Chapter I (1)

That the artists who illustrate the stories in +The Wide World Magazine+ are recruited from a specially-qualified staff is, we venture to think, an obvious fact. Our stories, dealing as they do with stirring adventures and strange happenings, ranging in their _locale_ from our own shores to the uttermost ends of the earth, could not, of necessity, receive adequate and accurate pictorial embellishment save at the hands of experts--men, in fact, who have themselves had experience of the world in its most varied aspects.

Our illustrators must, indeed, have in them something of the soldier, the sailor, the hunter, the cowboy, or the explorer to find a place in our pages. Thus, should we have a story dealing with Patagonia, the pictures are drawn by an artist who has actually visited that remote country; when it is necessary to illustrate a scene in the Arctic we employ an artist to whom the everlasting ice is as familiar as the streets of London. Should we find it necessary to depict a marine incident we have recourse to the brush of an artist who has himself been a sailor. In connection with every story we consult our list of "specials" for one who has either met with a like experience or is thoroughly familiar with the country concerned. Thus it will be seen that +The Wide World+ is able to avail itself of the pictorial services of an altogether exceptional body of men, many of whom have themselves met with thrilling adventures. As their experiences will have a particular interest for our readers, we are glad to be able to give an account of the most exciting episodes in the lives of some of the artists whose work has been a prominent feature in this magazine.

* * * * *

Mr. Henry Sandham is a +Wide World+ artist who has had a distinguished and adventurous career. By birth a Canadian, of British descent, he has seen much of the world in out-of-the-way places. He has hunted on the north shore of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and has probably travelled North America as extensively as any man living, his sketching trips having taken him from the north of Canada to the south of the United States, and across country from the Atlantic to the Pacific. He served his time in the Canadian Volunteer Artillery and saw active service during the Fenian raid on Canada in 1864. Much to the consternation of his friends, he once set off on a tour with a notorious desperado known as "Curley Bill," a "bad man," whose boast it was that he could not sleep unless he shot a man per month; if troubled with insomnia, he said, he shot an extra one. Mr. Sandham roughed it for some time with this fire-eating companion, who tended him with a solicitude only equalled by that of a mother for her only child; all he could beg, borrow, or steal he cheerfully placed at the artist's disposal. They were attended by a dwarf, cousin to "Curley Bill," who, although of diminutive stature, was quite as desperate a ruffian as his bigger relative, whom he venerated with an ardour amounting to hero-worship, and whose dress, manners, and habits he followed as closely as he could. "Curley No. 2," as he was called, nearly got the party into serious trouble by wanting to shoot a too-inquisitive miner, and was only prevented from so doing by "Curley Bill" himself, who took him by the nape of his neck and shook him as a dog does a rat.

Mr. Sandham has visited the West India Islands, the Azores, Italy, France, Germany, and Holland. He is a Charter member of the Royal Canadian Academy, and President Roosevelt accorded him the signal honour of selecting him to illustrate his book of hunting adventures.

_From a Photo, by Elliott & Fry._]

Among his varied experiences Mr. Sandham has had several narrow escapes from death, and on one occasion in particular the perilous position in which he was placed might well have been a creation of the brain of Edgar Allan Poe rather than an experience from real life.

It was in August, 1882, during a sketching tour in California, that Mr. Sandham met with this alarming adventure. Accompanied by a brother artist, he paid a visit to the Little Sailor Mine, which is situated on a spur of the Sierra Madre Mountains, by the side of the Sacramento River, some fifty miles from San Francisco. The manager of the mine, in which hydraulic power is used, invited Mr. Sandham to accompany him on the occasion of the monthly clean-up of the gold in the tunnels. Always anxious to add to his store of information, the artist gladly accepted the invitation, asking at the same time that his friend might join the party, to which request the manager readily assented.

On the following day Mr. Sandham was on the spot at the appointed time, eager for what was to him an entirely novel experience. His friend, however, was late, and he decided to wait for him. As subsequent events proved, Mr. Sandham owes his life entirely to this trivial incident! The manager and his staff of assistants, anxious to start the work of cleaning up without delay, thereupon entered the tunnel, which had been cut through a high bluff to allow the water a free passage to the Sacramento River, several thousand feet below the level of the mine.

While waiting for his friend, Mr. Sandham employed his time in making a sketch of the only "monitor" (delivery-nozzle) then working, and the man in charge of it sauntered over to watch the progress of his facile pencil. Before his sketch was finished Mr. Sandham noticed that the "monitor," which had hitherto been throwing a regular jet of water at a terrific pressure, by means of which the solid rock was literally washed away, had become spasmodic in its action. Curious to learn the reason, he called the miner's attention to the fact. To his utter astonishment the engineer received his remark with the utmost consternation, and, throwing up his hands with a gesture of despair, shrieked:--

"Good heavens! The pipe has burst, and all the boys will be drowned!"

With that he at once dashed off frantically in the direction of the signal-station to order the water to be turned off at the upper reservoir, which was situated many hundred feet above the level of the mine, and was fed from the Sierra Madre Mountains, twenty miles away. Meanwhile Mr. Sandham realized that with the bursting of the pipe the tunnel must have been instantly flooded with an immense volume of water, and that the unfortunate manager and his staff were caught like rats in a trap. At that very moment they were, without a doubt, fighting desperately for their lives. With characteristic energy Mr. Sandham's one desire was to help in the work of rescue, but the very thought of the men's seemingly hopeless plight left him with a sickening feeling of impotency. He quickly decided, however, that the one place where he might be of use was at the outer end of the tunnel, from which the escaping waters rushed headlong over a precipice, to fall in a series of frightful leaps some thousands of feet into the river far below. To reach this spot Mr. Sandham had to climb the high bluff through which the tunnel was cut, and descend the almost perpendicular cliff on the other side. The climb itself was no mean test of a man's agility and nerve, but Mr. Sandham has both, and he was soon at the summit. As to how he got down the other side Mr. Sandham says he is to this day not quite clear, but judging from his battered and bleeding condition and the state of his clothing afterwards he thinks he must have done so by alternately falling and sliding.

Exhausted and breathless, he finally reached the short section of the flume, immediately under the outlet of the tunnel, leading to the edge of the precipice. At that instant a dark object shot like a ball from a cannon out of the cavern into the flume, and was carried along and swept over the edge of the cliff. Mr. Sandham discovered afterwards that this was the body of the ill-fated mine-manager. After an interval of a few seconds another body was fired out of the tunnel, and as it swept down the flume towards him Mr. Sandham instinctively reached out his arm to catch it. Next instant his hand was grasped with a convulsive grip, the man's body swung out to the rush of the water, and Mr. Sandham knew that on the strength of his arm depended a human life.

At first he thought he could easily rescue the man by hauling him out of the water, but he speedily found that this was impossible, and that he was not only fighting for a fellow-creature's life but for his own as well. His position on the side of the flume afforded him but a precarious hold, and such was the terrific force of the racing torrent of water as it threatened to tear the drowning miner from his grasp that Mr. Sandham realized that he was not only powerless to pull the man out, but that he himself was in imminent danger of being pulled in. Once at the mercy of the rushing waters, no power on earth could save the pair of them from an awful death.

It is vastly to Mr. Sandham's credit that even in this dire extremity he had no thought of releasing his grip of the man's hand in order to save his own life. At the same time, any such intention on his part would have been futile, for the frenzied miner, with the fear of death strong upon him, held him in such a vice-like grip that it was perfectly clear they must both share the same fate, be it life or death.

The struggle was a grim one, and, putting forth every effort he was capable of, the artist strove hard to pull the man out of danger. His frantic endeavours, however, were unavailing, and he felt himself gradually slipping--drawn irresistibly into the mill-race, which would sweep him and the hapless miner down the flume and hurl them over the precipice to meet a frightful death on the rocks far below. Meanwhile his companion in danger was powerless to help himself, but the agony of mind he endured was vividly portrayed on his drawn and ghastly face as he fought with all his strength against the onrush of the current.

Slipping, slipping, inch by inch, until his body overhung the water to a perilous extent, Mr. Sandham felt instinctively that his strength was failing him. A few seconds more and the end must come! A cold sweat broke out on his brow, and his arm felt as though it was being wrenched from its socket. And then, suddenly, the dreadful strain lessened. The miner, in his frantic struggles, had managed to grasp the side of the flume, and, with this added opposition to the force of the water, Mr. Sandham was able to recover his balance, and at last, with an almost superhuman effort, he dragged the man from the water.

Their peril did not end here, however, for the force he had exerted landed the engineer on top of the artist, and in their nervous excitement the pair clutched each other and rolled over towards the precipice. The rocks sloped sharply down to the edge, and for the second time within the space of a few seconds they were in actual danger of their lives, for the impetus their bodies had acquired carried them down until their heads were actually hanging over the chasm. "There was no earthly reason why we should stop there," says Mr. Sandham, "save that Providence so ordered it." But stop they did, and in a few minutes they were able to crawl back exhausted to a place of safety, where they lay unable to move, speak, or even think for some considerable time. At length the miner sat up and said in a dazed, monotonous voice, "The boss is gone dead, drowned like a rat in a hole. Poor beggar, he was to have gone East to-morrow--he had made his pile. He was going back to his wife and kids. And I should have died with him if you had not caught hold of me." Then his mind seemed to clear and he exclaimed, "Say, stranger, what particular kind of fool are you, anyway? Because, if I had missed my clutch on the flume side when I got my grip on your arm, we would both be down there, ground up into tailings. Shake, stranger."

He held out a huge, hairy hand, and Mr. Sandham realized that he had received a Western miner's heartfelt thanks for the saving of his life.

The water had now been turned off at the reservoir and, the furious torrent being thus reduced to a mere trickle, all further danger to those in the mine was over. The miner's convulsive grip and the terrific strain of the current left Mr. Sandham with a crushed hand and badly-wrenched shoulder, the effects of which he felt for many months.

Looking back to-day on his adventure Mr. Sandham says that the point most vividly impressed on his memory is the fact that if he had not waited for his friend he would have been caught with the others in the flooding of the mine. Naturally, as the guest of the manager, who had gone on ahead of the party, he would have been close to him at the time of the disaster and would undoubtedly have shared his terrible fate. The rest of the party, being near a manhole, luckily made their escape--all except the foreman, who had pluckily allowed his men to go first. His chivalry nearly cost him his life, for he was too late to save himself and was caught in the flood. It was he whom Mr. Sandham so pluckily rescued.

* * * * *

Among the artists who have contributed to +The Wide World+, one of the most familiar names is undoubtedly that of Mr. Alfred Pearse, whose well-known signature, "A. P.," appeared in the very first number of the magazine.

Mr. Pearse has met with such an extraordinary number and variety of accidents and adventures during his career that he says, "There is no doubt that by all the laws of chance I ought not to be here, but killing seems to agree with me."

His list of casualties is an extraordinary one. He has been nearly drowned three times, and has had concussion of the brain more than once. He has fallen off the tops of omnibuses--on one occasion through the bus skidding when he was on his way to Cowes to make a sketch of Queen Alexandra's pet dogs. This resulted in his being paralyzed in the legs for six months, and one of his most cherished possessions is a kindly letter of sympathy from Her Majesty, expressing her hopes for his speedy recovery. Mr. Pearse has been drugged, poisoned, and shot, has fallen down Beachy Head, and been knocked down and injured by runaway horses and motor-cars. He has slipped between a moving train and the platform, has been within an ace of falling over a precipice in the Alps, has been chased by wild bulls, been blind for two days (the after-effects of a red spider bite), and had his left shoulder put out of joint. It is perhaps permissible, therefore, to refer to him as the most "accidental" man in the world.

Mr. Pearse's alarming list of mishaps, however, does not appear to have affected him in any way, for he is to-day as full of vigour and spirits as many a man of half his years and considerably less than half his accidents.

But there is one particular experience in his life which Mr. Pearse confesses stands out above all others in sheer intensity of horror and nerve-racking anguish--an occasion when he was absolutely and entirely at the mercy of a raving lunatic. There are, it is safe to say, few men who have been so near death and have survived the ordeal.

_From a Photo. by Talma, Melbourne._]

This alarming adventure dates back to Mr. Pearse's early manhood, and had its inception in the introduction into his family circle of a certain individual who, for obvious reasons, we shall refer to in this narrative as Mr. X----.

Mr. Pearse first made the acquaintance of Mr. X---- owing to the interest he manifested in the affairs of the church at which his family attended. Mr. X---- soon began to show a considerable liking for Mr. Pearse, and the close friendship which ensued led to the latter's father inviting Mr. X---- to his house, where he soon became a welcome visitor. He was undoubtedly an interesting personality, although even at this time he was regarded as being somewhat strange in his manner and subject to hallucinations. For instance, he once declared that he had caused the death of his wife, and also that he took a delight in poisoning his neighbours' dogs and then offering a reward for the apprehension of the poisoner. These wild statements, however, were received with pity rather than credence.

Mr. X---- was, according to his own account, an Australian, and in appearance was gaunt, large-headed, and glaring-eyed, with a scanty beard and moustache. He stood well over six feet in height, and was evidently of immense muscular strength.

Although a man of professedly religious inclinations, his actions were not always in keeping with his words; and Mr. Pearse, when visiting him at his rooms, would often find him raving like a madman, reviling himself and those with whom his past life had been spent. On one of Mr. Pearse's visits he found Mr. X---- almost delirious with laughter, owing to the fact that his servant was seriously ill after drinking some of his master's whisky, into which Mr. X----, suspecting that the man was in the habit of helping himself, had put some laudanum.

On the other hand, for all his evident madness or wickedness, there was a good side to his character, and Mr. Pearse once saw him knock down a bully who had insulted an old man; while on another occasion he interfered to protect a woman from the brutal assault of her husband. It was simply for this reason that Mr. Pearse endeavoured to befriend him, although at times his conduct was such as to strain their relations almost to breaking-point.

Unfortunately, X----'s conduct went from bad to worse, until at length he gained for himself an unenviable notoriety throughout the neighbourhood. Mr. Pearse was still stanch to his ill-guided friend and ready to welcome him in his home, but his father, having regard to his son's welfare, could not but regard their friendship with considerable misgivings, and on one of X----'s periodical visits he was reluctantly compelled to forbid him the house. X---- received the ultimatum in sullen silence, and with a vindictive scowl on his face he took his departure.

Mr. Pearse was at the time studying wood-engraving with Messrs. Nicholls and Aldridge at 13, Paternoster Row, and one afternoon shortly afterwards he was considerably surprised when Mr. Nicholls came into the office and said, "Who is that madman sitting on the stairs?"

Naturally enough the young artist's first thoughts were of Mr. X----, and he immediately ran out on to the landing to investigate. There, sure enough, seated on the top stair, was the familiar figure of X----, wearing a "wideawake" hat and Inverness cape.

They were on the top floor of the building, and there was a large well staircase with a sheer drop of sixty feet straight down to the hall below. Mr. X----, whose eyes were staring wildly and whose every feature was working convulsively, dropped his hat and umbrella at sight of Mr. Pearse, and without a word seized him by the collar of his coat and the left arm and forced him towards the banisters. So sudden was the onslaught that the young man had no time even to call for assistance, but he nevertheless realized his peril and struggled desperately in the grip of the madman. Mr. Pearse was not only young but slight of build for his age, and despite his efforts he was quite powerless in the hands of X----, who, with the almost supernatural strength of a maniac, lifted him, apparently without effort, clean over the banisters, and held him suspended in mid-air over the abyss, with nothing but sixty feet of air between him and the stone floor below.

Even in this awful extremity the one idea uppermost in the artist's mind was as to his best means of escape. Could he clutch hold of anything before the crash came? Could he swing himself on to the next landing or cling to his captor? X----, however, was too cunning in his methods to allow of any such manœuvres, and Mr. Pearse soon realized that he was absolutely and entirely at the mercy of a raving lunatic, and that his life depended, small though the chance was, on his own coolness and resource.

At that critical moment, curiously enough, the young man's chief concern was for the welfare of a friend of his, also studying wood-engraving, who had followed him from the office, and who, with bulging eyes, open mouth, and face ghastly green with fright, was a horrified witness of the proceedings, pressing back against the panelled wall as if he wished he might vanish through it. Mr. Pearse devoutly hoped the young fellow would remain quiet, for the slightest movement, he felt convinced, would hasten his own end. Fortunately, however, he was too petrified by fear to be capable of action or speech.

Thoughts of his mother and her anguish at his tragic death next took possession of Mr. Pearse's mind, but his desire to live and the necessity for concentrating his thoughts on his terrible plight were suddenly brought back to him by Mr. X----, who hissed in a cold, hard voice, "I always repay! I am going to drop you, Alfred; aren't you afraid?"

Mr. Pearse was firmly convinced that his last hour had come, but summoning all his fortitude and exerting his will-power to the utmost he replied without the slightest hesitation, "No; for I know you will put me back."

The apparent coolness and indifference with which the young artist replied were without doubt the means of his salvation, for the madman, with a profound sigh--as though he was sorry, but was obliged to do so--pulled him over the banisters and dropped him on the landing. Then he fled, leaving his umbrella and hat behind him.

Mr. Pearse has never from that day seen or heard of his assailant, but even now the mere thought of the agonizing suspense he endured at his hands brings with it a shudder of horror.

* * * * *

_From a Photo. by Geo. Newnes, Ltd._]

Mr. A. J. Gough is another +Wide World+ artist--a Yorkshireman by birth--who has seen much of the world and taken part in many an exciting episode in wild and uncivilized places.

His early youth was spent in India, where his father--Mr. J. W. Gough, the architect--was building a palace for the Maharajah of Durbhungah; and there he met with his first adventure, when he lost himself in a tiger-infested jungle, and was only found by the search-party with much difficulty.

Mr. Gough subsequently went to America, where his experiences included encounters with alligators and rattlesnakes and disputes with "bad men" armed with bowie-knives and six-shooters. He has won fame as an amateur boxer, and is still a member of the Belsize Boxing Club, being also well known as a swimmer.

Mr. Gough has roughed it in Florida and Texas, and it was in the latter State that he experienced his most alarming adventure, on which occasion he was literally within half an inch of death.

It was at the hands of a cowboy known as "Harry" that he nearly lost his life. He made this man's acquaintance under the following singular circumstances. Mr. Gough and a friend of his were on their way to Florida from New York by steamer, and, as funds were low, had perforce to travel steerage. Among their fellow-passengers was a man whose appearance clearly denoted the cowboy, and who, although of rough exterior and manners, was evidently in some respects fastidious in his tastes.

He took occasion, early in the voyage, to find fault with the drinking water supplied in the steerage, which was contained in a huge tin tank. Calling the steward, he remarked:--

"That there tank isn't fit for a dog to drink out of, let alone a man."

"Isn't it, by gum?" replied the steward, sullenly. "Well, you can take it from me, it's all you'll get this voyage."

"Oh, it is, is it?" growled the cowboy, with an ugly look in his eyes. "I can tell you this, mister: if you expect me to drink out of that blamed horse-trough you are blamed well mistaken!"

"You can take it or leave it," replied the steward, with an oath; "and, if you are so mighty particular, why don't you go first class? You look like a millionaire, I _must_ say," he added, offensively.

The cowboy was by this time livid with passion, and, fetching his "Winchester" from the cabin, he, without further reply, started blazing away at the tank, from which the water was soon spurting in all directions.

He had obviously completely lost all control of himself, and on an attempt being made to secure him he got his back against a bulkhead and threatened to shoot any man who came near him. If looks went for anything he certainly meant it, and as no one dare approach him he fairly "held up" the ship, or, at any rate, the steerage.

In this extremity the captain was appealed to. Seeing that he had a dangerous customer to deal with, and being anxious to avoid bloodshed, he pretended to side with the cowboy, telling him he was quite right in what he had done, and promising to see that the steerage passengers had a better supply of drinking water. Peace being thus restored the malcontent cooled down, and for the rest of the voyage he was quite good-natured and jolly, becoming the life and soul of the ship. In fact, he became so popular that even the captain and mate of the steamer joined in the merrymaking which took place in the steerage. Before the voyage was ended, Mr. Gough--then a youngster in his teens--and Harry the cowboy had established a firm friendship, and this was renewed some nine months later at Leesburg, in Florida, whither Mr. Gough had drifted in search of work. Harry was then ranching at Sumterville, in Texas, and having taken a violent fancy to Mr. Gough he offered to engage him to help with the horses, which offer, coming as it did at an opportune moment, was promptly accepted.

The cowboy was a man of about forty, tall and loosely built, with deep-set eyes, a bristly moustache, and a square, determined jaw. His huge, knotted limbs gave evidence of immense physical strength, and his brawny chest might well have served as a model for a sculptor. On special occasions he wore on his breast a small solid gold model of a bull, given him as a memento by a lady whose life he had saved, at the imminent risk of his own, by killing a mad bull that had attacked her, and he was exceedingly proud of his queer medal.

Albeit an exceedingly rough specimen of the uncut diamond, Harry the cowboy was, under normal conditions, of an unusually kind and even tender-hearted disposition, but, as this story will show, he was subject to sudden outbursts of temper, often for very trifling reasons, of absolutely appalling ferocity.

His ranch was situated in a lonely spot, and there for some months Mr. Gough lived a hard and open-air life, enjoying to the full, in the vigour of his youth and spirits, the arduous round of a rancher's daily toil. Although now and again his companion gave way to outbursts of temper, there was nothing to cause him any serious alarm.

Among his various duties, it fell to Mr. Gough's lot to cook the meals. On one occasion he had prepared a savoury dish of stew, which he and the cowboy, at the end of a particularly hard day's work, sat down to enjoy.

The manners of the establishment were, to say the least, of a rough-and-ready description, and the two hungry diners sat facing each other on the floor, helping themselves from a large iron pot.

Mr. Gough, as it happened, was the first to finish his repast, and in the exuberance of a passing fit of hilarity proceeded to execute a _pas seul_, hopping on each leg alternately round the bare apartment.

In the course of his antics he came quite close to the seated figure of the cowboy, who had just helped himself to a fresh plate of stew. Then, stumbling, he lost his balance, and fell heavily to the ground, his foot crashing fairly into the middle of his friend's plate.

Mr. Gough at once scrambled to his feet and began to apologize in a jocular way for his accident. "Sorry, old chap," he exclaimed; "I hope I haven't spoilt your dinner."

But Harry was not at all disposed to take the matter as a joke, and with a dangerous glare in his eyes he half rose to his feet. "You clumsy brute!" he shouted, angrily. "Isn't it hard enough to earn a meal without you spoiling it with your infernal tricks, confound you?"

"Oh, all right," replied Gough; "there's plenty more, so you needn't get in a rage about it."

The cowboy was now absolutely beyond himself with passion, and with twitching lips and starting eyes he reached for his "gun." For the moment, in fact, he was quite demented and "saw red."

Fortunately, however, his revolver was not at his side. If it had been, Mr. Gough is firmly convinced that he would there and then have been shot dead.

Deprived of this weapon Harry leapt to his feet. "You don't spoil a man's dinner for nothing, I can tell you," he roared, "and, by Heaven, I'll spoil you, if I swing for it!" With that, carried away by an ungovernable fury of rage, he drew a gleaming bowie-knife from his belt and rushed at Gough, who was much his inferior in strength, and was, moreover, unarmed, thus being apparently entirely at his mercy.

To make matters worse, the cowboy was between the young artist and the door, so that escape that way was impossible. He has never yet been found wanting in pluck, however, and, although he felt that his last hour had surely come, he braced himself to meet the attack. A rapid glance in search of a weapon of defence showed that there was nothing within reach. His first impulse was to grapple with his assailant, but the odds were obviously too great, and there was nothing for it but to await the attack. This, mercifully, was not long in coming, for, with the unreasoning fury of a maniac, the cowboy made a dash for him with upraised knife.

A quick lunge, and the knife flashed downward. If ever a man stood face to face with death, Mr. Gough did during that awful second. Instinctively he ducked and dodged the blow, the deadly blade whizzing over his shoulder, missing him so narrowly that it actually grazed his head!

Mr. Gough was standing against the wall, and as the cowboy had literally hurled himself at him in the intensity of his passion, the knife, driven with all the power of Harry's immense strength, was buried deeply in the woodwork. So firmly was it embedded that its owner, in his blind fury, experienced considerable difficulty in extricating it. The consequent lull in the hostilities gave Mr. Gough his chance, and with a flying leap he dashed through the door and gained the open air. Once outside the tables were turned, for the cowboy was no match for the youngster when it came to a test of speed.

This he soon realized, and in a few moments he calmed down. As his brain cleared the frightful possibilities of his murderous outbreak dawned on him, and with sincere and abject repentance in every look he exclaimed:--

"Come inside, old chap. I was mad, and I'm sorry I made a fool of myself. Here's my hand on it. Shake."

Mr. Gough took the proffered hand and there and then made up the quarrel, but very wisely he decided not to risk the chances of another similar outburst, and so shortly afterwards he said good-bye to Harry the cowboy and secured work elsewhere.

(_To be concluded._)

Climbing in the "Land of Fire."

+By Sir Martin Conway.+]

Another of the famous Alpinist's fascinating articles, describing
his attempt to reach the hitherto untrodden summit of Mount
Sarmiento, the highest peak in desolate Tierra del Fuego.

To the ordinary reader the name of Tierra del Fuego probably suggests a region about as remote and unfamiliar as any outside the Arctic regions. Yet the country, far away though it is, is not really difficult of access. The Straits of Magellan are daily traversed by ocean-going steamers, all of which stop at Sandy Point on the mainland, just opposite this forbidding island. Thousands of voyagers annually pass through the Straits and, if the weather is fine, behold the snowy mountains on the southern horizon; but very few stop by the way, and fewer still ever cross to the inhospitable shore opposite. Nothing more bleak and uninviting, indeed, can be imagined than the shores of Magellan's Straits. The weather is generally abominable. Rain falls in soaking torrents. The lower slopes and flats are covered with dense, reeking forests. Higher up comes the snow, which gradually looms forth in a pallid, death-like whiteness out of the heavy clouds, very different in aspect from the splendid brilliancy of Alpine snows, standing forth against radiant, sunlit skies. In fine summer weather Alpine snows attract a man upwards; their loveliness seems to invite a visit. It is far otherwise in the Fuegian archipelago. There the great range of Andes sinks into the ocean, its peaks become islands, and its valleys are straits or fjords. You must go by water to the foot of each mountain, and the navigation is difficult and often dangerous. Not far away is the raging ocean, everlastingly tortured by storm and tempest. A black cloud roof generally passes overhead, dragging skirts of hail, rain, or snow over the reeking earth. Never is the whole round of view clear. Now one region is blotted out and now another. If the sun shines for a little while it is soon obscured, and storm succeeds after a short interval.

_From a Photograph._]

To an explorer, nevertheless, this region has great attractions, owing to these very facts. There is so much to discover, the scenery is so unusual, and there is the possibility of adventure at every step. All is uncertain, and the way has almost to be felt. Moreover, if perchance a fine interval comes, the storm-riven, ice-sheathed landscape is so astounding, the effects of light in so dense and wet an atmosphere are so extraordinary, that it is impossible to resist their fascination. Add to all this the spice of danger which still remained when I was there, and perhaps still remains. The natives were distinctly hostile to the white man. They were few in number, an amphibious race living in booths, practically in the Stone Age so far as tools and weapons were concerned; not very dangerous foes, therefore, yet subtle, and delighted to slay a white man if they got the chance. They would overpower him in his sleep, or lie in wait for him in the dense forest, through which they can travel far faster than he can. Many a man has been killed by them with their stone or glass-pointed arrows, shot out of the dense bush from the distance of only a yard or two. When I was lying in a small launch off the foot of one of the mountains, in the blackest darkness of a stormy night, a canoe laden with such Indians crept silently up alongside in the shadow of overhanging trees. Had we not been on the alert they would have tried to rush our boat, but, finding that impossible, they as silently glided away; and no trace of them was anywhere discoverable when morning dawned, though no doubt they were hidden somewhere near at hand and kept us under close observation.

_From a Photograph._]

As we came into the maze of channels which surround and penetrate the mountains, though we saw no Indians, we were aware that our coming was noticed, because at different points columns of smoke arose into the air. It is thus that the savages communicate with one another. They have a smoke language, and news is passed quickly and silently from group to group. It was only when we landed and climbed to a high point overlooking the channels that we realized what was going on; for then we were able to observe the columns of smoke in a dozen or more different places--signals of our movements, spreading gradually over the archipelago from family to family of scattered Indians.

_From a Photograph._]

The great mountain in this part of the world is Mount Sarmiento. It is only seven thousand two hundred feet high, but its glaciers reach to the sea, so that it may be compared on an equality, from a climbing point of view, with Mont Blanc, if that be thought of as sunk into water up to the snow region. On clear days Sarmiento is visible to voyagers through Magellan's Straits. It is a glorious mountain, surrounded by many other noble peaks. In form it is of supreme beauty, and its surroundings are of the most romantic character. It was this peak, of course, that I desired to attempt, and I stopped at Sandy Point for that purpose. After much trouble I obtained the loan of a steam-launch for a few days, and set forth in the usual bad weather. We voyaged up various channels, between steep hillsides streaming with more waterfalls than, I think, can elsewhere exist in an equal area. In Cascade Reach, for instance, there are literally hundreds of them, succeeding one another every few yards.

After a day's steaming we reached the foot of our peak, and with much difficulty found a treacherous anchorage. There were clouds everywhere above and below, and wooded banks loomed dimly into view close at hand; but towards sunset there were signs of the weather clearing up. It was one of those slow midsummer sunsets of high latitudes, when the colour comes very gradually and fades equally slowly. At first only the icy base of the mountain was visible in the grey shadow of clouds, with the dark forest ring around it, and the calm, black water below. Presently a soft, pink light crept up the tumbled ruin of the glacier, higher and higher, as the mist dissolved, and revealed steep ice walls scarred by serrated ridges, and a great arête set with pinnacles of splintered rock. Some white points on the summit crest appeared, but a soft cloud floated just above them, enveloping the top. Suddenly--so suddenly that all who saw cried out--away above this cloud, surprisingly high, appeared a point of light, as it were a brightly glowing coal. The fiery glow crept down and down till we beheld the likeness of a great pillar of red fire. It was a tower of ice-crusted rock reflecting the bright afterglow of sunset. Regathered mists wrapped the glorious vision away even before it had begun to fade. We remained afloat on the calm water, wondering at the utter silence all around. Not a breath of air stirred, no stone fell, no avalanche slipped. The babbling glacier-torrent above alone broke the evening stillness.

_From a Photograph._]

Next day we landed to reconnoitre, and at two o'clock the following morning we set forth for our climb. We landed at the edge of a forest and had to force our way through it. The ground was a chaos of stones, the trees grew close together and were densely matted with other vegetation. The whole place was reeking wet and it was pitch-dark. We fought and tumbled our way through this hideous chaos as best we might, and in an hour or two got out on the other side, near the margin of a glacier. Here we could scramble along well enough over the moraine, and presently we had daylight to help us. Nothing was visible ahead; there was the ice-wall on one hand, rock-cliffs on the other. Presently it seemed better to climb the rocks, and we accordingly turned aside to scale them. They were not difficult, and we rose higher and higher, passing through another narrow belt of forest, where the trees grew in the chinks and crannies of a wall of rock polished by ice and precipitously steep. Above that came a floundering bog, and then at last a reasonable grass-slope that narrowed into a rock-ridge. The rock presently gave place in turn to snow, and led us on to the mass of the mountain.

The weather was now tolerably clear, though over all there hung a dark pall of cloud, through occasional holes in which shafts of solid-looking sunlight penetrated. Where we rested for breakfast we had a most striking view over desolate channels and still more desolate islands, a very labyrinth of waterways and mountain walls. We could see westwards to the ocean and northwards to the continent; the flat land of the northern part of Tierra del Fuego was at our feet.

Its great mountain backbone was behind us as we faced north. We looked along the face of it as along a wall, but all its crest was in the clouds. Looking down whence we had come we saw our boat like a little cork on the water. Also we could now look down into the water itself and discover the countless sunken rocks amongst which we had so casually navigated. There was one, only a short distance from our anchorage, close to which we must have steamed. These details, of course, are not charted; a navigator in such out-of-the-way places must take his luck.

From this point our way lay right up the great northern face of the peak, which is covered by an ice-cascade. This empties below into a huge glacier plateau or lake, which is drained by several glacier tongues, up one of which we had come. As we climbed on I kept looking round and gazing on the wonderful panorama, for it was obviously destined to be soon blotted out. Our way lay amongst huge seracs. Deep crevasses yawned all about, and occasionally we had to double back and forth to get ahead.

At last, however, we reached plainer going, traversing a steeper but less broken slope which led to the foot of a final pyramid of rock. But these rocks, unfortunately, we never actually reached, for the storm battalions from the north swept furiously down upon us, swallowing up the view before ever we reached the crest of the range whence we might have looked down into the dark hollow of Beagle Channel. The darkness in the north before the tempest fell upon us was truly appalling. As it advanced it seemed to devour the wintry world. The heavens appeared to be descending in solid masses, so thick were the skirts of snow and hail that the advancing cloud-phalanx trailed beneath it. The black islands, the leaden waters, the pallid snows, and the splintered ice-encrusted peaks disappeared in the blackness of the storm, which enveloped us also, almost before we had realized that it was at hand. A sudden wind shrieked and whirled round our heads; hail was flung into our faces, and all the elements began to rage together. The ice-plastered rocks were now easily accounted for; we resembled them ourselves in a very few minutes. All landmarks vanished; the drifted snow itself was no longer distinguishable from the snow-filled air.

To advance under these appalling conditions was impossible. The one thing to be done, and done at once, was to secure our retreat before it was too late. How we raced downwards! Not till we gained the lower glacier did snow give place to rain, which soaked us to the skin and overflowed in a steady stream out of our boots. We floundered in swamps, tumbled through brushwood, and at last gained the shore, almost dead beat with toil, yet delighting in what had been, after all, an exhilarating experience. A boat came off to fetch us, and we were soon on board our steamer. Thus we did not reach the actual summit of Mount Sarmiento--that remains virgin, for I could not wait to try it again. Whoever climbs it will accomplish a great feat and will have a splendid experience. Some years have already passed since my attempt, however, and I have not heard of another. I suppose the inhabitants of Sandy Point have more urgent interests to attend to.

_From a Photograph._]

The Spider's Web.

AN UNDERGRADUATE'S STRANGE STORY.

+Told by "Cecil Addington" and Set Down by George A. Raper.+

A remarkable drama of modern life, showing the pitfalls that lie
in wait for well-connected and inexperienced young men, and that
even to-day, in the heart of London, a man may go in peril of his
life. For obvious reasons the names of the people concerned have
been changed, but the correct names of all the parties have been
supplied to us in confidence.

I write this record of a strange chapter in my life with a double motive. It may serve, firstly, as a warning to others who find themselves placed in what I once regarded as my enviable position. Secondly, it ought to have a wider usefulness in opening people's eyes to the very real dangers that lurk under the surface of London life. Had anyone told me, two years ago, that a man living in peaceful England could be in daily danger of assassination at the hands of an organized gang of villains, I should have found no words strong enough to express my disbelief. Still less would I have supposed that I, Cecil Addington, a strong, vigorous young Englishman, would ever go about in constant dread of murderous violence. Many who read my story will treat it as the outcome of a disordered imagination and refuse to believe that the forces of civilization are powerless to protect a man whose death has been deliberately planned. I wish I could share this belief; but, unfortunately, my experience points the other way. I have come to know that there are to-day, in London, men who would not hesitate to commit murder if it could be done without undue risk to themselves, and who have enough devilish ingenuity to reduce that risk almost to vanishing-point.

But I had better begin at the beginning and tell my story simply and straightforwardly, just as it happened, merely warning the reader that, though I am relating actual facts, I have, for obvious reasons, used fictitious names.

In May, 1906, having got away from Cambridge for a few days, I was enjoying myself in town. I was doing it in a very small way and under a sense of injustice, for I had nothing like the means at my disposal that I considered my due. In six months' time, on reaching my majority, I was to come into possession of thirty thousand pounds under my mother's will, and yet I had still to get along as best I might on a poor undergraduate's allowance from my father. He and I did not hit it off at all well. I was rather stage-struck, and had made up my mind that an actor's life was the life for me. He did not see it in that light, and was dead set on getting me into the Foreign Office, where, he argued, I could use my money and 'Varsity education to some purpose. If I had not been rather "green," and, I may as well admit, headstrong, I might have seen that he was right. Anyhow, we quarrelled, and he decided that, though he could not prevent me from committing what he called social suicide when I became my own master, he would at any rate put the financial screw on as long as he could. The result was that I found myself tied down to the smallest possible allowance, continued only on condition that I remained at Cambridge. I was plainly told, moreover, that if I were fool enough to throw up everything and go on the stage, I should have to exist as best I could. This gave me "furiously to think," as they say in France. I had sense enough to realize that budding actors do not fall on their feet at once, and that I should very likely be most unpleasantly hard up long before the blessed day came when I could open a bank account of my own. At the same time I was irritated at being kept in leading-strings, and my greatest desire was to find some way of circumventing my cautious parent.

In this frame of mind I set off to London one Friday to spend a week-end and a few pounds I happened to have in hand. Archie Hunter, one of my college chums, who was to have gone with me, managed to sprain his ankle the day before and had to stay indoors. I was half inclined to give up the expedition, but, chafing as I was under a sense of restraint, it seemed feeble to let my plans fall through on account of an absurd accident, and it was with a secret feeling of satisfaction at my own determination that I got out of the train at King's Cross, though I was beginning to feel that I might not enjoy myself so very much, after all, without a comrade.

I spent most of the afternoon hunting up fellows of my acquaintance in the West-end, and not finding them. Not knowing how to fill up the interval before dinner, I dropped into a well-known restaurant and sought solace in a whisky and soda and a cigarette. There were very few people in the bar--only a knot of two or three men discussing racing--and I sat, feeling a trifle lonely and not anticipating much fun for the evening. While I was cogitating the door opened and a well-dressed man came in. At the first glance I took him to be a retired Army officer. His hair and moustache were iron-grey, and, though he might have been well on the wrong side of forty, he looked every bit as active and supple as myself. His features were remarkably handsome, and he had an unmistakable air of good breeding, combined with the easy bearing of an experienced man of the world; in fact, he was just such a type as youngsters like myself secretly envy and take as their model. He glanced carelessly at me as he came in, ordered a whisky and soda, and, standing near me at the bar, took a long pull at his drink, after which he reached over the bar to take a match. As he did so his arm touched my glass and overturned it.

He was profuse in his apologies.

"How awfully careless of me!" he exclaimed. "I am so sorry. Hope I haven't spilt any of the stuff over your clothes?"

I answered that it was not of the slightest consequence, but he continued to excuse himself, and insisted on having my glass refilled, in spite of my protests. In another two minutes we were chatting away as if we had known each other for years. My new friend proved a delightful companion. He seemed to have been everywhere worth mentioning and to know all sorts of celebrities. He had a way of keeping the talk on the subjects which most interested me, and I felt a secret satisfaction at talking on equal terms with a man so much older and cleverer than myself. Although I did not realize it at the time, he was one of those accomplished conversationalists who do not appear to be saying much, but manage to make the other fellows think they can talk rather well. He soon found out that I was a Cambridge man, and as he turned out to be an old Cantab himself, that was another bond of union between us. We exchanged cards, and I found that his bore the name of "Captain Wyngate."

We got on so uncommonly well together that I was quite annoyed to find it was half-past seven, and that I should soon have to think about my solitary dinner.

As if divining my thoughts, my new acquaintance said:--

"What are you going to do this evening?"

I had to admit, rather against my will, that I had no particular plans and did not know what to do with myself.