Chapter V (1)

While this banter had been passing among the company in the great oak library below, Miss Mettleby lay on her little white bed where she had flung herself in a deeper and sterner mood than had ever been hers before. One after another possible explanation of her great knight’s terrible words presented itself to her mind, only to be rejected.

For one quivering moment the thought that if the woman who passed for Mrs. Fair were not, as he had said, his wife, he was free to—but, no, for that meant that Maxwell Fair was a scoundrel who could not only place a woman in such a nameless position but also desert her when she had borne children to him. It was a frightful view from any point—and yet, at the bottom of her heart she felt that the man who had obtained such a mastery over her soul was not, could not be, so base.

Racked by this futile effort to see light through the darkness Miss Mettleby started as she heard a tap at her door and the quiet, earnest voice of Mrs. Fair asking if she might come in. Her first impulse was to take this strong, sweet woman, so terribly her fellow-sufferer, into her confidence, but before she had called out to her to enter all such mad ideas had flown. Trying to banish all evidence of her recent tempest of feeling, the governess respectfully begged her mistress to come in.

It was nothing, Mrs. Fair said, with a great show of forced pleasantry, but a little surprise for Mr. Fair—a parcel. Would Miss Mettleby hide it while they were at dinner, and tell her where she had put it after? Both women assured each other that they had not been crying—just a headache. And, yes, Miss Mettleby would find a hiding-place for the surprise.

So Mrs. Fair went down to greet her guests, and when she had heard the company go from the library to dinner, Miss Mettleby ran down to that deserted room with the big, brown-paper parcel in her hands. She had at once thought of the old Italian chest as the very place in which to hide Mr. Fair’s surprise. She peeped into the library to make sure that her ears had not deceived her. The room was empty, and the girl crept in.

Fearing that some of the footmen or other servants might enter, she took the precaution to draw the portières across the door into the passage and then hurriedly removed the books and other things that Mr. Fair had placed upon the chest. This done, she was just going to lift the lid, when she heard a peculiar hissing noise which would have startled her at any time and which, with her nerves keyed up, now filled her with genuine terror. She turned from the chest and listened.

(_To be continued in the April number._)

_A Trust-Buster_

COBWIGGER—By the way, my dear, I haven’t seen anything of the gas bill this month.

MRS. COBWIGGER—Oh, Henry, it came over a week ago, but it was so much I didn’t dare show it to you for fear you would blame me for being extravagant. Here it is.

COBWIGGER (_looking at bill_)—Hoppity-hornets! What a bill for a small family! I don’t blame you at all, my dear. It isn’t your fault; it’s this grasping corporation. But I’ll get ahead of them all right.

MRS. COBWIGGER—How can you?

COBWIGGER—Pshaw! It’s just like a woman to ask such a foolish question. How am I going to get ahead of this monopoly? Why, tell the old gas company to take out its meter.

MRS. COBWIGGER—And then what will you do?

COBWIGGER—Why, put in lamps and patronize the Standard Oil Company.

_Kernels_

Many a politician who talks about an honest dollar never earned an honest penny.

If there wasn’t a sucker born every minute a lot of people in this world would have to work for a living.

The cost of keeping up appearances is usually defrayed with other people’s money.

The man whose mind moves like clockwork isn’t the fellow who has wheels in his head.

Many a politician would be a statesman if there were more money in it.

The thought of work makes some people more tired than if they had really done the work.

The man who thinks that his money will do almost everything for him is the one who did almost everything for his money.

Marriage is the only union that doesn’t make a man keep regular hours.

_A Positive Proof_

“Are you sure that Percy really loves you?”

“Positive. Why, at the dinner last night he offered to divide his last dyspepsia tablet with me.”

_The Butcheries of Peace_

BY W. J. GHENT

_Author of “Our Benevolent Feudalism,” “Mass and Class”_

We hear much of the butchery of war. Mr. Edward Atkinson and his fellow-anti-militarists are always opulent with statistics of casualties in armed conflicts; and in their violent denunciation of warfare are eagerly joined by the various peace societies, the Women’s Christian Temperance unions and such militant, though ephemeral, bodies as the Parker Constitutional Clubs. A prominent educator has characterized the Civil War as the Great Killing, and the popular imagination has been led to look upon it as a carnival of almost unexampled bloodshed. The militarism of gun and sword is denounced as though it were the greatest scourge of the race, and its horrors are pictured in the most lurid colors.

The horrors of _industrial_ militarism, on the other hand, claim but scant attention. Under our present civilization, dominated by the ethics of the trading class, they are, by the overwhelming mass of the people, taken as a matter of course. And yet the fiercest and bloodiest of modern wars—excepting alone the present Russo-Japanese conflict—result in smaller losses in deaths, maimings and the infliction of mortal diseases than are caused by the ordinary processes of the capitalist system of industry. A modern Milton might appropriately remind us that

Peace hath her butcheries no less renowned than war.

If the Civil War is to be regarded as the Great Killing, it must be so regarded only in relation to other wars; for in comparison with capitalist industry as it obtains in the United States of America in this decade, the Civil War can only rightly be regarded as the Lesser Killing. It lasted, moreover, for but four years; while the killings and other casualties of our industrial militarism go on year after year in an ever-increasing volume. And as the Civil War eliminated the physically best of the race, so does the present system of industry eliminate the physically best. Only it does not stop there, but takes also the helpless and the weak.

Let us see what comparisons of casualties can be made. According to the figures in the Adjutant-General’s office, the fatalities in the Northern Army during the four years of the Civil War (exclusive of deaths from disease) were as follows:

Killed in battle 67,058
Died of wounds 43,012
Other causes 40,154
-------
Total 150,224
Yearly average 37,556

There were also 199,720 soldiers who died of disease. There are no means of comparing the number of these fatalities with the fatalities from disease contracted in dangerous and unsanitary occupations. It is probable that they do not approximate one-tenth of the latter. But, since there are no available figures for comparison, they must be omitted from present consideration.

The losses of the Confederates will never be known. The records of their armies were but imperfectly kept, and such as were properly made were in many instances lost or destroyed. Even the strength of the Confederate armies is a matter about which there has been an unceasing dispute between Northern and Southern historians since the Civil War. It is not to be doubted that the Confederates suffered a greater mortality relative to their numerical strength than did the Federals, for they were employed to the last available man on the firing line, whereas hundreds of thousands of Federals, held as reserves or stationed as guards, rarely saw the action of battle. In certain engagements, moreover, such as the battle of Chickamauga, the Confederate losses far exceeded the Federal losses. Assuming the purely arbitrary figure of 65 per cent. of the Federal fatalities as representing the fatalities of the Confederates (exclusive of deaths from disease), we have a total of 97,645, or a yearly average of 24,411. Adding the figures for both sides we have an annual average of 62,112 fatalities occurring in a struggle to the death, wherein every device, every energy which men can employ against one another for the destruction of life were employed.

When we come to the statistics of industrial fatalities, we find something like the records of the Confederate armies. The figures are notoriously, confessedly incomplete, and often so much so as to be entirely misleading. Even the tables of railroad accidents compiled by the Interstate Commerce Commission are known to show totals far below the actual casualties. A writer in the New York _Herald_ for December 4, 1904, has analyzed some of these tables and pointed out their defects. But, defective as they are, they furnish an approximate basis for comparisons with some of the sanguinary conflicts of the Civil War. The killings on interstate roads for the year ended June 30, 1904, are reported at 9,984; the woundings at 78,247. The State roads probably added about 975 killings and 7,500 woundings. To these may be added the casualties on the trolley lines, approximately 1,340 killed and 52,169 wounded. We have thus a basis for comparison with the losses at Gettysburg, Chancellorsville and Chickamauga:

_Losses in Three Battles (both sides), 1863_

Killed Wounded
Gettysburg 5,662 27,203
Chickamauga 3,924 23,362
Chancellorsville 3,271 18,843
------ ------
12,857 69,408

_Losses in Railroad Accidents, 1904_

Killed Wounded
Interstate roads 9,984 78,247
State roads *975 7,500
Trolley lines *1,340 52,169
------ -------
12,299 137,916
*Estimated.

The factories probably destroy more lives than do the railroads. But the figures are not obtainable. The statistics of factory casualties given in Bulletin No. 83 of the Census Bureau are ridiculous. Were the factories placed under a Federal supervision law, and were their owners compelled to report accidents to the authorities, a vastly different condition would be revealed. For the coal mines, on the other hand, we have something like authentic figures. The United States Geological Survey reports the casualties in mining coal for the year 1901 as 1,467 killed and 3,643 wounded. Except for the low ratio of wounded to killed, this would make a fair comparison with any one of a number of important engagements during the Civil War. Pennsylvania alone furnished an industrial Bull Run.

_Battle of Bull Run, 1861_

Killed Wounded
Federals 470 1,071
Confederates 387 1,582
---- -----
Total 857 2,653

_Pennsylvania Coal Mines, 1901_

Killed Wounded
Anthracite 513 1,243
Bituminous 301 656
---- -----
Total 814 1,899

When we pass from the record of particular industries to the general casualty record we are met by a mass of unintelligible figures. Bulletin No. 83 gives the rate of fatal accidents in the cities wherein registration is required as 100.3 in each 100,000 of population. For the whole registration record the rate is 96.3. On a basis of 80,000,000 population this would mean a yearly loss of from 77,040 to 80,240 lives. Mr. Frederick L. Hoffman, of the Prudential Insurance Company, in a letter printed in Mr. Robert Hunter’s recent volume, “Poverty,” estimates the rate as between 80 and 85 per 100,000. This would mean from 64,000 to 68,000 killings. “If we say that twenty-five are injured to every one killed, and consider ... the fatal accident rate to be 80 in every 100,000, we have it that 1,664,000 persons are annually killed or more or less seriously injured in the United States. If all minor accidents were taken into consideration, it is probable that the ratio of non-fatal accidents to fatal accidents would be nearly 100 to 1.” This would mean approximately 4,800,000 minor woundings every year.

We cannot separate, on the basis of present figures, the fatal accidents which would be inevitable under any form of society and those which are consequent upon the present capitalist system of production, with its brutal indifference to life. We can only estimate. We have, for instance, in the census reports, an entry of “burns and scalds,” but nothing about boiler explosions; we have a certain number of deaths from drowning, but we are not told whether they occurred in frightful disasters like mine floods or the destruction of a _General Slocum_—for which capitalist industry is solely responsible—or in accidents wherein the individual’s whim or caprice alone was responsible. And finally we have an appalling record of suicides; but in how many of these business troubles or other economic causes were the impelling motives for self-destruction we cannot tell.

What we do know is that the overwhelming number of the fatalities that all of us learn of, instance by instance, are due to economic causes; that railroad, factory and mining accidents are for the most part needless, and due almost entirely to the brutal indifference of capital to the lives of the workers, and that far the greater number of suicides of which we read or hear are of beings who have been sent to death through economic troubles. Under the benign reign of capitalist industry we have a yearly list of fatalities somewhere between 64,000 and 80,240 and of serious maimings of 1,600,000, whereas two great armies, employing all the enginery of warfare, could succeed in slaughtering only 62,112 human beings yearly.

It is time we heard less of the butchery of war; time we heard more of the butchery of peace. And yet it is doubtful if we shall hear a different strain from those now most prominently before the public as advocates of peace. The advocacy of peace, in so far as it emanates from the retainers and other beneficiaries of the capitalist class, is based not so much upon humanitarian grounds as upon the ground that the worker is serving a more useful purpose when mangled in the Holy War of Trade than when slaughtered in armed conflict. It is the waste of profits on human labor, rather than the waste of life, that most deeply affects them. They are not always conscious of this, because they instinctively identify their moral notions with the material interests of the class they serve. But an unconscious or subconscious motive may be the most powerful of impulses to speech and action. And thus there is every reason to believe that we shall continue to hear the horrors of war most loudly denounced by the very ones who keep most silent regarding the horrors of industrial “peace.”

* * * * *

It is curious how fond men grow of each other when they are making money together.

_Remembered_

BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX

His art was loving. Eros set his sign
Upon that youthful forehead, and he drew
The hearts of women, as the sun draws dew.
Love feeds love’s thirst as wine feeds love of wine.
Nor is there any potion from the vine
Which makes men drunken, like the subtle brew,
Of kisses crushed by kisses; and he grew
Inebriated with that draught divine.

Yet in his sober moments, when the sun
Of radiant summer paled to lonely fall
And passion’s sea had grown an ebbing tide,
From out the many Memory singled one
Full cup that seemed the sweetest of them all—
The warm, red mouth that mocked him and denied!

_Martyrdom_

BY LEONARD CHARLES VAN NOPPEN

The world cries loud for blood; for never grew
One saving truth that blossomed, man to bless,
That withered not in barren loneliness
Till watered by the sacrificial dew.
Behold the prophets stoned—the while they blew
A warning blast—the sad immortal guess
Of Socrates—the thorn-crowned lowliness
Of Christ! And that black cross our Lincoln knew!
’Tis only through the whirlwind and the storm
That man can ever reach his starry goal;
Someone must bleed or else the world will die.
Upon the flaring altar of reform
Some heart lies quivering ever. To what soul
That dares be true, comes not the martyr’s agony?

_The Debt_

BORROWBY—By Jove, old man! I owe you an everlasting debt of gratitude!

GRIMSHAW—No, you don’t, Borrowby! You owe me fifty dollars in money.

_The Heroism of Admiral Guldberg_

THE MOST AMAZING NAVAL BATTLE EVER FOUGHT

BY ROBERT BARR

We must not allow the thunder of the guns around Port Arthur to deaden our ears to accounts of heroism in the past. Other admirals have attacked fortified strongholds before Togo was heard of. Other admirals have striven for the command of the sea before Alexieff blundered into a war for which he was not ready. I record the capable strenuousness of Admiral Guldberg, who strove to defend a country not his own, and did the best he could with the materials provided him.

Ajax defied the lightning, and Guldberg defied the French, possessors of the second most powerful navy afloat. Therefore three cheers for old Guldberg and more power to his elbow.

A dozen years ago, when Siam resolved to take its place among the great nations of the earth, that country imported from Europe certain men who were supposed to know how to do things. An Englishman from Oxford endeavored to evolve a school system; a German from Krupp’s establishment was made head of the Royal railway department, although there were no railways at that time in the country to look after; still, as there was no education either, he started fair with the Englishman. Another German looked after telegraphs, and he also had a clean slate to begin on. The reconstruction of the army and navy was intrusted to the care of a pair of Danes, notable fighters of yore and master mariners, as all the world knows. Commodore de Richelieu had been a Danish officer, and it would have astonished the cardinal of that name to have seen him fighting against the French. De Richelieu had charge of the forts, and the training of the men to defend them. Admiral Guldberg commanded the fleet, and endeavored with indifferent success to teach the Siamese something about navigation.

In 1893, while these useful Danes were endeavoring to put some backbone into Siamese incompetency, the diplomatic services of France and Siam began sending picture post-cards to each other. Diplomacy is invariably polite, but when it takes a hand in the game, prepare for squalls. Although I have the Blue-books before me relating to this tragic occurrence, I am quite unable to determine the rights of the case. Probably France and Siam were both in the wrong, but be that as it may, France persisted in her intention, little dreaming that right round the bend of the river Admiral Guldberg was waiting for her. The rights and wrongs in these affairs depend a great deal on the power of the other party.

I imagine if France wished to send two gunboats up the Hudson River, and the President of the United States ordered the war vessels to proceed no further than New York Bay, France might perhaps have considered herself in the wrong, and the war vessels would not have proceeded; but as the other party in the case under consideration was merely the helpless kingdom of Siam, it is a historical fact that the two members of the French fleet, _Inconstant_ and _Comète_, crossed the Rubicon; in other words, the bar—and entered the River Me-nam against the current and the wishes of His Majesty of Siam; and this took place on that unlucky day, the thirteenth of July, 1893.

Paknam was the Port Arthur in this instance. It lies three miles from the mouth of the river and thirty miles by water south of the capital, Bangkok, although on the opposite bank of the stream a railway sixteen miles in length runs into the capital. At Paknam everything was prepared for a desperate resistance. The forts were well manned and the cannon were loaded. Commodore de Richelieu was in command, glad that diplomacy had broken down, as it usually does, and that now military renown was to be his. The Siamese soldiers have one defect: they believe in the couplet that “he who fights and runs away will live to fight another day.” Indeed, they better the lines, and run away before even showing fight. Thus, in all the wars Siam has engaged in she has never lost a man, just as if she were the Cunard line of steamers.

When the Siamese soldiers realized that their gallant Commodore was actually going to fire off the guns, they unanimously got over the garden wall with a celerity that amazed the man from Denmark. Nothing daunted, the resolute de Richelieu held the fort, and himself fired off the guns one after another. When this cannonade had been accomplished he was helpless, for he could not reload without assistance, so he got himself into a steam launch, sailed across the river and took train to Bangkok.

Authorities differ as to the result of the Commodore’s cannon fire. One says that several Frenchmen were killed and wounded, another that no harm was done. So far as I am aware the French gunboat made no reply, but steamed majestically up the river, while their enemy was steaming with equal majesty on a special engine over the rocky road to Bangkok.

While the French fleet was proceeding toward a peril of which they had not the slightest suspicion, we have time to consider the equipment of Admiral Guldberg, who will not be so easily got rid of as his countryman, the Commodore.

Three years before there had been built at Hong Kong a steam yacht for His Excellency the Governor of the Philippines, which at that time was under Spanish rule. When the yacht was finished the Governor of course wanted it, but wished to pay on the instalment plan, whereas the builders said they were not engaged in the three years’ hire system business, and having some acquaintance with Spanish financial arrangements, they declined to deliver the goods except on a basis of cash down. Such a hard money determination was enough to knock the bottom out of any negotiation with a Spanish official, so the Governor folded his toga proudly about him, and in the purest Castilian practically repeated the words of the old song to the effect that the yacht might go to Hong Kong for him, which it did not need to do, being there already. So in Hong Kong it remained, until in ’91 an emissary of the Siamese Government bought it, and took it round to Bangkok.

The Siamese armed this terrific vessel with old muzzle-loading cannons that had hitherto occupied the position of corner posts of various compounds about the capital. The boat had been intended for pleasure and not for war, so there were no portholes for the muzzles of the guns. This difficulty was got over by building a low deck-house the length of the vessel, and placing the cannon athwart this structure, one pointing to port, another to starboard, another to port, another to starboard, and so on, the ordnance being chained down, or roped or tied with string, so that it would not cause the yacht to tumble a somersault when fired. The arrangement had the advantage of economy, as no gun-carriages were needed, and as the cannon could be loaded from the deck. But there was also the drawback, which perhaps would have been felt more in any other navy than that of Siam, which consisted of the fact that you could not aim the cannon at anything in particular. Still, a gunner might have much enjoyment in shooting at the landscape in general. A British naval officer of large experience stated solemnly that he never understood the horrors of warfare until he saw this vessel. The arrangement of the cannon made the craft somewhat top-heavy, and so the authorities wisely ordained that she was never to put to sea where the waves might upset the apple cart.

As if the cannon were not enough, her name was one likely to strike terror into the heart of the stoutest enemy. She was called the _Makut Rajakumar_, and she was listed in the naval annals of Siam as a small cruiser. This sea-dog of war was the flagship of Admiral Guldberg, commanded and captained by the Dane himself, with a full crew of twenty-seven fighting Siamese, not to mention two engineers and four stokers.

The French pretend that two vessels opposed the coming of their two warships, and while this is technically true, it is not actually so, and as the statement tends to detract from the undoubted bravery of Admiral Guldberg, it may as well be stated that the second vessel was a small steam scow which carried only one gun, whose muzzle projected overboard where the bowsprit is on a sailing vessel, and because the gun was stationary there, chained there as were those on the _Makut Rajakumar_, it could be loaded only when the scow was moored to a wharf. This barge was commanded by Captain Schmieglow. His crew deserted him in a body before she left the wharf, and as the good Captain did not understand the engine he contented himself with firing the cannon down the river, which concussion so dislocated the machinery that the scow ran her nozzle agin’ the bank of the opposite shore, and there the Captain was helpless. So his Admiral had to fight the battle alone.

Again French historians maintain that their warships never fired a shot at the floating lunatic asylum which assailed them, and it is also stated that the Admiral’s cannon balls never touched them. That may all be true enough, but it in no way interferes with my assertion that Admiral Guldberg did the very best he could with the material in hand, and that he put up one of the finest fights ever recorded in the history of the sea.

And now we come to the battle, and as the French had a certain hand in it, the stirring lines of French Canada’s poet, Dr. Drummond, may fittingly be quoted to open the strife.

One dark night on Lake St. Pierre,
The wind she blow, blow, blow;
And the crew of the wood scow _Julia Plante_
Got scared and ran below.

The unfortunate occurrence which ultimately wrecked the _Julia Plante_ happened also on board the _Makut Rajakumar_. The moment the French war vessels appeared the entire crew of the Siamese cruiser dived below, bewailing their lot, and leaving Admiral Guldberg alone on deck. The helmsman deserted the wheel, and the engineer his engine. The French fleet was still some distance to the southward, so the Admiral rushed after his craven crew, and kicked most of them aloft again, wild Danish oaths from his lips keeping time to the energetic swaying of his foot, commanding them to stand by the guns. It was no use; with a yell of terror they again descended, falling over each other down into the hold. The Admiral ran to the wheel, swerved his vessel; then let go the spokes, seized a lighted torch, and fired the port side cannons one after another. Back he dashed to the wheel again, turned his boat up the river, for the Frenchmen were now passing him, fled again to the unfired guns and gave the French the second broadside.

Now, to his horror, he saw that the French ships, better engined than his own, were leaving him without firing a shot, and from the prow he shook his fist at them, daring them to stand up to him, but neither the mouth of man nor the mouth of cannon made answer.

Flinging his cocked hat to the deck, and tossing his laced coat on top of it, rolling up his sleeves and seizing the rammer, he swabbed out the old cannon, and reloaded, while the decrepit engine, unattended, jogged away up the river after the rapidly disappearing French warships. That task accomplished, he cast his eye ahead and saw the river was clear, so sprang down into the stokehold, and sent a few shovelfuls of coal under the boiler, then came on deck again wiping his perspiring brow. By this time the French boats were quite out of gunshot, and the only consolation left for the courageous Dane was that at least he was chasing them.

At this most inopportune moment there arose a galling and Gallic laugh from a coasting schooner lying at anchor in the river. It is never advisable to laugh at an exasperated man, as these hilarious mariners were soon to learn. Slow as the _Makut_ was she could certainly outstrip a small French coasting vessel at anchor. The angry Admiral turned his red face toward the Sound, and saw before him the _J. B. Say_, a French trading craft, tauntingly flying the tricolor at the masthead. The infuriated Admiral remembered that his adopted country was at war with this hated emblem, so he roared across the muddy waters:

“Haul down that flag and surrender!”

The crew replied with the French equivalent of “Go to thunder!” which the Admiral at once proceeded to obey. He ran to the wheel, steered his steamer in a semicircle, headed her down the river and sprang to the guns. Thunder spoke out the first cannon, and missed. Thunder again the second, with an after crash of woodwork, the ball carrying away part of the bulwarks.

“Stop it, you madman!” shrieked the crew.

“Surrender!” roared the Admiral, but they were now working madly at the windlass, trying to hoist the anchor. The _Makut Rajakumar_ had passed the boat, and now the Admiral took to the wheel again, swooped around, and came on with his other battery. The first shot struck fair in the prow, and the second, to the consternation of the Frenchmen, hit just at the waterline, tearing a fatal hole in the timber. The third shot went wide, and the Admiral allowed his steamer to forge ahead while he swabbed out the guns and reloaded them.

By the time this was finished and he had turned round again the _J. B. Say_ was under way, but with a dangerous list to one side. The steamer speedily overtook her, and crash! crash! went the guns again, and once more she was struck in a tender place, which was quite unnecessary, for the craft was palpably sinking, in spite of the efforts of four men at the pumps.

At last the heated Admiral ceased fire, for the Frenchmen, taking to the longboat, had abandoned their vessel, and were rowing for the shore. The _J. B. Say_ with a wobble or two settled down and disappeared beneath the surface of the muddy Me-nam. Admiral Guldberg descended to the engine-room, stopped the engines, and kicked the engineer into some sense of his duties aboard the cruiser. He informed his huddled naval brigade, who were scared almost white by the firing, that the Battle of Paknam had ended gloriously for the Siamese flag, after which announcement he urged them on deck by means of boot and fist. As there was nothing visible to frighten the crew, the Admiral himself being the only object of terror in the neighborhood, discipline once more resumed its sway. The engineer responded to the tinkle of the bell, and the cruiser _Makut Rajakumar_ began pounding its way up to the capital, pausing only to capture the French flag which fluttered from the masthead of the sunken _J. B. Say_.

Admiral Guldberg steamed in triumph to Bangkok, but had to take the wheel himself when the town was sighted, for the moment his crew caught a glimpse of the French cruiser floating peacefully in front of the embassy, they promptly went below again, as was the custom of Sir Joseph Porter when the breezes began to blow.

It would be joyful to add that Admiral Guldberg received the recognition he deserved, but it is hardly necessary to state that such was not the fact. The Siamese Government apologized abjectly for their Admiral and his action. They said he had fired without orders. The Minister of Foreign Affairs congratulated the commander of the French ship _Inconstant_ on his boldness and daring in forcing a way to Bangkok. The owners of the _J. B. Say_ were lavishly compensated. Admiral Guldberg was degraded to plain captain, and the government had little difficulty in proving that no Siamese obstructed the advance of the French, which statement was true enough.

_A Sociological Fable_

There was trouble in the Poultry yard; things were Changed from the way they had been, so that it was becoming Hard for some of the Fowls to get a Sufficiency of Food. Just as much Corn was being Scattered by the Farmer’s Wife as formerly, but some Knowing Cocks had built Wide-mouthed Funnels over the Heads of the other Fowls, so that much of the Supply that was intended for the Whole Community was diverted to the Knowing Cocks and their Broods.

There was much Discontent because of the Scarcity of Food and many were the Plans that were Broached to remedy the Situation. “See!” said a Great Goose, pointing to the Supplies that lay beneath the Funnels of the Knowing Cocks, “how unjust it is that some should have so much and others so little. The Knowing Cocks and their Broods can never use up their supply, while I and my Green Goslings go Hungry. Can nothing be done to help me?” he squawked, raising his Unseemly Voice in order to attract general attention. “Can nothing be done for me and for my family?”

At this many Quacks began to be heard. One said that the Supplies of the Knowing Cocks ought to be Seized and Distributed equally in the Community; another said that the Knowing Cocks ought to be Forced to Exchange their Corn with the other Fowls, in the Proportion of Sixteen Grains of that Held by the Knowing Cocks to each grain belonging to the other Fowls. And another insisted that the Only way to Right the Wrong was to Compel the Knowing Cocks to Contribute to a Common Fund a large Part of the Excess that Reached them through their Funnels.

But at last a Sage Hen, that had somehow found her way into the Community, succeeded in Making herself Heard: “Of what use is it,” she Cried, “to ask how Many Pounds of Cure are needed, when one Ounce of Prevention will Suffice? Let us Go to the Fountain Head of the Wrong,” she continued, Pointing to the Funnels. “As long as Some of the Community are Allowed to be in Possession of Undue Opportunities, Evil must happen to the others. Take the Funnels away from the Knowing Cocks!”

No sooner said than Done. The Funnels were Seized and Destroyed; and thereafter the Corn that fell from the Hand of the Farmer’s Wife was Equitably distributed in the Community.

MORAL

If on the road a traveler lies
Fast bound—and you should see him—
Don’t take his head upon your lap
And give him medicine and pap,
But cut his cords and free him.

F. P. WILLIAMS.

_The Old 10.30 Train_

BY MARION DRACE

It’s raining out again tonight,
A dismal, pelting rain,
That drives against my window
With a dripping, and again
With a rattling stormy fury,
Sheets of water, waves of gray,
Made gruesome by the thunder
And the lightning’s livid play.
It brings to me the gloom of life,
An odd, most welcome pain,
And once again the whistle of the old 10.30 train.

With all this storm without, and me
So silent here alone,
With all the distant past in view,
Its evil to atone;
With chin on hand, I wonder how
I’d feel if I could be
A boy again, with mother near
Me praying at her knee.
How all the cares of life would fade,
If I could hear again
From out my cot the whistle of the old 10.30 train.

I hear it far departing
This gloomy night and me,
A-joying in the dying wail
From which it seems to flee.
The long, low cry is wafted back
Through night and rain and wind,
A cry that seems congenial like
Another soul that’s sinned.
It makes me long for home and for
My cot, so cleanly plain,
To doze just with the whistle of that old 10.30 train.

Ah, life is not of solitude,
Nor childhood joys alone,
Its mirth not all departed, though
We reap the evil sown.
But nights of rain and solitude
Bring back the happy past—
The freight that came so regular
My eyes to close at last.
From all the now I quick would flee—
It seems so full of pain—
If I could sleep forever with that whistle’s wail again!

Gallows Gate

BEING AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF DICK RYDER,
OTHERWISE GALLOPING DICK,
SOMETIME GENTLEMAN OF THE ROAD

BY H. B. MARRIOTT-WATSON

’Twas two o’clock of a bright wild March day that I cleared St. Leonard’s Forest, and came out upon the roads at the back of Horsham. I was for Reading, but chose that way by reason of the better security it promised, which, as it chanced, was a significant piece of irony. Horsham, a mighty quiet, pretty town, lay in a blaze of the sun, enduring the sallies of a dusty wind, and, feeling hot and athirst after my long ride, I pulled up at an inn and dismounted.

“Host,” says I, when I was come it; “a pint of your best Burgundy or Canary to wash this dust adown; and rip me if I will not have it laced with brandy.”

“Why, sir,” says he, “a cold bright day for horseback,” and shakes his head.

“Damme, you’re right,” says I. “Cold i’ the belly and hot in the groin. Here’s luck to the house, man,” and I tossed off the gallipot. “Why, goodman, ye’ll make your fortune on this,” I said with a derisive laugh, and flung open the door, to go out; when all of a sudden I came to silence and a pause.

“’Tis the officers,” says the landlord, who was at my ear. “Gadslife, ’tis the sheriff’s men from Lewes.”

“Lewes!” says I slowly; “what be they here for?”

“Why,” says he in a flutter, “there was him that was taken for a tobyman by Guilford. He was tried at Lewes, and will hang.”

“If he be fool enough to be taken, let him be hanged and be damned,” says I carelessly.

When I was got upon my horse I began to go at a walk down the High street, for though, as was according to nature, I was inquisitive about the matter, I was too wary to adventure ere I was sure of my ground. And this denial of unnecessary hazards, as is my custom, saved me from a mishap; for as the procession wound along, the traps and the carriage between ’em, there was one of them that turned his head aside to give an order, and, rip me if ’twas not that muckworm, traitor and canter, the thief-taker, Timothy Grubbe. I had an old score with Timothy, the which I had sworn to pay; but that was not the time nor the opportunity, and so I pulled in and lowered my head, lest by chance his evil eye might go my way. As I did so, something struck on the mare’s rump, and, looking back, I saw a young man on horseback that had emerged from a side street.

“Whoa, there,” says I cheerfully. “Are you so blinded by March dust as not to see a gentleman when he goes by?”

He was a slight, handsome-looking youth, of a frank face but of a rustic appearance, and he stammered out an apology.

“Why, I did but jest,” I said heartily. “Think no more on’t, particularly as ’twas my fault to have checked the mare of a sudden. But to say the truth I was gaping at the grand folks yonder.”

He stared, after the traps and says he in an interested voice: “Who be they? Is it my Lord Blackdown?”

Now this comparison of that wry-necked, pock-faced villain Grubbe to a person of quality tickled me, but I answered, keeping a straight face.

“Well, not exactly,” says I, “not my lord, but another that should stand or hang as high maybe, and shall some day.”

“Oh,” says he, gazing at me, “a friend of yours, sir?”

He was a ruddy color, and his mouth was habitually a little open, giving him an expression of perpetual wonder and innocence; so that, bless you, I knew him at once for what he was at heart—a simple fellow of a natural kindliness and one of no experience in the world, and a pretty dull wit.

“Not as you might call him, a friend,” said I gravely, “but rather one that has put an affront upon me.”

“You should wipe it out, sir,” says this innocent seriously. “I would allow no man to put an affront on me, gad, I would not!”

“Why,” said I drily, “I bide my time, being, if I may say so, of less mustard and pepper than yourself. Nevertheless it shall be wiped out to the last stain.”

“Gad, I like that spirit,” says he briskly, and, as if it constituted a bond betwixt us, he began to amble slowly at my side. “If there is any mischief, sir,” says he, “I trust you will allow me to stand your friend.”

Here was innocence indeed, yet I could ha’ clapped him on the back for a buck of good-fellowship and friendliness, and, relaxing my tone, I turned the talk on himself.

“You are for a journey?” says I.

He nodded, and his color rose, but he frowned. “I am for Effingham,” he answered.

“So am I,” said I, “at least I pass that way,” which was not so, for I was for Reading, and had meant to go by Guilford. Yet I was in no mind to risk an encounter with Grubbe and his lambs, who were bound for Guilford if what the innkeeper said was true; and the way by Effingham would serve me as well as another.

He looked pleased, and says he: “Why, we will travel in company.”

“With all my heart!”

The traps had disappeared upon the Guilford road in a mist of dust, and we jogged on comfortably till we came to cross-roads, where we turned away for Slinfold, reaching that village near by two of the clock. Here my companion must slake his thirst, and I was nothing loath. He had a gentlemanly air about him for all his rustic habit, and very pleasantly, if with some awkwardness, offered me of a bottle.

“You mind me,” said I, drinking to him, for I liked the fellow, “of a lad that I knew that was in the wars.”

“Was you in the wars?” asks he eagerly.

I had meant the wars of the road, which, indeed, are as perilous and as venturesome as the high quarrels of ravening nations.

“I served in Flanders,” said I.

“My father fought for His Gracious Majesty Charles I,” says he quickly, “and took a deep wound at Marston Moor. There was never a braver man than Squire Masters of Rockham.”

“I’ll warrant his son is like him,” said I.

He bowed as if he were at Court. “Your servant, sir,” says he, smiling well pleased, and eyed me. “You have seen some service, sir?”

“Why, as much as will serve, Mr. Masters.”

He looked at me shyly. “You have my name, now?” said he, and left his question in the air.

“You may call me Ryder,” said I.

“You have had your company?” he went on in a hesitating voice.

“Not always as good company as this,” I replied, laughing.

“I knew it,” he said eagerly; “you are Captain Ryder?”

“There have been those that have put that style on me,” I answered, amused at his persistence.

“I am glad that I have met you, Captain,” said this young fool, and put his arm in mine quite affectionately.

“I have been unhappily kept much at home, and have seen less than I might of things beyond the hills. Not but what Sussex is a fine shire,” he adds, with a sigh.

“Why, it is fine if so be your home be there,” I replied.

“My home is there,” he said, and paused, and again the frown wrinkled up his brow.

He said no more till we were in the saddle again and had gone some half a mile, and then he spoke, and I knew his poor brain had been playing pitch and toss with some thought.

“Captain Ryder,” he said abruptly, “you have traveled far and seen much. You might advise one junior to you on a matter of worldly wisdom.”

Sink me, thinks I, what’s the boy after? But, says I gravely, from a mutinous face: “You can hang your faith on me for an opinion or a blow, Mr. Masters.”

“Thank you,” says he heartily, and then thrust a hand into his bosom and rapidly stuck at me a document. “Read that, sir,” said he impulsively.

I opened it, and found ’twas writ in a woman’s hand, and subscribed Anne Varley; and the marrow of it was fond affection.

Why, ’twas but a common love billet he had given me, of the which I have seen dozens and received very many—some from persons of quality that would astonish you. But what had I to do with this honest ninny and his mistress? I had no nose for it, and so said I, handing him back his letter.

“It has a sweet smack and ’tis pretty enough inditing.”

“Ah,” says he quickly, “’tis her nature, Captain. ’Tis her heart that speaks. Yet is she denied by her parents. They will have none of me.”

“The more to their shame,” I said.

“They aspire high,” says he, “as Anne’s beauty and virtues of themselves would justify. Yet she does love me, and I her, and we are of one spirit and heart. See you how she loves me, poor thing, poor silly puss! And they would persuade her to renunciation. But she shall not—she shall not; I swear it!” he cried in excitement. “She shall be free to choose where she will.”

“Spoke like a man of temper,” said I approvingly. “You will go win her forthright.”

“I am on my journey to accomplish that now,” says he. “She has writ in this letter, as you have seen, that her father dissuades her, and she sighs her renunciation, adding sweet words of comfort that her affection will not die—no, never, never, and that she will die virgin for me. Say you not, sir, that this is beautiful conduct, and, am I not right to ride forth and seize her from her unnatural parents, to make her mine?”

“Young gentleman,” said I, being stirred by his honest sincerity and his bubbling over, “were you brother to me, or I to Mistress Anne, you should have my blessing.”

At that he glowed, and his spirits having risen with this communication, he babbled on the road of many things cheerfully, but mostly of love and beauty, and the virtues of Mistress Anne of Effingham Manor.

I will confess that after a time his prattle wearied me; ’twas too much honey and cloyed my palate. If he had known as much of the sex as has fallen to my lot he would have taken another stand, and sung in a lower key.

Well, ’twas late in the afternoon when we reached the hills beyond Ewhurst, and began to climb the rugged way to the top. The wind had gone down with the sun in a flurry of gold in the west, to which that eastern breeze had beat all day; and over the head of Pitch Hill last year’s heather still blazed in its decay.

When we had got to the Windmill Inn, that lies packed into the side of the wooded hill, we descended for refreshment, and I saw the horses stalled below for baiting. Now that house, little and quiet, perches in a lonely way in the pass of the hill, and upon one side the ground falls so fast away that the eye carries over a precipitous descent toward the weald of Surrey and the dim hills by the sea. And this view was fading swiftly in the window under a bleak sky as Masters and I ate of our dinner in the upstairs room that looked upon it. He had a natural grace of mind despite the rawness of his behavior, and his sentiments emerged sometimes in a gush, as when, says he, looking at the darkening weald:

“I love it, Captain. ’Tis mine. My home is there, and, God willing, Anne’s too shall be.”

“Amen!” said I heartily, for the boy had gone to my heart, absurd though he was.

And just on that there was a noise without the door, the clank of heavy feet rang on the boards, and Timothy Grubbe’s ugly mask disfigured the room.

He came forward a little with a grin on his distorted features, and, looking from one to the other of us, said he:

“My respects, Captain, and to this young plover that no doubt ye’re plucking. By the Lord, Dick Ryder, but I had given you up. Heaven sends us good fortune when we’re least thinking of it.”

Masters, at his word, had started up. “Who are you, sir, that intrudes on two gentlemen?” he demanded with spirit. “I’ll have you know this is a private room. Get you gone!”

“Softly, man,” says Grubbe, in an insinuating voice. “Maybe I’m wrong and you’re two of a color. Is it an apprentice, Dick, this brave lad that talks so bold and has such fine feathers?”

“If you do not quit,” said I shortly, “I will spit your beauty for you in two ticks.”

“Dick Ryder had always plenty of heart,” said he in his jeering way. “Dick had always a famous wit, and was known as a hospitable host. So I will take the liberty to invite to his sociable board some good fellows that are below, to make merry. We shall prove an excellent company, I’ll warrant.”

Masters took a step toward him.

“Now, who the devil soever you may be, you shall not use gentlemen so,” he cried, whipping out his blade.

But Grubbe turned on him satirically. “As for you, young cockchafer,” said he, “it bodes no good to find you in this company. But as you seem simpleton enough, I’ll give you five minutes to take your leave of this gentleman of the road. Dick, you’re a fine tobyman, and you have enjoyed a brave career, but, damme, your hour is struck.”

I rose, but, ere I could get to him, young Masters had fallen on him.

“Defend yourself, damn ye,” he said, “you that insult a gentleman that is my friend! Put up your blade!” and he made at him with incredible energy.

Uttering a curse Grubbe thrust out his point and took the first onrush, swerving it aside; and ere I could intervene they were at it.

My young friend was impetuous, and as I saw at once, none too skilful; and Grubbe kept his temper, as he always did. He stood with a thin, ugly smile pushing aside his opponent’s blade for a moment or two, until, of a sudden, he drew himself up and let drive very low and under the other’s guard. The sword rattled from Masters’s hand, and he went down on the floor. I uttered an oath.

“By God, for this shall you die, you swine!” said I fiercely; and I ran at him; but, being by the door, he swept it open with a movement and backed into the passage.

“The boot is on t’other leg, Dick,” says he maliciously. “’Tis you are doomed!” and closing the door behind him he whistled shrilly.

I knew what he intended, and that his men were there, but I stooped over the boy’s body and held my fingers to his heart. ’Twas dead and still. I cursed Grubbe and started up. If I was not to be taken there was only the window, looking on the deeps of the descending valley. I threw back the casement and leaped over the sill. Grubbe should perish, I swore, and I doubled now my oath.

I could ha’ wept for that poor youth that had died to avenge my honor. But my first business was my safety, and I crept down as far as I might and dropped. By that time the catchpolls were crowding into the room above. I struck the slanting hill and fell backward, but, getting to my feet, which were very numb with the concussion of the fall, I sped briskly into the darkness, making for the woods.

I lay in their shelter an hour, and then resolved on a circumspection. ’Twas not my intention to leave the mare behind, if so be she had escaped Grubbe and his creatures; and, moreover, I had other designs in my head. So I made my way back deviously to the inn and reconnoitered. Stillness hung about it, and after a time I marched up to the door cautiously and knocked on it.

The innkeeper opened it, and, the lamp burning on my face, started as if I were the devil.

“Hush, man!” said I. “Is the officer gone?”