Chapter IV: Part 4

But I took no further interest in the proceedings. In Western parlance, I had been “done brown.” The men were confederates, and all that was left for me to do was to swallow my medicine without grimacing. So I smiled blandly, congratulated them on their acting, and left them to marvel at man’s credulity.

It all sounds very foolish and easy, set down in black and white, but the San Franciscan “confidence man,” by long and unhampered practice, has reduced his methods to a fine art; and although it is hardly likely that any respectable, level-headed reader of THE WIDE WORLD would fall a victim to his wiles, such a thing has been known to occur to others, and if the foregoing personal experience helps to put these on their guard, the purpose of its recounting will be served.

II.--A SHARP LESSON.

BY R. L. C. MORRISON.

In November of the year 1885, when I had reached the mature age of seventeen, I found myself in Glasgow, my native city, in the service of an uncle of mine named Mr. James Thomson, who was a merchant tailor and Colonial outfitter in Hope Street.

One afternoon towards the end of the month my uncle gave me instructions to call at the offices of a well-known firm in the neighbourhood of Jamaica Street.

I was to collect an account, whose total represented a substantial sum, and give a receipt for the money. There would, I was told, be no difficulty about drawing what was due, as the firm in question had duly intimated to my uncle that if he would present the account on a certain date payment would be made then and there.

It was close upon three o’clock when I put in an appearance at the counting-house of the firm, taking up my position in a somewhat extended queue of clerks and others who had arrived on the same errand as myself.

The queue was arranged in single file along a passage of considerable length on the second storey, to reach which a flight of something like a score of steps had to be ascended.

Right away at the far end of this passage was what had all the appearance of a railway station booking office, where, behind a square aperture of limited dimensions, stood the sharp-witted cashier.

I took my turn with the rest, and in due course found myself in front of the pigeon-hole, where I presented my uncle’s account.

“All right; receipt it,” exclaimed the cashier, as he returned it.

I did so, receiving the amount of the account in Bank of Scotland pound notes, a couple of score of them, or more, which I quickly folded into a kind of roll and thrust deep into my trousers pocket, keeping my hand over them for safety’s sake.

Pleased with the thought that I had got the money, I briskly threaded my way among the nondescript crowd in the passage, and even more briskly negotiated the stairs.

I had scarcely walked the length of the side thoroughfare which led into Jamaica Street, however, when I heard hurrying footsteps behind me, and, looking round, was surprised to see a very stylishly-dressed man, whose appearance was enhanced by his faultlessly-groomed hair and moustache. As soon as I looked in his direction he held up his hand and beckoned me to stop.

Wondering what he could want with me I obeyed without further ado, waiting for him to come up with me.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, with much politeness, at the same time slightly raising his hat, “but I believe this is your handkerchief.” As he spoke he swept round his hand, which he had held behind his back, and displayed to view a blue silk specimen in the handkerchief line. It was mine; there was no doubt about that, and as I advanced my hand he extended it towards me.

“I saw you drop it as you came down the stairs of Messrs. ----’s office” (mentioning the name of the firm), he explained.

I thanked him and was about to resume my way when he asked if I could direct him to Hope Street.

As everyone who knows anything about Glasgow is aware, it does not take long to reach Hope Street from Jamaica Street, and I was beginning to explain this to him when he cut me short with the remark that before we went any farther I must have a drink with him. As I was a teetotaller, however, I promptly declined his proffered hospitality, and once more resumed my walk.

The next moment he laid a daintily-gloved hand on my shoulder, and, with an engaging smile, said, with the utmost good humour, “But surely a glass of lemonade or ginger-beer cannot do you any harm?”

There was a strange magnetism about the man which carried me away, and I meekly surrendered myself to his will.

“Let us turn up this street,” he said, suddenly. “I know a nice little quiet place where we can have a drink in comfort.”

I followed him. Strange as it may seem, I was for the time being incapable of resistance. Perhaps my new-found friend was a hypnotist, or something of the kind; if he did not actually possess occult powers, he certainly had the gift in a very marked degree of ingratiating himself with strangers.

As we walked along side by side he kept up a lively and interesting conversation, touching lightly upon a variety of subjects. He evidently possessed a well-stored mind, for his fund of knowledge and anecdote seemed almost inexhaustible.

I became so interested in what he was telling me--wonderful adventures he said he had had in South America, and a graphic description of how diamonds are found--that I did not notice where I was being led. All I know is that we traversed street after street, until at length the man whom I had offered to guide to Hope Street had taken me to a part of the city in which I never remember having previously been.

Then suddenly he halted in front of a most respectable-looking whisky shop--in England we call them public-houses--situated in a broad thoroughfare, busy with plenty of pedestrian and vehicular traffic. It did not strike me as being a particularly “quiet” place; in fact, whilst it may have been comfortable enough inside, its exterior surroundings were not likely to recommend it to those in search of solitude.

“Here we are, my young friend,” he said, with that smile which had now become almost irresistible to me.

The inside fittings of the place were what may be termed “flashy,” immense gilded mirrors and crimson-covered seats being the outstanding features in the general scheme of furnishing and decoration. A mahogany, tumbler-laden bar, with shelves of massed bottles in the background, ran the whole length of the apartment, whilst on the other side were a range of what I can best describe as cubicles, though in public-house parlance I suppose they would be called “snugs.” There was a door to each of these box-like apartments, though the ceiling of the saloon was common to them all.

“Come in here,” urged my friend, tugging at my coat-sleeve. “It will be quieter, and no one will disturb us.”

We entered the “snug,” which contained a long narrow table, with horsehair-padded seats on either side, an oblong window, half screened, serving to let in a rather subdued light.

Scarcely had I got both my feet inside when I observed with surprise that the place had already an occupant, a benevolent-looking old gentleman, who at that moment was studiously engaged in perusing the columns of a newspaper.

My companion, noticing my hesitation, exclaimed in a cheery voice, “It’s all right, my boy; I’m sure our friend won’t object.”

Looking up from his paper “our friend” adjusted his spectacles and regarded us both with a quizzical expression.

“Come in; don’t mind me,” he said at length, as if satisfied with our appearance, and we sat down at the table, my companion on one side, I on the other, the first occupant taking no further notice of us.

“I’m going to have a toothful of whisky,” said my fashionably-dressed _vis-à-vis_. “Will you have the same?”

I diffidently demurred at the proposal, as all alcoholic beverages were then to me as a sealed book, and in the end a bottle of lemonade was ordered for me.

And there I sat, sipping the lemonade and nervously fingering the bundle of notes in my trousers pocket.

I had found my friend very agreeable, very pleasant, and very entertaining, and would not have objected to remaining a little longer with him, but that I felt my employer would be expecting my return with the money he had sent me out to collect. Accordingly, drinking up my beverage, I presently rose and said I was afraid I must be going.

“Oh, there is no hurry, my boy,” he said, with such cordiality that I sat down again--but it should be only for a couple of minutes, I told myself.

“That’s right; make yourself comfortable, and we’ll have another drink in.”

I protested that I had had quite sufficient and that I must not linger, as I was expected back.

“A few minutes more or less will hardly make any difference,” he remarked, “and, besides, if you will only wait I shall be coming your way, for you know you promised to show me the way to Hope Street.”

I am afraid my resolutions about going were somewhat feeble, for he again persuaded me to sit down.

Meanwhile the old gentleman at the other end of the narrow table went on reading his paper. He might have had the place to himself for all the notice he took of us.

Suddenly my companion ceased speaking to me (the conversation had by some means or other turned on the subject of trains), and diving his hand into a side pocket produced a new railway-carriage key, very bright and very shiny.

I wondered what he intended to do with it, and even got so far as speculating upon whether he was a manufacturer of this class of goods, or travelled for the people who made them.

Then he tapped the key lightly on the edge of the table, and, addressing the old gentleman, said, politely: “Is this article of any service to you, sir? Excuse the apparent liberty, but I can offer you these keys at the small sum of sixpence each.”

I looked in the direction of the old gentleman and saw that he had put his paper on one side and was regarding my companion with a pleasant smile.

“I am much obliged to you, sir,” he replied, softly; “but as I very rarely travel I have no use for such a key.”

“Never mind,” remarked the other; “I’ll tell you what we’ll do--we’ll just ‘cut’ for it,” and without any further explanation at the moment he drew from his breast pocket what I took to be three ordinary playing-cards. The same pattern embellished the back of each, but when they were turned face upwards I observed that two of them were blanks, whilst on the other was a highly-coloured representation of a lady’s head and shoulders. I recollect that the hues in which the charms of this female were depicted were very varied, so that in combination they presented a dazzling picture.

Although the word “cut” had been made use of as applicable to the cards, it was rather a misnomer. “Double shuffle,” with a peculiar movement, would more fittingly describe what subsequently happened.

“Now, whichever of you two can first tell me where the lady is I will present with this key as a prize,” said the young man. As he spoke he made a pretence of shuffling the cards up in his hands, and then proceeded to lay them face downwards on the table, but before he finally allowed them to remain he exhibited the face of each card, so that I thought nothing could possibly be easier than to indicate where the lady’s head lay.

“You try first, sir,” said my friend to the old gentleman, and he singled out the card which I was absolutely certain was the wrong one, and so it was, as it turned out.

“Your turn, my boy,” cried the stranger, having rearranged the cards, and without the slightest hesitation I displayed the female’s head to view.

“Very good; here’s your prize,” and he pushed the key across the table to me.

“Just by way of a change, I will bet each of you sixpence that neither of you can pick out the lady’s head _this_ time,” he said; but hardly had the words been spoken than the door of the “snug” was quietly opened and an elderly man stood framed in the open space.

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” he apologized; “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Won’t you come in and join us, sir?” cried my companion, insinuatingly. “Just a quiet little game together; only sixpenny stakes.”

“Oh, well, I don’t mind if I do,” replied the new-comer, and without further ceremony he seated himself on the other side of me and fixed his eyes intently on the cards, which the other was manipulating with both hands.

By this time the old gentleman gave every sign of being deeply interested in the proceedings, and had taken a number of sixpences from his pocket, which he placed in a little heap at his side.

The new-comer and I also produced the necessary coin and staked it on the “lady.”

The old gentleman was the first to try his luck, but he failed to locate the whereabouts of the fair one.

Then the cards were taken up and rearranged, when the new arrival had a flutter, but he likewise parted with his sixpence.

“How stupid these men must be!” I thought, as the cards were being prepared for a third set out, when, of course, I immediately spotted the “lady” and was paid over the sixpence.

“Double stakes now,” cried the manipulator.

Nothing loath, I put my shilling down, and again I was the only victor.

Well, to cut a long story short, my companion went on doubling the stakes until they stood at sixteen shillings. Up to now I had been the only winner. I had not lost a single penny; as a matter of fact, I was fifteen and sixpence to the good, but when I tried to find the “lady” when the stakes stood at sixteen shillings I signally failed, and had to pay over all my winnings, with an additional sixpence.

By this time I was fairly infected with the game, and had thrown all discretion to the winds with regard to my return to the office. I felt confident that I could win a lot of money, and up to this point had not the faintest suspicion that I was in the midst of a gang of card-sharpers of whose _modus operandi_ of working the business I was now being given a practical demonstration. Therefore, when the leader of the coterie, the man, who had “hooked” me outside, suggested that the stakes should be thirty-two shillings I made no demur, but blindly accepted, fondly imagining that by exercising a little care in watching where the cards were placed I should be able to spot the “lady.”

“Now, gentlemen,” cried the card manipulator, deliberately holding up the picture card to our view every two or three shuffles, so that I was able to follow its fortunes with the greatest ease, “there is the lady! Just watch carefully where I place her.”

As I had been the last loser it was my turn to pick out the picture, and as he placed the winning card in the centre (I could have sworn he did) I did not hesitate to indicate my choice by at once turning it face upwards, when, lo and behold! all that met my gaze was a plain white surface. Instead of being in the middle, the “lady” was at the right of me, though how this sleight-of-hand trick had been accomplished under my very eyes without my detecting it was past my comprehension.

“Thank you,” said the swindler, suavely; “thirty-two shillings, please”; and after some fumbling in my trousers pocket I succeeded in detaching two pound notes from the roll.

“Eight shillings change,” he remarked, genially, and handed me over the silver.

Inconceivable as it may appear, it is nevertheless the fact that even this “fleecing” did not arouse my suspicion as to the _bona fides_ of the proceedings in which I was being made the victim. Possibly I was too excited at the moment to give this aspect of the matter a thought. My chief concern just then was to recover the money I had lost--not my own money, it should be remembered, but my employer’s.

At the suggestion of the old gentleman, who had not up to the present won a penny, and yet struck me as taking his “bad luck” very philosophically, the stakes were increased to three pounds--“so as to” (I use his own ingenuous phrase) “give the young gentleman and myself a chance.”

I sprang at the bait. Indeed, I was desperately in earnest, and mentally vowed that I must win this time at all costs.

Need it be recorded that I lost?

The card on the left--my choice--was _not_ the “lady,” and three more notes were separated from the roll in my pocket.

Then, and not till then, did the real situation dawn upon me--I was in the hands of a gang of “three-card” tricksters. I had over forty pounds, which was not mine, on me, and the fashionably-attired stranger who had ingratiated himself into my good graces by some mysterious means was fully aware of that fact. The whole thing, in short, was a cleverly-laid plot to despoil me of my employer’s money.

As the full truth burst upon me I rose from my seat without a word and made my way to the door, intending to seek the landlord’s assistance.

But it was _locked from outside!_ Bending down and applying my eye to the lock I saw the key inserted on the saloon side. This discovery I accepted as furnishing positive proof of the existence of a conspiracy to rob me. As I stood at the locked door, making up my mind that the next step should be on my part, the man who had lured me into the place plucked me by the coat-sleeve and begged me with gentle words to resume my seat and “talk matters over.”

“Give me my money back!” I cried, impetuously, pointing to the five notes which lay on the table. “It does not belong to me,” I went on, entreatingly. “It is my employer’s, and I cannot return to him without it.”

The two other confederates looked at me with sympathetic glances; then I fancied I saw an exchange of eye telegraphy between them and the leader.

“Of course, none of us want to get you into trouble,” he said, soothingly, at the same time pushing me gently back into my seat and taking his place opposite me, “but you must admit that you were willing enough to play the game. No one forced you to it, and what you have lost has been lost in square play.”

“But why is the door locked if it is all fair and above-board?” I shouted, excitedly.

“What! the door locked?” they cried in chorus, with well-simulated amazement.

“Yes, locked from outside,” I continued.

“Ah, from the outside,” replied the leader, smilingly. “That proves we have nothing to do with it. It is an accident, a mistake on the part of someone in the saloon.”

Although I did not believe a word of this, for I was now fully convinced that the landlord was also in league with these scoundrels, I made no further allusion to it, having made up my mind to a certain plan by which I hoped to regain possession of the money and make my escape from this den.

I instinctively knew that a proposal for further play was going to be made me on the plea of giving me a chance of recouping my losses, and for the purposes of the desperate plan I had decided upon this was exactly what I wanted.

“Now, my boy,” began the leader, in his friendly way, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do to give you a chance. I’ll lay you ten pounds to two pounds on the next round, and only you and I will play. You shall watch me as closely as you like, and no doubt you will win.”

“I will agree,” I assented, “on condition that the door is unlocked and the key brought inside and placed on the table.”

It was a bold move on my part, and I trembled for the answer, because upon this one point depended to a very great extent the success of the desperate plan I had thought of to escape, and at the same time regain my employer’s money.

Evidently sure of their quarry, and all unsuspicious as to my intentions, the trio at once agreed to the proposal.

The landlord was called--and bullied--the door unlocked, and the key placed on the table by my side.

Then the cards were laid out afresh, and I made another effort to “spot” the “lady,” although I was morally certain that I should fail.

I did, and handed over two more pound notes, which the dealer placed with the five others, lying loosely by his side.

In my jacket pocket I had a large sailors’ clasp knife, with a murderous-looking blade nearly five inches long, and while my _vis-à-vis_ was picking up the cards preparatory to another deal, I having consented to play for the same stakes again, I surreptitiously got this weapon out and opened it under cover of the table.

The seven Bank of Scotland pound notes lay carelessly bunched together opposite me on the side of the table and within easy reach, whilst the door of the “snug” was but a couple of feet away from where I sat, I being nearest to it.

The next moment I saw my opportunity and seized it.

As the dealer manipulated the cards, he, as he had done all through, spread out his hand over a card for a couple of seconds. I clutched the open knife firmly in my right hand, and before any one of those present could have the slightest idea of my intentions I bounded to my feet, raised my arm in the air, and the next instant had pinned the sharper’s hand to the table with the long, keen blade!

With his scream of agony ringing in my ears, and the sight of the knife quivering in his hand photographed, as it were, upon my vision, I grabbed at the loose notes which lay in front of me, bunched them up into the palm of my hand, and, leaving the knife where I had driven it, flung open the door of the “snug” and bounded through the saloon and out into the busy street.

Though the recital of this incident occupies some little time in the telling, it was all accomplished in the space of a few seconds, and as soon as I found myself mixed up with the traffic outside I considered I was safe from pursuit--if, indeed, it had ever been likely any attempt would be made by the sharpers to run me to earth.

I reached my uncle’s place of business an hour or two later than I should have done in the ordinary course, but gave some plausible excuse for my delay.

He was inclined to be angry at first, but as I produced the money all right he did not pursue the matter further, although it was not until a considerable time afterwards that I ventured to give any of my relations an account of my exciting adventure with the card-sharpers.

III.--“SEEING IT OUT.”

BY ALBERT E. MACGROTTY.

The simple-minded and innocent Britisher may, on his first trip to the States, now and then walk into a very pretty little trap, neatly and carefully planned, like the web of the wily spider in wait for the inoffensive, curiosity-prompted, blundering fly.

I suppose I must have a somewhat unsophisticated aspect, which disguises all my dark and deep wisdom, and this appearance caused me to be selected as the victim of the little adventure I am going to recount.

It was at the close of my first visit to the States, and the day previous to my embarking for old England--all my business finished, and nothing to do but to say “Good-bye” to my friends and take a last look round.

I left the Astor House, valise in hand, and walked to the steamer _Teutonic_ lying alongside the wharf, ready to sail for Liverpool on the following day. Having put my bag in my state-room, I strolled into Houston Street with the intention of getting on a cable car for the Broadway, where I was to lunch with a cousin. No cable car being in sight, I leisurely lit a cigar and turned round to inspect the goods in a store window. I had not been gazing therein more than a moment when I heard a buggy drive up and stop behind me, and someone shout, “Hey!” I paid no attention, being almost a stranger in New York, and not supposing that the call was addressed to me, especially as Houston Street is one of the most crowded thoroughfares in the city.

The call was repeated, but still I took no notice. When I had finished my inspection of the window I turned round, and to my astonishment saw that a respectable-looking man in the buggy was endeavouring to attract my attention. I went up to him and asked what his business was with me; he replied that he wished to know if I could tell him when the steamer left for England. “Do you mean the _Teutonic_?” I said, and he answered, “Yes.”

“To-morrow morning at seven,” I replied. He thanked me, and was just whipping up his horse to drive on, when he suddenly pulled up again sharply, and said:--

“Excuse me, sir, but the reason I asked you about the steamer is that my guv’nor told me to try to find a respectable old gent who was sailing in the boat for England, and ask him if he would mind looking after his nephew, who is a boy of ten.”

“I hope you’ve found one,” I told him, smiling.

_From a Photograph._]

“I’ve come across no one, except yourself,” replied the man.

“Well,” said I, “as the boy is going over alone, if your master will bring him on to the steamer I will look out for him, and endeavour to keep an eye upon him during the voyage and make the trip pleasant to him.”

He thanked me most effusively, and said he was sure that I would be the right person to look after the boy, adding that his master would not think of giving me this trouble unless I would consent to receive payment, say a hundred dollars. I was taken aback by this latter suggestion, and rapidly came to the conclusion that the man’s so-called “guv’nor” must be one of the sharpers of New York. Up to this time, I must acknowledge, I had fully believed the fellow’s statements to be genuine.

I replied that I could not accept any such payment for the little I could do for the boy on the ship, whereupon the man again thanked me warmly, and asked me if I would come to his master’s house in order that he might introduce me. I declined; but, seeing no cable car coming along, it flashed across my mind that I would make use of him a little, so I asked which way he was driving, as I wanted to get to the upper end of Broadway.

“Jump in, sir!” he cried, whereupon I thanked him, and accepted the invitation.

I should not, of course, have done this had I not been fairly well acquainted with New York and able to tell that he was taking me in the right direction. We drove rapidly, and his conversation was clever and amusing. He asked me if I knew California?

“Yes, I have just come from there,” I told him. He seemed greatly pleased at this. Did I know Governor Stanford? I had not that pleasure, though I knew him well by name. My driver said that he was sorry for that, as the Governor was a relative of his master’s.

By this time we were in the Broadway, close to my cousin’s office, and seeing this I asked the man to pull up, but he begged me to go on and see his guv’nor, as it was only one block farther.

I still had half an hour to spare before lunch, and, though my suspicions were now thoroughly aroused, some impish spirit prompted me to “see the thing out,” so I said, “Very well, drive on.”

The man pulled up at the end of the block, and fixed his horse to the halter found in all New York streets for that purpose. I jumped out and we entered a stable, I taking care to keep close to the large open door. Needless to say, I scrutinized the floor closely and rapidly for trap-doors, but none appeared. My companion asked an ostler, who was rubbing down one of several horses, if the “guv’nor” was in. The man said “no,” but he would be back in a few minutes. I then informed the driver that I could not wait, and had better see him in the morning on the steamer.

“One minute,” replied the fellow; “if you will be good enough, I have only to go to No. 4, and will bring my guv’nor back with me.” With that he disappeared.

While we waited the ostler made one or two friendly remarks concerning the weather, and a moment later a gentleman, attired in a very handsome fur-lined coat, silk hat, and kid gloves of a light and delicate tint, walked into the stable from the street outside. My late companion followed, and, addressing me, said: “This is Dr. Coombs, sir,” observing to the doctor that I had offered to look after his nephew on the steamer without any payment. Dr. Coombs thanked me in a gentlemanlike manner, and appeared in all respects a well-bred man.

The doctor then turned to his coachman and told him to fetch the boy, explaining to me that his nephew was a ward in Chancery, and that he would become possessed of a fortune of over ten million dollars on attaining his majority. Being the boy’s guardian, he was anxious that some responsible person should keep an eye upon him during his voyage to England, where another uncle would meet him. We were only talking for a short time, but I noticed that the doctor was somewhat restless, moving frequently towards the stalls containing the horses, all of which, he remarked, belonged to his nephew. Still I could not shake off a certain suspicion of my surroundings, and would not move from the door.

We had been waiting about five minutes when a big, horsy-looking fellow lounged in from the street, shouting at the top of a loud voice: “Is the boss in?”

My friend in the fur coat came forward, politely raised his hat, said he was the master, and asked the stranger’s business.

The new-comer, pointing to a grey mare in one of the stalls, replied, “I had that mare out yesterday, and I want to know, boss, what you’ll take for her,” at the same time handing the doctor his card. Both men were at a little distance from me, and a few words passed between them which I did not hear. Then the fur-coated gentleman came up to me, saying, “Excuse me a minute; I can’t understand why the boy is so long; I will go and fetch him myself!” With that he left me with stranger number three.

This fellow continued to examine the horses, making remarks upon them to the ostler, and then, to my surprise, suddenly said to me, pointing to the grey mare, that he wanted to buy it; but “the boss” could not sell it to him, as he was an agent in Boston for buying and selling horses, the same line as “the boss” himself was in, and there was a State law prohibiting dealings between agents in the same business. He next asked me if I would help him in the transaction. I replied that I was sorry I could not see my way to do so.

“I wish you could,” said the stranger. “I would give eight hundred and fifty dollars for the mare; she is a valuable beast.” As he spoke the doctor returned. The Bostonian promptly told him he could see a way to a deal, as that gentleman (pointing to me) would buy the mare with his money, and then he in turn would purchase her from me, adding, “Now, boss, what’s your price?”

“Eight hundred dollars,” replied the doctor.

“There,” said the Boston dealer to me; “I told you I would give eight hundred and fifty dollars. Complete the purchase, and I will pay you the fifty dollars for commission.”

The doctor chimed in that he also would give me five per cent.--forty dollars.

“Gentlemen,” I said, laughing, “that is ninety dollars--a good morning’s work. But do you expect me to be carrying eight hundred dollars in my pocket through the streets of New York?”

They looked depressed at this; then the Bostonian, becoming suddenly cheerful, suggested that if “the gentleman” would pay ten per cent, of the value of the mare, he would pay the balance. The doctor agreed immediately, and the Bostonian pulled out a roll of green-backs from his pocket. Asking me to take the money, he placed a twenty-dollar note in my hand, and while he was taking another from the roll I raised it slightly as if I was weighing it; I saw at once that the note was a forged one--some of the letters upon it were smudged. It was not even a good imitation.

Both men read in my face that I had detected their fraud, and the expression of their countenances became diabolical. However, the Boston man went on pushing notes in my hand until he reached one hundred and fifty dollars, when the doctor pulled him up, saying that he must have the ten per cent. from me first. I saw the time had come for action, and so, allowing the notes to drop to the floor, I told them sternly that if I had been remaining in New York I should have had them arrested. I then left the premises immediately. Looking back, I saw the “doctor” rushing down some steps in front of the building, hurriedly throwing off his fur coat as he went, and the other man walking rapidly down the street in the opposite direction.

In conclusion, I may say that I was very glad to arrive at the Sinclair House and drink a stiff glass of brandy, as I was a trifle shaky, swearing to myself that I would never again risk pocket and life with mysterious strangers in the city of New York, even for the sake of “seeing it out.”

IN THE LAND OF THE REINDEER.

BY H. CHUSSEAU-FLAVIENS.

_From a Photograph._]

An article dealing with a strange and little-known people--the
Lapps. Living in a country where practically nothing grows,
their whole lives are occupied with the reindeer, the one
product of Lapland. A man’s wealth is reckoned in reindeer; he
eats its flesh and drinks its blood for food, and his clothes
are made of its skin. Small wonder, therefore, that the moss
on which the animals live is more important to him than cereal
crops, and that the highest form of Lapp art finds expression
in the carving of reindeer bones. Photographs by the Author.

Some little time ago I was in Sweden, and was strongly advised by my friends to take the opportunity of visiting Lapland, that strange country of reindeer and semi-savages. I was given a letter of introduction to a certain Lapp magnate, who, I was assured, was the most educated and advanced person in the country, and who would see that I saw everything worth seeing. “Go and interview him,” said my informant, “though I cannot promise that you will be able to get him to talk. The Lapps are very reticent; they will never tell you, for instance, how many reindeer they possess. Mickel Nilsson Nia, to whom I am giving you this letter of recommendation, is wealthy and educated, yet he covers himself with reindeer skins like the humblest of his herdsmen, drinks the warm blood of the animal he kills, and thinks no dish more succulent than a sort of cake made of reindeer blood mixed with flour! He is a splendid specimen of a people who have at once assimilated and resisted civilization.”

I began to think it might be worth my while to visit these curious folk, and in pursuit of information sought out another acquaintance, a colonel in the Swedish army.

He told me that the Lapps are very fond of stimulating drinks; they think nothing of drinking fifteen or twenty cups of coffee a day, while their consumption of punch is on a vast scale. It is no uncommon thing to see numbers of helplessly drunk natives in the streets of Tromsö, especially when the sale of reindeer flesh has been profitable. Yet robbery and, indeed, crime in general are practically unknown among them; the innate honesty of the people is quite extraordinary. The colonel gave me an example. “As, perhaps, you may have heard,” he said, “I am very keen on hunting both the wolf and the bear. On one occasion, accompanied by a Laplander, I was out after an enormous she-wolf, but the animal succeeded in completely baffling us. Finally, despairing of success, I abandoned the pursuit. A few days subsequently I was much surprised to receive a visit from my Lapp. With him he brought the wolf’s skin, which he insisted on my accepting; he had come up with the creature and killed it after a long, weary chase of many hours. I told him that the skin belonged to him, but he would listen to no argument. ‘You must be paid back for the trouble you have had,’ he kept repeating, with a smile. ‘It would not be fair for me to keep all the advantage for myself.’

_From a Photograph._]

“But go to the country and see things for yourself,” concluded my friend. “Try and speak with Mickel Nilsson Nia; but, above all things, make up your mind to practise patience. Nobody in Lapland appreciates the value of time in the slightest degree; a Lapp thinks nothing of turning up at an appointment six hours too soon or six hours too late. You must also be careful to be invariably most scrupulously polite to them. Their pride is boundless; they are persuaded they are almost divine. Their account of their origin is that, God having decided to submerge the world in the Deluge, everything living was drowned by the heavy rain, with the exception of two Laplanders, a man and a woman. These two God took under his charge and led to Vasso-Varra, where the couple separated, the man proceeding in one direction, the woman in another. For three years they pursued their respective paths, and at the end of that time found themselves again at Vasso Varra. On their travels neither had encountered a living soul. Three separate times did they repeat the experience. When nine years had elapsed they came to the conclusion that in the whole world they were the only inhabitants, and consequently they decided to marry one another. They had a very large family, and to-day the whole earth is peopled with their children; those who do not live in Lapland are degenerates!”

_From a Photograph._]

Well, I went to Lapland, eager to see the semi-savages of whom I had heard so much. It is unnecessary to describe the earlier stages of my journey. Tromsö, Hammerfest, and Lyngseedt, though much frequented, are but large villages in the neighbourhood of which the nomad Lapps pasture their reindeer. The animals feed on a sort of lichen, termed reindeer moss, which, during the autumn, covers the mountains with what looks like a mantle of snow.

The natives live in primitive wattle and mud huts, and I found entire families living in paternal promiscuity with their animals in what--judged by the usual standards--was a most pestilential atmosphere, the predominating feature of which was a nauseous mingled odour of leather and boiled coffee.

As to the people themselves, the typical Laplander, with whom I grew familiar, was, by no means a disagreeable type. Many of the older men bear a strange resemblance to French peasants, having the same dark skin, black hair, large mouth, thin face, prominent cheek-bones, and long, pointed chin. Even in the most wretched hovels I was offered a cup of coffee, accompanied by polite gestures that would have been appropriate for the bestowal of Royal hospitality. In exchange for this courtesy I usually presented my hosts with chocolate sweetmeats, which were received with transports of gratitude. My general impression, however, was that I was among a very primitive peasant race, but I am bound to admit that the Laplanders fell in with all my requirements as a photographer with the utmost good grace; they invariably took the pose I required better than my own people, and never displayed any unseemly curiosity.

I had not forgotten the famous Mickel Nilsson Nia, and when I reached Nawick a Lapp schoolmistress there was kind enough to serve me as guide to the abode of her celebrated countryman. We walked for an hour through a most desolate stretch of country, which gave one the impression that it had been abandoned after some mighty natural cataclysm. In this landscape of death the only persons we met were a stray herdsman or two, miserably attired, driving before them a few attenuated reindeer. Suddenly my guide stopped, exclaiming, “Here is Mickel’s house.”

_From a Photograph._]

On the threshold two women were engaged in tanning reindeer hides. One of the women was elderly, the other quite young, yet they were attired in an almost identical manner. Each wore a short, coarse brown woollen skirt, beneath which were visible garments that resembled trousers made of bands of tightly-wound cloth. On their shoulders were grey shawls, on their feet enormous shoes of reindeer leather, on their heads bonnets of some blue material covered with lace. The colours usually employed in Lapp costumes, by the way, are white, black, grey, blue, and green; brighter hues are seldom seen.

At sight of us the two women ceased working to stare, and then broke out into a hearty laugh--not of derision, but of welcome. The Laplander is of an extremely jovial disposition, and invariably prides himself on the possession of some nickname--not always complimentary--bestowed upon him in jest. My guide addressed herself to the younger of the two women, who, in addition to the garments I have enumerated, wore some splendid reindeer furs. Then a young peasant came out of the hut, and there ensued a tremendous discussion, the result of which was to convince us that we had made a mistake--Mickel Nilsson’s hut was farther on. The young man volunteered to accompany us there.

_From a Photograph._]

Finally, we came up to a group of men and women, in the centre of which, busily talking, a veritable Triton among minnows, was the person I sought. On the road I had, through my interpreter, been questioning our new companion, and had thus learned that Mickel Nilsson Nia was a sort of Lapp Rothschild, and possessed nine thousand head of reindeer. As each animal may be put down as worth roughly about a sovereign, the fortune of the little Lapp before me--who, hearing the object of my mission, had now put his finger to his cap and was wringing my hand with great affability--might be estimated at nine thousand pounds.

We had come upon him on a holiday, it appeared, and Mickel Nilsson Nia was arrayed in his very best clothes. On his head he wore a tall sugarloaf, peaked cap, topped by a bright red “pompon,” which gave it a most extraordinary aspect. His body was covered by a superb white reindeer skin--the gala costume--and on his vest glittered the medal bestowed upon him by King Oscar as a reward for his success in breeding reindeer. The man’s whole appearance, with his moustache, short beard, cunning eyes, and perpetual smile, reminded me strongly of Li Hung Chang, the Chinese statesman of illustrious memory, and also the richest man in his country.

Mickel Nilsson Nia courteously invited me to enter his hut. I hesitated for a moment, and then, with head bent low, bravely dashed into the malodorous atmosphere of leather and boiled coffee which I had already learned to dread. In the semi-gloom of the interior a mass of animals were wallowing about, though I could not see them very distinctly. I sank into a wicker arm-chair.

“A cup of coffee?”

“Many thanks.”

Into my hands was thrust a grotesquely-coloured cup, bearing the fateful legend, “Made in Germany.” Like a hero I gulped down the mixture it contained; to tell the truth, it was not unsavoury. Then I commenced to ask him a few questions.

“Are things prospering in the reindeer breeding?” I inquired.

_From a Photograph._]

Mickel’s answer was strictly non-committal--neither a decided “yes” nor a “no.”

“How many animals do you possess?”

Again he evaded the direct answer with an unsatisfactory “Not so many as I once had.” Then he called my attention to a herd of some three hundred animals or so on the neighbouring hillside, but added immediately, as though fearing he had hinted too much, “They do not all belong to me, however; some are the property of my neighbours. The herdsman we share between us.”

After this I thought it as well to abandon commercial matters for literature. Mickel Nilsson Nia is a man of letters, devoting to books all the leisure his nomadic pursuits leave him. Of the literature of Lapland he spoke with pride.

“With us,” added Mickel, “literature is essentially popular. Our poets sing only of what they have actually under their eyes; they celebrate our daily life, our labours.” Here is a specimen of our poetry:--

The reindeer are in full flight.
Look at their wild flowing manes!
Look at the capricious animals!
Look how the noble creatures bound fleet-footed over the plain
through the world!
At his topmost speed the man pursues them, sweat standing out in
great beads.
“Ah, how fatigued I am!” he cries.
“And yet what would I not do to catch them!”
Oh, the precious animal!
What flesh, what a skin, what horns, what veins, what bones!
How excellent is all about him!
How excellent he is himself!
Ah, ah, ah!
Look! Look!
Two hundred, three hundred, thousands together!
Ever do they flee.
Into the lakes, into the snow do they cast themselves, seeking to
get refreshed.
Only when the sun has set will they come forth.
Now the night has come; forth they dart.
Now it is day and they hide themselves; only the plaintive bleats
of the young fall on the ear.

_From a Photograph._]

As I was begging my interpreter to convey to Mickel Nilsson Nia my admiration of this stirring epic of hunting, my host picked up a bundle of Swedish illustrated papers from the corner and proceeded to make comments upon them. Just then, however, a herdsman entered with news of importance, so I rose and took my leave.

Accompanied by my two companions, I retraced my steps through the wild, desolate country, in which none but the most intrepid of sportsmen could find any pleasure. It is a land in which there are neither hotels nor houses; a land which seems to take one back to some remote age of innocence, when simple, honest human beings drove their flocks and herds before them, chanting the while a hymn to the delights of a pastoral life.

What souvenirs, you ask, can one carry away from this strange country, where the reindeer rules supreme, and which, without the presence of that useful animal, would sink into a condition of abject poverty and utter desolation? Appropriately enough, there is nothing but carved reindeer bones. Some are carved in so extraordinarily realistic and expert a fashion that more than one eminent sculptor to whom I have shown them has lifted his hands in admiration.

_From a Photograph._]

Like all true artists worthy the name--like the Japanese, for instance--the Laplander will only reproduce what he sees. Consequently, in nine cases out of ten his carved reindeer bones show only reindeer--reindeer at rest, reindeer jumping, reindeer harnessed to sledges, and reindeer browsing. The thing becomes an absolute obsession. And what realism is displayed by these unconscious artists! What long hours of patient observation are implied by the life-like attitudes they depict, and which might almost have been photographed, so true are they to Nature! One gets the impression, watching the Lapp carver at work, that one is in the presence of an artisan of a bygone age, before rules had been laid down and become stereotyped--an age when each individual worker was guided by his personal inspiration alone.

After all, then, in this strange country, where there is supposed to be “nothing but reindeer,” one may still find among these half-savage people financiers--like Mickel Nilsson Nia--poets, and artists--types which certainly go to show that the Lapps possess some of the attributes of a civilized nation. Music alone is unknown in Lapland, and this may be because the Lapp, with his boundless pride of race, considers he has no need of its chastening and refining influence.

_From a Photograph._]

“TAPU.”

BY D. W. O. FAGAN, OF MANGAPAI, WHANGAREI, AUCKLAND, NEW ZEALAND.

The author writes: “I can vouch for this story in every
particular. I hope it may prove interesting to ’Wide World’
readers, as illustrating the endless ramifications of the old
Maori law of ‘tapu,’ and the absurd predicaments in which
Europeans coming under its influence occasionally found
themselves.”

In the old days of thirty-five years ago, especially in the out-districts, the Maoris still retained many of their ancient customs.

Among other inconvenient practices they had an insane habit of depositing the bones of the dead in any kind of handy spot that took their fancy--on the top of an island, in a hollow tree, in the crevices of rocks--anywhere that was most convenient.

Afterwards the place became “tapu” (sacred, forbidden, prohibited). Consequently any unwary and unsuspecting stranger who, happening along, chanced to lean against the tree or tread on the rocks became himself “tapu” (meaning, in this connection, accursed, unclean), and was hunted from the tribe as a social leper and outcast. Like Cain, every man’s hand was against him, though it was forbidden to kill him; and unless he was a man of mark and could get the “tohunga” (priest) to “lift the ‘tapu’ off him” he speedily succumbed to a general sense of misery and superstitious bedevilment.

It is not my intention to attempt an explanation of the working of the “tapu” law. That has already been done by far abler pens than mine. My own opinion is that no one ever did properly understand it--not even the Maoris themselves.

In the beginning, probably, the thing was a decent and workable law enough, as laws go, but in the course of ages, what with amendments and addenda, it got beyond everything and was entirely indigestible by human intellect; finally becoming an incubus--a kind of religio-legal nightmare from which they couldn’t wake up.

I only know that any place, person, or thing could become “tapu.” Food, fire, air, and water were not free from it. Man, woman, and child were subject to it. For any trivial cause and without his knowledge a man might be made “tapu.”

Sometimes it was partial, affecting only the feet or hands, and on these occasions a man could put a “tapu” on himself by walking about or scratching his own head!

Anyhow, if you got a bad dose of it, things became pretty uncomfortable.

White men could generally escape by affecting to ignore the thing and taking ship for another country.

Unfortunately, as the reader will perceive, circumstances prevented my adoption of this course.

At the time I am telling of I was superintending their northern trading station at Te Mata for Messrs. Franks, Backhouse, and Co., a big Auckland firm. Puketawa--whom I have mentioned in previous WIDE WORLD contributions--a native of the South Island, educated at a mission school, was by way of being my servant and store-help. Having lived much with Europeans, and being ridiculously proud of the little the mission school had taught him, he affected to despise the Maoris of the neighbourhood. “Ignorant savages,” he called them, and stood aloof in the light of superior wisdom. At times he even permitted himself a mild remonstrance at what he considered my undue intimacy with the heathen. Education had made Puketawa a bit of a snob; but, for all that, he was a very good fellow.