Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

At last, after descending a more than usually steep incline, we found ourselves in a valley of some size. The bush here was very thin, and we progressed without difficulty until we came in sight of the inevitable stream, the opposite bank of which, rising steeply, evidently formed the commencement of the next divide. I was about a dozen yards to Strange’s right; the ground was clear of bush between us and the stream; and on the nearer bank, his head overhanging the water, lay our quarry, clearly dying. But he was not alone. Stretched by his side, licking the wound that was letting out his life, lay a fine female leopard, evidently his consort. On seeing us she rose to her feet, snarling; she abandoned her ministrations and became militant--a defender-avenger. Strange fired hastily on sight, and a convulsive heave of the prostrate body showed where the bullet struck. With a light leap the leopardess cleared her mate, and with long, low springs raced down towards my friend. He fired again at thirty yards, wounding her, and she swerved slightly and came in my direction. We both fired together, whereupon she stopped suddenly, reared straight up, pawing the air--then fell backward, stone-dead.

Hardly had the double report died away when our attention was attracted to a movement on the other side of the stream. Tawiah pointed.

“Oolah! tiger him piccin!” (“Master, the leopard’s cubs”), he cried. Slinking away downstream, with long, stealthy strides, their muzzles to the ground and tails trailing low, were two half-grown leopards, the head of one level with the other’s haunch.

“Tally-ho!” cried Strange, and let fly at them. His one fault as a sportsman was a too great eagerness to get the first shot in. The white splinters flew from the buttress of a great cotton-wood, and the nearer cub, startled as never before, leapt a man’s height from the ground, and, coming down, raced away downstream after its companion.

“Come on! We’ll bag the whole family,” said Strange, jumping into the stream. Otibu Daku was already across and I was about to follow, when I noticed, fluttering up the farther slope, one of those beautiful insects called the “dead leaf” butterfly. You will see one fluttering along like a fugitive piece of rainbow--then suddenly it will alight on a withered branch or heap of dead herbage and disappear, the underside of the wings being in shape, colour, and even veining an exact imitation of a withered leaf.

I was an enthusiastic collector, and never went out without a folding net that could be fixed to any fairly straight stick. Bidding Tawiah remain with me, then, I let the others go on after the cubs, and in a couple of minutes was in pursuit of my own particular quarry. The slope was nearly bare of bush, and I did not have much difficulty in making the capture. Placing it in a flat box containing some poison-wax, I took my rifle from Tawiah and went on up the hill, leaving him tying up a scratch on his leg.

I was not quite easy in my mind. We had been too hasty in concluding that the cubs we had seen belonged to the leopards we had shot. They had been driven away too easily, and most likely were heading straight for their own den, where, at that time of day, the old ones would certainly be at home.

I hurried on in the hope of getting some indication of my friend’s whereabouts. At the top of the ascent a soft breeze met me, it was pleasant and refreshing, but it brought that with it that made me drop flat behind a bush and throw my rifle forward. There is no mistaking the odour given off by the larger carnivora, and the strength of the smell that assailed my nostrils was such as to convince me that my first hasty thought--that I had headed off the cubs--was wrong. Such an effluvium could come only from a den, and an occupied one at that.

There were three possibilities. It might be the home of the dead leopards, of the strange cubs we had seen, or the lair of yet a third family. I looked back. Tawiah was not in sight, but I knew he would follow. In front, for a hundred yards, the level crest of the ridge was covered by a sparse, wand-like growth that was no impediment to the view. Beyond the ground fell away again, and just on the edge, and rather to my right, stood two enormous cotton-woods, the space between them being a labyrinth of roots standing thigh-high from the ground.

To this point, with what speed and silence I could command, I made my way. Midway I stopped abruptly to listen. A deep snarling, worrying sound filled the air, coming from straight ahead. Reaching the nearest root, I looked over. The rapidly falling ground beyond was hidden by a far-sweeping buttress from the tree on my left, which, running parallel with the one I stood against, made a passage about four feet wide and two high. Stealing away to the left, where the nearer root sank below the surface, I entered the passage, and, on all fours, reached a point midway between the two trees. The noise I had before heard was now very distinct, and, blending with it, yet dominating it, came a continuous buzzing sound like the far-away roll of a drum. I knew it for the purring of a full-grown leopard.

Looking back, I was glad enough to see Tawiah reaching the level. I raised a warning hand, and, waiting only to see that he observed me, turned, and very cautiously looked over the root in front. From where I crouched the ground fell away very steeply and was bare and stony. Then began a gentler slope covered with a low scrub and running down into a valley similar to, but larger than, the one we had just left. Down the centre flowed a stream, the same on whose banks, higher up, we had left the dead leopards. I was on a kind of spur, round which the stream made a bend away to my right. To my left it lost itself in an expanse of shallow water covered with great water-lilies, which merged in its turn into the stream of the Volta, half a mile away.

Just where the change of slope began was a great outcrop of rock. About a foot above the base, and facing me, was a ragged opening, and in this, with both paws hanging over the edge, lounged a fine she-leopard. The air hummed with her complacent purr, as, with blinking eyes, she watched the rough play of two well-grown cubs. Presently she rolled over on her back, and, with downward-hanging head, struck idly with a mighty paw at a white butterfly flitting above her. She was the personification of soft and sinuous strength.

Suddenly, away to the right, a shot rang out. The purring ceased, and instantly the great cat was couched, rigid as a bronze casting. Except for the tip of her tail, not a muscle moved. Presently the tense expression relaxed, and with a guttural sort of sigh her head dropped on to her paws. But only for an instant. The stealthy rustling of something approaching reached her ears, and she resumed her alert attitude. Then her eyes half closed again, and she seemed to go smooth all over. A suave, fawning expression came into her face; her purring redoubled; she rolled softly on to her side and gazed intently in the direction of the sound. The noise came nearer, and presently, as I expected, her mate appeared. He paused for an instant to look back, and at that moment Strange’s rifle spoke again, and the leopard sank down, biting savagely at his hind-quarters. With one movement as it seemed, and with a sort of deep-throated cough, his consort was by his side, and then began an awful duet of snarls and growls, rumblings and snufflings, with the cubs for chorus.

It was high time for me to take action; a wounded leopard and a leopardess with young can make themselves pretty awkward. I aimed at the female as being the more dangerous, and was about to pull the trigger, when a movement in the valley attracted my attention. One of the cubs we had first seen was tearing across the open, making for the stream. Some distance behind followed the other, evidently wounded. Close upon him ran Dansani, machete in hand. As I looked the cub turned and Dansani struck. Nyato was close behind, and level with him, but farther out, Otibu Daku stole swiftly with long, bent-kneed strides, his “long Dane” gun held across his body. Strange was not in sight.

The foremost cub was nearly at the stream when he raised a howl of fear or of warning, I do not know which. On the instant, from a clump of bushes on the farther side, there leapt two greyish-white forms. Clearing the stream, they charged straight down on the young Ashanti.

All this was photographed on my brain while my finger was on the trigger. The scene was blotted out as I fired, and from that moment I had enough on my hands to occupy my undivided attention. The leopardess was killed outright. The next instant I fired at the male, but one of the cubs gave a jump and received the bullet meant for his sire. How the brute did it I do not know--for he had a broken thigh-bone--but next moment the old leopard was tearing up the slope towards me, and very business-like he looked. I fired again and clipped his ear; then his claws were hooked on to the root in front of me, and all I could do was to smash the butt, pile-driver fashion, down upon his head. He seized it in his jaws, and the hard wood cracked like pitch-pine, while the wrench nearly tore the weapon from my grasp. He gave me no time to reverse it for another shot, or to draw my revolver. Four times did he struggle to draw himself up, and but for his broken leg I could not have prevented him. Four times, luckily for me, he allowed his fury to vent itself on the rifle-butt. The struggle only lasted seconds, but it seemed hours, and already the fury of it made my breath come short.

And then the cub decided to take a hand! It had been pacing to and fro, snuffing the blood and growling; it then suddenly turned, and dashed straight to the scene of combat. A leopard cub by itself is not more than a man can manage, but as a reinforcement to an infuriated parent it is a serious matter. I heard Tawiah behind me.

“Take the piccin,” I yelled, and put all my strength into an effort to thrust my foe back. Instinctively he tried to use his injured leg, and this time he lost grip altogether, and his claws scraped down the root, making great furrows in the wood. I let him have the gun, and seized my revolver in time to plant a couple of bullets in his head as he came up again.

Meanwhile Tawiah had accounted for the cub, but he was badly clawed down the leg. To my surprise--for I did not remember the brute using his claws at all except to hold on by--my coat was ripped, and I had several nasty, but not severe, scratches down chest and arms.

Our attention was now diverted to the scene below, and what we saw sent us both down the slope as fast as we could race--Tawiah ahead. One cub lay dead--Dansani’s victim--and a few paces from it stood the young Ashanti, preparing to dodge the foremost of the parent leopards I had seen break cover. He sprang aside as it reached him, but the brute wheeled as if on a pivot and reared. Then came the crashing report of the “long Dane,” a fearful yell, and Dansani reeled away with his hands to his head, and fell. The leopard, roaring horribly, rolled over and over, apparently broken in two. Its mate, swerving at the report, turned and raced straight for Tawiah, who had just reached the level ground. I shouted to him to come back to me, thinking that revolver and spear together would match the furious brute, but apparently he did not understand, for, waving me to follow, he tore off to where, midway between him and the advancing leopard, stood a small Dequa palm. His object, I learnt afterwards, was to hold the leopard at bay there till help arrived. It was a mad idea, for the savage brute was covering three yards to one of his.

Just at that moment I caught sight of Strange--hobbling along, supported by his rifle, five hundred yards away; there was no help to be expected from him. Nyato was rushing on to settle with the remaining cub, that, screaming, was alternately dashing towards its wounded dam and back to the stream. Otibu Daku was carrying Dansani to the water, and the female leopard, her hind quarters straddling like those of a frog, with the small of her back blown away and reared on her front legs, was rending the air with the most awful yells.

The male passed the tree, and only about forty yards separated him from my faithful follower. I ran on. Trusting to luck, I fired two chambers, but without success. The distance between them decreased rapidly, and Tawiah, seeing the hopelessness of his position, grounded his spear, and, gripping it by the middle, backed up the butt with his knee in the hope that the brute would impale himself. Then I saw that Strange was kneeling, taking aim. He could never hit a running leopard at that range, I told myself; it would appear no bigger than a cat to him.

I was twenty yards behind Tawiah, and barely ten separated him from the leopard, when a ball of smoke floated away from Strange’s rifle. I dared not hope, and Tawiah remained like a rock. Then, suddenly, the leopard halted, and--for all the world like a kitten chasing its own tail--spun round and round till we could hardly tell one end from the other. I sent two bullets as near the centre as I could, and Tawiah, charging in, drove his spear in at one side and out at the other. The battle was over.

We found that Strange’s bullet had pierced the skin of the neck just where it joins the head, and had half stunned the animal. But what a glorious shot! I paced the distance to him; it was four hundred and sixty odd yards! He had made just a little too much allowance for speed, but what of that?

Strange, it appeared, had stepped on a loose stone and strained his ankle badly. Poor Dansani was horribly mauled. The beast had clawed him from the crown of his head to the knee in one awful sweep. Half the scalp overhung his face, one eye was destroyed, the muscle of the upper arm was in ribbons, and the stroke, glancing from the elbow, had laid open his thigh to the knee. A revolver-shot finished his assailant. We did what we could for Dansani on the spot, and Nyato and his father carried him home on a hastily-constructed litter. Later he recovered, but was terribly disfigured.

Tawiah and I took it in turns to help Strange along, and when we reached the spot where our first victims lay we found their young ones mewling over them. They slunk away, and we did not molest them. The cub Nyato had chased allowed self-preservation to triumph over filial affection, and got away also. My rifle was utterly ruined. And so ended our leopard hunt.

TURTLE-FARMING.

BY H. J. SHEPSTONE.

An interesting description of the way in which turtles are
“farmed” in various parts of the world. The most up-to-date and
scientifically-conducted of these curious establishments is
that of Mr. Hattori, in Japan, where the snapping-turtle, the
most vicious of his species, is bred and reared.

That strange creature, the turtle, is now receiving the attention of the farmer, and is being scientifically bred and reared in various parts of the world. Indeed, turtle-farming on a large scale is now carried on both in Japan and in America, while the great palisade enclosures on the shores in the West Indies, where turtles are confined until wanted for the London market, may well come under the same designation.

Curiously enough, the species of turtle favoured respectively by the Japanese, Americans, and by English people are totally different. For instance, the Japanese farmer gives his attention to the propagation of the snapping-turtle and American to the diamond-backed terrapin, while the turtle soup so much prized by the wealthy and sought after by the sick in this country is made from the green turtle of the West Indies.

_From a Photograph._]

The terrapin is quite a small creature, rather flat-backed and rounded in outline, its scales being marked by independent black patterns composed of many geometric figures placed one within another. At one time it was found in large quantities in the shallow bays and salt marshes along the Atlantic coast from Massachusetts to Texas. The discovery that its flesh made a delicious stew and an ideal soup, however, resulted in the creature being hunted so vigorously that to-day it is exceedingly scarce. Indeed, whereas a terrapin, seven inches in length, could be picked up a few years ago for a few cents, it would be difficult to secure one to-day for a five-pound note. It was this scarcity of the terrapin, and the big demand for it among the hotels and restaurants, that have led not a few enterprising men to establish farms, where these much-sought-after creatures are bred and reared for the market in large numbers.

The terrapin being small, perfectly harmless, and requiring but a little pond of salt water to dwell in, there is nothing particularly exciting in farming it. Indeed, a terrapin “farm” consists merely of a number of small ponds or basins in which the creatures are confined according to their age and size. Thus, in the smaller ponds, we discover those just hatched from the eggs--curious little things not much bigger than a billiard ball. As they breed well, and it is not necessary to keep the creature long before it is ready for the _chef_, terrapin farming may be described as a fairly remunerative business.

_From a Photograph._]

_From a Photo. by M. Ichikawa, Japan._]

Decidedly more up-to-date are the snapping-turtle farms of Mr. Hattori, situated just outside Tokio, the capital of Japan. The Japanese people will proudly tell you that they are the only turtle farms in the world, but, as I have already shown, this is hardly correct. These farms were established some few years ago now, and are, without question, a great success. On an average, Mr. Hattori supplies to the hotels and restaurants of Japan over sixteen thousand turtles a year, while another five thousand are shipped to China. So far as the farm itself is concerned, it consists of a number of rectangular ponds, large and small, the larger ones having an area of fifteen to twenty thousand square feet.

_From a Photo. by M. Ichikawa, Japan._]

One or more of the ponds is always reserved for large breeding individuals, or “parents,” as they are called, and one of the assistants visits this pond twice a day to look out for new deposits of eggs. Over these he places a wire basket, with the date marked upon it. In one of our photographs a number of these wire baskets may be seen, though unfortunately the eggs are not shown, being covered with a slight layer of sand, this work being done by the turtle itself. The covering serves a twofold purpose--the obvious one of marking the place, and, in addition, that of keeping other females from digging in the same spot. When hundreds, or even thousands, of these baskets are seen along the bank of a “parents’ pond,” the sight is one to gladden the heart of an embryologist, to say nothing of the proprietor.

The hatching of the eggs occupies, on an average, sixty days. The time, however, may be considerably shortened or lengthened, according to whether the summer is hot and the sun pours down its strong rays day after day, or whether there is much rain and the heat not great. As the turtles lay sixty eggs to the nest at two sittings, it will be seen that in a single season many thousands are added to this unique establishment, but at least five years must elapse before they are large enough for the _chef_.

_From a Photograph._]

One would imagine, remembering the quantities of eggs laid by turtles, that they would be very plentiful, but there are few creatures that have more enemies. All that the mother turtle does is to deposit her eggs on the sand of some island and there leave them to be hatched out by the sun. Before this process is accomplished they are often destroyed by rats and birds, while very few of those that are hatched survive very long. The moment the young turtle emerges from its shell it seeks the water, and there crabs and various kinds of fish are ever ready to devour it. The young just hatched at the farm under notice are put in a pond or ponds by themselves and given finely-chopped meat of a fish like the pilchard, while the bigger ones are fed largely on live eels. This feeding continues to the end of September. In October the snapping-turtle ceases to take food, and finally burrows in the muddy bottom of the pond to hibernate, coming out only in April or May.

Snapping-turtle farming is much more exciting than raising the American terrapin. The former is a vicious creature and will snap at anything--hence its name. Indeed, in disposition it is the very opposite of its American brother. It believes most thoroughly in the survival of the fittest, and to it the fittest is number one. It is a chronic fighter, and inasmuch as its jaws are very strong and, like a bulldog, it never knows when to let go, it is a reptile to be either mastered or avoided. Indeed, the men at Mr. Hattori’s farm can tell many exciting little stories concerning the voracity of this strange creature. One farm hand, for instance, is minus a finger, the result of not using sufficient care when transferring one of the larger reptiles to a new pond.

_From a Photo. by M. Ichikawa, Japan._]

Many naturalists have visited this unique farm and, after a close study of the turtle and its habits, have confirmed all the bad qualities that have been recorded concerning it. In securing its food it shows that it possesses no mean intelligence. At one time it crawls slowly and silently along with neck outstretched towards an unsuspecting fish, springs upon it by a powerful thrust of its hind legs, and snaps it up; at another time it drives the fish around the basin and terrifies it until it falls an unresisting victim. Again, the reptile may be observed buried in the sandy soil of its prison with only its bill and eyes protruding. On the approach of a fish the head and long neck dart forth from the sand with lightning speed and the prey is caught and instantly killed by a savage bite.

In its wild state the snapping-turtle is distinctly a nocturnal animal, and does its hunting after sunset, when it emerges from its muddy home to look for food. In the presence of danger it becomes bold, defiant, and even desperate. When driven to bay it retracts its neck, head, and widely-gaping jaws into its shell, awaiting a favourable opportunity to thrust them forth slyly and bite savagely. Anything which it has seized in its jaws it holds with wonderful tenacity, at the same time vigorously scratching the earth with its sharp claws. There is only one way to catch the snapping-turtle, and that is to secure it by the tail. Some of the men at Mr. Hattori’s farm are very dexterous in seizing their victims in this fashion.

A little time ago a Russian officer visited the establishment and listened, with some incredulity, to the stories of the voracity of the reptiles in the ponds before him. He carried in his hand a stout cane, and was told to place it near one of the bigger animals. He did so, and was surprised to find that in a few minutes it was bitten clean through. Before now the snapping-turtle has been known to bite through the flat of an oar. Not only will this turtle catch all kinds of fish and frogs and devour them greedily, but it is not averse to hunting waterfowl. Mr. Hattori declares that, in addition to raising turtles, he could rear ducks and geese as well, but dare not, as the reptiles would only kill them. When a snapping-turtle detects a duck it cunningly makes its way towards the creature, seizes it by its legs, pulls it down under water, and then drags it to the bottom of the pond. Here it tears the duck to pieces with the aid of the long claws of its fore paws and devours it.

It is this snapping propensity which makes it desirable to keep the reptiles in ponds according to their ages; it would not do to put those just hatched in the same basin as the bigger ones, as they would quickly be eaten. Until they reach their sixth year they are never “mixed.” When they reach this age, however, they are capable of taking care of themselves and are allowed access to the bigger ponds. By this time the turtle has reached maturity and may begin to deposit eggs, though it is not at its prime till two or three years later.

]

What the Japanese epicure prefers are turtles not more than five years of age, when the flesh is soft and in desirable condition for the making of stews and soups. At this age the snapping-turtle weighs from sixty to eighty pounds. Those that are destined for the table are kept in a pond to themselves, and taken as required in nets or pulled out of the water by their tails. They are then placed in tin boxes or cases with air-holes, and sent by train to their destination.

The turtle that is consumed in this country is the green species, from the West Indies. The creatures are imported by Mr. T. K. Bellis, who will not hesitate to tell you that of edible turtles the green variety is the best. Mr. Bellis imports some three thousand turtles a year. They arrive in batches of one hundred or more every fortnight by the Royal Mail steamers from Kingston, Jamaica, and are obtained from the coral reefs lying to the north of the island of Jamaica. Twelve to fifteen small schooners are employed in the trade, and upwards of a hundred and twenty men.

]

These fishers of strange “fish” (the turtle’s technical name) stretch nets of twine from rock to rock, and the moment the turtle feels itself entangled it clings tenaciously to the meshes, and is then hauled to the surface. The schooners in due time return to Kingston with from eighty to a hundred and fifty of these remarkable creatures, which are promptly deposited in palisaded enclosures, flooded at every tide by the sea. Here they are fed upon a certain kind of herbage known as “turtle grass,” and taken as required. The bringing of these creatures overseas is a very delicate business, and frequently sixty out of a hundred perish _en route_, in spite of the most elaborate precautions, such as the constant spraying of salt water daily on board the mail steamer, and the use of foot warmers for the turtles in the railway vans from Southampton to Waterloo. Before now, Mr. Bellis has lost eighty-eight turtles out of a shipment of a hundred.

This susceptibility to travel is one of the most remarkable things about the turtle. If you are anxious to transport him alive it is a hundred to one he perishes of cold, but if you do succeed in getting him home the difficulty then is to kill him. The vitality of this strange sea creature after decapitation is almost beyond belief. Mr. Bellis once sent a large turtle to an hotel in Newcastle. The _chef_ cut the turtle’s head off and hung the body upside down to bleed. Twenty-four hours after that turtle knocked down a man cook with one blow of its fin! The green turtle is not a vicious creature to handle, like its snapping Japanese brother, but its fins are very strong, and one blow from them is quite sufficient to break a man’s arm.

Mr. Frank T. Bullen gives a remarkable instance of the tenacious hold of the turtle upon life. “On one occasion,” he records, “our men cut all the flesh and entrails of a turtle away, leaving only the head and tail attached to the shell. Some time had elapsed since the meat had been scooped out of the carapace, and no one imagined that any life remained in the extremities. But a young Dane, noticing that the down-hanging head had its mouth wide open, very foolishly inserted two fingers between those horny mandibles. It closed, and our shipmate was two fingers short, the edges of the turtle’s jaws had taken them clean off, with only the muscular power remaining in the head. Then another man tried to cut the horny tail off, but as soon as his keen blade touched it on the underside it curled up and gripped his knife so firmly that it was nearly an hour before the blade could be withdrawn.” Signor Redi, the great zoologist, records how he once cut a turtle’s head off and noted that it lived for twenty-three days without a head, and another whose brains he removed lived for six months.

The green turtle, the species favoured in this country, is not a carnivorous creature, like the snapping-turtle, its food being a particular kind of sea grass found on the coral reefs in the West Indies. Some time ago Mr. Bellis brought a large quantity of this grass to London, with the idea of feeding the creatures in captivity, but they refused to take it. In his cellars in the City one can see any day a number of these turtles. Here they are kept until a telegram arrives from a distant hotel, when away goes the turtle to be turned into soup for the forthcoming banquet. Those hotels which do not care about the trouble of killing the creature can procure the soup in tins and bottles direct from the importer, and it is not surprising to learn that large quantities are sold. It requires eight pounds of the best turtle-flesh to make one quart of soup.

The green turtle grows to an immense size, but it has been found that specimens weighing more than a hundred and fifty pounds are not desirable, the flesh becoming coarse as the animal increases in weight. The shell of this variety is practically valueless, but the hawksbill turtle yields what is popularly known as “tortoiseshell,” and the armour covering of a good specimen may be worth eight pounds. Its flesh, however, is too coarse for consumption, though here it should be added that it is doubtful whether those who occasionally partake of green-turtle soup would relish that made from the flesh of the snapping-turtle.

It is a notorious fact that turtles grow very slowly and attain a great age. Curiously enough, neither Mr. Hattori nor Mr. Bellis can tell to what age a snapping or green turtle will live. Mr. Hattori has quite a number of turtles that are known to be from thirty to fifty years of age, while some of the bigger specimens that arrive at Waterloo for the Bellis cellars are, it is believed, twelve to fifteen years old.

_From a Photo. by Conolly & Goatam._]

THE AMBASSADOR’S TRUNK.

BY E. A. MORPHY, LATE EDITOR OF THE “STRAITS TIMES,” SINGAPORE.

The circumstances of this little smuggling incident, though known to several persons in the Far East, have hitherto been hidden, so to speak, under a bushel. In bringing them to the light it should be stated that--for obvious reasons--fictitious names have been given to the individuals chiefly concerned, but the facts are just as stated.

Far and away the most distinguished passenger on the big German liner was the homeward bound Japanese Ambassador. He did not look the part, however. He was a squat, unobtrusive little man whose trousers fitted him badly, and whose carriage, when he was hampered by European clothes, suggested an insignificance that was only partially belied by the intelligence of his homely countenance. His appearance reflected no radiant blaze of glory, yet he was returning to his native land crowned with some of the finest diplomatic achievements of the century.

This statement is due to his Excellency, but it practically dismisses him from the story, which mainly concerns his trunk--his trunk No. 23, to be precise, for the Ambassador’s trunks were all numbered. There must have been half a hundred of them at least; all the same typical German steel trunks, but distinguished from other less important trunks of the same make insomuch that each one was adorned with two broad painted bands of scarlet, which showed out bravely and effectually prevented their being mixed up with any ordinary baggage. Apart from all other considerations, the wisdom of the Ambassador in thus distinctively marking his own trunks lay in the fact that the process insured their instant recognition by the Japanese Customs officials, by whom they were immune from examination.

This last fact was the one which counted for most with Fritz Vogel, steward and trombonist of the liner, as he daily contemplated the mountain of luggage and calculated how many Manila cigars one of those great red-striped trunks would hold.

Carefully packed, he figured it, one might crowd ten thousand cigars into each trunk. Ten thousand cigars, at eighty Mexican dollars a thousand, meant eighty pounds. Duty at one hundred and fifty per cent. _ad valorem_ on eighty pounds would mean a hundred and twenty pounds, or, as Fritz Vogel calculated, two thousand four hundred marks. Therefore, as the meditative trombonist further worked out the possibilities, his Excellency could, by simply loading up a few dozen more trunks with cigars at Hong-Kong and getting them passed free through the Customs at Yokohama--or at Nagasaki or Kobe for that matter--make more in a week than he could hope to earn in a month of Sundays by sticking to the thorny paths of diplomacy.

Born west of the Suez, the fertile idea germinated in Vogel’s brain all through the dreary wastes of the Canal, and sprouted up green and vigorous, despite the withering blasts that pursued the liner down the Red Sea and across the Indian Ocean to Colombo. At Singapore it had become an obsession. When steaming through the Narrows into the latter port, however, on the way to the German mail wharf, Vogel observed a red-funnelled Jardine liner at the Messageries wharf, with the blue-peter flying.

An hour later the _Laisang_ left for China, carrying a hastily-written letter from Fritz Vogel to his friend Max Krebs at Hong-Kong. It contained a fair statement of the salient facts in the case, and a crude but lucid sketch of one of the pieces of baggage, together with a description of the scarlet bands and full measurements. It also stated what has not been set forth above--that each of his Excellency’s trunks was numbered in large white figures at each end and on the top, and it suggested that in the case of any person desiring to have access to those trunks whilst they were still on board the liner, Nos. 23, 24, 27, 32, etc., were the easiest to reach.

Mr. Krebs was a “runner” for a native compradoring firm. He went out to the ships to “drum up” business for his employers, who supplied anything and everything that a ship could require, from cigarettes to engine-oil. In the old days before the Russian War Mr. Vogel had done a good deal of trade with Mr. Krebs on the short run between Yokohama and Hong-Kong. But the stringent Customs regulations that had ensued upon the increased tariffs imposed after the war had practically killed the business, save so far as concerned a paltry bit of trading with passengers in faked curios, and the occasional disposal of a few imitation gems to homeward-bound tourists when the vessel was west of Colombo.

Opportunities like the return of an Ambassador to Japan did not occur once in a blue moon.

The liner tarried a day and a half over cargo at Singapore, and the _Laisang_ got into Hong-Kong nearly twenty-four hours ahead of her. Mr. Vogel learned the fact the moment the German liner arrived at the big China port, and his heart was filled with sickening apprehension. He had been dreaming of trunks full of cigars--German steel trunks with red bands, and numbered with big white characters--ever since he left Singapore. He had marked off the state-room wherein, until the proper psychological moment, the extra trunks--if any--could be stored safely. He had mentally arranged every other detail in his projected bid for fortune, and had even marked down those of his comrades who should be selected as his accomplices. He had counted over, time and time again, the round thousand marks that would be his personal profit out of every trunk full of cigars he could pass through the Yokohama Customs as the baggage of the returning Ambassador. He did all this while still faithfully, if mechanically, discharging his onerous duties as steward and master of the trombone.

It was not until a few hours after the arrival of the steamer in Hong-Kong--hours that felt like ages--that Vogel heard from Krebs. A note was handed to him by a Chinese messenger boy, and Vogel opened it with feverish impatience. Mr. Krebs wrote with that laconic brevity of diction which indicates the resourceful mind. “Will send you one trunk.--O. K.,” it read.

Mr. Vogel pondered for a moment whether “O. K.” meant Oscar Krebs or “All correct” (American fashion); then he heaved a great sigh of relief as he realized that it was all the same.

That evening Mr. Krebs came on board unostentatiously, and a big trunk wrapped in rough sacking came with him, and was temporarily stowed away by Mr. Vogel in one of the state-rooms which held some of the Ambassador’s spare boxes. Thence it was subsequently carried to another cabin, where there were some spare things of Mr. Vogel’s. Had a hypercritical observer subsequently studied all the trunks in the Ambassador’s collection he might have noticed that one of them appeared to be the least trifle newer than the rest, but it would have taken a Sherlock Holmes to detect the circumstance off-hand. The trunk in question was numbered “23.”

In due time the liner arrived at Yokohama, but the mails that had been forwarded overland from Nagasaki reached there a day before her. Thus it came about that when the Ambassador’s baggage was franked through the Custom House and sent up to the Imperial Hotel at Tokio, two friends of Messrs. Krebs and Vogel were installed as guests at the last-named establishment. Thus also it came about that, thanks to ten yen well spent on a porter, the Ambassador’s trunk, No. 23, was whisked away to the nether cellars of the hotel the moment it arrived there, and--as the Ambassador himself did at an earlier stage--it virtually passes out of this story. That is to say, what must have been the ghost of the Ambassador’s trunk vanishes from mortal view; but not so the real article. When the diplomat’s baggage was supposed to be all in, and a count was taken, trunk No. 23 was found to be missing.

The row that ensued was something awful. Telegraphs and telephones were called into requisition, and imperative, not to say drastic, orders were dispatched to the Customs authorities at Yokohama, to the railway authorities at Shimbashi, and to all other authorities everywhere, commanding them to instantly produce his Excellency’s missing trunk.

The Customs authorities declared they had not got the trunk; they had passed it and forwarded it, and got a receipt for it. There could be no doubt, from their point of view, that the Ambassador had taken delivery of his trunk No. 23. The railway authorities were equally agreed on the same point. The baggage was all in special carriages; not a pin could have been lost between Yokohama and the Shimbashi station at the capital, whence it had been handed over to his Excellency’s servants for removal to the hotel. The police authorities were equally certain that there had been no hanky-panky business of any kind. It would have been impossible for one of the Ambassador’s trunks to go astray or be stolen, either in the streets of the seaport or in the capital itself. The steamship authorities had a receipt for every article. They knew the Ambassador’s trunks, and especial care had been taken of them throughout the voyage. Nevertheless, they would again investigate.

Then, Banzai! there came a telegram from the chief purser of the liner:--

“_Ambassador’s trunk No. 23 found on board. Must have been left behind inadvertently. Forwarding to Tokio at once._”

The little Custom House inspectors looked at the newly-found trunk in utter stupefaction.

“Truly,” said they, “we passed this identical trunk not three hours ago.”

“_Hayako!_” (Hurry, there!) shouted the head inspector, as they dallied over the mystery. “His Excellency waits!”

The trunk was expressed up to the Imperial Hotel by special train.

Ten minutes later the Director of His Imperial Majesty’s Customs at Yokohama ordered a Commission of Inquiry into the matter of the registering as received and delivered of one Ambassador’s trunk, No. 23, when the same had never either been received from the liner or delivered to the railway or to any other authorities by His Imperial Majesty’s Customs. The matter was also taken in hand by the Imperial Railway and by the Tokio and Kanagawa police authorities.

Though a couple of years have passed since these investigations were inaugurated, no definite finding in the matter has yet been officially published. In certain quarters, however, there is a consensus of opinion that such a trunk did really pass through the Yokohama Customs, but that it was a phantom one.

Mr. Vogel took away two thousand two hundred yen (two hundred and twenty pounds) from Yokohama that trip. At Hong-Kong, nine days later, he settled up with Mr. Krebs.

The cigars and trunk had cost nine hundred dollars, while the expenses and “commissions” in Japan amounted to a trifle less than three hundred dollars. There was a balance of a thousand dollars to divide, and they duly divided it.

HALF AN HOUR IN A BLAZING FURNACE.

BY GEORGE S. GUY.

One of the most remarkable and appalling experiences possible to conceive recently befell a young man named Robert Perry, at Apedale, in Staffordshire. Tramping about the country in search of work, he arrived one night, utterly tired out, at an ironworks, and unwittingly took shelter in an “air furnace,” used for the purpose of reducing very large pieces of iron, too large to be dealt with in the ordinary way. As it happened, the fire-bars of this particular furnace had been taken out, and Perry had no difficulty in creeping through the opening and thus making his way inside. Here he had to mount a wall five feet in height, and eventually reached the melting chamber, which at the time contained about five tons of iron waiting to be smelted. Arrived at this point, in blissful ignorance of the dangerous character of the place he had selected to sleep in, and appreciating only its dryness and seclusion, he lay down to rest. Exactly why he should have selected such a strange bedchamber it is impossible to say, but tramps have been known to choose even stranger quarters--such as lime-kilns and brick-kilns. Anyhow, the fact remains that he went into the furnace to sleep. What happened afterwards is told below, from information gathered partly from the man himself and partly from other persons who figured in his terrible adventure.

After a long walk in the broiling sun Perry arrived at Apedale quite exhausted, and set about looking for a snug, dry place where he could lie down and have a sleep. During his weary tramp he had been no stranger to curious resting-places, and he had spent the previous night under a railway arch. Presently he came across the smelting works of the Midland Coal, Coke, and Iron Company, and, seeing a furnace which he took to be unused, examined it intently. The wide, open front of the contrivance looked tempting, and he decided to make its interior his abode for the night. Crawling into the opening for some little distance, he discovered that he had a wall five feet in height to climb over, but scaled it without much trouble. Beyond he found himself in pitch-darkness, but clambered cautiously onwards, trying to find a comfortable place to lie down. Proceeding up a slope, he reached a sort of chamber beyond, where a number of great pieces of iron were lying about. Here the weary man lay down, and, being very tired, it did not take him long to fall asleep. Let him tell the manner of his awakening in his own words.

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_From a Photograph._]

I do not exactly know what awoke me, but upon trying to raise myself a frightful choking feeling came over me, and I became conscious of great heat. Then, like a flash, I realized what a dreadful mistake I had made, and what a terrible situation I was in. The furnace was _not_ disused, and now the workmen had lit it, and I was a prisoner inside! For a moment I felt sick with horror, but it did not take me long to pull myself together and try to find a way out.

The whole place was in total darkness. Although I could hear a dull roaring somewhere, and feel the waves of heated air and fumes passing over me, I could not see the slightest sign of any light. Tremblingly I felt up and down the sides of my prison to see if I could find a door, but nothing of the kind could I discover. I tried to retreat farther into the furnace to get away from that awful heat, but had to return and face it again. Now, with a sickening heart, I saw that flames were approaching my position. Thinking my end was near at hand, I decided at all costs to go down the slope. This meant that I must face the fire, which was now licking up towards me, sucked inwards by the tremendous draught. Shivering with horror I made the attempt, but the heat and flames were unendurable, and beat me back. Then, crouching down, I worked myself along the side, thinking this my best plan. At last--Heaven alone knows how--I reached the foot of the wall. In a half-dazed, choking condition, I tried to climb up, but was met by a veritable hurricane of fierce flames, which knocked me down and burnt all the hair off my head. Half-blinded, scorched, and with my brain benumbed from the effects of the fumes, I still did not quite lose heart: something seemed to force me on to make a struggle for life. Suddenly, as I lay there gasping in that inferno of heat and flame, I heard voices outside, but I could not understand what was said. I wondered dully whether, if I called out, the men I could hear speaking would hear me, so, in my agony of physical suffering and mental distress, I shouted, “O Lord, save me! O Lord, save me!” The murmur of voices still went on, but presently one man evidently heard my cries, and called out to a “Mr. Phillips” that he thought he heard a shout for help. This, however, Mr. Phillips--who seemed to be the foreman--ridiculed, and they went on working as before.

I was now on the verge of giving up; my strength seemed to be failing me, but I decided to make one final attempt to get on the wall. I am glad to say that it was not in vain, and after a desperate struggle I succeeded in reaching the top. This seemed to renew my energy, and I braced myself for what I knew was my last hope. I gave one horrified glance at the furnace below, the flames roaring and leaping madly, and then, with all the strength of my fire-scorched lungs, I shrieked out once more, “O Lord, save me!”

The men outside stopped work at once.

“Did you hear that?” cried one, excitedly; “I heard it quite distinctly that time; someone is shouting out ‘Lord, save me’!” This time Mr. Phillips admitted that he _did_ think he heard a noise as if someone was calling out, but where could it come from? It was impossible for anyone to be in the furnace alive, for the fire had been going for some time. Then someone else said, “Open the fire-door and see if you can see anything.”

The fire-door! Where was it, I wondered--far away or near at hand? Then, to my great joy, I heard them releasing a bolt just a few feet from where I was. At last it opened--a place about a foot square--and I saw daylight streaming in and then a man’s face. He peered in anxiously, but evidently he could not see me, for I was now as black as the furnace itself. Then he seemed to half-close the door and I nearly swooned away, for this was my last chance.

Desperately I strove to shout, but the heat, flames, and smoke prevented my uttering a sound save a choking gasp. Fortunately for myself, however, I moved, and the watcher happened to catch sight of something about me--probably the whites of my eyes shining in the reflected light. “Good God!” he cried. “There’s a man in the furnace! Pull the bars out as quickly as you can.”

I did not trouble to think what or where the bars were; I knew only that the men had seen me and would do everything in their power to get me out. I heard them pulling the bars out in frantic haste, and saw Mr. Phillips trying to squeeze himself through the small fire-door.

With my flesh scorching and my breath rapidly failing me in that awful whirlwind of heat and flame, I put my arms down for him to catch hold of. He seized me by the elbows and told me to jump, but this I could not do, for I felt too far gone. With that he gave me a jerk, and I found myself falling--right on to the huge fire! The bars were out, and the fire was keeping itself together by the pressure of one block of coal on another; but when my weight came upon it, it collapsed, sending up a rush of flames all around me. To my intense horror, I felt the skin on my arms giving way, but the courageous Mr. Phillips did not release his hold. His hands were now on my wrists, and, exerting all his strength, he pulled me up towards the door.

The pain of my burns was simply fearful, and I could have shrieked with agony, but somehow, except for a few moans, I kept quiet.

[_From a Photograph._]]

Presently the foreman succeeded in pulling me out of the small door, but I felt as if dead, and as though I was shrivelling up and growing smaller. As I lay on the ground, in agonizing pain, I appealed to the men to strangle me. Again and again, in semi-delirium, I repeated the request: “I’m done for! Strangle me! strangle me!” My whole body seemed to be on fire, but my rescuers lost no time. Procuring some oil, they saturated me with it, thus, in a measure, soothing the pain. Then they got me on to an ambulance and rushed me off to the Chell Infirmary, where I received every care and attention.

Never, so long as I live, shall I forget the terrible time I endured in the furnace, and my unspeakable joy when I saw Mr. Phillips at the fire-door.

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