondered since how things would have turned out if that
tiger _had_ been a gentleman.




The Red-Hot Dollar.

BY H. D. UMBSTAETTER.


It lacked three minutes of five by the big clock in the tower when the
east-bound Chicago express rumbled into the station at Buffalo. The
train had not yet come to a standstill when a hatless man jumped from
the platform of the rear sleeping-car and ran across the tracks into
the depot restaurant. A few minutes later he reappeared, carrying a cup
of coffee in one hand and a small paper bag in the other.

With these he hurriedly made his way back to the car through a
straggling procession of drowsy tourists, who were taking advantage
of the train's five minutes' stop to breathe the crisp morning air.
The last of these had already resumed his seat when the man without a
hat again appeared at the lunch counter, returned the borrowed dishes,
and ordered coffee for himself. He had just picked up the cup and was
raising it to his lips when the conductor's "All aboard" rang through
the station.

Leaving the coffee untouched, he thrust a five-dollar bill at the
attendant, grabbed his change, and started in pursuit of the moving
train. He had almost reached it when an unlucky stumble sent the
coins in his hand rolling in all directions along the floor. Quickly
recovering himself and paying no heed to his loss, he redoubled his
efforts, and, though losing ground at every step, kept up the hopeless
chase to the end of the station. There he stopped, panting for breath.
The slip had proved fatal. He had missed the train!

As he stood staring wildly through the clouds of dust that rose from
the track, a young woman, evidently deeply agitated, suddenly appeared
in the doorway of the vanishing car. Upon seeing him, she made frantic
attempts to leap from the platform, when she was seized by a man and
pulled back into the car. When the door had closed upon the two
the bareheaded man in the station faced about and philosophically
muttered:—

"It's fate!"

Then, after pausing a few moments, as if to collect his thoughts,
he slowly retraced his steps to the scene of his mishap and began
calmly searching for his lost change. Circling closely about, his eyes
scanning the floor, he succeeded in recovering first one and then
another of the missing coins, until finally, after repeated rounds, he
lacked only one dollar of the whole amount. At this point he paused,
clinked the recovered coins in his hand, looked at his watch, and then
started on a final round. As this failed to reveal the missing piece,
he gave up the search, transferred the contents of his hands to his
trousers' pocket, and started in the direction of the telegraph office.

He had proceeded perhaps twenty paces when it occurred to him to turn
about and cast one more look along the floor. As he did so his eye
fell upon a shining object lodged in an opening between the rail and
planked floor, a few feet from where he stood. He stooped to examine
it, and, seeing that it was the missing coin, reached for it, but
found the opening too narrow to admit his fingers. He tried to recover
the piece with his pocket-knife, and, failing in this attempt, took
his lead-pencil, with which, after repeated attempts, he succeeded in
tossing it upon the floor.

With an air of subdued satisfaction, he walked away, and was about to
convey the coin to his pocket when a sudden impulse led him to examine
it. Holding it up before his eyes, he stopped, scrutinized every
detail, and as he turned it over and over the puzzled look on his face
changed to one of rigid astonishment. For fully a minute he stood as if
transfixed; then, rousing himself and looking anxiously about as if to
see if any one had observed him, he hurried to the cashier's desk in
the restaurant, and, producing the bright silver dollar, asked the girl
if she happened to remember from whom she received it.

She didn't remember, but would exchange it for another, she said, if
he wished. Politely declining the offer and apologizing for having
troubled her, he said that, as the coin he held in his hand was
separating a loving wife from her husband, he wished very much to find
some trace of its former owner. The girl looked up, thought for a
moment, then, pulling out the cash drawer, and examining its contents,
said she might have received it from the conductor of the Lake Shore
express which had left for Cleveland at 3.15. She now recalled that
when she came on duty at midnight there was no silver dollar among
the change in the cash drawer, and that the only one she remembered
receiving was from Sleeping-Car Conductor Parkins.

The man thanked her and hastened to the telegraph office, where he sent
this message:—


"CONDUCTOR, EAST BOUND CHICAGO EXPRESS,
                                   UTICA, N. Y.

  "Please ask lady in section seven of sleeping-car Catawba to
await her husband at Delavan House, Albany.

                                 "A. J. HOBART."


After requesting the operator to kindly rush the despatch, he proceeded
to the ticket office, procured a seat in the 5.45 fast mail for
Cleveland, and, with his hand clutching the coin in his pocket and his
eyes fixed upon the floor, meditatively paced up and down the platform,
waiting for the train to arrive.

As he did so he was disconcerted to find himself the object of
wide-spread curiosity; even the newsboys with the morning papers
favored him with an inquiring stare as they passed. Wondering what was
amiss, he suddenly put his hand to his head, which furnished an instant
explanation. He was hatless.

Looking at the big clock, he saw that it lacked ten minutes of train
time, and, hastily crossing over to the farther track, he disappeared
through the west end of the station.

Among the passengers who boarded the 5.45 fast mail for Cleveland when
it thundered into the station, ten minutes later, was the bareheaded
gentleman of a few minutes ago, now wearing a stylish derby. Once in
the train, he settled himself in his seat with a sigh of relief and
satisfaction. Not until then did the really remarkable character of the
situation dawn upon him. On the very day which he had hailed as one of
the happiest of his life he was traveling at the rate of about sixty
miles an hour away from the girl he loved devotedly and to whom he had
been married just seventeen hours. A queer opening of his honeymoon! In
his anxiety to get a cup of coffee for his wife, he had lost his hat,
then lost his change, and, lastly, lost the train.

Why did he not follow his bride at once? What mysterious spell had come
upon this seventeen-hour bridegroom that he should fly from her as
swiftly as the fast express could carry him? His hand held the solution
of the problem—simple, yet unexplainable—a silver dollar! It held
the secret he must unravel before he could return to her; it was not
then that he loved her less, but that this bit of precious metal had
suddenly developed an occult power that had turned their paths, for the
present, in opposite directions.

At the first stopping place he sent another message, which read as
follows:—


"MRS. A. J. HOBART, Delavan House, Albany, N. Y.

  "Cannot possibly reach Albany before to-morrow morning.

                                                  "ANSEL."


With his brain filled with excited thoughts, the young man entered
the sleeping-car office at Cleveland four hours later and asked for
Conductor Parkins. He was told that this official would not be on duty
before night, though possibly he might be at his home on St. Clair
Street.

To the address given him the indefatigable young man repaired at once,
and found the genial gentleman for whom he sought breakfasting with his
family. He kindly gave audience at once to his visitor.

"This coin, which you gave the cashier of the restaurant in Buffalo,"
said the latter, revealing it in the palm of his hand; "can you tell me
from whom you received it?"

Parkins remembered receiving cash from but two passengers the night
before, one a traveling man who got off in Cleveland, and the other a
woman whose destination was Erie. The stranger might ascertain their
names by consulting the car diagram at the ticket office. "You seem
interested in the coin," he added, smiling.

"I am, for a good reason," laughed the young man in reply. "It is
separating a man from his wife." And with these engimatical words he
made his adieu, with thanks, hastened to the ticket office, and an hour
later was scouring the city for one Richard Spears.

The register of the Stillman House contained the freshly written name
of "Richard Spears, Providence, R. I.," but that gentleman, when
found in his room showing samples of hardware to a prospective buyer,
regretted that he could not throw any light on the particular dollar
his visitor held up to his gaze, and remembered distinctly that he had
given the conductor a two-dollar bill in payment for his berth. He came
from a section, he said, where people took no stock in silver dollars.

It was three o'clock in the afternoon when a man got off the train
at Erie and inquired of the cabmen and depot master regarding a lady
who had arrived on the early train from Buffalo. An hour later he was
driving along a country road some miles south of the town inquiring for
the Wickliffe farm.

As he finally drove up to the house which was his destination he was
conscious of a strange excitement. This, he realized, was probably
his only remaining chance to trace the coin by whose mysterious power
he had been drawn into this wild chase with the hope of identifying
its former owner. He took a hasty note of the general features of the
place. It had a comfortable, well-to-do look; a two-story house, white,
with green blinds. Most of these were closed, as is customary with
country houses, but the windows at the right of the big front door,
opening on a small porch, were shaded only by white curtains. There was
a sound of voices within as he stepped up to the door and rapped.

Mrs. Wickliffe, a pleasant-faced little woman, sat surrounded by
three children and a neighbor's wife, to whom she was displaying some
purchases. As one of the children opened the door, admitting the
stranger into this animated scene, she was standing before a mirror
trying on a new bonnet, which was eliciting extravagant praises from
the neighbor.

After listening to his story, Mrs. Wickliffe said that her memory was
so treacherous that she really couldn't say for certain whether or not
she gave the conductor the shining dollar, but that if she did she
must have received it from her son in Germantown, Pa., from a visit
to whose house she had just returned, and who before her departure had
exchanged some money for her. She added that, as she took no interest
in coin collecting, a dollar was simply a dollar to her and that she
thought a woman was very foolish to take up with a fad which might ruin
her happiness.

Her unknown caller thought so, too, admired her taste in millinery,
took the address of her son, and, clutching the fatal coin more firmly
than ever, drove back to Erie, where he boarded the New York night
express.

To the young man who still clutched the silver dollar sleep was
impossible. A multitude of exciting fancies crossed his brain. The
developments he hoped to bring about, the curious solution of the
problem, its effect upon his future, and the future of one so dear to
him,—all this murdered sleep for him as effectually as did the crime
on Lady Macbeth's soul. It drove him into the smoking-car, where he
sank into a seat and planned and conjectured between puffs of Havana
smoke until the train reached Albany. So completely absorbed had he
become in the solution of this knotty problem in which his accident
of the morning had involved him, and so convinced was he that the
information must be for the time kept a secret, that he actually began
to dread what was clearly inevitable,—the explanation he must shortly
make to his wife.

His inclination was to tell her all. His duty to others forbade this.
After pondering over the matter, he decided to explain that he had a
happy surprise in store for her, one that had an important bearing on
their future, and which unfortunately necessitated a change in their
plans for a honeymoon in Europe.

This, on reaching the Delavan House, he expressed to a very pretty and
very anxious little woman who was awaiting him, together with a good
many other things not necessary to this story. And, instead of the
steamer for Europe, the reunited pair took a train for Philadelphia.
Early the next day the young man presented himself at the office of Dr.
James Wickliffe, at Germantown, who smilingly admitted having given
the shining dollar to his mother two days before. He had received the
coin from a patient, a letter-carrier named John Lennon, and remembered
it because of the following strange story, related to him by Lennon
himself.

A few days before, the carrier was engaged in delivering mail from door
to door along Vine Street, Philadelphia, when a zigzag trip across the
street and back again brought him to the narrow stairway of a dingy
brick house, in front of which hung an enormous brass key bearing the
word "Locksmith." Here he paused to draw a little parcel from his
bundle. As he did so he heard something fall with a metallic clink upon
the stone pavement. He looked and saw that it was a silver dollar,
which rolled toward the gutter and came to a stop close by the curb.
Hastening to pick it up, he instantly dropped it with a cry of pain.

_The coin was almost red hot!_

The letter-carrier stood nursing his hand and thinking for two or three
minutes. Silver dollars do not commonly drop out of the sky. But that
this one should thus fall like a meteorite in a condition too heated
for handling was certainly more than surprising—it was astounding! The
man looked up at the dingy brick house and examined it attentively,
noting that the ground floor was occupied as a green grocery and that
all of the windows were shut save one in the third story.

Then he kicked the mysterious coin into a puddle, fished it out again
with his fingers, and put it into his trousers' pocket. He was about to
investigate further, when some small boys called his attention to the
fact that it was the first day of April, whereupon he proceeded on his
way. He gave no further thought to the matter until that night, when
he found that his thumb and forefinger had been so badly burned as to
require treatment.

The next morning he called upon the doctor, who dressed the painful
hand and received the mysterious coin in payment for his services.

That night, behind locked doors in one of the officers' rooms of the
United States Mint in Chestnut Street, two men were engaged in a long
whispered conference. The wife of one of the men, as she sat in her
room in the Continental Hotel, anxiously waiting for her husband, was
beginning to wonder whether, after all, marriage was a failure!

Two days later, in speaking of the seizure of over forty thousand bogus
silver dollars and the clever capture of three of the most dangerous
counterfeiters that ever attacked the currency of the United States,
the _Daily News_ said:—

"The most remarkable part of the whole story is that one of the coins,
fresh from the machine of one of the counterfeiters, fell out of a
third-story window near which he was working, was picked up while
almost red hot by a letter-carrier, and passed as genuine through
various hands until it reached Buffalo, where, by the merest accident,
it came into the possession of Mr. Ansel Hobart of the Secret Service.
That gentleman noticed an imperfection at one point of its rim, and
succeeded in tracing the coin to the headquarters of the gang on Vine
Street in this city, where, under the cloak of a locksmith shop and
green grocery business, six hundred of the spurious coins were turned
out daily. So admirably were these counterfeits executed as to defy
scrutiny save by experts of the Government. The coins were not cast
in molds after the ordinary fashion, but were struck with a die, and
plated so thickly with silver as to withstand tests by acids. The
defect which led to the discovery was found only in the one coin
already spoken of, and it is supposed that it was this defect that
caused the piece to spring from the finishing machine and fall out of
the window."

And the New York newspapers of three days later contained the
intelligence that the White Star steamer "Majestic," which sailed for
Liverpool that day, had among her passengers Mr. and Mrs. Ansel J.
Hobart, of Chicago, Illinois.

[Illustration]




Advertisements.

[Illustration]

  "I cannot speak too enthusiastically of what my dressmaker has done for
  the last two seasons. All the former annoyance of heavy sleeves (which
  are also very hot in warm weather) has been done away with, and it is
  such pleasure to me to use no special care of the skirt when either
  riding or boating as I am sure every fold will instantly disappear the
  moment I walk."

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  and all their styles in either gray, black or white."

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  lining?"

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  separate skirt of seven yards would weigh but 12 ounces, and if one
  should use their 170/3 it is almost as light as air itself."

  "Why, these figures are new to me; what do they mean?"

  "I took pains to investigate that, and their =10/4=, =10/5= and =98/3=
  is the style usually used for skirts and can be had in either gray or
  black, though of course they make heavier grades, principally used by
  tailors."

  "Either the =84/3=, =146/3=, =170/3=, =184/4= or =200/4=, is all right
  for thin sleeves, so that if the dealer has not all these styles he
  ought to have one surely."

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  especially in the hot weather, with what I have had used for linings;
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  both skirts and sleeves."


[Illustration]

  Hair Cloth Crinoline

  Ask your Dealer for Ours

 =It Lasts Forever=

  We do not sell at Retail


[Illustration]

  American Hair Cloth Company,
  PAWTUCKET, R.I.
  CHARLES E. PERVEAR, Agent


[Illustration]

 =If you are thinking= about advertising in any newspaper, magazine, or
  program =anywhere=, send to

  DODD'S Advertising & Checking AGENCY
 =265 Washington St., — Boston.=

_=We write and illustrate advertisements for our clients.=_

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[Illustration]

 =If you are thinking= about advertising in any newspaper, magazine, or
  program =anywhere=, send to

  DODD'S Advertising & Checking AGENCY
 =265 Washington St., — Boston.=

_=We write and illustrate advertisements for our clients.=_

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[Illustration]

  SEARCH LIGHT

 =Is what it is named.=

  It is =not= a signal to show that a bicycle is coming,
  but an =aid=, recognized by such riders as R. P. Searle,
  who says:—

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  my expectations.    Yours very truly,

 _R. P. Searle_

  Points of Superiority over every other Lantern Made:

 =Central draft—burns ten hours.=
 =Burns kerosene oil unmixed.=
 =Flame absolutely adjustable (by set screw).=
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 _Saves Doctors' Bills_, barked shins, soiled clothing, and =makes
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 =Don't be insulted= by having a cheap Lantern offered you which may
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 =Search Light=, which will be delivered free, if your dealer won't
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  BRIDGEPORT BRASS CO.,
  Bridgeport, Conn., or 19 Murray Street, New York.




 =The Stomach was made for a purpose—a food wholly digested was not
  what the Almighty intended—=

 =No Child Can Live=

 =upon these thin, slippery Foods, but must have something to satisfy
  the stomach in order to give development and growth.=

 =Ridge's Food= has all the requirements; but =it does need boiling=,
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  disease, or scurvy while faithfully using =Ridge's Food=.

  The stomach requires action—it is so constructed that from the very
  first it is made for action. With the youngest infant the quantity of
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  Little babies cannot be successfully fed daily by pouring hot water on
  something that makes food. =It must be properly cooked=, and properly
  prepared especially for the babies' delicate stomachs, if you wish to
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  It has been said by some that children could not assimilate starch,
  yet we believe it is a proper carbon to have in food. The only carbon
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 =Ridge's Food= is so prepared that only the normal action of the
  stomach is required to produce healthful growth and development, and
  the result has been good digestion, sound, healthy bodies, good teeth,
  strong, straight limbs, and a well-formed brain; the child becomes a
  model of healthful strength and childish beauty when fed on =Ridge's
  Food=, properly prepared—and its long continuance does not produce
  Scurvy and skin disease in its many forms. Do not take our word for
  it, but please make the test yourself. =It has stood the test for 30
  years=, and abundant testimonials are at hand to prove our assertions.
 _Sample free to any physician or mother._

 =Ridge's Food,
  Used for 30 Years,
  Still Unexcelled.=

  WOOLRICH & CO., Sole Mfrs.,
  Palmer, Mass.




[Illustration]

  GOFF'S BRAND IS THE BEST MADE

  "For Dress
  Binding it is
  Unequaled."

  This is the opinion of experienced Dressmakers who have tried so-called
  substitutes during the past thirty years.

  RED SPOOL, five yards, mailed for 8 cts., stamps, or BLACK SPOOL,
  3¼ yards, 5 cts., if you cannot find the proper shade at the stores.

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


[Illustration]

  The BRIDGEPORT
  "New" Rochester
  has these advantages over any other
  LAMP
  manufactured to-day.

  Better combustion; Larger perforations; No crawling of oil; Chimney
  springs riveted (not soldered); Patent filler float (cannot run over in
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 =As a test, send=

 =$1.20= for this Nickel or Gilt =SEWING LAMP=,

  mailed, postpaid (without glassware), or complete, $1.75; which will
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  OUR SEVENTY OTHER STYLES.

 =Bridgeport Brass Co.=,
  BRIDGEPORT, CONN.
  19 Murray Street,
  New York.




[Illustration]

  Society everywhere refreshes itself with
  "Sparkling Londonderry Lithia."

  Copyright, 1805, by Londonderry Lithia Spring Water Co., Nashua, N. H.




[Illustration]

 _Londonderry
  Lithia Water._

  How many people realize the necessity of drinking large quantities of
  water in order to keep in absolutely good health? When it is remembered
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  Of all of these waters, none are equal to the Londonderry Lithia Water.
  The array of reliable medical testimony in its favor is overwhelming
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  experience.

  LONDONDERRY LITHIA SPRING WATER CO.,
  NASHUA, N. H.




 _Two Great Books._

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By MARSHALL CUSHING, Private Secretary to Postmaster-General Wanamaker.

A complete story of our National Post Office Department, turned inside
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[Illustration]

  The Barta Press

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[Illustration]

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[Illustration]

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[Illustration]

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[Illustration]

ANNOUNCEMENT.

The Black Cat

... FOR ...

NOVEMBER, 1895,

Will contain the following Original and Complete Stories:

A Calaveras Hold-Up. By Roberta Littlehale.

 A vivid account of an actual California stage robbery, linked with a
 touching love-story, told in the writer's graphic and individual style.

From a Trolley Post. By Margaret Dodge.

 A comedy-drama of the city streets, in which a pocket edition of a
 Texas cowboy and a hand-organ monkey are the chief actors.

An Andenken. By Julia Magruder.

 An absorbing and unusual story of artist life, love, and adventure,
 whose scene is laid in the Tyrolean Alps.

The Man from Maine. By J. D. Ellsworth.

 Some picturesque facts showing that prohibition doesn't always
 prohibit.

A Wedding Tombstone. By Clarice Irene Clinghan.

 A curiously fascinating tale of New England village life, showing the
 same unconventional charm as the author's prize story, "Six Months in
 Hades," for which she received $1.000.

The Other One. By A. H. Gibson.

 A gruesome but impressively interesting story of robbery, murder,
 and terrible retribution, whose startling ending cannot possibly be
 foreseen.

Stateroom Six. By William Albert Lewis.

 A dramatic incident of Mississippi steamboat travel twenty years ago,
 told just as it happened.

Her Eyes, Your Honor! By M. D. Umbstaetter.

 A famous criminal court trial, a mysterious woman whose life hinges on
 circumstantial evidence, and a legal trap resulting in an unparalleled
 climax are the features of this stirring tale.

THE BLACK CAT is issued monthly at five cents a copy. If your
newsdealer hasn't it, and won't get it for you, send fifty cents to the
undersigned, and it will be mailed to you, postpaid, for one year.

  The Shortstory Publishing Company,
  144 High Street, Boston, Mass.

[Illustration]




  T^{he} Hook That's Flat

  The Hook that shows isn't so good as the Hook that doesn't. There's no
  show to the Singer Hook and Eye. Sold everywhere.

  Singer Safety Hook & Eye Co.,
  GRAND RAPIDS, MICH.


[Illustration]

  The Ink
  used in printing
  The Black Cat
  is manufactured by
  Geo. H. Morrill & Co.,
  Boston, Mass.


  Williams' Shaving Soap

 _"It's just like cream."_

 _Williams' Shaving Soaps have been famous for fifty years._

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The Atlantic Monthly.

=Important Announcements for the Fall of 1895.=


The publishers take pleasure in announcing an unusual amount of good
fiction. Early issues of the Atlantic will contain =The Apparition
of Gran'ther Hill=, by _Rowland E. Robinson_; =Pilgrim Station=, by
_Mary Hallock Foote_; =Athenaise, a Creole Story=, by _Kate Chopin_;
=The End of the Terror=, by _Robert Wilson_, a Southern writer. Aside
from these, there will be stories by Mrs. _Wiggin, Henry James, L.
Dougall, Ellen Mackubin_, and others.

Conspicuous in the Fall issues will be papers of Travel. _Lafcadio
Hearn_ will contribute sketches and interpretations of the new Japan.
There will be further papers in Mr. Peabody's =An Architect's Vacation=
series, the forthcoming one being entitled =The Venetian Day=. A
delightful paper of Spanish travel by Mrs. _Miriam Coles Harris_ can
be promised, and _Alice Brown_ will write of a visit to the original
Cranford. _Bradford Torrey_ will publish further sketches of life and
nature in his Tennessee haunts. Other articles of special interest,
which can perhaps be classed under this head, will be =Reminiscences of
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  BALZAC.

  Translated by KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY.

 =Duchesse De Langeais.=
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 =Eugenie Grandet.=
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 =Ferragus.=

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[Illustration]

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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES.
1. Table of Contents created by the transcriber.
2. Retained anachronistic, non-standard spellings and typographical
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3. Lines 259 and 1161. Double quotes added.


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