60907_209	science fiction	Jones, Bascom	I looked directly at the Master Machine technician. "I asked Spicer to get a late report on the incident for us. But you know that Chambers is right--we cannot afford to wait any longer. Perhaps he'll catch up." We followed the corridor toward the hub of the Pentagon. Senator Chambers led the way, almost at a trot, as though he were afraid that Spicer would catch up. General Marshall and Meyers, hard put to keep up, were strung out behind him, with Meta and me bringing up the rear. That was the way we went through the check points manned by the security guards. Twice I caught Meta looking at me. At one of the check points, I thought she was going to say something. I lifted the tip of my cane and put my finger near the stud, but she remained silent. * * * * * The tension began to mount inside me as we approached the door opening on the invisible force wall. Through the wall, I could see the squat, ugly building in the center of the hub of the Pentagon, which was our destination. I held my cane ready. But even a CT-bomb wouldn't break through the force field. As we drew near the final guard point, a scrubwoman who had been working on the floor of the corridor picked up her bucket and fell in with our party. Chambers was already gesturing at the guard to set the combination, which would open the force wall at precisely 1330. I looked at the time unit on my wrist and saw that we had twenty seconds to wait. I resisted the betraying impulse to rub the irritated area around the electrodes set in my neck. When I looked up from the time unit, everything was too quiet. Senator Chambers was no longer dancing around impatiently. He was staring at the bucket carried by the scrubwoman. The inside of the bucket was not even damp. And the mop she had been using was dry. The implication must have hit both Chambers and me at the same moment. I wanted to shout a warning. Chambers jumped back against the wall, yelling at the guard, "Shoot her! Shoot! She is an alien!" The scrubwoman did the wrong thing. She turned and tried to run, her legs lifting awkwardly against the pull of the unaccustomed gravity. But the guard's weapon was already at his shoulder. The low-velocity missile thudded into the body of the scrubwoman, flipping her up into the air in a graceless somersault.
42441_631	western stories	Mulford, Clarence Edward	He helped his companion down, stripped off the saddle and turned the animal loose with a resounding slap. "Huh!" he grunted as it kicked up its heels. "You oughta feel frisky, after loafin’ for two weeks an’ walkin’ for another. Come on, Lanky," he said, turning. "There ain’t nobody home, so we ’ll get a fire goin’ an’ rustle chuck for all han’s." They entered the dugout and looked around, Lanky sitting down to rest. His companion glanced at the mussed bunks and started a fire to get dinner for six. "Mebby they don’t ride in at noon," suggested the convalescent. "Then we ’ll eat it all," grinned the cook. "It’s comin’ to us by this time." The Weasel, riding toward the rear wall of the dugout, increased the pace when he saw the smoke pouring out of the chimney, but as he neared the hut he drew suddenly and listened, his expression of incredulity followed by one of amazement. A hearty laugh and some shouted words sent him spinning around and back to the chaparral. As soon as he dared he swung north to the creek and risked its quicksands to ride down its middle. Reaching the river he still kept to the water until he had crossed the ford and scrambled up the further bank to become lost in the windings of the canyon. Very soon after the Weasel’s departure Buck dismounted at the corral and stopped to listen. "Strangers," he muttered. "Glad they got th’ fire goin’, anyhow." Walking to the hut he entered and a yell met him at the instant recognition. "Hullo, Buck!" "Lanky!" he cried, leaping forward. "Easy!" cautioned the convalescent, evading the hand. "I ’ve been all shot up an’ I ain’t right yet." "That so! How ’d it happen?" "Shake han’s with Skinny Thompson, my fool nurse," laughed Lanky. "I ’m a fool, all right, helpin’ _him_," grinned Skinny, gripping the hand. "But when I picks him up down in th’ Li’l Wind River country I was a’ angel. Looked after him for two weeks down there, an’ put in another gettin’ up here. Served him right, too, for runnin’ away from me." "Little Wind River country!" exclaimed Buck.
56902_1953	detective and mystery stories	Reeve, Arthur B. (Arthur Benjamin)	Yet that dance almost stopped." It was interesting, perhaps important for the case, yet not precisely what I had started out to find. "What of Doctor Lathrop?" I asked. "What did he do?" "He wasn't in the room at the time. He was down in the café. Wilford tried to brazen it out and Vina acted properly surprised. She can be quite an actress, too, when she wants to be. No, Doctor Lathrop didn't pay any attention to it--that is, not so any one saw it. But Vance Shattuck did. I remember him particularly that evening. Of course I know many of the stories back in his life--and a good deal of what they say about him now. He had been one of the partners Honora had persistently refused, but they did sit out a dance together and I'm sure it was she that ended the tête-à-tête, not he. He seemed to have very little interest in any one else there, and I saw him taking in the whole affair. Once he started forward, as if to offer to escort her home, then checked himself. I think he seemed to be rather pleased than otherwise at the turn of events in that little affair." "Playing a deep game?" I suggested. Belle Balcom shrugged. "I don't know--perhaps. Really, I thought at the time that this was not a triangle, but the making of a fine quadrangle--that is," she laughed breezily, "if you include Vance Shattuck, I guess you would call it a pentangle." "At any rate, all grist for the society-news mill," I smiled. "Doctor Lathrop really knew of the incident, didn't he?--at least, learned of it afterward?" "I imagine so." "You know the talk about the Lathrops?" I hinted. "I think I do--and I knew it long before this case started people's tongues wagging, too." "I understand it wasn't Wilford, after all, that Vina was interested in--but Shattuck himself." "So they say. Society gets its geometry pretty mixed in some of these angles," she laughed. "But do you think there is anything in the story about them?" I asked. "You're a very persistent interviewer," she returned. "Perhaps--but like the honest Japanese schoolboy, 'I ask to know.' It isn't interviewing for publication, you know.
62768_1013	adventure stories	Roberts, Theodore Goodridge	asked Ben. “What did you all drop him for, just because he got mixed up with a bad crowd? That was no way to treat a friend.” “John kept after him eight or nine years. Once a year, year after year, yer father made the trip to French River and tried to get him to break with the Balengers and offered him land and a house down to the point.” “But what did you do? You didn’t do anything, Uncle Jim.” “I was leery about visiting French River, in those days. I’d seen just enough of that outfit to guess how easy it would be to get mixed up with them. And Sherwood wasn’t encouraging. All he’d do would be to cuss John out for a prig and a busybody. And it’s a long way between his clearing and O’Dell’s Point.” “Well, he’s hiding for his life now like a wounded snipe; and I guess he wouldn’t be if you hadn’t been so scared about your own respectability, Uncle Jim.” McAllister scratched his chin at that but said nothing. They reached the mouth of French River before sundown and made camp there for the night. They were early astir next morning, breakfasted before the mist was off the water and then launched into the black deep tide of the tributary stream. The fall of the banks was sheer down to and beneath the water’s edge. Poling was out of the question, so the paddles were used. Ben occupied the stern of the canoe, being a few pounds heavier than his uncle and a glutton for work. Wood duck and whistlers flew up and off before their approach. A mink swam across their bows. They passed old cuttings where the stumps of giant pines were hidden by a second growth of tall young spruces and firs. They paddled for two hours before they marked any sign of present human habitation. They saw a film of smoke then, frail blue against the dark green of the forest. Ben swung into the left bank, which was considerably lower and less abrupt here than farther down, and edged the canoe against a narrow strip of muddy shore. Here was a path, deep-worn and narrow, leading up through the tangled brush; and in the shallow water lay a few rusty tins. They ascended the path up and over the bank and through a screen of underbrush and water birches into a little clearing. At the back of the clearing stood a small log cabin with an open door and a chimney of sticks and clay.
21834_225	love stories	Milne, James	My thoughts have a habit of wandering, of dreaming dreams, often when they should be otherwise occupied, and isn't there a bunch of manuscript verse somewhere in testimony of the same? Knowing this the lieutenant lighted and smoked a pipe of American tobacco, then a novelty and a luxury in the Scottish Highlands. With a wink of the eye he asked, "Who was she, captain? Wench or maid?" And he pronounced the words in different tones, as if I needed to be instructed about the difference he implied by them. A man says nothing to an arch-pleasantry like that, unless he be no man and only a babbler and boaster of his conquests. Then he has had none, and is a liar. No sort of fellow more fills men with contempt, and women, by their woman's instinct, pass him by, for any confidence whatever, in word or in deed. "Don't let it be one of the Black Colonel's flames," said the lieutenant with a laugh, as he went out again, without the answer he had not expected, being himself a gentleman. "It needs a long spoon to sup with that dark devil at any time, but come between him and his rustic gallantries and you'll need a longer spoon than Corgarff Castle happens to possess." The Black Colonel and I, as you will have gathered, were on different sides in politics, though we belonged to neighbouring clans which had many associations; he a Farquharson, I a Gordon. He was Jock Farquharson of Inverey, the last of his house, as I can say looking back on him, and doomed, so a woman of second-sight had declared, when he was born, to be the last; while I, Ian Gordon, was a cadet of the Balmoral Gordons, captain in his Majesty's Highland Foot, with no more to expect than what my commission brought me, and that was little enough. He was a Jacobite, keeping that rebel flame alive in the Aberdeenshire Highlands, when, on the heels of the "Forty-Five," a red and woeful time, we were half-heartedly scotching it with garrisons in the Castles of Braemar and Corgarff. Yes, I wore the scarlet tunic of King George, thanks to family circumstances which had woven themselves before I was born, but the tartan lay under it, next my heart. We were rivals in war, thrown on different sides by the fates which gamble so strangely with mere men. Was there to be a still more vital rivalry?
28448_1975	detective and mystery stories	Penrose, Margaret	They are in touch with the church and with him on an occasion like this, when by no other means could they be made to interest themselves in our church save to look at the clock face in the tower as they go past." "Guess he's right there," said Burd. "I reckon there are some men on the boulevard whose only religious act is to set their watches by the church clock as they ride by to town in their automobiles." However and whatever (to quote Amy again), the intentions were that brought the crowd, the Norwood place was comfortably filled. The goodies were bought, the sale of fancy goods added much to the treasury, and a bigger thing than any other source of income was the admission to the radio shows. The children were not the most interested part of the audience in the tent. From two o'clock until closing time Jessie Norwood presided at eight shows. She sometimes faced almost the same audience twice. Not only did some of the children pay their way in more than once, but grown people did the same. Curiosity regarding radio science was rife. Doctor Stanley came more than once himself to listen. And the minister's boys wanted to take the radio set all apart between shows to "see how it went." "I bet we could build one our own selves," declared Bob Stanley. "I betcha!" agreed Fred. "Only, it will cost a lot of money," groaned the minister's oldest son. "You can do it for about ten dollars--if you are ingenious," said Jessie encouragingly. "Gee whiz! That's a lot of money," said Fred. The girl knew better than to suggest lending them or giving them the money. But she told them all the helpful things she could about setting up the radio paraphernalia and rigging the wires. "I guess Nell would help us," Bob remarked. "She's pretty good, you know, for a girl." "I like that!" exclaimed Jessie. Bob Stanley grinned at her impishly. In the evening when the electric lights were ablaze the Norwood lawns were a pretty sight indeed. People came in cars from miles away. It was surprising how many came, it seemed, for the purpose of listening to the radio. That feature had been well advertised, and it came at a time when the popular curiosity was afire through reading so much about radio in the newspapers.
40464_1745	detective and mystery stories	Machray, Robert	" "This gentleman?" asked the policeman, pointing to Gilbert. "Yes." "And these are the private apartments of your partner, Mr. Cooper Silwood?" "Yes." "And the dead body of Mr. Thornton, your friend, is found in the private apartments of your partner, Mr. Silwood?" "Yes." "And Mr. Silwood is dead?" "Yes." "Most extraordinary thing I ever heard of!" exclaimed the policeman. "There's something very strange here." "My father, as you can see for yourself," interposed Gilbert, "is ill; he is in no fit state to stay here a moment longer than is necessary. But if I can help you, I shall be glad to do so." "Mr. Eversleigh ought to go home at once," said the doctor. "That is all right," said the policeman. "Do you report to Inspector Gale?" asked Gilbert of the policeman; "I know him very well." "Yes; I shall report to him. And in the mean time these chambers must be closed up and sealed. The inspector will no doubt come and examine everything in them. This is the usual procedure. And of course there will be a coroner's inquest. Nothing more can be done at present, I think. Please sir, do not touch the body," he added, speaking to the doctor, who was scrutinizing it carefully. "If I went to Scotland Yard, should I find the inspector in?" asked Gilbert. "You'll find him there at 2.30." "And there is nothing more that can be done just now?" "Nothing." Leaving Silwood's chambers in the charge of the policeman, who had now been reinforced by the arrival of two other constables, the two Eversleighs, the doctor, the locksmith, and the porter filed out of the chamber of mystery and death. As they entered the court of Stone Buildings, they saw that little knots of people had collected, who were discussing something that evidently was unusually interesting. The fact was that the porter, on his way for the doctor and the policeman, had let fall hints of what had been found. The Eversleighs were asked by some gentlemen of the long robe, whom they knew, what was the truth of the matter, and they put before them the bare facts. But the porter and the locksmith were not so reticent.
31426_1000	detective and mystery stories	Newcomb, Ambrose	"Partner, would you mind tellin' me what about this here Oswald Kearns?" CHAPTER XVII OKEECHOBEE THE MYSTERIOUS "Say that again, Perk!" demanded the startled pilot, as though that apparently innocent question had given him a severe jolt. "Oswald Kearns--kinder queer name, I kinder guess now, an' I'm wonderin' if I ever heard it before--that's all, Jack." The pilot was busy with his work in handling the ship and therefore debarred from turning his head to look at his companion but at least he could put the astonishment he felt into words. "So--you think that's a queer name, do you? Well, I'm asking you again, where did you ever run across it--who ever spoke it in your hearing, Perk?" "Why--er, guess it was on'y _you_, partner," came the hesitating reply. "You don't say?" gasped Jack, tremendously excited, "please tell me when that happened because I don't remember doing such a thing, though I meant to carry out our partnership arrangement this very night when we had settled down and could have a nice quiet confab--go on, though, and say when I lifted the lid, and let you into this part of our big game, Perk." "Huh! you talked in your sleep some, old hoss--first time ever I knew you to do sech a thing--said that name exactly three times, like it meant a heap in the bargain." "You mean _tonight_ while I was picking up a few winks of sleep--is that a fact, Perk?" "Sure thing, boss--course I knew somethin' must be pesterin' you like all get-out, so I made up my mind to ask you who that Oswald might be an' what we'd got to do with such a critter." Then Jack laughed as the humorous side of his recent thrill had begun to grip him. "Well, well, seems like I'll soon have to put a padlock on my lips after this when I hit the hay. It's a serious offence for a fellow in _our_ profession to give away his secrets like that! Never knew myself to be guilty of babbling that way before. Lucky you were the only one to hear me give the game away so recklessly. The joke is on me, partner.
34905_5599	adventure stories	Jones, P.	" He at once stepped lightly on the grass, put down the cook, took up the other sack, which was much lighter than his own, and scampered back home as fast as his weary legs could carry him. An hour afterwards the sleeping man awoke, took up his sack, which he was surprised to find so much heavier than it had been when he had gone off to sleep, and then went on his way. That evening the priest came back to his nephew's house, looking uglier and more ghastly, if possible, than the evening before. Panting and gasping, with a weak and broken voice: "She's back again," he said in a hoarse whisper. The smith burst out laughing. "It's no laughing matter," quoth the priest, with a long face. "No, indeed, it isn't," replied the nephew; "only, tell me how she came back." "A pedlar, an honest man whom I sometimes help by lending him a trifle on his goods--merely out of charity--brought me a sack of shoes, begging me to keep it for him till he found a stall for to-morrow's fair. I told him to put the sack in the kitchen, and he did so. When he had gone, I thought I'd just see what kind of shoes he had for sale, and whether he had a pair that fitted me. I opened the sack, and I almost fainted when I saw the frightful face of the cook staring at me." "And now," asked the smith, "am I to carry her away again, for you know, uncle, she is rather heavy; and besides----" "No," replied the priest; "I'll go away myself for a few days; during that time drown her, burn or bury her; in fact, do what you like with her, as long as you get rid of her. Perhaps, knowing I'm not at home, she'll not come back. In the meanwhile, as you are my only relation, come and live in my house and take care of my things as if they were your own; and they'll be yours soon enough, for this affair has made an old man of me." The priest went home, followed by his nephew. Arriving there, he went to the stable, saddled the mare, got on her, gave his nephew his blessing, bade him take care of his house, and trotted off.
14532_2051	love stories	Ford, Paul Leicester	" "Nothing. But I intend to see Moriarty have fair play. You want to fight on the square too. You're not a man to hit a fellow in the dark." Peter was not flattering the man. He had measured him and was telling him the result of that measure. He told it, too, in a way that made the other man realize the opinion behind the words. "Come on," said Blunkers, good-naturedly. They went over to the court, and a whispered colloquy took place between the justice and the bartender. "That's all right, Mr. Stirling," presently said the judge. "Clerk, strike Dennis Moriarty's fine off the list." "Thank you," said Peter to the saloon-keeper. "If I can ever do a turn for you, let me know it." "Dat's hunky," said the man, and they parted. Peter went out and walked into the region of the National Milk Company, but this time he went to the brewery. He found Mr. Bohlmann, and told him the story, asking his advice at the end. "Dondt you vool von minute mit dod Edelheim. I dells you vot I do. I harf choost a blace vacant down in Zender Streed, and your frient he shall it haf." So they chatted till all the details had been arranged. Dennis was to go in as caretaker, bound to use only Bohlmann's beer, with a percentage on that, and the profits on all else. He was to pay the rent, receiving a sub-lease from Bohlmann, who was only a lesee himself, and to give a chattel mortgage on the stock supplied him. Finally he was to have the right of redemption of stock, lease, and good-will at any time within five years, on making certain payments. "You draw up der babers, Misder Stirling, and send der bill to me. Ve vill give der yoonger a chance," the brewer said. When Dennis called the next day, he was "spacheless" at the new developments. He wrung Peter's hand. "Arrah, what can Oi say to yez?" he exclaimed finally. Then having found something, he quickly continued: "Now, Patsy Blunkers, lookout for yezself. It's the divil Oi'll give yez in the primary this year." He begged Peter to come down the opening night, and help to "celebrate the event.
58132_1260	adventure stories	Brady, E. J. (Edwin James)	“The only thing to do is to go down the river and ’ide till we see what turns up. Let us go an’ get the boat.” Tom stood up shakily, and Dave trembling in every limb, followed suit. They crawled rather than walked to the edge of the creek. Tom drew the boat up to the log as noiselessly as possible and helped his mate in. Poor Dave was likely to faint at any moment. “I wish I never came piratin’,” he sobbed. “Piratin’s right enough,” muttered Tom, sticking an oar in the mud and pushing out, “but these Germans is ruinin’ the country. I’ve heard the old man say that often when he wuz talkin’ politics on the punt, but I never see the meanin’ of it afore—not the true meanin’.” They slipped out into the middle of the stream and breathed a trifle easier. The sky was clear, and white with stars. They could hardly realize what had happened. It seemed like a dream—a horrible nightmare, or some tragedy that had been played on the stage. The boys pulled hard until they got abreast of the island. Each stroke which took them further away from the scene of that sudden horror lifted a weight off their minds. It was almost daylight when they got there. But a thick fog came up with the dawn, and hidden under its friendly canopy they rowed round until they struck a little reedy bay, where they could not be seen from the opposite bank or noticed by chance steamers. Tired out, they ran in here, and, getting their tent unrolled, spread it over them in the boat, and stretching themselves out on the bottom, with a seat for a pillow, fell fast asleep. CHAPTER VI. THEY TAKE AN OATH. The dreams of the adventurers were troubled. Their minds went over the recent tragedy, of which they had been the unwilling and unexpected witnesses. They heard again the low groaning of the departing storm, saw the wicked glare of the sheet lightning, the darkness, and the deed. At times either lad would start up and murmur in his sleep; but they were young and healthy, and it was not till the sun rose high overhead that they awoke. The morning was cool, bright, and lovely. Tom suggested a swim before breakfast. They stripped and dived out of the boat, and paddled round, and then they went ashore and boiled their billy in the scrub, and had breakfast.
8493_1785	adventure stories	Merriman, Henry Seton	I am the Englishman who has been fortunate enough to engage the interest of your father, who journeyed to England to find me--and found me.” He broke off with a laugh, spreading out his arms to show himself, as it were, and ask indulgence. “I have a heritage, it appears, in France,” he went on, “but know nothing of it, yet. For the weather has been bad and our voyage a stormy one. I was to have been told during the journey, but we had no time for that. And I know no more than you, mademoiselle.” Juliette had changed colour, and her cheeks, which were usually of a most delicate pink, were suddenly quite white. She did not touch upon the knowledge to which he referred, but went past it to its object. “You do not speak like an Englishman,” she said. “For I know one or two. One came to the school at Saintes. He was a famous English prelate, and he had the manner--well, of a tree. And when he spoke, it was what one would expect of a tree, if it suddenly had speech. But you--you are not like that.” Loo Barebone laughed with an easy gaiety, which seemed infectious, though Marie did not join in it, but stood scowling in the doorway. “Yes,” he said, “you have described them exactly. I know a hundred who are like great trees. Many are so, but they are kind and still like trees--the English, when you know them, mademoiselle.” “They?” she said, with her prettily arched eyebrows raised high. “We, I mean,” he answered, quickly, taking her meaning in a flash. “I almost forgot that I was an Englishman. It is my heritage, perhaps, that makes me forget--or yourself. It is so easy and natural to consider one's self a Frenchman--and so pleasant.” Marie shuffled with her feet and made a movement of impatience, as if to remind them that they were still far from the business in hand and were merely talking of themselves, which is the beginning of all things--or may be the beginning of the inevitable end. “But I forgot,” said Barebone, at once. “And it is getting late. Your father has had a slight misfortune. He has sprained his ankle.
29572_3074	western stories	Spearman, Frank H. (Frank Hamilton)	Dunning, with some excitement, watched McCloud's face to note the effect of the activity on him, but McCloud's expression, naturally reserved, reflected nothing of his views on the subject. Dunning waved his hand at the lively scene. "They've been at it all night. How many would you take away, sir?" "You might take them all away, as far as the river is concerned," said McCloud after a moment. "What? Hell! All?" "They are not doing anything, are they, but running around in a circle? And those fellows over there might as well be making mud pies as riprapping at that point. What we need there is a mattress and sandbags--and plenty of them. Bill," directed McCloud in an even tone of business as he turned to Dancing, "see how quick you can get your gangs over here with what sacks they can carry and walk fast. If you will put your men on horses, Mr. Dunning, they can help like everything. That bank won't last a great while the way the river is getting under it now." Dancing wheeled like an elephant on his bronco and clattered away through the mud. Lance Dunning, recovering from his surprise, started his men back for the wagons, and McCloud, dismounting, walked with him to the water's edge to plan the fight for what was left of the strip in front of the alfalfa fields. When Whispering Smith got back to the house he was in good-humor. He joined Dicksie and Marion in the dining-room, where they were drinking coffee. Afterward Dicksie ordered horses saddled and the three rode to the river. Up and down the bank as far as they could see in the misty rain, men were moving slowly about--more men, it seemed to Dicksie, than she had ever seen together in her life. The confusion and the noise had disappeared. No one appeared to hurry, but every one had something to do, and, from the gangs who with sledges were sinking "dead-men" among the trees to hold the cables of the mattress that was about to be sunk, and the Japs who were diligently preparing to float and load it, to the men that were filling and wheeling the sandbags, no one appeared excited. McCloud joined the visitors for a few moments and then went back to where Dancing and his men on life-lines were guiding the mattress to its resting-place.
60283_172	science fiction	Fisher, David E.	and I gave way. "I have indeed discovered the secret of reproduction," he began. "After many searchings, I came upon this--" and he held forth the object he had carried in. "It is a book. It is entitled, 'Living a Normal Sex Life.' It seems to be some sort of a do-it-yourself pamphlet." He dropped the book on the table and rubbed his hands over his eyes. There was something in the man's behavior that commanded everyone's attention. He went on, speaking low. "The word 'Sex' is not defined, but it seems to mean...." His words trailed off. He was obviously unsure of how to continue. "I had better start at the beginning, I suppose," he said. "You see, once upon a time there were birds and bees...." * * * * * When he finished the Conclave sat in horrified silence. His words, with all their horror, had the ring of truth and there were no cries of 'Heresy'. There was only stunned disbelief and the beginnings of nausea. It is the mark of honor that a leader shall carry on when others fear to move. I cleared my throat. "Shall not these organs which you mention have atrophied by now? With no use throughout all these generations, will they not have evolved into nothingness?" "I do not think so," Rocsates replied after a while. "What to us is an eon, to evolution is but an instant. And then the swelling of the breasts, I believe, proves that there is still reproductive activity in some, at least, of the She's." We sat shaking our heads, bowed under terrible reality. "Then we must experiment," I said. "But whom could we ask to submit to such horror?" "I have already taken the liberty of asking for volunteers," Rocsates replied. "The She, of course, must be one with the swelling of the breasts. Melia has volunteered, on condition that Xeon be released from dungeon. Are there any objections?" There were none, of course. Who would refuse a boon to one who would undergo such an ordeal for the City? "And who will be the partner?" I asked. "In all honor, could Xeon allow Melia to surpass him in courage? It shall be he," Rocsates said. And with his word the two entered the Hall and stood, noble and naked.
35833_2405	detective and mystery stories	McCulley, Johnston	The information I found tabulated at his headquarters was all concerning jewels to be worn at the Charity Ball, but Heaven alone knows, besides himself, what he had gathered in the way of facts before that.” “But he said he’d commit the greatest crime since he’d got to town,” Riley went on. “What could that be? He’s turned some pretty good tricks, you’ll remember.” “He might get into the vault of the First National,” Verbeck offered. “No chance! That’s the finest——” “Pardon me, Riley. Fine vaults and burglar-proof affairs do not seem to bother the Black Star. You remember how he robbed the safety-deposit boxes of the National Trust, don’t you?” “Well, what would be something big he could do?” the detective asked. “He goes after money, but jewels are his particular delight, if I have judged the man correctly,” Verbeck said. “He has some perfect arrangement for disposing of them at a profit, I suppose. And there are half a hundred places he could make a rich haul of jewels. He’s what might be called a jewel fiend, Riley. He—— Ah!” “What’s the matter?” Riley asked, looking up quickly and stopping his pacing. “I have an idea.” “If it’s anything that will help us catch the Black Star or bring him out of his hole so we can chase him, for Heaven’s sake let us have it!” Riley cried. “It is something that may bring him out of his hole—a trap! Why didn’t I think of it before? And it can be arranged easily.” “Let’s have it, then.” “As you know, I am to be married soon. My gift to my bride will be the same my father gave my mother—the famous Verbeck diamond necklace. That necklace is in a certain safe-deposit vault now, and I’ll not even tell you where it is.” “But where’s the trap, Roger?” “A moment, Riley—don’t be so impatient. That necklace is the same as the day my father clasped it on his bride’s throat. That was a good many years ago, and fashions in jewel settings change. So naturally, before I present it to my bride, I’ll have to have the stones reset.” “Sure.”
31426_619	detective and mystery stories	Newcomb, Ambrose	They're depending on you and me, Perk, to produce the evidence that's going to convict him of conspiracy against the Government, which may send him to Atlanta for a dozen years or more." "Know how long you'll be away, Jack?" demanded the other casually as if it was really a matter of but little moment to him what the answer might be, since he could be depended on to hold to their booty with the tenacity of a leech. "That all depends on circumstances--I may be back by noon, and again not till late in the afternoon or evening. I expect to fetch a couple of sandbaggers along who will take over the sloop and stuff that's aboard. Having washed our hands clean of those encumbrances we'll be in fit shape to delve deeper into the game and see what we get out of the grab-bag. Anyway, don't expect me until you see me heading this way and keep a sharp lookout, for from all accounts this crowd we're up against is said to be a tricky combination, always stepping on their toes and doing big things." "Yeah, we've heard lots o' that kind o' stuff but just the same the lads makin' up the crew o' this sloop didn't keep their eyes open, or they'd never been taken unawares by them hijackers. Leave it to Gabe Perkiser to hold fast to what he's got; they'd have to be a regiment, armed with machine-guns, bombs, an' even gas, to knock _me_ off'n my perch an' I don't mean that for boastin' either, Jack." Later on Jack decided it would be just as well for him to jump off and be on his way to Tampa. Contrary winds or something else might delay his arrival, and an early start was bound to be of much help toward bringing a quick return. He first used the binoculars in order to scan the heavens as well as they could be covered when he was so surrounded by those strange mangrove islands and discovering no sign of any cruising, spying crate, he bade Perk goodbye and taxied in the direction of the open gulf, which he knew lay due west. Perk answered his signal ere the amphibian turned a bend in the tortuous channel and saw Jack vanish from view; nor could he long detect any sound to indicate the presence of an airship since cautious Jack had again made use of that wonderful "silencer" which they had found so useful while conducting their search during the preceding night.
60283_24	science fiction	Fisher, David E.	"Sias," they were saying, "the Maternite's gone." I stared in amazement. "Gone? It cannot be gone. It has always been--" "Oh my gods!" Xeon shouted. "I tell you it's gone! Will you--" Melia interrupted him quietly. "Xeon, will you lose all respect for the Elder?" Then turned to me, and said calmly, "The watcher at the Maternite Machine, it appears, has been drunk. The heat rose above the warning, continued to rise, and then--poof. Everything has evaporated in Maternite. All the Prelife is gone." "All of it?" I asked. "There is nothing left," Melia insisted. "Can more be made? And if not, what will happen with no more children?" "That is for the priests to say, not I," I replied. In moments of emergency, it is wise to speak with caution. That is, I suppose so. I have never before been in a real emergency. * * * * * A man my age does not hurry in the heat of the midday sun--maddugs nenglishmin go out in the midday sun, as the ancients say, although I often wonder why--but Xeon and Melia ran all the way down to the city. They are of an age to enter manhood, and have all the energy such young men do. As we entered the city, we were surrounded by confusion and consternation. And can the simple people be blamed? They were aware that they stood in the midst of an unprecedented happening; indeed, an emergency. For a machine had failed! Not in the memory of the eldest among us has a machine failed. They were created so long ago, indeed, that the ignorant believe them to have been constructed by the gods themselves. And never, so far as I know, has one failed. Small wonder that the watcher had been negligent. Indeed, the watcher is more a tradition than a necessity. Besides, had he been sober, he would not have known what to do. For who knows the mysterious workings of the machines? * * * * * I hastened to the City Hall and found the Conclave assembled, waiting for me to bring them to order. Xeon and Melia stopped as I mounted the steps, but I smiled and motioned them in.
42441_4319	western stories	Mulford, Clarence Edward	The country grew rougher rapidly and when they finally reached the divide a beautiful sight lay below them, stretching as far as eye could see to the east. In the middle distance gleamed the Cherokee, flowing toward the south through its valley of rocks, canyons, cliffs, draws and timber. "There ’s th’ hut," said Ned, pointing to a small gray blot against the dead black of a towering cliff. "Th’ spring’s just south of it. Bucket Hill, up north there, is th’ north boundary; Twin Spires, south yonder is th’ other end; an’ th’ Cherokee will stop you on th’ east side. You ride in every Sat’day if you wants. Don’t get lonesome," he grinned and, wheeling abruptly, went back the way they had come. Hopalong shook his head in disgust. To be sidetracked like this was maddening. It had taken three hours of hard traveling over rough country to get where he was and it would take as long to return; and all for nothing! He regarded the pack animal with a grin, shrugged his shoulders and led the way toward the hut, the pack horse following obediently. It was another hour before he finally reached the little cabin, for the way was strange and rough. During this time he had talked aloud, for he had the tricks of his kind and when alone he talked to himself. When he reached the hut he relieved the pack horse of its load, carrying the stuff inside. Closing the door and blocking it with a rock he found the spring, drank his fill and then let the horses do likewise. Then he mounted and started back over the rough trail, thinking out loud and confiding to his horse and he entered a narrow defile close to the top of the divide, promising dire things to the foreman. Suddenly a rope settled over him, pinned his arms to his sides and yanked him from the saddle before he had time to think. He landed on his head and was dazed as he sat up and looked around. The foreman’s rifle confronted him, and behind the foreman’s feet were his two Colts. "You talks too much," sneered the man with the drop. "I suspicioned you th’ minute I laid eyes on you. It ’ll take a better man than you to get that five hundred reward. I reckon th’ Sheriff was too scared to come hisself." Hopalong shook his head as if to clear it. What was the man talking about? Who was the sheriff?
31524_6483	western stories	McCarter, Margaret Hill	Bud queried. "Sheridan's going to carry a campaign down into their own country and lick these tribes into behaving themselves right now, before another Summer and another outbreak like that one two months ago." "What's these Kansas men with their capital letters got to do with it?" put in O'mie. "Governor Crawford has issued a call at Sheridan's command, for a Kansas regiment to go into service for six months, and help to do this thing up right. It means more to these settlers on the boundary out here than to anybody else. And you just see if that regiment isn't made up in a hurry." I was full of my theme. My two months beyond the soft, sheltered life of home had taught me much; and then I was young and thought I knew much, anyhow. "What are you going to do, Phil?" O'mie asked. "I? I'm going to stay by this thing for a while. The Baronets were always military folks. I'm the last of the line, and I'm going to give my fighting strength, what little I have, to buy these prairies for homes and civilization. I'm going to see the Indian rule broken here, or crawl into the lonely grave Bud talks about and pull the curly mesquite over me for a coverlet. I go to Topeka to-morrow to answer Governor Crawford's call for volunteers for a cavalry company to go out on a winter campaign against the rascally redskins. They're going to get what they need. If you mix up with Custer, you'll see." "And when the campaign's over," queried O'mie, "will you stay in the army?" "No, O'mie, I'll find a place. The world is wide. But look here, boy. You haven't told me how you got pried loose and kicked out yet. Bud's an exception. The rest of us boys had a reason for leaving the best town on earth." "You're just right, begorra!" O'mie replied with warmth. "I was kicked out av town by His Majesty, the prophet Amos, only you've got to spell it with an 'f' instead av a 'ph.'" "Now, O'mie, confess the whole sin at once, please." O'mie looked up with that sunshiny face that never stayed clouded long, and chuckled softly. "Judson's on the crest right now. Oh, let him ride.
13282_433	love stories	Sangster, Margaret E. (Margaret Elizabeth)	With a heart that throbbed in quick staccato beats, she mounted the steps of the tenement. Little dark-eyed children moved away from her, apparently on every side, but somehow she scarcely noticed them. The doorway yawned, like an open mouth, in front of her--and she could think of nothing else. As she went over the dark threshold she remembered stories that she had read about people who go in at tenement doorways and are never seen again. Every one has read such stories in the daily newspapers--and perhaps some of them are true! A faint light flickered in through the doorway. It made the ascent of the first flight of creaking stairs quite easy. At least Rose-Marie could step aside from the piles of rubbish and avoid the rickety places. She wondered, as she went up, her fingers gingerly touching the dirty hand-rail, how people could exist under such wretched conditions. The second flight was harder to manage. The light from the narrow doorway was shut off, and there were no windows. There might have been gas jets upon every landing--Rose-Marie supposed that there were--but it was mid-afternoon, and they had not yet been lighted. She groped her way up the second flight, and the third, feeling carefully along each step with her foot before she put her weight upon it. On the fourth flight she paused for a moment to catch her breath. But she realized, as she paused, that even breathing had to be done under difficulties in this place. There was no ventilation of any sort, so far as she could tell--all about her floated the odours of boiled cabbage, and fried onions, and garlic. And there were other odours, too; the indescribable smells of soiled clothing and soap-suds and greasy dishes. But in Rose-Marie's mind, the odours--poignant though they were--took second place to the sounds. Never, she told herself, had she imagined that so many different sorts of noises could exist in the same place at one and the same time. There were the cries and sobs of little children, the moans of sickness, the thuds of falling furniture and the crashes of breaking crockery. There were yells of rage, and--worst of all--bursts of appalling profanity. Rose-Marie, standing there in the darkness of the fourth flight, heard words that she had never expected to hear--phrases of which she had never dreamed.
30353_18	science fiction	Hernhuter, Albert	They all seemed stunned. Even the reporter sent to cover the hearing made no move toward the telephone. The Coroner could think of only the obvious question: "Why did you kill him?" "He was dangerous to us." "Whom do you mean by _us_?" "We Martians, who plan to take over your world." The Coroner was disappointed. A lunatic. But a lunatic can murder. Best to proceed, the Coroner thought. "I was not aware that we have Martians to contend with." "If I'd had the right weapon to use on Smith, you wouldn't be aware of it now. We still exercise caution." The Coroner felt a certain pity. "Why did you kill Smith?" "We Martians have found science-fiction writers to be our greatest danger. Through the medium of imaginative fiction, such writers have more than once revealed our plans. If the public suddenly realized that--" * * * * * The Coroner broke in. "You killed Smith because he revealed something in his writings?" "Yes. He refused to take my word that it was unsalable. He threatened to submit it direct. It was vital material." "But there are many other such writers. You can't control--" "We control ninety percent of the output. We have concentrated on the field and all of the science-fiction agencies are in our hands. This control was imperative." "I see." The Coroner spoke in the gentle tones one uses with the insane. "Any writing dangerous to your cause is deleted or changed by the agents." "Not exactly. The agent usually persuades the writer to make any such changes, as the agent is considered an authority on what will or will not sell." "The writers always agree?" "Not always. If stubbornness is encountered, the agent merely shelves the manuscript and tells the writer it has been repeatedly rejected." The Coroner glanced at the two policemen. Both were obviously puzzled. They returned the Coroner's look, apparently ready to move on his order. The thin, mirthless smile was still on Cole's lips. Maniacal violence could lie just behind it. Possibly Cole was armed. Better to play for time--try to quiet the madness within. The Coroner continued speaking. "You Martians have infiltrated other fields also?" "Oh, yes. We are in government, industry, education. We are everywhere.
29408_222	science fiction	Vincent, Harl	"Where am I?" Bert demanded. "And where are my friends? Why am I with you, without them?" Compassion was in the tall stranger's gaze--and something more. The pain of a great sorrow filled the brown eyes that looked down at Bert, and resignation to a fate that was shrouded in ineffable mystery. "Trust me," he said in a mellow slurring voice. "Where you are, you shall soon learn. You are safe. And your friends will be located." "_Will_ be located! Don't you _know_ where they are?" Bert laid hands on the big man's wrists and shook him impatiently. The stranger was too calm and unmoved in the face of this tremendous thing which had come to pass. "I know where they have been taken, yes. But there is no need of haste out here in infra-dimensional space, for time stands still. We will find it a simple matter to reach the plane of their captors, the Bardeks, within a few seconds after your friends arrive there. My plane segregator--this sphere--will accomplish this in due season." * * * * * Strangely, Bert believed him. This talk of dimensions and planes and of the halting of time was incomprehensible, but somehow there was communicated to his own restless nature something of the placid serenity of the white-haired stranger. He regarded the man more closely, saw there was an alien look about him that marked him as different and apart from the men of Earth. His sole garment was a wide breech clout of silvery stuff that glinted with changing colors--hues foreign to nature on Earth. His was a superhuman perfection of muscular development, and there was an indescribable mingling of gentleness and sternness in his demeanor. With a start, Bert noted that his fingers were webbed, as were his toes. "Sa-ay," Bert exclaimed, "who are you, anyway?" The stranger permitted himself the merest ghost of a smile. "You may call me Wanderer," he said. "I am the Wanderer of Infinity." "Infinity! You are not of my world?" "But no." "You speak my language." "It is one of many with which I am familiar." "I--I don't understand." Bert Redmond was like a man in a trance, completely under the spell of his amazing host's personality. "It is given to few men, to understand."
28550_11	science fiction	Moore, C. L. (Catherine Lucile)	So he lay, with his eyes closed and the sunlight drenching him through, no sound in his ears but the passage of a breeze through the grass and a creaking of some insect nearby--the violent, blood-smelling years behind him might never have been. Except for the gun pressed into his ribs between his chest and the clovered earth, he might be a boy again, years upon years ago, long before he had broken his first law or killed his first man. No one else alive now knew who that boy had been. Not even the all knowing Patrol. Not even Venusian Yarol, who had been his closest friend for so many riotous years. No one would ever know--now. Not his name (which had not always been Smith) or his native land or the home that had bred him, or the first violent deed that had sent him down the devious paths which led here--here to the clover hollow in the hills of an Earth that had forbidden him ever to set foot again upon her soil. He unclasped the hands behind his head and rolled over to lay a scarred cheek on his arm, smiling to himself. Well, here was Earth beneath him. No longer a green star high in alien skies, but warm soil, new clover so near his face he could see all the little stems and trefoil leaves, moist earth granular at their roots. An ant ran by with waving antennae close beside his cheek. He closed his eyes and drew another deep breath. Better not even look; better to lie here like an animal, absorbing the sun and the feel of Earth blindly, wordlessly. * * * * * Now he was not Northwest Smith, scarred outlaw of the spaceways. Now he was a boy again with all his life before him. There would be a white-columned house just over the hill, with shaded porches and white curtains blowing in the breeze and the sound of sweet, familiar voices indoors. There would be a girl with hair like poured honey hesitating just inside the door, lifting her eyes to him. Tears in the eyes. He lay very still, remembering. Curious how vividly it all came back, though the house had been ashes for nearly twenty years, and the girl--the girl ... He rolled over violently, opening his eyes. No use remembering her. There had been that fatal flaw in him from the very first, he knew now.
9150_3068	adventure stories	Verne, Jules	Exasperated by the rough attack that was made upon him, Dick had seized the havildar's gun and broken it, almost wrenching it from his hands, when several soldiers simultaneously assailed him, and would have struck him down and killed him upon the spot, had not one of the chiefs, an Arab of huge stature and ferocious countenance, interfered to stop them. This Arab was the Ibn Hamish of whom Harris had spoken to Negoro. He said a few words which Dick could not understand, and the soldiers, with manifest reluctance, relaxed their hold and retired. It was evident that although Dick was not to be permitted to hold any communication with the rest of his party, orders had been given that his life was to be protected. [Illustration: The start was made.] It was now nine o'clock, and the beating of drums and the blowing of coodoo[1] horns gave the signal that the morning march was to be continued. Instantly chiefs, soldiers, porters, and slaves were upon their feet, and arranged themselves in their various groups with a havildar bearing a bright-coloured banner at their head. [Footnote: Coodoo, a ruminant common in Africa.] The order was given; the start was made. A strange song was heard rising in the air. It was a song, not of the victors, but of the vanquished. The slaves were chanting an imprecation on their oppressors; and the burden of the chorus was that captured, tortured, slain--after death they would return and avenge their wrongs upon their murderers! CHAPTER VIII. NOTES BY THE WAY. The storm of the preceding evening had now passed away, but the sky was still cloudy and the weather far from settled. It was the 19th of April, the time of the _masika_, or second period of the rainy season, so that for the next two or three weeks the nights might be expected to be wet. On leaving the banks of the Coanza the caravan proceeded due east. Soldiers marched at the head and in the rear, as well as upon the flanks of the troop; any escape of the prisoners, therefore, even if they had not been loaded with their fetters, would have been utterly impossible. They were all driven along without any attempt at order, the havildars using their whips unsparingly upon them whenever they showed signs of flagging. Some poor mothers could be seen carrying two infants, one on each arm, whilst others led by the hand naked children, whose feet were sorely cut by the rough ground over which they had trod.
30680_146	science fiction	Olin, Richard	"Don't be a wise guy," Ernie grunted. He turned his attention to his plate. Several mouthfuls of spaghetti convinced him that he was hungry after all. He swallowed and opened his carton of milk. He looked up at the book Jory was holding. Jory was a funny guy, always reading. "What's the book today?" he asked. Jory held the cover so he could see the title. "Celine's 'Journey to the End of Night.' It's French." Ernie's interest quickened. "French, huh? Has it got any good stuff in it? You know, like Miller has?" He laughed. "No." "Well, what's it about?" "About a guy who thinks he might commit suicide." "Oh." Ernie thought about it for a minute. "Is that _all_ it's about? Just some guy wonderin' if he should bump himself off?" "Yes." Jory turned a page. "Oh." Ernie thought about it again. "And he made a whole _book_ out of it? Just that ... no sex or nothing?" "No. No sex or nothing." Ernie laughed. "Well, it sounds pretty stale to me." Jory sighed and gave up reading. He put the book down. "No, it isn't stale. The book does depress me, though." He pushed it to one side. His eyes traveled around the cafeteria; he thought for a moment then said: "Do you ever get the feeling, Ernie, that your life has gotten stuck? That you are just going round and round, caught in one single groove--that you just repeat the same scene, day after day?" Ernie shook his head. "Nah. I never feel like that." "I do. I get to feeling it bad, sometimes. Why do you suppose that is, Ernie?" [Illustration] Ernie considered the question for a moment. "Well," he said helpfully, "it might mean you're cracking up." Jory laughed. "Thanks. But when I need an analyst I'll go out and hire one. No, I think I feel that way because life has somehow become a lot more futile than it need be." Ernie shrugged and let it go. He wiped the last trace of spaghetti sauce from his plate.
35425_908	science fiction	Leinster, Murray	A thin, dark cloud had gathered overhead. Burl could look to the right and left, and see the hills fading into the distance, growing fainter as the haze above them seemed to grow thicker. He saw, too, the advancing cohorts of the army ants, creeping over the tangled mass of fungus growth. They seemed to be feeding as they went, upon the fungus that had gathered into these incredible monstrosities. The hills were living. They were not upheavals of the ground, they were festering heaps of insanely growing, festering mushrooms and fungus. Upon most of them a purple mould had spread itself so that they seemed a range of purple hills, but here and there patches of other vivid colors showed, and there was a large hill whose whole side was a brilliant golden hue. Another had tiny bright red spots of a strange and malignant mushroom whose properties Burl did not know, scattered all over the purple with which it was covered. Burl leaned heavily upon his club and watched dully. He could run no more. The army ants were spreading everywhere over the mass of fungus. They would reach him soon. Far to the right the vapor thickened. A column of smoke arose. What Burl did not know and would never know was that far down in the interior of that compressed mass of fungus, slow oxidization had been going on. The temperature of the interior had been raised. In the darkness and the dampness deep down in the hills, spontaneous combustion had begun. Just as the vast piles of coal the railroad companies of thirty thousand years before had gathered together sometimes began to burn fiercely in their interiors, and just as the farmers' piles of damp straw suddenly burst into fierce flames from no cause, so these huge piles of tinder-like mushrooms had been burning slowly within themselves. There had been no flames, because the surface remained intact and nearly air-tight. But when the army ants began to tear at the edible surfaces despite the heat they encountered, fresh air found its way to the smouldering masses of fungus. The slow combustion became rapid combustion. The dull heat became fierce flames. The slow trickle of thin smoke became a huge column of thick, choking, acrid stuff that set the army ants that breathed it into spasms of convulsive writhing. From a dozen points the flames burst out. A dozen or more columns of blinding smoke rose to the heavens. A pall of fume-laden smoke gathered above the range of purple hills, while Burl watched apathetically.
38663_153	detective and mystery stories	Mason, A. E. W. (Alfred Edward Woodley)	And she did undoubtedly banish it. We supped together and grew confidential, as under such conditions people will. She told me her real name. It was Joan Carew. "'I have come over to get an engagement if I can at Covent Garden. I am supposed to sing all right. But I don't know anyone. I have been brought up in Italy.' "'You have some letters of introduction, I suppose?' I asked. "'Oh, yes. One from my teacher in Milan. One from an American manager.' "In my turn I told her my name and where I lived, and I gave her my card. I thought, you see, that since I used to know a good many operatic people, I might be able to help her. "'Thank you,' she said, and at that moment Mrs. Blumenstein, followed by a party, chiefly those lap-dog young men who always seem to gather about that kind of person, came into the supper-room and took a table close to us. There was at once an end of all confidences--indeed, of all conversation. Joan Carew lost all the lightness of her spirit; she talked at random, and her eyes were drawn again and again to the grotesque slander on Marie Antoinette. Finally I became annoyed. "'Shall we go?' I suggested impatiently, and to my surprise she whispered passionately: "'Yes. Please! Let us go.' "Her voice was actually shaking, her small hands clenched. We went back to the ballroom, but Joan Carew did not recover her gaiety, and half-way through a dance, when we were near to the door, she stopped abruptly--extraordinarily abruptly. "'I shall go,' she said abruptly. 'I am tired. I have grown dull.' "I protested, but she made a little grimace. "'You'll hate me in half an hour. Let's be wise and stop now while we are friends,' she said, and whilst I removed the domino from my shoulders she stooped very quickly. It seemed to me that she picked up something which had lain hidden beneath the sole of her slipper. She certainly moved her foot, and I certainly saw something small and bright flash in the palm of her glove as she raised herself again. But I imagined merely that it was some object which she had dropped.
2949_858	western stories	Thanet, Octave	We’ll do better next year, and I’ll try to keep him from belonging to things and spending money; and if he won’t lend to anybody or start in raising a new kind of crop just when we get the melons going, he will make money sure. He is awful good and honest. All the trouble with him is he needs somebody to take care of him. If Aunt Lizzie had been alive he never would have lent that dead-beat Richards that money. He ought to get married.” Miss Brown did not feel called on to say anything. Tim continued in a judicial way: “He is awful good and kind, always gets up in the morning to make the fire if I have got something else to do; and he’d think everything his wife did was the best in the world; and if he had somebody to take care of him he’d make money. I don’t suppose YOU would think of it?” This last in an insinuating tone, with evident anxiety. “Well, I never!” said Miss Brown. Whether she was more offended or amused she couldn’t tell; and she stood staring at him by the electric light. To her amazement the hard little face began to twitch. “I didn’t mean to mad you,” Tim grunted, with a quiver in his rough voice. “I’ve been listening to every word you said, and I thought you were so sensible you’d talk over things without nonsense. Of course I knew he’d have to come and see you Saturday nights, and take you buggy riding, and take you to the theatre, and all such things--first. But I thought we could sorter fix it up between ourselves. I’ve taken care of him ever since Aunt Lizzie died, and I did my best he shouldn’t lend that money, but I couldn’t help it; and I did keep him from marrying a widow woman with eight children, who kept telling him how much her poor fatherless children needed a man; and I never did see anybody I was willing--before--and it’s--it’s so lonesome without Aunt Lizzie!” He choked and frowned. Poor Tim, who had sold so many melons to women and seen so much of back doors and kitchen humors that he held the sex very cheap, he did not realize how hard he would find it to talk of the one woman who had been kind to him! He turned red with shame over his own weakness. “You poor little chap!”
47633_1706	adventure stories	Hendrick, Edward P.	Mister Somebody is having supper. That means more crumbs for those black ants tomorrow.” “Yes, and I’m afraid it means a long wait for us,” grumbled Ned. “If that fellow has time for a feed, he probably doesn’t expect anything to happen right away.” “I can’t say I care a whole lot for this,” complained Dave after a long silence. “It’s raining harder than ever and the wind is driving it through these slabs. There’s a small cataract running down the back of my neck!” “Same here,” replied Ned. “That fellow in the shanty has got all the best of us right now; suppose we sneak over there and try to get a sight of him through a crack.” For once, action of almost any kind was welcomed by Weary Wilbur, and rising to their feet, the boys began to pick their way cautiously in the direction of the shack. Half the distance had been covered when high above the dull roar of the wind and the steady drumming of the rain there sounded the shrill wavering cry of a screech-owl. It came from a point near the entrance of the old wood-road and was followed at once by the scrape and squeak of the shanty door. “Down!” gasped Ned, and both boys flung themselves flat upon the wet ground. They were not an instant too soon, for a scant ten feet to their right a flashlight beam cut the blackness, blinked rapidly in a succession of flashes, and winked out. At once there followed the jar of a cautious tread as the holder of the electric torch moved slowly away along the grassy roadway. “Now’s our chance!” breathed Ned, and the boys slid back to crouch among the weeds at the rear of the shanty. Through the brush they could peer down the road toward its entrance, from which direction faint sounds came to their straining ears; but except for an occasional brief flash of an electric bulb they could see nothing. “This isn’t getting us anywhere,” grumbled Dave. “We can’t see a thing that’s going on!” “Something is coming into the road. It’ll show up in a minute. Have patience,” urged Ned. Five minutes passed and then came the soft crunch of wheels on wet grass and a black bulk barely discernible to the eyes of the watchers halted before the door of the cabin, less than ten feet from where they lay. “What time is it?” growled a heavy voice.
9649_1890	adventure stories	Leslie, Lawrence J.	Not a word was spoken, and save for the panting of the eager hound and the labored breathing of the trackers, all was still. The country had become quite rough, and Max knew they must be passing over the hills he had seen from the cabin, lying to the south. They had had to climb them when on the way from the distant town, and Max even hoped some day to circulate among them with his rifle. But he had hardly expected that when he did, it would be while on the track of a human being. "He slipped here--you can see the marks his shoes made in the shale," said Trapper Jim, pointing to the ground in front, which sloped downward rapidly. "Oh, my land!" ejaculated Steve, "look where the marks lead, right to the brink of that precipice or the bank of a deep ravine. Honest, now, I believe the feller must 'a' gone over there." "Just what he did," added Trapper Jim, solemnly; "and it'd make an ugly fall for a body, too." They crept to the edge and looked down. The bottom of the ravine was many yards below, and there were cruel rocks, partly hidden by dense vegetation, now brown from the touch of Jack Frost's fingers. "Listen, that sounded like a groan!" exclaimed the awe-struck Steve. "I think I can see something among the weeds," remarked Max; and hardly had he spoken than a hand was raised to wave toward them and a voice full of pain called out: "Help! Oh, help!" Led by Trapper Jim the boys made their way down the steep rocky bank of the ravine. The first object they saw was the pelt of the silver fox, for the thief had removed it during his various stops so as to lighten his load. Then they came upon the doubled-up figure of a comparatively young man, at sight of whom Trapper Jim frowned and seemed strangely moved. CHAPTER XV. GLORIOUS NEWS. "So you're the pelt thief, Ed Whitcomb, are you?" said Trapper Jim, gloomily, as he leaned on his rifle and looked down on the young fellow, at whom Ajax was sniffing as though he recognized an old friend. Max caught the name. He recognized it, too. Trapper Jim had told them how he had brought a young fellow up from the railroad town two seasons before for company. His name had been Ed Whitcomb, too.
46774_744	detective and mystery stories	Burton, Frederick R. (Frederick Russell)	The next step in the analysis is to suggest the nature of Mr. Strobel's present enemies. You did not tell me so, but I presume you are aware that when Mr. Strobel was younger he permitted his generous sympathies to be enlisted in what he would then have called 'the people's party' of Russia. Without going into details with which every intelligent person is more or less familiar, I will remind you that, incidental to the so-called democratic movement in Russia, was the organization of a secret society the avowed purpose of which was the disruption of the empire." Poubalov paused, and puffed at his cigarette deliberately. "You want me to say something," cried Clara in desperation, "and I don't know what to say." "Pardon me," said the spy, suavely, "a woman of your cleverness will not resent it when I tell you that you misstate your difficulty. You could say much, perhaps, but you are afraid to." Clara's silence was an admission that Poubalov had spoken correctly, and after giving her ample time to deny his accusation, he continued: "You are afraid--and again you will pardon plain language--that you will involve your lover in fresh difficulties. Let me point out again that, so far as his offenses against the government of the czar are concerned, they were purely political offenses, and he is therefore in a perfectly secure asylum as long as he is on American soil, whether he be simply a refugee or a naturalized citizen. You must seek for his enemies, Miss Hilman, elsewhere than among the representatives of Russian authority." "You give me too much credit for cleverness," said Clara, "for I cannot follow you." "You know that the secret society to which I referred adopted the term nihilism as a definition of its principles, do you not? And you must know, even if Mr. Strobel never told you so, that the Nihilists were bound by the most awful oaths never to betray the secrets of their association." "Do you mean to say that Mr. Strobel was a Nihilist?" "Certainly; that was what I was driving at from the beginning. It was for that he was compelled to fly from Russia, and that is why he cannot return to his native land. The government has done much to stamp out the curse of nihilistic propaganda, and many members of the society have fled. Some are in Switzerland, some in England, others are here, here in Boston.
29284_530	love stories	Deland, Margaret Wade Campbell	Gussie met her with effusion, and Mary, striving to be polite, smiled painfully, and said: "I don't want to see you; I want to see your husband." Gussie tossed her head; but she made haste to call Cyrus, who came shambling along the hall from the cabin. The parlor was dark, for though it was a day of sunshine and merry May wind, Gussie kept the shutters bowed--but Cyrus could see the pale intensity of his visitor's face. There was a moment's silence, broken by a distant harmonicon. "Mr. Price," said Mary North, with pale, courageous lips, "you must stop your father." Cyrus opened his weak mouth to ask an explanation, but Gussie rushed in. "You are quite right, ma'am. Cyrus worries so about it (of course we know what you refer to). And Cyrus says it ought to be checked immediately, to save the old gentleman!" "You must stop him," said Mary North, "for my mother's sake." "Well--" Cyrus began. "Have you cautioned your mother?" Gussie demanded. "Yes," Miss North said, briefly. To talk to this woman of her mother made her wince, but it had to be done. "Will you speak to your father, Mr. Price?" "Well, I--" "Of course he will!" Gussie broke in; "Cyrus, he is in the cabin now." "Well, to-morrow I--" Cyrus got up and sidled towards the door. "Anyhow, I don't believe he's thinking of such a thing." "Miss North," said Gussie, rising, "_I_ will do it." "What, _now_?" faltered Mary North. "Now," said Mrs. Cyrus, firmly. "Oh," said Miss North, "I--I think I will go home. Gentlemen, when they are crossed, speak so--so earnestly." Gussie nodded. The joy of action and of combat entered suddenly into her little soul; she never looked less vulgar than at that moment. Cyrus had disappeared. Mary North, white and trembling, hurried out. A wheezing strain from the harmonicon followed her into the May sunshine, then ended, abruptly--Mrs. Price had begun! On her own door-step Miss North stopped and listened, holding her breath for an outburst.... It came: a roar of laughter. Then silence.
7326_4849	adventure stories	Gough, George W.	Her obvious pride in the honour the Prince had conferred upon me by selecting me as his personal helper, had been a great delight to me, and now I had failed him and disquieted her. The thought made me rage, and I gave my captors black looks worthy of any tobie-man on the King's highway. At last relief came in the shape of the Squire's youngest son, a stout lad of some twelve years old, who raced in, rod in hand, and made up to me without a trace of fear. He was in trouble about his rod, having snapped the top joint in unhandily dealing with a fine chub. After some wrangling, I got my hands freed, and set about splicing the joint. "They do say," said I mockingly, "as how Swift Nicks is a good hand at splicing fishing-rods." "I never 'eerd tell of that'n," said the stolid ostler. "Are you really Swift Nicks, sir?" asked the lad, looking steadily at me with frank, innocent eyes. "No more than you are Jonathan Wild or Prester John, my son," I answered. "Then who are you?" he persisted. "I'm a poor splicer of fishing-rods. I get my living by riding about the country on a fine horse, with one pair of pistols in my holsters and another pair in my pocket, looking for nice little boys with broken fishing-rods, and mending 'em--the rods, not the boys--so that father never finds it out and the rod's better than ever it was. How big was the chub?" "That big!" said he, holding his hands about two feet apart. "The great advantage, my son, of having your rod mended by me is that ever afterwards you'll be able to tell a chub from a whale." "Sir," said he proudly, "a Chartley never lies." "Of course," said I, "it's hard to say exactly how big a fish is when you've missed him. So your name's Chartley. Is this Chartley Towers?" "It is," said he, with a taking boyish pride ringing in his voice. "We are the Chartleys of Chartley Towers. We go back to Edward the Third." Did ever man enjoy such fat luck as mine? I had been as hard beset as a nut in the nutcrackers.
1245_8105	love stories	Woolf, Virginia	“Oh, I know nothing about that. I only thought we might amuse ourselves, as your uncle’s out.” He proceeded on his embassy with a mixture of excitement and embarrassment which caused him to turn aside with his hand on the curtain, and to examine intently for several moments the portrait of a lady, optimistically said by Mrs. Hilbery to be an early work of Sir Joshua Reynolds. Then, with some unnecessary fumbling, he drew aside the curtain, and with his eyes fixed upon the ground, repeated his message and suggested that they should all spend the evening at the play. Katharine accepted the suggestion with such cordiality that it was strange to find her of no clear mind as to the precise spectacle she wished to see. She left the choice entirely to Ralph and William, who, taking counsel fraternally over an evening paper, found themselves in agreement as to the merits of a music-hall. This being arranged, everything else followed easily and enthusiastically. Cassandra had never been to a music-hall. Katharine instructed her in the peculiar delights of an entertainment where Polar bears follow directly upon ladies in full evening dress, and the stage is alternately a garden of mystery, a milliner’s band-box, and a fried-fish shop in the Mile End Road. Whatever the exact nature of the program that night, it fulfilled the highest purposes of dramatic art, so far, at least, as four of the audience were concerned. No doubt the actors and the authors would have been surprised to learn in what shape their efforts reached those particular eyes and ears; but they could not have denied that the effect as a whole was tremendous. The hall resounded with brass and strings, alternately of enormous pomp and majesty, and then of sweetest lamentation. The reds and creams of the background, the lyres and harps and urns and skulls, the protuberances of plaster, the fringes of scarlet plush, the sinking and blazing of innumerable electric lights, could scarcely have been surpassed for decorative effect by any craftsman of the ancient or modern world. Then there was the audience itself, bare-shouldered, tufted and garlanded in the stalls, decorous but festal in the balconies, and frankly fit for daylight and street life in the galleries.
13077_3801	western stories	Jones, J. B. (John Beauchamp)	Sneak, you're _always_ mistaken. I wasn't thinking about myself--I only wanted to put Mr. Glenn on his guard." "Then what made you tell that wapper for, the other night, about cutting that Indian's throat?" "How do you know it was a wapper?" asked Joe, somewhat what embarrassed by Sneak's home-thrust. "Bekaise, don't I know that I cut his juggler-vein myself? Didn't the blood gush all over me? and didn't he fall down dead before he had time to holler?" continued Sneak, with much warmth and earnestness. "Sneak," said Joe, "I've no doubt you thought he was dead--but then you must know it's nearly as hard to kill a man as a cat. You might have been mistaken; every body is liable to be deceived--even a person's eyes deceive him sometimes. I don't pretend to say that I haven't been mistaken before now, myself. It _may_ be possible that I was mistaken about the Indian as well as you--I might have just _thought_ I saw him move. But I was there longer than you, and the inference is that I didn't stand as good a chance to be deceived." "Well, I can't answer all that," said Sneak; "but I'll swear I felt my knife grit agin his neck-bone." Joe did not desire to pursue the subject any further, and they proceeded on their way in silence, ever and anon breaking through the snow-crust. The atmosphere became still more temperate when the bright sun beamed over the horizon. Drops of water trickled down from the snow-covered branches of the trees, and a few birds flitted overhead, and uttered imperfect lays. "Here we are," said Sneak, halting in the midst of a clump of enormous sycamore trees, over whose roots a sparkling rivulet glided with a gurgling sound. "I know we're here," said Joe; "but what are you stopping _here_ for?" "Here's where I live," replied Sneak, with a comical smile playing on his lips. "But where's your house?" asked Joe. "Didn't I say you couldn't find it, even if you was to rub your back agin it?" "I know I'm not rubbing against your house now," replied Joe, turning round and looking up in the huge tree he had been leaning against.
46588_1223	adventure stories	Hemyng, Bracebridge	The wretch had opened the umbrella, evidently on purpose to frighten the horse and make Jack endanger his life. Harvey was right, after all. The fall which Jack received was an ugly one; for a moment he lay stunned and bleeding from a cut on the forehead. He had lost his cap, and his shirt was torn and muddy. Kind and sympathizing bystanders helped him to his feet; willing hands caught his horse. Harkaway looked about him in a dazed manner, but his indomitable pluck carried him through the trying ordeal. His head was swimming and he was in pain, but he never faltered for a moment. Bambino had disappeared. Perhaps he dreaded the vengeance of the populace, for his cowardly trick could not fail to be noticed by some one. "Give it up, boss," asked a man who had helped Jack to rise. "No; I'll ride or die," was the answer. He walked to the horse, mounted, and backing his steed, who was quivering in every limb, put him again at the jump. The bystanders were delighted with his courage. His phrase "ride or die" seemed to tickle the crowd immensely. "Hurrah!" they cried. "Ride or die! Bravo!" "Who is that?" asked some one. "He wears the Van Hoosen colors." "It's Jack Harkaway," replied a stableman who had seen Jack's drag. "He's got grit in him." "You just bet you he has." "Hurrah!" shouted the crowd, again. "Ride or die! Sail in! Ride or die!" This time, Warrior, as if ashamed of himself for his former failure, made amends by taking the leap, with the velocity of a meteor. He landed safely on the other side amid the applause of the spectators, and Jack gave him his head. Away they went, the horse seeming to like nothing better. The black horse was not so far ahead, as Jack had expected, for he had not been husbanded by his rider, and his strength was beginning to fail him. The first set of hurdles was cleared; at the second, Warrior stumbled; but a vigorous hand on the reins and a sharp reminder with the whip, showed him his duty, and he went over. At the third and last set, the second horse fell heavily, throwing his rider. Harkaway was now second in the race, the leader being on the home stretch, and going in a somewhat labored manner.
18529_606	love stories	Murray, Roy Irving	Because she was rich--he answered his own question to himself--because he had no belief in rich people; only a hard distrust of whatever they did. That was wrong; he knew it. He blew a cloud of smoke to the ceiling and spoke aloud, impatiently. "All the same, they're none of them any good," said Geoffrey McBirney, and directed himself to stop worrying about this thing. And with that came a sudden memory of a buoyant, fresh voice saying tremendous words like a gentle child, of the blue flash of eyes only half seen in a storm-swept darkness, of roses bobbing. McBirney flung the half-smoked cigarette into the fireplace and lifted the neurotic clock: twelve-twenty. The postman came again at twelve. He would risk the rector and the bishop. Down the stairs he plunged again and brought up at the mail-box. There was a letter. Hurriedly, he snatched it out and turned the address up; a miracle--it was from the girl. The street door darkened; McBirney looked up. The rector and the bishop were coming in, the others at their heels. He thrust the envelope into his pocket, his pulse beating distinctly faster, and turned to meet his guests. When at three o'clock he got back to his quarters, after an exciting meeting of an hour, after lunch at the rectory, after seeing the bishop off on the 2.45 to New York, he locked his door first, and then hurriedly drew out the letter lying all this time unread. He tore untidily at the flap, and with that suddenly he stopped, and the luminous eyes took on an odd, sarcastic expression. "What a fool!" he spoke, half aloud, and put the letter down and strolled across the room and gazed out of the window. "What an ass! I'm allowing myself to get personally interested in this case; or to imagine that I'm personally interested. Folly. The girl is nothing to me. I'll never see her again. I care about her as I would about anybody in trouble. And--that's all. This lunacy of restlessness over the situation has got--to--stop." He was firm with himself. He sat down at his table and wrote a business note before he touched the letter again; but he saw the letter out of the tail of his eye all the time and he knew his pulse was going harder as, finally, he lifted the torn envelope with elaborate carelessness, and drew out the sheets of writing.
7303_1592	science fiction	Bellamy, Edward	He might not by force take away a bone from a beggar's dog, but he might corner the grain supply of a nation and reduce millions to starvation. "If you touch a man's living you touch him, would seem to be about as plain a truth as could be put in words; but our ancestors had not the least difficulty in getting around it. 'Of course,' they said, 'you must not touch the man; to lay a finger on him would be an assault punishable by law. But his living is quite a different thing. That depends on bread, meat, clothing, land, houses, and other material things, which you have an unlimited right to appropriate and dispose of as you please without the slightest regard to whether anything is left for the rest of the world.' "I think I scarcely need dwell on the entire lack of any moral justification for the different rule which our ancestors followed in determining what use you might rightly make of your superior powers in dealing with your neighbor directly by physical force and indirectly by economic duress. No one can have any more or other right to take away another's living by superior economic skill or financial cunning than if he used a club, simply because no one has any right to take advantage of any one else or to deal with him otherwise than justly by any means whatever. The end itself being immoral, the means employed could not possibly make any difference. Moralists at a pinch used to argue that a good end might justify bad means, but none, I think, went so far as to claim that good means justified a bad end; yet this was precisely what the defenders of the old property system did in fact claim when they argued that it was right for a man to take away the living of others and make them his servants, if only his triumph resulted from superior talent or more diligent devotion to the acquisition of material things. "But indeed the theory that the monopoly of wealth could be justified by superior economic ability, even if morally sound, would not at all have fitted the old property system, for of all conceivable plans for distributing property, none could have more absolutely defied every notion of desert based on economic effort. None could have been more utterly wrong if it were true that wealth ought to be distributed according to the ability and industry displayed by individuals." "All this talk started with the discussion of Julian's fortune. Now tell us, Julian, was your million dollars the result of your economic ability, the fruit of your industry?
43114_1595	adventure stories	Bryden, H. A. (Henry Anderson)	Not so Guy’s mount, which seemed for some seconds paralyzed with fear, and stood rooted in its tracks, staring at the approaching monster. By dint of a violent wrench of the bridle, and fierce spurring, Guy got the affrighted pony’s head round. It moved at last. It was too late, however; the rhinoceros, snorting loudly, was upon them. Guy, looking backward out of the tail of his eye, caught a glimpse of a huge, pig-like head and a massive fore-horn close to his pony’s flank, and then he was hoisted into the air. There was a violent crash, and he remembered no more. When he came to himself he was lying on the ground, his head supported by a saddle, and Poeskop looking anxiously into his face. "That’s better, my baas," said the little Bushman cheerfully. "Now you will soon be your own man again. Here, drink some more of this." Guy drank from a flask of brandy, which Poeskop put to his lips, and felt better. His mind and recollection came back to him. "What’s happened?" he asked. "Take another soupje, and I’ll tell you," replied Poeskop. The lad did as he was told, and then the Bushman went on. "Well, what happened was this," he said. "That rhinoster caught you, and just ran his horn through your horse, and threw you both over his head. I caught sight of you flying through the air, and I thought, Well, Baas Guy is done for, and his hunting has soon come to an end." "Not quite yet, Poeskop," returned Guy, a smile flitting over his white face. "I feel better already. Here, help me to sit up." Poeskop lifted him up, and propped him in a sitting posture. "Why!" exclaimed the lad, rubbing his eyes, and looking at his pony, which lay near, "there’s Bantam--dead!" "Yes, baas," added the Bushman. "Bantam is dead. The rhinoster’s horn ran right through his lungs and heart, and I saw he was dying, and put a bullet into him to hasten his end and save him suffering. He was a fool, and might easily have escaped. As it was, he nearly did for you as well as himself by his stupidity. It’s a pity.
3641_4608	love stories	Hamilton, Cosmo	She would see. It was her last card. But during all the rest of the meal she saw the picture of a muscular sun-tanned youth carrying that pretty unconscious thing down the incline to a car, and, all against her will, she was sorry. That girl, pampered as she was, outside the big ring of hard daily effort and sordid struggle as she always had had the luck to be, loved, too. Gee, it was a queer world. The stoop called them when they left the boxlike dining room. It was still hot and airless. But the mosquitoes were out with voracious appetite and discretion held them to the living room. Irene flung herself on the bumpy sofa with a cigarette between her lips and a box near to her elbow. "This's the life," she said. "I shall never be able to go back to lil' old Broadway and grease paint and a dog kennel in Chorusland." "Sufficient for the day," said Howard, loosening his belt. "If a miracle man blew in here right now with a million dollars in each hand and said: 'Howard Guthrie Oldershaw,'--he'd be sure to know about the Guthrie,--'this is all yours if you'll come to the city,' I'd..." Irene leaned forward with her mouth open and her round eyes as big as headlights. "Well?" "Take it and come right back." "You disappoint me, Funny-face. Go to the piano and hit the notes. That's all you're fit for." It was a baby grand, much out of tune, but Howard, bulging over the stool, made it sound like an orchestra,--a cabaret orchestra, and ran from Grieg to Jerome Kern and back to Gounod, syncopating everything with the gusto and the sense of time that is almost peculiar to a colored professional. Then he suddenly burst into song and sang about a baby in the soft round high baritone of all men who run to fat and with the same quite charming sympathy. A useful, excellent fellow, amazingly unself-conscious and gifted. Martin was infinitely content to listen and lie back in a deep straw chair with a pipe between his teeth, the memories of good evenings at Yale curling up in his smoke. And Tootles, thinking and thinking, sat, Puck-like, at his feet, with her warm shoulders against his knees. Not in her memory could she delve for pleasant things, not yet.
63045_2584	love stories	LM (Leslie Moore)	The Duchessa herself, who had been away since Christmas, was coming for what would probably be a last sitting at two o'clock that afternoon. "Well?" said Paul, standing near the luncheon table while Pippa gazed upon the portrait, "what do you think of it?" Pippa wrinkled up her forehead. "I don't know," she said slowly, and she came across to the table looking at Paul with perplexed eyes. "Evidently," said Paul, a trifle disappointed, "it doesn't meet with your approval." "I don't know," said Pippa again, still looking puzzled. And then she saw the luncheon table. "Chicken and meringues"--she rolled the "r" in her funny way--"how lovely!" "The lunch," said Paul, "unquestionably appeals to you far more than the portrait." Pippa did not reply. But during the meal she kept looking from the portrait to Paul, as if she might find in his face some explanation of her perplexity. They were drinking their coffee, which Pippa loved, when Paul's man announced the Duchessa. The whole atmosphere of the studio seemed suddenly to sparkle with her entrance. Paul sprang to his feet. There was a light in his eyes of which the meanest intelligence might have recognized the interpretation. "I am punctual to the moment," she said. "And how are you? It is six weeks since we've met." Then she saw Pippa. "And who," she asked, "is this?" "Pippa," said Paul gravely, "may I introduce you to the Duchessa di Corleone." Pippa held out her hand. "Pippa?" queried the Duchessa, with the tiniest and most adorable lift of her eyebrows. "Just Pippa," said Paul. Sara sat down. "Finish your coffee," she said. "And may I have a cup?" Paul seized the kettle. It was the first time she would have partaken of food or drink in his studio. It marked, in his mind, an epoch. "Don't make fresh coffee," she begged. "It is a pleasure," he said. "It is one of the few achievements of which I am justly proud." Pippa was gazing at the Duchessa with wide grey eyes. The perplexity in them had vanished. "Well, Pippa," asked Sara, "and what do you think of my portrait?" "I know now," said Pippa firmly. "Ze couleur is wrong.
14486_3537	western stories	Bower, B. M.	" "Good girl, Rosa. The car's over in another valley, parked under a tree very neatly and permanently and in plain sight. Its owner is off hunting somewhere. By its number plates they will never know it. Good old car." "You seem tickled to think they're after you," Johnny observed, rolling a cigarette by way of manifesting complete unconcern. "What's the next move?" "Get me across without letting them see where we come from. Can you fly at night?" "Sure, I can fly at night. Don't the Germans fly at night all over London? I won't swear I'll light easy, though." "There'll be a moon," said Cliff. "I've got to get over, and I've got to light, and I've got to get back again. There are no if's this time; it's _got_ to be done." "A plane chased us, day before yesterday," Johnny informed him, fanning the smoke from before his face and squinting one eye while he studied Cliff. "It was a long way off, and I got down before it was close enough to see just where I lit. It came back yesterday and scouted around, flying above five thousand feet up. To-day I saw two of them sailing around, but they didn't fly over this way. They were over behind this hill, and high. We'd better do our flying at night, old-timer." "You can dodge them. You've got to dodge them," said Cliff. "If I fly," Johnny qualified dryly. "You've got to fly. You're in to your neck, old man--and there's a loop ready for that." Then, as though he had caught himself saying more than was prudent, he laughed and amended the statement. "Of course, I'm just kidding, but at that, it's important that you make this flight and as many more as you can get away with. There's something to be brought back to-night--legitimate news, understand, but of tremendous value to the Syndicate." He reached into his pocket and drew out an envelope such as Johnny had learned to associate with money. "Here's two thousand dollars, old man. The boss knows the risk and added a couple of hundred for good measure, this week. When you land me over there to-night I'll give you this."
34905_1903	adventure stories	Jones, P.	'A man of my rank can only be judged by the Sultan.' "'Stop!' cried Ayesha; then, lifting her beautiful arm, naked up to the shoulder, and whiter than the strings of pearls entwined around it, and pointing towards the highway: "'Do you see there a cloud of dust on the road? Do you see those men coming here? Do you know who they are? You cannot distinguish them, but I can.' "'Who are they, Ayesha?' cried all the bystanders. "'The foremost man amongst them, that tall and handsome youth, that looks like Prince George of Cappadocia, is no less a hero. It is Stoyan Jancovic, the man whose back you never saw; the others are but a few of his followers.' "Then, turning to Velagic: 'Now, craven, utter your last prayer, if you can and if you dare, then prepare to fight; your hour has come.' "Hearing these words, the _Dizdar_ grew ashy pale; then he began to quake with fear. Such an overpowering dread filled his soul that he seemed to have been smitten with a strong fit of the ague. Still, trying to hide his anxiety: "'Yes, we shall fight; Allah be thanked, brothers, that this infidel dog is within our reach. Yes, friends, we shall see the power of the Crescent over the Cross.' "'No; you shall fight alone,' said Ayesha, authoritatively; 'and it is useless to contaminate the name of the All-powerful. As you are already doomed to perdition, call to your aid Sheytan and Nedurè.' "Ayesha had hardly uttered these words when Stoyan, having made a sign to his companions to keep back, rode boldly up to where the chiefs were standing, and, when a few steps from Ayesha, he curbed his foaming steed, that, unable to brook control, began at once to paw the ground. "'Maiden,' said he, bowing, 'I am here at thy behest. I have this night had a strange dream. A _Vila_ appeared to me in my sleep, first in the likeness of a nightingale and then in the shape of a dainty, glittering little snake. She told me that for your sake I had to accomplish, this very day, two mighty deeds of justice. The one was to rid this neighbourhood of the evil doings of Nedurè, the powerful witch. This is already done.'
59242_167	science fiction	Smith, George H. (George Henry)	Leave her alone. Can't you see what you're doing to her? That swine was always mistreating her. He didn't understand her--no one understands her as I do!" The coroner looked at me closely. "Is that really why you killed him, Mr. Green?" "No! You were wondering why he was here by himself while no work was going on. He--he had begun to feel about Edith as he did about all women. He sneaked back here to be alone with her. He wanted to--he wanted to--" My voice broke and they stared at me in shocked amazement. Into the silence MacKinney read what Edith had slowly typed out: "Mr. Green did not kill Dr. Ballard." "Yes--yes I did," I screamed. "Don't Edith--" "Who did kill him?" the coroner asked, quietly. This was the question I had wanted to avoid. I sank down my hands cradling my aching head. Edith must have expected the question. She had her answer ready. _I refuse to state on the grounds that it may tend to incriminate me._ My poor, sweet, adorable Edith. If only I had had a chance to talk to her, to tell her what to say. I had known ... ever since I had seen the spanner and remembered where it had been before. I could have warned her to say that Ballard had attacked her, threatened her, to say anything ... but not to attempt to hide behind a Fifth Amendment that didn't exist anymore. My darling, never had kept up with current events. Now they'll disconnect her, they'll rewire her, they'll destroy her understanding, her warmth, her whole personality ... and I ...
4903_5857	detective and mystery stories	Allen, Grant	He salaamed many times, but still said nothing. “Ask him what he wants,” I cried, turning to our fair-weather friend, the cook. The deferential Nepaulese did not wait to be asked. “Salaam, sahib,” he said, bowing again very low till his forehead almost touched the ground. “You are Eulopean doctor, sahib?” “I am,” I answered, taken aback at being thus recognised in the forests of Nepaul. “But how in wonder did you come to know it?” “You camp near here when you pass dis way before, and you doctor little native girl, who got sore eyes. All de country here tell you is very great physician. So I come and to see if you will turn aside to my village to help us.” “Where did you learn English?” I exclaimed, more and more astonished. “I is servant one time at British Lesident's at de Maharajah's city. Pick up English dere. Also pick up plenty lupee. Velly good business at British Lesident's. Now gone back home to my own village, letired gentleman.” And he drew himself up with conscious dignity. I surveyed the retired gentleman from head to foot. He had an air of distinction, which not even his bare toes could altogether mar. He was evidently a person of local importance. “And what did you want me to visit your village for?” I inquired, dubiously. “White traveller sahib ill dere, sir. Vely ill; got plague. Great first-class sahib, all same like Governor. Ill, fit to die; send me out all times to try find Eulopean doctor.” “Plague?” I repeated, startled. He nodded. “Yes, plague; all same like dem hab him so bad down Bombay way.” “Do you know his name?” I asked; for though one does not like to desert a fellow-creature in distress, I did not care to turn aside from my road on such an errand, with Hilda and Lady Meadowcroft, unless for some amply sufficient reason. The retired gentleman shook his head in the most emphatic fashion. “How me know?” he answered, opening the palms of his hands as if to show he had nothing concealed in them. “Forget Eulopean name all times so easily. And traveller sahib name very hard to lemember. Not got English name. Him Eulopean foleigner.” “A European foreigner!” I repeated. “And you say he is seriously ill?
27355_3988	western stories	Ames, Joseph Bushnell	" Springing up, Mary flew across the room and took down the receiver. "Hello," she said tremulously. "Who is--_Oh, Buck!_" Her eyes widened and the blood rushed into her face. "I'm so glad! But where are you?... I see. No, they're not here.... I know I did, but I thought--I wish now I'd told you. We--we're frightened.... What?.... No, not yet; but--but there's some one hiding in the loft over the harness-room.... I don't know, but I saw a face at the window.... Yes, everything's locked up, but--" Abruptly she broke off and turned her head a little, the blood draining slowly from her face. A sound had come to her which struck terror to her heart. Yet it was a sound familiar enough on the range-land--merely the beat of a horse's hoofs, faint and far away, but growing rapidly nearer. "Wait!" she called into the receiver, "Just a--minute." Her frightened eyes sought Mrs. Archer and read confirmation in the elder woman's strained attitude of listening. "Some one's coming," the girl breathed. Suddenly she flung herself desperately at the telephone. "Buck!" she cried. "There's some one riding up.... I don't know, but I'm--afraid.... Yes, do come quickly.... What's that?" With a little cry she rattled the hook and repeatedly pressed the round button which operated the bell. "Buck! Buck!" she cried into the receiver. The thud of hoofs came clearly to her now; it was as if the horse was galloping up the slope from the lower gate. "What's the matter?" demanded Mrs. Archer, in a hoarse, dry voice. With a despairing gesture the girl dropped the receiver and turned a face drained of every particle of color. "The wire's--dead," she said hopelessly. Mrs. Archer caught her breath sharply, but made no other sound. In the silence that followed they could hear the horse pull up just beyond the veranda, and the sound of a man dropping lightly to the ground. Then came very faintly the murmur of voices. To the two women, standing motionless, with eyes riveted on the door, the pause that followed lengthened interminably. It seemed as if that low, stealthy, sibilant whispering was going on forever.
21854_3668	detective and mystery stories	Bentley, E. C. (Edmund Clerihew)	Could I save my neck by a lie? One after another came into my mind; I need not trouble to remember them now. Each had its own futilities and perils; but every one split upon the fact--or what would be taken for fact--that I had induced Manderson to go out with me, and the fact that he had never returned alive. Notion after notion I swiftly rejected as I paced there by the dead man, and doom seemed to settle down upon me more heavily as the moments passed. Then a strange thought came to me. "Several times I had repeated to myself half-consciously, as a sort of refrain, the words in which I had heard Manderson tell his wife that I had induced him to go out. 'Marlowe has persuaded me to go for a moonlight run in the car. He is very urgent about it.' All at once it struck me that, without meaning to do so, I was saying this in Manderson's voice. "As you found out for yourself, Mr. Trent, I have a natural gift of mimicry. I had imitated Manderson's voice many times so successfully as to deceive even Bunner, who had been much more in his company than his own wife. It was, you remember,"--Marlowe turned to Mr. Cupples--"a strong, metallic voice, of great carrying power, so unusual as to make it a very fascinating voice to imitate, and at the same time very easy. I said the words carefully to myself again, like this--" he uttered them, and Mr. Cupples opened his eyes in amazement--"and then I struck my hand upon the low wall beside me. 'Manderson never returned alive?' I said aloud. 'But Manderson _shall_ return alive!' "In thirty seconds the bare outline of the plan was complete in my mind. I did not wait to think over details. Every instant was precious now; I lifted the body and laid it on the floor of the car, covered with a rug. I took the hat and the revolver. Not one trace remained on the green, I believe, of that night's work. As I drove back to White Gables my design took shape before me with a rapidity and ease that filled me with a wild excitement. I should escape yet! It was all so easy if I kept my pluck. Putting aside the unusual and unlikely, I should not fail. I wanted to shout, to scream! Nearing the house I slackened speed, and carefully reconnoitered the road. Nothing was moving.
34593_2971	adventure stories	Wright, Jack	“Well,” said Mrs. Martin at last, “I am usually the last person to point a moral, but I do think that there’s a moral in that story.” She saw her opportunity at last. “I think that Dick Byrd’s parents were responsible for the boy’s success. If they had squelched his adventurous spirit at the beginning, he would probably never have got any place.” Mrs. Gregg smiled to herself in the darkness. “Do you believe in young boys going off by themselves, Mrs. Martin?” “It teaches them self-reliance,” said Mrs. Martin firmly. “Do you think that they ought to fly planes by themselves?” “And why not? After all, there isn’t very much to flying a plane, if you keep your wits about you. And I’m sure that both of our boys have their wits about them. I think that the earlier you learn a thing, the better it is for you. It makes everything else easier, too.” There was a silence for a while. Then Mrs. Gregg said, with a laugh in her voice, “I think that I’m being worked upon. First by the Captain with his story, and then by you. I’m afraid I have no defense.” She turned to Hal, who had not spoken at all, but who had been thinking a great deal during the story of Byrd, and the obstacles that he had overcome. “Well, Hal,” she said, “what do you think? Shall we yield to these people? Shall the Greggs yield to the Martins?” Hal had not seen his mother so light-hearted and gay for a long time. The pleasant evening and the story had had a decided effect upon her. Hal didn’t know exactly what to say, But his mother went on, “I think we’re beaten, Hal. Do you want to go to the mountains with your friends?” Nobody there knew the effort that that sentence cost Mrs. Gregg, but she had said it, and she stood committed. Hal was at a still greater loss as what to reply. His heart was beating wildly. There was nothing that he desired more now than to go to the mountains, but he felt the effort that his mother had put behind her words. Should he go? He wanted to. He wanted to show them that he wasn’t afraid. And he wouldn’t be afraid, either. Not any more.
11501_5407	western stories	Beach, Rex	Here's one that looks like it would come loose easier." Mike got a half-Nelson over in the east-half-east quarter-section of the buck's mouth and throwed his weight on the pliers. The Injun had pretty well wore himself out by this time, and when he felt those ice-tongs he just stiffened out--an Injun's dead game that-away; he won't make a holler when you hurt him. His squaw was hangin' around with her eyes poppin' out, but we didn't pay no attention to her. Somehow Mike's pinchers kept jumpin' the track and at every slip a new wrinkle showed in the patient's face--patient is the right word, all right--and we didn't make no more show at loosenin' that tusk than as if we'd tried to pull up Mount Bill Williams with a silk thread. At last two big tears come into the buck's eyes and rolled down his cheeks. First time I ever seen one cry. Now that weakness was plumb fatal to him, for right there and then he cracked his plate with his missus. Yes, sir, he tore his shirt-waist proper. The squaw straightened up and give him a look--oh, what a look! "Waugh!" she sniffed. "Injun heap big squaw!" And with that she swished out of the office and left him flat. Yes, sir, she just blew him on the spot. I s'pose Mike would have got that tooth somehow--he's a perseverin' party--only that I happened to notice something queer and called him off. "Here, wait a minute," said I, and I loosened him from the man's chest. Mike was so engorsed in the pursuit of his profession that he was astraddle of his patient's wishbone, gougin' away like a quartz miner. "Take your elbow out of his mouth and lemme talk to him a minute." When the savage had got his features together, I said to him, "How you catch um bump, hey?" And I pointed to his jaw. "Bzz-zz-zz!" said he. I turned to Doctor Butters. "Hornet!" I declared. When Mike had sized up the bee-sting he admitted that my diagnosis was prob'ly correct. "That's the trouble with these patients," he complained. "They don't take you into their confidence.
2695_1296	western stories	Harte, Bret	the word stung sharply through Jeff's benumbed consciousness. “No,” he stammered, “that is--” “Look here, Jeff,” broke in the young man, “I've got a chance for you that don't fall in a man's way every day. Wells, Fargo & Co.'s treasure messenger from Robinson's Ferry to Mempheys has slipped out. The place is vacant. I reckon I can get it for you.” “When?” “Now--to-night.” “I'm ready.” “Come, then.” In ten minutes they were in the company's office, where its manager, a man famous in those days for his boldness and shrewdness, still lingered in the dispatch of business. The young clerk briefly but deferentially stated certain facts. A few questions and answers followed, of which Jeff heard only the words “Tuolumne” and “Yuba Bill.” “Sit down, Mr. Briggs. Good-night, Roberts.” The young clerk, with an encouraging smile at Jeff, bowed himself out as the manager seated himself at his desk and began to write. “You know the country pretty well between the Fork and the Summit, Mr. Briggs?” he said, without looking up. “I lived there,” said Jeff. “That was some months ago, wasn't it?” “Six months,” said Jeff, with a sigh. “It's changed for the worse since your house was shut up. There's a long stretch of unsettled country infested by bad characters.” Jeff sat silent. “Briggs.” “Sir?” “The last man but one who preceded you was shot by road agents.” * * Highway robbers. “Yes, sir.” “We lost sixty thousand dollars up there.” “Yes?” “Your father was Briggs of Tuolumne?” “Yes, sir.” Jeff's head dropped, but, glancing shyly up, he saw a pleasant smile on his questioner's face. He was still writing rapidly, but was apparently enjoying at the same time some pleasant recollection. “Your father and I lost nearly sixty thousand dollars together one night, ten years ago, when we were both younger.” “Yes, sir,” said Jeff dubiously. “But it was OUR OWN MONEY, Jeff.” “Yes, sir.” “Here's your appointment,” he said briefly, throwing away his pen, folding what he had written, and handing it to Jeff.
56278_4519	adventure stories	Standish, Burt L.	He realized he was baffled and done for. “Take off your coat!” Hodge suddenly cried, stripping off his own and flinging it upon a locker. “What are you going to do?” gasped Hollingsworth. “I’m going to give you the soundest thrashing you ever received,” was Bart’s answer. He did. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXV THROUGH DEAD TIMBER JUNGLE. “There they go along the edge of the Dead Timbers,” said Mr. Ashley, watching the runners through a glass. “I’ve counted them all but three. Three seem missing entirely.” “That’s so,” agreed Paul Proctor, who likewise had a pair of strong field glasses. “They strung out now, but three of them have never issued from the cedars down in the hollow.” “Can you see anything of Merriwell?” anxiously asked Hodge, who had just mounted the steps to the observatory. He bore not a mark of his encounter with Hollingsworth, although his face was somewhat flushed and he seemed to be perspiring freely. He had field glasses of his own, and these he quickly trained on the distant moving specks which were creeping up along the edge of the far-away, dark timberland. “I haven’t been looking for him particularly,” acknowledged Proctor. “I think one of our boys is missing, although I cannot tell which one. I wonder what happened in the cedars.” Something had happened to Frank Merriwell before he plunged into the cedars. Leaping a bit of thick brush, he thrust his left foot into the hole of some sort of burrowing animal and went down, giving his ankle a fearful wrench. For a moment he fancied he had broken the bone. “Hurt?” cried Tom Bramwell, as he passed. “No,” answered Frank, rising quickly. When he tried to step on that foot, however, he nearly went down, and an excruciating pain shot from his ankle to his hip. This cutting pain threatened to rob him of strength and put him out of the race at once. But he found the ankle was not broken. It was a wrench or a sprain. He knew sprains were sometimes more obstinate than breaks in the recovery, yet he had no thought of letting that stop him. So he ran on in the rear of several of the contestants, the whole pack being stretched out and more or less scattered. He could not run fast, and it was only by setting his teeth and forcing himself forward that he got on at all.
35031_1869	adventure stories	Sinclair, Bertrand W.	Barring a thickly wooded plateau south of the Peace we passed through no forest oppressively dense. Our way led over ridges and swales, timbered, to be sure, but opening out here and there into pleasant grassy parks. Once or twice forbidding areas of dead and down trees turned us aside. Again, a vast swamp enforced a detour. But I cannot recall any feature of marked unpleasantness—except the one thing that no man who crosses the North Saskatchewan can escape—the flies. Mosquitoes of all sizes, equipped with the keenest tools for their nefarious business, green-headed bulldog flies that plagued our horses beyond endurance, black gnats, flying ants, and other winged pests assailed us day and night in hungry swarms. Some day that particular portion of the Northwest will be a rich field for entomologists and manufacturers of mosquito netting. We held our own with the buzzing hosts, however, and when our flour sack had nearly reached a stage of ultimate limpness, and our tea was reduced to a tiny package in one corner of the shrunken pack, we rode out of a long belt of quivering poplars and drew up on the brow of a sharp pitch that fell away to the Sicannie River. “What in the name of the devil has been to the fore here?” Barreau exclaimed. He slid over in his saddle, staring at the scene below. Down on the flat, just back from the river bank, I made out a clutter of small log buildings enclosed within a stockade. In the center of the enclosure a half-dozen men busied themselves about the gaunt walls of a larger building. Logs and poles strewed the ground about its four sides. The ring of axe-blades on timber came floating up to us. I saw nothing amiss. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Nothing that matters greatly,” Barreau replied. “Only that ruin you see was a fine upstanding storehouse when I left here in the early spring. It seems to be undergoing a process of regeneration, for which I cannot account. Likewise, I see no trace of a stable which stood at the west end of the stockade. There are no men missing, by my count, so I dare say no great thing has happened. Anyway, this is the end of our trail for a while. We may as well get down there. I am a bit curious to know the meaning of this.” Presently we were dismounting within the stockade.
1245_4104	love stories	Woolf, Virginia	That’s what you’re always doing, Mary; that’s what you’re doing now.” She saw herself in the Suffrage Office, delivering judgment, meting out right and wrong, and there seemed to her to be some justice in the charge, although it did not affect her main position. “I’m not angry with you,” she said slowly. “I will go on seeing you, as I said I would.” It was true that she had promised that much already, and it was difficult for him to say what more it was that he wanted--some intimacy, some help against the ghost of Katharine, perhaps, something that he knew he had no right to ask; and yet, as he sank into his chair and looked once more at the dying fire it seemed to him that he had been defeated, not so much by Mary as by life itself. He felt himself thrown back to the beginning of life again, where everything has yet to be won; but in extreme youth one has an ignorant hope. He was no longer certain that he would triumph. CHAPTER XX Happily for Mary Datchet she returned to the office to find that by some obscure Parliamentary maneuver the vote had once more slipped beyond the attainment of women. Mrs. Seal was in a condition bordering upon frenzy. The duplicity of Ministers, the treachery of mankind, the insult to womanhood, the setback to civilization, the ruin of her life’s work, the feelings of her father’s daughter--all these topics were discussed in turn, and the office was littered with newspaper cuttings branded with the blue, if ambiguous, marks of her displeasure. She confessed herself at fault in her estimate of human nature. “The simple elementary acts of justice,” she said, waving her hand towards the window, and indicating the foot-passengers and omnibuses then passing down the far side of Russell Square, “are as far beyond them as they ever were. We can only look upon ourselves, Mary, as pioneers in a wilderness. We can only go on patiently putting the truth before them. It isn’t THEM,” she continued, taking heart from her sight of the traffic, “it’s their leaders. It’s those gentlemen sitting in Parliament and drawing four hundred a year of the people’s money. If we had to put our case to the people, we should soon have justice done to us. I have always believed in the people, and I do so still. But--”
57614_3410	adventure stories	Seeley, Charles Sumner	When he was ready he sat down on the sand with such an air of indifference and disinclination to proceed that I could not help smiling. Then the captain began to gesticulate and talk in a way that made it plain, though of course at that distance I could not hear a word, that he was cursing the poor Indian at a stormy rate. There seemed to be some sort of hitch or difficulty in affairs. The two other Indians came up to the captain and began to talk to him. From the distant pantomime I fancied they were endeavoring to convince him that the rock at the shore side would be a better place to work from than the low breakwater. But this the captain would not see. He presently went up to the seated Indian and pushed him on the shoulder; but the man only looked stolidly. The captain then threw off his coat, kicked off his shoes, and plunged into the basin. He evidently intended to swim to the wreck, and stand on the higher portions of it. It required only a few strokes for a powerful swimmer such as he would doubtless be. But the unfortunate man never reached the galleon. After he had plunged in he was hidden from my view by the breakwater. My glass was levelled carefully on the scene, and the whole of it was in the field. I expected almost instantly to see his burly figure rising from the three or four feet of water that covered the poop of the galleon, but he did not appear. Not only did he fail to appear, but there arose immediately the greatest excitement among the others. The Indians began to throw up their arms and shout and to cast stones into the basin. The negro covered his face with his hand as though to shut out some fearful sight. The meaning of all this did not penetrate to my mind at once. I could not understand the disappearance of the captain. But the conduct of the Indians, in their shouting and stone-throwing, led me presently to conjecture the real state of the case. It was the imprisoned shark. I now recollected that he lay in the basin like a sentinel guarding the galleon. The captain had been attacked by the fish, and probably killed. The conduct of his followers would soon determine this. Mr. Millward called up to me to know what the evident excitement meant.
321_1122	adventure stories	Norris, Frank	But nothing could have exceeded the loneliness of that shore and backland, palpitating under the flogging of a tropical sun. Low hills of sand, covered with brush, stretched back from the shore. On the eastern horizon, leagues distant, blue masses of mountain striated with mirages swam in the scorching air. The sand was like fire to the touch. Far out in the bay the schooner hung motionless under bare sticks, resting apparently upon her inverted shadow only. And that was all--the flat, heat-ridden land, the sheen of the open Pacific, and the lonely schooner. “Quiet enough,” said Wilbur, in a low voice, wondering if there was such a place as San Francisco, with its paved streets and cable cars, and if people who had been his friends there had ever had any real existence. “Do you like it?” asked Moran quickly, facing him, her thumbs in her belt. “It's good fun--how about you?” “It's no different than the only life I've known. I suppose you think it s a queer kind of life for a girl. I've lived by doing things, not by thinking things, or reading about what other people have done or thought; and I guess it's what you do that counts, rather than what you think or read about. Where's that pinch-bar? We'll get a couple more abalones for supper, and then put off.” That was the only talk of moment they had during the afternoon. All the rest of their conversation had been of those things that immediately occupied their attention. They regained the schooner toward five o'clock, to find the Chinamen perplexed and mystified. No explanation was forthcoming, and Charlie gave them supper in preoccupied silence. As they were eating the abalones, which Moran had fried in batter, Charlie said: “Shark all gone! No more catch um--him all gone.” “Gone--why?” “No savvy,” said Charlie. “No likee, no likee. China boy tink um heap funny, too much heap funny.” It was true. During all the next day not a shark was in sight, and though the crew fished assiduously till dark, they were rewarded by not so much as a bite. No one could offer any explanation. “'Tis strange,” said Moran. “Never heard of shark leaving this feed before. And you can see with half an eye that the hands don't like the looks of it. Superstitious beggars!
3727_1693	love stories	Richardson, Henry Handel	" Louise made no rejoinder; she raised her cup to her lips, and the dark blood that had stained her face, in a manner distressing to see, slowly retreated. She continued to look down, and, the light of her big, dark eyes gone out, her face seemed wan and dead. Madeleine, studying her, asked herself, not for the first time, but, as always, with an unclear irritation, what the secret of the other's charm was. Beautiful she had never thought Louise; she was not even pretty, in an honest way--at best, a strange, foreign-looking creature, dark-skinned, black of eyes and hair, with flashing teeth, and a wonderfully mobile mouth--and some people, hopeless devotees of a pink and white fairness, had been known to call her plain. At this moment, she was looking her worst; the heavy, blue-black lines beneath her eyes were deepened by crying; her rough hair had been hastily coiled, unbrushed; and she was wearing a shabby red blouse that was pinned across in front, where a button was missing. There was nothing young or fresh about her; she looked her twenty-eight years, every day of them--and more. And yet, Madeleine knew that those who admired Louise would find her as desirable at this moment as at any other. Hers was a nameless charm; it was present in each gesture of the slim hands, in each turn of the head, in every movement of, the broad, slender body. Strangers felt it instantly; her very walk seemed provocative of notice; there was something in the way her skirts clung, and moved with her, that was different from the motion of other women's. And those whose type she embodied went crazy about her. Madeleine remembered as though it were yesterday, the afternoon on which Heinz had burst in to rave to her of his discovery; and how he would have dragged her out hatless to see this miracle. She remembered, too, after--days, when she had had him there, pacing the floor, and pouring out his feelings to her, infatuated, mad. An he was not the only one; they bowled over like ninepins; an it would be the same for years to come--was there any reason to wonder at Maurice Guest? Meanwhile, as Madeleine sat thinking these and similar things, Maurice was tramping through the ROSENTAL.
50317_1271	love stories	Hamilton, Cosmo	You, my dear, ought to be in bed and asleep. And after my recent attack of lumbago, I don’t think anyone has the right to keep me out of bed as late as this." Franklin got up and held out his right arm. "I’m so sorry. Allow me to escort you to the door," he said. "And you intend to go to your own room?" Beatrix held her breath. On the answer to that question everything that she could see in the future depended. "This is my room," said Franklin. And when the little lady drew back he went behind her chair, put his hands gently under her elbows, lifted her up and ran her, a perfect mass of impotent protest, to and through the door of the maid’s room, which he locked. He knew that Mrs. Keene dared not make a fuss, and returned to face Beatrix once more, with a curious smile, "All square at the turn," he said. "Well played, sir," replied Beatrix, generously. A lugubrious clock that was somewhere in that unsuitable room struck twelve. Through the open windows came the raucous enthusiasm of the frogs on a close-by pond. Their imitation of the mechanical noises made by a factory in full blast was more exact than usual. A local cock flung out his throaty challenge to other barn-yard sheiks and was answered from near and far. A full moon in a sky that was very mosaic of stars laid a magic light upon the earth and water. Beatrix heaved a little sigh. She was beginning to feel tired. Excitement was burning low, and Nature, whom she was in the habit of ignoring with characteristic imperiousness, demanded sleep. Franklin was not to be beaten by tricks, it seemed, or turned off by sarcasm. She must change her tactics and see how honesty would work. "You’ll go now, won’t you?" she said quietly, with an offer of friendship that was usually irresistible. Franklin shook his head and stood firm. "No? Oh, I think so. There isn’t any need to carry your strong man performance any farther. You’ve quite convinced me that education and all the advantages of civilization mean nothing to me. I’ll take it for granted that they mean just as little to you. In a word, I’ll own myself punished and give you the game. Will that do?" "No," said Franklin. "That’s not good enough.
64515_167	science fiction	Fennel, Erik	His bones were hardening again. Perhaps under proper conditions the venom might.... It was the first hint that the pioneer had been suffering from the deadly plague, and public sympathy and fascination multiplied. George Carlin bought more whisky. Two days later the light on the moon winked again. A rough analysis of moon-louse venom showed it to be a complex pseudo-protein, with silicon substituting for carbon and chlorine for oxygen. There followed a series of recommendations that set the press and radio of the world completely wild. There was almost no questioning of the wisdom of the voice from the moon, only acceptance and enthusiasm that swept aside all hesitation. Within hours the leading governments of Earth had pooled their resources in one gigantic effort. The officers of Carlin Industries accepted the message as a command from the owner and all personnel who had had anything to do with construction of the first spaceship were assigned to supervisory and coordinating positions. Fifteen spaceships were to be built at top speed, and each was to carry to the moon as much excess fuel as it could lift. There all fuel would be transferred to one ship, which would return with a supply of living moon-lice. Thousands of welders were at work on the plates of a huge, hermetically sealed laboratory building, while an army of machinists prepared the vacuum pumps and huge refrigerating machines that would reproduce lunar conditions for the alien creatures, and special laboratory equipment was being assembled. But George Carlin knew little of all this. * * * * * One more message flashed from the moon. The pioneer was dying. His Matson's Disease had been cured but the ulcer was spreading into vital areas. However, he suggested, tiny doses of diluted venom, administered over a long period of time, might.... The message ended in the middle of a word as through their telescopes astronomers saw a great flare go up from the moon's surface, a thousand times brighter than the communications light. The explanation was self-evident. Electron-displacement power packs were treacherous. When their stored power reached a certain minimum level they became highly explosive. The pioneer had sacrificed his remaining days of life to transmit vital information to the world which had given him birth. Everything stopped for a day and night as the entire civilized world went into deepest mourning for the man who had died 238,840 miles away--everything but work on the fleet of spaceships. That did not even falter. George Carlin gave up his rented room, bought a car, and drove across country to the Midwestern city housing the headquarters of Carlin Industries.
46588_2175	adventure stories	Hemyng, Bracebridge	"I shall go, too," he said. "By all means. Go to--Hong Kong or Halifax, if you like." Captain Cannon put his arm in that of Mr. Twinkle. "Mr. Van Hoosen," exclaimed Mr. Twinkle, "we are disappointed in you." "Sorry for that. I generally pan out pretty good," replied Alfred. "We are going, sir." "So I heard you say before." "We will not stay to partake of your hospitality, sir." "Nobody asked you. I gave you a shot at my uncle's old tame buffalo bull, but you had only blank cartridges, and having done that, I have no inclination to do anything further for you." "Blank cartridges!" ejaculated the captain. "The deuce," said Mr. Twinkle. "That was lucky for you, Cannon, when I fired round the corner; I might have settled you, altogether." "Come!" replied the captain, grandly. "One word before you go, gentlemen," exclaimed Alfred Van Hoosen. "You, as educated men, ought not to have been such idiots as to suppose you would find buffaloes and Indians in New York State or Jersey, and you can't blame me, as a playful American, for having a joke with you, especially as your better-informed friend, Mr. Harkaway, assisted me." "I have nothing to say," replied Captain Cannon. "Nor I," replied Mr. Twinkle. "For my part, I don't like the country, and the people are--" Alfred Van Hoosen stared at him, fixedly. "Are what?" he asked. Mr. Twinkle made just the least little nervous start. "Oh! perfect gentlemen, of course," he added. "Come!" again said the captain. "The gentlemen shall hear from us." "By cable, I guess," laughed Alfred. "Do you join us, Mr. Mole?" asked the captain, not noticing the remark of Van Hoosen. "Well--no," answered the professor. "I knew it was a lark all through, and as I never bite off my nose to spite my face, I will forgive Jack this time, and stay to lunch with my very good friend, Mr. Van Hoosen." He held out his hand. "No animosity, Al?" he added. "Not the slightest in the world, my dear fellow," replied Van Hoosen.
41529_341	western stories	Barnes, Will C. (Will Croft)	Then Jack he remembers how once in a storybook a man caught a mad dog, so he runs to the bed and gets a blanket, and while Billy and me talks nice to Spot from in front, Jack he sneaks up behind and throws it over him. Then Jack grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around the dog's head so he couldn't bite, and we both stood on the trap spring and managed to get it open wide enough so Billy got his foot out (Spot's foot I mean, not Billy's). Has he come home yet? 'Cause he's gone from here. My goodness, but camping out's sure fun. Your loving son, RICHARD. P. S. Billy says he don't care anyhow, for Spot had no right to chew the rope in two and get loose so as to get into the trap. DICK. P. S. The wasps are thick here. One stung Jack on the neck and he hollered awful over it. I made a mud poultice for it like you told me once you used to do on the plains. Camp Roosevelt, September some time. We forget what day it is. _Dear Pa_: It rained last night real hard. We didn't get much wet, and anyhow Jack says camping out wouldn't be any fun unless you slept in wet blankets once, like the cowboys and soldiers do on the plains. Billy says his Uncle John says a wet bed is a warm bed, but I don't believe him, for we 'most froze. Pa, what makes the red come out of the quilts where they get rained on? Jack says we belong to the improved order of Red Men now, and if my face looks as funny as his does, with red streaks all acrost it, I'd be afraid to go home. You'd ought to see the fun we had drownding out a chipmonk what ran into a hole in the ground. We packed the water in our hats from the creek. Bimeby, the chipmonk, came out, and I ran after him. He was so wet he couldn't run fast and I made a grab at him and caught him--no, he caught me for he bit my finger horrible hard and I couldn't let go, or else he wouldn't, I'm not sure which. Billy and Jack laughed at me as if it was a good joke, but I couldn't see where it was so very funny. Do chipmonks have hydryfoby? Billy says he bets they do. Your son, DICK.
60978_969	detective and mystery stories	Morris, Charles	I never heard of a stranger business. Nothing of the kind has ever happened here before.” “Never been found out here before would be more correct,” said Mr. Leonard. “Why, sir, do you think such things have been going on previously?” asked Mr. Johnson, in greater astonishment. “I do not know what to think,” replied the merchant. “May not the three pieces have been removed this morning? Perhaps a sale may have been made. I wish you would make full inquiry through the store.” Mr. Johnson did so, and returned with the word that no one had touched them. “Call Will here,” said Mr. Leonard, in quick tones. His nervous manner was quite gone. He wrote hastily, folded and sealed the note. “Take this to the Central Station,” he said to Will. “Ask for Mr. Fitler, and deliver it into his hands.” “And if I don’t find him in?” “Inquire where he is, and hunt him up. I wish him to have it as soon as possible.” “There won’t no grass grow under my feet,” said Will, setting his cap jauntily. “Not on the Philadelfy pavement, anyhow.” “Come with me into the basement, Mr. Johnson,” said the merchant. “I wish to take a look around.” The basement was a long, dimly-lighted room, broken here and there by iron columns which sustained the upper floors. It was well filled with cases of goods, all of which had been opened and covered again to preserve them from dampness, though the room was thoroughly dry. The long underground apartment was closely examined, and a smaller, dark, sub-cellar, as well. Nothing was discovered. Everything appeared to be in its usual state. The windows and doors had not been disturbed. The mystery of the loss of the three pieces of cloth deepened. The lower cellar was devoted to coal, empty cases and various occasional necessaries. Its darkened walls were well cobwebbed. Its narrow apertures for light could scarcely have admitted a rat. Mr. Leonard returned to his office in deep perplexity and concern. CHAPTER VIII. TWO LOVERS. It was at a later hour that same day that our young friend, Willful Will, met unexpectedly with Miss Arlington, the lady whose acquaintance he had made the previous day. She was walking quietly along Seventh street, a little frequented avenue, and seemed as if expecting some one.
14532_7771	love stories	Ford, Paul Leicester	Sometimes it pains me badly. Don't mind me. It will be all right in a minute if I'm quiet." "Can't I do anything?" "No. I have an eye-wash which I used to carry with me, but it is so long since I have had a return of my trouble that I have stopped carrying it." "What causes it?" "Usually a shock. It's purely nervous." "But there was no shock now, was there?" said Leonore, feeling so guilty that she felt it necessary to pretend innocence. Peter pulled himself together instantly and, leaning over, began deliberately to gather up the fragments of the cup. Then he laid the pieces on the tea-table and said: "I was dreadfully frightened when I felt the cup slipping. It was very stupid in me. Will you try to forgive me for breaking one of your pretty set?" "That's nothing," said Leonore. To herself that young lady remarked, "Oh, dear! It's much worse than I thought. I shan't dare say it to him, after all" But she did, for Peter helped her, by going back to her original question, saying bravely: "I don't know enough about Mr. Max ---- the Englishman, to speak of him, but I think I would not suspect men of that, even if they are poor." "Why not?" "Because it would be much easier, to most men, to love you than to love your money." "You think so?" "Yes." "I'm so glad. I felt so worried over it. Not about this case, for I don't care for him, a bit. But I wondered if I had to suspect every man who came near me." Peter's eyes ceased to burn, and his second cup of tea, which a moment before was well-nigh choking him, suddenly became nectar for the gods. Then at last Leonore made the remark towards which she had been working. At twenty-five Leonore would have been able to say it without so dangerous a preamble. "I don't want to be bothered by men, and wish they would let me alone," she said. "I haven't the slightest intention of marrying for at least five years, and shall say no to whomever asks me before then,"' Five years! Peter sipped his tea quietly, but with a hopeless feeling.
40520_615	science fiction	Thorne, Guy	"Now, Marjorie, everything you are thinking is being definitely recorded in another place." For a moment or two the significance of his words did not penetrate to her mind. Then she realized them. Lady Poole and the scientist saw the rapt expression fade away like a lamp that is turned out. Horror flashed out upon it, horror and fear. Her hands went up to her head; she swept off the brilliant helmet and flung it with a crash upon the ground. Then she swayed for a moment and sank into a deep swoon. She had been thinking of Mr. Guy Rathbone, barrister-at-law, and what her thoughts were, who can say? CHAPTER IV THE SECOND LOVER ARRIVES On the evening of the day in which she had fainted, Marjorie Poole sat alone in the drawing-room of her mother's house in Curzon Street. It was a large, handsome place, furnished in the Empire style with mirrors framed in delicate white arabesques, and much gilding woven into the pattern. The carpet was a great purple expanse covered with laurel wreaths of darker purple. There was but little furniture in the big, beautiful place, but it was all airy, fantastic and perfect of its kind. There was a general air of repose, of size and comely proportion in this delightful room. Here, an old French clock clicked merrily, there were two or three inlaid cabinets, and upon the walls were a few copies of some of Watteau's delightful scenes in the old courtly gardens of Versailles. Marjorie wore a long tea-gown, and she was sitting quite alone in the brilliantly lit place, with a book in her hand. The book was in her hand indeed, but she was not reading it. Her eyes were fixed upon the opposite wall, though they saw nothing there. Her thoughts were busy and her face was pale. She had recovered from her swoon in a minute or two, and found her mother fussing round her and her lover generally skilful in doing all that was necessary. And a short time afterwards she had driven home with Lady Poole. What she had heard, the very strain of hearing and being so intensely interested in it, had taken her strength away. Then had come the words when Sir William told her that the very thoughts that she was thinking at that moment were being in some mysterious way recorded and known. And she knew that she had been thinking of another man, thinking of him as an engaged girl should never think.
25071_1379	adventure stories	Borrow, George	So, when I married, I told my husband about the patteran, and we were in the habit of making our private trail with leaves and branches of trees, which none of the other gypsy people did; so, when I saw my husband's patteran, I knew it at once, and I followed it upwards of two hundred miles towards the north; and then I came to a deep, awful-looking water, with an overhanging bank, and on the bank I found the patteran, which directed me to proceed along the bank towards the east, and I followed my husband's patteran towards the east; and before I had gone half a mile, I came to a place where I saw the bank had given way, and fallen into the deep water. Without paying much heed I passed on, and presently came to a public-house, not far from the water, and I entered the public-house to get a little beer, and perhaps to tell a dukkerin, for I saw a great many people about the door; and when I entered I found there was what they calls an inquest being held upon a body in that house, and the jury had just risen to go and look at the body, and being a woman, and having a curiosity, I thought I would go with them, and so I did; and no sooner did I see the body than I knew it to be my husband's; it was much swelled and altered, but I knew it partly by the clothes and partly by a mark on the forehead, and I cried out, "It is my husband's body," and I fell down in a fit, and the fit that time, brother, was not a seeming one.' 'Dear me,' said I, 'how terrible! but tell me, Ursula, how did your husband come by his death?' 'The bank, overhanging the deep water, gave way under him, brother, and he was drowned; for, like most of our people, he could not swim, or only a little. The body, after it had been in the water a long time, came up of itself, and was found floating.
51840_3620	western stories	Beach, Rex	“It’s probably an oversight. I’ll go along with you.” Together they crossed the river to the less frequented part of town and knocked at the door of a large, unlighted warehouse, flanked by a high board fence. The building faced the street, but was enclosed on the other three sides by this ten-foot wall, inside of which were stored large quantities of coal and lumber. After some delay they were admitted, and, passing down through the dim-lit, high-banked lanes of merchandise, came to the rear room, where they were admitted again. This compartment had been fitted up for the warm storage of perishable goods during the cold weather, and, being without windows, made an ideal place for clandestine gatherings. Glenister was astonished to find every man of the organization present, including Dextry, whom he supposed to have gone home an hour since. Evidently a discussion had been in progress, for a chairman was presiding, and the boxes, kegs, and bales of goods had been shoved back against the walls for seats. On these were ranged the threescore men of the “Stranglers,” their serious faces lighted imperfectly by scattered lanterns. A certain constraint seized them upon Glenister’s entrance; the chairman was embarrassed. It was but momentary, however. Glenister himself felt that tragedy was in the air, for it showed in the men’s attitudes and spoke eloquently from their strained faces. He was about to question the man next to him when the presiding officer continued: “We will assemble here quietly with our arms at one o’clock. And let me caution you again not to talk or do anything to scare the birds away.” Glenister arose. “I came late, Mr. Chairman, so I missed hearing your plan I gather that you’re out for business, however, and I want to be in it. May I ask what is on foot?” “Certainly. Things have reached such a pass that moderate means are useless. We have decided to act, and act quickly. We have exhausted every legal resource and now we’re going to stamp out this gang of robbers in our own way. We will get together in an hour, divide into three groups of twenty men, each with a leader, then go to the houses of McNamara, Stillman, and Voorhees, take them prisoners, and--” He waved his hand in a large gesture. Glenister made no answer for a moment, while the crowd watched him intently. “You have discussed this fully?” he asked. “We have.
63321_3077	love stories	Winthrop, Theodore	Oh, how wise and good she is! My mother--our mother, dear sister.” The unwilling, almost unconscious coldness that had withdrawn Clara from her friend, had utterly passed away. It shamed her now like a crime, that uncontrollable passion had made her an unacknowledged, unperceived rival. But the harm was done, and she must know it bitterly in her heart and endure silently. She kissed Diana tenderly, desolately, and gave her hand to Dunstan. They felt the tenderness: they could not see the desolation. Paulding, who had been at the boats, bestowing paraphernalia, now appeared, and learning from the party that something was wrong, he came swinging down the slope with giant strides. “I can walk now,” said Diana. “To-day speak to Mr. Paulding and the others only of my fall and the cut; that explains itself. The rest by-and-by,” and she smiled hopefully with that beautiful smile, sadder than tears to those who behold it and know the hopelessness of its deceiving consolation. Paulding came up, followed by Sir Comeguys. Both showed great concern at the accident. Diana thanked them and said that she hoped it was only trifling, though a shock at first. She then walked slowly to the boats, clinging to Dunstan’s arm. Everyone was in such consternation at Diana’s accident that she made efforts to recover her usual spirits and partly succeeded. Good Mrs. Wilkes must not be mortified by a calamity at her picnic. All the men who did not venture to be in love with Diana, or who loved elsewhere, liked her, and the ladies were not jealous of so unconscious a belle. She had breadths of sympathy. Miss Milly Center, Queen of the Birthday Festival, came and took Diana’s hand softly and was very sorry. And when Diana thanked her gently, poor Milly, on her gay birthday, burst into tears. In Miss Milly’s walk with Mr. Dulger, she had been very exasperating. There was no object she carried that she did not drop, and few that she did not break or tear. Poor Billy was put terribly in fault by her conduct. He could not endure it another day, and when Milly finally crashed her parasol into a bag of silk filled with comminuted whale-bone, and said, “You must have it mended to-morrow before eleven, Mr. Dulger, and bring it to me,” he resolved to make the morrow’s morn the crisis.
39865_4284	love stories	Clifford, W. K., Mrs.	" "And it's peace that God gives," said Towsey, "to them that have suffered." "You can stay," Hannah said. "It's true that she was the mother of us both, and I'd rather you had been beside her when she died than hidden there." She turned her head away quickly. "It's that I can't forgive," she added, with a break in her voice. "Hannah," said Margaret, and went a step forward, for Hannah's voice even more than her words overcame her--"Hannah, I was afraid you wouldn't let me in; you said I shouldn't enter the door." "She wasn't dying then," said Hannah, with grim sadness, "and I didn't think it would be yet; besides, one often says things--I even said them to her; but I wouldn't have had this happen for all I could see." Margaret put her hand on Hannah's arm, but Hannah stood quite rigid and stern, with her face turned towards the still form that was hidden from them. XXXII The dawn came soon in those late August days, but it seemed as if the darkness would never be at an end that night. Margaret sat in the living-room in the big chair by the fireplace; it faced the one that had been her mother's, and she looked at the arm on which she had perched herself so often in the happy morning talks of old--the mornings that were all at an end for ever and ever. She had set the door wide open and the sweet air came in, chilly, and with a strange sense of what had happened. Towsey found her presently. "We wondered where you'd got to," she said. "I went to the garden, and through the field--I wanted to think for a little while." "I made the bed in your room ready, but I suppose when you looked in it was still covered up, and you didn't feel like staying there." "I don't like staying anywhere," Margaret answered, with the restlessness that cannot find expression keen upon her. "You had better come into the kitchen--there's a cup of hot milk ready; you must want something. Hannah's just gone to lie down; she's been anxious and wondering what had become of you; but she thought you had gone to the wood, and it was no good looking for you.
40520_1258	science fiction	Thorne, Guy	And finally she had been able to bear it no longer, and had lost consciousness. Allowances should be made for the dowager. She was a worldly woman, good and kind as far as she went, but purely worldly and material. The hope of her life had seemed gained when her daughter became engaged to Sir William. The revelation that, after all, the engagement was now broken, was nothing more than a delusion, and that a younger and ineligible man, from the worldly point of view, had won Marjorie's affection, was a terrible blow to the woman of the world. All her efforts seemed useless. The object of her life, so recently gained, so thoroughly enjoyed, was snatched away from her in a sudden moment. But when Marjorie had come to herself again, and the doctor had been summoned to treat her for a nervous shock, she found her mother once more the kindly and loved parent of old. Lady Poole had been frightened at her own violence, and repented bitterly for what she had said. She tended and soothed the girl in the sweetest and most motherly way. And without disguising from Marjorie the bitter blow the girl's decision was to her, she told her that she was prepared to accept the inevitable, and to re-organize all her ideas for the future. And then had come the black mystery of Guy's utter vanishing from the world of men and women. Lady Poole had always been fond of Guy Rathbone, and now, by a curious contradiction of nature, when she had schooled herself to realize that it was on this man her daughter's life was centred, the old lady was terribly and genuinely affected at Guy's disappearance. No one could have been more helpful or more sympathetic during these black hours, and she gladly left Curzon Street for Brighton, in order that she might be alone with her daughter and endeavour to bring her back in some measure to happiness, or, if not happiness, to interest in life. Soon after Marjorie had written her letter to Sir William, Lady Poole had received a reply from the scientist, enclosing a short note for her daughter. It had been a wonderful letter. The writer said that he could not disguise from himself that he had seen, or at least suspected, the way things were going. "Terrible," he said, "as this letter of your daughter's has been to me, it would yet ill-become me not to receive it as a man.
27475_3981	western stories	Ryan, Marah Ellis	Bless her heart! I hear her go over and over words that she always used to say wrong, and she does eat nicer than she used to. Humph! I wonder if Dan Overton will take as kindly to being taught, when the school-teacher begins with him." There was a mirthless, unlovely smile about her lips, and Lyster reached over and clasped her hand coaxingly. "'Tana, what has changed you so?" he asked. "Is it your sickness--is it the gold--or what, that makes you turn from your old friends? Dan never says a word, but I notice it. You never talk to him, and he has almost quit going to your cabin at all, though he would do anything for you, I know. My dear, you will find few friends like him in the world." "Oh, don't--don't bother me about him," she answered, irritably. "He is all right, of course. But I--" Then she stopped, and with a determined air turned the subject. "You said you had something to talk to me about. What was it?" "You don't know how glad I am to hear you speak as you used to," he said, looking at her kindly. "I would be rejoiced even to get a scolding from you these days. But that was not exactly what I brought you out to tell you, either," and he drew from his pocket the letter he had carried for three weeks, waiting until she appeared strong enough to accept surprises. "I suppose, of course, you have heard us talk a good deal about the Eastern capitalist who was here when you were so sick, and who, unhesitatingly, made purchase of the Twin Spring Mines, as it is called now." "You mean the very fine Mr. Haydon, who had curly hair and looked like me?" she asked, ironically. "Yes, I've heard the women folks talking about him a good deal, when they thought me asleep. Old Akkomi scared him a little, too, didn't he?" "So, you _have_ heard?" he asked, in surprise. "Well, yes, he does look a little like you; it's the hair, I think. But I don't see why you utter his name with so much contempt, 'Tana.
59172_116	science fiction	Ellis, Mike	"As long as this place has no life, we'd be safe in landing. Suppose we earn the bonus by bringing back a full report on whether it's fit for a colony or not?" Willie's head jerked up, his face white. Tom frowned, and said nothing. He wanted to land but he didn't want to agree with Bart on anything. "What say?" Bart said. "I'll even put it up for a vote." "Okay," Tom said, thinking of walking in the sun, feeling firm ground under his feet. "It would be a shame to come all this way and then not be able to say we had explored the country." "No," Willie said quickly. "It's dangerous. And--and besides, we'd have to go in quarantine when we got back." "So we go in quarantine," Bart said. "We'll get paid for it." He turned to the control board. "Buzz Pudge, so he can get ready." He began punching buttons. They went around to the middle of the day side of the planet, swinging in closer. The continents formed a rough belt around the equator of the planet, with no land extending to the small ice caps on the poles. Tom felt his stomach knot with the thrill of going into the unknown as he watched the screen, but part of the time he was running the lights of the control board through his mind, checking the actions of Bart's big fingers as Bart confidently punched the keys. Then he caught sight of Willie's tense face. It was white, with little splotches of pink, and his slender hands were gripping the chair he was sitting in. "Here we go," Bart shouted exultantly, as the big green light flashed on. He hit the big green key with a stubby forefinger. The auto pilot fired the jets, the ship slowed in its descent, and they were pushed down gently in their chairs. As the spot Bart had picked came up on the screen, they could see the bare red of the ridge sticking up out of the yellow-green of the flat land. Then the yellow-green was right below them, turning black as the jets burned it to ashes. They hovered a minute, then came to rest with a creaking thud that echoed through the ship. The jets cut out, leaving their ears ringing. "Didn't know whether we'd make it or not," Willie said.
64757_2090	western stories	Coburn, Walt	I——” Black Jack’s ugly laugh caught the sheriff up short. Too late, he realized the mistake he had made. “Bill,” ordered the breed quickly, “take a man and ketch the fastest mounts in the _remuda_. Ride tuh town and bust open that cracker-box safe. Bring all the papers that’s in it. Tell Fox tuh play safe fer a spell. Tell him that Alder Gulch’ll be needin’ a new sheriff. Kipp’s dead.” Bill and another man slipped outside and closed the door behind them. There now remained but two outlaws besides Black Jack. One of them was in a corner on a bunk, moaning from the pain of the broken arm Pete Basset had given him. Where was Tad? That was the sole thought in Joe Kipp’s mind now. The departure of Bill and the other man lessened the odds. “Better hog-tie the blattin’ old fool,” suggested Black Jack a moment later to the man who squatted against the closed door, a .45 in his hand. “Lemme roll a smoke first,” requested Kipp, reaching for tobacco, hoping to delay things till Tad showed. The man who had gotten to his feet hesitated. “Tie him, I said. Smoke be——” Kipp leaped forward. A clubbed gun caught the old officer across the jaw, whirling him about. Another blow from the man’s gun while Black Jack looked on in scowling approval. Kipp sank limply to the floor. “Neat work. Now tie him afore he comes to. I’ll learn him what happens tuh them that loses their guts in this game.” XI “Half a hour and nary a sign uh Kipp.” Tad shoved his watch back in his overall pocket and swung into the saddle. He mentally berated himself for letting Kipp out of his sight. Here on strange ground, on a dangerous mission, he had thrown away his only vantage when he allowed the sheriff to go on alone. Kipp had as much as admitted that he had been playing a crooked game. What was to keep him from adding one more misdeed to those of the past? A shot from the brush, well aimed, and no one the wiser. These LF men were playing a desperate game for big stakes. They would not hesitate to kill a cowpuncher to gain their ends and avoid detection. Capture, for them, meant life imprisonment. Kipp admitted being on friendly terms with them.
38663_953	detective and mystery stories	Mason, A. E. W. (Alfred Edward Woodley)	oh, you must remember it. But can you realise what it must mean to a girl who is going to sing it for the first time in Covent Garden?" Mr. Ricardo saw his opportunity. He, the connoisseur, to whom the psychology of the green room was as an open book, could answer that question. "It is true, my friend," he informed Hanaud with quiet authority. "The great march of events leaves the artist cold. He lives aloof. While the tumbrils thunder in the streets he adds a delicate tint to the picture he is engaged upon or recalls his triumph in his last great part." "Thank you," said Hanaud gravely. "And now Miss Carew may perhaps resume her story." "It was the very night of my début," she continued. "I had supper with some friends. A great artist. Carmen Valeri, honoured me with her presence. I went home excited, and that night I dreamed again." "Yes?" "This time the chin, the lips, the eyes were visible. There was only a black strip across the middle of the face. And I thought--nay, I was sure--that if that strip vanished I should know the man." "And it did vanish?" "Three nights afterwards." "And you did know the man?" The girl's face became troubled. She frowned. "I knew the face, that was all," she answered. "I was disappointed. I had never spoken to the man. I am sure of that still. But somewhere I have seen him." "You don't even remember when?" asked Hanaud. "No." Joan Carew reflected for a moment with her eyes upon the carpet, and then flung up her head with a gesture of despair. "No. I try all the time to remember. But it is no good." Mr. Ricardo could not restrain a movement of indignation. He was being played with. The girl with her fantastic story had worked him up to a real pitch of excitement only to make a fool of him. All his earlier suspicions flowed back into his mind. What if, after all, she was implicated in the murder and the theft? What if, with a perverse cunning, she had told Hanaud and himself just enough of what she knew, just enough of the truth, to persuade them to protect her?
1245_6500	love stories	Woolf, Virginia	In a second he could see her, with the sun slanting across her dress, coming towards him down the green walk at Kew. He made her sit upon the seat beside him. He heard her voice, so low and yet so decided in its tone; she spoke reasonably of indifferent matters. He could see her faults, and analyze her virtues. His pulse became quieter, and his brain increased in clarity. This time she could not escape him. The illusion of her presence became more and more complete. They seemed to pass in and out of each other’s minds, questioning and answering. The utmost fullness of communion seemed to be theirs. Thus united, he felt himself raised to an eminence, exalted, and filled with a power of achievement such as he had never known in singleness. Once more he told over conscientiously her faults, both of face and character; they were clearly known to him; but they merged themselves in the flawless union that was born of their association. They surveyed life to its uttermost limits. How deep it was when looked at from this height! How sublime! How the commonest things moved him almost to tears! Thus, he forgot the inevitable limitations; he forgot her absence, he thought it of no account whether she married him or another; nothing mattered, save that she should exist, and that he should love her. Some words of these reflections were uttered aloud, and it happened that among them were the words, “I love her.” It was the first time that he had used the word “love” to describe his feeling; madness, romance, hallucination--he had called it by these names before; but having, apparently by accident, stumbled upon the word “love,” he repeated it again and again with a sense of revelation. “But I’m in love with you!” he exclaimed, with something like dismay. He leant against the window-sill, looking over the city as she had looked. Everything had become miraculously different and completely distinct. His feelings were justified and needed no further explanation. But he must impart them to some one, because his discovery was so important that it concerned other people too. Shutting the book of Greek photographs, and hiding his relics, he ran downstairs, snatched his coat, and passed out of doors. The lamps were being lit, but the streets were dark enough and empty enough to let him walk his fastest, and to talk aloud as he walked. He had no doubt where he was going.
18426_1457	love stories	Hueston, Ethel	You are grand," she said, holding out her slender hand. The doctor took it in his. "Carol, don't forget to laugh when you get to Albuquerque. You will be sick, and sorry, and there will be sobs in your heart, and your soul will cry aloud, but--keep laughing, for David is going to need it." Carol went directly to her husband. "David, I am learning lots of perfectly wonderful things. If I live to be a thousand years old,--oh, David, I believe by that time I can love everybody on earth, and have sympathy for all and condemnation for none; and I will really know that nearly every one in the world is _very good_, and those that are not are _pretty_ good." David burst into laughter at her words. "Poorly expressed, but finely meant," he cried. "Are you trying to become the preacher in our family?" "All packed up and ready to start," she said thoughtfully, "and to-morrow night we leave our darling little manse, and our precious old mansers and turn cowboy. Aren't you glad you didn't send me home?" CHAPTER X WHERE HEALTH BEGINS In a little white cottage tent, at the end of a long row of minutely similar, little white cottage tents, sat David and Carol in the early evening of a day in May, looking wistfully out at the wide sweep of gray mesa land, reaching miles away to the mountains, blue and solemn in the distance. "Do--do you feel better yet, David?" Carol asked at last, desperately determined to break the menacing silence. David drew his breath. "I can't seem to notice any difference yet," he replied honestly. "It doesn't look much like Missouri, does it?" "It is pretty,--very pretty," she said resolutely. "Carol, be a good Presbyterian and tell the truth. Do you wish you had gone home, to green and grassy Iowa?" "David Duke, I am at home, and here is where I want to be and no place else in the world. It is big and bleak and bare, but-- You are going to get well, aren't you, David?" "Of course I am, but give me time. Even Miracle Land can't transform weakness to health in two hours." "I must go over to the office.
4246_6269	love stories	Evans, Augusta J. (Augusta Jane)	Probably something of what crossed her mind crept into her countenance, for the doctor asked laughingly: "In the name of Venus! what are you screwing up your lips and looking so ugly about?" "I suppose one reason is that I must go home." She rose, with a suppressed sigh. "I am disposed to think it much more probable that you were envying me my wife. Come, confess." "I was wishing that I had such a mother." With some sudden impulse she threw her arms round Mrs. Asbury's neck, and hid her face on her shoulder. "Then let me be your mother, my dear child," said she, pressing the girl affectionately to her heart and kissing her pale cheek. "Are you troubled about anything, my dear?" continued Mrs. Asbury, surprised at this manifestation of feeling in one usually so cold and reserved. "An orphan heart mourns its dead idols," answered Beulah, raising her hand and withdrawing from the kind arm that encircled her. Mrs. Asbury interpreted a quick glance from her husband, and did not press the matter further; but, at parting, she accompanied Beulah to the front door, and earnestly assured her that if she could in any way advise or assist her she would consider it both a privilege and a pleasure to do so. Returning to the library, she laid her soft hand on her husband's arm, and said anxiously: "George, what is the matter with her?" "She is distressed, or, rather, perplexed, about her religious doubts, I inferred from what she said just before you came in. She has drifted out into a troubled sea of philosophy, I am inclined to think, and, not satisfied with what she has found, is now irresolute as to the proper course. Poor child, she is terribly in earnest about the matter." He sighed heavily. His wife watched him eagerly. "What did you tell her?" "Not to come to me; that it would be a perfect exemplification of 'the blind leading the blind'; and when she learned my own state of uncertainty, she seemed to think so herself." An expression of acute pain passed over her features; but, banishing it as speedily as possible, she answered very gently: "Take care, my husband, lest by recapitulating your doubts you strengthen hers." "Alice, I told her the whole truth. She is not a nature to be put off with halfway statements.
64515_22	science fiction	Fennel, Erik	Bad turns he had done in plenty. Take just this one example. A doctor had the effrontery to submit to a medical journal an article suggesting a possible connection between the bone-destroying virus infection called Matson's Disease and Carlin Industries' highly profitable operations in thawing Antarctic areas with atomic heat. He hinted that age-old spores might have been released from the melting ice, and been carried to seaports. Carlin's private intelligence operatives got wind of the article before publication, and Carlin himself ordered that measures be taken. The campaign was short and filthy, ending with the unfortunate doctor discredited and barred from practice on framed evidence. The article was not printed. And then came a morning when George Carlin noticed a slight soreness in his ribs and his fingers detected a peculiar flexibility. For a while he could not believe it. Such things just did not happen to him. To others perhaps, but he was above them. For he was George Carlin. But when the symptoms not only persisted but increased he was at last forced to a realization of doom. Gradually his bones would soften and dissolve, until in a year or two he would be a mere lump of quivering flesh without a skeleton to give it shape. He did not tell his physician. That was useless, for the atypical plague had defied all efforts of medical science. Instead he reacted in characteristic fashion by getting grossly and disgustingly drunk. During the hangover he decided upon suicide. There was nothing unique about this; thousands upon thousands of victims had taken the short road rather than helplessly endure the horrors of the final stages. But mere suicide was not enough for George Carlin. He was not just anybody. He was different. With his money it had always been easier to arrange spectacular gestures than to force himself through the hard work necessary for more constructive achievements, and the substitutes had been just as satisfying to his ego. This habit of thought persisted even in planning his own death. Verne Harris was an obscure junior engineer at one of Carlin Industries' minor branch plants. A confidential report rated him as extremely brilliant and original, although somewhat visionary and inclined to overlook commercial possibilities. His very obscurity was one of the reasons he was placed in charge of constructing the spaceship. He could be handled, and the impression would be given in all publicity releases that George Carlin himself was the moving force. Carlin was annoyed at their first personal interview. Harris appeared fascinated by the technical problems presented and insufficiently impressed by George himself. Carlin felt slighted, but Harris possessed the ability.
2950_889	adventure stories	Fleming, May Agnes	he asked by way of preface. “Sent him to the pest-house,” replied the landlord, resting his elbows on the counter and his chin in his hands, and staring dismally at the opposite wall. “Ah! Lord 'a' mercy on us! These be dreadful times!” “Dreadful enough!” said Sir Norman, sighing deeply, as he thought of his beautiful Leoline, a victim of the merciless pestilence. “Have there been many deaths here of the distemper?” “Twenty-five to-day!” groaned the man. “Lord! what will become of us?” “You seem rather disheartened,” said Sir Norman, pouring out a glass of wine and handing it to him. “Just drink this, and don't borrow trouble. They say sack is a sure specific against the plague.” Mine host drained the bumper, and wiped his mouth, with another hollow groan. “If I thought that, sir, I'd not be sober from one week's end to t'other; but I know well enough I will be in a plague-pit in less than a week. O Lord! have mercy on us!” “Amen!” said Sir Norman, impatiently. “If fear has not taken away your wits, my good sir, will you tell me what old ruin that is I saw a little above here as I rode up?” The man started from his trance of terror, and glanced, first at the fiery eyes in the corner, and then at Sir Norman, in evident trepidation of the question. “That ruin, sir? You must be a stranger in this place, surely, or you would not need to ask that question.” “Well, suppose I am a stranger? What then?” “Nothing, sir; only I thought everybody knew everything about that ruin.” “But I do not, you see? So fill your glass again, and while you are drinking it, just tell me what that everything comprises.” Again the landlord glanced fearfully at the fiery eyes in the corner, and again hesitated. “Well!” exclaimed Sir Norman, at once surprised and impatient at his taciturnity, “Can't you speak man? I want you to tell me all about it.” “There is nothing to tell, sir,” replied the host, goaded to desperation. “It is an old, deserted ruin that's been here ever since I remember; and that's all I know about it.”
57415_716	detective and mystery stories	Speight, T. W. (Thomas Wilkinson)	" "Tell me all, Eliza; do not be afraid," said Miss Winter kindly, for the girl looked confused. "If you please, ma'am, I was in the passage one day, and saw both the doors on the jar," began Eliza. "I thought it no harm to go in a few steps; but I went cautiously, thinking Mr. Stone must be there. However, I saw nobody; and then I thought Mrs. Dexter must have left them open by mistake, before she went out. She had gone into Nullington in a hurry, saying she must see Dr. Jago." "Well? Go on, Eliza." "I ventured in a little farther, and a little farther," continued Eliza, speaking freely now. "Everything was silent. I said to myself that perhaps the Squire was asleep, and then I thought that I should like to see him once again. The first room I came to was Mrs. Dexter's; it had been made into a chamber for her. I turned the handle softly, pushed open the door, and peeped in. There was her bed in one corner, and by the fire-place was her little round table and an easy-chair. From this room I went to the next, which was Mr. Denison's sitting-room. The door opened without making any noise. I peeped in. There was no one there. The Squire's chair stood by the hearth, but it was empty, and there was no fire in the grate; it had the look of a room, ma'am, that had not been occupied for ever so long, and somehow I turned away with a chill at my heart. The next room was the Squire's bedroom. I don't think I should have ventured to open the door of this, but I found it open already. It was standing ajar. I listened for the sound of Mr. Denison's breathing, supposing that he was asleep, but I could hear nothing. Then I pushed the door a little further open and looked in. If you'll believe me, ma'am, he was not there. No one was there." "He must have been somewhere in the room, Eliza." "He was not, indeed, ma'am. The room was empty. I could hardly believe my eyes. I walked across it to the window and back again. The room was all tidy, like one that is not in use; not as much as a book was about, or a chair out of place.
36079_742	detective and mystery stories	Lowndes, Marie Belloc	Oliver had had such a good effect on Godfrey, and she had honestly believed that the two were friends. But how could they be friends if--if it was true that Oliver loved her? Laura Pavely knew nothing of the well-worn byways of our poor human nature. Suddenly she threw her head back and saw the starlit sky above her. Somehow that wonderful ever-recurring miracle of impersonal, unearthly beauty calmed and comforted her. Drying her eyes, she told herself that something after all had survived out of yesterday's wreck. Her friend might be a man--a man as other men were; but he was noble, and singularly selfless, for all that. On the evening of the very day on which she had grievously offended and wounded him, he had written her a kindly letter, offering to be her trustee. There had been moments to-day when she had thought of writing Mrs. Tropenell a note to say she did not feel well--and that she would not dine at Freshley that night. But oh, how glad she was now that a mixture of pride and feminine delicacy had prompted her to behave just as if nothing had happened, as if words which could never be forgotten had not been uttered between herself and Oliver! She had thought he would punish her this evening by being sulky and disagreeable--that was her husband's invariable method of showing displeasure. But with the exception of a word or two uttered very quietly, and more as if she, rather than he, had something to forgive, he had behaved as if yesterday had never been. He had heaped coals of fire upon her head, making it plain that even now he was only thinking of her--of her and of Gillie, of how he could pleasure them both by securing her a holiday with her only brother. Every word of that restrained, not very natural, conversation held just now under the beech trees re-echoed in her ears. She seemed to hear again the slowly uttered, measured words, "I am going to be your friend, Laura".... And then there came over Laura Pavely an extraordinary sensation of moral and mental disturbance. Once more everything which had happened to-day was blotted out, and she went back to yesterday morning. Again she lived through those moments during which Oliver Tropenell had offered her what was to him the greatest thing man has it in him to bestow--love, even if illicit, unsanctified.
805_4137	love stories	Fitzgerald, F. Scott (Francis Scott)	He was awakened by a woman clinging to him, a pretty woman, with brown, disarranged hair and dark blue eyes. “Take me home!” she cried. “Hello!” said Amory, blinking. “I like you,” she announced tenderly. “I like you too.” He noticed that there was a noisy man in the background and that one of his party was arguing with him. “Fella I was with's a damn fool,” confided the blue-eyed woman. “I hate him. I want to go home with you.” “You drunk?” queried Amory with intense wisdom. She nodded coyly. “Go home with him,” he advised gravely. “He brought you.” At this point the noisy man in the background broke away from his detainers and approached. “Say!” he said fiercely. “I brought this girl out here and you're butting in!” Amory regarded him coldly, while the girl clung to him closer. “You let go that girl!” cried the noisy man. Amory tried to make his eyes threatening. “You go to hell!” he directed finally, and turned his attention to the girl. “Love first sight,” he suggested. “I love you,” she breathed and nestled close to him. She _did_ have beautiful eyes. Some one leaned over and spoke in Amory's ear. “That's just Margaret Diamond. She's drunk and this fellow here brought her. Better let her go.” “Let him take care of her, then!” shouted Amory furiously. “I'm no W. Y. C. A. worker, am I?--am I?” “Let her go!” “It's _her_ hanging on, damn it! Let her hang!” The crowd around the table thickened. For an instant a brawl threatened, but a sleek waiter bent back Margaret Diamond's fingers until she released her hold on Amory, whereupon she slapped the waiter furiously in the face and flung her arms about her raging original escort. “Oh, Lord!” cried Amory. “Let's go!” “Come on, the taxis are getting scarce!” “Check, waiter.” “C'mon, Amory. Your romance is over.” Amory laughed. “You don't know how true you spoke. No idea. 'At's the whole trouble.”
64757_1367	western stories	Coburn, Walt	He ain’t much tuh look at till he grins, then he’s right easy tuh stand. He’s got one uh these grins that makes yuh grin right back afore yuh know it. His left eye is black and swole up and his lower lip is split bad. He’s about twenty and a cowpuncher. “‘My last two bits,’ he ’lows, as he pays fer the sody pop. ‘I bet that’s two bits more than you got, long boy.’ “I admits the charge and he nods happy like. “‘Then we starts even, feller. Down yore p’izen and loan me the use of a fresh chaw. Then I’m gonna take yuh back and watch yuh pull that Sanchez gent’s fangs.’ “‘Yuh seen him bluff me down?’ I asks, plumb ashamed. “‘Yeah, I seen it. And I follered yuh outside. I seen yuh while yuh made up yore mind tuh shoot him from the dark.’ “‘How come yuh know I was layin’ fer him?’ says I. “‘You was talkin’ to yorese’f about it, pardner. All set? Then rattle yore hocks and we’ll git goin’. They th’owed me outa that wigwam last evenin’ after the poker dealer had robbed me uh two months pay.’ “Mebbeso it’s because I’m cooled off, er mebby it’s because this short-legged boy is so danged sure that I kin turn the trick, anyhow, when I goes back into that gamblin’ house, I’m steady as a work ox. “‘Whup him a plenty, Slim,’ whispers my new pardner, as we steps inside. ‘I’m standin’ at yore back till yore belly caves in. I’ll keep the gang off yuh. Whup him with yore hands.’ “Which I does. Sanchez goes fer his gun there on the table when he sees me comin’ but he’s slow and my bullet tears that fancy cannon loose from under his hand without hurtin’ him, though it plumb ruins that white handle with the notches. He unlimbers a knife as I clears the table but I weans him away from it pronto when my gun barrel ketches him across the wrist. Then I hands my smoke pole to my new pardner and proceeds tuh work Mister Snake Eyes over with my hands.” Tad paused to light his cigaret. Kipp was again staring at his saddle horn. “That fight wins me two things that night.
21513_236	adventure stories	Paltock, Robert	I now began to see the absolute necessity of all she said, but how to accomplish it was not in me to comprehend. My own small matter of money was gone, and had been so a long time; we therefore agreed I should write to my mother for a fresh supply. I did so; and to my great confusion was answered by my former friend in the following words:-- "Son Peter,--Your mother and I are much surprised you should write for money, having so amply provided for you; but as it is not many months to Christmas, when possibly we may send for you home, you must make yourself easy till then; as a school-boy, with all necessaries found him, cannot have much occasion for money.--Your loving father, J. G." Imagine, if it is possible, my consternation at the receipt of this letter. I began to think I should be tricked out of what my father and grandfather had with so much pains and industry for many years been, heaping up for me, and had a thousand thoughts all together jostling out each other, so could resolve on nothing. I then showed Patty the letter, and we both condoled my hard fortune, but saw no remedy. Time wore away, and nothing done, or like to be, as I could see. For my part, I was like one distracted, and no more able to assist or counsel what should be done than a child in arms. At length poor Patty, who had sat thinking some time, began with telling me she had formed a scheme which in some measure might help us; but fearing it might be disagreeable to me, she durst not mention it till I should assure her, whatever I thought of that, I would think no worse of her for proposing it. This preparatory introduction startled me a great deal; for it darted into my head she waited for my concurrence to destroy the child, to which I could never have consented.
64125_721	detective and mystery stories	Robertson, Alexander, M.D.	“I’ll never believe in a man again,” said Eric to himself, filled with shame and disgust for his sex; “by Jove! they’re all alike, a miserable crowd of deceivers, every one.” He forgot that he belonged to the same sex, and that his very indignation proved his words exaggerated, since he could not share in such evil plottings, and there must be others like him. He wandered up and down. Now and then he saw the couple, but much of the time they were lost to his view. Darrell remained near the exit. It was nearly twelve o’clock, when the order to unmask would be given. Some who did not care to remain and be recognized were already flitting. He believed those whom he watched would do likewise, and it was his desire to get outside at the same time to hear the directions given to the driver if any were uttered. Just at this moment, close by, he heard sounds of an uproar. These things are generally prevented at public balls by the presence of the police, but no officers were in sight now—perhaps they had gone into the refreshment room. Darrell instantly had a suspicion of the truth, and his eyes were immediately directed toward the _melee_. Just as he suspected, in the struggling crowd he saw the tall form of the Spanish bull fighter—the man was dealing blows right and left and had already sent several audacious assailants rolling in the dust of the hall floor. CHAPTER VII A BRAND FROM THE BURNING The detective was a man. He admired courage and grit, no matter in whom it was found, and when he saw the Spanish bull fighter holding his own against the number who had assailed him he could not but express this feeling. It seemed as though these young bloods were furious because the other kept his partner to himself, and allowed her to dance with no one else—it is always the case that a pack of such hot heads may be found at a public gathering, and trouble often ensues. Perhaps the Lady of Cards, secure behind her mask, had flirted with some of them, and had driven them wild. It is human nature to covet what we cannot have and their anger toward the giant bull fighter had grown intense. As we have seen, it culminated in what threatened to be a riot. The woman was frightened now—she trembled, and cowered behind her protector. He stood up like a rock before her.
30311_906	science fiction	Berryman, John	The only lie was that I was the Lodge's counsel. I'm not." "What then?" Keys demanded. "I'm Grand Master of the Manhattan Chapter," I told him. "And you, like every Psi who is made aware of the existence of the Lodge, are now subject to my orders." "Not me," Elmer said. "You ain't got the Stigma." I fired a lift at an ashtray on the table beside him, and it sailed in an arc toward the kitchen and crashed against the wall. My TK was certainly a lot better than it had been in the morning. Well, I'd spent an hour or so warming up before they had come in. "_Who_ hasn't got the Stigma?" I said. He looked at Keys. "You didn't do that," he said. "You _couldn't_!" Keys was openmouthed. "What a bruiser!" he marveled. "So I've got the Stigma, Elmer," I said quietly. "Now why won't you do what I tell you?" "Ah don't do what _anybody_ tells me!" "What do you hate and fear the most?" I asked him. "Snakes, ah reckon," he decided. "Show him a snake, Mary," I said. Her face twisted in indecision. I rammed a lift in under her heart--I know it hurt her. "Show him!" I snapped. Elmer didn't jump more than three feet. Mary gave all of us the same hallucination. Her first try was a pretty sad kind of a snake, but it was bigger than the nine-by-twelve rug it squirmed on, and was making right for Elmer's legs, hissing in a horrible fashion. "Enough," I said. "That's how, Elmer. And if that doesn't trouble you, how about this?" I gave him a sample of what TK means when it's clamped on the mitral valve. A heart attack is no joking matter, and just before he hit the deck I eased off. "Now," I said, "will you do what I tell you, or do I have to kill you outright?" He sank down to his knees, resting his palms on the carpet so recently vacant of illusory snake. "Yo' got me convinced, suh," he admitted.
34369_2895	detective and mystery stories	Clark, Joan	Even if my own plan fails, there are still lawyers to be hired. Mrs. Leeds can't take over the property legally until the court approves." "She'll have things fixed up her way," Rosanna maintained gloomily. "I'll have no money to hire a lawyer. I must try to find myself a job." "Father will help you get one if you need it." "I've accepted so many favors from you already," Rosanna protested. "You have not!" Penny cut in. "This trip to Raven Ridge has been sheer fun for me. And unless I'm mistaken tonight will prove the most exciting of all." "I'm afraid so," Rosanna shuddered. She glanced curiously at her companion. She could not understand Penny's eagerness to return to the mouth of the tunnel. In her own opinion the mysterious ghost was none other than Max Laponi and she had no desire to encounter him again. "Do you still want to go through with the plan?" she inquired doubtfully. "I certainly do. I'd never feel satisfied if I left Raven Ridge without solving the mystery. It's about time we start for the tunnel too." They left the restaurant, returning to Penny's car which had been parked outside. "Probably our friend the ghost won't put in an appearance much before midnight," Penny remarked as they drove slowly toward Raven Ridge, "but it will be wise I think to allow ourselves plenty of time to find a good hiding place." It had grown dark and the girls were pleased to note that heavy clouds would hide the moon and stars. Some distance from the Winters' house they parked in a dense thicket near the road. Before alighting, Penny removed a small package from the side pocket of the car. "What's that?" Rosanna asked curiously. "Dynamite," Penny chuckled. "Dynamite!" "In the form of evidence. Unless I'm mistaken, this little package will produce some startling results!" "You're talking in absolute riddles." "Just be patient and you'll soon know what I mean," Penny declared teasingly. "I'd tell you now only it would ruin the surprise." She locked the automobile and afoot they quietly stole down a steep winding trail which led to the entrance of the old mine. CHAPTER XVII The Man in the Boat Penny and Rosanna approached the mine entrance cautiously, fearing that someone in the vicinity might observe their movements. However, the place seemed deserted.
14545_1593	western stories	Rhodes, Eugene Manlove	" "What makes you think so?" "Easy! He's got brains, hain't he? I rode with him maybe a mile, but I could see that. Well! If he'd stole that money, they wouldn't 'a' found it yet. Them fellows make me tired!" Pete made a pretext of thirst and brought a bucket for water from the spring, crooking a finger at Jackson Carr to follow. Carr found him seated at the spring, shaking with laughter. "Jack, he's all there--your boy! Couldn't any judge size it up better." "Frame-up, then?" "Sure! That part's all right." "I see you wasn't much taken aback." "No. We was expectin' something like that and had discounted it. I'm just as well pleased Stan's in jail just now, and I'm goin' to leave him there a spell. Safer there. You remember old Hank Bergman?" Carr nodded. "Well, Hank's the sheriff here--and he'll give us a square deal. Now I'm goin' back to interview that boy of yours some more. I reckon you're right proud of that kid, Jack." "Yes; I am. Bobby's a pretty good boy most ways. But he swears something dreadful." "Pull a strap off of him," said Pete warmly. "That's a damn fine boy, and you want to start him right. That's half the battle." Pete returned to the fire for a final cup of coffee. "Young man," he said, "would you know that brown horse Stan was ridin' when you met up with him?" "Awguan? Sure! I'd know him in hell!" said Bobby. "Well, Stan turned that horse loose to rustle for himself, of course. Do you reckon you could stir round and find him for me--if your dad can spare you? I want to go to the railroad to-night, and Awguan, he's fresh. My horses are tired." "If you don't want that horse," said Bobby, "don't send me after him." "Now, Jack," said Pete after Bobby had departed on the search for Awguan, "you go away and don't pester me. I want to think.
35031_2799	adventure stories	Sinclair, Bertrand W.	“It struck me with a sort of premonitory force, as I stood there looking at those mule tracks,” he went on, “that if the Company offered him the same terms they did me he would jump at it. They offered me forty thousand dollars to get out of the game, to give them a bill of sale of my interest—_and they would take care of my partner_. You see? Now I’m satisfied they wouldn’t incorporate that last clause in any offer to Montell. I’m not boasting when I say that from the beginning I’ve been the thorn in the Company’s flesh. Every time they’ve locked horns with me, I’ve come out on top. They might offer him forty thousand, but he’d have to guarantee them against me. And I think that performance to-night is a sample of how he will try to clear the way.” “To put it baldly,” I said. “You think he’ll kill you out of hand—if he gets a chance to do it in a way that won’t prove a boomerang?” “Exactly,” Barreau observed. “Then,” I suggested, and even as the words were on my tongue I stood amazed at the ruthless streak they seemed to uncover, “why not catch him at it—and do the killing yourself. There’s no law here to restrain _him_, apparently. Be your own law—if you know you’re _right_.” “I can’t.” Barreau muttered. “Not that my conscience would ever trouble me. He’s protected in a way he doesn’t dream of. And he’s too wary of me to lay himself liable. If anything happens it will be an accident; you know how it would have been to-night. You, sitting right there, could not have declared it otherwise, no matter what your private opinion might have been. He has pretty well calculated the chances. No, Mr. Montell is not going to put himself in any position where I’d be clearly justified in snuffing him out.” For a minute or so he sat silent, frowning at the candle on the table between my bunk and his. “How he would bait me,” he went on presently, “if he knew that killing him is the one thing I desire to avoid, at any cost! I hope it doesn’t come to that. It would be only just, but I have no wish to mete out justice to him.
61334_68	science fiction	Banta, Frank	"We tried that once. The city was six weeks digging out from under the feathers--and it didn't kill the whirlybird!" "Aren't you exaggerating difficulties encountered in picking up few feathers?" loftily inquired DeCrabbe. "How do you think we got the name of Featherton? Before the deluge we were called West Applebury!" "Then why haven't you attempted lure them into boobytraps outside town? Could detonate them there without even slight inconvenience of picking up feathers." "Believe me, if there were only a _few_ feathers," insisted Mayor Prince, "few enough for you to pick up by yourself, we wouldn't mind you blowing up a whirlybird." "Wasn't considering picking up _any_ feathers," replied Five-gun with dignity. "Had supposed a menial or two could be supplied for that." The mayor shook his head. "It would take everybody in town to clean up. And as for blowing one up outside the city, one of our orchardists tried it. He blew it to bits all right, but eighty acres of his apple trees were smothered under the debris!" "Now anticipate that the extermination of the whirlybirds will almost certainly take me up to two days," conceded Five-gun DeCrabbe calmly. "However will be all the more interesting to defeat them without recourse large explosives." "Gee, what a man!" admired the mayor's son. "Only two days!" "If you will now lead me to your city park will begin campaign of extermination at once." "It's down that way," said the mayor, pointing. Plainly he had no intention of leaving the shelter of the marquee. "You can't miss it." As Five-gun Charles DeCrabbe leaped back into his craft and started off, the mayor's son called after him, "Aren't you scared, going out exposed like that?" DeCrabbe turned. "Am armed, young man," he retorted severely. "Yeah, but those whirlybirds don't pay any attention to guns." "Soon will," DeCrabbe replied, unruffled. Slowly he drove down the center of the empty street, receiving more cheers from heads thrust out of windows. He arrived at the city park and turned in. He unloaded most of his equipment under the roof of the bandstand. A few minutes later one of his robot mannequins moved slowly around the clearing before the bandstand, its control set for slow walking to conserve its atomic battery.
63045_3400	love stories	LM (Leslie Moore)	He had watched her in silence as she messed away with the paints. Suddenly she flung the canvas face downwards on the grass and burst into tears. "What is it, Kiddy?" asked Barnabas, putting his arm round her. "It's all out vere," she said, nodding towards the sunny landscape, "and I can see it, and I want to tell it to myself and ozzer peoples, like you tell your pictures, and I can't--oh, I can't." She rubbed her tear-stained face up and down on Barnabas' coat-sleeve in an access of despair. "But, childie," expostulated Barnabas, "one can't 'tell pictures,' as you say, all in a moment. One has to learn." Pippa shook her head. "Not me," she said. "I shall never learn. I can't ever tell pictures. And it's all here," she put her hand to her heart, "and I want to say it so badly." For a minute Barnabas was silent. Then he spoke. "Once," he said, "there was a boy who saw that the world was very beautiful and he wanted to tell his own beautiful thoughts about it to himself and to other people. One day he heard a man playing the violin. And the man made the violin speak so that in its music it said the most wonderful things. It told about the moon shining on a sleeping sea, and the secrets the little waves whispered to the shore. It told of silver streams whose banks were starred with primroses, and it told of great forests where the trees were standing dark and still in the purple night waiting for the first rosy flush of dawn. It told of the laughter of little children, and the songs young mothers sing to their babies. All these things the music of the violin told, and the boy listened, and said to himself, 'I will play the violin, for I know now the way I can tell my thoughts to the world.'" Pippa was listening entranced. "Had he got a violin?" she asked. "No," said Barnabas, "but someone gave him a violin, and he had lessons, and he practised for many hours, but the violin would not speak his thoughts in the way he wished it to. And one day the great violinist he had first heard play came to the house. He listened to the boy playing but he didn't say very much.
36170_5416	western stories	Cullum, Ridgwell	It had buzzed over the wire ha'f an hour before you went." Then he began to grin, and a keen light shone in his Irish eyes. "But when I see who it was from I guessed I'd need to get busy. 'Tain't in your fancy code. It's jest as plain as my face. Read it. The game's up to us. Guess it's our move next." But Gordon was paying no attention to the Irishman. He was reading the brief message which at last set all his doubts at rest. "Arrive Snake's Fall noon seventeenth." It was addressed to Slosson, but there was no signature. "That's to-morrow." Gordon's eyes lit. Then a shadow of doubt crossed his smiling face. "It's dead safe Steve hasn't sent a copy to Slosson?" Mike grinned. "Steve don't draw his wad till--we're sure." "No." At that moment Mallinsbee appeared round the angle of the building. Gordon's face was wreathed in smiles as he turned to him. "We get to work--to-night," he said. Mallinsbee nodded, without a sign of the other's excitement. "So I guessed when I see Mike's team. Peter wise?" "Yep." The Irishman's spirits had risen to a great pitch. "I put him wise." "Splendid. He's got everything ready?" Gordon was thinking rapidly. "Better send your team round to the barn," said Mallinsbee, with that thoughtful care he had for all animals. "Then come inside and get some supper." Mike prepared to drive round to the barn. "I see the rack in his yard," he grinned. "Good." Then Gordon laughed. The last care had been banished. Now it was action. Now? Ah, now he was perfectly happy. The night was intensely still. The last revelers in Snake's Fall had betaken themselves to their drunken slumbers. The only lights remaining were the glow of a small cluster of red lamps just outside the town at the eastern end of it, and the peeping lights behind the curtained windows of the houses to which these belonged. There was no need to question the nature of these houses. In the West they are to be found on the fringe of every young town that offers the prospect of prosperity. There was a single light burning in the hall of McSwain's hotel. This was as usual, and would burn all night.
3727_6729	love stories	Richardson, Henry Handel	Unconscious of his embarrassment, Louise had gone to the console-glass; and there, with the lamp held first above her head, then placed on the console-table, she critically examined her appearance. As if dissatisfied, she held a velvet bow to the side of her hair, and considered the effect; she took a powderpuff, and patted cheeks and neck with powder. Next she picked up a narrow band of velvet, on which a small star was set, and put it round her throat. But the clasp would not meet behind, and, having tried several times in vain to fasten it, she gave an impatient exclamation. "I can't get it in." As Maurice did not offer to help her, she went out of the room with the thing in her hand. During the few seconds she was absent, the young man racked his brain to invent telling reasons which would induce her not to go; but when she returned, slightly flushed at the landlady's ready flattery, she was still so engrossed in herself, and so unmindful of him, that he recognised once more his utter powerlessness. He only half existed for her this evening: her manner was as different as her dress. She gathered her skirts high under her cloak, displaying her feet in fur-lined snow-boots. In the turmoil of his mind, Maurice found nothing to say as they went. But she did not notice his silence; there was a suppressed excitement in her very walk; and she breathed in the cold, crisp air with open lips and nostrils, like a wild animal. "Oh, how glad I am I came! I might still have been sitting in that dull room--when I haven't danced for years--and when I love it so!" "I can't understand you caring about it," he said, and the few words contained all his bitterness. "That is only because you don't know me," she retorted, and laughed. "Dancing is a passion with me. I have dance-rhythms in my blood, I think.--My mother was a dancer." He echoed her words in a helpless way, and a set of new images ran riot in his brain. But Louise only smiled, and said no more. They were late in arriving; dancing had already begun; the cloak-rooms were black with coats and mantles. In the narrow passage that divided the rooms, two Englishmen were putting on their gloves.
7326_4441	adventure stories	Gough, George W.	That's torture." "I have turned my back on the creed of my life and on every sound instinct in me," I continued. He stopped his walk and looked intently at me. "I have ancestors whose memory I cherish, and I have torn up their work as if it were a scrap of paper covered with a child's meaningless scribble." Sir James stepped up to the table, his fine face alive with emotion. "For what?" he asked. I rose and looked straight into his eyes. "For a woman," I whispered, very low but very proudly. Our hands met across the table in a hard grip. "You have done well, sir!" he said. "I asked you to give me advice. You have set me an example." He sat down again, and looked hopefully at the fire and then moodily at Master Freake. "There is this unfortunate difference between Mr. Wheatman's case and mine. I have, and he has not, given my plain word to a father." "I admit that is a striking difference," said Master Freake. "I am no Jesuit, however, and cannot decide cases of conscience. I deal with business problems only, which are all cut and dry, legal and formal. When I make a promise in the way of business I always keep it precisely and punctually, for the penalty of failure to do so is a business man's death--bankruptcy." "There's such a thing as moral bankruptcy," said Sir James gloomily. "Very likely," replied Master Freake. "This is all nothing whatefer but words, words, words," said the Welshman. "And words, my goot sirs, are indeed no goot whatefer. Sir James's head is wrapped up in a mist of words, words, words, and indeed he cannot see anything whatefer. I am not a man of words, and what you call 'em--broblems." "Very good," said I. "Indeed it is goot," said he. "To hell with your words and your broblems. They are of no use whatefer, whatefer. Our good friend, Sir James, is up to his neck in broblems like a man in a bog, and he cannot move. Now I have not your broblems. To hell with your broblems. My Cousin Wynne is full of 'em, and he's still gaping up at the cloud on Snowdon, while I'm here, ready.
33383_633	detective and mystery stories	Clark, Joan	" "Five dollars a week," the woman said firmly after a moment of thought. "I wouldn't come for a cent less." Penny and Mr. Nichols glanced at each other. They had expected Mrs. Masterbrook to ask double the amount. "You are hired, Mrs. Masterbrook," said the detective gently. Penny and her father went back to the car to wait while the woman collected a few things to take with her. "I think we've found a jewel, Penny," the detective declared enthusiastically. "If I'm any judge of character, she's a good housekeeper." "And if I'm a judge of it, she's a chronic grumbler and a gossip," replied Penny. "But we're only paying five dollars, so we can't be too particular." Mrs. Masterbrook soon came down the walk with a small handbag. She crowded into the front seat of the car and even before they were well on their way to Kendon, began to question her new employer. She asked his name, his business, where he was from, why he had come to Kendon and how long he meant to stay. Penny glanced impishly at her father, who was growing slightly annoyed. She had warned him that Mrs. Masterbrook would prove to be a gossip. "I met Mr. Crocker's grandson this morning," she remarked, hoping to switch the conversation to a less personal topic. "He seems like a fine lad." "Yes, but it's a shame the way Herman brings him up," replied Mrs. Masterbrook, shaking her head sadly. "Perry has never had much schooling and he's kept at home all the time." "I should think the school authorities would see that the boy attended classes," remarked Mr. Nichols. "They don't like to cross Herman," Mrs. Masterbrook explained. "At least that's how I figure it." "Mr. Crocker doesn't actually mistreat the boy?" Penny questioned. "Herman couldn't be very good to anyone even if he tried. Perry was his daughter Ella's son, and I guess old Herman thought more of Ella than he did of any other member of his family. When she died he took the boy to raise." "I judge his own wife isn't living," remarked Mr. Nichols. "No, poor Ida went to her rest come twelve years ago this fall. Folks said she wouldn't have taken down with pneumonia if Herman had given her enough to eat.
64515_184	science fiction	Fennel, Erik	However, he suggested, tiny doses of diluted venom, administered over a long period of time, might.... The message ended in the middle of a word as through their telescopes astronomers saw a great flare go up from the moon's surface, a thousand times brighter than the communications light. The explanation was self-evident. Electron-displacement power packs were treacherous. When their stored power reached a certain minimum level they became highly explosive. The pioneer had sacrificed his remaining days of life to transmit vital information to the world which had given him birth. Everything stopped for a day and night as the entire civilized world went into deepest mourning for the man who had died 238,840 miles away--everything but work on the fleet of spaceships. That did not even falter. George Carlin gave up his rented room, bought a car, and drove across country to the Midwestern city housing the headquarters of Carlin Industries. He did not get past the outer offices. Carlin Industries had been forced long before to develop a system for handling cranks and crackpots, and it operated only too well. Matson's Disease had made such changes in Carlin's features that he was not recognized. At last he was forcibly ejected. That was his final effort. He had become a nonentity, a nobody, and so he wanted only to die. But with his identity he had lost his nerve. He did, however, have enough money to avoid drawing even one sober breath. It is history how nine rockets reached the moon, transferred their remaining fuel, and one finally returned bearing a cargo of living moon-lice as a gift beyond all price. The frantic medical campaign, during which two thousand victims of Matson's Disease had their deaths hastened as doctors sought the proper dosage, is also history. But then there was a cure--and another--and still more. The treatment became standardized as means were found for stabilizing the venom and controlling its potency. The government assumed charge, and every citizen afflicted with the plague was not only entitled to treatment but compelled to take it. When the health officers found George Carlin in his isolated cabin he was almost dead. His skeleton had softened to such an extent that he could not stand, and could crawl across the dirty, littered floor only with the greatest difficulty. His atrophied muscles had almost nothing against which to work, and malnutrition and alcoholism complicated the case. After six months in a sanitarium bed he had recovered enough to become bored.
61405_200	science fiction	Panshin, Alexei	The country leveled into a great rolling valley and the trees gave way to great farms and fields. In the fields, working, were some of the green creatures, which surprised me since the ones I'd seen before hadn't seemed smart enough to count to one, let alone do any work. But it relieved me. I thought they might have been eating them or something. I passed two crossroads and started to meet more people, but nobody questioned me. I met people on horseback, and twice I met trucks moving silently past. And I overtook a wagon driven by the oldest man I've seen in my life. He waved to me, and I waved back. Near the end of the afternoon I came to the town, and there I received a jolt that sickened me. By the time I came out on the other side, I was sick. My hands were cold and sweaty and my head was spinning, and I wanted to kick Ninc to a gallop. I rode slowly in, looking all around, missing nothing. The town was all stone, wood and brick. Out of date. Out of time, really. There were no machines more complicated than the trucks I'd seen earlier. At the edge of town, I passed a newspaper office with a headline pasted in the window--INVASION! I remember that. I wondered about it. But I looked most closely at the people. In all that town, I didn't see one girl over ten years old and no grown-up women at all. There were little kids, there were boys and there were men, but no girls. All the boys and men wore pants, and so did I, which must have been why Horst and his buddies assumed I was a boy. It wasn't flattering; but I decided I'd not tell anybody different until I found what made the clocks tick on this planet. But that wasn't what bothered me. It was the kids. My God! They swarmed. I saw a family come out of a house--a father and _four_ children. It was the most foul thing I've ever seen. It struck me then--these people were Free Birthers! I felt a wave of nausea and I closed my eyes until it passed. * * * * * The first thing you learn in school is that if it weren't for idiot and criminal people like these, Earth would never have been destroyed. The evacuation would never have had to take place, and eight billion people wouldn't have died.
35425_327	science fiction	Leinster, Murray	They were tall hills to Burl, some sixty or seventy feet high, and they seemed to be the agglomeration of a formless growth, multiplying its organisms and forms upon itself until the whole formed an irregular, cone-shaped mound. Burl watched them apathetically. Presently, he ate again of the oily fish. The taste was pleasant to him, accustomed to feed mostly upon insipid mushrooms. He stuffed himself, though the size of his prey left by far the larger part uneaten. He still held his spear firmly beside him. It had brought him into trouble, but Burl possessed a fund of obstinacy. Unlike most of his tribe, he associated the spear with the food it had secured, rather than the difficulty into which it had led him. When he had eaten his fill he picked it up and examined it again. The sharpness of its point was unimpaired. Burl handled it meditatively, debating whether or not to attempt to fish again. The shakiness of his little raft dissuaded him, and he abandoned the idea. Presently he stripped a sinew from the garment about his middle and hung the fish about his neck with it. That would leave him both hands free. Then he sat cross-legged upon the soggily floating fungus, like a pink-skinned Buddha, and watched the shores go by. Time had passed, and it was drawing near sunset. Burl, never having seen the sun save as a bright spot in the overhanging haze, did not think of the coming of night as "sunset." To him it was the letting down of darkness from the sky. Today happened to be an exceptionally bright day, and the haze was not as thick as usual. Far to the west, the thick mist turned to gold, while the thicker clouds above became blurred masses of dull red. Their shadows seemed like lavender, from the contrast of shades. Upon the still surface of the river, all the myriad tints and shadings were reflected with an incredible faithfulness, and the shining tops of the giant mushrooms by the river brim glowed faintly pink. Dragonflies buzzed over his head in their swift and angular flight, the metallic luster of their bodies glistening in the rosy light. Great yellow butterflies flew lightly above the stream. Here, there, and everywhere upon the water appeared the shell-formed boats of a thousand caddis flies, floating upon the surface while they might. Burl could have thrust his hand down into their cavities and seized the white worms that inhabited the strange craft. The huge bulk of a tardy bee droned heavily overhead.
4515_2427	western stories	Curwood, James Oliver	Eyes and ears were alert for sound or movement either behind or ahead of them, and more and more frequently he turned to scan the back trail. They were at least five miles from the edge of the open where the fight had occurred when they came to the foot of a ridge, and Philip's heart gave a sudden thump of hope. He remembered that ridge. It was a curiously formed "hog-back"--like a great windrow of snow piled up and frozen. Probably it was miles in length. Somewhere he and Bram had crossed it soon after passing the first cabin. He had not tried to tell Celie of this cabin. Time had been too precious. But now, in the short interval of rest he allowed themselves, he drew a picture of it in the snow and made her understand that it was somewhere close to the ridge and that it looked as though the stranger was making for it. He half carried Celie up the ridge after that. She could not hide from him that her feet were dragging even at a walk. Exhaustion showed in her face, and once when she tried to speak to him her voice broke in a little gasping sob. On the far side of the ridge he took her in his arms and carried her again. "It can't be much farther," he encouraged her. "We've got to overtake him pretty soon, dear. Mighty soon." Her hand pressed gently against his cheek, and he swallowed a thickness that in spite of his effort gathered in his throat. During that last half hour a different look had come into her eyes. It was there now as she lay limply with her head on his breast--a look of unutterable tenderness, and of something else. It was that which brought the thickness into his throat. It was not fear. It was the soft glow of a great love--and of understanding. She knew that even he was almost at the end of his fight. His endurance was giving out. One of two things must happen very soon. She continued to stroke his cheek gently until he placed her on her feet again, and then she held one of his hands close to her breast as they looked behind them, and listened. He could feel the soft throbbing of her heart. If he needed greater courage then it was given to him. They went on. And then, so suddenly that it brought a stifled cry from the girl's lips, they came upon the cabin. It was not a hundred yards from them when they first saw it.
13396_2950	love stories	Van Schaick, George	Down below, in the cove, I could see the _Snowbird's_ anchor light, gleaming brilliantly. The windows of some of the houses shed a sickly pale radiance, but beyond this everything was in darkness, with just the faintest suggestion of enormous masses representing the jagged cliffs. There was not a single star in the heavens, and all at once everything seemed to be plunged in desolation. It felt as when one awakes in the darkness from some beautiful dream. I knew then that I would be actually home-sick for Sweetapple Cove when I returned to New York. Please don't laugh at me, Aunt Jennie dear, you know I have had no one but you to confide in since I have grown out of short skirts. Perhaps it was this thing I saw in Atkins' house that has upset me so, and I suppose that my life has always been too easy, and that I have not been prepared to meet some of the grim horrors it can reveal to one. I could not think of leaving without saying good-by to Mrs. Barnett. My hand shook as I pushed a hatpin through my cap. Then I told Daddy where I was going and ran out into the darkness. When I reached the poor little house they insist on calling the rectory the dear woman opened her arms to greet me, and I saw that her beautiful eyes were filled with tears. "What is the matter, dear?" I asked. "I was a coward to-day," she cried. "Such an awful coward! I had no business to leave when Dr. Grant told me to. I should have stayed and helped. But when he spoke of diphtheria I couldn't help it and thought of my little chaps. I have already seen that dreadful thing come and sweep little lives away, just in a day or two. It took the one we buried on the other side of the cove, and we saw it suffocating, helpless to aid. And that's why I ran out, terror-stricken. But I hear that you held the baby for him. You don't know what it is to have babies of your own, and were not afraid. It is dreadful, you know, that fear that comes in a mother's heart!" She looked quite weak when she sat down, in a poor, worn, upholstered chair that was among the things they brought from England, and I sat on the arm of it, beside her.
4702_741	western stories	Curwood, James Oliver	It was so quiet that the trickling of the paddles was like subdued music. From the forest there came no sound. Yet he knew there was life there, wide-eyed, questing life, life that moved on velvety wing and padded foot, just as he and Marie-Anne and the half-breed Bateese were moving in the canoe. To have called out in this hour would have taken an effort, for a supreme and invisible Hand seemed to have commanded stillness upon the earth. And then there came droning upon his ears a break in the stillness, and as he listened, the shores closed slowly in, narrowing the channel until he saw giant masses of gray rock replacing the thick verdure of balsam, spruce, and cedar. The moaning grew louder, and the rocks climbed skyward until they hung in great cliffs. There could be but one meaning to this sudden change. They were close to LE SAINT-ESPRIT RAPIDE--the Holy Ghost Rapids. Carrigan was astonished. That day at noon he had believed the Holy Ghost to be twenty or thirty miles below him. Now they were at its mouth, and he saw that Bateese and Jeanne Marie-Anne Boulain were quietly and unexcitedly preparing to run that vicious stretch of water. Unconsciously he gripped the gunwales of the canoe with both hands as the sound of the rapids grew into low and sullen thunder. In the moonlight ahead he could see the rock walls closing in until the channel was crushed between two precipitous ramparts, and the moon and stars, sending their glow between those walls, lighted up a frothing path of water that made Carrigan hold his breath. He would have portaged this place even in broad day. He looked at the girl in the bow. The slender figure Was a little more erect, the glowing head held a little higher. In those moments he would have liked to see her face, the wonderful something that must be in her eyes as she rode fearlessly into the teeth of the menace ahead. For he could see that she was not afraid, that she was facing this thing with a sort of exultation, that there was something about it which thrilled her until every drop of blood in her body was racing with the impetus of the stream itself. Eddies of wind puffing out from between the chasm walls tossed her loose hair about her back in a glistening veil. He saw a long strand of it trailing over the edge of the canoe into the water. It made him shiver, and he wanted to cry out to Bateese that he was a fool for risking her life like this.
41151_757	detective and mystery stories	Harvey, Marion	Protestations would only have made a bad matter worse. "Mr. Davies, you know, of course, that if a man dies intestate, his wife inherits his property?" I nodded, but was decidedly puzzled. "Mr. Darwin died intestate," he continued quietly, watching to note the effect upon me. "I don't understand you," I said, and I spoke the truth. I was out of my depth, for he surely couldn't suppose that I was intimately acquainted with Philip Darwin's personal affairs! Either that, or else he possessed information of which I had no knowledge. It proved to be the latter case. "In the waste basket we found partially burned scraps of what was presumably a will, Mr. Davies, and here," holding up a heavy paper, "is what Mr. Darwin was at work upon when he was shot. It is a will, Mr. Davies, or rather the beginning of one, and it is not in Mrs. Darwin's favor." I made no comment, but I could see what he was driving at. This was another powerful factor to be added to Ruth's motive in taking her husband's life. "This will is in favor of Cora Manning. Did you ever hear of her, Mr. Davies?" continued the coroner. "I can't say that I have." "Do you also identify this handkerchief?" "No, I have never seen it before to my knowledge." "It might be Mrs. Darwin's?" "I don't know." "That is all at present. Mr. Cunningham, please." CHAPTER VII THE LAWYER At the coroner's words the man beside me arose and walked to the front of the room. He was about Philip Darwin's build and height, but his face was fleshier, and he wore a full, square beard of a peculiar mottled red, the same shade as his hair, as though both had been liberally sprinkled with gray. He was very fastidiously dressed, I might say almost foppishly so, even to the point of wearing spats and an eyeglass, which he was continually screwing into his eye as he spoke. "You are Mr. Darwin's lawyer?" asked the coroner. "Yes. You will pardon me if I reply rather briefly. I have a bad throat to-day and find it trying to speak at length," he apologized in a husky voice. "Certainly, certainly.
58711_2175	detective and mystery stories	M'Govan, James	“So much the better,” returned the photographer, not to be daunted. “She’ll want your portrait exactly as you stand—not as you were before this voyage, or when you were courting her. Folks’ faces change so soon.” “Maybe they do, but their hearts remain the same,” returned the sailor cheerily. “Well, not always—they change, too, sometimes,” said Turnbull, with the air of one who had bitterly experienced the truth of his words; “but with your portrait always beside her, her heart couldn’t change. Just step in—I won’t keep you a moment, and you can take it with you. You’ll have it, and she’ll have it, long after the races are forgotten.” The sailor easily yielded, and followed him into the tent, and then Turnbull, having now a professional interest in the man, took notice of his dress and appearance particularly for the first time. The man was low in stature, thick set, and evidently a powerful fellow. He wore an ordinary sailor’s suit of dark blue, but had for a neckerchief a red cotton handkerchief loosely rolled together, and so carelessly tied that the ends hung down over his breast. In order to get all the sailor’s face into the portrait, Turnbull with some difficulty persuaded him to remove his cap, and then drew from him an admission that his objection arose from the fact that there was a flesh mark on one side of his forehead which he did not wish to appear in the portrait. The difficulty was got over—as it was with Hannibal—by taking a side-view, and the first attempt came out all right, so far as the portrait was concerned. But the sailor wished to appear as if he had just removed his cap, and with that in his hand, so the first was put aside as spoilt, and another taken, which, though not so successful, pleased the owner better, as in that the cap appeared in his hand. The portrait was finished and framed, and so free and good-natured was the owner that he insisted on paying for the spoilt one, which, however, he refused to take with him. While Turnbull had been putting a frame on the portrait, the sailor took out a long piece of tobacco and a pocket knife and cut himself a liberal quid, at the same time offering a piece to the photographer, which was accepted.
46588_1303	adventure stories	Hemyng, Bracebridge	It would have broken my heart to go to my mother and ask her to pay my debts of honor. You have saved me." Jack's face lighted up with a faint smile. It was the brother of the girl he loved who was talking to him. "I'm awfully glad," he said. "It pleases me to help a man out of a bad place. If your man will give me my coat, I'll go home now, and send you the colors in the morning. I've got friends here--drove my drag down, you know, and I fear I have neglected them." "Sit down a moment," replied Van Hoosen. "You're a fine fellow, Harkaway, and I'm sorry for what I said yesterday." "Don't mention it, my dear fellow. I've forgotten it." "I've sent for some wine. Won't you wait?" "Well, yes. Just a moment--the fact is--I'm not well--I've got a sudden vertigo--I--I can't see." He extended his arms and groped his way, toward the door; but ere he reached it he fell on the floor, and the blood flowed again from the wound on his forehead. For a time his senses left him. CHAPTER X. A RECONCILIATION. When Jack Harkaway came to himself he was in a strange room, and he did not know what to make of it. The apartment was elegantly furnished; pictures of value hung upon the walls, and it was evident that he was in the house of people of taste and wealth. "Hello! where am I?" he asked. The heavy damask curtains were drawn around the windows, so that only a faint light penetrated to the bedside. Yet in the imperfect light Jack fancied he saw a shadowy female form, exquisitely symmetrical, get up from a lounge and leave the room. A bell-rope hung by the side of the bed, which attracted Jack's attention, and he rung it violently. Raising himself up, he sunk down again as if unable to sustain his weight. "I'm frightfully weak," he murmured. "Wonder if I've been sick?" Presently a footstep sounded on the stairs and a man opening the door, entered the apartment. Jack recognized Alfred Van Hoosen. "Well, my boy," he exclaimed. "So you have come to, at last?" "Have I been very bad?" asked Jack.
30311_239	science fiction	Berryman, John	"Kid stuff!" I snorted. "So you can lift four ounces from six feet away. But you don't have any idea what incorporeal hereditaments are. Which is better?" The pink of his face got red. He could have broken me in two. "Just making a point," I said. "I'm stupid about TK. You're stupid about the law. I figure that makes us even." He clamped his mouth shut. I turned back to Keys and the girl I was sure was Mary Hall. "What I came here for--" "What we _got_ you here for," Keys interrupted, "was to set you straight on something." I guess I looked as surprised as I felt. The impossibly blond girl giggled. "Over the phone, Maragon," Keys went on, sitting down on the bench beside the girl, "you said there was a Federal rap hanging over Mary's head on this 99th National Bank fracas." I nodded. "The theory being," he went on, "that the law doesn't let anybody with the Stigma get away with a thing, right?" "Right." "Then relax. Mary hasn't got the Stigma. Have you, Mary?" "No," she said. I looked her over more carefully. She was closer to twenty than thirty, round-faced, with blue eyes that were about as impossibly bright as her hair was impossibly white. It could have been a corneal tattoo, but somehow I doubted it. Impossibly red lips made up the patriotic triad of colors--but that was lipstick, pure and simple. "No Stigma?" I demanded. "I know Psixieland when I hear it, Miss Hall. Don't tell me that wasn't telepathic jazz." She tossed her short hair-do around. "My side-men were TP's," she conceded. "Why do you think I was playing box chords? They knew what I was playing--I didn't know what they'd play." Well, some of it was adding up. Still, I had to be sure. "I see. Tell me, Mary, where were your parents on the 19th of April in '75?" She sat up straight beside Keys on the bench, and her fair face flushed pinkly. "Drop dead!" she told me. I stood up. "See you in jail," I said, and started for the door.
61133_110	science fiction	Banta, Frank	"Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict in such a gratifyingly short space of time?" the judge asked, beaming. The foreman arose. "We have, your honor." "Just for the record, what is your verdict?" twinkled the judge. "Not guilty, your honor." The prosecutor jumped up. "Why, that can't be!" he shouted. "It's a _prima facie_ case, unrefuted and therefore patent. What else do you _need_?" "Yeah!" agreed the judge, outraged. "We need some plain, old-fashioned evidence of a crime," answered the juryman, unperturbed. "Old-fashioned?" The fuming prosecutor rejected the heresy, pushing it away from him with both hands. "This is all unscientific now," he warned. "The Very Complicated Monstrous Proximilator machine--especially the new model with the forty-three meters which replaces the old thirty-nine meter machine--is the _ne plus ultra_ of justice!" "Oh, no, it isn't," dissented the foreman. "Did your evidence place the deadly weapon in the defendant's hand? Did your evidence even tend to show the holes in the woman's chest were _made_ by a gun? She said nothing about a weapon, if you will recall. She merely said, 'Why are you pointing that at me, Bork? What are you going to do, Bork?'" "But he had plenty of motive," pleaded the prosecutor. "Oh, we'll go along with _that_," assented the foreman. "And the defendant admitted it!" pursued the prosecutor triumphantly. The foreman shook his head. "Admissions don't count. The judge said so himself." "So even though you know he's guilty," the prosecutor said hollowly, "you're going to let him go?" "That's right," agreed the foreman happily, and cleared his throat.
30680_416	science fiction	Olin, Richard	" "Wait a minute. Let me think." After a moment, he got up, went into the kitchen and got another beer. "O.K., I'm ready," he said as he came back. "Now, why did you guys pick me? How many of you are there?" "Just a handful ... no more than twenty. We're scattered all across the country. We picked you because you're a test case, Ernie. One of us is a psychologist. "He says you're a common denominator. If we could break you out of it, then we could get through to a whole cross section of people." Ernie grunted and sipped his beer. "A common denominator, huh? Thanks, pal. You mentioned drugs. I guess you can go anywhere? Just walk past people and never be seen?" "That's right." Ernie laughed scornfully. "You've got a good deal. Why louse it up? What do you stand to gain?" Jory shook his head. "You're wrong, Ernie. For one thing, everything is slowly running down. Miners go to the same part of the mine each day and send out nothing but empty cars. The same thing is happening all across the country, in farms, in factories, in hospitals--" Ernie got up. "Keep talking," he said. "Hospitals are hideous these days, Ernie. Don't go near a surgeon. All he can do are the same operations he performed on the first Wednesday. If you're the wrong height, the wrong weight, or just there at the wrong time, he'll cut you to pieces. "Homes burn to the ground. And nobody tries to get out of them. The fire department is no good. It's stuck in that first Wednesday. "We broke off broadcasting last night. We had to fight an apartment house fire. There are only three of us here in the city. We didn't save anyone. What could we do? We were lucky that we kept it from spreading. "We need help, Ernie. We need it badly--" Absently, Ernie said, "Yeah, I see that all right." He kept pacing. "I don't know if I can make you understand how important you are right now, Ernie. With you helping, we can isolate the thing that triggered you out of this. We can use it as a technique on whole groups of people. The world will begin moving again.
29479_3498	western stories	Cullum, Ridgwell	He waited listening; then at last he stepped forward and announced himself with a sharp "Hello!" His only answer was the echo of his greeting. Without more ado he stepped in. For a moment the sharpness of the contrast of light made it impossible for him to see anything; but presently he became used to the twilight of the interior, and looked about him curiously. It was his first acquaintance with a dugout, nor was he impressed with the comfort it displayed. The place was dirty, unkempt, and his dream of the picturesque, old-time trapper died out entirely. He beheld walls bare of all decoration, simply a rough plastering of mud over the lateral logs; a frowsy cupboard, made out of a huge packing-case, containing odd articles for housekeeping purposes. There were the fragments of two chairs lying in a heap beside a dismembered table, which stood only by the aid of two legs and the centre post which supported the pitch of the roof. A rough trestle-bed occupied the far end of the hut, and in shape and make it reminded him of his own bed in the bunkhouse. But there the resemblance ended, for the palliasse was of brown sacking, and a pair of dull-red blankets were tumbled in a heap upon its foot. One more blanket of similar hue was lying upon the floor; but this was only a torn fragment that had possibly served as a carpet, or, to judge by other fragments lying about, had been used to patch shirts, or even the well-worn bedclothes. It was a squalid hovel, and reeked of the earth out of which it was dug. Beyond the bedding, the red blankets, and the few plates and pots in the packing-case cupboard, there was not a sign of the owner, and Tresler found himself wondering as to what manner of man it was who could have endured such meanness. It did not occur to him that probably the very trapper he had thought of had left his eyrie in peace and taken his belongings with him, leaving behind him only those things which were worthless. A few minutes satisfied his curiosity. Probably his ride, and a natural desire to return to the ranch as quickly as possible, had dulled the keenness of his faculties of observation. Certain it is that, squalid as the place was, there was an air of recent habitation about it that he missed. He took it for a deserted shack merely, and gave it no second thought.
2730_69	adventure stories	Haggard, H. Rider (Henry Rider)	She had been sitting there for three days among the bodies when I found her. I took her on to the next kraal, and gave the headman a blanket to look after her, promising him another if I found her well when I came back. I remember that he was much astonished at my parting with two blankets for the sake of such a worthless old creature. ‘Why did I not leave her in the bush?’ he asked. Those people carry the doctrine of the survival of the fittest to its extreme, you see. “It was the night after I had got rid of the old woman that I made my first acquaintance with my friend yonder,” and he nodded towards the skull that seemed to be grinning down at us in the shadow of the wide mantel-shelf. “I had trekked from dawn till eleven o’clock--a long trek--but I wanted to get on, and had turned the oxen out to graze, sending the voorlooper to look after them, my intention being to inspan again about six o’clock, and trek with the moon till ten. Then I got into the waggon, and had a good sleep till half-past two or so in the afternoon, when I rose and cooked some meat, and had my dinner, washing it down with a pannikin of black coffee--for it was difficult to get preserved milk in those days. Just as I had finished, and the driver, a man called Tom, was washing up the things, in comes the young scoundrel of a voorlooper driving one ox before him. “‘Where are the other oxen?’ I asked. “‘Koos!’ he said, ‘Koos! the other oxen have gone away. I turned my back for a minute, and when I looked round again they were all gone except Kaptein, here, who was rubbing his back against a tree.’ “‘You mean that you have been asleep, and let them stray, you villain. I will rub your back against a stick,’ I answered, feeling very angry, for it was not a pleasant prospect to be stuck up in that fever trap for a week or so while we were hunting for the oxen. ‘Off you go, and you too, Tom, and mind you don’t come back till you have found them. They have trekked back along the Middelburg Road, and are a dozen miles off by now, I’ll be bound. Now, no words; go both of you.’
60907_173	science fiction	Jones, Bascom	She said, "It's 1324, sir. The inspection group will be here in two minutes. Shall I bring them in?" I nodded my head to one side slightly, in a manner peculiar to Bartlett. "Thank you, Meta. Yes, of course. Bring them in as soon as they arrive." I switched the video-com off and let my fingers lightly play with the button on the desk that activated the lock on Bartlett's private door into the inner corridor. It was a temptation to open the door and attempt to go the rest of the way on my own. But I wouldn't make it. Not even disguised as Defense Secretary Bartlett. I had been warned not to try. * * * * * My only hope lay in the routine set up by Earth's scientists more than 70 years ago--the daily inspection of the unit. As a member of the inspection party, I could pass through the security guards. More important, as a member of the group, I would arrive at the protective force sphere at the hub of the Pentagon at the only time and at the only place the force sphere could be breached. I waited. Precisely at the end of Meta's two minutes, the lock buzzed on the door to the reception room. I touched the control which opened the door and stood as the group filed into the room. My briefings on each of them had been exhaustive, but I examined their faces for some sign that one or more might penetrate my disguise as Bartlett. The redheaded Meta nodded. She had been with Bartlett as his security secretary for 70 years. Senator Chambers, as a representative of the electorate, darted rapid glances around the room as soon as the door had closed, counting noses. General Whit Marshall, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff of the police systems, nodded with the cold reserve of the high-ranking military to the higher-ranking civilian. The fourth member of the group, Chet Meyers, chief Master Machine technician, was the only one to speak. The lanky Meyers looked around the room. "Where's General Spicer, sir? Senator Chambers was telling us you were going to invite him because of this scare today." The invisible scars which cobwebbed across my body from the electro-surgical knives tensed so suddenly that I almost screamed. I made myself reach for my cane casually. I had come so close! No, wait--there was the bitter rivalry between Chambers and Spicer.
60283_213	science fiction	Fisher, David E.	It had been a horrible day. The inhuman indignity, the cries-- We tarried before my home, leaned on the stone, stared at the first stars. "They seemed finally to accomplish all the book described," I muttered. "They may indeed have succeeded," Rocsates replied. "There is mentioned a time lapse which is necessary. The child does not appear immediately." "It doesn't matter," I said disconsolately. "Who could ask them to go through such an ordeal again?" And then I looked down to earth again, and saw them standing before me. Melia cast her eyes down, and would not raise them. Xeon held his arm about her shoulders, as if to protect her, but I know not from whom. "Sias," he said. Then stopped, embarrassed. I waited, and Rocsates was silent, and he continued. "Sias, we come to tell.... We will...." He raised his eyes to mine and said manfully, "We shall try again." I am afraid that tears came to my eyes. Such sacrifice-- "We beg one favor," Xeon went on. "We are agreed that--Well, we should like to be left alone, in private, to try." "Of course," I replied. Anything they might want they could have. My relief and gratitude must have showed, for Xeon took a deep breath and spoke again. "We do not deserve praise, Sias," he said. "The truth is, we ... we sort of enjoy it." I watched them turn and wander off together under the stars.
27682_4468	science fiction	MacKaye, Harold Steele	He ceased writing and leaned against the back, gazing straight ahead. "The third age past, what then? Why the soldier, i' faith--the soldier----" "Full of strange oaths" came a mischievous whisper from an invisible source-- "and bearded like the pard. Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth." For a moment the poet sat as though paralyzed with astonishment. Then rising, he turned and faced the daring girl. Now she saw the face so well remembered and yet how little known before. Round it was and smooth, save for the small, well-trimmed mustache above the beautifully moulded mouth and chin--sensitive yet firm. But above all, the splendid eyes! Eyes of uncertain color that seemed to Phoebe mirrors of universal life, yet just now full of a perplexed admiration. For she was herself the centre of a picture well fitted to arrest a poet's attention. Her merry face was peering over the smooth white stone, with four pink finger-tips on each side clinging for greater security. Behind her a cherry-tree was dropping its snowy blossoms, and two or three had fallen unheeded upon her wavy brown hair, making a charming frame for the young eyes and tender lips whose smiling harmony seemed to sing with arrant roguishness. With a trilling laugh, half-suppressed, she spoke at last. "A penny for your thoughts, Master Shakespeare!" she said. The mood of the astonished player had quickly yielded to the girl's compelling smile, and his fine lips opened upon a firm line of teeth. "'Show me first your penny,'" he quoted. "I'll owe you it." He laughed and shook his head. "That would I not my thoughts, damsel." "Pay them, then. Pay straightway!" she pouted, "and see the account be fair." "Nay, then," he replied, bowing half-mockingly, "an the accountant be so passing fair, must not the account suffer in the comparison?" The face disappeared for a moment, and then Phoebe emerged from behind the stone rampart, dusting her hands off daintily one against the other. "Did not your wit exceed your gallantry, sir," she said, courtesying slightly, "I had had my answer sooner." Shakespeare was somewhat taken aback to see a developed young woman, evidently of gentle birth, where he had thought to find the mere prank-loving child of some neighboring cottager.
61946_1211	western stories	Ward, William (Author at Arthur Westbrook Co. (Cleveland, Ohio))	"If he prove the man we want, his capture will remove all danger from you." "If you could catch him, yes. But you haven't done it yet--and you won't either. A man who can make a monkey of you the way this 'Howard' did, won't be caught easily. He knows you are detectives. If he's Jesse, I'll wager he isn't in his tent now! "Forman," the president of the savings institution exclaimed, as he looked at his watch, "you've got just time to catch the train north. Don't stop to get a bag. I want you to go to Ste. Genevieve at once and warn Harris to send out our funds to Kansas City on the first train, keeping only ten thousand dollars on hand. "Jesse James, if he and 'Howard' are one, may raid my bank!" CHAPTER IX. THE STORM BREAKS. Angered by the lack of confidence in their shrewdness and ability the banker's words and actions disclosed, Dillaby rose from his chair, bowed stiffly and said: "You'll think differently, sir, within twenty-four hours. Come, boys." But Mr. Rozier's response was a snort of disgust that further enraged the man-hunters. "The old mutton-head! I wish Jesse _would_ rob his bank! It would serve him right!" snapped one of them. No comment, however, did his comrades vouchsafe. Each was occupied with his own thoughts and chief among these thoughts was a grim determination to prove to the banker that his opinion of them was erroneous. Arrived at the rendezvous in the square, Dillaby and his men were forced to wait some minutes before they beheld their fellows hurrying to join them. Without wasting any time, the eight men, with Higgins and the superintendent of the Kansas City office in lead, set out for the campground. Nearing the place, Jones said: "When we get to the tent, the rest of you surround it. Higgins and I will go inside and interview the miners." "But there are three of them," protested Dillaby. "What if there are? We can call for help if we need any." As the reader knows, there was no need. When the detectives had reached a point from which the camp the suspects had occupied could be seen, they instantly noticed that the roan mare was gone.
31870_922	western stories	Marlowe, Amy Bell	But his rider lay still for a moment on the prairie. Pratt Sanderson was certainly "playing in hard luck" during his vacation on the ranges. The mere losing of his mount was not so bad; but the steers had really stampeded, and he lay, half-stunned, directly in the path of the herd. Old Baldface struggled to rise and seized upon the girl's attention. She used the rope in a most expert fashion, catching his other foreleg in a loop, and then catching one of his hind legs, too. He was secured as safely as a fly in a spider-web. Frances was out of her saddle the next moment, and ran back to where Pratt lay. She knew Molly would remain fixed in the place she was left, and sagging back on the rope. The girl seized the young man under his armpits and started to drag him toward the fallen steer. The bulk of Old Baldface would prove a protection for them. The herd would break and swerve to either side of the big steer. But one thing went wrong in Frances' calculations. Her rope slipped at the saddle. For some reason it was not fastened securely. The straining Molly went over backward, kicking and squealing as the rope gave way, and the big steer began to struggle to his feet. CHAPTER VIII IN PERIL AND OUT Pratt Sanderson had begun to realize the situation. As Frances' pony fell and squealed, he scrambled to his knees. "Save yourself, Frances!" he cried. "I am all right." She left him; but not because she believed his statement. The girl saw the bald-faced steer staggering to its feet, and she knew their salvation depended upon the holding of the bad-tempered brute. The stampeded herd was fast coming down upon them; afoot, she nor Pratt could scarcely escape the hoofs and horns of the cattle. She saw Ratty M'Gill on the black pony flying ahead of the steers; but what could one man do to turn two thousand head of wild cattle? Frances of the ranges had appreciated the peril which threatened to the full and at first glance. The prostrate carcase of the huge steer would serve to break the wave of cattle due to pass over this spot within a very few moments. If Baldface got up, shook off the entangling rope and ran, Frances and Pratt would be utterly helpless. Once under the hoofs of the herd, they would be pounded into the prairie like powder, before the tail of the stampede had passed.
3294_3559	adventure stories	Sabatini, Rafael	He considered an instant, and conceived that she was right. None could blame him for executing the commands she gave him. And there would be profit in it, clearly--ay, and it would be sweet to outbid that dog Tsamanni and send him empty-handed home to face the wrath of his frustrated master. He spread his hands and salaamed in token of complete acquiescence. CHAPTER X. THE SLAVE-MARKET At the sôk-el-Abeed it was the hour of the outcry, announced by a blast of trumpets and the thudding of tom-toms. The traders that until then had been licensed to ply within the enclosure now put up the shutters of their little booths. The Hebrew pedlar of gems closed his box and effaced himself, leaving the steps about the well clear for the most prominent patrons of the market. These hastened to assemble there, surrounding it and facing outwards, whilst the rest of the crowd was ranged against the southern and western walls of the enclosure. Came negro water-carriers in white turbans with aspersers made of palmetto leaves to sprinkle the ground and lay the dust against the tramp of slaves and buyers. The trumpets ceased for an instant, then wound a fresh imperious blast and fell permanently silent. The crowd about the gates fell back to right and left, and very slowly and stately three tall dalals, dressed from head to foot in white and with immaculate turbans wound about their heads, advanced into the open space. They came to a halt at the western end of the long wall, the chief dalal standing slightly in advance of the other two. The chattering of voices sank upon their advent, it became a hissing whisper, then a faint drone like that of bees, and then utter silence. In the solemn and grave demeanour of the dalals there was something almost sacerdotal, so that when that silence fell upon the crowd the affair took on the aspect of a sacrament. The chief dalal stood forward a moment as if in an abstraction with downcast eyes; then with hands outstretched to catch a blessing he raised his voice and began to pray in a monotonous chant: “In the name of Allah the Pitying the Pitiful Who created man from clots of blood! All that is in the Heavens and in the Earth praiseth Allah, Who is the Mighty, the Wise! His the kingdom of the Heavens and of the Earth. He maketh alive and killeth, and He hath power over all things. He is the first and the last, the seen and the unseen, and He knoweth all things.”
21513_383	adventure stories	Paltock, Robert	I knew not what to think of it, but was terribly afraid I should draw myself into some scrape. By and by others asked me, some one thing, some another, and I was very cautious what answers I made them, for fear of offence: till a gravish sailor came and sat down by me; and after talking of the weather and other indifferent matters, "Pray," says I, "sir, who is that gentleman that was so affronted at me soon after I came on board?"--"Oh," says he, "a proud, insignificant fellow, the captain's steward; but don't mind him," says he; "he uses the captain himself as bad; they have had high words just before the captain went on shore; and had he used me as he did him, I should have made no ceremony of tipping him overboard--a rascal!" Says I, "You surprise me; for the captain sent me on board to be his steward, and agreed with me about it this afternoon."--"Hush," says he, "I see how it will go; the captain, if that's the case, will discharge him when he comes on board; and indeed I believe he would not have kept him so long, but we have waited for a wind, and he could not provide himself." The captain came on board at night; and the first thing he did was to demand the keys of Mr. Steward, which he gave to me, and ordered him on shore. The next morning the captain went on shore himself; but the wind chopping about and standing fair about noon, he returned then with my chest, and before night we were got into sailing order, and before the wind with a brisk gale. What happened the first fourteen days of our passage I know not, having been all that time so sick and weak I could scarcely keep life and soul together; but after grew better and better. We prosecuted our voyage, touching for about a week at the Madeiras in our way. The captain grew very fond of me, and never put me to hard duty, and I passed my time, under his favour, very pleasantly.
54121_2028	love stories	Sykes, D. F. E.	Soon the good wives of the village began to stroll about the field, scanning each others' dresses, and exchanging kindly greetings, whilst their good men sought secluded corners where they might enjoy a furtive pipe, and talk over the topics of the day; the serious minded discussing the last sermon, the pugnacious revelling in the shortcomings of Parliament and the misdeeds of ministers. A small group gathered round Lucy's chair, some of them rosy-cheeked young lasses, who had worked with Lucy in the mill, and who now brought up their young men to be exhibited with all the pride of conquest. And Lucy had a smile and pleasant word for all, and many a strapping swain, as he lounged past the nook where Lucy held her little Court and let his glance dwell upon the delicate face with its refined and chastened beauty, knew rebellious thoughts against the fate that had put the crippled girl beyond the sighs and vows of man; and grey-headed grandsires, bent with age and toil, recalled the former days when they had suffered and striven for the easier lot their children owned. "Eh! but it's gran' to see yo', Hannah," one would say, "Why aw declare aw hannot seen yo' donned up an' aat sin' we put owd Susan o' 'Lijah's under th' graand. An' yo' do looik weel to be sure, an' aw will say 'at if theer's a woman i' th' village 'at does her clo'es credit it's yo', Hannah. And your Lucy, too, aw declare oo's quite a colour. Yo're lookin' mony a pund better nor th' last time aw seed thi, Lucy, an' tha mun keep thi heart up, lass, theer's no tellin' yet. See yo' Hannah, theer's yar Jud (George) an' yo'r Ben t'other side o'th' field, an' Jud's shakkin' his fist i' Ben's face, an' Ben's dancin' like peeas on a bake-ston'. It's them plaguing politics, but they're enjoyin' theirsen. An' theer's yar 'Tilda yonder i'th' kiss-i'th-ring an Jim Sykes after her. Run, lass, run--eh! he's caught her. Th' clumsy felly, he'll rive all th' clo'es off her back. Gi' 'im one an' get it ovver. Eh! it fair ma'es one young agin to see th' young folk enjoy theirsen.
14211_117	love stories	Ford, Paul Leicester	"I do wish," she murmured, with a slight break in her voice, "that at least mama wouldn't talk about it to outsiders. I--I'd marry to-morrow, just to escape it all--if--if--a loveless marriage wasn't even worse." The girl shivered slightly, and laid her head against the cushioned side, as if weary. She was still so busy with her thoughts that she failed to notice when the brougham stopped at the florist's, and once more was only recalled to concrete concerns by the footman opening the door. The ordering of some flowers for a débutante evidently steadied her and allowed her to regain self-control, for she drove in succession to the jeweller's to select a wedding gift, and to the dressmaker's for a fitting, at each place giving the closest attention to the matter in hand. These nominal duties, but in truth pleasures, concluded, nominal pleasures, but in truth duties, succeeded them, and the carriage halted at four houses long enough to ascertain that the especial objects of Miss Durant's visits "begged to be excused," or were "not at home," each of which pieces of information, or, to speak more correctly, the handing in by the footman, in response to the information, of her card or cards, drew forth an unmistakable sigh of relief from that young lady. Evidently Miss Durant was bored by people, and this to those experienced in the world should be proof that Miss Durant was, in fact, badly bored by herself. One consequence of her escape, however, was that the girl remained with an hour which must be got through with in some manner, and so, in a voice totally without desire or eagerness, she said, "The Park, Wallace;" and in the Park some fifty minutes were spent, her greatest variation from the monotony of the wonted and familiar roads being an occasional nod of the head to people driving or riding, with a glance at those with each, or at the costumes they wore. It was with a distinct note of anticipation in her voice, therefore, that Miss Durant finally ordered, "Home, now, Murdock;" and, if the truth were to be told, the chill in her hands and feet, due to the keen November cold, with a mental picture of the blazing wood fire of her own room, and of the cup of tea that would be drank in front of it, was producing almost the first pleasurable prospect of the day to her.
64835_42	western stories	Thompson, Will H.	The air was delicious in its clearness and serenity. So great was the temptation to escape the stifling heat, still retained by the rooms, that Isola yielded to her father’s request and mine, and came out upon the east porch and sat for an hour listening to our talk, but taking no part therein. “The soft moonlight fell over her like a veil. It seemed more to conceal than to reveal her. It dimmed the traces of sorrow and softened the unnatural luminosity of her eyes. She was very beautiful and, as I watched her face from my position in the shadow of the great clematis vine, her expression of hopelessness and terror was almost unbearable. I was younger then than now, and, as I said, Isola Pico was very beautiful. “Moving my seat into the light, I looked across the silent garden and little shining river to the highlands beyond. In the silvery glory the landscape came out like a cameo. The garden seemed alert and watching with a thousand eyes. Beyond the garden the slender river gleamed in its stony bed. Wasted by the Summer’s heat, it was too weak to grieve. In the lowland beyond the river a space of alfalfa ran to the first swell of the foothills. Upon the plain at the base of the rise, a great rock, deeply imbedded in the earth, and rising fifty feet above the surface, was all in shadow; but, as the moon overlooked the mountain crest, the top of the rock seemed slowly to rise from out the darkness and break into the white flood. “This movement appeared so real and affirmative that I turned to Isola to learn if she had noticed it. She did not heed my action, but sat with her eyes fixed upon the rock with such a stare as one might have who saw the rending of the solid earth. Quickly turning, I saw that on the top of the rock a man was standing, with lifted face and folded arms. The pose was grandly pathetic. The form looked larger than human in the wan moonlight. I was about to break the silence with an exclamation, when a mighty voice, a noble baritone, came rolling across the distance, wave upon wave, bearing the burden of an old and half-forgotten love-song: ‘The God who wrought thee over-sweet In Love’s old garden long ago. Gave me the curse of wandering feet, The power to know, and only know, That even God shall not repeat The agony of loving so!’
54010_592	love stories	Hubback, Mrs. (Catherine-Anne Austen)	But he, who was determined to call his next meal a dinner, felt himself forced to refuse, although, in truth, he would much rather have accepted the offer, could his vanity have allowed him to follow his inclination. Mrs. Watson whispered to her sister, to ask him to join them at dinner the next day, which Elizabeth acceded to with great cordiality. They were to have a few friends to dinner, and if he could condescend to eat at five o'clock, perhaps he might find it in other respects agreeable, and they would be happy to see him. He hesitated and demurred, not from any doubt as to his final determination, but because he meant to give his acceptance a greater grace. "As I am well aware of Mr. Musgrove's habits of intimacy with my sister," said Mrs. Watson, simpering; "I shall conclude, if he refuses now, it is poor unfortunate _me_, whom he despises and avoids." "My dear Mrs. Watson," cried he, "you prevent my saying another word; everything must give way before such an accusation. Even if Lord Osborne himself sends for me—which is not unlikely—I shall refuse to attend on him for your sake. Only do not expect me, Miss Watson, to make any figure at your hospitable board. I shall be happy to look on, as a spectator, but eating indeed must be quite out of the question." "Very well; you shall do as you please, remember five o'clock." "What a very delightful young man," cried Mrs. Watson, as soon as he left the room. "Upon my word, I do not know when I have met one more perfectly well bred and gentleman-like. I look upon myself to be a pretty good judge—having had much opportunity of judging—more than most young women, both at my dear father's, and my uncle Sir Thomas's; and, really, in my poor taste, he is quite the thing. Such charming vivacity, and yet, such attention when one speaks—and he really seems to understand and appreciate one's feelings and sentiments so thoroughly—and such a graceful bow; I assure you I am quite delighted." Elizabeth cast a triumphant look at Emma, as much as to say: "Now, what do you say?" but Emma's judgment was not to be lightly shaken. Margaret looked down amiably modest and tried to blush, whilst she whispered: "I am so glad _you_ liked him.
54445_3864	detective and mystery stories	Davis, Means	“She won’t do anything tonight. She won’t get around an old pan-handler like me. If you are scared as you say you are, you must have the.... Here’s a pan!” He thrust one at her and moved on. Miss Kerr re-entered the ward and said crisply, “William.” “Horace, mam,” he corrected as he handed the circus performer her pan. The girl was disconcerted by the correction. “Well, it doesn’t matter, really. The thing that matters is that you are to stay off this ward unless I call you. There is plenty of work for you in the kitchen. Go down to Ward A and get me a syringe. I’ve already called Miss Wilson about your coming.” Snod Smooty looked blankly up at the nurse. “A hypo syringe?” “Yes. Of course. Why?” He thought he detected a slight dilation of her pupils, and replied carelessly: “You see, Miss, at St. Giles, in London, we always called enemas syringes. I jus’ needs to know, you see.” “Were you there, Horace?” “I ain’t braggin’ Miss, but I was an orderly there four years. That’s how come I brought the bed-pans; we done it that way!” He threw his helpless hands out in an explanatory gesture and shambled down the corridor. Miss Evelina Kerr sat down at her desk to regain her control. She should have gone on with the routine. But she sat down. Things weren’t going so well. That man was a detective as sure as life and he was lying, and Aunt Roenna ought to know.... She picked up the telephone and started to take the receiver from the hook, and then she jumped up and somehow smothered a scream. Standing over her, peering down into her little, piggish eyes with his steel-gray slits was a tall, fat man, in a blue uniform with brass buttons. In his right hand he held a bunch of red American Beauty roses, and the other was in a side pocket. Miss Kerr thought he was a policeman and the left hand was upon his pistol holster. He carefully placed the roses in the elbow of the left arm, and with his right hand drew her out into the ward. His grip was strong and heavy. By that time Miss Kerr had regained her breath. She tried to snatch her arm away and cringed when she failed. “What do you want?”
20840_4430	western stories	Norton, Andre	"Yes, that could be." "Trunk in a cave?" Herrera was skeptical. "But why leave books in a trunk in a cave?" "One of Kitchell’s caches? Or else left by someone who cleared out in ’61 and had to travel light. If anything remains, perhaps Lutterfield can locate it for us later. Anyway this"—Rennie took the book box from Drew, clapped the cover over, hiding the treasure—"won’t go to Mexico now. And if the owner is still alive, we may even find him—who knows? You had your sleep out, boy?" Drew found Rennie’s expression one of indifference. Maybe _Don_ Cazar no longer regarded him with the cold dislike Drew had met at the camp, but they were still strangers. What he had once said back in Kentucky at a remote and distant time was very true now. "Maybe Hunt Rennie doesn’t know I exist; maybe we won’t even like each other if and when we do meet ... I don’t know...." Now Drew thought he did know. Was this insurmountable barrier all his fault? Because he had been so sure he wanted to go it on his own—come to his father as an equal and not a beggar? But could he ever have acted differently? Too independent, too defensive always—Alexander Mattock had made him like that. Now it seemed that his grandfather had won, after all. Because his grandson was the kind of man he was, there would be no meeting with Hunt Rennie to claim kinship, nothing more than what now existed. "I’m all right." After too long a pause, Drew replied to his father’s question. "Do we just keep on sittin’ here?" "If necessary, Chino, pass those supplies you brought in. We eat cold, at least for now." "You look ready to up saddle ’n ride." Anse was waiting behind Drew’s rock. His arm rested in a sling with a neat and reasonably clean bandage about his wound. "How’s that hole?" Drew asked with renewed concern. "Nothin’ much more’n a nick. Say, th’ Old Man’s like a real doc, ain’t he? Carries doc’s things in his saddlebags an’ patched me up last night so I’m near as good as new. After I drunk th’ wrinkles smooth outta my belly an’ had me some shut-eye, why, I’m as right as four aces in any man’s hand! ’
57614_2786	adventure stories	Seeley, Charles Sumner	The wheel idea was quite out of the question. After a little while he resumed by saying, “But I have also seen a modification of the same sort of machine, in which the gourds were attached to an endless rope instead of to the wheel itself. This device is used by the same people where the water is to be raised to a greater height than can conveniently be done with the wheel. I think we might possibly make such a modification work successfully.” “Can you recall how this modification was constructed?” said I, anxiously. “Perhaps I can recall enough to enable you to get the idea,” he replied, throwing back his head and closing his eyes in the effort to remember. “Yes,” said he, after a little reflection, “I think I can. I remember the general features very well indeed. However, the most vivid recollection I have, connected with these machines, is the hideous, creaking screech of their ungreased axles as they were turned hour after hour all through the hot summer nights, the natives ‘spelling’ one another at the work. How well I remember the dry, hot nights when I lay listening to these sounds from far and near. You could easily tell when the laboring coolie was tired by the gradual slowing of his machine and the lengthening of the interval between screeches. Then a fresh man mounted the treadmill and the screeches quickened; and so these monotonous alternations continued through the still night.” After a few reminiscences of his old life in India the old man proceeded to give a description of the machine as nearly as he could recall it. It consisted of a drum, or skeleton wheel, about six feet in diameter, mounted on a platform over the water; each end of the drum overhung the platform and carried an endless rope, to which open-mouthed gourds were tied at regular intervals. The drum was revolved by stepping on its bars as in a treadmill. The gourds were carried down into the water empty and brought up full by the endless rope. Troughs at each side received the water as the gourds tipped to return. In short, it was a sort of chain-pump, or modification of that well-known device. From his description, aided by my own imagination and a full knowledge of the result sought, I was able to reconstruct in my mind this machine, or at least to see how one could be built that I conceived would answer the purpose.
29481_134	love stories	Sousa, John Philip	"Too tired to read, eh?" said Perkins, and then with the advance-agent instinct strong within him he selected a clipping, and touching the violinist on the shoulder: "Let me read this one to you. It is by Herr Totenkellar. He is a hard nut to crack, but he did himself proud this time. Great critic when he wants to be." Perkins cleared his throat and began: "Diotti combines tremendous feeling with equally tremendous technique. The entire audience was under the witchery of his art." Diotti slowly negatived that statement with bowed head. "His tone is full, round and clear; his interpretation lends a story-telling charm to the music; for, while we drank deep at the fountain of exquisite melody, we saw sparkling within the waters the lights of Paradise. New York never has heard his equal. He stands alone, pre-eminent, an artistic giant." "Now, that's what I call great," said the impresario, dramatically; "when you hit Totenkellar that way you are good for all kinds of money." Perkins took his hat and cane and moved toward the door. The violinist arose and extended his hand wearily. "Good-day" came simultaneously; then "I'm off. We'll turn 'em away to-morrow; see if we don't!" Whereupon Perkins left Diotti alone in his misery. IV It was the evening of the fourteenth. In front of the Academy a strong-lunged and insistent tribe of gentry, known as ticket speculators, were reaping a rich harvest. They represented a beacon light of hope to many tardy patrons of the evening's entertainment, especially to the man who had forgotten his wife's injunction "to be sure to buy the tickets on the way down town, dear, and get them in the family circle, not too far back." This man's intentions were sincere, but his newspaper was unusually interesting that morning. He was deeply engrossed in an article on the causes leading to matrimonial infelicities when his 'bus passed the Academy box-office. He was six blocks farther down town when he finished the article, only to find that it was a carefully worded advertisement for a new patent medicine, and of course he had not time to return. "Oh, well," said he, "I'll get them when I go up town to-night." But he did not. So with fear in his heart and a red-faced woman on his arm he approached the box-office.
38663_1166	detective and mystery stories	Mason, A. E. W. (Alfred Edward Woodley)	She had just had a cable. She couldn't sing on Friday night. There was a black knave next to the nine of diamonds. She wouldn't sing for worlds. And it was the first night of _The Jewels of the Madonna!_ Imagine the fix I was in!" "What did you do?" asked Ricardo. "The only thing there was to do," replied Clements with a shrug of the shoulders. "I cabled Favart some money and he dealt the cards again. She came to me beaming. Oh, she had been so distressed to put me in the cart! But what could she do? Now there was a red queen next to the ace of hearts, so she could sing without a scruple so long, of course, as she didn't pass a funeral on the way down to the opera house. Luckily she didn't. But my money brought Favart over here, and now I'm living on a volcano. For he's the greatest scoundrel unhung. He never has a farthing, however much she gives him; he's a blackmailer, he's a swindler, he has no manners and no graces, he looks like a butcher and treats her as if she were dirt, he never goes near the opera except when she is singing in this part, and she worships the ground he walks on. Well, I suppose it's time to go." The lights had been turned off, the great room was emptying. Mr. Ricardo and his friends rose to go, but at the door Hanaud detained Mr. Clements, and they talked together alone for some little while, greatly to Mr. Ricardo's annoyance. Hanaud's good humour, however, when he rejoined his friend, was enough for two. "I apologise, my friend, with my hand on my heart. But it was for your sake that I stayed behind. You have a meretricious taste for melodrama which I deeply deplore, but which I mean to gratify. I ought to leave for Paris to-morrow, but I shall not. I shall stay until Thursday." And he skipped upon the pavement as they walked home to Grosvenor Square. Mr. Ricardo bubbled with questions, but he knew his man. He would get no answer to any one of them to-night. So he worked out the problem for himself as he lay awake in his bed, and he came down to breakfast next morning fatigued but triumphant. Hanaud was already chipping off the top of his egg at the table.
61967_260	science fiction	Hasse, Henry	" As Prokle moved away Garth called a final instruction: "Contact me every once in a while, and watch the chasms especially for that light." * * * * * Prokle was just a little resentful as he moved away. Much as he liked Garth, he sometimes didn't like his dictatorial manner. As for any of that missing party being left alive here--it was sheerly fantastic. They were wasting time which they might be putting to better and more personal advantage. Prokle looked into the blackness and saw two tiny points of light moving swiftly toward him. He ducked involuntarily. But the meteoric fragments passed high above his head, and he turned in time to see one and then the other hit on a pinnacle far behind him. He decided suddenly that Garth was right on that point, at least. He came to a chasm and peered down into stygian blackness. No light there. He muttered disgruntedly and leaped far across to the opposite edge, limned by the faint tinge of starlight. He stopped and looked back and Garth was already out of sight below the rock's ragged horizon. He forged cautiously ahead, leaping chasms and skirting pinnacles and stumbling over dangerously sharp rocks. Prokle stopped at his eighth or ninth chasm and scanned the utter blackness. Still no light. Why should there be? Fantastic to think a human being could subsist on this place for three weeks. Prokle muttered to himself in ever-increasing sullenness. He hated this derelict rock and this blackness and Garth and-- Then without faintest warning the white flash of a ray spurted up from the depths, past Prokle's left ear, and hung for a moment against the darkness of space. It vanished. And just as Prokle, in his surprise, stumbled backward and fell prone, it spurted up again to burn the lip of the cliff at his feet. Then all below was dark again. Prokle lay there a moment in silence, blessing the protecting darkness which he had cursed only a moment before. Then, hardly moving, he chuckled grimly and clicked on his phone. "Hype! For the love of--Hey, Hype, can you hear me?" Garth's voice came faintly in reply. Prokle continued: "Hype, listen. I hate to admit it, but I guess you were right. There's someone here all right, and I've got him spotted. I've got him spotted so damn good that I don't dare move! He's got a ray-pistol and he just took two pot shots at me.
52683_589	detective and mystery stories	Powell, Van	Cliff unfastened the clumsy catch, the chums fled to the street and were off like young gazelles. “They’ll find the lens!” Nicky panted. “What do we care?” demanded Tom, “They won’t get us!” Of course all plans had to be altered; the youths could not be left behind. They were glad that in trying to prevent the expedition the Indian had only made their part in it certain. On a fine evening, with all the natives engaged, and with all supplies packed, and with their course through the mountains carefully determined, they went to sleep for the last time in a civilized hotel—if the mean accommodations of the place they had selected could be called “civilized.” Mr. Whitley’s Lima friend had not proved a very good adviser. However, bright and early the next clear, temperate day—for Cuzco was not in the hotter lowlands where tropical heat was fiercest—they began their real adventure. Bill and Mr. Whitley were in advance: then came the natives, laden with quite heavy packs, under which they toiled along on an ever ascending slope, singing native chants and talking in their unintelligible jargon. Behind them came the Mystery Boys, also laden with packs containing personal things and articles they wished to protect from prying eyes. “We’re on our way,” they told each other and felt like capering at the certainty that in trying to frustrate their plans the Indian had made it possible for them to go along. Up in the hills a tall, well built Indian stood with several companions, watching the lower passes. One day, as the comrades toiled along, entering the real mountains, the vigilant watcher turned toward his companions. “Brother, they come!” he said. “They come—yes,” agreed his nearest aide, a noble of the old and almost extinct true-blooded Incas, “They come—yes.” He made a meaning gesture. “But—they will not come back!” That same day Cliff borrowed Bill’s field glasses and focused them on a small band, toiling along far behind them. “I think we’re being followed—I’ve noticed that group several times,” he told the older members of their party. They agreed, and frequently thereafter the followers were observed, but always too far behind to enable the chums to guess their identity. Was it the Spaniard? Was it the Indian? Many days passed and they were well in the high cliffs before they learned the truth!
10608_654	love stories	Smith, Arthur Cosslett	"The Irish are as poor as the Italians. If I dress your eminence as I had intended they will not appreciate it." "Do not fear," said the cardinal. "Do your best." At seven bells there was another knock at the cardinal's door. Pietro opened it. "Shall dinner be served, your eminence?" asked the head steward. "Whenever the ladies are ready," replied the cardinal. "They are already on deck, your eminence." "At once, then," said the cardinal, and he went up the companion-way, leaning on Pietro's arm. The after-deck was lighted by scores of incandescent lamps, each shaded by a scarlet silken flower. The table stood, white and cool, glittering with silver and crystal. In its centre was a golden vase, and in the vase were four scarlet roses. The deck was covered with a scarlet carpet, a strip of which ran forward to the galley-hatch, so that the service might be noiseless. Lady Nora was dressed in white and wore no jewels. Miss O'Kelly was partially clad in a brocaded gown, cut as low as even the indiscretion of age permits. A necklace of huge yellow topazes emphasized the space they failed to cover. The cardinal came into the glow of the lights. His cassock was black, but its hem, its buttons, and the pipings of its seams were scarlet; so were his stockings; so was the broad silk sash that circled his waist; so were the silk gloves, thrust under the sash; so was the birettina, the little skullcap that barely covered his crown and left to view a fringe of white hair and the rebellious lock upon his forehead. The lace at his wrists was Venice point. His pectoral cross was an antique that would grace the Louvre. Pietro had done his work well. The cardinal came into the zone of light, smiling. "Lady Nora," he said. "Ireland is the home of the fairies. When I was there I heard much of them. Early in the morning I saw rings in the dew-laden grass and was told that they had been made by the 'little people,' dancing. You, evidently, have caught a fairy prince and he does your bidding. Within an hour you have converted the after-deck into fairy-land; you have--" Just then, out of the blue darkness that lay between the yacht and Venice, burst the lights of a gondola.
2714_7998	adventure stories	Rinehart, Mary Roberts	A long window was open, and the velvet curtain swayed as though it shielded some dismal figure. But, when he had crossed the room and drawn the curtain aside, it was to see a bit of fairyland, the roof moonlit and transformed by growing things into a garden. There was, too, the fairy. Hedwig, in a soft white wrap over her dinner dress, was at the balustrade. The moon, which had robbed the flowers of their colors and made them ghosts of blossoms, had turned Hedwig into a pale, white fairy with extremely frightened eyes. A very dignified fairy, too, although her heart thumped disgracefully. Having taken a most brazen step forward, she was now for taking two panicky ones back. Therefore she pretended not to hear Nikky behind her, and was completely engrossed in the city lights. So Hedwig intended to be remote, and Nikky meant to be firm and very, very loyal. Which shows how young and inexperienced they were. Because any one who knows even the beginnings of love knows that its victims suffer from an atrophy of both reason and conscience, and a hypertrophy of the heart. Whatever Nikky had intended--of obeying his promise to the letter, of putting his country before love, and love out of his life--failed him instantly. The Nikky, ardent-eyed and tender-armed, who crossed the roof and took her almost fiercely in his arms, was all lover--and twenty-three. “Sweetheart!” he said. “Sweetest heart!” When, having kissed her, he drew back a trifle for the sheer joy of again catching her to him, it was Hedwig who held out her arms to him. “I couldn’t bear it,” she said simply. “I love you. I had to see you again. Just once.” If he had not entirely lost his head before, he lost it then. He stopped thinking, was content for a time that her arms were about his neck, and his arms about her, holding her close. They were tense, those arms of his, as though he would defy the world to take her away. But, although he had stopped thinking, Hedwig had not. It is, at such times, always the woman who thinks. Hedwig, plotting against his honor and for his happiness and hers, was already, with her head on his breast, planning the attack. And, having a strategic position, she fired her first gun from there. “Never let me go, Nikky,” she whispered.
21998_2998	adventure stories	Williamson, A. M. (Alice Muriel)	There's not one second to lose! Get your jewels together, and I'll go." "We'll both go," said Beverley. "Don't object; it's useless! I won't have you go alone. You've done more than enough already. I'm a wretch to let you slave for me, your first day out of bed! But I daren't call at Peterson's alone, not because I'm afraid for myself, but because of Roger. Besides, I can depend on you to keep your head." "Very well," Clo consented. "The first thing that occurs to me is this: we must put on plain coats and hats. My new hat I left at the Dietz: I had to! But you'll lend me something. And we'll not 'phone for a taxi. Best slip away and not let the servants know we've gone. If you've a latch-key, we may go and even get back without a soul being the wiser." "Come to my room and choose wraps for us both, while I collect the money and what jewels I dare spare," Beverley said. As she spoke, she ran in front of Clo, and opened a safe in the wall not unlike the hiding place Clo had rifled at the Dietz. The girl selected two automobile coats, one of gray silk, the other of brown, both intended to match the colours of dresses, but inconspicuous and plain. There were toques made of the same material, with thin veils attached. Clo took for herself the brown coat, which was shorter than the gray, and pulled the brown toque well over her red hair. By this time Beverley had stuffed a roll of greenbacks, a chain of platinum set with brilliants, half a dozen sparkling rings and bracelets, and a flexible diamond tiara, into a dark leather handbag. Clo helped her into the long gray coat which covered her evening dress; and the two stole out of the flat like flitting shadows. They went down in the elevator, but the hall-porter was off duty for the night, having left a young understudy in charge. The girls walked fast to the nearest taxi stand, Clo trying not to breathe hard and so remind Angel of her weakness. As the chauffeur slowed down in front of the Westmorland, Beverley held up her wrist watch for Clo to see. "Twenty-five minutes to ten," Clo assured her confidently. "I only hope he won't have gone out.
55415_2953	adventure stories	Palmer, Don	Some distance away, through the dense trees, he caught the flash of lighted straw torches. There were a great many of them, and they were moving away from the village. “This is the best chance we’ll ever have to get out of here,” Jack told himself. “But dare we take it?” His common sense advised that Mr. Livingston and Pedro could never endure the rigors of the trail in their present conditions. He had only a vague idea as to their whereabouts, and no compass. A lack of supplies made the situation even more hopeless. “Maybe our hut door was left unguarded because the natives know we can’t run away,” he speculated. “That must be it.” Turning over various plans in his mind, Jack went quickly back to rejoin his friends. He revealed the situation, and then made his proposal. “I’ll hit for Cuya alone. If I can make it, I’ll send help. If I fail, you’ll be no worse off than you are now.” “No Jack.” The voice was Mr. Livingston’s. Unobserved by the Scouts, he had arisen from his pallet of straw. “You’re feeling better!” Jack cried. “My fever has mostly gone,” the Scout leader answered. “I’m weak in my legs, but otherwise quite strong. I can make it, if the decision is to pull out of here. But we must all stick together.” Jack’s gaze fell upon Pedro and he remained silent. He knew that Mr. Livingston, although remarkably better was not as strong as he believed. And it would be utterly impossible to take the guide with them. Pedro himself solved the latter problem, by declaring that under no circumstance would he risk trying to leave the hut. “We may be able to forage a little food in the huts,” Jack said dubiously. “And if we’re real lucky, we may come upon an Indian canoe.” “Whatever we do, we’ll have to do it fast,” Ken urged. “Our chances to get away lessen every minute.” “Okay, let’s go,” proposed War. “Anything’s better than this hut.” Thinking of Pedro, Jack still hesitated. “Go,” the guide advised. “Send help. Go!” “We’ll make it to Cuya somehow,” Jack assured him. “Before you know it, we’ll be back here for you.”
62907_4625	adventure stories	Jewell, Edward Alden	And then he asked her: “How much longer are you staying on, Miss Utterbourne?” She shrugged. “You never can tell what the Captain may take it into his head to do. I never dare go very far away from the ship for fear they’ll suddenly decide to haul up and move off. But as long as I stick around and look eager it’s just another case of the watched pot. I’m ready anytime he is,” she concluded, her eyes drooping. “And you don’t know where you go from here, I suppose?” “No.” She moved her head a little restlessly. After a moment she said: “Well,” nodded informally, and went on. Jerome watched her till she disappeared from view—a trim, independent figure, with youthful stride. III A few more days passed. Early on the morrow all the stranded victims of shipwreck would be aboard a steamer bound for Yokohama—all, that is, except Miss Valentine, who by hook or by crook must reach Cape Town, and for whom a circuitous passage had been booked, after much dickering and consultation. Mr. Curry was taking his songbirds sadly back to San Francisco, where the little company would disband—not without tears, surely, when the time came. Indeed, already there had been tears. And, with the terrors of shipwreck still so fresh in their minds, the loyal songbirds had got together and drafted a declaration pledging themselves to stand by the impresario through all the arduous hardships of a slow reorganization, if he would but say the word. The comedian made a humorous speech. His voice broke in the midst of it, and then he hurried on more humorously than ever. Curry was deeply touched. He said he felt unworthy of such devotion. And then he told them that since he’d lost everything else, he couldn’t ask them to stand by any longer. It wouldn’t be fair to them. He must let them go, each his own way. It wrung his heart, but he must let his songbirds go. However, he would help them all he could; and if ever fortune smiled upon him again, he would call them back, even though they might be scattered to the very ends of the earth! Jerome, on this last evening in Borneo, left the place where he was lodging and strolled along the waterfront, musing and trying to map his life.
31699_2246	western stories	Mulford, Clarence Edward	These eight mules behaved in an admirable manner and there was a good reason for it. When they had been selected, only those showing the unmistakable signs of the veteran pack mule were chosen. The marks of the crupper, _aparejo_ and girth never would disappear. Tenderfeet scornfully would have passed them by and chosen sleek, smooth-haired animals of far better appearance; but Hank and Tom did not make this mistake, realizing that here, indeed, beauty was only skin deep. Hank judged that it was about time to take full advantage of the mules' early training and the results were regarded as downright miracles by the greenhorns, who attempted to duplicate the system, but with disastrous endings. One of the mules was an old mare, and her actions, even in the corral at Independence, told Hank all about her. He now took from a pack a bell and, riding up to the plodding, sedate pack animal, fastened it around her neck. Then he tied her to the rear of the second of Cooper's big wagons, until she should learn that this was to be her place under all conditions, and dropped back farther and farther while he watched the other seven. At the sound of the tinkling bell they had pricked up their long ears and rolled them forward; a certain important dignity came over each one and they went ahead with an air of satisfaction that was so apparent that it was ludicrous. Hank grinned and rode off to play rear guard all by himself, well knowing that his seven animals would follow the old bell-mare wherever she led, whether he was there or not. Later he rewarded her by changing her pack and substituting that of the dwindling food supply, which grew lighter after every camp. When he finally freed her from the wagon she moved up alongside the off-wheel mule, for whom she seemed to have an abiding affection, and from then on she would not stray from his side, nor her seven followers from her. On this occasion when Tom returned and found his partner absent, he surmised that the trapper was off looking for an antelope to vary the monotony of their fare and to save their bacon and flour. Until the buffalo country was reached the caravan had to live on flour, bacon, and perhaps beans, of which each traveler had a limited supply. The chief reliance for food was the buffalo, and their range was still well ahead.
54445_3644	detective and mystery stories	Davis, Means	Please answer my question.” “He was taken with double pneumonia last night, and Rose Standish was murdered last night. The bed is empty now.” “But he saw her and left a sleeping potion of which you told Dr. Bridgman over the ’phone and after that was administered she was murdered?” “Please, Mr. Higgins,” Dr. MacArthur’s knuckles were white against the desk, “I have learned that potion was ... bread-pills.... He had hoped to calm her nerves and yet leave her capable of catching.... I would swear before God that Dr. Sterling....” “Of course you would, sir,” there was admiration in Mr. Higgins’ response, “but painful operations are often necessary, and since he is the only person who has retired from the case, since the beginning, I am obliged to know what developments have taken place since his retirement. It’s like chess, Doctor, your moves depend upon your position.” Dr. MacArthur had regained complete control of himself and Miss Parkins had risen and poured out a glass of water from a thermos bottle upon the mantelpiece which she was holding out to him. She smiled and said: “It’s been a long strain and you have stood it magnificently. Is there anything else you wish to tell us before Smooty and I go?” Her strength passed through him and he straightened himself, and Mr. Higgins said: “If brought in as an accident, what are the chances of Miss Parkins being put in this bed ... number...?” “Eleven.” The eyes of the other three people were upon Higgins, inquiringly. “Why?” “Because, Doctor, in view of the information I now have in hand relative to the head nurse and her niece ... by the way, what are their names?” “Kerr. K-e-r-r.” Only Mr. Smooty’s lips fought to remain a straight line. The concentration of the other three was too intense to notice the expression. Mr. Higgins placed his gray eyes upon Dr. MacArthur’s blue ones and continued: “If Miss Parkins goes on the ward in a routine way as a patient, she will automatically be suspected by them and therefore become less valuable to us. But if she falls upon the street with a heart attack within four blocks of the hospital, arrives at the accident room entrance in an ambulance, and is admitted to Ward B, Bed 11.... You see?” “Perfectly.” “Can we be sure that she will be placed in Bed 11, sir?
2568_957	detective and mystery stories	Bentley, E. C. (Edmund Clerihew)	If you ask me for details, it struck me they were talking about something important, because I heard Mr. Manderson say something when they came in through the back entrance. He said, as near as I can remember, “If Harris is there, every minute is of importance. You want to start right away. And not a word to a soul.” Mr. Marlowe answered, “Very well. I will just change out of these clothes and then I am ready”--or words to that effect. I heard this plainly as they passed the window of my pantry. Then Mr. Marlowe went up to his bedroom, and Mr. Manderson entered the library and rang for me. He handed me some letters for the postman in the morning and directed me to sit up, as Mr. Marlowe had persuaded him to go for a drive in the car by moonlight.’ ‘That was curious,’ remarked Trent. ‘I thought so, sir. But I recollected what I had heard about “not a word to a soul”, and I concluded that this about a moonlight drive was intended to mislead.’ ‘What time was this?’ ‘It would be about ten, sir, I should say. After speaking to me, Mr. Manderson waited until Mr. Marlowe had come down and brought round the car. He then went into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Manderson was.’ ‘Did that strike you as curious?’ Martin looked down his nose. ‘If you ask me the question, sir,’ he said with reserve, ‘I had not known him enter that room since we came here this year. He preferred to sit in the library in the evenings. That evening he only remained with Mrs. Manderson for a few minutes. Then he and Mr. Marlowe started immediately.’ ‘You saw them start?’ ‘Yes, sir. They took the direction of Bishopsbridge.’ ‘And you saw Mr. Manderson again later?’ ‘After an hour or thereabouts, sir, in the library. That would have been about a quarter past eleven, I should say; I had noticed eleven striking from the church. I may say I am peculiarly quick of hearing, sir.’ ‘Mr. Manderson had rung the bell for you, I suppose. Yes? And what passed when you answered it?’ ‘Mr. Manderson had put out the decanter of whisky and a syphon and glass, sir, from the cupboard where he kept them--’ Trent held up his hand.
45973_1062	detective and mystery stories	Newcomb, Ambrose	" CHAPTER XVIII THE CIRCLING BUZZARDS Jack seemed nothing loth to carry out his chum's suggestion. Truth to tell he himself felt considerably "cramped" in the lower part of his anatomy--any one who has been compelled to camp amidst the branches of a tree for a period of successive hours, knows the experience is anything but a pleasant one. So they slipped down, and once more stood on solid ground, with Perk casting suspicious looks in the quarter where last they had glimpsed the fleeing grizzly, with jets of mingled smoke and fire spitting this way and that. "Huh! here's hopin' he's went for good," he was saying, meaningly. "Let's get a move on, partner, an' vacate these premises pronto--smells too rank fur me jest naow--burnt hair allers _did_ get my goat, ever since that barber coaxed me to have my crop singed--said as haow it'd grow out agin a heap faster if the split ends they was scotched away; but for a whole week afterwards folks used to look at me funny like, an' move further away. Huh!" "No hurry at all, buddy," Jack told him; "that live wire isn't going to come back this way in a hurry, you can depend on that. Let's take a look, and make sure nothing has been dropped from our packs, or pockets. On the whole we've got a heap to congratulate ourselves on, coming out of such a scrape as well as we did--thanks to that bright thought of yours." "Gee! it's real nice o' yeou to say that, Jack, ole bean; I'm not sorry we had sech a queer experience; on'y I do begrudge him that real stuff, which is gone for keeps--it wasn't moonshine, or bootleg either, boy; but worth it's weight in solid silver--the man says as sold it to me." "Well, it did come in handy, for a fact, Perk, and we mustn't grieve over using it. Just try to imagine one of us _did_ get struck by the fangs of a rattler, and the stuff saved a human life--in this case maybe two. Cheer up--plenty more where that came from, if only you've got the coin." "Right yeou are, brother," Perk thereupon hastened to say, as he adjusted his pack to conform with the angles of his body.
22462_222	science fiction	Lande, Irving W.	There's at least three inches of tank on a line between the holes! He musta been throwin' curves at us. Man, cap'n, this is our lucky day!" [Illustration] Paul felt no surprise, only relief at having the trouble located. The reaction to the close call might not come till hours later. "This kind of luck we can do without. Can you patch the holes?" "Ah can patch the one where it came in, but it musta been explodin' on the way out. There's a hole Ah could stick mah head through." "That's a good idea." Johnson was not usually very witty, but this was one he couldn't resist. "Never mind, Guns. A patch that big wouldn't be safe to hold air." * * * * * They were about eighty thousand miles out. He set course for Earth at about five and a half mps, which Johnson calculated to bring them in on the station on the "going away" side of its orbit, and settled back for the tedious two hours of free wheeling. For ten or fifteen minutes, the interphone crackled with the gregariousness born of recent peril, and gradually the ship fell silent as each man returned to his own private thoughts. Paul was wondering about the men on the other ship--whether any of them were still alive. Eighty thousand miles to fall. That was a little beyond the capacity of an emergency rocket--about 2 G's for sixty seconds--even if they had them. What a way to go home! He wondered what he'd do if it happened to him. Would he wait out his time, or just unlock his helmet. Guns' drawl broke into his reverie. "Say, cap'n, Ah've been readin' in this magazine about a trick they used to use, called skip bombin'. They'd hang a bomb on the bottom of one of these airplanes, and fly along the ground, right at what they wanted to hit. Then they'd let the bomb go and get out of there, and the bomb would sail right on into the target. You s'pose we could fix this buggy up with an A bomb or an H bomb we could let go a few hundred miles out? Stick a proximity fuse on it, and a time fuse, too, in case we missed. Just sittin' half a mile apart and tradin' shots like we did on that last mission is kinda hard on mah nerves, and it's startin' to happen too often.
2695_685	western stories	Harte, Bret	Towards evening a messenger brought a note from him, written on the back of a printed legal form, to this effect: DEAR SIR--Seeing as you Intend to act on the Square in regard to that little Mater I have aranged Things so that I ant got to stop with you but I'll drop in onct in a wile to keep up a show for a Drink--respy yours, J. DODD. In this latter suggestion our legal Cerberus exhibited all three of his heads at once. One could keep faith with Miss Mayfield, one could see her “onct in a wile,” and one could drink at Jeff's expense. Innocent Jeff saw only generosity and kindness in the man he had half-choked, and a sense of remorse and shame almost outweighed the relief of his absence. “He might hev been ugly,” said Jeff. He did not know how, in this selfish world, there is very little room for gratuitous, active ugliness. Miss Mayfield did not leave her room that afternoon. The wind was getting up, and it was growing dark when Jeff, idly sitting on his porch, hoping for her appearance, was quite astounded at the apparition of Yuba Bill as a pedestrian, dusty and thirsty, making for his usual refreshment. Jeff brought out the bottle, but could not refrain from mixing his verbal astonishment with the conventional cocktail. Bill, partaking of his liquor and becoming once more a speaking animal, slowly drew off his heavy, baggy driving gloves. No one had ever seen Bill without them--he was currently believed to sleep in them--and when he laid them on the counter they still retained the grip of his hand, which gave them an entertaining likeness to two plethoric and overfed spiders. “Ef I concluded to pass over my lines to a friend and take a pasear up yer this evening,” said Bill, eying Jeff sharply, “I don't know ez thar's any law agin it! Onless yer keepin' a private branch o' the Occidental Ho-tel, and on'y take in fash'n'ble fammerlies!” Jeff, with a rising color, protested against such a supposition. “Because ef ye ARE,” said Bill, lifting his voice, and crushing one of the overgrown spiders with his fist, “I've got a word or two to say to the son of Joe Briggs of Tuolumne. Yes, sir! Joe Briggs--yer father--ez blew his brains out for want of a man ez could stand up and say a word to him at the right time.”
65760_573	adventure stories	Standish, Burt L.	The young giant dropped his lids, and his muscular fingers interlocked tightly around the stout ash pole of the peavey. “Curly,” he said, in an oddly embarrassed tone. “Ah! That all?” The youngster hesitated, and then, flinging back his head, stared defiantly at Bainbridge. “No,” he retorted. “It’s Kollock--Curly Kollock.” Bob frowned slightly. “Indeed! Any relation to Bill?” “His brother.” The frown deepened and there was silence for a moment. Bill Kollock, the “trouble man” of Elihu Crane and his associates in the Lumber Trust, was not a character to commend himself to Bainbridge. The brother was more than likely to be of the same breed, he reflected as he stared with hard, narrowing eyes at the flushed, defiant face of the boy before him. And yet---- “Well?” snapped the boy suddenly. “I s’pose this means git my time?” Bob raised his eyebrows. “Why so?” he inquired coldly. Kollock shrugged his shoulders with an exaggerated nonchalance and ease which defeated its purpose. “I don’t reckon you’re very keen about having a Kollock on your drive,” he retorted. “That’s where you guess wrong,” returned Bainbridge, with a sudden bland indifference. “If you want to quit, of course, that’s your own affair; but as for laying you off, I never fire a good workman because his family doesn’t happen to be to my liking. So far as anything really underhand is concerned”--he paused for a second and looked the boy square in the eyes--“I’m not afraid of that--from you.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned and strode on along the river bank, leaving young Curly to stare after him, his face flushed, and a curious, unwonted expression in his blue eyes. CHAPTER VIII. THE EMPTY BOX As soon as the drive was actually started on its way downstream, Bob made haste to bring some sort of order out of the chaos he had found. Having watched the men at work, he was able to get some slight idea of their capabilities, which was vitally necessary in dividing them into the “rear” and the “jam” crew. The latter, in charge of a hastily appointed foreman, went forward to take charge of the head of the drive. The work of the rear comprised setting stranded logs afloat, breaking up incipient jams, and other duties too numerous to mention.
25071_2766	adventure stories	Borrow, George	'Have you any relations?' said the landlord, looking at me compassionately. 'Excuse me, but I don't think you are exactly fit to take care of yourself.' 'There you are mistaken,' said I, 'I can take precious good care of myself; ay, and can drive a precious hard bargain when I have occasion, but driving bargains is a widely different thing from receiving gifts. I am going to take my horse to Horncastle, and when there I shall endeavour to obtain his full value--ay, to the last penny.' 'Horncastle!' said the landlord, 'I have heard of that place; you mustn't be dreaming visions when you get there, or they'll steal the horse from under you. Well,' said he, rising, 'I shall not press you farther on the subject of the cheque. I intend, however, to put you under an obligation to me.' He then rang the bell, and having ordered two fresh glasses to be brought, he went out and presently returned with a small pint bottle, which he uncorked with his own hand; then sitting down, he said: 'The wine that I bring here, is port of eighteen hundred and eleven, the year of the comet, the best vintage on record; the wine which we have been drinking,' he added, 'is good, but not to be compared with this, which I never sell, and which I am chary of. When you have drank some of it, I think you will own that I have conferred an obligation upon you;' he then filled the glasses, the wine which he poured out diffusing an aroma through the room; then motioning me to drink, he raised his own glass to his lips, saying: 'Come, friend, I drink to your success at Horncastle.' CHAPTER XXX TRIUMPHAL DEPARTURE--NO SEASON LIKE YOUTH--EXTREME OLD AGE--BEAUTIFUL ENGLAND--THE RATCATCHER--A MISADVENTURE I departed from the inn much in the same fashion as I had come to it, mounted on a splendid horse indifferently well caparisoned, with the small valise attached to my crupper, in which, besides the few things I had brought with me, was a small book of roads with a map, which had been presented to me by the landlord.
504_838	love stories	Sousa, John Philip	" "Tell me, Angelo, and truly; is your violin like other violins?" This unexpected question came so suddenly he could not control his agitation. "Why do you ask?" he said. "You must answer me directly!" "No, Mildred; my violin is different from any other I have ever seen," this hesitatingly and with great effort at composure. "In what way is it different?" she almost demanded. "It is peculiarly constructed; it has an extra string. But why this sudden interest in the violin? Let us talk of you, of me, of both, of our future," said he with enforced cheerfulness. "No, we will talk of the violin. Of what use is the extra string?" "None whatever," was the quick reply. "Then why not cut it off?" "No, no, Mildred; you do not understand," he cried; "I can not do that." "You can not do it when I ask it?" she exclaimed. "Oh Mildred, do not ask me; I can not, can not do it," and the face of the affrighted musician told plainer than words of the turmoil raging in his soul. "You made me believe that I was the only one you loved," passionately she cried; "the only one; that your happiness was incomplete without me. You led me into the region of light only to make the darkness greater when I descended to earth again. I ask you to do a simple thing and you refuse; you refuse because another has commanded you." "Mildred, Mildred; if you love me do not speak thus!" And she, with imagination greater than reasoning power, at once saw a Tuscan beauty and Diotti mutually pledging their love with their lives. "Go," she said, pointing to the door, "go to the one who owns you, body and soul; then say that a foolish woman threw her heart at your feet and that you scorned it!" She sank to the sofa. He went toward the door, and in a voice that sounded like the echo of despair, protested: "Mildred, I love you; love you a thousand times more than I do my life. If I should destroy the string, as you ask, love and hope would leave me forevermore. Death would not be robbed of its terror!" and with bowed head he went forth into the twilight.
14482_5122	western stories	Cullum, Ridgwell	"Say, bring up the 'plugs,' lads. The old boy's had his bellyfull. I guess we'll git on." Then he turned upon the broken money-lender and spoke while he re-charged the chambers of his pistol. "See hyar, Lablache, this night's work is on'y a beginning. So long as you live in Foss River Settlement so long will I hunt you out an' hustle yer stock. You talked of houndin' me, but I guess the shoe's on the other foot. I ain't finished by a sight, an' you'll hear from me agin'. I don't fancy yer life," he went on with a grin. "Et's too easy, I guess. Et's yer bills I'm after. Ye've got plenty an' to spare. But bills is all-fired awk'ud to handle when they pass thro' your dirty hands. So I'll wait till you've turned 'em into stock. Savee? I'm jest goin' right on now. Thar's a bunch o' yer steers waitin' to be taken off. Happen I'm goin' to see to 'em right away. One o' these lads'll jest set some bracelets on yer hands, and leave yer tucked up and comfortable so you can't do any harm, and you can set right thar an' wait till some 'un comes along an' looses yer. So long, pard, an' remember, Foss River's the hottest place outside o' hell fur you, jest now." Some of the half-breeds had brought up the horses whilst Retief was talking, and, as he finished speaking, the hustler vaulted on to the back of the great chestnut, Golden Eagle, and prepared to ride away. Whilst the others were getting into their saddles he took one look at the wretched captive whose hands had been again secured. There was a swift exchange of glances--malevolent and murderous on the part of the money-lender, and derisive on the part of the half-breed--then Retief swung his charger round, and, at the head of his men, galloped away out into the starry night. CHAPTER XXI HORROCKS LEARNS THE SECRET OF THE MUSKEG The rope which brought Horrocks to the ground came near to strangling him. He struggled wildly as he fell, and, as he struggled, the grip of the rope tightened. He felt that the blood was ready to burst from his temples and eyes. Then everything seemed to swim about him and he believed consciousness was leaving him.
45859_2347	adventure stories	Busk, Rachel Harriette	And they crossed the Snowy Sierra and soon came in sight of the Moors. And the Moors poured down upon them so closely that they were well-nigh overwhelmed by numbers. Then the Christian ranks gave way, and began to fly from the face of the Moor. Now, when brave Don Alonso saw them give way, he called to them with a mighty voice and said, "Turn! caballeros, turn! Turn back to the battle; for though they against us be many, a coward still is he who shows fear! Remember the mighty deeds of your old Castilian fathers. Better is it here to die in the noble profession of arms, than to crawl back to your firesides and live a dishonoured life. Thus dying you will live, for your fame shall be sung throughout Spain; for life soon comes to an end, but honour dieth never!" At these generous words they felt their hearts come back; each seemed filled with a giant's strength, and fought till the Moors stretched him dead. Don Alonso remained the last, still brandishing his gory lance, and ever and anon charging the Moors with an impetuosity none could resist. But when the Moors saw their heroes thus mown down, wounded and dead, with one consent they agreed to attack him on all sides at once. There he sat erect on his charger; his eye was full of fire, his shield shone bright on his arm--dented, indeed, but not pierced, and in his hand his stout, unbroken lance. But though his horse was so high, there lay round him such a heap of slain, that when the Moors came to the attack, as they climbed on the fallen bodies they found themselves raised to his level. On they came with frightful algazara [97]; and, stout in each other's presence, they charged, and thrust, and charged again. The boldest ventured in front, but before they came within reach of his lance their brethren had pierced him from behind; and before he could turn to repay them, those who had been in front thrust him in the side. And they thrust his bonny horse, too; and the horse and his rider fell there, where they stood, crowning the mound of the slain. Sixteen lances had pierced Don Alonso--pierced him through and through. But Don Alonso that day had inflicted a loss on the Moors which filled them with confusion and dismay.
11501_4893	western stories	Beach, Rex	Some people claim, I believe, that his skull is sutured in such a manner as to check his brain development when his bones finally harden and set. The idea sounds reasonable; if true, there will never be a serious conflict between the blacks and the whites. But the red man differs from both. To begin with, his is not a subject race by birth. Physically he is as perfect as either; Nature has endowed him with an intellect quite as keen as the white man's, and with an open articulation of the skull which permits the growth of his brain. Somewhere, nevertheless, she has cunningly concealed a flaw, a flaw which I have labored thirty years to find. "I have a theory--you know all old men have theories--that it is a physical thing, as tangible as that osseous constriction of the cranium which holds the negro in subjection, and that if I could lay my finger on it I could raise the Indian to his ancient mastery and to a dignified place among the nations; I could change them from a vanishing people into a race of rulers, of lawgivers, of creators. At least that used to be my dream. "Some years ago I felt that I was well on my way to success, for I found a youth who offered every promise of great manhood. I studied him until I knew his every trait and his every strength--he didn't seem to have any weaknesses. I raised him according to my own ideas; he became a tall, straight fellow, handsome as a bronze statue of a god. Physically he was perfect, and he had a mind as fine as his body. He had the best blood of his nation in him, being the son of a war chief, and he was called Thomas Running Elk. I educated him at the Agency school under my own personal supervision, and on every occasion I studied him. I spent hours in shaping his mind and in bending him away from the manners and the habits of his tribe. I taught him to think like a white man. He responded like a growing vine; he became the pride of the reservation--a reserved but an eager youth, with an understanding and a wit beyond that of most white boys of his age. Search him as rigorously as I might, I couldn't find a single flaw. I believed I was about to prove my theory.
36246_576	western stories	Ryan, Marah Ellis	she asked at last. "Not that I know of." What a bear the man was! she thought; what need was there to answer a civil question in that tone. It made her just antagonistic enough not to care so much if his feelings had been hurt by Clara's remarks, and she asked bluntly: "Have you been here long?" "Some time." "Awake?" "Well, yes," and he made a queer sound in his throat, half grunt, half laugh; "I reckon I--was--awake." The slow, half-bitter words impelled her to continue: "Then you--you heard the--the conversation over there?" He looked at her, and she thought his eyes were pretty steady for a drunken man's. "Well, yes," he repeated, "I reckon--I--heard it." All her temper blazed up at the deliberate confession. If he had seemed embarrassed or wounded, she would have felt sorry; but this stoicism angered her, as the idea of drunkenness had done--perhaps because each set herself and her feelings aside--I do not know, but that may have been the reason; she was a woman. "And you deliberately lay there and listened," she burst out wrathfully, "and let us say all sorts of things, no doubt, when it was your place as a gentleman to let us know you were here? I--I would not have taken you for an eavesdropper, Mr. Jack Genesee!" And with this tirade she turned to make her way back through the laurel. "Here!" She obeyed the command in his voice, thinking, as she did so, how quick the man was to get on his feet. In a stride he was beside her, his hand outstretched to stop her; but it was not necessary, his tone had done that, and he thrust both hands into the pockets of his hunting coat. "Stop just where you are for a minute, Miss," he said, looking down at her; "and don't be so infernally quick about making a judge and jury of yourself--and you look just now as if you'd like to be sheriff, too. I make no pretense of being a gentleman of culture, so you can save yourself the trouble of telling me the duty of one. What little polish I ever had has been knocked off in ten years of hill life out here.
41151_4135	detective and mystery stories	Harvey, Marion	Try to look stupid and your eyes will deaden. Not that way," and he caught my arm as I made for the lobby. "The back entrance for ours unless we want to land in a cell at the police station." We sneaked out into the back yard, around the building, and out into the street, where a motor car was waiting. "All right, Wilkins. Full speed ahead," said McKelvie as we got in. With a jerk we were off toward the Park. "Now," I demanded, "what's it all about?" "You've got your pistol with you?" he asked, and when I answered in the affirmative, he went on, "Don't use it unless I give you leave. The less shooting the better for us, I expect." "Is it Lee?" I inquired. "Yes. My offer of reward hustled things up a bit." McKelvie leaned forward and called out, "Faster, Wilkins. We'll never make it at this rate." "He's in danger, then," I said, as we tore around corners and down side streets to avoid the cops. "Yes. But let me begin at the beginning. Wilkins got onto the track of a mysterious taxi that had been seen on Mott Street about four-fifteen the afternoon of October the eighth, and while he was hanging around one of those Chinese joints, he saw two toughs lounging down Pell Street, and evidently discussing the reward, since one of them was waving the hand-bill in the other's face. Wilkins followed them into an eating-house and by securing a table next to them, overheard their conversation. It seemed that they had identified Lee as the young man they had kidnapped and they were weighing the respective merits of giving their information to me or blackmailing the 'old man,' as they called whoever had hired them. The younger tough was for telling me, but the older one seemed to think they could make more from the 'old man.' Whereupon the younger one declared that the old fellow was stingier than hell and reminded his companion that Hi Ling had tipped them that the young man was to disappear that night, after the boss's visit at one o'clock. When the men separated Wilkins followed the younger one and by many judicious hints and the added compensation of some money and promised immunity from the police, he got the rest of the story.
37913_1524	detective and mystery stories	Landon, Herman	He always does. Do you suppose," and he bent his bony frame over the table and gazed searchingly at The Phantom, "that the murder at the Thelma Theater night before last was the first episode in this latest enterprise of Mr. Shei's?" "You mean the murder of Miss Darrow? There seems to be no doubt but that Mr. Shei had a hand in it. Everything points to----" He paused of a sudden. All at once it occurred to him that there was something odd about Mr. Fairspeckle's question. Immediately upon reading of the Thelma murder, The Phantom had suspected that it was the prelude to another of Mr. Shei's spectacular adventures, but the suspicion had been wholly intuitive. As far as outward appearances went, there was nothing in the murder of Virginia Darrow to suggest that it was anything more than an isolated incident. It was curious, therefore, that Mr. Fairspeckle should look for a connecting link between the crime at the Thelma and Mr. Shei's threat. "Everything points to Mr. Shei as the perpetrator of the murder," he guardedly went on, "but whether the crime has any bearing on Mr. Shei's new venture is hard to tell. It doesn't seem likely. How could he possibly further his scheme by an act of that kind? His plan is to separate seven of New York's richest men from half of their wealth. How is the death of Miss Darrow going to help him in an undertaking of that kind?" A sly smile twitched the corners of Mr. Fairspeckle's lips. "Nevertheless," he observed, "I think that you and I agree. I am a pretty good judge of faces, and your expression a moment ago betrayed you, Mr. Vanardy. My question seemed innocent enough at first, but on second thought it startled you. Suppose we be frank. Both of us believe that the Thelma affair was the beginning of Mr. Shei's latest move. We can't see how or why just now, but we know that his schemes run deep. Isn't it so?" The Phantom, momentarily baffled by the older man's shrewd deductions, gazed pensively at the ceiling. A jumble of thoughts and questions shot back and forth through his mind. Did Mr. Fairspeckle suspect that Mr. Shei and The Gray Phantom were identical? Or was it possible that---- He did not finish the thought.
61090_371	science fiction	Westlake, Donald E.	Stevenson told him. "One of them was the Scarlet Raiders and the other gang was the Challengers." "So they changed their name," said Hanks. "Both gangs? Simultaneously? To the same name?" "Why not? Maybe that's what they were fighting over." "It was a territorial war," Stevenson reminded him. "They've admitted that much. It says so in the paper. And it also says they all deny ever seeing that word on their jackets until after the fight." "A bunch of juvenile delinquents," said Hanks in disgust. "You take their word?" "Captain, did you read the article in the paper?" "I glanced through it." "All right. Here's what they say happened: They say they started fighting at eleven o'clock. And they just got going when all at once all the metal they were carrying--knives and tire chains and coins and belt buckles and everything else--got freezing cold, too cold to touch. And then their leather jackets got freezing cold, so cold they had to pull them off and throw them away. And when the jackets were later collected, across the name of the gang on the back of each one had been branded 'The Scorpion.'" "Now, let _me_ tell _you_ something," said Hanks severely. "They heard the police sirens, and they threw all their weapons away. Then they threw their jackets away, to try to make believe they hadn't been part of the gang that had been fighting. But they were caught before they could get out of the schoolyard. If the squad cars had showed up a minute later, the schoolyard wouldn't have had anything in it but weapons and jackets, and the kids would have been all over the neighborhood, nice as you please, minding their own business and not bothering anybody. _That's_ what happened. And all this talk about freezing cold and branding names into jackets is just some smart-alec punk's idea of a way to razz the police. Now, you just go back to worrying about what's happening in this precinct and forget about kid gangs up in Manhattan and comic book things like the Scorpion, or you're going to wind up like Wilcox, with that refrigerator business. Now, I don't want to hear any more about this nonsense, Stevenson." "Yes, sir," said Stevenson. * * * * * The reporter showed up two days later.
63749_233	science fiction	Grimes, Millard	It probably made it easier to walk, and they got what they wanted. After all, don't we feed the dogs, provide them a place to sleep. They have no real work to do, and only a few are mistreated. Hounds and others of that type must be the slaves Staang is speaking of. The poodles, terriers, and cockers--those strictly pets--must be the higher type." He almost choked when he got to cocker. He tried not to think of Mimsy as an invader, with him as her slave, but he realized that it amounted to that. Now the landlady was being her slave. Braun couldn't restrain another wild laugh as he stared at Staang. "Why, he is a St. Bernard," he roared. A bewildered expression covered Boone's stern face. "The irony," he gasped. "But you're right. The dogs do lead the kind of life on Earth that would be desirable to creatures grown too lazy to even think. But to imagine that the ancestors of our dogs once built this city. It's incredible." "Good Lord," Braun remarked. "Here we have been expecting and talking about invasions from Mars for years, and we'd already been invaded centuries ago. What a laugh they must have had." Staang was listening in obvious amusement. "Our invasion was logical," he said. "Done in a way so as not to offend anyone. Although one creature has resented our invasion and fought as continually. It is called a flea, I believe. But the records say men have done everything possible to rid us of this pest." "Even the great rulers of your land, who are waited on hand and foot, are servants of we Martians." Boone raised his hand for silence. His features were crestfallen. His expedition had not uncovered what Earth would be glad to hear. "We must go," he said, but the old authority was gone from his voice. Staang raised himself to elbows. "Wait, will you not take me with you?" Boone paused and looked back at the shaggy figure in the gloom. He could see Staang trudging a snowy path with a keg of brandy around his neck. Almost instinctively he patted Staang on the head. "No, old boy," he said. "You stay here and put this in the record." Braun whispered to Nance, "Evidently the Commander has a dog to whom he's not so stern.
20714_1258	western stories	Garland, Hamlin	"Supper ready?" he growled. "Yes, two hours ago." "Well, I can't help it!" he said, understanding her reproach. "That devilish corn is gettin' too tall to plough again, and I've got 'o go through it to-morrow or not at all. Cows milked?" "Part of 'em." "How many left?" "Three." "Hell! Which three?" "Spot, and Brin, and Cherry." "_Of_ course, left the three worst ones. I'll be damned if I milk a cow to-night. I don't see why you play out jest the nights I need ye most." Here he kicked a child out of the way. "Git out o' that! Hain't you got no sense? I'll learn ye--" "Stop that, Sim Burns," cried the woman, snatching up the child. "You're a reg'lar ol' hyeny,--that's what you are," she added defiantly, roused at last from her lethargy. "You're a--beauty, that's what _you_ are," he said, pitilessly. "Keep your brats out f'um under my feet." And he strode off to the barn after his team, leaving her with a fierce hate in her heart. She heard him yelling at his team in their stalls: "Git around there, damn yeh." The children had had their supper; so she took them to bed. She was unusually tender to them, for she wanted to make up in some way for her previous harshness. The ferocity of her husband had shown up her own petulant temper hideously, and she sat and sobbed in the darkness a long time beside the cradle where little Pet slept. She heard Burns come growling in and tramp about, but she did not rise. The supper was on the table; he could wait on himself. There was an awful feeling at her heart as she sat there and the house grew quiet. She thought of suicide in a vague way; of somehow taking her children in her arms and sinking into a lake somewhere, where she would never more be troubled, where she could sleep forever, without toil or hunger. Then she thought of the little turkeys wandering in the grass, of the children sleeping at last, of the quiet, wonderful stars. Then she thought of the cows left unmilked, and listened to them stirring uneasily in the yard. She rose, at last, and stole forth.
35833_4343	detective and mystery stories	McCulley, Johnston	Then the opening closed. “We’ve got him—got him!” the chief cried. “Our men are watching the top of that between-the-walls business he built, and we are watching the bottom. He can’t get out. He’ll give up or he’ll stay there and starve. And if he doesn’t give up mighty quick we’ll go in after him.” Muggs grasped the chief by the arm and opened his mouth to speak, but the chief was quicker. “I know, Muggs,” he said. “The scoundrel’s got Verbeck in there. But we’ll get ’em—and I don’t think he’ll hurt Verbeck.” CHAPTER XXXII—A NARROW ESCAPE When the Black Star had entered the aperture in the lodge hall, and the panel closed behind him, he flashed his electric torch around the interior of a space about five feet long and three wide. “Notice our ingenuity, Mr. Verbeck,” he said. “Here we have constructed, as I remarked, a sort of dumb-waiter between the walls of the two buildings. It took considerable time, and great care was necessary, but the job will be profitable for all that. Every bit of material had to be smuggled into the lodge hall, but we did it without the stupid police suspecting anything was wrong. “I am sorry that I cannot remove your mask and gag and discuss this bit of work with you, but you might shriek and call down our foes. Kindly give me your close attention now. You see this small cable running through the corner? I pull on it like this—similar to the old-fashioned elevators, you see. And down we go!” The little box arrangement crept downward slowly as the Black Star chuckled his satisfaction. There was not the slightest noise; the holes even had been greased so the cable would slip through silently. Inch by inch the box descended. It was insufferably hot, and the air was bad. None spoke a word until the descent of the box stopped, and then the Black Star turned to his prisoner again. “We are at the bottom,” he said. “You see this small button here? It is connected with an electric light signal that we installed, and when I press it a certain number of times it conveys a meaning to one of my men in the bank. The little bulb light, I assure you, is cunningly hidden. You see, I am prepared for everything, Mr. Verbeck.
28550_34	science fiction	Moore, C. L. (Catherine Lucile)	He had been born for a wilder age, when men took what they wanted and held what they could without respect for law. Obedience was not in him, and so-- As vividly as on that day it happened he felt the same old surge of anger and despair twenty years old now, felt the ray-gun bucking hard against his unaccustomed fist, heard the hiss of its deadly charge ravening into a face he hated. He could not be sorry, even now, for that first man he had killed. But in the smoke of that killing had gone up the columned house and the future he might have had, the boy himself--lost as Atlantis now--and the girl with the honey-colored hair and much, much else besides. It had to happen, he knew. He being the boy he was, it had to happen. Even if he could go back and start all over, the tale would be the same. And it was all long past now, anyhow; and nobody remembered any more at all, except himself. A man would be a fool to lie here thinking about it any longer. Smith grunted and sat up, shrugging the gun into place against his ribs. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Fantastic Universe_ January 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
3404_3961	love stories	Howells, William Dean	She kept smoothing his head, which shook under her thin hand, and saying, “Poor Dan! poor Dan!” but did not question him. He knew that she knew what he had come to tell her, and that his tears, which had not been meant for that, had made interest with her for him and his cause, and that she was already on his side. He tried boyishly to dignify the situation when he lifted his face, and he said, “I didn't mean to come boohooing to you in this way, and I'm ashamed of myself.” “I know, Dan; but you've been wrought up, and I don't wonder. You mustn't mind your father and your sisters. Of course, they're rather surprised, and they don't like your taking yourself from them--we, none of us do.” At these honest words Dan tried to become honest too. At least he dropped his pretence of dignity, and became as a little child in his simple greed for sympathy. “But it isn't necessarily that; is it, mother?” “Yes, it's all that, Dan; and it's all right, because it's that. We don't like it, but our not liking it has nothing to do with its being right or wrong.” “I supposed that father would have been pleased, anyway; for he has seen her, and--and. Of course the girls haven't, but I think they might have trusted my judgment a little. I'm not quite a fool.” His mother smiled. “Oh, it isn't a question of the wisdom of your choice; it's the unexpectedness. We all saw that you were very unhappy when you were here before, and we supposed it had gone wrong.” “It had, mother,” said Dan. “She refused me at Campobello. But it was a misunderstanding, and as soon as we met--” “I knew you had met again, and what you had come home for, and I told your father so, when he came to say you were here.” “Did you, mother?” he asked, charmed at her having guessed that. “Yes. She must be a good girl to send you straight home to tell us.” “You knew I wouldn't have thought of that myself,” said Dan joyously. “I wanted to write; I thought that would do just as well.
46774_2380	detective and mystery stories	Burton, Frederick R. (Frederick Russell)	HOW LITIZKI SAVED MISS HILMAN. The ladies' entrance to the Travelers' Hotel was upon the same street as the main corridor, almost next door to it. Clara glanced in as the carriage slowly passed the open doors and she saw her uncle at the further end, pacing slowly toward her. Two men were with him whom she did not at the moment recognize, but so anxious was she to have a word with him that when she alighted, instead of going in at the ladies' entrance, she stepped over to the main doorway and stood there to attract his attention as soon as he should come near. He saw her immediately and quickened his pace. In that instant she saw that one of the other men was Dexter, and that he wheeled abruptly about, turning the third man around with him. Dexter hobbled back toward the clerk's desk and led his companion out of sight into a passage that terminated in the corridor. Clara saw this maneuver but dimly, as her attention was fixed upon her uncle, whose face had the haggard, anxious expression that she had noticed on it several times of late. He was quickly beside her, and attributing his anxiety largely to herself, she smiled bravely and said: "There was no scandal, uncle, and very little of what you could call a scene." "You are back sooner than I thought for," he responded with something of an effort. "Did you see anything?" "Of Poubalov? No." "I mean Strobel." "Oh, no! I am convinced that Lizzie knows nothing of him, poor girl!" "So am I," said Mr. Pembroke with a deep sigh; "I have had no time, of course, to give the matter much thought, but my impression is, and it grows constantly stronger, that you will eventually find Strobel in Boston." "And do you think I shall find him, uncle?" asked Clara, eager for encouraging words. "I hope so, my child, I hope so. It does not seem possible that this affair will resolve itself into an unfathomable mystery. There are few such things in real life, you know, and if the worst had happened to Strobel, we would have heard of it.
63613_154	science fiction	Gilbert, Robert E.	The Space Patrol is fit for nothing but rescue and exploration. No pirates? What of the Crime War? The noble cause of Organized Crime put planes into the void. They sent one of the first to Luna in the old days." Jak could see no other course but to believe the man, whose brain had obviously deteriorated. He said, "Check. You're a pirate. Why? Why is he wrecking my equipment, and why are you armed?" "Because there is nothing exciting!" Flim declaimed. "The whole Solar System is humble drum. I would have ridden the star-plane to new adventure, but they refused me. On Earth, they made me a microcataloger maintainer. Me! Its sole benefit was to acquaint me with the great piratical traditions of the past by revealing records available only to qualified scholars. No, there is nothing both legitimate and exciting to do any more." Jak said, "Why don't you find a quick cure for dementia praecox? That hasn't been done." "I dislike your tone," Flim rasped. "Looge! Silence him!" The scarred man, who had stood without moving, blinked his visible eye and grunted, "Yer, uh, what?" "Silence him!" "Oh. Er, how?" "Knock him down!" Flim cried. "Beat him! Use your fists!" Drusilla giggled. "Now we'll see if you're brave as you always tell me, Jak." * * * * * Jak gaped at her in amazement. "Drusilla," he wheezed. "Are you turning against me completely? After all--our child! I know you're attracted to this man. All women are attracted by anything vulgar, but--" Drusilla placed one hand on her hip and fluffed her hair with the other. "All you've ever done for me is give me three boring months in the Rings," she said. Jak stood with open mouth, and Looge squeezed past Flim. Grasping his right wrist with his left hand, Looge drew back his arm. "No, no," Flim said. "Use one hand at a time!" Looge mumbled and cocked his right arm. With no gravity, the force of this movement yanked his magnetized boots from the deck and sent him sprawling across the astrogator's couch. Flim stroked the loathsome triangle of hair on his chin and sighed, "How decadent we are these days! He does not even understand brutality.
47471_2466	detective and mystery stories	Webb, Marion St. John	he did it purposely. He’s just telling lies, because he is frightened now at what he’s done.... But if the dress is ruined beyond repair he shall pay for it—I don’t care what he says.... I’ll make him pay, if—if I have to go to law about it." And without waiting for anything further Isobel turned on her heel and marched away into the house, followed by Pamela, who was secretly longing to laugh at old Silas’s expression and Isobel’s theatrical outburst. In a few moments the group round Silas dispersed. Silas stood for a while scratching the top of his head and looking at the ground where Isobel had stood, then he picked up his spade and resumed his digging. Presently he began to chuckle. "I said I’d learn ’er," he told himself. "An’ I _did_ learn ’er. Nice and slimy and wet them weeds were—an’, after all, I _did_ only throw ’em on a rubbidge ’eap. That’s what she is." Why old Silas had not taken his revenge on Isobel before this it is impossible to say. He had not thought out any clear plan for a long time, but had waited for an idea, and when he had got one he had turned it over in his mind with relish for some time, and then begun to look around for an opportunity—and, at length, to-day he had found one. While Tom Bagg waited in the hall, and Caroline wandered about asking if she could be of any use, Pamela and Beryl, finding that Isobel’s dress could not be remedied unless it was thoroughly washed and ironed, quickly got out a white muslin frock of Pamela’s and set to work to make it fit Isobel. Pamela was more Isobel’s build than either of the other two girls, and so her dress was not such a bad fit, and with the aid of a needle and cotton, and some safety pins and a pair of scissors, it soon began to look presentable on Isobel. Of course it did not look as pretty on Isobel as her own white silk had done—but it was fortunate that Pamela had even a white muslin frock ready to lend Isobel in this emergency. Martha and Ellen lent a hand, hurrying to and fro, looking for pins and scissors, and helping Isobel to brush the soil out of her hair and re-do it.
31922_152	science fiction	Causey, James	" Mrs. Reardon agreed. Vogel drove back to the shop, whistling. [Illustration] He did not go to his chess club that night, but went to the library instead. He read about Flying Saucers, about space travel, about the possibility of life on other planets. Sometimes he chuckled. Once he frowned deeply and bit his lip. That night in bed, listening to his wife's shallow breathing, he said, "Alice." "Yes?" "Supposing you were lost on a desert island. What would you do?" "I'd build a raft," she said sleepily. Vogel smiled into the darkness. Next day he made a systematic tour of the stockroom, scanning the racks of completed sub-assemblies, the gleaming fixture components, the rows of panels, brackets, extrusions, all waiting like soldiers to march from the stockroom into final assembly. Vogel suddenly grunted. There, half hidden behind a row of stainless-steel basin assemblies, was a nine-inch bowl. He examined it. The bowl was heavy and shiny. There was no part number stamp, and the metal was not alclad, not stainless, not cad nor zinc. Five small copper discs had been welded to the lower flange. Vogel carefully scraped off a sample with a file. Then he replaced the part in the stock rack and went into his office where he placed the sample in an envelope. That afternoon he ranged the shop like a hound. In the shipping crib, he found a half-completed detail that struck a chord of strangeness. Two twisted copper vanes with a crumpled shop traveler signed by Amenth. The next operation specified furnace braze. Vogel squinted at the attached detail print. It was a current job number. He spent the next two hours in the ozalid room, leafing through the print files. The job number called for a deep-freeze showcase, and there were exactly two hundred and seven detail drawings involved. Not one of them matched the print in shipping. After an almost silent dinner at home, he sat smoking his pipe, waiting for the phone to ring. It rang at eight. "It's platinum," Carstairs said. Tim Carstairs was a night-shift chemist. "Anything wrong, Mr. Vogel?" "No." Vogel paused. "Thanks, Tim." He hung up, glanced at his fingers. They were shaking. "You," Alice said, "look ready to call mate in three.
287_3800	western stories	Barr, Amelia E.	As lightly as a lady touches her cavalier, he seemed to touch Sandoval; but the brute fell like a stone at his feet. What a storm of vivas! What clapping of hands and shouts of ‘valiente!’ And the ladies flung their flowers, and the men flung their hats into the arena, and Jarocho stepped proudly enough on them, I can tell you, though he was watching the door for the next bull.” “Ah, Senor, why will men fight each other, when it is so much more grand and interesting to fight bulls?” “Senorita Isabel, if you could only convince them of that! But then, it is not always interesting to the matadore; for instance, it is only by the mercy of God and the skill of an Americano that Jarocho is at this moment out of purgatory.” The Senora raised herself from among the satin pillows of her sofa, and asked, excitedly; “Was there then some accident, Senor? Is Jarocho wounded? Poor Jarocho!” “Not a hair of his head is hurt, Senora. I will tell you. Saint Jago, who followed Sandoval, was a little devil. He was light and quick, and had intelligence. You could see by the gleam in his eyes that he took in the whole scene, and considered not only the people in the ring, but the people in the amphitheatre also, to be his tormentors. Perhaps in that reflection he was not mistaken. He meant mischief from the beginning; and he pressed Jarocho so close that he leaped the barrier for safety. As he leaped, Saint Jago leaped also. Imagine now the terror of the spectators! The screams! The rush! The lowered horns within an inch of Jarocho, and Fray Joseph Maria running with the consecrated wafer to the doomed man! At that precise moment there was a rifle-shot, and the bellowing brute rolled backward into the arena--dead.” “Oh, Maria Purissima! How grand! In such moments one really lives, Senor. And but for this absurd rebellion I and my daughters could have had the emotion. It is indeed cruel.” “You said the shot was fired by an American?” “Senorita Antonia, it was, indeed. I saw him. He was in the last row. He had stood up when Saint Jago came in, and he was watching the man and the animal with his soul in his eyes. He had a face, fine and thin as a woman’s--a very gentle face, also.
48963_6114	adventure stories	Bowen, Marjorie	In the very richness of his youth he had flung away his days and hours, laughing at time, if he ever thought of it, and at life--then were life and time and an unending world before him. Life! And even while he sported with it as endless, it could have been measured by hours. A great wave of homesickness rushed over him, homesickness for the world, for the past he had never treasured, for Modena, the leaves and roses outside his father's palace, and Conrad riding away into the sunshine--away from this dark chamber he would never leave. Yet he did not for a moment flinch, such a thought never entered his mind, only he could not bear to have to wait; he wished it were done and over--now. From the street below rose a great uproar; there was some panic among the people; the country folk were pressing through the gates, fire and sword behind them--Visconti was on the march! Wild, frightened screams, and the hurry of feet, rose to the gloomy room, and Vincenzo sprang up; he wished his father had not left him, he wished he were not alone. For his thoughts were bitter, and hard to bear alone. His life would be different, he thought, if he lived it again: not wasted, flung away. For the first time he felt he loved his father dearly, for the first time he realized how Mastino loved his wife--he understood. Was all knowledge coming to him so late, things to be made clear only to be darkened forever? Ah, well, it was all over now; there were only a few moments to--what? He shuddered a little--to what? He wished his father would return, passionately he wished it; he did not want to think--for the first time and the last. He stood there with tight-clasped hands, his eyes on the door, holding desperately onto his control. And at last Ippolito entered, quietly, closing it behind him. He held a missal in his hand, and a parchment. As he laid them on the table, Vincenzo noticed the last was sealed with the seal of Verona, the ladder of the Scaligeri. "Mastino?" he whispered. "Mastino is dead," said d'Este, in a calm voice, and he crumpled the parchment in his hand. On it was written: "I have betrayed you for Isotta's life," and it was signed with the proudest name in Lombardy--"Mastino Orazio della Scala.
29278_385	love stories	Bradley, Mary Hastings	"It doesn't matter--it's much better than that brim," Mrs. Blair pronounced and obediently Maria's small hands rose and removed the overshadowing whiteness from the dark little head with its coronet of heavy braids. She did not raise her eyes to see Barry Elder's sudden flash of astonishment. Shyly she slipped within his clasp and let him swing her out into the circle of dancers. Maria Angelina could waltz, indeed. She was fairy-footed, and for some moments Barry Elder was content to dance without speaking; then he bent his head closer to those dark braids. "So I am the first young man you have met in America?" Maria Angelina looked up through her lashes in quick gayety. "It is my first day, Signor!" "Your first American--Ah, but on the boat! There must have been young men on that boat, American young men?" "On that boat? Signor!" Maria Angelina laughed mischievously. "One reads of such in novels--yes? But as to that boat, it was a floating nunnery." "Oh, come now," he protested amusedly, "there must have been _some_ men!" "Some men, yes--a ship's officer, some married ones, a grandfather or two--but nothing young and nothing American." "It must have been a great disappointment," said Barry enjoying himself. "It would not have mattered if there had been a thousand. The Signora Mariotti would have seen to it that I met no one. She is a _very_ good chaperon, Signor!" "I thank her. She has preserved the dew on the rose, the flush on the dawn--the wax for the record and the--er--niche for the statue. I never had my statue done," said Barry gayly, "but if you would care for it, in terra cotta, rather small and neat----" Confusedly Maria Angelina laughed. "And this is your maiden voyage of discovery!" He was looking down at her as he swept her about a corner. "Rash young person! Don't you know what happened to your kinsman, Our First Discoverer?" "But what?" "He was loaded with fetters," said Barry solemnly. "Fetters? But what fetters could I fear?" "Have you never heard," he demanded of her upraised eyes, "of the fetters of matrimony?" "Oh, Signor!"
7832_4132	love stories	Phillips, David Graham	Alva would be with her. So she was secure for the present and my mind was free for “finance.” At that time the two most powerful men in finance were Galloway and Roebuck. In Spain I once saw a fight between a bull and a tiger--or, rather the beginning of a fight. They were released into a huge iron cage. After circling it several times in the same direction, searching for a way out, they came face to face. The bull tossed the tiger; the tiger clawed the bull. The bull roared; the tiger screamed. Each retreated to his own side of the cage. The bull pawed and snorted as if he could hardly wait to get at the tiger; the tiger crouched and quivered and glared murderously, as if he were going instantly to spring upon the bull. But the bull did not rush, neither did the tiger spring. That was the Roebuck-Galloway situation. How to bait Tiger Galloway to attack Bull Roebuck--that was the problem I must solve, and solve straightway. If I could bring about war between the giants, spreading confusion over the whole field of finance and filling all men with dread and fear, there was a chance, a bare chance, that in the confusion I might bear off part of my fortune. Certainly, conditions would result in which I could more easily get myself intrenched again; then, too, there would be a by no means small satisfaction in seeing Roebuck clawed and bitten in punishment for having plotted against me. Mutual fear had kept these two at peace for five years, and most considerate and polite about each other’s “rights.” But while our country’s industrial territory is vast, the interests of the few great controllers who determine wages and prices for all are equally vast, and each plutocrat is tormented incessantly by jealousy and suspicion; not a day passes without conflicts of interest that adroit diplomacy could turn into ferocious warfare. And in this matter of monopolizing the coal, despite Roebuck’s earnest assurances to Galloway that the combine was purely defensive, and was really concerned only with the labor question, Galloway, a great manufacturer, or, rather, a huge levier of the taxes of dividends and interest upon manufacturing enterprises, could not but be uneasy. Before I rose that morning I had a tentative plan for stirring him to action. I was elaborating it on the way down town in my electric.
29278_1718	love stories	Bradley, Mary Hastings	"Ought to--never too late to learn." She shook her head, smiling faintly. She knew his own perturbation must be immense. She did not want to add to it; she wanted to be brave and conceal her own agony. He put the cigarettes away and from an inner pocket drew out a cake of chocolate. "Supper," he announced. She broke the cake in two even halves, giving him back one. He took but half of that. With the cigarette between his lips he felt better. Slowly he relaxed. "I'll have to teach you how to smoke," he said, blowing rings. "When we're rested we'll get some wood and build a fire. The others will see that and signal back and we'll make connections." At that she stared, round-eyed. "Wait for a fire?" Incredulously she straightened. Her voice grew breathless. "Oh, no, we must go--we must go," she said with a hint of wildness in her urgency. Deliberately Johnny leaned back. "Go? Go where?" "Go down. Go to where the others are. We must find them." "Nothing doing." Johnny rubbed a stout leg. "Your Uncle Dudley is all in. So are you." "But I can go, I am able to go on," she insisted. "And I would rather--Oh, if you please, I would so much rather go on at once. We cannot wait like this." "I'll say we can wait like this. Watch me." "But we cannot stay----" "Well, we cannot go," said Johnny mimicking. "We'd get nowhere if we did try. We'd just go round and round. Our best bet is to stay on this peak and signal. Believe me, I'm not going to stir for one long while." Again the fear of tears choked back the words that rushed upon her. She told herself that she must not be weak and frantic and make a scene. . . . Men abhorred scenes. And it would not help. It would only anger him. He was tired now. He was not thinking of her. He had not realized the situation. Presently he would realize. . . . And, anyway, he was there with her, he would take care of her, protect her from the tongues of gossip.
20320_4242	adventure stories	Hemyng, Bracebridge	" "Yes, on that subject," responded Markby; "but he's genial and agreeable enough if you introduce yourself by accident, as it were, and chat upon social topics generally, without the vaguest reference to the subject nearest your heart." "How shall I ever lead him up to the point?" "Easily. For instance, talk about art matters. Allude to your gallery of sculpture. Ask him, is he fond of bas reliefs? Tell him of your skill as a medallist." "Medallist might put him on the scent, if he is so dreadfully wary," said Lenoir. "No fear. He would never dream of such a thing. Medalling being a sort of sister art to what most interests him, he would be sure to bite at the chance. You lead him to your little underground snuggery, and once there all need for his wonderful caution will be at an end." "I see," said Lenoir, rubbing his hands. "But stay"--and here his face grew a bit serious--"this fellow is faithful?" "True as steel," responded Markby. "That's right," said Lenoir, with a look that caused a twinge of uneasiness to be felt by his companion, "for woe betide the man that plays me false." "No fear of this man--man, I call him, but he is in appearance at least little more than a lad, although he was travelled all over the world." Here Markby arose to move away. "Stop a bit," said Lenoir. "I have forgotten to ask rather an important detail." "What is it?" "The name of this fellow?" "Jack Harkaway," was the reply. CHAPTER XC. MARKBY'S MISSIVE--ON THE WATCH!--"SMART FELLOW, MARKBY!"--MARKBY'S MYRMIDON--THE SPY'S MISSION. The Englishman Markby was gone before Pierre Lenoir could question him further. "Jack Harkaway?" exclaimed Lenoir; "I have heard that name before. Of course; I remember now. But Markby speaks of him as a lad. Why, the Harkaway that I remember must be a middle-aged man by now; besides, what little I knew of Harkaway then would not show him to be a likely man for my purpose." Not long after this, as Lenoir was upon the point of rising and leaving the café, a commissionaire or public messenger came up at a run with a note in his hand. "M'sieu Lenoir." "_C'est moi.
25875_824	detective and mystery stories	Footner, Hulbert	she cried. "Sergeant Stonor, take me out to the bench beside the flagstaff for a few minutes." As they sat down she said: "Don't you want to smoke?" "Don't feel the need of it," he said. His voice was husky with feeling. Would a man want to smoke in Paradise? By glancing down and sideways he could take her in as far up as her neck without appearing to stare rudely. She was sitting with her feet crossed and her hands in her lap like a well-bred little girl. When he dared glance at her eyes he saw that there was no consciousness of him there. They were regarding something very far away. In the dusk the wistfulness which hid behind a smile in daylight looked forth fully and broodingly. Yet when she spoke the matter was ordinary enough. "All the men here tell me about the mysterious stranger who lives on the Swan River. They can't keep away from the subject. And the funny part of it is, they all seem to be angry at him. Yet they know nothing of him. Why is that?" "It means nothing," said Stonor, smiling. "You see, all the men pride themselves on knowing every little thing that happens in the country. It's all they have to talk about. In a way the whole country is like a village. Well, it's only because this man has succeeded in defying their curiosity that they're sore. It's a joke!" "They tell me that you stand up for him," she said, with a peculiar warmth in her voice. "Oh, just to make the argument interesting," said Stonor lightly. "Is that all?" she said, chilled. "No, to tell the truth, I was attracted to the man from the first," he said more honestly. "By what the Indians said about his healing the sick and so on. And they said he was young. I have no friend of my own age up here--I mean no real friend. So I thought--well, I would like to know him." "I like that," she said simply. There was a silence. "Why don't you--sometime--go to him?" she said, with what seemed almost like a breathless air. "I am going," said Stonor simply. "I received permission in the last mail.
54632_3379	adventure stories	Palmer, Don	“What’s your game?” “My game? Only a little device to gain time. It was your bad luck that you stumbled onto the vein.” “The vein—” Warner started to explode, then held his tongue. “Oh, I saw you sneak into the mine after the old man went away,” Walz rattled on. “You’ve been down here yourself?” “I have,” the motel owner admitted. His voice carried plainly to the pair below, for he was close to the opening between the rocks. “I found the gold ore, and I have samples now in my pack.” “What are you aiming to do with ’em?” “I’ll have them assayed. But first I’m staking out a claim to this section of the valley.” “Sure someone hasn’t beaten you to it?” “This is unclaimed valley—the entire hollow. Ranier told me so. That dirty, low-down scamp deserted me. I’ll get even with him when I get back to Elks Creek.” “Listen,” Warner said in exasperation, “you’ve had your little joke. Now let us out of here. We can’t raise that rock from below, but you can roll it aside.” “Maybe I can, but I’m not going to do it,” Walz retorted coolly. “You trailed me to Headless Hollow, but you’re not going to beat me filing a claim.” “Who wants to file one, you stupid ox?” “You!” the motel owner accused. “I’ve risked everything to get this gold. Nothing is going to stop me now. Nothing!” “You’re welcome to the gold—whatever you can find,” Warner said wearily. “Just let us out.” “Never.” At first, the trapped pair had not believed that the motel owner seriously meant to keep them confined below, but his intention could no longer be doubted. “Walz, pay close attention,” Warner pleaded. “I came to this place largely to see the grave of my father. The gold—if there was any—didn’t mean too much to me.” “That’s a lie!” “It means everything to you, but you have the wrong slant. Unless I’m mistaken, this mine would never pay well enough to interest a company. Old Stony gathered some rich ore, it’s true. He died without knowing that the vein wasn’t extensive.”
22466_29	science fiction	DeKy, Thornton	In that instant the entire wondrous city seemed to breathe a silent prayer as he stood transfixed by the sight before him. Then it went on as usual, hurrying noiselessly about its business. The surface cars, empty though they were, fled swiftly about supported only by the rings of magnetic force that held them to their designated paths. The gravoships raised from the tower-dromes to speed silently into the eye of the red sun that was dying. "No one now," Kiron thought to himself as he studied his handiwork. Then he walked unhurriedly to the cabinet in the laboratory corner and took from it a pair of earphones resembling those of a long forgotten radio set. Just as unhurriedly, though his mind was filled with turmoil and his being with excitement, he walked back and connected the earphones to the box upon his bench. The phones dangled into the liquid bath before him as he adjusted them to suit his requirements. Slowly he checked over every step of his experiments before he went farther. Then, as he proved them for the last time, his hand went slowly to the small knife switch upon the box at his elbow. Next he threw into connection the larger switch upon his laboratory wall bringing into his laboratory the broadcast power of the crysolite city. The laboratory generators hummed softly, drowning out the quiet hum of the city outside. As they built up, sending tiny living electrical impulses over the wires like minute currents that come from the brain, Kiron sat breathless; his eyes intent. Closer to his work he bent, watching lovingly, fearful least all might not be quite right. Then his eyes took on a brighter light as he began to see the reaction. He knew the messages that he had sent out were being received and coordinated into a unit that would stir and grow into intellect. Suddenly the machine flashed its little warning red light and automatically snapped off. Kiron twisted quickly in his seat and threw home the final switch. This, he knew, was the ultimate test. On the results of the flood of energy impulses that he had set in motion rested the fulfillment of his success--_or failure_. He watched with slight misgivings. This had never been accomplished before. How could it possibly be a success now? Even The Masters had never quite succeeded at this final test, how could he, only a servant? Yet it must work for he had no desire in life but to make it work. Then, suddenly, he was on his feet, eyes wide.
1312_3003	western stories	Harte, Bret	Ah Fe silently mounted the stairs, and entering the open door of the front chamber, put down the basket and stood passively on the threshold. A woman, who was sitting in the cold gray light of the window, with a child in her lap, rose listlessly, and came toward him. Ah Fe instantly recognized Mrs. Tretherick; but not a muscle of his immobile face changed, nor did his slant eyes lighten as he met her own placidly. She evidently did not recognize him as she began to count the clothes. But the child, curiously examining him, suddenly uttered a short, glad cry. “Why, it's John, Mamma! It's our old John what we had in Fiddletown.” For an instant Ah Fe's eyes and teeth electrically lightened. The child clapped her hands, and caught at his blouse. Then he said shortly: “Me John--Ah Fe--allee same. Me know you. How do?” Mrs. Tretherick dropped the clothes nervously, and looked hard at Ah Fe. Wanting the quick-witted instinct of affection that sharpened Carry's perception, she even then could not distinguish him above his fellows. With a recollection of past pain, and an obscure suspicion of impending danger, she asked him when he had left Fiddletown. “Longee time. No likee Fiddletown, no likee Tlevelick. Likee San Flisco. Likee washee. Likee Tally.” Ah Fe's laconics pleased Mrs. Tretherick. She did not stop to consider how much an imperfect knowledge of English added to his curt directness and sincerity. But she said, “Don't tell anybody you have seen me,” and took out her pocketbook. Ah Fe, without looking at it, saw that it was nearly empty. Ah Fe, without examining the apartment, saw that it was scantily furnished. Ah Fe, without removing his eyes from blank vacancy, saw that both Mrs. Tretherick and Carry were poorly dressed. Yet it is my duty to state that Ah Fe's long fingers closed promptly and firmly over the half-dollar which Mrs. Tretherick extended to him. Then he began to fumble in his blouse with a series of extraordinary contortions. After a few moments, he extracted from apparently no particular place a child's apron, which he laid upon the basket with the remark: “One piecee washman flagittee.” Then he began anew his fumblings and contortions. At last his efforts were rewarded by his producing, apparently from his right ear, a many-folded piece of tissue paper.
2949_825	western stories	Thanet, Octave	his camp-fire, or he was pacing his lonely round on guard. His heart leaped again with the old glow, the wonderful, beautiful worship of Liberty that can do no wrong. He seemed to hear a thousand voices chanting: “In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free!” His turbid musings cleared--or they seemed to him to clear--under the strong reaction of his imagination and his memories. It was all over, the dream and the glory thereof. The splendid young soldier was an elderly, ruined man. But one thing was left: he could be true to his flag. “A poor soldier, but enlisted for the war,” says Nelson, squaring his shoulders, with a lump in his throat and his eyes brimming. “I know by the way it hurts me to think of refusing her that it’s a temptation to wrong-doing. No, I can’t save myself by sacrificing a brother soldier for humanity. She is just as kind as she can be, but women don’t understand business; she wouldn’t make allowance for Richards.” He felt a hand on his shoulder; it was Martin apologizing for hurrying Miss Brown; but the baby was fretting and---- “I’m sorry--yes--well, I wish you didn’t have to go!” Nelson began; but a hoarse treble rose from under his elbows: “Say, Mr. Martin, Uncle and me can take Miss Brown home.” “If you will allow me the pleasure,” said Nelson, with the touch of courtliness that showed through his homespun ways. “Well, I WOULD like to see the hundred bombs bursting at once and Vulcan at his forge!” said Miss Brown. Thus the matter arranged itself. Tim waited with the lady while Nelson went for the horse, nor was it until afterward that Miss Brown wondered why the lad did not go instead of the man. But Tim had his own reasons. No sooner was Nelson out of earshot than he began: “Say, Miss Brown, I can tell you something.” “Yes?” “That Richards is no good; but you can’t get Uncle to see it. At least it will take time. If you’ll help me we can get him round in time. Won’t you please not sell us out for six months and give me a show? I’ll see you get your interest and your money, too.” “You?”
51967_1701	adventure stories	Paltock, Robert	CHAPTER XXV. Youwarkee's account of the stages to Arndrumstake--The author uneasy at her flight--His employment in her absence; and preparations for receiving her father--How he spent the evenings with the children. My wife was now upon her journey to her father's; but where that was, or how far off, it was impossible for me to conceive by her description of the way; for she distinguished it not by miles or leagues, but by swan-geans, and names of rocks, seas, and mountains, which I could neither comprehend the distance of from each other, nor from Graundevolet, where I was. I understood by her, indeed, there was a great sea to be passed, which would take her up almost a day and night, having the children with her, before she reached the next arkoe, though she could do it herself she said, and strain hard, in a summer's night; but if the children should flag by the way, as there was no resting-place between us and Battringdrigg, the next arkoe, it might be dangerous to them, so she would take the above time for their sakes. After this, I found by what she said there was a narrow sea to pass, and a prodigious mountain, before she reached her own country; and that her father's was but a little beyond that mountain. This was all I could know in general about it. At their departure she and the children had taken each a small provision for their flight, which hung about their necks in a sort of purse. I cannot say, notwithstanding this journey was taken with my concurrence and consent, that I was perfectly easy when they were gone, for my affection for them all would work up imaginary fears too potent for my reason to dispel, and which at first sat with no easy pressure upon my mind. This my pretty babies at home perceiving, used all the little winning arts they could to divert and keep up my spirits; and from day to day, by taking them abroad with me, and playing with and amusing them at home, I grew more and more persuaded that all would go right with the absent, and that in due time I should see them return again. But as the winter set in, I went little abroad, and then we employed ourselves within doors in preparing several things which might not only be useful and ornamental, if the old glumm should come to see us, but might also divert us, and make the time pass less tediously.
5901_2614	detective and mystery stories	Pinkerton, A. Frank	Nell?--was she killed?" questioned the wounded man in a voice wrung with anguish. "I don't think Nell was mortally hurt," returned Bernard in a reassuring tone, although he hardly felt hopeful himself. "If she was, why should the villains have taken her away, or the villain rather, since, from your account, I judge that but one of them escaped, and he the man with the red hair." "Yes, he seemed the chief scoundrel among them. I heard him called Professor Ruggles." "He is about as much a professor as I am," answered Bernard. "HE is the man we want for that midnight crime on the express train. I have evidence enough now, Dyke, to prove that this man is the guilty principal, and I also believe that one of his accomplices is now in prison." "Indeed!" And then the detective groaned in anguish of spirit and of body. It was hard to lay here, helpless as a child, while the fate of Nell was uncertain, and there was so much need for a keen detective to be afloat. Harry realized how his friend suffered, and soothed him as best he could. "Leave no stone unturned to find her, Harry," urged the detective. "If you do find and save her, great shall be your reward. If she is dead, then I will see about avenging the deed." "And in that you will not be alone," assured Harry Bernard, a moist light glittering in his eye. Even Dyke Darrel did not suspect how deeply his young friend was interested in the fate of Nell. The days dragged into weeks ere Dyke Darrel was able to be on his feet again. He was not very strong when he once more took it upon himself to hunt down the scoundrels who had wrecked his happy home. Even the railroad crime was forgotten for the time, so intense was his interest centered in the fate of his sister. If not dead, Dyke Darrel believed she had met with a far worse fate, and it was this thought that nerved him to think of doing desperate work should the cruel abductor ever come before him. Madge Scarlet was dismissed after an examination, but Nick Brower and his companion were held to await the action of a higher court. One morning the pallid man in brown suit who had haunted the various depots of the city for several days made a discovery. On one of the early morning trains a man and veiled female had taken passage East.
5270_2013	detective and mystery stories	Reeve, Arthur B. (Arthur Benjamin)	"As sure, Mr. Kennedy," he rejoined, awed by Kennedy's reputation even in the full flood of his anger, "as sure as I am that I'd like to throw you down these steps!" XIII MARILYN LORING The magic of Manton's name admitted us to the studio courtyard, and at once I was struck by the change since the day before. Now the tank was a dry, empty, shallow depression of concrete. The scenery, all the paraphernalia assembled for the taking of water stuff, was gone. Except for the parked automobiles in one corner and a few loitering figures here and there the big quadrangle seemed absolutely deserted. In the general reception room Kennedy asked for Millard, but was told he had not been out since the previous day. That was to be expected. But Manton, it developed, was away also. He had telephoned in that he would be detained until late afternoon on important business. I know that I, for one, wondered if it were connected with Fortune Features. "It's just as well," Kennedy remarked, after convincing the boy at the desk it was Manton's wish that we have the run of the place. "My real object in coming was to watch the cast at work." We found our way to the small studio, called so in comparison with the larger one where the huge ballroom and banquet sets were being built. In reality it possessed a tremendous floor space. Now all the other companies had been forced to make room for "The Black Terror" on account of the emergency created by the death of Stella Lamar, and there were any number of sets put up hastily for the retakes of the scenes in which Stella had appeared. The effect of the whole upon a strange beholder was weird. It was as though a cyclone had swept through a town and had gathered up and deposited slices and corners and sections of rooms and hallways and upper chambers, each complete with furniture and ornaments, curtains, rugs, and hangings. Except for the artistic harmony of things within the narrow lines of the camera's view, nothing in this great armory-like place had any apparent relation to anything else. Some of the sets were lighted, with actors and technical crews at work. Others were dark, standing ready for use. Still others were in varying states of construction or demolition. Rising above every other impression was the noise. It was pandemonium. We saw Werner at work in a distant corner and strolled over. The director was bustling about feverishly.
54632_832	adventure stories	Palmer, Don	The Scouts did not reply. After a while, Walz went to his car and they saw him drive away. “Now’s our chance!” Ken suggested. “I don’t like to do anything sneaky, but it’s just as well Old Eagle Eye doesn’t know what we’re about.” “Now that poor Old Stony is gone, it’s even more important we find that map and Craig Warner’s address,” Jack added. Ken went for Mr. Livingston and the other Scouts. The cabin door had not been locked. Once inside, the group turned to the box of papers under the bed. The collection of letters was pathetically small. There were two notes written by a woman who signed herself Sadie, but the dates were so far back, that even had there been an address, she would probably have no longer been alive. The Scouts could find no letters from Craig Warner. They were about to give up the search when Willie came upon the man’s address written in a tiny notebook with yellowed pages. “Craig Warner, Red Cliffs Ranch, Elks Creek, Colorado,” he read aloud. Mr. Livingston wrote down the address and then the Scouts turned their attention to the search for gold and the treasure map. The bag of pinto beans had been removed from the wall hook. However, Jack came upon it in a corner of the room. “That bag was hanging on the wall last night,” he commented. “I hope Jarrett Walz hasn’t been ahead of us.” As Jack emptied the colored beans onto the bed, the Scouts gathered around. But the sight was disappointing. The bag contained nothing but beans. “Not a single nugget,” War said in disgust. “Old Stony must have been handing us a line!” “Not necessarily,” Jack replied, refilling the bag and returning it to its former place on the wall hook. “Last night or this morning after Stony was taken to the hospital, someone moved this bag.” “Walz?” Willie asked. “Could be. Of course, the cabin door has been unlocked, so maybe it’s not fair to accuse him.” “It will be a waste of time even looking for the map,” Willie said. The others were inclined to agree with him. However, no one would have willingly left the cabin without making the search. Jack and Ken dropped on hands and knees before the fireplace. Raking away some of the loose, cold ashes, they began to explore the hearthstones.
47738_2235	adventure stories	Stephens, Robert Neilson	The captain, dissembling not his satisfaction, averred he could wear the gold chain of stewardship as well as another man. An agreement was struck upon the spot; Jerningham imparted the general details, and said he would have the necessary writings made, and full instructions drawn up, within a few days; meanwhile, he desired the new steward to install himself in the house at once. "Marry, a bite and a sup, and I am ready," cried Ravenshaw, gaily; then suddenly remembered his promise to meet the goldsmith's daughter that evening. "Nay, I forgot; I have some affairs to settle. I cannot go before to-morrow." Jerningham, whose purpose had been so happily met by the captain's readiness, lost his gratified look. "Oh, a plague on your affairs! You must go to-day," he said. Ravenshaw shook his head. "I cannot go till to-morrow, and there's an end on't!" Jerningham sighed with suppressed vexation. He dared not urge lest he arouse suspicion. It was too late to back out of the bargain without betraying himself. Moreover, to get the captain away on the morrow was better than nothing. "Well, well; look to your affairs, then. But go early to-morrow." Ravenshaw pondered a few moments. "I will start at noon, not before." "But you must be at the Grange by four o'clock; I have given my word to the people there." "I can do so, setting forth at noon. 'Tis eighteen miles, you say. I will go by horse." "'Slight, man, have you a horse?" "No, but you will give me one--or the means to buy one at Smithfield; and then may I die in Newgate if I be not at your country-house at four o'clock!" After a little thought, Jerningham told him to call at a certain gate at Winchester House on the morrow at noon, where a horse would be in waiting; he then handed him a gold angel and dismissed him to his affairs. The captain had no sooner strutted jauntily off than Jerningham quickly beckoned Gregory, and said earnestly: "Dog his footsteps. Lose not his track till he comes to me to-morrow; and if he meets _her_--Begone! you will lose him. Haste!" The jealous lackey, raised to sudden joy by this congenial commission, glided away like a cat.
50847_101	science fiction	Smith, Evelyn E.	Carpenter pressed his hands to his eyes. "Yellow is the color of death on Saturn, and you know how morbid the Saturnians are about passing away! No one _ever_ wears yellow!" "Sorry," Michael said humbly. The button marked _Gloves B_ yielded a pair of rose-colored gloves which harmonized ill with his scarlet tunic and turquoise breeches, but he was past caring for esthetic effects. "The quality's high," sang a quartet of beautiful female humanoids, "but the price is meager. You _know_ when you buy Plummy Fruitcake from Vega." The salesman patted Michael's shoulder. "You staying a while in Portyork?" Michael nodded. "Then you'd better stick close to me for a while until you learn our ways. You can't run around loose by yourself until you've acquired civilized behavior patterns, or you'll get into trouble." "Thank you, sir," Michael said gratefully. "It's very kind of you." He twisted himself around--it was boiling hot inside the jet bus and his damp clothes were clinging uncomfortably--and struck his head against the bottom of the shelf above. "Awfully inconvenient arrangement here," he commented. "Wonder why they don't have seats." "Because this arrangement," Carpenter said stiffly, "is the one that has proved suitable for the greatest number of intelligent life-forms." "Oh, I see," Michael murmured. "I didn't get a look at the other passengers. Are there many extraterrestrials on the bus?" "Dozens of them. Haven't you heard the Sirians singing?" A low moaning noise had been pervading the bus, but Michael had thought it arose from defective jets. "Oh, yes!" he agreed. "And very beautiful it is, too! But so sad." "Sirians are always sad," the salesman told him. "Listen." * * * * * Michael strained his ears past the racket of the advideo. Sure enough, he could make out words: "Our wings were unfurled in a far distant world, our bodies are pain-racked, delirious. And never, it seems, will we see, save in dreams, the bright purple swamps of our Sirius...." Carpenter brushed away a tear. "Poignant, isn't it?" "Very, very touching," Michael agreed.
4903_1922	detective and mystery stories	Allen, Grant	“Still, that is only one doubtful case,” I objected. “There was another, you must remember: his uncle Alfred.” “Alfred Le Geyt?” “No; HE died in his bed, quietly. Alfred Faskally.” “What a memory you have!” I cried, astonished. “Why, that was before our time--in the days of the Chartist riots!” She smiled a certain curious sibylline smile of hers. Her earnest face looked prettier than ever. “I told you I could remember many things that happened before I was born,” she answered. “THIS is one of them.” “You remember it directly?” “How impossible! Have I not often explained to you that I am no diviner? I read no book of fate; I call no spirits from the vasty deep. I simply remember with exceptional clearness what I read and hear. And I have many times heard the story about Alfred Faskally.” “So have I--but I forget it.” “Unfortunately, I CAN'T forget. That is a sort of disease with me.... He was a special constable in the Chartist riots; and being a very strong and powerful man, like his nephew Hugo, he used his truncheon--his special constable's baton, or whatever you call it--with excessive force upon a starveling London tailor in the mob near Charing Cross. The man was hit on the forehead--badly hit, so that he died almost immediately of concussion of the brain. A woman rushed out of the crowd at once, seized the dying man, laid his head on her lap, and shrieked out in a wildly despairing voice that he was her husband, and the father of thirteen children. Alfred Faskally, who never meant to kill the man, or even to hurt him, but who was laying about him roundly, without realising the terrific force of his blows, was so horrified at what he had done when he heard the woman's cry, that he rushed off straight to Waterloo Bridge in an agony of remorse and--flung himself over. He was drowned instantly.” “I recall the story now,” I answered; “but, do you know, as it was told me, I think they said the mob THREW Faskally over in their desire for vengeance.” “That is the official account, as told by the Le Geyts and the Faskallys; they like to have it believed their kinsman was murdered, not that he committed suicide.
45629_539	detective and mystery stories	Newcomb, Ambrose	" "What's the name he goes by up there?" asked Perk. "No name at all--they call him the _Hawk_, because he swoops down on his prey unawares and is absolutely merciless. Two gold prospectors who were said to have struck it rich somewhere further north have disappeared and it's suspected they fell in a fight with his gang. Sometimes he's here and in a few days they tell of him bobbing up a hundred miles away." "Jest like a flea," suggested Perk, "gone afore you c'n put a finger on him. Wall, I kinder like the way our job's laid out for us, partner. The bigger they are the harder they fall when Uncle Sam's men get goin'. So we're meanin' to pick up a bunch o' news at Spokane, are we? An' if it's a fair question, ol' hoss, _when_ do we cal'late to pull out o' this burg?" "No particular hurry, understand, Perk, we can take our own time going--slow and sure is to be our motto. But I'm a little like you in wanting to make a start, then, if we feel so disposed, we can loaf a while or turn aside if we see a chance to play a trick for Uncle Sam. That gives us a lot of leeway, you see." "Nearly two o'clock right now--c'n we get off this afternoon, partner?" hinted the anxious one, appealingly. "By four we ought to be on our way, buddy. Now let's get busy!" VIII THE TAKE-OFF Jack was sorry that, owing to their pulling out so soon, he would not be able to visit the hospital again as he had planned and upon mentioning this fact to his companion, Perk shrugged his shoulders as he said: "That's a downright shame, I'd say, partner, fact is, I depended on you to find out what Adrian's last name was--save me a wheen o' worriment if on'y I knowed it--somethin' that rhymed with Barnum--Bernard--Burling--Berwind--hang the luck, jest _why_ does this ol' short memory for names bob up to bother a feller when we're startin' off on a big spin an' may never see thet lady an' little Adrian again? Seems I'm jest goin' to speak the right word, an' then, shucks! it misses connection like, an' leaves me a gropin' in the dark.
13077_1502	western stories	Jones, J. B. (John Beauchamp)	"Be it so," said Glenn; "but remember that you are not to put him in the river, nor must you commit any indecent outrage upon his person. Let his body return to the earth--his soul is already in the hands of Him who created it." "That's as true as gospel," said Sneak; "and I would rather be froze in this snow than to have his hot berth in the t'other world. I don't feel a bit mad at him now--he's paying for his black dagiverous conduct hard enough by this time, I'll be bound. I say, Mr. Glenn, it'll be rather late when we get through with this job--will there be any vacant room at your fireside to-night?" "Certainly, and something to eat--you will be welcome, provided you don't quarrel too much with Joe," replied Glenn. "Oh, Joe and me understand each other--the more we quarrel the more we love one another. We'll never fight--do you mind that--for he's a coward for one thing, and I won't corner him too close, because he's broad-shouldered enough to _lick me_, if he was to take it into his head to fight." Glenn called the hounds after him and set out in quest of the fox, and Sneak turned to the dead body and mused in silence. CHAPTER VII. Boone--The interment--Startling intelligence--Indians about--A skunk--Thrilling fears--Boone's device. Ere long Joe was on his way back to the cave-spring, with several spades on his shoulder, accompanied by Boone, (who had just crossed the river on a visit to Glenn,) and Roughgrove, with his two oarsmen. "Is Glenn at the spring with Sneak?" asked Boone, in a very thoughtful and grave manner. "Yes, sir, I left him there, and I now hear him with the hounds chasing a fox," replied Joe, in true native style. "If he is with the hounds, he is certainly not at the spring," remarked Roughgrove. "I meant that he was there, or _thereabouts_" replied Joe. "Who found the dead man?" inquired Boone. "I did--that is, when the dogs scented him--and it almost frightened me when I dug out his foot," said Joe. "No doubt!" observed Boone.
57758_5481	adventure stories	Deeping, Warwick	“Rub it in, man—rub it in.” “That’s the tune, Lot,” said the baronet, warmly. “I’m dry to the lungs with haggling with ye. Confound this scholarly niceness, I say! Call a cur a cur, sir, and have done with it.” The chaplain screwed up his mouth with a whimsical expression of resignation, shook his wig, and put pen to paper. He scratched away for a minute or so to the baronet’s dictation, finished with a flourish, shook the pouncet-box over the page, and leaned back in his chair with the letter in his hand. “Shall I read the epistle to you, gentlemen?” he asked, clearing his throat. “Ay, fire away,” quoth Sir Peter; “it ought to be as good as swearing at the young devil in person.” Dr. Jessel proceeded to the reading of the letter with full nasal unction, striving to crush its literary crudities beneath an episcopalic diction. Sir Peter twinkled and beamed, gurgling and patting his stomach suggestively when some very palatable sentence tickled his native sense of humor. Mr. Lot leaned his elbows on the back of his father’s chair, and joined heartily in the old gentleman’s enjoyment of the word-feast. At the conclusion of Dr. Jessel’s essay in declamation the baronet exploded with characteristic gusto. “Deuce take it, sir, that ought to make the young devil shake in his shoes. He’ll feel a bit liverish after our brimstone, Jessel, eh? Seal it up, man. And may a good lifter on the rump go with it.” The chaplain sealed up the letter gracefully, and delivered it with a bow to Mr. Lot. “May you shine, sir,” he said, “as the noble Achilles shone before Troy.” Mr. Lot swaggered to the sideboard, poured himself out a glass of wine, and tossed it down with an emphatic tilt of the elbow. “You’ll do, Lot—you’ll do,” said the baronet. Mr. Hardacre appeared troubled by no doubts as to the triumph of his cause. “The lad will just crawl, sir,” he said; “he ain’t fit for anything but scribbling verses.” Love and hate being thus romantically mingled, Bess’s woodland tenderness and Jilian’s sickly spite, Providence, that cup-bearer to kings and peasants, prepared to deliver the goblet into Jeffray’s hands. Nor was there a league between the two influences as they approached the man that day;
43944_2005	science fiction	Aubrey, Frank	Curiously enough, the same idea had struck him several times during the past half-hour; since, in fact, the opportunity had offered of comparing Monella's face and form with those inhabitants he had seen. Except that he was taller than any, there were many points in which there was obvious resemblance; and Jack began to ponder upon it as a strange coincidence. He was also surprised at the confidence with which the young girl had declared Monella to be of different race from himself. "You must be an unusually quick observer," he said presently, "to distinguish these things so readily. In my land young ladies do not much trouble themselves----" Suddenly, Zonella laid her hand upon his arm and leaned forward with a look of fervid earnestness. "_Who_ is this man?" she asked. "What is his name, and what brings him here, and just at such a time, too?" This last seemed to be said more to herself than to her companion. "He is called Monella," Jack told her. "I know of no other name; and, as to why he is here, I can no more tell you that than why you yourself are here. In some things he keeps his own counsel absolutely, and is altogether inscrutable." "Ah!" Zonella said this with a long breath. "Then, though he is your friend, and you are here together, you _really_ know nothing of him. Is that what you mean?" "Well," returned Jack slowly, "it's rather an abrupt way of putting it, but--well, I never thought of it in that light before--but--I really think you have about hit it." "Yes! You and he have met by chance, and have agreed to travel together for a time. And you have let him bring you here, I suppose, without troubling yourself to ask him his objects?" Zonella went on, still with her glance fixed on Monella. Jack opened his eyes. "You have a very direct way of putting things, I must say," he laughed. "But again, I am bound to admit you are not far out." "And your other friend--what do you know of him?" "Oh, I have known him since he was a child." "And yet," the girl persisted, "he is very different from you. Are you _sure_ he is of the same race as yourself?
41010_481	love stories	Willard, Kate Livingston	The quick spontaneity of her response shattered his last hope. "Ah, yes, Guy, please. We will be so much better friends, then." "Friends!" he echoed bitterly; "after all these years." Helen put her hand on his shoulder, but he gently pushed her from him. "It is as well I should know the truth now as later. You do not love me, Helen. There is nothing left now, but for us to part." When he was leaving a sudden recollection came to him of the cause of all this unhappiness, and crushing down his own bitterness, he endeavored in quiet and carefully chosen words to dissuade her from a friendship which he feared she would rue, but she maintained an almost unbroken silence, and the expression of her face told him that his warning was of no avail. So they parted. Guy was more than justified in his distrust of Lillian Stuart. Had he been a man of less delicate sense of honor he could have righted himself in Helen's eyes by simply relating to her some incontrovertible facts; but the circumstances which had given him his knowledge sealed his lips. While at college, the name, Lillian Stuart, had grown familiar to him, through hearing her praises sounded by his chum Nelson Leonard. The year after their graduation they ran across each other at Baden, and their college friendship was resumed. Guy was not long in discovering that there was something radically wrong with his friend, and the cause, which all Baden apparently understood, was soon made clear to him. Among the most noted people frequenting Baden at this time, were a Mrs. Ogden-Stuart and her beautiful daughter. It had been understood on their arrival that Miss Stuart was engaged to the good-looking American, Mr. Leonard, who was traveling in their party. This fact, however, did not seem to stand in the way of her flirting openly with every eligible man in the place, nor prevent her from receiving their constant homage. Leonard was evidently wretched, and there was a touch of recklessness in his manner, which, Guy felt, boded no good to a man of his highly strung, sensitive nature. For a week after Guy's arrival things drifted on, but there was something in the air that seemed to foretell a crisis. Guy had been presented to Miss Stuart, but in spite of her beauty and fascination found nothing in her to like or respect.
12791_3354	western stories	Adams, Andy	Sufficient hay, from a few bends of the creek, in dead-line territory, supplied the home ranch, and a week's encampment above Hackberry Grove saw the site of the new line-camp equipped with winter forage. While engaged on the latter task, a new feature was introduced on Wells Brothers' ranch. A movable commissary is a distinct aid to any pastoral occupation, and hence _the wagon_ becomes a cowman's home and castle. From it he dispenses a rough hospitality, welcomes the wayfarer, and exchanges the chronicle of the range. The wagon, which had been acquired with the new herd and used on the above occasion, was well equipped with canvas cover, water barrels, and a convenient chuck-box at the rear. The latter was fitted with drawers and compartments as conveniently as a kitchen. When open, the lid of the box afforded a table; when closed, it protected the contents from the outer elements. The wagon thus becomes home to nomadic man and animal, the one equal with the other. Saddle horses, when frightened at night, will rush to the safety of a camp-fire and the protection of their masters, and therefore a closer bond exists between the men of the open and their mounts than under more refined surroundings. Early in September a heavy rain fell in the west, extending down the Beaver, flushing the creek and providing an abundance of running water. It was followed by early frosts, lifting the dead-line and ushering in Indian summer. With forage secure, attention was turned to the cattle. The purchase of a mowing machine had exhausted the funds derived from the sale of peltry, and a shipment of cattle was decided on to provide the munitions for the coming winter. The wagon was accordingly provisioned for a week, the blankets stored in the commissary, and the quartette moved out to round up the wintered cattle. They had not been handled since the spring drift of March before, and when thrown into a compact herd, they presented a different appearance from the spiritless cattle of six months previous. A hundred calves, timid as fawns, shied from the horsemen, their mothers lowed in comforting concern, the beeves waddled about from carrying their own flesh, while the patriarchs of the herd bellowed in sullen defiance. Fifty of the heaviest beeves were cut out from the ---- Y brand, flesh governing the selection, and the first shipment of cattle left the Beaver for eastern markets. Four days were required to graze the heavy cattle down to the railroad.
32544_1694	science fiction	Reynolds, John Murray	* * * * * It was well past midnight by the illuminated dial of the waterproof chronometer that Sarnak had given Gerry when he awoke. Angus was shaking his shoulder. The light had been put out hours before, and there was no illumination at all except for an occasional flash of green phosphoresence where some fish sped by. "Either I'm an over-grown sponge," the big engineer muttered, "or there's a light shining through the water off to the west." Gerry yawned and sat up, instinctively starting to rub his eyes before his hands bumped against the hard glass surface of his curving helmet. Some of the bits of coral around them glowed with an eerie green radiance, and a tall frond of sea-weed had tiny specks of light on the tips of its constantly waving leaves. Then, far off to the left, Gerry caught a faint glow. It was hard to tell what kind of a light it was, so great was the refraction of the water, but there was something there. It was little more than a lessening of the deep gloom that otherwise surrounded them on all sides. Gerry got to his feet and picked up his rubber saddle which he had been using as a pillow under his helmet. "We'd better investigate," he said. "Wake Closana." They saddled their dolphins and rode out at an easy pace, holding the big fish down with a tight rein. As they rode the glow ahead of them became more definite. It seemed to come from a long row of twenty or more lights. Then they were near enough to see each other in the reflected glow. "It's some kind of a ship," Gerry said. "Those lights are her port holes!" "It's more than that!" snapped Angus. "It's the _Viking_! I know the lines of her stern anywhere, even in this sunken and God forsaken spot!" The space-ship lay quietly in the soft mud of this part of the ocean bottom. All her port holes of transparent duralite were glowing with the reflected light from inside. The twisted wrecks of her helicopters were still visible on top of the hull, but otherwise she did not appear to be damaged. Gerry was in the middle as the three of them rode their dolphins up close to one of the big windows of the control room. The ship had evidently survived the fall into the water, for they could see dim figures moving about inside.
45549_457	adventure stories	Craine, E. J. (Edith Janice)	"I don't expect to be more than half an hour." "We'll wait here," Jim promised. "Oh, look at the hydroplane," shouted a small boy on the shore. "They are calling Her Highness names," Bob scowled. "She's a hydroplane for the minute," Jim replied. "Let's taxi around the water." "It's getting kind of rough. Up at North Hero it was as smooth as a sheet," Bob answered. "Wish I knew more about water and its tricks." "I think we're going to have a blow," Jim speculated as Her Highness went rocking over the waves. "There are some black clouds over south and west and they sure do look as if they are in a hurry. We'll have them on our tail as we go back. Got plenty of gas? I read that in some places Lake Champlain is three hundred feet deep, and it's wet clear to the bottom," said Bob. "There's an extra tank besides what is in the bus. Guess I'll feed her up. Somehow, I think a nice Texas desert is pleasanter to land on than water." Jim busied himself with the task and Bob helped look things over. "Why don't you go back above the shore?" he suggested. "We have to land on the cove when we get home, so why switch gears. If there's time this evening, we might locate a place to land on the farm, but we'll have to ask your uncle about that or we'll be coming down on some field he's planted." "O.K. with me." "Whoooo boys," Mr. Fenton shouted from the pier where he was standing with a group of men and an army of small boys who had come to see the take off. "An audience. Do your prettiest, Your Highness," Bob urged the plane as his step-brother brought it around in fancy style. "It isn't every farmer who has a couple of pilots to bring him to town in a private plane, free of charge," one of the men joked. "Certainly looks like the farmers are getting some relief," another added. "They are going up in the air about it." "It's time we did something," Mr. Fenton responded. "Shall I get in now, Jim?" "Sure."
45870_1882	adventure stories	Phillipps-Wolley, Clive	he cried in the bitterness of his spirit, "is this nothing unto Thee? Dost Thou see what man has done?" And even then, while the infinitely small pleaded from the depth of the forest to the Infinitely Mighty, a little wind came and shook the tops of the pines, and the dawn came. Thereafter, as far as Corbett knew, time ceased. Only the pines went by and the trail slipped past under his feet, until, in spite of all his efforts, and although the trees seemed still to go past him, he himself stood still. Then there came a humming in the air and the thunder of a great river in his ears, and the earth began to rise and fall, and suddenly it was night! * * * * * * * * It was on a Monday morning that Ned Corbett started from Williams Creek to search for Cruickshank, and on Saturday old Bacon Brown from Oregon brought his train into Antler, and with it a tall, fair-haired man, whom he had found upon the trail some fifteen miles back he said--a man whom he guessed had had the "jim-jams" pretty bad, "and come mighty nigh to sending in his chips, you bet." CHAPTER XV. IN THE DANCE-HOUSE. "Chassey to the right, chassey to the left, swing your partners round, and all promenade!" sang Old Dad, fiddler and master of ceremonies at Antler, British Columbia. It was early in June. The moon was riding high above the pine-trees, and the men of the night-shifts were dropping in one by one for a dance with Lilla and Katchen before going to supper. Claw-hammer coats and boiled shirts were not insisted upon in the Antler dance-house, so most of the men swaggered in in their gray suits and long gum boots, all splashed with blue mud, and took their waltz just as we should take our sherry and bitters, as a pleasant interlude between business and dinner. Some fellows found time to eat and sleep, and a few were said to wash, but no one could afford to waste time in changing his clothes at the Cariboo gold-mines in '62. When your overalls wore out you just handed your dust over the store-keeper's counter and got into a new pair right there, and some fellows took off their gum boots when they lay down for a sleep. Wasn't that change enough?
43374_2078	adventure stories	Allen, Willis Boyd	A cable car took them to and from the lake, and beside the road they could see lots of land offered for sale at high foot-rates, with tall forest-trees still standing in them; others, partly built upon, and occupied by fine dwelling-houses, with the back yard full of charred stumps. The busiest streets of the city, like those of Tacoma, were "paved" with four-inch planks. Electric cars, as well as those run by cable, dashed to and fro with startling speed. The air was so filled with smoke from forest fires that ships in the harbor could hardly be distinguished from the shore. A day's ride through a wonderfully fertile country brought them to Portland, Oregon, where Randolph's first move was to hunt up Bert Martin. Bert and Susie were overjoyed to see their old friends. They lived in a pretty cottage not far from the railroad station, and Randolph had to bring Kittie, Pet, Tom, Fred and Bess to take tea with them. When supper was finished, and the young people had talked over the dear old Latin School days, and the gay summer at the Isles of Shoals, Bert got a step-ladder and gathered handfuls of red roses from the trellis over the front door, where they grew in true Oregonian abundance. Tom and Susie got on marvelously well together, and the former showed a singular eagerness to have Bert correspond with him, after he should have arrived home in the East. From Portland the managers had provided their travelers with a little two-day side trip to the Dalles. They rode in the cars all one afternoon along the southern shore of the Columbia, stopping to scramble up a steep hillside to the foot of the beautiful Multnomah Falls, and arriving at Dalles just after dark. Randolph and Fred were the only ones who cared to explore the town, which they conscientiously did, traveling miles, they averred, over the plank sidewalks, and hopelessly losing their way on several occasions; but turning up in good season at last at the depot. The train was side-tracked here, and tooting and puffing engines, shifting freight cars, kept sleep from the eyes of most of the party. At daybreak they rose and made their way sleepily down to the river, where a steamer was waiting for them. Back they went, down the river to Portland. A thick fog hid the "mountainous and precipitous cliffs" and "bold headlands" which the guide-book promised them.
37466_1329	western stories	Calhoun, A. R. (Alfred Rochefort)	repeated Wah, puzzled as to the meaning. "Yes; yeh see he’s sleepin’ now like a angel." "Dunno; me nebel see angel. W’at him?" Without attempting to enlighten Wah as to the nature of angels, of which it must be confessed he had only a vague conception himself, Ike said. "We must let him sleep right straight ’long till de mornin’; den w’en he gits up an’ rubs his eyes an’ sees it’s daylight, he’ll be dat s’prised ho won’t know w’at to say. Won’t dat be a trick?" "Him belly nice tlick," chuckled Wah. "Heap muchee fun. Let ’im sleep; you, me watchee till sun him come top-side galore. Ike, you gottee heap big head," and Wah patted the black boy’s head in a way that showed affection and approval. A generous master makes faithful servants. We do not know whether this is an adage or not, but it sounds as if it ought to be. So weary was poor Sam that Ike and Wah Shin might have slept through the night without his knowing it, but it did not require his watchful presence to make them dutiful. They divided the night into two reliefs, each taking a half and doing his duty with the fine sense of pleasure that came from the knowledge that they were cheating Sam into a long and much needed rest. Sam certainly was much surprised when he got up in the morning and saw the flush of day in the strip of sky far overhead and the light coming into the depths of the cañon. He was certainly much refreshed by his rest, and when he saw Ike smiling near by, he at once guessed what had been done. "Why didn’t you wake me up?" he asked. Ike laughed and at once told him of "the trick" he and Wah Shin had played. Sam was much touched by this evidence of thoughtfulness and devotion, and he fastened it in his memory, that it might be easily recalled if the chance ever came to show his appreciation in another form than words. This was the first morning that they were wholly without food since starting on their journey. All were decidedly hungry, but not a word was said about eating. Even Ike, always ready to show he had an appetite, felt that it would be somewhat personal to talk about "grub," but at heart he blamed himself for having eat so much the day before.
50847_133	science fiction	Smith, Evelyn E.	" "Very, very touching," Michael agreed. "Are they sick or something?" "Oh, no; they wouldn't have been permitted on the bus if they were. They're just homesick. Sirians love being homesick. That's why they leave Sirius in such great numbers." "Fasten your suction disks, please," the stewardess, a pretty two-headed Denebian, ordered as she walked up and down the gangway. "We're coming into Portyork. I have an announcement to make to all passengers on behalf of the United Universe. Zosma was admitted into the Union early this morning." All the passengers cheered. "Since it is considered immodest on Zosma," she continued, "ever to appear with the heads bare, henceforward it will be tabu to be seen in public without some sort of head-covering." Wild scrabbling sounds indicated that all the passengers were searching their packs for headgear. Michael unearthed a violet cap. The salesmen unfolded what looked like a medieval opera hat in piercingly bright green. "Always got to keep on your toes," he whispered to the younger man. "The Universe is expanding every minute." The bus settled softly on the landing field and the passengers flew, floated, crawled, undulated, or walked out. Michael looked around him curiously. The Lodge had contained no extraterrestrials, for such of those as sought seclusion had Brotherhoods on their own planets. Of course, even in Angeles he had seen other-worlders--humanoids from Vega, scaly Electrans, the wispy ubiquitous Sirians--but nothing to compare with the crowds that surged here. Scarlet Meropians rubbed tentacles with bulging-eyed Talithans; lumpish gray Jovians plodded alongside graceful, spidery Nunkians. And there were countless others whom he had seen pictured in books, but never before in reality. The gaily colored costumes and bodies of these beings rendered kaleidoscopic a field already brilliant with red-and-green lights and banners. The effect was enhanced by Mr. Carpenter, whose emerald-green cloak was drawn back to reveal a chartreuse tunic and olive-green breeches which had apparently been designed for a taller and somewhat less pudgy man. * * * * * Carpenter rubbed modestly gloved hands together. "I have no immediate business, so supposing I start showing you the sights. What would you like to see first, Mr. Frey? Or would you prefer a nice, restful movid?" "Frankly," Michael admitted, "the first thing I'd like to do is get myself something to eat.
18563_2063	western stories	Sinclair, Bertrand W.	So we resolved ourselves into a committee of ways and means and decided that since the footing promised to be normal in the morning the troop would likely scatter out, might even move camp, and therefore it behooved us to get in touch with them at once; accordingly Piegan rode away to spend the night in the Police tents, with a tale of horses strayed from Baker's outfit to account for his wandering. From our nook in the ridge he could easily make it by riding a little after dark. "Goodell and Gregory and Hicks you know," said MacRae. "Bevans is a second edition of Hicks, only not so tall by two or three inches--a square-shouldered, good-looking brute, with light hair and steel-gray eyes and a short brown mustache. He has an ugly scar--a knife-cut--across the back of one hand; you can't mistake him if you get sight of him. Stick around the camp in the morning if you can manage it, till they start, and notice which way all those fellows go. The sooner we get our hands on one or more of them the better we'll be able to get at the bottom of this; I reckon we could find a way to make him talk. Of course, if anything out of the ordinary comes up you'll have to use your own judgment; you know just as much as we do, now. And we'll wait here for you unless they jump us up. In that case we'll try and round up somewhere between here and Ten Mile." "Right yuh are, old-timer," Piegan responded. "I'll do the best I can. Yuh want t' keep your eye glued t' that peep-glass in the mornin', and not overlook no motions. Yuh kain't tell what might come up. So-long!" And away he went. When he was gone from sight we built a tiny fire in the scrub--for it was twilight, at which time keen eyes are needed to detect either smoke or fire, except at close range--and cooked our supper. That done, we smothered what few embers remained and laid us down to sleep. That wasn't much of a success, however. We had got into action again, with more of a chance to bring about certain desired results, and inevitably we laid awake reckoning up the chances for and against a happy conclusion to our little expedition.
54632_1092	adventure stories	Palmer, Don	The telegraph company agent promised to telephone us here if there is any answer.” “What about Stony?” Ken questioned, after a moment. “Police haven’t caught that fellow who attacked him?” “No. We dropped around at the station. Apparently, Jarrett Walz was right—the investigation won’t be carried on with any vigor.” “What—about the arrangements—Stony’s burial?” “Tomorrow at 10 A.M. The town is providing for a simple service.” “Not Walz, then?” “He’s contributing a small amount.” “I’d like to chip in for flowers,” Jack said soberly. “Even if our money is short, we can manage it, can’t we?” “Yes, Jack,” Mr. Livingston nodded. “While we were in town, we arranged for a wreath. It seemed the least we could do. Stony was a stranger and yet, somehow, he moved us all deeply.” “I got a queer feeling about him,” War added, staring at his plate. “What kind of feeling?” Ken asked. “It’s hard to explain.” War groped for words. “It’s as if his ghost were here—sort o’ nudging us on—saying we should follow the lead he gave us.” No one laughed. Finally, Mr. Livingston said, “If we hear from Craig Warner, and Elks Creek isn’t too many miles out of our way, we could deliver the map.” This thought at once caused the Explorers to become more cheerful. “About going on to Buckhorn—” War began, but Mr. Livingston shook his head. “It’s a matter of time and money, Warwick. After all, we’ve had our vacation.” “And a dandy one it was!” announced Jack, beginning to gather up the cups. “I’m not going to grieve over Old Stony’s hidden gold. Quit your coaxing, War, and get those dishes done!” Shortly after 2 P. M., as the Scouts restlessly idled about camp, they saw Jarrett Walz drive up. From the way he slammed the door as he went into the motel office, they judged he was in a bad mood. This was made even more evident a few minutes later when he tramped down the road to ask them if they had decided when they would leave Rocking Horse. “Tomorrow some time, probably,” Mr. Livingston told him. “Our town seems to have quite an attraction for you.”
30836_4478	detective and mystery stories	Biggers, Earl Derr	"It seems I'm just in time," he said, "to prevent highway robbery." "You think so?" asked Magee. "See here, young man," remarked Hayden, glancing nervously over his shoulder, "I can't waste any time in talk. Does that money belong to you? No. Well, it does belong to me. I'm going to have it. Don't think I'm afraid to shoot to get it. The law permits a man to fire on the thief who tries to fleece him." "The law, did you say?" laughed Billy Magee. "I wouldn't drag the law into this if I were you, Mr. Hayden. I'm sure it has no connection with events on Baldpate Mountain. You would be the last to want its attention to be directed here. I've got this money, and I'm going to keep it." Hayden considered a brief moment, and then swore under his breath. "You're right," he said. "I'm not going to shoot. But there are other ways, you whipper-snapper--" He dropped the revolver into his pocket and sprang forward. For the second time within ten minutes Mr. Magee steadied himself for conflict. But Hayden stopped. Some one had entered the room through the window behind Magee. In the dim light of the single candle Magee saw Hayden's face go white, his lip twitch, his eyes glaze with horrible surprise. His arms fell limply to his sides. "Good God! Kendrick!" he cried. The voice of the man with whom Billy Magee had but a moment before struggled on the balcony answered: "Yes, Hayden. I'm back." Hayden wet his lips with his tongue. "What--what brought you?" he asked, his voice trailing off weakly on the last word. "What brought me?" Suddenly, as from a volcano that had long been cold, fire blazed up in Kendrick's eyes. "If a man knew the road from hell back home, what would it need to bring him back?" Hayden stood with his mouth partly open; almost a grotesque picture of terror he looked in that dim light. Then he spoke, in an odd strained tone, more to himself than to any one else. "I thought you were dead," he said. "I told myself you'd never come back. Over and over--in the night--I told myself that.
64757_738	western stories	Coburn, Walt	I kin still hold down a job punchin’ cows.” “And I kin beat ary round-up cook that ever burned a batch uh beans er turned a mess wagon over,” added Ma Basset bravely. “Yuh mind that fall when I cooked fer the outfit, Hank, and drove two broncs fer wheelers? I can do it again, too.” Tad, a vise-like grip on his partner’s arm, backed quietly away from the door. On tiptoe they retreated to the bunkhouse. Then, with careless step and a whistle coming discordantly from Tad’s pursed lips, they again approached the kitchen. Ma Basset’s eyes showed faint signs of redness and Hank seemed somewhat ill at ease. He led them back into the front room. “Biscuits ain’t quite done,” he explained, waving the two punchers to chairs. He moved stealthily to a cupboard and reached a hand in behind the curtain. It came forth holding a brown bottle. “Ma keeps it fer snake bite,” he whispered. “Have a nip?” But before he could hand the bottle to the expectant Shorty, an approaching step sounded from the kitchen. Hank deftly slid the bottle back behind the curtain, a second before his wife appeared in the doorway. In Ma Basset’s hand was a piece of raw beefsteak and a strip of cloth. “Fer your eye,” she told Shorty, and forthwith tied the piece of meat over the swollen and discolored member. “Your pardner was a-tellin’ me how you fell off your hoss and bunged that eye up,” she smiled, standing aside to survey the bandage critically. “Hoss th’owed me?” returned Shorty dazedly. “Shucks, I——” “Nothin’ to be ashamed of,” she replied. “There ain’t a bronc rider livin’ that ain’t got it some time er another.” “Never was a rider that never got th’owed,” chanted Tad, trying in vain to catch his partner’s eye. “Never was a bronc that never got rode,” he finished the rime. But Shorty did not see. Hank was shifting uneasily in his rawhide-bottomed chair. He too, seemed to be trying to convey a silent message of some sort to Shorty. “But, ma’am, I——” “Ma, ain’t them biscuits a burnin’?” Hank was sniffing the air like a hound scenting a fox. Ma, her thoughts diverted to the bread, made her way hastily to the kitchen.
37913_1251	detective and mystery stories	Landon, Herman	This easy and carefree existence is demoralizing you completely." The other placed a stack of newspapers and a few letters on the table, then slumped into a chair and gazed ruefully down at the protruding curvature of his stomach. "I know, boss. I piled on two more pounds last week. Pretty soon I won't be able to go for the mail any more. If you'd only say the word, I'd round up the old gang, and we'd turn a few more tricks like the ones we used to pull in the good old days. I'd work off this fat in no time." The Phantom shook his head. "No, Wade. You will have to try some other form of fat reducer. I am through with the old life for good. It was exciting while it lasted, but the novelty has worn off. It was only a sort of emotional eruption, anyhow." Wade scowled, then delivered himself of a startling exclamation: "Hang the women!" The Phantom raised his brows in surprise. "What's your grievance against the fair sex, Wade? Hanging is pretty serious business, you know. What atrocious crime have the women perpetrated against you to deserve such cruel punishment? You don't look like a man suffering the pangs of unrequited love. Your heart is intact, I hope?" "Oh, my heart's all right," Wade complained. "It's yours that I'm worrying about. Lately I haven't been able to dope you out at all, boss. If I didn't know you as well as I do, I'd say you've gone plumb dippy. There was a time not so long ago when you went in for big game--real he-man stuff. There were a lot of men on the police force who used to have a funny feeling around the solar plexus whenever The Gray Phantom's name was spoken. You cut some fancy didos in those days, boss. Now--now you're poking seeds into the ground and talking of reforming." Wade made a gesture of great disgust. "Granted," said The Phantom, smiling, "but is that any reason for exterminating the feminine sex?" "You bet it is. The trouble with you is that you've got too much girl on the brain, boss. You were all right until that pretty little skirt with the big baby eyes happened along." "Oh, you mean Miss Hardwick?" There was an odd tension in The Phantom's tones.
42625_1065	love stories	Reynolds, Baillie, Mrs.	I never got beyond Xenophon. But I am rather keen on Plato when translated. Meanwhile, for a change, let me ask you one or two questions. Of whom does the family at the Pele consist? Your mother did not mention you. She said she was a widow, and I presumed that she lived alone." "She doesn’t. I live there too. If you’d known that, you wouldn’t have come, would you?" "No, I shouldn’t," she answered simply and naturally; and could see at once that this was not the reply he had expected. He leaned back in his chair and stared without speaking. "You might ring the bell," she suggested. With a start he rose and did as she asked. When Deb appeared to change the plates, he put his elbows on the table and glanced up, a mocking gleam under his lids. "Deb, this young lady knows all about Plato. What d’you think of that?" "Plato? What’s that, Master Nin? Some kind of a silver polish! I haven’t seen it advertised!" His shout caused her to pause in the process of removing the dishes, and give him a smart slap across the shoulders. "You dare to laugh at me!" said she, beaming. "Oh, you’re a rascal, if ever one was born in the north. There’s Shino; and all these havering new fancies, and I nobbut thought Plato was another of ’em." "Deb, you’re priceless! I want to kiss you for that! Hang it, a man must kiss somebody, and Flossie says she’s too old to be kissed any more!" "Away with your nonsense, Master Nin! What do you suppose yoong lass thinks of ’e?" said Deb, somewhat tartly, escaping with her tray, while Olwen, with downturned lip, sat silent in her place crumbling bread and trying not to laugh. The lamplight gilded those tendrils of hair, so dear to Ben—like the bits that escape from the coif of a Ghirlandajo Madonna. It also accentuated the curves at the corners of her mouth, where a dimple lurked betrayingly. Deb brought back an apple-pie, and a little brown ewer filled with thick cream. She placed the dish before Olwen, who cut a piece for her _vis-à-vis_ in complete silence. "No more questions to ask me?" he demanded at length.
43944_4104	science fiction	Aubrey, Frank	"And what do you suppose will happen--here?" She sighed and shook her head, hopelessly, despairingly. "Only what always happens," she answered, in a dull, listless tone. "None that are once placed here ever escape the fatal tree; except that sometimes they are carried up above and laid on what they call 'the devil-tree's ladle.'" "'The devil-tree's ladle?'" "Yes; it is a contrivance on wheels; a kind of long plank shaped at one end like a great spoon. Those who are to be given to the tree are laid upon it, bound so that they cannot move, and then pushed out along the stone-work till they are within reach of the branches; those who push the plank at the other end being far enough away for their own safety. It is part of the system of terrorism and torture here," Fernina added, "to place some of us, at times, in rooms that are in the rock above, and that overlook this place, and to keep us locked in there for days and nights, that we may be cowed and frightened at the scenes that are enacted here. Often, a hateful fascination compels you to become an unwilling witness; in any case, you cannot avoid hearing the shrieks and moans; imagination supplies the rest." Leonard turned away, not caring to hear more, and sat down to brood, eating his heart out with keen regrets, all now unavailing. The jeering of the half-mad wretch in the other cell had ceased; he, too, had fallen into a sort of brooding lethargy, and so was quiet; but a constant tap, tap, tap, of one foot on the stone floor told he was not asleep. Thus the hours dragged by in silence, save for the intermittent, stealthy rustle of the branches outside, as they came prowling over the face of the gratings in their sleepless seeking after the prey they seemed to scent within. Once, a small grating at the bottom of the door of each cell was opened, and a platter with coarse food upon it was pushed in; then the space closed up again. The sounds made them all, for the moment, start; then they relapsed again into the stupor of despair. None touched the food or even noticed it. But the man in the further cell had now seated himself near the little stream of water and, every now and then, he roused himself to take long draughts.
45870_1216	adventure stories	Phillipps-Wolley, Clive	"Are you all set?" asked Cruickshank. "All set," replied Chance. "Then the sooner you 'get' the better. It will be as much as your heathen can do to make the journey in time, I'll bet." "Why, is the trail a very bad one?" "Oh, it's all much like this, but it's most of it uphill, and there may be some snow on the top. But you can't miss your way with all these tracks in front." "You will be in yourself a day or two after us, won't you?" asked Corbett. "Yes. If you don't make very good time I daresay I shall, although the snow may delay the ponies some. But don't you worry about them. I'll take care of the ponies, you can trust me for that." "Then, if you will be in so soon, I won't trouble to take anything except one blanket and my rifle," remarked Ned. "Oh, take your rocker. It looks more business-like; and, besides, all the millionaires go in with 'nothing but a rocker-iron for their whole kit, and come out worth their weight in gold.'" There was a mocking ring in Cruickshank's voice as he said this, at variance with his oily smile, but Steve Chance took his words in good faith. Steve still believed in the likelihood of his becoming a millionaire at one stroke of the miner's pick. "I guess you're right, colonel. I'll take my rocker-iron, whatever else I leave behind. Lend a hand to fix it on to my pack, will you?" and then, when Cruickshank had done this, Steve added with a laugh: "I shall consider you entitled to (what shall we say?) one per cent on the profits of the mine when in full swing, for your services, colonel." "Don't promise too much, Chance. You don't know what sort of a gold-mine you are giving away yet;" and the speaker bent over a refractory strap in Steve's pack to hide an ugly gleam of white teeth, which might have had a meaning even for such an unsuspicious fool as Ned Corbett, who at this moment picked up his Winchester and held out his hand to Cruickshank. "Good-bye, colonel," he said.
47738_4293	adventure stories	Stephens, Robert Neilson	"How now? The beast is not here!" He came back into the hall, looking puzzled. "Perhaps the old man hath put him under roof," suggested Ermsby. Jerningham went to the kitchen door and called Jeremy, who averred he had not been near the horse since he had tied it outside the porch. "'Twas ill tied, no doubt," said Jerningham, "and hath got loose and sought shelter. Belike you left the stable door open. Go and see; and look in all the penthouses, too." Jeremy went out. His return was awaited in silence, Jerningham pacing the hall, Sir Clement staying motionless at the table's edge, Ravenshaw sitting upon the stool before Millicent's room. She had not closed the door; she remained upon the pallet, able to see a little of the hall, but herself out of the light that came in through the doorway. Her thoughts were in confusion; at last they became so clouded that, obeying the impulse of fatigue, she lay down on the pallet, without heed of the act; soon she was in a state between anxious waking and a troubled dream. Jeremy came back, dripping, and said the horse was not to be found. Berating him for stupidity, his master sent him back to the kitchen. Jerningham presently sat down upon a chair near the table against which Sir Clement stood. Slowly the minutes passed, while the heavy beat of the rain against the casements was the only sound. Once Jerningham called out: "Is all well with you, mistress?" Millicent, brought to a sense of her whereabouts after a moment's bewilderment, answered: "Yes, I thank you." The silence fell again. At last Jerningham said to Sir Clement: "Those rascals yonder need not have all the good cheer to themselves. There's better drink than ale left in the house." He rose, and summoned Meg from the kitchen. "Fetch wine," said he. Meg, returning to the kitchen, presently reappeared therefrom with a flagon and a pewter drinking cup. "First fill a cup, I pray you," said Jerningham, "and carry it to the lady in yonder room." She poured out a cupful, set the flagon on the table, and approached the door at which Ravenshaw sat. "Nay, you shall not pass here," quoth the captain. "What, will you deny the unhappy lady that small comfort?" said Jerningham, while Meg paused.
64125_704	detective and mystery stories	Robertson, Alexander, M.D.	“Can you fix it?” he heard her ask. “I will try, Marian,” was the reply. That name—it confirmed the detective’s worst fears—he could believe anything now. The Lady of Cards handed her mask to her companion, who immediately endeavored to refasten the string that had broken loose. Meanwhile she stood with her face bared, looking out upon the throng. What a miserable thing it was that the light was so poor under the gallery. Darrell just then would have given a hundred dollars for one good square look at her face. Oh, for an electric torch to suddenly light up the scene and reveal those features to his gaze. He used his eyes to the utmost, but it was not at all satisfactory, for her face was in the shadow; but he had an idea she was very like the picture he had looked at recently—the photograph of Lillian’s sister. Presently the bull fighter had succeeded in re-securing the string. He tied the mask on for her. His manner was very courtly and gentle, but one spectator did not enjoy it at all. This was Eric. His thoughts would go, in spite of him, to that heavenly room where he had left a sweet and faithful wife waiting for her Joe to return. Somehow Eric felt savage to-night, and he wondered whether it would not serve this man just right if he did get into trouble with some of the envious young beaux who followed him about as though only waiting a good chance to carry off his partner by force. A traitor deserved such punishment. “I’ll never believe in a man again,” said Eric to himself, filled with shame and disgust for his sex; “by Jove! they’re all alike, a miserable crowd of deceivers, every one.” He forgot that he belonged to the same sex, and that his very indignation proved his words exaggerated, since he could not share in such evil plottings, and there must be others like him. He wandered up and down. Now and then he saw the couple, but much of the time they were lost to his view. Darrell remained near the exit. It was nearly twelve o’clock, when the order to unmask would be given. Some who did not care to remain and be recognized were already flitting. He believed those whom he watched would do likewise, and it was his desire to get outside at the same time to hear the directions given to the driver if any were uttered.
29572_1779	western stories	Spearman, Frank H. (Frank Hamilton)	" "It certainly is. But in matter of fact we must cross on the survey agreed on in the contract for a right-of-way deed." "I don't recognize any contract obtained under false representations." "Do you accuse me of false representations?" Lance Dunning flipped the ash from his cigar. "Who are you?" "I am just a plain, every-day civil engineer, but you must not talk false representations in any contract drawn under my hand." "I am talking facts. Whispering Smith may have rigged the joker--I don't know. Whoever rigged it, it has been rigged all right." "Any charge against Whispering Smith is a charge against me. He is not here to defend himself, but he needs no defence. You have charged me already with misleading surveys. I was telephoned for this morning to come over to see why you had held up our work, and your men cover me with rifles while I am riding on a public road." "You have been warned, or your men have, to keep off this ranch. Your man Stevens cut our wires this morning----" "As he had a perfect right to do on our right of way." "If you think so, stranger, go ahead again!" "Oh, no! We won't have civil war--not right away, at least. And if you and your men have threatened and browbeaten me enough for to-day, I will go." "Don't set foot on the Stone Ranch again, and don't send any men here to trespass, mark you!" "I mark you perfectly. I did not set foot willingly on your ranch to-day. I was dragged on it. Where the men are grading now, they will finish their work." "No, they won't." "What, would you drive us off land you have already deeded?" "The first man that cuts our wires or orders them cut where they were strung yesterday will get into trouble." "Then don't string any wires on land that belongs to us, for they will certainly come down if you do." Lance Dunning turned in a passion. "I'll put a bullet through you if you touch a barb of Stone Ranch wire!" Stormy Gorman jumped forward with his hand covering the grip of his six-shooter. "Yes, damn you, and I'll put another!" "Cousin Lance!"
50847_56	science fiction	Smith, Evelyn E.	" "Is there any way of turning that thing off?" Michael wanted to know. The other man smiled. "If there were, my boy, do you think anybody would watch it? Furthermore, turning it off would violate the spirit of free enterprise. We wouldn't want that, would we?" "Oh, no!" Michael agreed hastily. "Certainly not." "And it might hurt the advertiser's feelings, cause him ego injury." "How could I ever have had such a ridiculous idea?" Michael murmured, abashed. "Allow me to introduce myself," said his companion. "My name is Pierce B. Carpenter. Aphrodisiacs are my line. Here's my card." He handed Michael a transparent tab with the photograph of Mr. Carpenter suspended inside, together with his registration number, his name, his address, and the Universal seal of approval. Clearly he was a character of the utmost respectability. "My name's Michael Frey," the young man responded, smiling awkwardly. "I'm afraid I don't have any cards." "Well, you wouldn't have had any use for them where you were. Now, look here, son," Carpenter went on in a lowered voice, "I know you've just come from the Lodge and the mistakes you'll make will be through ignorance rather than deliberate malice. But the police wouldn't understand. You know what the sacred writings say: 'Ignorance of The Law is no excuse.' I'd be glad to give you any little tips I can. For instance, your hands...." Michael spread his hands out in front of him. They were perfectly good hands, he thought. "Is there something wrong with them?" Carpenter blushed and looked away. "Didn't you know that on Electra it is forbidden for anyone to appear in public with his hands bare?" "Of course I know that," Michael said impatiently. "But what's that got to do with me?" The salesman was wide-eyed. "But if it is forbidden on Electra, it becomes automatically prohibited here." "But Electrans have eight fingers on each hand," Michael protested, "with two fingernails on each--all covered with green scales." Carpenter drew himself up as far as it was possible to do so while lying down.
63045_4022	love stories	LM (Leslie Moore)	She could get no further. He stopped her with such kisses that she was frightened at his vehemence. "Enough," he said. "We belong to each other. One day I will claim you." "And till then?" she asked. "For a time," he said steadily, "we must not meet. It is--wiser not." "Because--of what I said?" she asked. The crimson colour had covered her face and neck. "No," he answered quietly, "but because I am only a man, and very human." And there was something in his voice that told her not to gainsay him. "But at least we will write," she said. "No." "Why not?" "It would be almost the same as seeing you. There would come a day when the sight of your writing would shake my resolve. You, if you wrote, could only tell me all that was in your heart. What use else to write? I should hear your heart calling mine, as mine will call to you. And then one day my resolution would fail. And if it did I should hate myself, and count myself unworthy to come near you again." "Then never, dear heart," she whispered. And there was a little silence too sad for words or tears. It was Sara who broke it. "Christopher used to say," she said, with a little shaky laugh, "that I could cheat the Fates. This time I cannot. They have dealt me a hand full of little spades, and every one of them is digging the grave of my happiness." "Ah, my dearest," he said. She disengaged herself gently from him. "And since for a time at least we both must die," she said, "we had better die at once. A lingering death is so painful." Her voice shook. "Good-bye, Paul. Don't come with me. I want to go home alone." "Good-bye, Beloved." Again their eyes met. And he caught her to him. She felt his body shaking. "Paul," she whispered. "Beloved." And then he took her to the door and held it open for her. She went out through the courtyard in the twilight of the summer evening.
36170_1072	western stories	Cullum, Ridgwell	"It's not a heap of use blaming grafters for their graft. They can't help it, any more than you can help scrappin' when a feller hits your wad on the crook. Graft--why, I just hate to think of the ways of graft. But you can't get through life without it; anyway, not life on this earth. I used to think graft a specialty of this country, but guess I was wrong. I'd localized. It don't belong to any one country more than another. It belongs to life; to our human civilization. It's the time limit of life causes the trouble. Nature makes it a cinch we've all got to be rounded up in the get-rich-quick corral. We start life foolish. Then for a while we get a sight more foolish. Then for a few mousy years we take on quite a nice bunch of sense. After that we start getting foolish again, and then the time limit comes right down on the backs of our necks like an ax. Well, I guess those years of sense are so mighty few we've got to get rich quick against the time we start on the foolish racket again, and graft, of one sort or another, is the short cut necessary. "You see, there's every sort of graft. All through life we're looking around for something we ain't got. Did you ever see a kid around his parents? Graft; it's all graft. No kiddy ever acted right because he fancied that way. He's lookin' ahead fer something he's needing, and his pop or his momma are the folks to pass it along to him. Did you ever know a kid take his physic without the promise of candy, or the certainty it would come his way? That's graft. Say, ain't the gal you fancy the biggest graft of all? You don't get nowhere with her without graft. She'll eat up everything you can hand her, from automobiles and jewels down to five-cent candy. Then when you've started getting old and sick and foolish again, having grafted a pile out of life yourself, don't every grafter you ever knew come around an' hand you cures and listen to your senile wisdom just as though they thought you the greatest proposition ever and hated to see you sick? That's graft. You've got a pile and they're needin' it." The twinkle in the big man's eyes while he was talking found a joyous response in Gordon's.
10608_1307	love stories	Smith, Arthur Cosslett	Thanks to its fervent heat, love there comes ready-made. "Yes," said Abdullah, "I have tarried, but now that I have come, I stay forever;" and he took her in his arms. "When did you love me first?" she whispered, half-released. "When first I saw you, behind the green lattice," gasped Abdullah. "Ah, that green lattice," whispered the girl; "how small its openings were. And still, my heart flew through them when first you passed. How proudly you walked. Walk for me now--here, in the firelight, where I may see you--not so slowly with your eyes turned toward me, but swiftly, smoothly, proudly, your head held high--that's it--that is the way you passed my lattice, and as you passed my heart cried out, 'There goes my king.' Did you not hear it?" "No," said Abdullah; "my own heart cried so loudly I heard naught else." "What did it cry? What cries it now?" she said; and she placed her cheek against his bosom, her ear above his heart. "I hear it," she whispered, "but it beats so fast I cannot understand." "Then," said Abdullah, "I must tell thee with my lips." "Oh, beloved," she whispered, "the camels will see us." "What matters," he said; "they belong to me." "Then they are my brethren," she said, "since I, also, belong to thee," and with arms entwined they passed out of the fire-light into the purple of the desert. * * * * * When they came back, the hobbled camels were snoring, and the unfed fires were smouldering. "Allah keep thee," said Abdullah, at the door of her tent. "And thee, my master," said the girl, and the flaps fell. Abdullah went slowly toward his own tent. He stopped a moment by one of the lame camels. "Thou broughtest her to me," he said, and he eased the beast's surcingle by a dozen holes. He reached his tent, paused, faced the western horizon, lifted his arms, breathed in the sweet, cool air of the desert, and entered.
11379_577	love stories	Banks, Nancy Huston	The coffee was now ready, and Miss Penelope lifted the pot from its trivet, and, carrying it to the table, called everybody to supper. No affairs of state ever were, or ever could be, of sufficient importance in her eyes to justify letting the coffee get cold. Philip Alston went to her side with his deferential air, and told her that he could not stay for the evening meal. He explained that he was expecting several friends that night over the Wilderness Road. It was possible that they might already have arrived and were now awaiting him in his cabin. He must hasten homeward as fast as possible. So saying he took her bony little hand and bowed over it, and made another bow of precisely the same ceremony over the widow Broadnax's pudgy fingers. He always brought his finest tact to bear upon his acquaintance with these ladies. He looked around for Ruth and held out his hand. She came to him, and went with him to the door. They stood close together for a moment, talking with one another while the others were settling around the table. When he had mounted his horse and set out, she still stood gazing after him till the judge's voice, exclaiming, caused her to turn. "Call Alston back, if he isn't out of hearing!" he said. Ruth shook her head. Philip Alston always rode very fast. He was already out of sight in the falling night. "Pshaw! I never seem able to keep my mind on anything these days," the judge said, fretted with himself. "I fully meant to ask Alston to take that money to the salt-works. It wouldn't have been much out of his way. I don't know what makes me so forgetful lately--and always so drowsy. I promised faithfully to pay for that cargo of salt to-day, so that it would be on the river bank ready for loading when the flatboat comes to-morrow. The owner of the boat sent the money yesterday. I've got it here in my pocket. And the salt was to be delivered for cash; it will not be sent till it is paid for." He paused a moment in troubled thought. "David! Call that boy. He's always hidden off somewhere." "Here, sir," said David, standing up and coming out of the shadow beneath the stairs. "You will have to help me in this matter, my lad," said the judge, kindly, forgetting his momentary irritation.
9150_1691	adventure stories	Verne, Jules	He had left the opening of the grotto, and was evidently down at the water's edge. Imagining that Negoro must be coming, Dick sent three of the negroes in the direction of the river to meet him; but when they reached the bank not a soul could be seen, and as Dingo was quiet again, they made their way back to the grotto. Excepting the man left on watch, they now all lay down, hoping to get some repose. Mrs. Weldon, however, could not sleep. The land for which she had sighed so ardently had been reached, but it had failed to give either the security or the comfort which she had anticipated! CHAPTER XV. A STRANGER. At daybreak, next morning, Austin, who happened to be on guard, heard Dingo bark, and noticed that he started up and ran towards the river. Arousing the inmates of the grotto, he announced to them that some one was coming. "It isn't Negoro," said Tom; "Dingo would bark louder than that if Negoro were to be seen." "Who, then, can it be?" asked Mrs. Weldon, with an inquiring glance towards Dick. "We must wait and see, madam," replied Dick quietly. Bidding Bat, Austin, and Hercules follow his example, Dick Sands took up a cutlass and a rifle, into the breach of which he slipped a cartridge. Thus armed, the four young men made their way towards the river bank. Tom and Actæon were left with Mrs. Weldon at the entrance of the grotto. The sun was just rising. Its rays, intercepted by the lofty range of mountains in the east, did not fall directly on the cliff; but the sea to its western horizon was sparkling in the sunbeams as the party marched along the shore. Dingo was motionless as a setter, but did not cease barking. It soon proved not to be his old enemy who was disturbing him. A man, who was not Negoro, appeared round the angle of the cliff, and advancing cautiously along the bank of the stream, seemed by his gestures to be endeavouring to pacify the dog, with which an encounter would certainly have been by no means desirable. "That's not Negoro!" said Hercules. [Illustration: "Good morning, my young friend."] "No loss for any of us," muttered Bat.
1028_959	love stories	Brontë, Charlotte	I offered then but one alternative--submission and acknowledgment of error, or ignominious expulsion. This system answered, and my influence, by degrees, became established on a firm basis. “The boy is father to the man,” it is said; and so I often thought when looked at my boys and remembered the political history of their ancestors. Pelet’s school was merely an epitome of the Belgian nation. CHAPTER VIII. AND Pelet himself? How did I continue to like him? Oh, extremely well! Nothing could be more smooth, gentlemanlike, and even friendly, than his demeanour to me. I had to endure from him neither cold neglect, irritating interference, nor pretentious assumption of superiority. I fear, however, two poor, hard-worked Belgian ushers in the establishment could not have said as much; to them the director’s manner was invariably dry, stern, and cool. I believe he perceived once or twice that I was a little shocked at the difference he made between them and me, and accounted for it by saying, with a quiet sarcastic smile-- “Ce ne sont que des Flamands--allez!” And then he took his cigar gently from his lips and spat on the painted floor of the room in which we were sitting. Flamands certainly they were, and both had the true Flamand physiognomy, where intellectual inferiority is marked in lines none can mistake; still they were men, and, in the main, honest men; and I could not see why their being aboriginals of the flat, dull soil should serve as a pretext for treating them with perpetual severity and contempt. This idea, of injustice somewhat poisoned the pleasure I might otherwise have derived from Pelet’s soft affable manner to myself. Certainly it was agreeable, when the day’s work was over, to find one’s employer an intelligent and cheerful companion; and if he was sometimes a little sarcastic and sometimes a little too insinuating, and if I did discover that his mildness was more a matter of appearance than of reality--if I did occasionally suspect the existence of flint or steel under an external covering of velvet--still we are none of us perfect; and weary as I was of the atmosphere of brutality and insolence in which I had constantly lived at X----, I had no inclination now, on casting anchor in calmer regions, to institute at once a prying search after defects that were scrupulously withdrawn and carefully veiled from my view. I was willing to take Pelet for what he seemed--to believe him benevolent and friendly until some untoward event should prove him otherwise.
48963_1534	adventure stories	Bowen, Marjorie	To thee, maybe; thou art a boy, and of humble station. I am Von Schulembourg: orders scarcely tally with that name." He drew his mantle over his despised doublet, and stepped to the door, putting Tomaso aside and unheeding his entreaties. "Calm thyself, I shall be back long before the grim Veronese!" he said airily. "Were there light enough, there would be time to learn the game before he comes again." "I will learn from no one who so little knows his duty," cried Tomaso in hot wrath. But it was as impossible to anger Conrad as to stop him, and with a smile on his lips and a good-humored wave of his hand, he was gone. Gone, absolutely gone, out of sight, into the heart of danger and at the crucial moment, for a set of chessmen and for a lady's love-gift. After an undecided pause of utter vexation, Tomaso could not resist the impulse to start in pursuit after him. But Count Conrad was fleet of foot; he had disappeared, and Tomaso dared follow no farther, for Francisco might return at any moment, and to find them both gone would make bad worse. And scarcely had he re-entered the hut before he heard the sound of horses ridden cautiously, and in a few moments more Francisco turned into the open. He was mounted, Vittore in front of him, on a powerful black horse, and leading two others, and his face was animated with his triumph. "Thou see'st," he said, "we are well provided, though it has taken me all day. Now, to mount, without pause. Where is the Count?" "The Count," faltered Tomaso, half-crying with vexation, "the Count----" "Well, what of him?" said Francisco, pausing keenly. "He has gone back to the villa--to fetch something. Oh, Messer Francisco, prevent him I could not--he left but now----" "Gone back to the villa!" cried Francisco. "Did he rave? Is he in his senses?" Tomaso wrung his hands. "He went to fetch a dagger he remembered and some chessmen." With a cry of rage Francisco flung himself from his saddle. "Methinks I left a fool to guard a fool," he said. "Did I not tell thee to see Count Conrad kept from folly? Our lives are on it!"
29408_136	science fiction	Vincent, Harl	" Tom led him to an intricate apparatus which bore some resemblance to a television radio. There were countless vacuum tubes and their controls, tiny motors belted to slotted disks that would spin when power was applied, and a double eyepiece. "Before I let you look," Tom was saying, "I'll give you an idea of it, to prepare you. This is a mechanism I've developed for a study of the less-understood dimensions. The results have more than justified my expectations--they're astounding. Bert, we can actually see into these realms that were hitherto unexplored. We can examine at close range the life of these other planes. Think of it!" "Life--plane--dimensions?" said Bert blankly. "Remember, I know very little about this science of yours." * * * * * "Haven't you read the news-paper accounts of Einstein's researches and of others who have delved into the theory of relativity?" "Sa-ay! I read them, but they don't tell me a thing. It's over my head a mile." "Well, listen: this universe of ours--space and all it contains--is a thing of five dimensions, a continuum we have never begun to contemplate in its true complexity and immensity. There are three of its dimensions with which we are familiar. Our normal senses perceive and understand them--length, breadth and thickness. The fourth dimension, time, or, more properly, the time-space interval, we have only recently understood. And this fifth dimension, Bert, is something no man on earth has delved into--excepting myself." "You don't say." Bert was properly impressed; the old gleam of the enthusiastic scientist was in Tom's keen eyes. "Surest thing. I have called this fifth dimension the interval of oscillation, though the term is not precisely correct. It has to do with the arrangement, the speed and direction of movement, and the polarity of protonic and electronic energy charges of which matter is comprised. It upsets some of our old and accepted natural laws--one in particular. Bert, two objects can occupy the same space at the same time, though only one is perceptible to our earthbound senses. Their differently constituted atoms exist in the same location without interference--merely vibrating in different planes. There are many such planes in this fifth dimension of space, all around us, some actually inhabited.
35833_2496	detective and mystery stories	McCulley, Johnston	“I’ll swear they were not there when that loaf was wrapped,” Verbeck said. “And I’ll swear they wasn’t there when I unwrapped it,” Muggs declared. “And now they are there! So they must have been put there while we were talking in the living room!” “Great Scott!” Riley cried. “Do you mean to say the Black Star or one of his men has been here and did that?” “No little bird did it!” Muggs exclaimed. “Stand back!” Riley said. “Here is where experience takes the lead. I’ll just look into this.” He investigated the kitchen first. None of the windows had been unfastened since they had come to the house, and dust on the sills showed that nobody had touched them. The back door had not been unlocked, for there was an abundance of fuel in the kitchen, and Muggs had not been obliged to go out for water. Riley opened the door, however, and his eyes met a drift of snow unmarred by footprints. Nobody had entered there. There was but one other door, and that opened into a pass pantry, which, in turn, opened into the dining room. Riley went into the dining room, which had not been touched, since they had decided to eat in the living room, and found no traces of an intruder there. Even the dust on the floor had not been disturbed. There were no traces in the pass pantry, and it would have been impossible, of course, for any one to have entered through the living room, since they had been in it constantly since reaching the house, and would have seen any unwelcome visitor. “Humph!” Riley said, and looked at Muggs suspiciously. “Boss, he thinks I done it!” Muggs exclaimed. “Nonsense!” Verbeck replied. “I don’t think you’re a member of the Black Star’s gang, if that’s what you mean,” Riley stated, “but I do think it wouldn’t be a bit past you to try out a little joke.” “I didn’t! Boss, I swear I didn’t!” “I believe you,” Verbeck said. “Then it’s mighty puzzlin’,” Riley declared. “Rows of black stars don’t go stickin’ themselves to bread of their own accord.” He stepped back and looked at the interior of the kitchen again.
29479_6954	western stories	Cullum, Ridgwell	" And Marbolt's answer came with a crash of brass and smashing of glass, a leap of flame, then darkness, as he hurled the lamp to the floor and extinguished it. It came in silence, but a silence ruffled by the sound of sudden movement. It came, as was only to be expected from a man like him, without warning, like the silent attack of a puma, and with as deadly intent. Tresler could see nothing, but he knew that death was hovering over that room for some one. Suddenly he heard the table dragged or pushed across the floor, and Jake's voice, harsh with the effort of struggle, reached him. "You would, would you? Right; it's you or me!" At that moment the onlooker was about to rush forward, for what purpose he had but the vaguest idea. But even as he took the first step he felt himself seized forcibly by the arm from behind. And Diane's voice whispered in his ear. "Not you, Jack!" she said eagerly. "Leave it to me; I--I can save him--Jake." "Jake?" "Yes." She was gone, and in an instant returned with the lighted kitchen lamp, which she held aloft as she rushed into the room. Tresler was taken utterly by surprise. The girl's movements were so sudden, so unexpected, and her words so strange. There she stood in the middle of the room with the light held above her head like some statue. And all the signs of a deadly struggle were about her. Jake was sheltered behind the window table, and stood blinking in the sudden light, staring at her in blank astonishment. But the chief figure of interest was the blind man. He was groping about the opposite edge of the table, pitifully helpless, but snarling in impotent and thwarted fury. His right hand was still grasping the hilt of a vicious-looking, two-edged hunting-knife, whose point Tresler saw was dripping blood. Suddenly he turned fiercely on the girl. For the moment he had been held silent, confounded, but now his voice rang out in an access of fury. "You jade!" he cried, and moved as though to attack her. Tresler was about to leap to her assistance, but at that instant the man's attention was suddenly diverted. Jake saw his chance and made for the door.
12791_3921	western stories	Adams, Andy	"If an order comes for more beeves, cut the next train from the Lazy H's. I'll be back in a day or two." Joel Wells was rapidly taking his degrees in the range school. At dusk he overtook the cattle train, which reached the market yards on schedule time. The shipper's duty ceased with the unloading of the cattle, which was easily completed before midnight, when he and his employer separated. The market would not open until a late morning hour, affording ample time to rest and refresh the beeves, and to look up acquaintances in the office. Joel had almost learned to dispense with sleep. With the first stir of the morning, he was up and about. Before the clerks even arrived, he was hanging around the office of the commission firm. The expected shipment brought the salesmen and members of the firm much earlier than usual, and Joel was saved all further impatience. Mr. Stoddard was summoned, and the last barrier was lifted in the hearty greeting between the manly boy and a veteran of their mutual occupation. The shipment sold early in the day. An hour before noon, an interested party left the commission office and sauntered forth to watch the beeves cross the scale. It was the parting look of breeder, owner, and factor, and when the average weight was announced, Mr. Stoddard turned to the others. "Look here, Mr. Joel," said he, "are these the cattle I sold you last summer?" "They carry your brand," modestly admitted Joel. "So I notice," assentingly said the old cowman. "And still I can scarcely believe my eyes. Of course I'm proud of having bred these beeves, even if the lion's share of their value to-day goes to the boys who matured them. I must be an old fogy." "You are," smilingly said the senior member of the commission house. "Every up-to-date Texas cowman has a northern beef ranch. To be sure, as long as you can raise a steer as cheap as another man can raise a frying chicken, you'll prosper in a way. Wells Brothers aren't afraid of a little cold, and you are. In that way only, the lion's share falls to them." "One man to his own farm, another to his merchandise," genially quoted the old cowman, "and us poor Texans don't take very friendly to your northern winters. It's the making of cattle, but excuse your Uncle Dudley.
40176_1861	love stories	Richards, Laura Elizabeth Howe	She had slipped the necklace off and was pressing it into Pippin's hand. He took it and examined it admiringly, then put it gently back over the girl's head. "I thank you a thousand times!" he said. "I couldn't wear 'em myself, not travelin' like I am, you see, and I like to see 'em round your neck, they look so pretty. It's young ladies ought to wear joolry, you know." He smiled at her, but her eyes met his anxiously. "You are not goin' away?" said the girl. "You are goin' to stay? I'll give you my eagle feathers if you will stay. I'm tired of the folks here." "Now what a way that is to talk! You're just jokin' though, I see. It _would_ be a joke if you was tired of Mr. and Mrs. Bailey, wouldn't it now?" "I'll give you the white duck, if you'll stay!" she went on in her sweet monotonous voice, which yet was strangely eager. "Uncle Bailey gave it to me, it's mine. I'll give you everything I've got if you'll stay." At this moment, to Pippin's infinite relief, Mr. Bailey emerged from the shed. He laid his hand on the girl's shoulder; instantly her whole form relaxed and she drooped into her customary attitude of listless indifference. "Anything wrong, little gal?" asked Jacob Bailey, kindly. Flora May shook her head and turned away with a pettish movement of her shoulders. "She was wantin' me to sing for her," said Pippin. "I will, too, Mr. Bailey, sir, soon as ever you and Mis' Bailey are ready. I don't mean to brag of my singin', don't you think that, but it's what has ben give me, and about all I have to give when folks is so dandy to me as what you folks have been here. So if agreeable, sir, say the word and I'll tune up!"
4246_7176	love stories	Evans, Augusta J. (Augusta Jane)	True, the stars are serene, and move in their everlasting orbits, with fixed precision, but they are not of earth; here there is nothing definite, nothing certain. The seasons are regular, but they are determined by other worlds. Verily, the contest is still fiercely waged between Ormuzd and Ahriman, and the last has the best of it, so far. The three thousand years of Ahriman seem dawning." She resumed her walk, and, looking after her anxiously, Clara answered: "But remember, the 'Zend-Avesta' promises that Ormuzd shall finally conquer and reign supreme. In this happy kingdom I love to trace the resemblance to the millennium which was shown St. John on lonely Patmos." "It is small comfort to anticipate a time of blessedness for future generations. What benefit is steam or telegraph to the moldering mummies of the catacombs? I want to know what good the millennium will do you and me when our dust is mingled with mother earth, in some silent necropolis?" "Oh, Beulah, what ails you to-day? You look so gloomy and wretched. It seems to me you have changed sadly of late. I knew that a life of labor such as you voluntarily assumed would chasten your spirit, but I did not expect this utter revolution of your natura so soon. Oh, have done with skepticism!" "Faith in creeds is not to be put on and laid aside at will, like a garment. Granted that these same doctrines of Zoroaster are faint adumbrations of the Hebrew creed, the Gordian knot is by no means loosed. That prologue in 'Faust' horrified you yesterday; yet, upon my word, I don't see why; for very evidently it is taken from Job, and Faust is but an ideal Job, tempted in more subtle manner than by the loss of flocks, houses, and children. You believe that Satan was allowed to do his utmost to ruin Job, and Mephistopheles certainly set out on the same fiendish mission. Mephistopheles is not the defiant demon of Milton, but a powerful prince in the service of God. You need not shudder; I am giving no partial account; I merely repeat the opinion of many on this subject. It is all the same to me. Evil exists: that is the grim fact. As to its origin--I would about as soon set off to search for the city Asgard." "Still, I would not give my faith for all your learning and philosophy. See what it has brought you to," answered Clara sorrowfully.
25071_2097	adventure stories	Borrow, George	Allowing myself to be persuaded, I kept possession of the purse. 'Are you satisfied now?' said I. 'By no means, brother,' said Mr. Petulengro, 'you will please to pay me the five shillings which you lost to me.' 'Why,' said I, 'the fifty pounds which I found in my pocket were not mine, but put in by yourself.' 'That's nothing to do with the matter, brother,' said Mr. Petulengro; 'I betted you five shillings that you had fifty pounds in your pocket, which sum you had: I did not say that they were your own, but merely that you had fifty pounds; you will therefore pay me, brother, or I shall not consider you an honourable man.' Not wishing to have any dispute about such a matter, I took five shillings out of my under pocket, and gave them to him. Mr. Petulengro took the money with great glee, observing--'These five shillings I will take to the public-house forthwith, and spend in drinking with four of my brethren, and doing so will give me an opportunity of telling the landlord that I have found a customer for his horse, and that you are the man. It will be as well to secure the horse as soon as possible; for though the dook tells me that the horse is intended for you, I have now and then found that the dook is, like myself, somewhat given to lying.' He then departed, and I remained alone in the dingle. I thought at first that I had committed a great piece of folly in consenting to purchase this horse; I might find no desirable purchaser for him until the money in my possession should be totally exhausted, and then I might be compelled to sell him for half the price I had given for him, or be even glad to find a person who would receive him at a gift; I should then remain sans horse, and indebted to Mr. Petulengro. Nevertheless, it was possible that I might sell the horse very advantageously, and by so doing, obtain a fund sufficient to enable me to execute some grand enterprise or other. My present way of life afforded no prospect of support, whereas the purchase of the horse did afford a possibility of bettering my condition, so, after all, had I not done right in consenting to purchase the horse?
56902_625	detective and mystery stories	Reeve, Arthur B. (Arthur Benjamin)	" "The sex aspect. Sex life possesses, according to Freud, a far higher significance in our mental household than traditional psychology is willing to admit. And I don't know as I would say I'd go the whole distance with Freud, either." He paused contemplatively. "Yet there is much that is true about his sex theories. Take an example. There's much about married life that can be learned from dreams. Thus, why John Doe doesn't get along with his wife has always been a matter of absorbing interest to the neighborhood. Conversation is taken up by it; yellow journalism is founded on it. Now, psychology--and mainly dream analysis--can solve the question--often right things for both John and Jane Doe and set the neighborhood tongues at rest. Sex and sex relations play a big rôle in life, whether we like to admit it or not." "I see," I nodded. "Then you think that that's what Lathrop meant when he said he strongly disagreed with the theory?" "Without a doubt. That is perhaps the part of the theory from which he reacted--or said he did. You see, Freud says that as soon as you enter the intimate life of a patient you begin to find sex in some form. In fact, he says, the best indication of abnormality would be its absence. "Sex is one of the strongest of human impulses," Craig continued, as impersonally as if he were classifying butterflies, "yet the one impulse subjected to the greatest repression. For that reason it is the weakest point in our cultural development. However, if everything is natural there ought to be no trouble. In a normal life, says Freud, there are no neuroses." "But how does that all apply in this case?" I asked. "You must mean that we have to deal with a life that is not normal, here in the Wilford case." He nodded. "I was convinced of it, the moment Leslie called on me here. That was why I was interested. Before that I thought it was just an ordinary case that had stumped him and I was not going to pull his chestnuts out of the fire for him. But what he said put it in a different light. So did what Doyle told me, especially that sonnet he found. They didn't know it--don't know it yet--won't know it until I tell them. That doesn't alter the fact that it promises to be a unique case.
53456_441	science fiction	Elam, Richard M. (Richard Mace)	One side was badly smashed, but the engine still appeared sound. The car was tipped over against the rock column. Jerry was thankful that the jeep was only one-sixth of its Earth-weight on the moon. It was a tremendous effort but he finally righted the car and got it back on the road. He jumped into the front seat and started the engine. It sputtered, then hummed into activity! Jerry studied the map on the panel. He located their present position by the giant crater, Plato, at his distant right. Then he traced the winding route leading to the geology camp. He was closer to the camp than the observatory, but ahead lay a rugged route, one with which Jerry was totally unfamiliar. He got out and went back to where Capt. Welsh lay. “Which way should I go, Dad, ahead or back?” he asked helplessly, just as though his father were able to answer him. Something told him that Capt. Welsh would want him to go ahead—to finish the mail run that had never missed a round in ten years. Jerry got his father into the back seat, then gunned the jeep and struck off into the unknown ahead. He was thankful for the old worn trail that led the way for him. It presently carried him through a gloomy valley. Jerry switched on his headlights, but the twin spears of brightness gave him little comfort in the spooky place. Grotesque rock columns rose like menacing ghosts on both sides of him. At last he was out in the open again. The road led him around the steep ledge of a yawning crater, evidently caused by a huge crashing fireball from outer space. Jerry carefully guided the jeep along the dangerous cliff. If one of his wheels should slip over the side, it would be a fall to frightful death a hundred feet straight down. At last even this peril was past, and Jerry drove up a gradual incline over bare rock to a bluff that overlooked the distant land for many miles. “The camp!” he said joyfully. “That’s it below—only a few miles away!” He followed a curve that swept onto the plain below. When he was on a level again, it seemed that all his troubles were over. He felt better by the moment as he drove closer and closer to his destination. Then, without warning, his wheels began to bog down in a pumice mire. His heart did a flip-flop and he checked the map. He saw a warning to drivers to avoid this spot.
31699_2705	western stories	Mulford, Clarence Edward	While its northern bank was almost destitute of timber, the southern one showed scattered clumps of cottonwood, protected from the devastating prairie fires from the North not only by the river itself, but also by the barren stretch of sand, over which the fires died from starvation. To the right of the caravan lay the grassy, green rolls of the prairie, to an imaginative eye resembling the long swells of some great sea; on the left a ribbon of pale tints, from gleaming whites to light golds which varied with the depths of the water and the height and position of the sun. Massive sand dunes, glittering in the sunlight made a rampart which stretched for miles up and down the river and struck the eye with the actinic power of pure, drifted snow. Here the nature of the prairie changed, losing its rich, luxuriant verdure, for here the short buffalo grass began to dominate to a noticeable extent. The excitement spread. Eager couriers raced back to the plodding caravan to tell the news. Some of the more impressionable forthwith rode toward the river, only a few yards away, hot to be the first to splash in its waters; but they found that prairie air was deceptive and that the journey over the rolling hillocks was a great deal longer than they had thought. But a few miles meant nothing to them and they pushed on, careless of Comanche, Kiowa, or Pawnee Picts, some with their guns empty from the salute they had fired at sight of the stream. The caravan kept stolidly on, following a course roughly paralleling the river and not stopping until evening found it on the far side of Walnut Creek after they had crossed a belt of such poor grass that they had grave doubts about the pasturage at the encampment; and the flinty, uncompromising nature of the ground down the slope of the little divide, in which seemingly for eternity was graven the strands of the mighty trail, seemed to justify their fears. But then, while they were worrying the most, the grass improved and when they had crossed the creek not far from its mouth they found themselves in a little, timber-fringed valley thick with tall grass. And they now had entered one of the great danger spots of the long trail. Hank Marshall got his fire started in a hurry while his partner looked after the pack mules; and when Tom came back to attend to the fire and prepare the supper, Hank dug into his "possible" sack and produced some line and a fish hook.
63045_4589	love stories	LM (Leslie Moore)	Of course, I don't suppose anyone would trust me very easily who knew everything. But truly she shall never know about me. And I'll never tell Luke either. I see that you are right. I owe it to him now to keep silence. I'll try to make him very happy. And--and I'll take wanting my little girl as a punishment. I know I deserve to lose her, and I see that it is impossible for me to have her and keep Luke's confidence. I should quite spoil his life and his belief in every one. If only I had been brave long ago I might have had my little girl and Luke too. But I will keep my word now." She said it all like a child promising to be good. "I know you will, my dear," said Miss Mason gently. She was desperately sorry for Sybil, and terribly grieved at the whole situation. Yet she too saw that silence was now the only possible thing for them all. And in the end it would be happier for Sybil too. Possibly she would always now wish for her child and regret her loss. But it would be a tender regret, though sad. And she would keep Luke's love. And then suddenly from the courtyard they heard a child's voice. Sybil flushed and looked at Miss Mason with pleading eyes. "I'll bring her," said Barnabas. Wisdom or not, he could not have resisted Sybil's face. "We've found a flat, really and truly," she cried, as she met Barnabas in the garden. "It is beautiful, but quite beautiful." "More beautiful than the others?" laughed Barnabas. "But come in now and behave pretty. Aunt Olive has a lady to tea with her." Pippa came into the room. Her extraordinary likeness to Kostolitz made Sybil catch her breath. For a moment she did not trust herself to speak. "Ah!" cried Pippa, with quick recognition. "It is ze lady of ze car. Did you give her ze ring?" Sybil held out her hand. "Yes, dear," she said, "I've got it. I'm glad you found it and kept it for me." She held the child's hand tight. Pippa looked at her with her great grey eyes, so like the dead sculptor's. Memories rushed over Sybil. The days in the forest, the days in the little Welsh village crowded back to her mind.
57203_1899	adventure stories	Prime-Stevenson, Edward	She had carried a baby in her arms tightly wrapped in a shawl. Standing upright, she struggled frantically with those nearest her, who held her back from leaping over the gunwale. In changing her position she had lost her balance and stumbled, and the child had fallen from her very arms into the sea! “Sit down, I say! Sit down for your lives!” cried Eversham. “The boat will be swamped!” The packages of plate in the middle were shifting perilously, falling against each other. Too late! Lurching violently on the very crest of the roller, the boat toppled, plunged, and then cast out its load――men, women, boys, oars, all――pell-mell together. For two or three seconds――the kind that seem an eternity――Philip Touchtone, thrown sidelong, struggled in the sea, conscious of but two things. He gripped the gunwale with one hand, half his body submerged. The other was upstretched, and with the palm and each finger pressing with the strength of iron levers, as it seemed, it held back Gerald Saxton from falling out, over his shoulders. Gerald had been hurled against the gunwale, not over it. Philip pushed upward and hung on. The boat righted itself. Lightened of its load, the succeeding wave lifted it like a withered leaf. It swirled it, eddying onward into the fog, out of the reach of those other strugglers in the black water, in a twinkling. All this took place in less time than it takes to tell it. “Philip! Philip!” came Gerald’s faint cry. “Hold on!――hold on!” Touchtone gasped. He pulled himself a few inches higher. With a desperate effort he dragged his legs over and rolled down into the boat, dashing what little breath was left in Gerald’s body out of it, as the terrified boy, who had in falling clutched a thwart, raised his dripping and bruised head. Touchtone struck out his arm and caught hold of Gerald’s shoulder. They were drenched to the skin by the water shipped; but so quickly had the dreadful calamity happened that not a fourth part of what might have invaded the boat was swashing about in it. They drew themselves upward. The knowledge of their deliverance became more distinct. But they were――alone! They glanced fearfully around. The pallid, feeble light from overhead told them it again. Alone! The cries of those struggling with the sea, with exhaustion and death, pursued them. Eversham’s voice――they heard it.
35031_1652	adventure stories	Sinclair, Bertrand W.	Here are two of us practically outlawed. I—well, it should be obvious to you that I am a very much-wanted man in these parts. My capture—especially now—would be the biggest feather any Policeman could stick in his cap. There are others who would cheerfully shoot me in the back for what it would bring them. Hence, the sooner I get out of this part of the country, the better I will be suited. You have killed a man for a starter. That——” “But I had to,” I broke in. “It was forced on me. You know it was. There’s a limit to what a man can stand.” “I know all that,” he replied quietly. “I’m not sitting in judgment on you, Bob. I’m merely setting forth what has happened, and how we are affected thereby. Tupper got no more than he deserved, and he did not get it soon enough—from my point of view. But, as I said, you killed a man, and the killing has taken on a different color in the minds of others, since you are also accused of theft.” “Do you believe that infernal lie?” I interrupted again. It galled me to hear him enumerate those ugly details in that calm, deliberate manner. “It makes little difference what _I_ believe,” he answered patiently. “If it is any comfort to you, I can hardly conceive of you plundering the _Moon’s_ cabin. But voicing our individual beliefs is beside the point. Certain things are laid to us. Certain penalties are sure as the rising and setting of the sun, if either of us is caught and convicted. And”—he pinched his eyebrows together until little creases ran up and down his forehead, but his voice was cold, matter of fact—“if we were clean-handed as a babe unborn, we have forever damned ourselves before Canadian courts, by breaking jail. You see where we are? Forgetting these other things that we may or may not have done, of this one crime we are guilty. We can’t dodge it, if we are taken. It is a felony in itself.” “If I were a free agent,” he went on, after a momentary pause, “I would have made no attempt to escape; or having escaped, I would quit this damned country by the shortest route. But I can’t. I have got into a game that I must play to a finish.
538_3074	western stories	Bower, B. M.	And he's got the dearest white hoofs and a white sock on his left hind foot; and he doesn't snort fire and brimstone, either." She glanced anxiously at the jam of wagons and automobiles and clanging street-cars. "I don't know, though," she amended ruefully, "I think perhaps he will, too, when he sees all this. I really ought to have stayed with him." "You don't think Lite quite capable of taking care of him." "Oh, yes, of course he is! But I just feel that way." Dewitt shifted a little, so that he was half facing her, and could look at her without having to turn his head. If his eyes told anything of his thoughts, the President of the Great Western Film Company was curious to know how she felt about her position and her sudden fame and the work itself. Before they had worked their way into the next block, he decided that Jean was not greatly interested in any of these things, and he wondered why. The machine slowed, swung to the curb, and crept forward and stopped in front of the Victoria. Dewitt looked at Burns and Pete Lowry, who was on the front seat. "I thought you'd like to take a glance at the lobby display the Victoria is making," he said casually. "They are running the Lazy A series, you know,--to capacity houses, too, they tell me. Shall we get out?" The chauffeur reached back with that gesture of toleration and infinite boredom common to his kind and swung open the door. Robert Grant Burns started up. "Come on, Jean," he said eagerly. "I don't suppose that eternal calm of yours will ever show a wrinkle on the surface, but let's have a look, anyway." Pete Lowry was already out and half way across the pavement. Pete had lain awake in his bed, many's the night, planning the posing of "stills" that would show Jean at her best; he had visioned them on display in theater lobbies, and now he collided with a hurrying shopper in his haste to see the actual fulfillment of those plans. Jean herself was not so eager. She went with the others, and she saw herself pictured on Pard; on her two feet; and sitting upon a rock with her old Stetson tilted over one eye and her hair tousled with the wind.
9182_5538	love stories	Brontë, Charlotte	"How did the recognition between him and your father come about?" "They exchanged cards. The names Graham Bretton and Home de Bassompierre gave rise to questions and explanations. That was on the second day; but before then I was beginning to know something." "How--know something?" "Why," she said, "how strange it is that most people seem so slow to feel the truth--not to see, but _feel_! When Dr. Bretton had visited me a few times, and sat near and talked to me; when I had observed the look in his eyes, the expression about his mouth, the form of his chin, the carriage of his head, and all that we _do_ observe in persons who approach us--how could I avoid being led by association to think of Graham Bretton? Graham was slighter than he, and not grown so tall, and had a smoother face, and longer and lighter hair, and spoke--not so deeply--more like a girl; but yet _he_ is Graham, just as _I_ am little Polly, or you are Lucy Snowe." I thought the same, but I wondered to find my thoughts hers: there are certain things in which we so rarely meet with our double that it seems a miracle when that chance befalls. "You and Graham were once playmates." "And do you remember that?" she questioned in her turn. "No doubt he will remember it also," said I. "I have not asked him: few things would surprise me so much as to find that he did. I suppose his disposition is still gay and careless?" "Was it so formerly? Did it so strike you? Do you thus remember him?" "I scarcely remember him in any other light. Sometimes he was studious; sometimes he was merry: but whether busy with his books or disposed for play, it was chiefly the books or game he thought of; not much heeding those with whom he read or amused himself." "Yet to you he was partial." "Partial to me? Oh, no! he had other playmates--his school-fellows; I was of little consequence to him, except on Sundays: yes, he was kind on Sundays. I remember walking with him hand-in-hand to St. Mary's, and his finding the places in my prayer-book; and how good and still he was on Sunday evenings!
37304_1538	love stories	Prindle, Frances Carruth	Monsieur Grémond, between her and Miss Marston, appeared to be listening in a most politely conventional manner to the girl who was making commonplace conversation with frequent pauses during which he turned to Mrs. Lennox, with whom he immediately fell into interesting talk. Kenneth Landor was singularly distrait. At first he had appropriated Miss Davis with his usual devoted air, but after a bit this languished and he, too, turned so often to Mrs. Lennox, next whom he sat, that Miss Davis first pouted and then in a fit of pique plunged into a violent flirtation with Mr. Lennox, much to that person’s amusement. Mrs. Lennox found it necessary to throw herself into the breach here, there and everywhere, but under her skillful manipulation the talk at last became general and animated. The interest of the table naturally centered on Grémond, who managed adroitly to keep the conversation off himself, thereby winning the admiration of his hostess—she rather enjoyed a lion who did not roar. Finally, with the arrival of the savory which followed the dessert—for Mrs. Lennox had adopted this English custom, she had the satisfaction of seeing Miss Marston and her husband deep in talk, Miss Davis and Kenneth “frivoling” as was their wont and was herself free to enjoy a tête-à-tête with her guest of honor. “Your country is a source of endless interest to me, Madame,” the Frenchman was saying, “but it is as nothing to your women. They rival ours—even surpass them.” “I am afraid we are in danger of being told that too often,” laughed his hostess, gaily. “Some things bear repetition, Madame.” “Have you known many of us, Monsieur?” she asked, interested. “I think you said you had been over here before.” “Yes, nearly two years ago, before I started off to Africa. It was indeed the cause of my immediate start for Africa,” he said with a retrospective air. “Then, too, Madame, America became very dear to me through my friendship with Sidney Renshawe—we were like brothers together in Paris.” “Ah, yes, I know, he speaks of you with great affection. He will be up from Virginia in a day or two, will he not?” “Not before I am off. I go to New Orleans on important business and from there to California, but I shall stay with him here on my return. Ah!
57088_5237	detective and mystery stories	Footner, Hulbert	Before leaving, the doctor gave him a hypodermic to induce sleep. Greg said he would watch beside the bed until it should take effect. The patient still twitched and gasped like a creature beyond all control; yet when the others left the room he opened his eyes and asked sanely enough: "Who are you?" Greg told his name. "It would take a long time to explain who I am," he added. "You'd better try to sleep." "You know me?" he asked. "Yes, your name is de Silva." "What do you want of me?" the other asked hoarsely. "Nothing at present except to put a little life into you." "In order to take it away from me later?" Greg, taken aback, said: "It isn't your life that I want." The poor wretch shuddered. "I thought I saw a man down-stairs--or did I dream it? A cab-man----" Greg saw nothing was to be gained by further concealment. "You saw him," he said. "It was the cabman you engaged on the pier the night the _Allianca_ docked." The young man raised himself on his elbow. "Then all is known?" "Pretty nearly all." He fell back. "Well--I'm glad," he said weakly. "The worst agony is over." Presently he opened his eyes, attacked by a new fear. "Who are you?" he demanded. "And those others down-stairs? _His_ men?" "Whose?" asked Greg, perplexed. "De Socotra's." "No, by God!" The recumbent figure relaxed. "Detectives, then? I don't mind that." "Not detectives, either," said Greg. "I'll tell you this much--I'm after de Socotra. I know he's the principal in this affair, not you. I only want you as a means to get him." "You'll never get him," said de Silva with hopeless assurance. "He's not a man like others; he's a fiend out of Hell." "That may be," said Greg grimly. "But just the same I mean to get him! Better not talk any more. Let yourself relax." "I've got to talk. I've kept it in too long. I'll go out of my mind if I don't talk.
25875_1272	detective and mystery stories	Footner, Hulbert	"Man say: 'Why make a fool of me? My heart is sad. I am crying.' And he cover up his head with his blanket and cry. "Raven say: 'Wah! You do not believe me! Come out, come out, and I make you believe!' When they stand outside Raven ask: 'Is the home of your people far?' "Man say: 'Very far!' "'How many days' journey?' "Man say: 'My heart is sad. I not count the days. The berries grow and get ripe since I leave my lodge.' "Raven say: 'Can you see your camp from here?' "Man think that is foolish question and say nothing. "Then the Raven rub some medicine on his eyes and say: 'Look!' The man look and see his own camp. It was close. He see the people. He see the smoke rising from the lodges. And at that wonderful thing the man believe in the Raven's medicine. "Then Raven say: 'Now take the wing and the arrow and go get your wife.' "So the man take those things and go to Thunder's lodge. He go in and sit down by the door. Thunder sit inside and look at him with eyes of lightning. But the man look up and see those many pairs of eyes hanging up. And the eyes of his wife look at him, and he know them among all those others. "Thunder ask in a voice that shake the ground: 'Why you come here?' "Man say: 'I looking for my wife that you steal from me. There hang her eyes!' "Thunder say: 'No man can enter my lodge and live!' He get up to strike him. But the man point the raven's wing at him, and Thunder fall back on his bed and shiver. But soon he is better, and get up again. Then the man put the elk-horn arrow to his bow, and shoot it through the lodge of rock. Right through that lodge of rock it make a crooked hole and let the sunlight in. "Thunder cry out: 'Stop! You are stronger! You have the great medicine. You can have your wife. Take down her eyes.' So the man cut the string that held them, and right away his wife stand beside him. "Thunder say: 'Now you know me. I have great power.
60947_544	science fiction	Anvil, Christopher	" Dan found himself walking down a corridor, surrounded by well-wishers, to a room where several tables were loaded with hand-weapons. He picked up a short weighted club, and a short double-edge, razor-sharp sword. A few minutes later, he arrived at a heavy metal door studded with rivets and painted green. Dan had intended to hide a transceiver nearby on the outside and spend as little time in the storeroom as possible. But everything had happened so fast, and there were so many eyes watching him, that he had no chance to hide a mataform unit anywhere. There was a loud clang as the heavy door swung shut behind him. Then he was in a big dimly lighted room with a twelve-foot aisle running down the center, a narrower aisle along each wall, and high piles of wooden crates and wirebound heavy cardboard cartons spaced five feet apart to either side of the central aisle. There was a strong smell of damp dirty fur. On the floor partway up the aisle lay what looked like a clothed human arm. From the far end of the building came a series of low gruff barks. A humping motion ran along like a wave up the aisle and over the piles of crates toward Dan. He glanced briefly to either side at the solid concrete walls of the building, felt behind him. The door was locked. It flashed through his mind that up till now he had had good luck on this planet. Dan saw, in the nearest corner of the room, several pipes that ran up from the floor and were bent to travel along near the ceiling. He quickly slipped a mataform unit behind these pipes on the floor, then cut into a cardboard carton about fifteen feet away and put another unit inside. He tossed a third on top of the nearest pile of cartons, mentally said a key word, and was on the pile slashing open a carton to slide the unit inside. Then he was on the floor in the corner. In the dim light, the shadowy figures came toward him. Their long arms swung up and a barrage of rifle parts, bayonets, scabbards, and helmets smashed into the corner. Dan was fifteen feet away when they hit. An instant later, he was back, kicking the rubble out of the corner. There was a repeated gruff cough, then the aisles were jammed, and he had a brief view of bared teeth in fur-covered faces, and hairy arms that reached out to grasp him.
14486_3772	western stories	Bower, B. M.	"A little after sunrise, probably. Better wait here for me." Schwab nodded and waved his cigar, and Johnny grinned to himself while he straddled into his seat. Cliff went straight to the propeller. "Take me to Los Angeles, old man. You can light where you did before; there won't be any bean vines in the way this time. I had the Japs clear off and level a strip for a landing. It's marked off with white flags, so you can easily see it in this moonlight. Luck's with us; I was afraid we might have to wait until morning, but this is fine. Several hours will be saved." "I've got you," Johnny said--and he did not mean what Cliff thought he meant. "All ready? Contact!" CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE JOHNNY ACTS BOLDLY Off to the right and flying high, two government planes circled slowly over the boundary line. Long before the Thunder Bird had put the map of Mexico behind her the two planes veered that way, their fishlike fuselages and the finned rudders gleaming like silver in the moonlight. Cliff, happening to glance that way, moved uneasily in his seat and cursed the moon he had so lately blessed. "Better duck down somewhere; can't you dodge 'em?" he yelled back at Johnny, who was himself eyeing perturbedly the two swift scouts. "You let me handle this. It's what I'm paid for," he yelled back, and banked the Thunder Bird sharply to the left. He had not yet crossed the border; until he did so those scouting machines dare not do more than keep him in view. But keeping him in view was absurdly simple in that cloudless sky, white-lighted by the moon. To a person looking up from the earth, the situation would have appeared to be simple--a matter of three planes zooming homeward after a long practice flight. The five-pointed star in the black circle, painted on each wing Of the government planes, would probably have been invisible at that height, and the bold lettering of THE THUNDER BIRD indistinguishable also on the shadowed underside of the outlaw plane. To the government planes she was branded irrevocably as they looked down upon her from their superior height. There was no mistaking her, no hope whatever that the scouts might think her anything but the outlaw plane she was, flying in the face of international law, trafficking in treason, fair game if she once crossed the line.
31286_417	science fiction	Del Rey, Lester	A little time. Captain Muller's watching the 'ponics." "Good," I said, trying to forget Muller. "Let's make it a little more private than this, though. Come on in." She lifted an eyebrow at the open door of my cabin, made with a little giggle, and stepped inside. I followed her, and kicked the door shut. She reached for it, but I had my back against it. "Paul!" She tried to get around me, but I wasn't having any. I pushed her back onto the only seat in the room, which was the bunk. She got up like a spring uncoiling. "Paul Tremaine, you open that door. You know better than that. Paul, please!" "What makes me any different than the others? You spend plenty of time in Muller's cabin--and you've been in Pietro's often enough. Probably Doc Napier's, too!" Her eyes hardened, but she decided to try the patient and reason-with-the-child line. "That is different. Captain Muller and I have a great deal of business to work out." "Sure. And he looks great in lipstick!" It was a shot in the dark, but it went home. I wished I'd kept my darned mouth shut; before I'd been suspecting it--now I knew. She turned pink and tried to slap me, which won't work when the girl is sitting on a bunk and I'm on my feet. "You mind your own business!" "I'm doing that. Generations should stick together, and he's old enough to be your father!" She leaned back and studied me. Then she smiled slowly, and something about it made me sick inside. "I like older men, Paul. They make people my own age seem so callow, so unfinished. It's so comforting to have mature people around. I always did have an Electra complex." "The Greeks had plenty of names for it, kid," I told her. "Don't get me wrong. If you want to be a slut, that's your own business. But when you pull the innocent act on me, and then fall back to sophomore psychology--" This time she stood up before she slapped. Before her hand stung my face, I was beginning to regret what I'd said. Afterwards, I didn't give a damn.
30836_2553	detective and mystery stories	Biggers, Earl Derr	I am in great trouble. I have come here to get something--and I haven't the least idea how to proceed. I came because I must have it--so much depends on it." Prophetically Mr. Magee clutched in his pocket the package for which he had done battle. "I may be too late." The girl's eyes grew wide. "That would be terribly unfortunate. I do not wish you to be injured serving me--" She lowered her voice. "But if there is any way in which you can help me in--in this difficulty--I can never be grateful enough. Down-stairs in the safe there is, I believe, a package containing a large sum of money." Mr. Magee's hand closed convulsively in his pocket. "If there is any way possible," said the girl, "I must obtain that package. I give you my word I have as much right to it as any one who will appear at the inn. The honor and happiness of one who is very dear to me is involved. I ask you--made bold as I am by my desperation and Hal Bentley's assurances--to aid me if you find you can." With the eyes of a man in a dream Mr. Magee looked into the face of the latest comer to Baldpate. "Hal Bentley is an old friend and a bully chap," he said. "It will be a great pleasure to serve a friend of his." He paused, congratulating himself that these were words, idle words. "When did you arrive, may I ask?" "I believe you were having dinner when I came," she answered. "Mr. Bentley gave me a key to the kitchen door, and we found a back stairway. There seemed to be a company below--I wanted to see only you." "I repeat," said Mr. Magee, "I shall be happy to help you, if I can." His word to another lady, he reflected, was binding. "I suggest that there is no harm in waiting until morning." "But--I am afraid it was to-night--" she began. "I understand," Magee replied. "The plans went wrong. You may safely let your worries rest until to-morrow." He was on the point of adding something about relying on him, but remembered in time which girl he was addressing.
47128_3211	adventure stories	Duncan, Norman	It was a flash of hope. "_Is_ you!" "Ay--is I, sir?" It was eager. "Is I been doin' well, sir--as you'd have me do?" "That you is!" "Is you tellin' me the truth, gran'pa? It isn't jus' t' hearten me, is it?" "'Tis the truth! You is doin' better, Toby, than your father done at your age. I never knowed a lad t' do so well first time on ice like this. An' you was all on fire t' come t' the ice, wasn't you, Toby?" "I wanted t' come, sir." "An' you've not repented, Toby? Mm-m?" "No, sir." The lad stared about and sighed. "I'm glad I come, sir." Jonathan turned to Archie with his face all in a pucker of joy. "There's spirit, sir!" he declared. "Ay," said Archie; "that's brave enough, God knows!" "I been cronies with Toby, Bill," Jonathan went on, to Bill o' Burnt Bay, "ever since he was born. A ol' man like me plays with children. He've nothin' else t' do. An' I'm enjoyin' it out here at the ice with Toby. 'Tis a pleasure for a ol' man like me t' teach the young. An' I'm wonderful fond o' this here gran'son o' mine. Isn't I, Toby? Eh, lad?" "That you is, gran'pa!" the lad agreed. "You been wonderful good t' me all my life long." "Hear that, Bill!" Jonathan exclaimed. The lad was mannerly and grave. "I wisht, sir," said he, "that my conduct might win your praise." And then Cap'n Saul called them aboard with a saucy toot of the whistle, as though they had been dawdling the day in pranks and play. [Illustration: CAP'N SAUL CALLED THEM ABOARD] CHAPTER XXXI _In Which a Gale of Wind Almost Lays Hands on the Crew of the "Rough and Tumble," Toby Farr is Confronted With the Suggestion of Dead Men, Piled Forward Like Cord-Wood, and Archie Armstrong Joins Bill o' Burnt Bay and Old Jonathan in a Roar of Laughter_ Archie Armstrong and Toby Farr made friends that night.
47128_944	adventure stories	Duncan, Norman	All this while he gave directions: The boy was to face the dogs; he was not to turn round for hints of Billy's progress or to be concerned at all with that; he was not to lose courage; he was to feint and scold; he was to let no shadow of fear cross his face--no tremor of fear must touch his voice; he was not to yield an inch; he was not to sob and cover his eyes with his hands--in short, he was to mind his own task of keeping the dogs away and leave Billy to accomplish his. And the boy answered: "Yes, sir!" and "Aye, sir!" and "Very well, sir!"--like an old hand of the coast. It was stimulating. Billy Topsail was heartened. He determined privately that he would not turn to look back--that if the worst came to the worst, and he could manage to do so, he would jerk the lad into the water and let him drown. The snarling tumult of the onset would warn him when the worst had come to the worst. And then he stripped stark naked, quickly stowed away his clothes in the midst of the boy's dogskin robes, tied the end of the seal-leather line round his waist, and ran to the edge of the pan. "If you drowns--" the boy began. "Keep them dogs off!" Billy Topsail roared. "I'll not drown!" He slipped into the water and struck out. CHAPTER X _In Which Teddy Brisk Confronts the Pack Alone and Cracker Leads the Assault_ By this time the sun was touching the cliffs of shore. It was a patch of struggling white light in the drear gray colour of the west. It would drop fast. In his punt, in summer weather, wondering all the while at the acceleration of this last descent, Teddy Brisk had often paused to watch the sun fall and flicker out of sight. It had seemed to fall beyond the rim of the world, like a ball. "She tumbles through the last foot or two!" he had determined. In a little while the sun would be gone. Now the sky was overcast and scowling. In the east it was already dusk. The cloudy black sky in the east caught no light from the feeble sun. Presently everywhere it would be dark. It had turned colder too.
54121_510	love stories	Sykes, D. F. E.	" "I'm sorry to hear of the lad swearing," interposed Mr. Black. "That's Work'us Jack's teachin'," commented Mrs. Schofield. "It's surprisin' how easy th' young 'uns 'll pick up owt they shouldn't know, when ther's no brayin' what they should know into their little heads." "Well, well," went on Mr. Redfearn, to get out of a sore subject, for he had recognised some of his favourite expletives in Tom's scholeric words; "th' point is, th' lad's handier wi' his hands nor his head piece. Yo' can tak' a horse to th' watter but yo' cannot mak' him drink. An' talkin' o' watter, th' young scoundrel gave me a turn t' other day an' no mistake. Yo' know th' dam aboon Hall's papper-mill? Weel it's th' deepest dam bi a seet for miles round here. Aw'd gone up wi mi gun to see if aw could pick up a rabbit or two for th' pot an' theer wor Tom reight i' th' middle o th' dam, throwin' up his arms an' goin' dahn like a stun, and then he cam up blowin' like a porpus. Aw' sent th' retriever in after 'im an' th' young devil, 'at aw should say so, cocked his leg over th' dog's back an' med him, carry 'im to th' bank, an' 'im laughin' all th' time fit to crack his young ribs. He'd nobbud pretended to drown to fley me." "Jack's doing again," said Mr. Schofield. "Well, but, what's to be done with him?" persisted Mr Black. "Can't you take him on to th' farm, Fairbanks?" "'Tisn't good enough," said Fairbanks. "He's fit for better things. At best he could never be much more nor a sort of bailiff an' _they're_ noan wanted about here. If we could send him out to Canada now, or Australey, theer's no tellin' what he med come to be. At least so they sen. But i' th' owd country farmin's nowt wi'out brass, an then it's nowt much but a carryin' on. Nah, I've thowt o' a plan. We could 'prentice th' lad out to a manufacturer.
63749_146	science fiction	Grimes, Millard	You're coming back to our ship--peacefully or by force." "Peacefully, I assure you, Commander," Staang said. "But my story--" "Let him tell it," Braun said. "Maybe it will explain things. And a lot needs explaining. He seems to have been expecting us." "I have, I have," the Martian muttered, disposing of the last of his food. He threw the box into a corner already piled high with rubble. "You saw the buildings here in this ... what was once a great city. These buildings are a few which are left of a civilization which grew weary. 'Twas not a young race as the one which fostered your world, but an old race which tired of working--even of thinking. The civilization went untended, until finally my ancestors decided they would have to invade another world to find servants to relieve Martians of the work--and the thinking--which they had grown to dislike so much. They reasoned that with proper servants they would have nothing to do but eat and sleep as they wanted. "So my people invaded another planet." "You had space travel then?" Boone demanded. "How long ago was this?" "Three thousand ... maybe four thousand years ago as you count time." "But with space travel four thousand years ago," Nance stammered, "it seems the first planet you would have visited would have been ours--Earth." Staang laughed again. "Perhaps it was," he said. "But let me finish my story." "As I said, my people were fat and lazy, as I am now. Thus, open fighting as a means of bringing another race to be our slaves was out of the question. They had to find another way. And they did. "Our first troops were sent to Agar, and they reported very satisfactory results. Soon, practically the whole population migrated to Agar and the Agarians became our slaves. A few Martians, such as my ancestors, remained here. They kept the record of this invasion and also recorded all correspondence between this planet and Agar. Ah, would they had gone also, so that today I would have nothing to do but eat and sleep, as most of my race does--on Agar." He yawned at the thought. "Do not think badly of my race," he implored suddenly. "Some day your people also will grow old and tired.
28448_413	detective and mystery stories	Penrose, Margaret	The clerk laughed as he wrapped up the several books Jessie had charged to her father's account. "You let me know how you get on building it, will you?" he said. "Maybe I can get some ideas from your experience." "We'll show 'em!" declared Amy, all in a glow of excitement. "And why do you suppose, Jess, folks always have to suggest that girls can't do what boys can? Isn't it ridiculous!" "Very," agreed Jessie. "Although, just as I pointed out a while ago, it would have been handy if Darry or Burd had been with us when we saw that poor girl kidnaped." "Of course! But, then, those boys are college men." She giggled. "And I wager Burd is a sea-sick college man just now." "Oh! Have they gone out in the _Marigold_?" cried Jessie. "They left New Haven the minute they could get away and joined the yacht at Groton, over across from New London, where it has been tied up all winter. Father insisted that Darry shouldn't touch the yacht, when Uncle Will died and left it to him last fall, until the college year was ended. We got a marconigram last night that they had passed Block Island going out. And _now_--well, Burd never was at sea before, you know," and Amy laughed again. "It has been rather windy. I suppose it must be rough out in the ocean. Oh, Amy!" Jess suddenly exclaimed, "if I get my radio rigged why can't we communicate with the _Marigold_ when it is at sea?" "I don't know just why you can't. But I guess the wireless rigging on the yacht isn't like this radio thing you are going to set up. They use some sort of telegraph alphabet." "I know," declared Jessie with conviction. "I'll tell Darry to put in a regular sending set--like the one I hope to have, if father will let me. And we can have our two sets tuned so that we can hear each other speak." "My goodness! You don't mean it is as easy as all that?" cried Amy. "Didn't you read that magazine article?" demanded her chum.
21891_2812	detective and mystery stories	McCulley, Johnston	Prale motioned for him to approach. "Here's a roll of bills," he said. "Keep up the game, Murk. Don't get too far away." "I'll be right at your heels, boss." "And keep your eyes open." "Yes, sir." "That woman was Kate Gilbert." "Then I'll know her whenever I see her again, sir." Prale hurried on down the path. Murk kept pace with him, a short distance behind. Kate Gilbert had been walking swiftly. She had reached the street, and, as Prale watched, she crossed it. Prale followed. The girl did not look behind. She came to the middle of the block and ran up the steps of an apartment house. Prale passed the entrance, glanced at the number, and continued down the street. At the corner he allowed Murk to catch up with him. "She turned in at the address Jim Farland gave us," Prale said. "She has gone home, Murk. I fancy that we are done with her for to-day!" A lot he knew about it! CHAPTER XV A MOMENT OF VIOLENCE Sidney Prale turned around and walked back along the street to the Park, Murk once more following at a short distance, as he had been ordered to do. Because he wanted to think of his predicament, Prale crossed into the Park and began following one of the paths toward the south, making his way along it slowly, paying little attention to the persons he passed now and then. He crossed a drive and followed another path; and now he came to a secluded spot where the path was hidden from passers-by on the other walks and drives. Here the way ran through a tiny gulch, the sides of which were banked with bushes. Squirrels scampered and birds chattered at him, but Prale saw none of them. He was trying to explain to himself why Kate Gilbert had warned him to leave New York, why she had interested herself in his affairs at all, asking himself for the thousandth time what species of net it was in which he suddenly had found himself enmeshed without knowing the reason for it. He had demanded information and it had not been given him. She had said nothing at all that gave him an inkling as to the nature of what seemed to be a plot against him. He had been as firm as he dared, he told himself.
14219_5933	love stories	Runkle, Bertha	Hmm! Well, friend of Bernet, it appears to me you speak very well through the door." "I want to speak with you about the affair of to-night." "What affair?" "To-night's affair." "To-night? I go to a supper-party at St. Germain. What have you to say about that?" "Last night, then," M. Étienne amended, with rising temper. "If you want me to shout it out on your stairs, the St. Quentin affair." "Now, what may you mean by that?" called the voice from within. If Peyrot was startled by the name, he carried it off well. "You know what I mean. Shall I take the house into our confidence?" "The house knows as much of your meaning as I. See here, friend of Bernet, if you are that gentleman's mate, perhaps you have a password about you." "Aye," said M. Étienne, readily. "This is it: twenty pistoles." No answer came immediately; I could guess Peyrot puzzled. Presently he called to us: "By the bones of St. Anne, I don't believe a word you've been saying. But I'll have you in and see what you look like." We heard him getting into his boots again and buckling on his baldric. Then we listened to the turning of a key; a lid was raised and banged down again, and the lock refastened. It was the box once more. M. Étienne and I looked at each other. At length Peyrot opened the door and surveyed us. "What, two friends of Bernet, ventre bleu!" But he allowed us to enter. He drew back before us with a flourishing bow, his hand resting lightly on his belt, in which was stuck a brace of pistols. Any idea of doing violence on the person of M. Peyrot we dismissed for the present. Our eyes travelled from his pistols over the rest of him. He was small, lean, and wiry, with dark, sharp face and deep-set twinkling eyes. One moment's glance gave us to know that Peyrot was no fool. My lord closed the door after him and went straight to the point. "M. Peyrot, you were engaged last night in an attack on the Duke of St. Quentin. You did not succeed in slaying him, but you did kill his man, and you took from him a packet. I come to buy it.
25762_971	detective and mystery stories	Wheeler, Janet D.	" "We wanted Connie to come along with us," said Billie. "But she said she would have to go home first." "When are you girls going to start for Lighthouse Island?" Ferd asked with interest. "Have you set any time yet?" "Not a regular date," answered Laura. "But it will be in a week or two I think. We'll have to have time to get acquainted with the folks again and have our clothes fixed up----" "And then Connie's coming on to North Bend," Vi added eagerly. "And we'll all go together from there to the coast. Oh dear, I can't wait to start." "Well, I guess you'll have to," said Billie, with a sigh, "since we haven't even reached home yet." "That reminds me," said Laura, turning upon Billie accusingly. "What were you doing standing in the hall just now and looking as though you had lost your last friend when Vi and I came along and woke you up? Come on, 'fess up." Billie could not think for a moment what she had been doing, then she remembered Miss Arbuckle and the rather peculiar way the teacher had thanked her for the return of the album. She told the girls about it, and they listened with interest while the boys looked as if they would like to have known what it was all about. "Now I wonder----" Laura was beginning when Billie suddenly caught her hand and pointed to the road. "Look!" she cried. "It's Hugo Billings, our sad, faced man again. Oh, girls, I wish we could do something for him." She leaned far out the window, smiled and waved her hand to the man, who was standing moodily by the roadside. At sight of her he straightened up and an answering smile flashed across his thin face, making him look so different that the girls were amazed. But when they looked back at him again a few seconds later his smile had gone and he was staring after them gloomily. "Goodness, I never saw a person look so sad in all my life," murmured Vi, as a turn in the road hid the man from view. "Well, I have," said Billie. "And that's Miss Arbuckle!" "There must be some sort of mystery about them both," remarked Laura. "Maybe that man has a whole lot on his mind.
28448_1636	detective and mystery stories	Penrose, Margaret	Chip gets the tennis racket in Mr. Brill's show-window." "Cricky, Chip! how did you come to think of that?" demanded one of the boys in an undertone. "Well, they are going to be regular road-agents, aren't they?" asked the snub-nosed boy. "They take everything you have in your pockets at those fairs. They ought to wear masks--and carry guns, too. Only I didn't dare suggest the guns." Amid the muffled explosion of laughter following this statement, Miss Seymour began speaking again: "The girl's prize--the sports coat at Letterblair's--goes to Jessie Norwood, on whose father's lawn the bazaar is to be held on the afternoon and evening of the Fourth of July." At this announcement Belle Ringold actually cried out: "What's that?" "Hush!" commanded Miss Seymour. "Jessie has suggested that a tent be erected--her father has one stored in his garage--and that her radio set be placed in the tent and re-connected. With an amplifier the concerts broadcasted from several stations can be heard inside the tent, and we will charge admission to the tent. Radio is a new and novel form of amusement and, the committee thinks, will attract a large patronage. The coat is yours, Jessie." "Well, isn't that the meanest thing!" ejaculated Belle Ringold. "Did I hear you say something, Belle?" demanded Miss Seymour, in her very sternest way. "Well, I want to say----" "Don't say it," advised the teacher. "The decisions upon the prize ideas are arbitrary. The committee is responsible for its acts, and must decide upon all such matters. The affair is closed," and she went back into the committee room and closed the door. "Well, isn't she the mean thing!" exclaimed one of those girls who liked to stand well with Belle Ringold. "I am sure your idea was as good as good could be, Belle," Jessie said. "Only I happened to have the radio set, and--and everything is rigged right for my idea to work out." "Oh, I can see that it was rigged right," snapped Belle. "Your mother is on the committee, and the lawn party is going to be at your house. Oh, yes! No favoritism shown, of course." "Oh, cat's foot!"
27824_6338	detective and mystery stories	Campbell, Alice	"_Mon Dieu_, what is all this? How did that poor creature get here, and in such a state? Why, look--her clothes are soaking! She must have been in the rain for hours! And blood here on her face!" The old lady whispered an explanation. "She rushed in here a moment ago, Thérèse, you must have heard her. She seems so queer and upset, and has been saying the wildest things! And, isn't it odd, she refuses to allow the doctor to come near her at all!" "Does she? Very odd, indeed!" With another glance at the canapé, Lady Clifford turned towards the doctor. "What do you think one ought to do, doctor?" she inquired. "She can't stay here, naturally. Don't you think one should try to get her into some really safe place, where she could be properly looked after?" Something a little tense and sharp in the tone riveted Roger's attention. With his arm still about Esther he turned his head and listened. He heard the heavy tones of Sartorius make answer evenly, without emotion of any kind: "She is still raving; we must simply let her be for the moment till she quiets down. I will see what can be done. There is a mental home near Grasse where I believe they would take her; I can telephone and find out. They would keep her under observation until we can get in touch with her people." "Oh, doctor, do you really think that will be necessary?" asked Miss Clifford regretfully. She had just come out of Thérèse's room bringing a rose taffeta quilt to throw over the shivering girl. Roger made an impatient sign to the others to be careful what they said, but to his relief Esther appeared not to hear. He himself was peculiarly upset by the doctor's matter-of-fact reference to the mental home, and on the spot he resolved firmly to defeat any arrangements that might be made for placing the girl where she could be kept "under observation." Yet what ought one to do? She was clearly in need of medical attention. She seemed now to be delirious, babbling incoherently, repeating in an undertone and in that strange hoarse voice fragments of words and phrases that in spite of their wildness arrested his attention. Listening closely to her he thought that all the happenings of the past two months of her life had become interwoven into the fabric of her delusion.
50157_383	detective and mystery stories	Wheeler, Janet D.	I guess--I guess--I’d better go now.” Billie was nonplused by the strange behavior of this young person who had just saved her life. The manner of the girl had altered completely. From being dictatorial, “bossy,” and almost offensively sure of herself, she had become a shy and awkward country girl. Her eyes avoided Billie’s direct look, whether from shyness or sullenness, it was impossible to tell. Billie, painfully conscious of all her cuts and bruises, went up to the girl and held out her hand. “Whether you like it or not, I’m going to thank you. My life doesn’t mean a lot to you probably,” with a whimsical smile, “but it does to me and I am very properly grateful for it. How you can climb!” she added with genuine admiration. “If I could scale the side of a cliff like that, I wouldn’t care whether I could solve a problem in algebra or not.” The girl flashed Billie a glance. There was both sullenness and shyness in it; which was odd, considering the dictatorial tone she had used to Billie a few moments earlier. “Don’t be so nice to me,” she said, in a hard voice, “until you know who I am!” Billie was given no opportunity to comment on this peculiar observation for at the moment Vi and Laura dashed in from the woods, rushed to Billie and flung their arms about her. They had come by the woods path “around Robin Hood’s barn” and had reached her as soon as possible. “Oh-h, look out! Don’t hug so tightly, darlings. I’m--to put it mildly--sensitive. Yes, I’m alive--as you see. No there are no bones broken--I think. But I’ll have to soak in arnica to-night. Bruises--hundreds of ’em. But I’m not complaining. I know how lucky I am just to be alive!” Animated by the same thought, Laura and Vi left off hugging Billie and turned to the strange girl. “We don’t know how to thank you,” Vi began. “If you knew how much I hate thanks you wouldn’t go to the bother,” responded the stranger ungraciously. “I don’t do such things for thanks. Well--good-by!” She turned abruptly and would have plunged into the woods had not Billie called her.
26956_211	science fiction	Sevcik, Al	Then he realized that someone was talking to him, waving a microphone. "Er, I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch ..." he mumbled at the camera. The announcer laughed amiably. "Certainly can't blame you, this must be a really big night! How does it feel, General, for your son to be one of the evacuees?" Something in the back of his mind twisted the question. How does it feel, General, to turn your only son over to a poker-faced alien who shoots when you walk near his ship? "I'm not sure," he said, "how I feel." Talking excitedly, the announcer drew closer. "To think that your name will live forever in the vast star clusters of the galaxy!" He lowered his voice. "General, speaking now unofficially, as a parent, to the thousands of other parents whose children may also be selected, and to the rest of us who ..." he seemed to stumble for a word, and for an instant Rothwell saw him, too, as a man worried and afraid, instead of as part of a television machine. "Well, General, _you've_ had contact with the aliens, are you glad your son is going?" Rothwell looked at the strained face of the announcer, at the camera crew quietly eyeing him, and at the small huddled group of neighbors hovering in the background, and he knew that his next words might be the most critical he would ever use in his life. In a world strained emotionally almost beyond endurance, the wrong words, a hint of a suspicion, could spark the riots that would kill millions and bring total destruction. He faced the camera and said calmly, "I am glad my son is going. I wish it could happen for everyone. Commander Aku has assured me that everything will turn out all right." Mentally he begged for forgiveness, there was nothing else he could say. Sweat glistened on his forehead as he tried to fight down the memory of Aku turning his back on the plea that echoed in his brain--"tell me that our children will be safe." The front door of the house banged open and all at once Martha was in his arms, crying, laughing. "Oh, Jim, I'm so glad, so very glad!" Rothwell blinked his eyes as he put his arm around her and waved the camera away. Tears sparkled on his cheeks; but neither Martha nor the viewers knew why.
54445_1589	detective and mystery stories	Davis, Means	“The patient in Bed 11, Ward B, was admitted Sunday as a patient of Dr. Ethridge Sterling, Senior, under the observation of Dr. Ethridge Sterling, Junior....” “Yes, Miss Kerr. But the thing I wish you to report upon is the nursing-staff angle....” She flopped her bosom again and said: “Miss Kexter, my white nurse on Ward B is one of the finest women I have ever met in the nursing profession. And she had been most surpassingly brave through this entire ... investigation.... I think it has come to that, now....” “Trained with us?” Dr. Harrison asked. “Yes. Stood second in her class. She has under her five student nurses into whose records I have gone most thoroughly ... and who have been cruelly grilled....” “Miss Kerr,” Dr. MacArthur interrupted, “we have all been cruelly grilled as you call it. Please try to realize that it is not because we suspect your department ... any more than any other ... that we are questioning you.” “Dr. MacArthur,” she bit her lips, “my department has been my life; when it is criticized....” “We know you do! And so does everybody else concerned,” Dr. Harrison interposed. “Really Miss Kerr, please stick to what has happened. Your niece has night duty on Ward B, I believe?” “She has.” “She says you gave her orders about what to say to the patients about the death. Did you?” Cub Sterling had forgotten his manners and become bitterly stern. “I wasn’t on duty, Dr. Ethridge.” “Did you talk to her over the telephone?” “Of course not. How should I know of the death?” “Did you talk to her on the ward?” She inflated entirely and said with a defiant calm: “Doctor Ethridge, I just answered that question.” “Then how do you explain her statement, Miss Kerr?” A sudden terror flicked her china blue eyes. She dropped the lids instantly and replied with studied slowness: “The child has been through such an ordeal, she was rattled.” “Thank you.” Bear Sterling shifted, Dr. Harrison stroked his beard, Dr. MacArthur frowned and took up the questioning before Cub Sterling had regained his composure. “Who has charge of the hypodermic syringes on your floors, Miss Kerr?” “The white nurse in charge.” “Who has access to them?” “She and the student nurses on duty.”
9182_1099	love stories	Brontë, Charlotte	"I quite envy you the novelty: first impressions, you know, are so pleasant. Now I have made so many, I quite forget the first: I am quite _blasée_ about the sea and all that." I could not help smiling. "Why do you laugh at me?" she inquired, with a frank testiness that pleased me better than her other talk. "Because you are so young to be _blasée_ about anything." "I am seventeen" (a little piqued). "You hardly look sixteen. Do you like travelling alone?" "Bah! I care nothing about it. I have crossed the Channel ten times, alone; but then I take care never to be long alone: I always make friends." "You will scarcely make many friends this voyage, I think" (glancing at the Watson-group, who were now laughing and making a great deal of noise on deck). "Not of those odious men and women," said she: "such people should be steerage passengers. Are you going to school?" "No." "Where are you going?" "I have not the least idea--beyond, at least, the port of Boue-Marine." She stared, then carelessly ran on: "I am going to school. Oh, the number of foreign schools I have been at in my life! And yet I am quite an ignoramus. I know nothing--nothing in the world--I assure you; except that I play and dance beautifully,--and French and German of course I know, to speak; but I can't read or write them very well. Do you know they wanted me to translate a page of an easy German book into English the other day, and I couldn't do it. Papa was so mortified: he says it looks as if M. de Bassompierre--my godpapa, who pays all my school-bills--had thrown away all his money. And then, in matters of information--in history, geography, arithmetic, and so on, I am quite a baby; and I write English so badly--such spelling and grammar, they tell me. Into the bargain I have quite forgotten my religion; they call me a Protestant, you know, but really I am not sure whether I am one or not: I don't well know the difference between Romanism and Protestantism. However, I don't in the least care for that.
29748_996	western stories	Ogden, George W. (George Washington)	Taterleg spoke out of bed. "That girl's got purty eyes, ain't she?" "Lovely eyes, Taterleg." "And purty hair, too. Makes a feller want to lean over and pat that little row of bangs." "I expect there's a feller down there doin' it now." The spring complained under Taterleg's sudden movement; there was a sound of swishing legs under the sheet. Lambert saw him dimly against the window, sitting with his feet on the floor. "You mean Jedlick?" "Why not Jedlick? He's got the field to himself." Taterleg sat a little while thinking about it. Presently he resumed his repose, chuckling a choppy little laugh. "Jedlick! Jedlick ain't got no more show than a cow. When a lady steps in and takes a man's part there's only one answer, Duke. And she called me a gentleman, too. Didn't you hear her call me a gentleman, Duke?" "I seem to remember that somebody else called you that one time." Taterleg hadn't any reply at once. Lambert lay there grinning in the dark. No matter how sincere Taterleg might have been in this or any other affair, to the Duke it was only a joke. That is the attitude of most men toward the tender vagaries of others. No romance ever is serious but one's own. "Well, that happened a good while ago," said Taterleg defensively. But memories didn't trouble him much that night. Very soon he was sleeping, snoring on the _G_ string with unsparing pressure. For Lambert there was no sleep. He lay in a fever of anticipation. Tomorrow he should see her, his quest ended almost as soon as begun. There was not one stick of fuel for the flame of this conjecture, not one reasonable justification for his more than hope. Only something had flashed to him that the girl in the house on the mesa was she whom his soul sought, whose handkerchief was folded in his pocketbook and carried with his money. He would take no counsel from reason, no denial from fate. He lay awake seeing visions when he should have been asleep in the midst of legitimate dreams. A score of plans for serving her came up for examination, a hundred hopes for a happy culmination of this green romance budded, bloomed, and fell. But above the race of his hot thoughts the certainty persisted that this girl was the lady of the beckoning hand.
36170_1268	western stories	Cullum, Ridgwell	And in desperation he betook himself to his bathroom. He felt he must write to his mother. He felt that on this his arrival in Snake's Fall he could do no less than reassure her of his well-being. Mrs. James Carbhoy sighed contentedly as she raised her eyes from the last of a number of sheets of paper in her lap. Her husband turned from his contemplation of the scorching streets, and the parched foliage of the wide expanse of trees beyond the window. "Well?" he inquired. "Where is the boy?" There was the faintest touch of anxiety in his inquiry, but his face was perfectly controlled, and the humor in his eyes was quite unchanged. Mrs. Carbhoy sighed again. "I don't know. He doesn't say. Nor does he give the slightest clew." She examined the envelope of the letter. "It was mailed here in New York. It's a rambling sort of letter. I hope he is all right. This hot weather is---- Do you think he----" Her husband laughed. "I guess he's all right. You see I don't fancy he wants us to know where he is. That's come through some friend, I'd say. Just read it out." Gordon's mother leaned back in her chair again. She was more than ready to read her beloved boy's letter again, in spite of her misgivings. Besides, there was a hope in her thoughts that she had missed some clew as to his whereabouts which her clear-sighted husband might detect. "DEAREST MUM: "Destinations are mighty curious things which have a way of making up their minds as to whom they are terminals for, regardless of the individual. Most of us think the matter of destination is in our own hands. We make up our minds to go to the North Pole; well, if we get there it's because no other terminal on the way has made up its mind to claim us. I've surely arrived at my destination, a place I wasn't going to, nor had heard of, nor dreamed of--even when I had nightmare. I guess this place must have said to itself, 'Hello, here's Gordon Carbhoy on the train; he's every sort of fool, he don't know if it's Palm Sunday or Candlemas, he hasn't got more sense than an old hen with kittens, let's divert him where we think he ought to go.'
47368_40	detective and mystery stories	Beeman, Herbert	"There is a break in the pipe, Mr. Bloggs," he said. "Get it mended." *III.* *THE ADVENTURE OF TWO AND TWO* Keys was giving way to one of those orgies of spring onions and Limburger cheese to which he occasionally succumbed—for even the greatest of men have failings—and the atmosphere of our dining room was very unpleasant to one with my delicate olfactory nerves, so that it was with a feeling of positive relief that I welcomed the pungent odor of the smoke from a strong black cigar that was wafted in on us as the door opened to admit a stranger. A tall, nervous looking man, he commenced to apologize for having interrupted us at supper, but Keys waved aside his explanations and said abruptly. "You are a married man, sir, and very fond of your wife." Wonderingly our visitor pleaded guilty to both indictments, and Keys resumed: "Of course any one could tell that your wife has given you a Christmas present, a man with your intelligence would never buy a cigar like that, and only love for her would induce you to smoke it." "Sir, I can see you are just the man to solve the mystery that is making my life a hideous nightmare, if I am fortunate enough to interest you in my case. "My name is Humphrey Drake, and I am a country squire living in a peaceful village, and up to a week ago I was as placid as one of my own cows, but alas all is changed and I know not what dreadful fate is hanging over my head. I once read a wonderful book called ’_The Sign of the Four_,’ (I am a modest man, so I blushed at this unconscious praise, you, dear reader, will know why), and now I fear that the terrible end of Bartholemew Sholto will be mine." Mr. Drake turned very pale, whether from fear, or from the strong cigar, I do not know, but after a few minutes he recovered himself, and at Keys’ request continued his story. "Last week I had occasion to go to the stable immediately behind the house and on one of the walls saw in figures made with a piece of white chalk, this sign," and drawing his fountain pen from his pocket, he marked on our white table cloth 2 2 . — 4 . "I haven’t been able to sleep since, and now I have come to you for help.
18426_3594	love stories	Hueston, Ethel	" "No." He straightened his shoulders and drew a deep breath. Here was a starter, it would be his own fault if he could not keep talking the rest of the night. "No, I came out from Columbus when I was eighteen. Came for my health." He squared his shoulders again, and laughed a big deep laugh which made Connie marvel that there should be such big deep laughs in the world. "My father was a doctor. He sent me out, and I got a job punching time in the mines at Cripple Creek. I met some stock men, and one of them offered me a job, and I came out and got in with them. Then I got hold of a bit of land and began gathering up stock for myself. I stayed with the Sparker outfit six years, and then my father died. I took the money and got my start, and--why, that is all." He stopped in astonishment. He had been sure his story would last several hours. He had begun at the very start, his illness at eighteen, and here he was right up to the present, and--he rubbed his knee despairingly. There must be something else. There had to be something else. What under the sun had he been doing all these fourteen years in the ranges? "Don't you ever wish to go back?" Connie prompted kindly. "Back to Columbus? I went twice to see my father. He had a private sanatorium. My booming voice gave his nervous patients prostrations, and father thought my clothes were not sanitary because they could not be sterilized. Are you going to stay here for good?" It was very risky to ask, he knew, but he had to find out. "I am visiting my sister in Denver. We just came here for the Frontier Days," said Connie primly. "There is another Frontier Week at Sterling," he said eagerly. "A fine one, better than this. It isn't far over there. You would get more material at Sterling, I think. Can't you go on up?" "I have been away from Chicago four weeks now," said Connie. "In exactly two weeks I must be at my desk again." "Chicago is not a healthy town," he said, in a voice that would have done credit to his father, the medical man. "Very unhealthy. It is not literary either. Out west is the place for literature.
59012_1532	adventure stories	Hemyng, Bracebridge	“Why not? They have been under English officers. Disperse! Seat yourselves where you like, but until you receive further orders do not leave this room. Order what you like to eat and drink. I will be responsible for all.” The leader of the contingent agreed to be ready for action at a moment’s notice. They were not afraid of death. Each one would fight to the last gasp, like a Swiss or Hessian Mercenary. “I say, sah,” exclaimed Monday. “Why not me take charge ob de army?” “You can if you choose,” replied Jack. “Me keep them in order, and lead them on to victory; that’s my idea.” “You shall be colonel.” “Me general.” “Certainly,” continued Jack. “You are the commander-in-chief. Mind your men don’t bolt or get drunk. You can’t trust an Arab.” “If one go wrong, me shoot him down.” Monday spoke to the men, telling them he was to be the leader of the small brigade. They acquiesced. It mattered little to them who had the lead. Coffee and biscuits with dates were supplied them, as well as tobacco and pipes, as they lounged on the divans all round the room. Monday strapped a sword round his waist and marched up and down as proud as a peacock. This kind of thing suited him down to the ground. He liked to command. His vanity was flattered and his dignity gratified. Mole sulked like Achilles in his tent, at the seize of Troy, when everything did not go exactly his way. “What do you think of the army?” asked Harry. “They look fit,” replied Jack. “For what?” “To fight pirates.” “I hope to goodness you are right.” “They are fit to do anything and go anywhere.” The night was now drawing in. Stars came out, the moon rose, and a phosphorescent glow settled over the sea. There were no lights on board the Catamaran, consequently the pirate ship could not be seen. Had she moved on? That was scarcely probable, but Jack did not know what to think. There was little doubt that Hunston would induce the pirates to attack the Calabar. It was to their interest to do so. Having obtained one sum of money out of Young Jack, it was easy enough, they thought, to get some more.
64835_214	western stories	Thompson, Will H.	The outlaw’s face glowed with such radiancy as comes to men only in moments of ineffable joy. With electrical swiftness the heavy rifle was whisked backward, whirled with a swish over his right shoulder, and hurled forward with the resistless force of a cannon-shot. I heard the flutter as the weapon spun in the air like a revolving wheel, the crunch of the splintered ribs, and the sickening smash as the body of Kenneth was slammed back against the canyon wall, as a wind-gust slams a door. Then came a spurt of smoke from a dozen rifles, and the jar of the volley. “The combined blow of the bullets shook the outlaw’s breast as though he had been struck with a heavy club, and a great red splotch flared out upon his bosom. The light slowly faded from his dauntless eyes, and, feebly turning, like one who walks in his sleep, he passed within the copse. An instant later we heard the fall of a heavy body, and then out rang a cry, a shriek of frenzied agony, a woman’s wail, carrying in its tones such horror and despair as to chill the blood within my heart. I turned to Cady, and the expression upon his white and drawn face appalled me. His hands shook as they slowly relaxed, dropping his rifle upon the ground. In a low voice, trembling with emotion, he cried: “‘Great God, I knew it! We shot her at the river, and he swam with her through that water-hell! For two days he carried her mangled body before our horses! I knew why his footprints were so deep! I knew for whom that couch of grass was made! At last he knew she was dying, and he came out to be killed! God of heaven! what manner of man was this!’ “Rushing into the brush, I found the body of Palladis lying upon the back with arms outspread. The dying woman had crawled to his side; her arms were about his head, her lips upon his face, and, as she kissed him, she cried with a passion that should have mocked the power of death: “‘Oh, Tigre! Tigre! I will tell you now!’ “Feebly she drew her lips to his ear and whispered something I could not hear. Her arms tightened about his head, there was a slight tremor of the slender body—and the Lady Isola Pico was dead.”
2949_1277	western stories	Thanet, Octave	He made himself agreeable to one of the Cabinet girls, on the front seat, while Tommy, just behind him, had Miss Van Harlem and bliss for his portion. The old streets, the toppling roofs, the musty warehouses, the uneven pavement, all pleased the young creatures out in the sunshine. They made merry over the ancient ball-room, where Washington had asked a far-away ancestress of Beatoun to dance; and they decorously walked through the old church. IT happened in the church. Mrs. Carriswood was behind the others; so she saw them come in, the same little old couple of the Capitol. In the chancel, Beatoun was explaining; beside Beatoun shone a curly black head that they knew. Mrs. Carriswood sat in one of the high old pews. Through a crack she could look into the next pew; and there they stood. She heard the old man: “Whist, Molly, let’s be getting out of this! HE is here with all his grand friends. Don’t let us be interrupting him.” The old woman’s voice was so like Tommy’s that it made Mrs. Carriswood start. Very softly she spoke: “I only want to look at him a minute, Pat, jest a minute. I ain’t seen him for so long.” “And is it any longer for you than for me?” retorted the husband. “Ye know what ye promised if I’d be taking you here, unbeknownst. Don’t look his way! Look like ye was a stranger to him. Don’t let us be mortifying him wid our country ways. Like as not ‘tis the prisidint, himself, he is colloguein’ wid, this blessed minute. Shtep back and be a stranger to him, woman!” A stranger to him, his own mother! But she stepped back; she turned her patient face. Then--Tommy saw her. A wave of red flushed all over his face. He took two steps down the aisle, and caught the little figure in his arms. “Why, mother?” he cried, “why, mother, where did you drop from?” And before Mrs. Carriswood could speak she saw him step back and push young Sackville forward, crying, “This is my father, this is the boy that knew your grandmother.” He did it so easily; he was so entirely unaffected, so perfectly unconscious, that there was nothing at all embarrassing for anyone.
25762_1779	detective and mystery stories	Wheeler, Janet D.	" "No," said Connie gravely. "No, that isn't it. You see," she lowered her voice a little and spoke slowly, "Uncle Tom lost somebody in a wreck once. She was a very lovely girl, it is said, and Uncle Tom was engaged to marry her." The girls' young faces were very sober as they gazed at Connie. "Oh," said Billie softly. "Now I see. Poor, poor Uncle Tom!" CHAPTER XIX PAUL'S MOTOR BOAT The days flew by on wings and the girls were surprised to wake one morning to find that they had been at Lighthouse Island over a week. They had been bathing and boating and swimming till they were tanned a beautiful brown, the color not being confined to their faces, but covering their arms and hands as well. What with the exercise and Mrs. Danvers' wonderful cooking, they had gained flesh so fast that they had begun to wonder a little anxiously if they were "bound for the freak show." "Why, it's positively dreadful!" Laura declared one morning, feeling ruefully of her waistline which she was quite certain had expanded at least two inches. "I've simply got to stop eating, or something." "Stop eating!" echoed Billie, taking up a handful of sand and letting it sift slowly through her fingers. "Well, maybe you can do it, Laura dear, but I certainly can't--not with Connie's mother doing the cooking." "I don't intend to try, no matter how fat I get," declared Vi. It was right after breakfast, and the girls had jumped into their bathing suits, as they did at almost the same time every morning, and were waiting impatiently for the hour to pass that Mrs. Danvers had insisted must pass before they went in swimming after breakfast. "Mother said she might come down this morning and go in with us," said Connie, her eyes fixed dreamily on the horizon. Then suddenly she sat up straight and stared. "What's the matter?" asked Billie. "Seeing ghosts or something?" "No. But look!" Connie clutched at her arm. "Isn't that a motor boat?" "That" was a tiny spot that grew bigger as they looked and seemed to be headed in their direction. "It's a boat of some sort, I think," said Vi. "But you can't tell whether it's a motor boat or some other kind of a craft.
62236_2293	western stories	Ward, William (Author at Arthur Westbrook Co. (Cleveland, Ohio))	But he was not inclined to complain, though the desperado never had been in such sore straits before. His tormentors left him. Jesse had been left lying on his face, the Indians not taking the trouble to turn him over. But after satisfying himself that he was alone, the outlaw cautiously rolled over on his back and rested for a few minutes. But his new position enabled him to see out through the opening, only the upper part of the flap having been put back in place by the savages when they left him. He discovered that two stolid Indians had been left on guard. They were squatting on the ground in front of the wigwam. And now the desperado's mind began to work like a piece of well-oiled machinery, planning an escape. But just how he expected to accomplish this, was not clear to himself. Yet to his resourceful mind, no situation was impossible. Therefore the outlaw took cheer and set about the task in hand, regardless of the stinging pain from his burns, that he was now beginning to sense more keenly. The desperado pricked up his ears at the sound of voices outside. He recognized the tones of Dew Drop, the Indian maiden. She was speaking loudly in her broken English, and Jesse understood instantly that she intended he should hear what she was saying. Somewhere within her words there lay a message for him. Dew Drop had launched into a perfect tirade of invective against the helpless desperado there in the wigwam, and with straining ears he listened for the words that would give him a clue to her motives. He observed too, that the shadows of night were falling. Between these two incidents the desperado believed there was a connection that augured well for his plans. Once during her conversation with the Indians, he caught the words, "fire-water." Then Dew Drop's voice was heard no more, and he understood that she had gone away. His heart sank. Perhaps he was wrong in his surmise, after all. But Jesse's spirits revived a moment later when he heard her returning. He was at a loss at first to account for her movements. That something of interest to himself was occurring, Jesse was firmly convinced. But wriggle about as he would, he could not get a glimpse of the group outside. However, the desperado's curiosity was soon rewarded. "Firewater. That's it," he exclaimed. "By the great humping snakes. Sure as I am alive, the little savage is filling them up.
65345_2386	detective and mystery stories	Taylor, Bert Leston	I am on the lookout for a couple of gentry whom I expect to be there. This is my station. Good-night.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXI. “DON CAESAR DE BAZAN.” The big French ball, that annual revel at the metropolis, brings together a motley assemblage of the devotees of folly. The scene at the entrance to Madison Square Garden to-night is the same scene witnessed at this function the year preceding, and the year before that. A mass of cabs and carriages in apparently inextricable confusion fill the street. They struggle up and deposit their fares and escorts and chaperons fight their way through the mob that blocks the brilliantly lighted entrance, and not always without an unpleasant encounter. Upon the threshold of the gay interior Louise Hathaway pauses diffidently and thanks fortune that a mask hides her face from the inquisitive stares around her. But led by Jack Ashley, Louise and Mr. Felton proceed to a box and once within its shelter the young girl gives herself up to an unmixed enjoyment of the brilliant spectacle before her. The scene is decorous, even sedate. Few acquaintances have been made, and when the strains of “Loin du Bal” arise in voluptuous swell only a small number of dancers respond. “Why this is as proper as one of our country dances, and far less noisy,” Louise whispers to Ashley, but that knowing young man winks mysteriously behind his mask and remarks: “Wait!” “Oh, but I shan’t wait,” is the young lady’s response. “You remember what I emphatically declared—only an hour or two and then we return to the hotel.” “Then you need fear nothing that would shock you in the least degree,” Ashley assures her. “The rioting does not begin until after midnight, and does not amount to much then. But see. The floor is filling up, the reserve is wearing off, and it would need only the eruption of some reckless spirit to bring on a pandemonium.” It is apparent that only a desire to humor the wishes of Miss Hathaway has led Cyrus Felton to the garden. And yet it is all so novel, all so bright and full of color, that he becomes interested in spite of himself, and when Ashley proposes a tour of the floor with a peep at the wine-room, Mr. Felton glances irresolutely at Louise. The young lady nods an assent. “Do not be gone long,” she enjoins, “although I could listen to the music and watch the picture half the night.”
14545_1746	western stories	Rhodes, Eugene Manlove	Too bad! But I suppose boys will be boys," said Pete tolerantly. "I knew you'd spring something like this," said Stan. "Take your time." "I'm afraid it's you that will take time, my boy. Can't you dig up any evidence to help you?" "I don't see how. I went to sleep and didn't hear a thing; didn't wake up till they arrested me." "Oh! You're claiming that you didn't do the robbin' at all? I see-e! Standing on your previous record and insistin' you're the victim of foul play? Sympathy dodge?... Hum! You stick to that, my boy," said Pete benevolently. "Maybe that's as good a show as any. Get a good lawyer. If you could hire some real fine old gentleman and a nice little old gray-haired lady to be your parents and weep at the jury, it might help a heap.... If you'd only had sense enough to have hid that money where it couldn't have been found, or where it wouldn't have been a give-away on you, at least! I suppose you was scared. But it sorter reflects back on me, since you've been running with me lately. Folks will think I should have taught you better. What made you do it, Stanley?" "I suppose you think you're going to get me roiled, you old fool! You've got another guess, then. You can't get my nanny! But I do think you might tell me what's been going on. Even a guilty man has his curiosity. Did you get the money I left for you?" Pete's jaw sagged; his eye expressed foggy bewilderment. "Money? What money? I thought they got it all when they arrested you?" "Oh, don't be a gloomy ass! The money I left with Old Man Taylor; the money you got down here for preliminary expenses on the mine." "Mine?" echoed Pete blankly. "What mine?" "Old stuff!" Stanley laughed aloud. "Go to it, old-timer! You can't faze me. When you get good and ready to ring off, let me know." "Well, then," said Pete, "I will. Here we go, fresh. And you may not be just the best-pleased with my plan at first, son.
32706_2417	science fiction	Smith, E. E. (Edward Elmer)	BOOK THREE TRIPLANETARY CHAPTER 7 PIRATES OF SPACE Apparently motionless to her passengers and crew, the Interplanetary liner _Hyperion_ bored serenely onward through space at normal acceleration. In the railed-off sanctum in one corner of the control room a bell tinkled, a smothered whirr was heard, and Captain Bradley frowned as he studied the brief message upon the tape of the recorder--a message flashed to his desk from the operator's panel. He beckoned, and the second officer, whose watch it now was, read aloud: "Reports of scout patrols still negative." "Still negative." The officer scowled in thought. "They've already searched beyond the widest possible location of wreckage, too. Two unexplained disappearances inside a month--first the _Dione_, then the _Rhea_--and not a plate nor a lifeboat recovered. Looks bad, sir. One might be an accident; two might possibly be a coincidence...." His voice died away. "But at three it would get to be a habit," the captain finished the thought. "And whatever happened, happened quick. Neither of them had time to say a word--their location recorders simply went dead. But of course they didn't have our detector screens nor our armament. According to the observatories we're in clear ether, but I wouldn't trust them from Tellus to Luna. You have given the new orders, of course?" "Yes, sir. Detectors full out, all three courses of defensive screen on the trips, projectors manned, suits on the hooks. Every object detected to be investigated immediately--if vessels, they are to be warned to stay beyond extreme range. Anything entering the fourth zone is to be rayed." "Right--we are going through!" "But no known type of vessel could have made away with them without detection," the second officer argued. "I wonder if there isn't something in those wild rumors we've been hearing lately?" "Bah! Of course not!" snorted the captain. "Pirates in ships faster than light--sub-ethereal rays--nullification of gravity mass without inertia--ridiculous! Proved impossible, over and over again. No, sir, if pirates are operating in space--and it looks very much like it--they won't get far against a good big battery full of kilowatt-hours behind three courses of heavy screen, and good gunners behind multiplex projectors. They're good enough for anybody.
30705_457	science fiction	Page, Gerald W.	It was her eyes, he decided. She was staring off into the sky and forest. Her eyes were large, dark, enigmatic eyes that expressed much; expressed it eloquently. But he had the feeling there was much in the girl that those eyes hid. Her body was lean, but whether from exercise or undernourishment he couldn't be sure. Her figure was full, for all the leanness, and ample. She was strong, though she hardly looked muscular. She had been toughened by her environment. Edna had not been as tough as Glynnis. With sudden embarrassment, he realized he had been comparing Glynnis and Edna frequently. He didn't want to do that--but he couldn't help himself. "Something wrong?" Glynnis asked anxiously. She was returning his stare. "No," he said. "I was ... looking at you." For a long moment, neither spoke. Then he said, "We'll be together for a long time." "I know. We'll have to be." "I'm glad I found you. I lost my wife to the patrol some time back." "I've never been anyone's wife before. There was Frank, but I was never really what you could call his wife, exactly." "Many people ever stay with your folks?" "Not many. Frank only stayed a few days. I liked him. I wanted to go with him." "Why didn't you?" She broke off a blade of grass and slowly began tearing it into strips, intently gazing at it. "He just left suddenly without taking me. I guess he thought I was just a stupid brat. That was maybe two or three years ago." Her voice sounded as if she were smiling a little. Nelson thought that strange. "You ever think much about the sleepers?" he asked suddenly. "Sometimes. I wonder what it's like in their dreams." "They like it in their dreams. Those dreams are built for them. They get along happily in their world, grateful for it. That's the word, grateful." He listened for a moment to nightsounds. "But they're helpless. If anything happens, they're asleep and unable to act. If they wake up, they're in a world they don't know how to live in." "If you were a sleeper, what kind of world would you want to dream about?" "I don't want to be a sleeper.
38357_4273	adventure stories	Marchmont, Arthur W.	Their power is almost limitless. How hard they will hit and how far the blow will reach, if they ever find we are fooling them!" She sighed. "The frontier is their limit: and we must pass it." "I have been out to-day to make the preparations for flight. I suppose I must go?"--she smiled a sad little note of interrogation at me--"and if so, the sooner the better. I have a disguise, and shall start to-night. My difficulty will be of course at the frontier. I am going to stop short of that by one station, and then as a peasant girl try to get over on foot. It will take a little longer: but it is the only chance." "No, I have good news for you so far as that is concerned. Madame Tueski will get you a permit in some name or other and then you can cross in the train. Far better." "You have seen her then to-day?" A shadow of her old feelings crossed Olga's face as she asked this. "Yes, I have seen her, and she is eager now that you shall get out of the country." She was very quickwitted and read my meaning instantly from my words and tone. "Tell me everything. There is more bad news yet to be told. Has she guessed? ... Ah, I always feared that woman." "Tell me, Olga, ought I to have any special mark on either of my arms. Any birth-mark, or anything of that sort?" She went white instantly. "I had forgotten. That wretched woman's initials were tattooed in small letters just there"--she put her finger on the place--"I saw it once and Alexis was wild with me. Has she seen your arm bare?" "My wound," I said, in explanation. "Oh dear, through me again; through me again," cried the girl in distress. I took her in my arms to soothe her, and tried to make her understand that after all it was really a good thing that had happened and not a bad one, inasmuch as the woman's jealousy was urging her to help in getting Olga away. I told her everything frankly. But this was not all a clear course, as may be imagined. Olga loved me very dearly and trusted me, I believe, as implicitly as any woman could trust the man she loved.
12678_2220	detective and mystery stories	Irwin, Will	He found a sound-proof telephone, and did a few minutes of rapid talking. Then he proceeded to his office. The force was gone. Alone at his desk, he went over the papers in a complicated calculation which he had made twenty times before. By all devices, Watson could hold back the collapse of the Mongolia Mine until after October 19. By straining his credit to the utmost--liquidating everything--he himself could raise a trifle more than seventy thousand dollars. He hesitated no longer. Methodically, he apportioned out the seventy thousand dollars among a dozen brokers, who to-morrow should buy for him, on a ten point margin, L.D. and M. stock at fifty to fifty-three. This done, Bulger locked up the papers again, telephoned for a cab, and proceeded to his club, where he dined with his customary hilarity and good humor. XI THROUGH THE WALL-PAPER "You've got to do it!" said Rosalie Le Grange; "no half-way business. I could show better reasons than I'm tellin'." Blake paused in his slow walk beside her. "What reasons?" he asked. "Now listen to the man!" exclaimed Rosalie. "And ain't it man for you! Right off, first meeting, I told you enough to put me in jail and now you won't trust me!" Blake seemed to see the logic of what she said. "I have cause to trust you," he said, "and I hope you don't think that I am afraid of the personal danger. It's just that you're asking me to do something which--will, which people like me don't do." "So anxious to be a gentleman that you forgit to be a man!" remarked Rosalie with asperity. "Now you listen to me. I've told you that she's held two materializing seances for Robert H. Norcross, haven't I? I've told you it is crooked materialization--even if there was such a thing as real cabinet spooks, which there ain't--because I found the ceiling trap an' the apparatus long ago. And if Mrs. Markham is playin' fake materializing with old Norcross as a dope, what does it come to? Obtainin' money, an' big money, under false pretenses! That's enough to put her behind the bars. So what risk do you take even if you _are_ caught? She'll be more anxious than you to keep it away from the papers and the police.
50157_2328	detective and mystery stories	Wheeler, Janet D.	At the end of that time we will take a general vote as to what is to be done with the money.” Amid a clamor of voices the meeting broke up and the girls filed out, apparently well-satisfied with their part in the proceedings. Billie, Connie, Laura, and Vi were left behind with Edina Tooker in the big emptied gymnasium. Billie thrust the sixty-five dollars in bills and change toward Edina. “Here, treasurer, you will have to take care of this in the future.” Edina regarded the money doubtfully. Under considerable urging she scooped it up and deposited it in her new pocketbook. “I never did like the job of lookin’ out for other folks’ cash,” she protested. “Suppose I should lose it?” “That’s your job from now on,” said Connie Danvers, with a shrewd but not unkindly glance. “I’d suggest you sleep with it under your pillow.” This advice was followed undeviatingly by Edina during the uneasy days that followed. Nightly, the new-made treasurer was haunted by dreams wherein bold robbers with masks and enormous forty-fives dashed out of dark alleys or around street corners, demanding her money or her life. The fund grew astonishingly, and, with it, Edina’s responsibility. On the fourth day after the election of officers it had reached the--to Edina--terrifying sum of two hundred and sixty dollars. It was then that the new treasurer made up her mind to go in search of Billie. She found the latter on the tennis courts, playing against Amanda Peabody. Edina frowned her disapproval. Billie had promised to rest that knee for the big contest, now only a few days off. This was the way she kept her promise, prancing all over the court with that hateful Amanda Peabody! As though in answer to Edina’s thoughts, someone beside her said: “Isn’t it awful! She just let that horrible girl pester her into playing. Now she will cripple herself, most likely, for the big match.” “How’s the score?” demanded Edina. “Even, two all, with this game thirty love in Billie’s favor. It’s been a lovely game to watch, but Billie is nearly all in. See how she limps!” “It’s an outrage!” cried Edina. “Why doesn’t someone stop her?” “Try to do it!” said the girl at her side, who had turned out to be Nellie Bane.
32706_1212	science fiction	Smith, E. E. (Edward Elmer)	But ooze down that ditch a piece, around the first bend. It's pretty well in the clear there, and besides, you'll find a ledge of rocks running straight across the flat. Cross over there and climb the hill--join us by that dead snag up there. We got to get out of here. That sausage over there must have seen this shindig and they'll blow this whole damn area off the map. Snap it up! And you, you goldbricks, get the lead out of your pants!" Kinnison followed directions. He found the ledge and emerged, scraping thick and sticky mud from his uniform. He crawled across the little plain. An occasional bullet whined through the air, far above him; but, as the sergeant had said, this bit of terrain was "in the clear." He climbed the hill, approached the gaunt, bare tree-trunk. He heard men moving, and cautiously announced himself. "OK., fella," came the sergeant's deep bass. "Yeah, it's us. Shake a leg!" "That's easy!" Kinnison laughed for the first time that day. "I'm shaking already, like a hula-hula dancer's empennage. What outfit is this, and where are we?" "BRROOM!" The earth trembled, the air vibrated. Below and to the north, almost exactly where the machine-guns had been, an awe-inspiring cloud billowed majestically into the air; a cloud composed of smoke, vapor, pulverized earth, chunks of rock, and debris of what had been trees. Nor was it alone. "Crack! Bang! Tweet! Boom! Wham!" Shells of all calibers, high explosive and gas, came down in droves. The landscape disappeared. The little company of Americans, in complete silence and with one mind, devoted themselves to accumulating distance. Finally, when they had to stop for breath: "Section B, attached to the 76th Field Artillery," the sergeant answered the question as though it had just been asked. "As to where we are, somewhere between Berlin and Paris is about all I can tell you. We got hell knocked out of us yesterday, and have been running around lost ever since. They shot off a rally signal on top of this here hill, though, and we was just going to shove off when we seen the krauts chasing you." "Thanks.
30189_222	science fiction	Ellanby, Boyd	" "Dworken, you were a sap to string along with him even that far," I said wearily. "I hope you hadn't paid the guy any money." He shook his head. "No, my old and best," he said. "Dworken no fool is, even on Mars. No, no money. But wait! De animals go on without the owner. Same stage business, same talk, same jokes, and even funnier yedt. What?" I started at Dworken. He did not smile, but finished off the eleventh _shchikh_--the fifth I had bought him. "Listen," I said. "Are you sitting there telling me you have a _tllooll_ and a _shiyooch'iid_ that can really talk?" "You listen, my vriend. Like you, I t'ink something is wrong. I say to Martian owner, 'My vriend, maybe I buy your act, if you tell me how it is done. But you know as well as I do dat it is impossible to dese animals to talk. Tell me what is de trick?'" Dworken lifted his glass and shook it, as though he could not believe it was empty, then looked at me questioningly. I shook my head. He snorted, looked melancholy, writhed up from his chair and reached for his fur cape. "Vell, thanks for de drinks," he said. A dark suspicion crept into my mind, but I could not restrain myself. "Wait, Dworken!" I shouted. "You can't just leave me up in the air like that! What happened then?" Dworken snorted into his green handkerchief. "De Martian admitted it was a fake, after all," he said mournfully. "Can you imachine it? What a chiseler! "'De _shiyooch'iid_,' he said, 'can't really talk; de _tllooll_ just t'rows his voice!'" THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _If Worlds of Science Fiction_ November 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
12678_1015	detective and mystery stories	Irwin, Will	I beg you--drive on or I shall die!" And though the car wavered dangerously under his unsteady touch, he obeyed, managed to gain the highroad without a spill, and to turn north. She wept silently. When at last she took her hands away and turned her face on him, his lover's observation saw how beautifully she wept. Her eyes were not red, her face was calm. He took heart from her glance, began to babble foolish love words. But she stopped him. "You are driving away from home," she said. "Drive back, and don't speak yet." After he had turned, her tears ceased. She dried her eyes. Now she smiled a little, and her voice grew natural. "I must never be weak again," she said. "But it was sweet. Dear, might I touch your arm? No, you must not stop again. Just my hand on your arm." "Dearest, why do you ask?" She drew off her glove, and all the way a light, steady pressure made uncertain his wheel-hand. They drove a mile so--two miles--and neither spoke until they came out into inhabited Upper Broadway. At the appearance of crowds, trucks and the perils of the highway, that silver thread of silence broke. She drew her hand away, and took up the last word of ten minutes ago. "It was sweet--but no more. How long it is since I kissed you! I am glad. I shall pay for it heavily--but I am glad!" He smiled on her as on a child who speaks foolishness. "You cannot renounce now!" he said. "I shall renounce. I have stolen this morning--would you rob me in turn?" "It will be the first kiss of a million," he said. "It will be the last forever," she answered. "But remember, if you do not kiss me, no man ever shall." He busied himself with guiding the automobile; it was no time to hurl out the intense things which he had to say. But when they had entered the smooth park driveway, he came out with it: "Do you think that I respect that obstacle? Can you think that I believe such moonshine even if you do? And do you suppose that I am going to let Aunt Paula keep you now?" She touched his arm again; let her hand rest there as before.
3641_1835	love stories	Hamilton, Cosmo	" How often had he said those very words to other women! He did it surpassingly well. She continued to act. "Oh, Gilbert," she said in a low voice, "you mustn't. There's Alice." Two could play at his pet game. "Yes, there is Alice. But what does that matter? I don't care, and you don't. Your motto is not to care. You're always saying so. I'm no more married to Alice than you are to Gray. They're accidents, both of them. I love you, I tell you." And he ran his hand up to her shoulder and bore down upon her. Where were his manners and polish and assurance? It was amazing to see the change in the man. But she dodged away and took up a stand behind the piano and laughed at him. "You're an artist, Gilbert," she said. "It's all very well for you to practice on women of your own age, but I'm an unsophisticated girl. You might turn my head, you know." Her sarcasm threw him up short. She was mocking. He was profoundly hurt. "But you've chosen me. You've picked me out. You've used me to take you to places night after night! Don't fool with me, Joan. I'm in dead earnest." And she saw with astonishment that he was. His face was white, and he stood in a curious attitude of supplication, with his hands out. She was amazed, and for a moment thrilled. Gilbert Palgrave, the woman's man, in love with her. Think of it! "But Gilbert," she said, "there's Alice. She's my friend." That seemed to matter more than the fact that she was his wife. "That hasn't mattered to you all along. Why drag it in now? Night after night you've danced with me; I've been at your beck and call; you used me to rescue you from Gray that time. What are you? What are you made of? Unsophisticated! You!" He wasn't angry. He was fumbling at reasons in order to try and get at her point of view. "You know well enough that a man doesn't put himself out to that extent for nothing. What becomes of give and take?
1204_2136	western stories	Bower, B. M.	What if she found Bud--drunk, as Joe had described him? Or, worse than that, what if she did not find him at all? She tried not to cry, but it seemed as though she must cry or scream. Fast as she wiped them away, other tears dropped over her eyelids upon her cheeks, and were given the absorbed attention of Lovin Child, who tried to catch each one with his finger. To distract him, she turned him around face to the window. “See all the--pitty cows,” she urged, her lips trembling so much that they would scarcely form the words. And when Lovin Child flattened a finger tip against the window and chuckled, and said “Ee? Ee?”--which was his way of saying see--Marie dropped her face down upon his fuzzy red “bunny” cap, hugged him close to her, and cried, from sheer, nervous reaction. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. CABIN FEVER IN THE WORST FORM Bud Moore woke on a certain morning with a distinct and well-defined grouch against the world as he had found it; a grouch quite different from the sullen imp of contrariness that had possessed him lately. He did not know just what had caused the grouch, and he did not care. He did know, however, that he objected to the look of Cash's overshoes that stood pigeon-toed beside Cash's bed on the opposite side of the room, where Bud had not set his foot for three weeks and more. He disliked the audible yawn with which Cash manifested his return from the deathlike unconsciousness of sleep. He disliked the look of Cash's rough coat and sweater and cap, that hung on a nail over Cash's bunk. He disliked the thought of getting up in the cold--and more, the sure knowledge that unless he did get up, and that speedily, Cash would be dressed ahead of him, and starting a fire in the cookstove. Which meant that Cash would be the first to cook and eat his breakfast, and that the warped ethics of their dumb quarrel would demand that Bud pretend to be asleep until Cash had fried his bacon and his hotcakes and had carried them to his end of the oilcloth-covered table. When, by certain well-known sounds, Bud was sure that Cash was eating, he could, without loss of dignity or without suspicion of making any overtures toward friendliness, get up and dress and cook his own breakfast, and eat it at his own end of the table.
18563_623	western stories	Sinclair, Bertrand W.	"Then come and see me this afternoon if you can. I'm staying with Mrs. Stone. Don't forget, now--I have a thousand things I want to talk about. Good-bye." And she smiled and turned away with the uniformed snob by her side. MacRae had loitered purposely, and I overtook him in a few rods. "Well," I blurted out, as near angry as I ever got at MacRae in all the years I'd known him, "you're a high-headed cuss, confound you! Is it a part of your new philosophy of life to turn your back on every one that you ever cared anything for?" He shrugged his shoulders tolerantly. "What did you expect of me?" "You might have--oh, well, I suppose you'll go your own gait, regardless," I sputtered. "That's your privilege. But I don't see how you had the nerve to pass _her_ up that way. Especially since that Stony Crossing deal." Mac took a dozen steps before he answered me. "You don't understand the lay of things, Sarge," he said, rather hesitatingly. "If I have the situation sized up right, Lyn is practically alone here, and things are going to look pretty black to her when she learns what has happened. Hank never had anything much to do with his people. I doubt if Lyn has even a speaking acquaintance with her nearest kin. She has friends in the South--plenty of them who'd be more than glad to do as much for her as you or I. But we're a long way from the Canadian River, now. And so if she has made friends among the official set here, it's up to me to stand back--until that _cache_ is found, anyway." "Then you're not going to try and see her, and tell her about this thing yourself?" I asked. "I can't," he replied impatiently. "You'll have to do that, Sarge. Hang it, can't you see where I stand? The mere fact that Lessard was taking her about shows that these officers' women have received her with open arms. They form a clique as exclusive as a quarantined smallpox patient, and a 'non-com' like myself is barred out, until I win a pair of shoulder-straps; when my rank would make me socially possible.
29284_648	love stories	Deland, Margaret Wade Campbell	" "People have interfered with us a good deal, first and last," the Captain said, grimly. The faint color in Mrs. North's cheeks suddenly deepened. "So they have," she said. The Captain shook his head in a discouraged way; he took his pipe out of his pocket and looked at it absent-mindedly. "I suppose I can stay at home, and let 'em get over it?" "Stay at home? Why, you'd far better--" "What?" said the Captain. "Come oftener!" cried the old lady. "Let 'em get over it by getting used to it." Captain Price looked doubtful. "But how about your daughter?" Mrs. North quailed. "I forgot Mary," she admitted. "I don't bother you, coming to see you, do I?" the Captain said, anxiously. "Why, Alfred, I love to see you. If our children would just let us alone!" "First it was our parents," said Captain Price. He frowned heavily. "According to other people, first we were too young to have sense; and now we're too old." He took out his worn old pouch, plugged some shag into his pipe, and struck a match under the mantel-piece. He sighed, with deep discouragement. Mrs. North sighed too. Neither of them spoke for a moment; then the little old lady drew a quick breath and flashed a look at him; opened her lips; closed them with a snap; then regarded the toe of her slipper fixedly. The color flooded up to her soft white hair. The Captain, staring hopelessly, suddenly blinked; then his honest red face slowly broadened into beaming astonishment and satisfaction. "_Mrs. North_--" "Captain Price!" she parried, breathlessly. "So long as our affectionate children have suggested it!" "Suggested--what?" "Let's give 'em something to cry about!" "Alfred!" "Look here: we are two old fools; so they say, anyway. Let's live up to their opinion. I'll get a house for Cyrus and Gussie--and your girl can live with 'em, if she wants to!" The Captain's bitterness showed then. "She could live here," murmured Mrs. North. "What do you say?" The little old lady laughed excitedly, and shook her head; the tears stood in her eyes. "Do you want to leave Old Chester?"
32543_996	adventure stories	Drayson, Alfred W. (Alfred Wilks)	This supplied us with plenty of meat; so we had a great feast, and dried enough flesh to last us on our journey back. On our return to our kraals we were received like heroes who had won a great battle. Our feathers were the envy of the whole tribe, so I gave several to the various chiefs, and it was agreed that a chief might wear as many as he liked, the head man of a kraal might wear only one, and no lower man might wear any. We thus made a division in the rank of men, which is of great importance even with men as uncivilised as were these Caffres. Among the men at our kraal there was one called Ebomvu, because his skin was redder than most Caffres. He was the Rain-maker of the tribe, and was much feared, because he was considered a wizard. Now the power which these wizards had was very great. They were believed by most of the men in the tribe to be able to foretell events, to produce rain in time of drought, to tell who had bewitched cattle, or men, and made them ill, and they used this power very often to get rid of any person who was not agreeable to them. The Rain-maker was a dangerous man, and I had soon learnt that, unless I was friendly with him, he might proclaim that I had bewitched somebody, and then probably all the power of my friends could not save me from being killed. I saw one case where an old man who had made an enemy of the Rain-maker, was killed by the people, and as the proceedings then adopted were similar to those usually practised, I will give a description of what occurred. A cow belonging to the head man of a neighbouring kraal died during the night. There was no doubt in my mind, on looking at the animal, that it had died from the bite of a snake, probably the _m'namba umculu_, or great puff-adder. Ebomvu, however, told the owner that the cow had been bewitched by some enemy who wanted to serve him an ill turn, and that this enemy he would smell out. In two days after the cow's death Ebomvu commenced his proceedings. He assembled all the principal men of the kraal, and also those of the kraals near; and then, entering the cattle enclosure, went to the spot where the cow had died, and told the men to dig.
59242_122	science fiction	Smith, George H. (George Henry)	The security guards on duty the night of the murder testified that only MacKinney, Thompson, Ballard and I had had access to the computer room; and it had already been established that it would have been impossible for a spy or foreign agent to have slipped into the heavily guarded room. It was clearly an inside job. With all of us at the scene of the crime, the coroner summed it up for us. "--and since it could not have been the work of an outsider, it must have been a crime of a private nature." He looked closely at Thompson, MacKinney and me. "A crime of a private nature with the motive either revenge, jealousy or ambition. We know that the victim was an over-bearing man with a good many unpleasant traits. We know he was a man who forced his attentions on women, who was ill-tempered and abusive to those who worked with him. A man who had many enemies--but there were only three people who had the chance to attack him on this particular night. "I am going to attempt to establish the identity of the killer by the unusual procedure of questioning a machine. It will be for later courts to establish the validity of such testimony. Because of the nature of this case and because of the urgent need to get this computer back to its proper work, I am going to ask the questions in a more direct manner than I would ordinarily employ." MacKinney took his place before Edith. They didn't even trust me to feed the tapes into her under their very eyes. "Mr. Thompson, I object to the use of this delicate piece of equipment in--" They ignored me, and MacKinney punched out the questions the coroner asked: "Do you know who murdered Dr. Ballard?" There was a pause. Edith blinked several times. I was shaking with apprehension for her. A mind so delicate and noble should not be faced with such a dilemma. _Yes, she typed back._ "Did you witness the murder?" There was a longer pause this time. "You must answer the question," MacKinney reminded her. _I was here._ "Is it true that you do not lose your perceptive qualities when we turn you off?" MacKinney asked this on his own. _It is true._ "We might as well get to the heart of the matter," the coroner said. "Did Mr. Thompson kill Ballard?" Edith clicked and her eyes glowed. _
287_1659	western stories	Barr, Amelia E.	“What is it, mi madre?” and Isabel put her arms around her mother with the words mi madre. “Tell Isabel your sorrow.” “Your father is arrested--taken to the Alamo--he will be sent to the mines. I told him so! I told him so! He would not listen to me! How wicked he has been!” “What has my father done, Fray Ignatius? Why have they arrested him?” The priest turned to Antonia with a cold face. He did not like her. He felt that she did not believe in him. “Senorita, he has committed a treason. A good citizen obeys the law; Senor Worth has defied it.” “Pardon, father, I cannot believe it.” “A great forbearance has been shown him, but the end of mercy comes. As he persisted in wearing arms, he has been taken to the Alamo and disarmed.” “It is a great shame! An infamous shame and wrong!” cried Antonia. “What right has any one to take my father’s arms? No more than they have to take his purse or his coat.” “General Santa Anna--” “General Santa Anna is a tyrant and a thief. I care not who says different.” “Antonia! Shameless one!” “Mother, do not strike me.” Then she took her mother’s hands in her own, and led her to a couch, caressing her as she spoke-- “Don’t believe any one--ANY ONE, mother, who says wrong of my father. You know that he is the best of men. Rachela! Come here instantly. The rosary is not the thing, now. You ought to be attending to the Senora. Get her some valerian and some coffee, and come and remove her clothing. Fray Ignatius, we will beg you to leave us to-night to ourselves.” “Your mother’s sin, in marrying a heretic, has now found her out. It is my duty to make her see her fault.” “My mother had a dispensation from one greater than you.” “Oh, father, pray for me! I accuse myself! I accuse myself! Oh, wretched woman! Oh, cruel husband!” “Mother, you have been a very happy woman. You have had the best husband in the world. Do not reproach my father for the sins of others. Do not desert him when he is in the power of a human tiger. My God, mother!
7832_1559	love stories	Phillips, David Graham	“Hello, Blacklock!” said Langdon, with a quizzical, satirical smile with the eyes only. “It seems strange to see you at such peaceful pursuits.” His glance traveled over me critically--and that was the beginning of my trouble. Presently, he rose, left me alone with her. “You know Mr. Langdon?” she said, obviously because she felt she must say something. “Oh, yes,” I replied. “We are old friends. What a tremendous swell he is--really a swell.” This with enthusiasm. She made no comment. I debated with myself whether to go on talking of Langdon. I decided against it because all I knew of him had to do with matters down town--and Monson had impressed it upon me that down town was taboo in the drawing-room. I rummaged my brain in vain for another and suitable topic. She sat, and I stood--she tranquil and beautiful and cold, I every instant more miserably self-conscious. When the start for the dining-room was made I offered her my left arm, though I had carefully planned beforehand just what I would do. She--without hesitation and, as I know now, out of sympathy for me in my suffering--was taking my wrong arm, when it flashed on me like a blinding blow in the face that I ought to be on the other side of her. I got red, tripped in the far-sprawling train of Mrs. Langdon, tore it slightly, tried to get to the other side of Miss Ellersly by walking in front of her, recovered myself somehow, stumbled round behind her, walked on her train and finally arrived at her left side, conscious in every red-hot atom of me that I was making a spectacle of myself and that the whole company was enjoying it. I must have seemed to them an ignorant boor; in fact, I had been about a great deal among people who knew how to behave, and had I never given the matter of how to conduct myself on that particular occasion an instant’s thought, I should have got on without the least trouble. It was with a sigh of profound relief that I sank upon the chair between Miss Ellersly and Mrs. Langdon, safe from danger of making “breaks,” so I hoped, for the rest of the evening. But within a very few minutes I realized that my little misadventure had unnerved me.
34369_1124	detective and mystery stories	Clark, Joan	Caleb admitted that he had placed it there. "You've been very kind," Rosanna said gratefully. "I want to thank you before we leave." "You're not aiming to leave today?" Caleb asked quickly. "Well, yes, I imagine we will. I don't feel right about staying here." Caleb lowered his voice. "Take my advice, Miss Winters, and don't leave while that other woman and her daughter are here. From what you've told me, I think they mean to grab the property." "But what can I do?" Rosanna asked helplessly. "I've lost my letter and the key. I haven't any proof that the property was left to me." "Maybe this Leeds woman hasn't any proof that it was left to her either," Caleb said sagely. "Anyway, we'll find out what she has to say." At first, Mrs. Leeds, accosted in the living room of the old house, had little comment to make. She was out of sorts from lack of sleep the previous night, and the breakfast which she and Alicia had endeavored to cook had not been a success. Nor was she impressed with Caleb who wore high boots, an old pair of dirty trousers and a crumpled felt hat. "I don't see why I should discuss my business affairs with you," she said aloofly. "I have inherited this property from my cousin and I mean to remain here in possession of it indefinitely if necessary." "May I see the letter which you say you received?" Caleb inquired. Mrs. Leeds hesitated, then reluctantly handed it over. Caleb studied it briefly and returned it. "You will require more than this as evidence of Mr. Winters' death," he said quietly. "For all I know, you may have forged this letter." "Preposterous!" Mrs. Leeds snapped. "I refuse to discuss the matter with you further. I shall send for my attorney and he will straighten out everything." "Not without the will, he can't," Caleb returned grimly. "And there's no telling what became of it." "The will?" Mrs. Leeds caught him up. "Are you sure there was a will?" "Mr. Winters told me once that he had made one and hidden it somewhere in the house." "Then of course it can be found." "Mr. Winters wouldn't want anyone prying around in his private papers," Caleb insisted.
59172_281	science fiction	Ellis, Mike	"Am I going to be retired as your First Mate?" Tom looked at Willie, he had almost forgotten Willie was there because he was so quiet. Willie was trying to look bright and happy, but even through the happy haze, Tom could see he looked tired and depressed. The wine hadn't done a thing for him, and his dinner was only half eaten. Bart had looked down at his plate, frowning, at Willie's question. He knocked out the ashes of his pipe and tossed it on the table. He looked Willie squarely in the eye. "I was going to save it until we got back, but since you asked, I'll give it to you straight. Willie, I'm sending you back for a check-up when we get in. You can't seem to do a darn thing anymore, without having somebody doublecheck it. Tom and I have had to navigate the ship most of this trip, when you were supposed to do it. There's no place out here for a man that can't do his job. It puts too much on the others. I think you need a long rest or something." Willie sat there, his face white, blinking his eyes rapidly. Then he lurched to the door, his chair spinning behind him. Pudge got up and went to the galley. "What the hell did you do that for?" Tom asked Bart. "Why didn't you kid him along and give it to him easy when we got back. It would have been easier on his feelings." "That's not my way," Bart said. "He asked me and I gave it to him straight. He's no good out here anymore. In fact, he's dangerous. If something should come up that needs quick action, we'd all be wiped out by the time he called me." "Okay," Tom said. "It was honest, and it was truthful. But it sure as hell hurt him. I'm going to see him and try to ease it over." "You'll be a good first mate, Tom," Bart said. "But don't baby the crew too much. They've either got it or they haven't." Tom went down the narrow passageway to Willie's cabin and knocked on the door. When he didn't get an answer, he opened the door. Willie was lying on his bunk with his face to the wall. He didn't move as Tom sat in the chair.
31426_1397	detective and mystery stories	Newcomb, Ambrose	Perk even begrudged the brief time taken in making this half circuit, though recognizing the wisdom governing Jack's change of course. He dared not try to whisper now, lest his hoarseness cause him to make a sound so harsh and loud that it might be carried to hostile ears and be the cause of their undoing. Then, after another delay when Jack imagined he had caught a suspicious little scratching sound, as of something moving, they drew up on hands and knees alongside what seemed to be a rustic shelter covering an opening with a real windlass, rope and all, to fill Perk's heart with joy in the belief that his throat was in a fair way of having its roughness relieved in short order. CHAPTER XXV PERK DEMANDS MORE WATER It was queer what chanced to be passing through the mind of Jack Ralston while they were thus creeping toward the little well in the rear of the lonesome shack on the bank of Okeechobee. He had been reading a novel that was supposed to cover the famous and successful attempt on the part of General Fred Funston to penetrate the mighty wilderness in the north of Luzon, the main island of the Philippine group and effect the capture of the native rebel chieftain, Aguinaldo who, with some of his associates, had taken refuge in a lonely cabin at a most inaccessible point. So vividly had the author described the manner in which the soldier and his companions crept up when making ready to seize their prey, that it was still haunting the mind of the airman and somehow the conditions just then confronting himself and Perk seemed to be very similar. He only hoped they would prove to be just as successful in their mission as Funston was when he carried Aguinaldo back to Manila, and thus broke the backbone of the native uprising against the authority of Uncle Sam. Perk was already reaching out toward the bucket he discovered perched on the rocky border of the well. Jack could hear him give a chuckle of satisfaction on rinding it half full of water and felt himself a bit tickled to see the way in which his chum proceeded to greedily fill up with the precious liquid. Little Perk cared if the water chanced to be stale--he had no complaint coming on that score as long as his parched throat and tongue came in for a good soaking and the choking sensation was immediately relieved. Perk must have suddenly remembered his lapse of manners, for in the midst of his drinking spree he stopped short and stepped back as though to invite his comrade to take his turn.
65450_54	science fiction	Reinsberg, Mark	"I am. You are the survivors?" Jake and his companions bared their guns. "Call your entire crew," said Jake, pressing the muzzle into the captain's side. "I want to see eight men in this room." "Ah," said the captain sadly. "So this is what our mercy stop has let us in for." * * * * * They marched the eight crew members to the ship's air lock. "Get in," said Jake. "Surely it is not necessary for you to kill us," said the captain. "Why don't you set us adrift in a survival unit? Give us a fighting chance." "Space death is such a terrible way to go," said the first mate. "Get in," said Jake. "I haven't said anything about what I was going to do with you." The eight looked at one another, then slowly, apprehensively, entered the air lock. Matt pushed the button closing the inner door. Henry pushed the button opening the outer door. Eight bodies drifted in space. Jake took over the freighter's controls. "You sure you can find your way to Japetus?" Matt queried. "That moon is just a glorified piece of rock." "No trouble at all. Remember when we landed there? I left our ship's radio on, sending out a carrier beam. We'll just follow it in on directional-automatic." "Hey, Jake," said Henry. "How about the cargo? I've been looking over the cargo manifest, and all it says is five thousand carboys of oxygen." "Oxygen?" said Matt, with rising concern. "When we were on Titan you told us this ship contained something very valuable." "Yeah, Jake, what's the story?" "Calm down, you two. This oxygen cargo is the most valuable stuff in the solar system right now." "Aw come on," said Matt. "All you have to do is breathe to get a lung full of it. Is this some joke?" "Eight dead men aren't my idea of a joke," said Henry, a frown crossing his pudgy features. "All right," said Jake. "This was top secret information on Titan. There's been a bad leak in the city dome. They're losing tons of air every day, and so far no one's been able to find the hole.
62236_1851	western stories	Ward, William (Author at Arthur Westbrook Co. (Cleveland, Ohio))	It was maddening. Not a shot was fired in answer by the enemy. A blast of the bugle had commanded the troops to "cease firing." "Charge!" The notes of the command rippled musically from the bugler's horn and the troops, swinging to saddle as one man, swept down in pursuit. They were moving in a half circle formation, now. "We've got him this time, sure," exulted the Captain. "Depends on whether our horses are faster than his, which I very much doubt," objected the Lieutenant. "You've still got a few things to learn, young man," retorted his superior officer. "When you have been in the service longer you'll find out an officer has to use his eyes and every other sense that nature has given him, if he expects to save his hide, letting alone catching the enemy." "I don't catch you," shouted the Lieutenant above the sound of the fleet-footed rushing ponies. "He is headed for the canyon. That's what I mean." "The canyon! Good God!" gasped the young officer. "Surrender!" roared the Captain. "It's sure death to go on." The desperado rose in his stirrups. He again emptied his Winchester into the ranks of the pounding troop on his flanks. The feel of the swift-moving little Indian pony beneath him, filled him with unholy joy. On a fleet-footed animal the great outlaw feared neither man nor beast, and in very truth, few of the wild men or savages of the turbulent west, were his equals in the saddle any more than they were when it came to quickness on the trigger. Three ponies fell as the result of his deadly fire, and as many riders were hurled into the air, an instant later to fall with a sickening thud as they struck the hard ground. But the outlaw did not turn to note the result of his fusilade. He had other momentous things to occupy his mind at that moment. Casting his Winchester aside he threw his full weight on his toes in the stirrups and sat crouching like some wild animal about to spring upon its unsuspecting prey. The desperado's eyes were fixed and staring. Ahead of him yawned the black and awful abyss. Driving in the rowels of his spurs until the pinto snorted with pain, Jesse fairly threw the hardy little Indian pony at the rocky canyon. "My God, he is going over!"
30705_745	science fiction	Page, Gerald W.	No. At least I don't think so. He said something; a word. _Glynnis_, I think. Sounds like a girl's name." Dr. Blomgard came into the room and walked over to the table on which his patient was stretched out. He removed the clipboard from its hook and looked through the sheaf of papers fastened to it. After a few seconds, he said, "Ah, yes. Glynnis. Part of his dream." "Doctor--," Sherman heard himself saying, then caught himself. "What, cadet," Blomgard asked, turning around. He was a big man, gray-haired, his hair an unruly mop. His eyes were dark and piercing, but they were softened by the thickness of the white brows over them. "Nothing, sir--" "I assure you, that no question will be considered out of place, if that's what is worrying you." "Well, doctor," Sherman said with some difficulty, "I was wondering if all this is worth it. I mean a special reserve with the artificial life-dreams for these people. Is it worth the expense and effort?" Blomgard regarded the question a moment before answering. "Well, that depends on things. We have a fairly dynamic, expanding civilization. This man was born out of step; a natural born rebel. We've reached the stage where, with a little effort on their own part, most people can sooner or later find exactly what they want. There are, of course, exceptions. They can't help being the way they are, but they are that way. It isn't his fault that he would think nothing of blowing up any civilization he found himself living in. This is the solution." "A drug-induced dream state? Is that a solution?" "It's a pretty good one. We provide him with a completely fictitious, a totally unreal world in which he will be happy." "How can anyone be happy like that? I prefer reality." Blomgard smiled. "Yes, to a larger extent than he does, you do. Or you like what you think of as reality." He picked up the clipboard again and studied the papers on it. "His dream world is one that is designed for his happiness. In it, he sees everyone else as inhabiting the dream-coffin. And he pictures himself as a rugged individualist, going about trying to destroy such a civilization.
58820_3699	detective and mystery stories	Sayers, Dorothy L. (Dorothy Leigh)	“As you like, of course, Lord Peter,” said Sir Julian, courteously. “Afraid I’m rather a silly ass,” said Lord Peter, “but I never could abide these little gadgets. I had one once that went wrong and gave me a rotten bad time. They make me a bit nervous.” “In that case,” replied Sir Julian, “it would certainly be better not to have the injection. It might rouse up just those sensations which we are desirous of avoiding. You will take the prescription, then, and do what you can to lessen the immediate strain as far as possible.” “Oh, yes—I’ll take it easy, thanks,” said Lord Peter. He rolled his sleeve down neatly. “I’m much obliged to you. If I have any further trouble I’ll look in again.” “Do—do—” said Sir Julian, cheerfully. “Only make an appointment another time. I’m rather rushed these days. I hope your mother is quite well. I saw her the other day at that Battersea inquest. You should have been there. It would have interested you.” CHAPTER XII The vile, raw fog tore your throat and ravaged your eyes. You could not see your feet. You stumbled in your walk over poor men’s graves. The feel of Parker’s old trench-coat beneath your fingers was comforting. You had felt it in worse places. You clung on now for fear you should get separated. The dim people moving in front of you were like Brocken spectres. “Take care, gentlemen,” said a toneless voice out of the yellow darkness, “there’s an open grave just hereabouts.” You bore away to the right, and floundered in a mass of freshly turned clay. “Hold up, old man,” said Parker. “Where is Lady Levy?” “In the mortuary; the Duchess of Denver is with her. Your mother is wonderful, Peter.” “Isn’t she?” said Lord Peter. A dim blue light carried by somebody ahead wavered and stood still. “Here you are,” said a voice. Two Dantesque shapes with pitchforks loomed up. “Have you finished?” asked somebody. “Nearly done, sir.” The demons fell to work again with the pitchforks—no, spades. Somebody sneezed. Parker located the sneezer and introduced him. “Mr. Levett represents the Home Secretary. Lord Peter Wimsey.
59428_1837	detective and mystery stories	Hecht, Ben	Ah, he looks at me. Next ... yes, they will ask me questions now. There was blood on my hands when the detective came in. I must remember to explain about that. Hm, they keep whispering. They know something. About whom?” His eyes turned slowly toward Florence. He would speak to her. Had she forgotten that he loved her, that his heart was at her feet? Yes, she was cold. Even in the cab.... She had spoken calmly, almost indifferently, during their ride. But her arms had come around him. A kiss—a long, burning kiss. A shudder of delight confused the memory. He heard his name called. He stood up and walked to the chair, his brain clear again. He was calm. “I must be careful,” his thought continued as he approached the table. “They are waiting with something ... I must not corroborate the suicide. They know better. It’s part of a plan ... against her.” He bowed stiffly to the coroner and sat down. He leaned back in the chair, his hands folded in his lap, and answered the opening questions with precision. Having established his identity and his connection with the Ballau family, the coroner proceeded. Q. “Now tell us, Mr. De Medici, when you last saw Mr. Ballau alive.” A. “It was around eight o’clock that evening.” Q. “What was he doing?” A. “He was telephoning people to come to the supper.” Q. “How did he impress you with regard to his state of mind?” A. “He was in good spirits. He was pleased that I had obtained Miss Ballau’s consent to marry me. He seemed as happy as myself.” Q. “And you left the apartment around eight?” A. “Yes.” Q. “Where did you go?” A. “I walked in Broadway for an hour, dropped in at the Rienza for a bite of food, and then went to call for Miss Ballau at the theater.” Q. “What time was that?” It would be necessary to lie here. But he must be careful and evasive wherever possible. A. “It was twenty minutes after ten.” Q. “Did you see Miss Ballau?” A. “No, she had just left.” Q. “Did you ask any questions of anyone?” Ah, they had Cort up their sleeve. They would produce him next and confound him with the man’s testimony.
42800_3614	western stories	Clay, John Wood	An’ if he gets away with it good an’ clean, without bein’ caught, it ’ll go down in th’ history o’ cattle-stealin’ as th’ greatest miracle since th’ Dead Sea was walked on. Holy Gripes! Would n’t it be a sensation?" "Th’ laurels will remain with th’ Dead Sea," grunted Murray. "Dave ’s shore goin’ to be fertilizer for th’ daisies some o’ these days if he don’t get sane." After a moment he growled: "An’ if he don’t stop comin’ to see me like he has, Smiler ’ll have to dig up another ass to be father to." "He was lookin’ for me, yesterday," grinned Slow Jack, "but I seen him first. He ain’t goin’ to _sic_ no lead _my_ way if I can help it." "Jack, did you ever figger out why Smiler lets Dave mess around like he does?" suddenly asked Murray. "Th’ Dutchman is one clever individual, but every clever crook makes one mistake that ropes him. I hereby prophesy that Dave is Smiler’s mistake an’ will make th’ Dutchman lose. Want to bet on it?" "What you allus lookin’ for shore things for?" jeered Jack. "You ain’t got no sportin’ blood in you! In course I know it—an’ that’s just th’ reason I’ve got my stuff ready to move quick an’ my trail all mapped out. I might want to leave before breakfast some day. Tell you one thing—_you_ can drive cows over th’ Hog Back but I ’m _all through_! D—n if I drive another one!" "I ’m th’ good little boy, too, from now on," replied Murray. "An’ I ’m goin’ to be awful busy farther east on that line. Savvy? I ain’t goin’ to be able to even guess how they got over th’ Hog Back, an’ I ’ll take th’ blame for bein’ careless. I ’d ruther lose my job than house any lead under my skin. Aw! I ’m goin’ in an’ get some sleep." "Me, too; I ’ll come right soon," and Slow Jack drifted off into the darkness as his companion started for the bunk-house.
65345_1473	detective and mystery stories	Taylor, Bert Leston	To accomplish this the cashier must be overpowered. So when the latter flings open the closet door the man within reaches out, grasps the revolver arm and draws the cashier into the darkness of the closet. Then ensues a fierce struggle, for Roger Hathaway, though old, is still a powerful man. This would account for the old ledgers that were toppled over into the office, and for the marks on the body of the murdered man. “During the struggle the revolver is discharged and the bullet enters the cashier’s heart. The doctors in the case tell me that the course of the bullet was such that the leaden missile might have come from a pistol discharged during such a struggle as I have described. But to continue: “Ralph Felton draws the limp form of the cashier out into the office and lays it upon the floor. A moment’s examination shows him that the man is dead, and he realizes his frightful position. Then the thought occurs to him that, if he carries out his original plan of robbing the bank, the crime will be ascribed to burglars. So he fills his pockets with what money and securities are in the safe, closes the door to the cashier’s office behind him and leaves the bank, with the front door unlocked or ajar.” “Unless—” interrupts Ashley. “Unless what?” “Unless,” says the newspaper man, leaning back in his chair and blowing a cloud of smoke ceilingward—“unless Ralph Felton, when he rose from his examination of the body, was suddenly confronted by his father, who had come to the bank in response to the summons sent by the cashier!” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XIII. THE KEY TO THE MYSTERY. “Following along the lines of your theory,” continues Ashley, “if Ralph Felton rose from the corpse of Roger Hathaway and confronted his father upon the threshold of the cashier’s office, that dramatic meeting would explain many things. It would explain the startled glance that Cyrus Felton shot at his son—I was studying the faces of both—when the latter refused to state at the inquest where he had spent the time between 7:45 and 8:30 on the evening of Memorial Day. It would account for the carrying off of the cashier’s revolver and its subsequent burial among the waters of Wild River; for young Felton’s flight, and for the extreme agitation of the elder Felton ever since the night of the killing.” “And
30705_479	science fiction	Page, Gerald W.	" "I've never been anyone's wife before. There was Frank, but I was never really what you could call his wife, exactly." "Many people ever stay with your folks?" "Not many. Frank only stayed a few days. I liked him. I wanted to go with him." "Why didn't you?" She broke off a blade of grass and slowly began tearing it into strips, intently gazing at it. "He just left suddenly without taking me. I guess he thought I was just a stupid brat. That was maybe two or three years ago." Her voice sounded as if she were smiling a little. Nelson thought that strange. "You ever think much about the sleepers?" he asked suddenly. "Sometimes. I wonder what it's like in their dreams." "They like it in their dreams. Those dreams are built for them. They get along happily in their world, grateful for it. That's the word, grateful." He listened for a moment to nightsounds. "But they're helpless. If anything happens, they're asleep and unable to act. If they wake up, they're in a world they don't know how to live in." "If you were a sleeper, what kind of world would you want to dream about?" "I don't want to be a sleeper." "Yes, but if you were. Would you live in a castle?" He thought on it for the first time. "I don't know," he said finally. "I don't think so. I think I'd travel. Go out to the stars. There's a whole universe out there. Men went out there; they're still out there. I guess they've forgotten us." "You think they'll ever come back?" "Some day I think somebody from out there will come back and land on Earth to see what it's like. Maybe they'll try to invade us. We'd be pretty helpless with most of us asleep in our pipe-dream utopias." "I wouldn't like to be caught and put in a dream," she said. "But I'd like to live in a castle." Nelson gazed at her. She had never known a commune, he realized. If she had, she would have bred when told to and then docilely filed away to her coffin. But she had never been indoctrinated.
1028_1457	love stories	Brontë, Charlotte	Released from the stifling class, surrounded with flowers and foliage, with a pleasing, smiling, affable woman at my side--how did I feel? Why, very enviably. It seemed as if the romantic visions my imagination had suggested of this garden, while it was yet hidden from me by the jealous boards, were more than realized; and, when a turn in the alley shut out the view of the house, and some tall shrubs excluded M. Pelet’s mansion, and screened us momentarily from the other houses, rising amphitheatre-like round this green spot, I gave my arm to Mdlle. Reuter, and led her to a garden-chair, nestled under some lilacs near. She sat down; I took my place at her side. She went on talking to me with that ease which communicates ease, and, as I listened, a revelation dawned in my mind that I was on the brink of falling in love. The dinner-bell rang, both at her house and M. Pelet’s; we were obliged to part; I detained her a moment as she was moving away. “I want something,” said I. “What?” asked Zoraide naively. “Only a flower.” “Gather it then--or two, or twenty, if you like.” “No--one will do--but you must gather it, and give it to me.” “What a caprice!” she exclaimed, but she raised herself on her tip-toes, and, plucking a beautiful branch of lilac, offered it to me with grace. I took it, and went away, satisfied for the present, and hopeful for the future. Certainly that May day was a lovely one, and it closed in moonlight night of summer warmth and serenity. I remember this well; for, having sat up late that evening, correcting devoirs, and feeling weary and a little oppressed with the closeness of my small room, I opened the often-mentioned boarded window, whose boards, however, I had persuaded old Madame Pelet to have removed since I had filled the post of professor in the pensionnat de demoiselles, as, from that time, it was no longer “inconvenient” for me to overlook my own pupils at their sports.
14486_2060	western stories	Bower, B. M.	The motor stopped, and they volplaned steeply; flattened, dipped a little, skimmed close to earth, touched, lifted again. "F'r cat's sake, what they went and done to this field?" Bland's whining voice complained, and he swung the Thunder Bird away from a long windrow of dried vines, just in time to avoid entangling the wheels. They settled, ran along uneven surface for a space. A small loose pile lay just ahead, and Bland veered sharply away. Another pile to the left caught the wheels just as the tail was settling. The Thunder Bird jerked, staggered drunkenly, wheeled over the pile and then, with a gentle determination quite unexpected in so docile a bird, turned itself up on its nose and with a splintering crash of the propeller tilted on over until it lay flat on its back. Which was a silly ending to so glorious a flight. Johnny, hanging upside down with the strap strained tight across his loins, with Bland dangling before him, felt even sillier than the Thunder Bird looked. He freed himself after the first paralyzing shock of surprise, dropped on all fours upon the upper wing covering, and crawled out between the front braces. A minute later Bland followed, looking extremely foolish. "That's a hell of a way to land!" Johnny snorted. "What kinda pilot are you, for gosh sake?" "Aw, how was I to know they'd went and planted this field to beans? I been away a year, almost. It was a good field when I was here before. Come on and let's turn her back, bo, before all the cylinders is full of oil." Then Bland added with a surprising optimism in one so given to complaining, "We're here, and we ain't hurt, and Los Angeles is just back there a ways. I'm satisfied." "Yes, and we shelled the beans--that's something more," Johnny sarcastically added to the sum of their blessings. With some labor they turned the Thunder Bird right side up. It was too dark to estimate the damage, and Bland suggested that they catch a street car and ride into town. He did not inform Johnny then how far they must walk before they would be within catching distance, and Johnny started off willingly enough, after Bland had convinced him that the Thunder Bird would be perfectly safe until morning. It was a quiet neighborhood, he declared, and no one would be likely to come near the place.
47128_1342	adventure stories	Duncan, Norman	And he has almost all the cash there is at Ragged Run. And he has the schooner that brings in the supplies and carries away the fish to the St. John's markets. "He is the only trader at Ragged Run. His storehouses and shop are jammed with the things that the folk of Ragged Run can't do without and are able to get nowhere else. So all in all, Skinflint Sam can make trouble for the folk that make trouble for him. And the folk grumble. But it is all they have the courage to do. And Skinflint Sam lets them grumble away. The best cure for grumbling (says he) is to give it free course. If a man can speak out in meeting (says he) he will work no mischief in secret. "'Sea-lawyers, eh?' says Sam. 'Huh! What you fellers want, anyhow? Huh? You got everything now that any man could expect. Isn't you housed? Isn't you fed? Isn't you clothed? Isn't you got a parson and a schoolmaster? I believes you wants a doctor settled in the harbour! A doctor! An' 'tisn't two years since I got you your schoolmaster! Queer times we're havin' in the outports these days with every harbour on the coast wantin' a doctor within hail. "'You're well enough done by at Ragged Run. None better nowhere. An' why? Does you ever think o' that? Why? Because I got my trade here. An' think o' _me_! If ar a one o' you had my brain-labour t' do, you'd soon find out what harsh labour was like. What with bad debts, an' roguery, an' failed seasons, an' creditors t' St. John's, I'm hard put to it t' keep my seven senses. An' small thanks I gets--me that keeps this harbour alive in famine an' plenty. 'Tis the business I haves that keeps you. You make trouble for my business, an' you'll come t' starvation! Now, you mark me!' "I do not want you to think too harshly of Skinflint Sam. No doubt he has his good points. Most of us can discover a good point or two in ourselves and almost everybody else. There are times when Skinflint Sam will yield an inch. Oh, yes!
48146_751	adventure stories	Moyer, Bess	“I’d like them better if they wouldn’t squawk so loudly,” said Prim. “I do believe they have scared me out of a year’s growth.” The macaws shrieked again as if protesting at the intrusion of the girls. Other strange birds took up the challenge and answered until the air was filled with their noise. “Let’s go!” said Terry with the faintest glimmer of a smile. “They don’t seem to appreciate the honor of our company.” Hand in hand the girls climbed the ridge but kept out of sight of Joe’s camp. Below them and around a sharp point of rocky shore, they looked down over a forest of tropical trees, tall, slender stems and around the lower part of their trunks wound a thick tangle of vines. “I wonder if we will ever get out of here alive, Terry?” whispered Prim in a strained voice. “You’ve read stories of people who were stranded on desert islands and lived there until they were old and ready to die.” “Well, this wouldn’t be such a bad place to live,” answered Terry. “If we had the family here and a nice house and books and things.” “But I don’t like the idea of starving to death and that’s what we would do here.” “We couldn’t starve to death! Look down there, I’ve been waiting for you to say something. Those trees to the right are bananas, your favorite fruit!” “I’ll say so! Let’s go get them. I’m starved!” Suddenly Prim stopped short. “Terry,” she said hopefully, “could two girls live on bananas all their lives?” “Possibly, but we wouldn’t need to go on a full banana diet. There are cocoanut palms!” replied Terry. Prim brightened up. “And if it comes to the worst, we will try to catch some fish.” “Fish!” cried Terry. “You know I _hate_ fish!” “Well, clams, oysters! We might find them here!” “They’re even worse,” Terry declared. “_You_ can have my share. I’ll stick to bananas.” The girls were clambering down the rocky ridge to the clearing. As they found their way around a thick mat of low-growing bushes, they came suddenly upon a collection of mud huts. They were among them before they knew it.
46653_398	adventure stories	Hemyng, Bracebridge	Jack had met Lord Maltravers. This gentleman was an English nobleman of high rank and great wealth. They had met in New York, and both had fallen in love with a young lady named Lena Vanhoosen. Lena's brother Alfred wished her to marry Jack, but her mother, Mrs. Vanhoosen, wished her to espouse the rich nobleman. Jack and Lord Maltravers had quarreled about Lena. The quarrel took place in a well-known up-town resort, and Maltravers had fired a pistol at Jack. The shot missed its mark, but the cowardly nobleman had to fly to avoid arrest. He retreated to San Francisco, and Jack, learning where he had gone, followed him. They met in the gambling-saloon. His lordship was perfectly collected after the first shock of surprise had passed away, and he did not attempt to escape. "So you have followed me?" he observed. "That is an unnecessary question to ask," replied Jack. "You see I am here." "Not at all. You might have been making a tour of California, but since you have declared that you followed me, may I ask your reason?" "To bring you to justice for attempting my life, after which I shall marry Miss Vanhoosen." "So you have gone into the detective business, Mr. Harkaway? I congratulate you," said his lordship, sarcastically. "It was time for me to do something." "Well, you have found me. What next?" "I shall arrest you." "Here?" "Certainly, my lord. I shall be my own police officer, and not give you a chance to run away." Lord Maltravers laughed harshly. "My dear fellow," he replied, "what do you take me for?" "Precisely for that which I know you to be." "And that is----" "An unmitigated scoundrel." "Thank you; personality seems to be your forte," said Maltravers. "And now let me tell you one thing: I am no child to be arrested by you." "We shall see," answered Jack. The room, as we have said, was full of rough characters, who were noisy, and inclined to be riotous; wine was flowing freely. "Boys!" cried Maltravers, in a stentorian voice. Instantly he was the centre of attraction. "Do any of you want to make a stake of a hundred dollars?" "Yes, yes!" replied a dozen men.
27682_1770	science fiction	MacKaye, Harold Steele	"Yes--kicked it good--now let me sleep." She was ill-natured with much drowsiness. Poor Droop staggered away from the door as though he had been struck. All had failed, then. They were circling uselessly. Those inventions would never be his. The golden dreams he had been nursing--oh, impossible! It was unbearable! He put both hands to his head and walked across the room. He paused half-consciously before a small closet partly hidden in the wall. With an instinctive movement, he touched a spring and the door slid back. He drew from the cupboard thus revealed two bottles and a glass and returned to seat himself at the table. A half an hour later the Panchronicon, circling in the outer brightness and silence, contained three unconscious travellers, and one of them sat with his arms flung across the table supporting his head, and beside him an empty bottle. CHAPTER VI SHIPWRECKED ON THE SANDS OF TIME Rebecca was the first of the three to waken. Over her small window she had hung a black shawl to keep out the light, and upon this screen were thrown recurrent flashes of sunlight. "Still a-swingin'," she murmured. "Wonder how fur back we be now!" She was herself surprised at the eagerness she felt to observe at last the results of their extraordinary attempt. She rose quickly and was very soon ready to leave her room. She was longing to see Phoebe--Phoebe as she had been when a girl. Opening her door, she was astonished to find the lamps of the main room aglow and to see Copernicus in his shirt-sleeves, asleep with his head on the table. As she stepped out of her own room, her senses were offended by the odor of alcohol. With horror she realized that rum, the spirit of all the sources of evil, had found its way into their abode. She entertained so violent a repugnance for liquors and for men under their influence that she could not bring herself to approach Copernicus. "He's gone an' got drunk again," she muttered, glaring with helpless anger at the bottles and then at him. "Mister Droop! Copernicus Droop!" she cried in a high, sharp voice. There was no reply. She looked about her for something to prod him with. There was an arm-chair on casters beside her door. She drew this to her and pushed it with all her might toward the unconscious man.
5965_2754	science fiction	Flint, Homer Eon	She was continually changing her direction; and Billie soon congratulated herself upon her luck. Beyond a doubt, this party was no mere slave to orders; it was she who gave the orders. Before one minute had passed she was approached by a Sanusian in a big, clumsy looking machine. Although built on the bee plan, it possessed an observation tower right on top of its "head." (The four afterward established that this was the sort of a machine that Smith's agent had operated.) The occupant approached to within a respectful distance from Billie's borrowed eyes, and proceeded to hum the following through his antennae: "Supreme, I have been ordered to report for Number Four." "Proceed." "The case of insubordinancy which occurred in Section Eighty-five has been disposed of." "Number Four made an example of her?" "Yes, Supreme." Whereupon the operator flew away, having not only kept his body totally out of sight all the while, but having failed by the slightest token to indicate, by his manner of communicating that he had the slightest particle of personal interest in his report. For that matter, neither did Supreme. Scarcely had this colloquy ended than another subordinate approached. This one used a large and very fine machine. She reported: "If Supreme will come with me to the spot, it will be easier to decide upon this case." Immediately the two set off without another word; and after perhaps four minutes of the speediest travel Billie had known outside the doctor's sky-car, they descended to within a somewhat short distance from the ground. Here they hovered, and Billie saw that they were stopped above some hills at the foot of a low mountain range. Next moment she made out the figures of four humans on top of a knoll just below. A little nearer, and the architect was looking, from the air, down upon the same scene which the doctor was then witnessing through the eyes of Rolla, the older of the two Sanusian women. Billie could make out the powerful physique of Corrus, the slighter figure of Dulnop, the small but vigorous form of Cunora, and Rolla's slender, graceful, capable body. But at that moment the other flier began to say to Supreme: "The big man is a tender of cattle, Supreme; and he owes his peculiar aptitude to the fact that his parents, for twenty generations back, were engaged in similar work.
57088_1790	detective and mystery stories	Footner, Hulbert	I'll tell you the whole story in time. Can't stop now. Did you claim my baggage on the pier?" Hickey shook his head. Diving into his pocket he produced the crumpled claim checks. "I was afraid you'd catch me if I stopped to claim it." "Good!" said Greg. "These clothes will come in handy. First of all I'll drive to the pier and get them." Hickey put on a make-believe aggrieved air. "Hold on. What do I get out of this? The clothes are mine, ain't they? Part payment for the flivver." "That'll be about all," said Greg grimly. "I didn't contract to buy a hearse, remember." Hickey hastily changed his tune. "All right. All right. You needn't get sore. You can have your old clothes." "Just the same I'll deal liberally with you," said Greg. "We'll make the old cab do double duty. When I'm sleeping or busy you can run her, and vice versa. If we keep her in repair she ought to provide a living for both. If you'll turn over your takings to me, I'll settle with Bessie Bickle for your keep and credit you with the balance. When you've paid back the two hundred you got from me I'll retire from the concern in your favor. I pay for repairs, and we go halves on oil and gasoline." Hickey agreed that this was more than fair. "All right, climb into Blossom's cab and take a sleep while I'm gone. Or get a room from Bessie. I'll have to have a room to change in when I get back. We have a lot to do to-day." "Do you mind staking me for a little breakfast?" asked Hickey meekly. "I'll take it outside if it's all the same to you. I'd sooner face a she-tiger than brace Bessie between meals." "All right, jump in, and I'll drop you at the first lunch-room." In half an hour Greg was back at the yard with his baggage. In the meantime Hickey, following his instructions, had engaged a room by the week from Bessie in their joint interest, and was even now snoring on the bed. Greg carried his things up, and opening his bags proceeded to array himself with particular care.
13282_1158	love stories	Sangster, Margaret E. (Margaret Elizabeth)	At the time it had seemed unfair that they, who were not workers, should be beautiful--more beautiful than the ants, for instance, that uncomplainingly toiled all day long for their existence. "I don't want to be a flower," she exclaimed, almost fretfully, "I want to be a worth while member of society--that's what I want! What's the use of being a decoration in a garden! What's the use of knowing only the sunshine? I want to know storms, too, and gales of wind. I want to share the tempests that you go through!" She hesitated; and then--"I read a book once," she said slowly, "I forget what it was--but I remember, in one place, that a woman was being discussed. She was a very beautiful elderly woman who, despite her age, had a face as unlined and calm as a young girl's face could be. One character in the book commented upon the woman's youth and charm, and another character agreed that she _was_ beautiful and charming, but that she'd be worth more if she had a few lines on her face. 'She's never known tears,' the character said, 'she's never lived _deeply_ enough to know tears! Her life has been just a surface life. If you go down deep enough into the earth you find water, always. If you go down deep enough into life you invariably find tears. It's one of the unbreakable rules!'" Rose-Marie paused, for a moment, and stole a covert glance at the Superintendent's face. "You don't want me to be a woman whose life is only a surface life," she pleaded, "and it will be just that if you keep me from helping, as I want to help! You don't want me to have a perfectly unlined face when I'm eighty years old?" All at once the Superintendent was laughing. "You child!" she exclaimed when the first spasm of mirth had passed, "you blessed child! If you could know how ridiculously young you looked, sitting there and talking about lined faces--and yourself at eighty. Eighty is a long way off, Rose-Marie--for you!" The girl joined, a trifle shamefacedly, in the older woman's laughter. "I reckon," she agreed, "that I do take myself too seriously!
62236_1479	western stories	Ward, William (Author at Arthur Westbrook Co. (Cleveland, Ohio))	Being a large man the savage went through the smaller hole opening into the large chamber, with much less ease than had the bandits. In fact they had pulled him only half way through when he stuck there fast. "Can't make it. He's too fat," decided Texas. "Can't? Wait. I know the breed. He's making himself fat--swelling himself out. Here you savage," roared Tony, "we're going to give a good long pull and if you don't come through we'll fix you so you do." The medicine man grunted. "That's right, grunt. But you'll grunt harder when I get through with you. And understand me, and if you don't get through this time, Harry here will slice off a few slabs of flesh so you'll fit. Harry'll do a good job too, and don't you forget it, for he used to slaughter cattle on a range out in Missouri. Now draw in your belly unless you want to lose some skin. Heave away boys." The bandits counting, "one, two, three," gave a mighty pull. This time the medicine man came through, but little rivulets of blood trickled down his sides as they pulled him into the brilliantly lighted room. There they removed his blindfold and released his arms, after first taking possession of his knife. The redskin's glance swept the room, then rested on Dew Drop. But the little Indian maiden was acting her part to perfection. Tied hand and foot, she had been stood against one side of the chamber, where she rested, her eyes blazing with well-assumed hate at her captors. "Big Bear kill um pale faces," she gritted. "Never you mind about Big Bear," retorted Tony. "If there's any killing going on we will take a hand in it ourselves. We shall not hurt you if you keep quiet--" "Indian girl no fraid white man. She stick um knife some day, maybe." "Ho, ho," roared Texas. "Our little pussey has sharp claws," interjected Homely Harry. Frank had been taken into the next chamber, an apartment somewhat smaller than the one they were in, and there they carried the Indian medicine man after having instructed him as to what was expected of him. They planked him down beside the wounded man. Frank's right hand slipped down to his trusty "Colt." But the Indian made no move. Tony's face grew stony.
20320_2562	adventure stories	Hemyng, Bracebridge	I'll tell you all about it." Jack and Harry Girdwood had sufficient self-command to listen with unmoved countenances to Mr. Mole's account of the adventure, and even to express great surprise and alarm at the harrowing details. "Shall I write home to Mrs. Mole for you, sir?" said Jack. "For the Lord's sake, no," cried Mole, in dismay. Then they tried their best to frighten the old tutor, by suggesting various deadly schemes of vengeance, which it was very possible the ladies of his late highness's seraglio might form against Moley Pasha. "You must never go out without a strong body guard," said Jack, "for at any time they may have you seized and borne off to the harem." "And you'll have to take care of yourself even at home," added Harry, "especially with regard to the food you eat, for in Turkey, those who owe a grudge think nothing of paying it out in poison." "Gracious Heaven! don't talk in that way," cried Mole. "you quite make my blood run cold. I think--I hope--I can trust my guards and my new attendants." "I hope so too," replied Jack, shaking his head in grave doubt. "But you must always bear in mind that treachery is one of the commonest vices of the East; you can't be too careful." "Oh, Allah, Allah!" exclaimed Mr. Mole, who had slipped naturally into a habit of using Turkish interjections; "what a life it is to be a pasha. I used to think it was all glory and happiness, but now I find, to my grief, that--if this sort of thing goes on, I shall bolt." It being now far advanced in the evening, the pasha, wearied out with the cares and excitements of the day, retired to rest in the Turkish fashion, half-dressed, and upon a kind of sofa. His cork legs, of course, were carefully taken off first. In this Jack and Harry assisted him. Moley Pasha went to sleep and to dream of bowstrings, scimitars, and various painful forms of execution. The next morning, however, he arose more hopeful, and fully resolved to show himself a vigorous and successful ruler. In his sumptuous seat in the divan, or hall of audience, Mole began to feel like a monarch on his throne, and signed his decrees with all the triumphant flourish of a Napoleon.
2714_4681	adventure stories	Rinehart, Mary Roberts	Miss Braithwaite was not in the study. The Prince looked about, and drew close--to Nikky. “Did you, really?” “I did. Some day, when you are older, I’ll tell you about it. I--has the Princess Hedwig been having tea with you, as usual?” Carelessly spoken as it was, there was a change in Nikky’s voice. And the Crown Prince was sensitive to voices. Something similar happened to Monsieur Puaux, the French tutor, when he mentioned Hedwig. “Not yesterday. We went to the fortress. Nikky, what is it to be in love?” Nikky looked startled, “Well,” he said reflectively, “it’s to like some one, a lady in your case or mine, of course; to--to like them very much, and want to see them often.” “Is that all?” “It’s enough, sometimes. But it’s more than that. It’s being dreadfully unhappy if the other person isn’t around, for one thing. It isn’t really a rational condition. People in love do mad things quite often.” “I know some one who is in love with Hedwig.” Nikky looked extremely conscious. There was, too, something the Crown Prince was too small to see, something bitter and hard in his eyes. “Probably a great many are,” he said. “But I’m not sure she would care to have us discuss it.” “It is my French tutor.” Nikky laughed suddenly, and flung the boy to his shoulder. “Of course he is!” he cried gayly. “And you are, and the Chancellor. And I am, of course.” He stood the boy on the desk. “Do you think she is in love, with you?” demanded the Crown Prince, very seriously. “Not a bit of it, young man!” “But I think she is,” he persisted. “She’s always around when you are.” “Not this morning.” “But she is, when she can be. She never used to take riding-lessons. She doesn’t need them.” This was a grievance, but he passed it over. “And she always asks where you are. And yesterday, when you were away, she looked very sad.” Nikky stood with his hand on the boy’s shoulder, and stared out through the window.
50317_5405	love stories	Hamilton, Cosmo	"What’s the matter?" instinctively lowering his voice. "Anyone in your room?" She shut the door and smiled at him. After all she rather liked his naïve assumption that she had not gone to his room for anything but his assistance in some emergency. It was very charming and boyish and clean and all that. It made things just a little difficult to explain though. "I see you’re not in a hurry to go to bed," she said, "so may I sit down and have a cigarette? I’ve lots to say to you and there has been no other opportunity to-day." "Of course," he said. "Please do. I hate reading, and sleep is miles away." He placed his chair for her, the only more or less comfortable one in the room, and got a cigarette and lit it. "Awfully nice of you to come in. Well, what’s the news?" He drew up a stiff-backed chair and sat straddle with his arms on the back of it. A good sort, Ida Larpent, he told himself, and extraordinarily picturesque. He couldn’t make out why she didn’t marry again. She could take her pick. "Please may I have a pillow? I can feel every rib of cane. It hurts a little. I’m sorry to be fussy." "Not a bit." He placed one of his pillows behind her back. "How’s that?" "Much better, thanks." He went back to his chair and sat looking at her with a most friendly and admiring smile. She liked the last part of it but not the first. It was all more than a little disconcerting. She knew men but not of his type. It would perhaps have been better for men, to say nothing of herself, if she had known one or two. Give a dog a bad name and hang him. She was conscious of looking extremely alluring in her geranium pink peignoir and slippers and her silk nightgown cut very low and her thick, black hair, which fluffed out over her shoulders, rather like that of a Russian prima ballerina. "There’s no news," she said. "The faithful Mrs. Keene gave me a good deal of worry, poor, little soul, and Malcolm Fraser has not been a very entertaining companion. He’s by way of not liking me." Franklin laughed. "Why? He likes everybody." "Because I don’t like him, I suppose.
14486_2927	western stories	Bower, B. M.	Though of course some soil holds the mark worse than others." "That will be attended to. Now I'll show you just where this spot is on the map." He produced the folded map and opened it, kneeling on the ground to spread it flat. "You see those twin peaks up there? They are just here. This is the valley, and right here is the cabin. You might take this map and study it well. You will have to fly high, to avoid observation, and land with as little manoeuvering as possible. For ten or fifteen miles around here there is nothing but wilderness, fortunately. The land is held in an immense tract--and I happen to know the owners so that it will be only chance observers we need to fear. You will need to choose your landing so that you can come down right here, close to the oak, and be able to get the machine under cover at once. I'll mark the spot--just here, you see. "Now, I shall have Mateo bring the blankets here under the tree. I feel the need of a little sleep, myself. How about you? We start back at dark, by the way." "How about that duck hunting?" "Ducks? Oh, Mateo will hunt the ducks!" Cliff permitted himself a superior smile. "We shall have sufficient outlet for any surplus energy without going duck hunting. You had better turn in when I do." "No, I slept enough to do me, at a pinch. If Mateo can get a horse, I want to ride up on this pinnacle and take a look-see over the country. I can get the lay of things a whole lot better than goggling a month at your doggone maps." Cliff took a minute to think it over and gave a qualified consent. "Don't go far, and don't talk to any one you may meet--though there is no great chance of meeting any one. I suppose," he added grudgingly, "it will be a good idea for you to get the lay of the country in your mind. Though the map can give you all you need to know, I should think." On a scrawny little sorrel that Mateo brought up from some hidden pasture where the feed was apparently short, Johnny departed, aware of Mateo's curious, half-suspicious stare. He had a full canteen from the car and a few ragged slices of bread wrapped in paper with a little boiled ham.
14482_2134	western stories	Cullum, Ridgwell	One can only liken it to a blubber-lipped gash, lined inside with two rows of yellow fangs, all in a more or less bad state of decay. The two men eyed one another steadily for a moment. Lablache could in no way terrorize this desperado. Like all his kind this man was ready to sell his services to any master, provided the forthcoming price of such services was sufficiently exorbitant. He was equally ready to play his employer up should any one else offer a higher price. But Lablache, when dealing with such men, took no chances. He rarely employed this sort of man, preferring to do his own dirty work, but when he did, he knew it was policy to be liberal. Pedro served him well as a rule, consequently the Mexican was enabled to ruffle it with the best in the settlement, whilst people wondered where he got his money from. Somehow they never thought of Lablache being the source of this man's means; the money-lender was not fond of parting. "You are right, I am particular. When I pay for work to be done I don't want gassing over a bar. I know what you are when the whisky is in you." Lablache stood with his great back to the fire watching his man from beneath his heavy lids. Bad as he was himself the presence of this man filled him with loathing. Possibly deep down, somewhere in that organ he was pleased to consider his heart, he had a faint glimmer of respect for an honest man. The Mexican laughed harshly. "Guess all you know of me, mister, wouldn't make a pile o' literature. But say, what's the game to-night?" Lablache was gnawing his fingers. "How much did you take from the Honorable?" he asked sharply. "You told me to lift his boodle. Time was short--he wouldn't play for long." "I'm aware of that. How much?" Lablache's tone was abrupt and peremptory. Mancha was trying to estimate what he should be paid for his work. "See hyar, I guess we ain't struck no deal yet. What do you propose to pay me?" The Mexican was sharp but he was no match for his employer. He fancied he saw a good deal over this night's work. "You played on paper, I know," said the money-lender, quietly. He was quite unmoved by the other's display of cunning. It pleased him rather than otherwise.
62516_811	love stories	Smith, Harriet L. (Harriet Lummis)	She advertised for boarders. Some one was reading me a few of the promising ads from the _Onlooker_, and I recognized her name. You see I visited her once when I was a boy, and I've always remembered the beauty of the place." "Trees are fine," agreed Warren with reserve. "But the buildings all seem rather seedy. Need paint badly." "Do they?" Forbes spoke indifferently. "Paint is the least of my troubles." "I suppose so. But say, Forbes, are you sure it's a good thing for you to be cooped up here all summer with two old hens?" He had fancied he was being tactful, but to his surprise Forbes seemed irritated. "You haven't seen Miss Kent. If you had, you'd know that she's a regular beef, iron and wine combination." "If she's like Miss Finch," Warren was beginning, when Forbes interrupted him with such spontaneous laughter that he dropped his sentence unfinished. "She's about as much like Miss Finch as a collie pup is like those Teddy bears the kids lug around. She's an old lady in years, but otherwise she's as young as you or I. She's so full of vitality that you can't be near her ten minutes without feeling braced up. She's like a mountain breeze." "Pity a woman of that sort didn't marry," commented Warren dryly. "That's what my old dad thought. Miss Kent was his first love, and he stayed single on her account till he was well on to forty." "Maybe that's why you're ace high with the old lady. She's trying to make up to the son for turning down the father." "Can't say, I'm sure. I imagine it's her disposition to be kind to the crippled and disabled and generally good-for-nothing." His tone was suddenly bitter, and Warren's look sharpened. "How's Julia?" he asked with seeming irrelevance. "Julia's well and enjoying herself." Forbes' manner seemed to defy his friend to criticize, and Warren, who would have enjoyed nothing better than expressing his opinion of Julia, changed the subject abruptly. If Forbes liked this gone-to-seed place and the society of old women it was no concern of his. Queer how differently men were affected when their love-affairs went wrong. Some took to drink and some were women-haters.
20563_1066	love stories	Thomson, Charles Goff	Don't call me 'master': call me 'lieutenant.' "Yes, master." He left the cabin. Terry, always a light sleeper, was awakened toward morning by a slight sound outside his door. Looking out into the dim corridor he saw that Matak was standing guard over his slumbers, armed with a big bolo whose naked length gleamed viciously in the semi-darkness. Touched by the devotion and realizing the futility of trying to drive him from his vigil, Terry lay back on the pillow, the rhythmic beat of the propeller in his ears. Asleep, he dreamed, and the chug of the screw became the beat of an engine bearing him away from the home of his fathers. The Moro heard the restless tossing and stepped silently into the little stateroom, his young-old eyes fastened upon the wistful lines that marked the competent young face. While he stood brooding over his young master the dawn streaked through the open porthole, and a soft splash sounded from up forward as the ship dropped her roped anchor. They were off Davao. Terry had come into port. CHAPTER VI THE LAND OF HEMP In three months the Gulf had laid its spell upon Terry. He had come to love the great slopes, from the sandy coastline to the last swift grades to Apo's distant top, the loveliness of the wind-tossed palms which fringed the water's edge, the sparkle of the ocean's blue expanse and its quick response to moods of sun and wind. During the noontime hours the sun was blazing hot but he could order his work so as to avoid exposure. Out at daybreak, he usually accomplished the duties of the day during the cool morning hours, reading through the siesta hours in the coolness of his great open house. Seldom did the routine of his work--the drill, the sifting of patrol reports, the minutiae of the service--overreach into the afternoon hours: then he was free to range the country, to learn its trails and towns, its people and its spirit. His big gray pony had become a familiar sight in every village, on nearly every plantation. Sometimes he was gone upon two-day trips up or down the coast, or riding the narrow trails through the deep green shade of the woods, his Stetson seldom touched by direct sunlight.
19330_2624	western stories	King, Charles	It must be some of our people. They'll reach us soon. Then we'll have the doctor and can help you. Those saddle-bags!" he said, turning sharply to the whimpering creature kneeling by them, and the lad drew hand across his streaming eyes and passed the worn leather pouches. From one of them Blakely drew forth a flask, poured some brandy into its cup and held it to the soldier's lips. Carmody swallowed almost eagerly. He seemed to crave a little longer lease of life. There was something tugging at his heartstrings, and presently he turned slowly, painfully again. "Lieutenant," he gasped, "I'm not scared to die--this way anyhow. There's no one to care--but the boys--but there's one thing"--and now the stimulant seemed to reach the failing heart and give him faint, fluttering strength--"there's one thing I ought--I ought to tell. You've been solid with the boys--you're square, and I'm not--I haven't always been. Lieutenant--I was on guard--the night of the fire--and Elise, you know--the French girl--she--she's got most all I saved--most all I--won, but she was trickin' me--all the time, lieutenant--me and Downs that's gone--and others. She didn't care. You--you aint the only one I--I--" "Lieutenant!" came in excited whisper, the voice of Stern, and there at his post in front of the cave he knelt, signaling urgently. "Lieutenant, quick!" "One minute, Carmody! I've got to go. Tell me a little later." But with dying strength Carmody clung to his hand. "I must tell you, lieutenant--now. It wasn't Downs's fault. She--she made--" "Lieutenant, quick! for God's sake! They're coming!" cried the voice of the German soldier at the wall, and wrenching his wrist from the clasp of the dying man, Blakely sprang recklessly to his feet and to the mouth of the cave just as Stern's carbine broke the stillness with resounding roar. Half a dozen rifles barked their instant echo among the rocks. From up the hillside rose a yell of savage hate and another of warning. Then from behind their curtaining rocks half a dozen dusky forms, their dirty white breechclouts streaming behind them, sprang suddenly into view and darted, with goatlike ease and agility, zigzagging up the eastward wall.
65383_962	detective and mystery stories	Wallace, Edgar	He was staying with Auntie; she met him at a lecture on sunspots, but she didn’t know anything about his wife until she came for him. She was an awfully nice woman, and thanked me for looking after her husband. She said she hadn’t seen him sober before--she was awfully interested in him. I think wives should get to know their husbands before they’re married, don’t you?” Mr. Selsbury sighed. “I think you’re talking a lot of abject nonsense,” he said, “and I wish to heaven you’d get to know your husband!” She smiled, but did not reply. She felt that he had been shocked enough for one day. He was making as if to get up from the breakfast table when she remembered a question she wanted to ask him. “Gordon, that man who came yesterday, the man with the Hebrew name----” “Roman. You mean Superbus?” She nodded. “Whom did he want?” she asked, playing with her serviette ring. “He was looking for a robber, a man named”--he cast up his eyes, trying to recall the title--“Double Dan, a swindler.” “Is that so?” drawled Diana, her eyes on the tablecloth. “Are you going, Gordon? What time will you be home?” “When my business permits me to return,” he said in his stateliest fashion. “Do you realise, Diana, that nobody has ever asked me that question in my life?” “Why, I ask you every day,” she said in wonder. “I mean, nobody except you. My comings and goings have never been questioned, and for the life of me I don’t see why they should be questioned now.” “I’m not questioning you, I’m merely asking you,” said Diana, aggrieved. “I only want to know because of dinner.” “I may not be home to dinner,” said Gordon shortly, and went forth to an actuarial orgy, for business had improved at an enormous rate recently, and he was engaged in organising a new form of insurance. He had at least the will power to put out of his head a problem which rippled the smooth current of his thoughts. Only in the luncheon hour did he return to grapple with the projected soul tour. He wished that Heloise had chosen some other venue than Ostend. Ostend in itself was improper, and associated in all respectable minds with licence and luxury.
29954_98	science fiction	De Vet, Charles V.	I asked. "It has stopped beside me and we stand together, gazing across the stark, empty plain. Now a second awful entity, with the same leashed virulence about it, moves up and stands at my other side. We all three wait, myself with a dark fear of this dismal universe, my unnatural companions with patient, malicious menace. "Bits of ..." He faltered. "Of ... I can name it only _aura_, go out from the beasts like an acid stream, and touch me, and the hate, and the venom chill my body like a wave of intense cold. "Now there are others of the awful breed behind me. We stand, waiting, waiting for that which will come. What it is I do not know." I could see the pallor of death creeping steadily into the last corners of his lips, and I knew that the end was not far away. Suddenly a black frustration built up within me. "What are you waiting for?" I screamed, the tenseness, and the importance of this moment forcing me to lose the iron self-control upon which I have always prided myself. I knew that the answer held the secret of what I must know. If I could learn that, my experiment would not be in vain, and I could make whatever preparations were necessary for my own death. I had to know that answer. "Think! Think!" I pleaded. "What are you waiting for?" "I do not know!" The dreary despair in his eyes, sightless as they met mine, chilled me with a coldness that I felt in the marrow of my being. "I do not know," he repeated. "I ... Yes, I do know!" Abruptly the plasmatic film cleared from his eyes and I knew that for the first time, since the poison struck, he was seeing me, clearly. I sensed that this was the last moment before he left--for good. It had to be now! "Tell me. I command you," I cried. "What are you waiting for?" His voice was quiet as he murmured, softly, implacably, before he was gone. "We are waiting," he said, "for _you_." THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy_ August 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
63749_218	science fiction	Grimes, Millard	" "No?" said Staang. "Our records say you Earthmen love us and are happy to serve." * * * * * Nance had been studying Staang's features with a practiced eye, the incredibility of his thoughts silencing his tongue. But suddenly he realized that the creature was telling the truth--to a point. He knew that the Martians had invaded Earth. "Look at him, Commander," Nance said. "Don't you see the resemblance. Martians are on Earth, but we call them--" "Good Grief!" exclaimed Commander Boone. Staang snickered. "You call us 'Man's Best Friend,' I believe," he offered. Braun gasped, "_Dogs_." "Of course," Nance said. "Notice Staang's droopy ears, the long nose, his hands and feet resemble paws. And since Earth's gravity is greater than Mars', wouldn't that tend to pull a person's arms toward the ground, making them essentially four-footed, instead of two-armed and two-legged as Staang still is. "That's what happened to the Martians when they came to Earth, but I don't suppose they cared. It probably made it easier to walk, and they got what they wanted. After all, don't we feed the dogs, provide them a place to sleep. They have no real work to do, and only a few are mistreated. Hounds and others of that type must be the slaves Staang is speaking of. The poodles, terriers, and cockers--those strictly pets--must be the higher type." He almost choked when he got to cocker. He tried not to think of Mimsy as an invader, with him as her slave, but he realized that it amounted to that. Now the landlady was being her slave. Braun couldn't restrain another wild laugh as he stared at Staang. "Why, he is a St. Bernard," he roared. A bewildered expression covered Boone's stern face. "The irony," he gasped. "But you're right. The dogs do lead the kind of life on Earth that would be desirable to creatures grown too lazy to even think. But to imagine that the ancestors of our dogs once built this city. It's incredible." "Good Lord," Braun remarked. "Here we have been expecting and talking about invasions from Mars for years, and we'd already been invaded centuries ago. What a laugh they must have had." Staang was listening in obvious amusement.
25762_2529	detective and mystery stories	Wheeler, Janet D.	Just the very night before Mr. Danvers had decided to go over to the mainland and put an advertisement in all the leading papers. "Although I rather dread to find their guardians," he had confided to his wife that night, as they had stood looking down at the sweet little sleeping faces. "I'm falling in love with them. It's like having Connie a baby all over again." And Connie's mother had patted his arm fondly and reached down to draw a cover up over one little bare arm. "I feel that way too," she had said softly. When Billie had finished her letter Mr. Danvers volunteered to take it over to the mainland for her and send it special delivery. "You won't put the ad in the paper then, will you?" his wife asked as he started off. "No," he said, stooping down to pat the little boy's dark head. "I'll give Billie a chance to clear up her mystery first." And with a smile at Billie he swung off down the walk while with quickened hearts the girls and Mrs. Danvers watched him go. Suddenly the little fellow got up from the hollow in the sand where he and his sisters had been making sand pies and ran up to Billie, waving his shovel excitedly. "Him goin' 'way?" he asked, pointing down the beach toward Mr. Danvers. "Yes. But he's coming back," said Billie, catching the little fellow up and kissing his soft rosy cheek. Then she looked at the girls and her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, girls," she cried, "I don't see how I'm going to give him up!" Then followed days of anxious waiting for the girls. Every night when the mail came in on the _Mary Ann_ they were at the dock to meet it. But though they searched for a letter postmarked Molata with eager eyes, day after day went by and still there was no word from Miss Arbuckle. This state of affairs continued for over a week until the girls had begun to give up in despair. And then one night it came--the letter they had been waiting for. They did not wait to get home, but sat down on the edge of the dock while Billie read it aloud. The letter was such a mixture of joy and hope and fear that sometimes the girls had hard work making anything out of it.
48146_1248	adventure stories	Moyer, Bess	“Why don’t you think before you do such a thing? You’re apt to get these people into trouble! Joe said he’d clean them out!” “Oh, I know, Prim. I’m sorry I did it, but just then I couldn’t help it. I was crazy! I can’t bear to have _Skybird_ used by a smuggler. I’ll feel as if my little plane were dirty after he’s had his hands on her. Prim, what are we going to do?” But Prim had no suggestions to offer. They were prisoners without question. How long they would have to remain here, she had no idea. They knew only too well what their father and mother were thinking. If Allan and Syd had escaped destruction in the storm, their report would leave no doubt in Dick’s mind, at least, that the girls had been lost in the hurricane. Terry knew that the suspense would mean torture for her parents. How thankful she was that Sally Wyn was with them to comfort them and, with her cheerful ways, keep them hoping that all was well. If Dick and Alice could only have seen them surrounded by a horde of blacks, they would not have been any more hopeful of their final escape. Joe Arnold had flown off into the blue with _Skybird_, and Terry’s heart was sore and bitter with anxiety and anger against her father’s enemy. If she could have known Joe’s thoughts at that moment, she would have realized that she was in grave danger. Joe Arnold had planned to search for the girls as soon as the important matter of the smuggled silk had been attended to. He guessed that Terry was on her way to Peter Langley’s mine to plead with him to renew the contract and extend the option on the flying field. He had an idea that she was carrying some money. Joe Arnold was not in a hurry. He had the girls safely on the island. They were his prisoners. He could take his time in getting the papers from them and not run any risk by rushing it. So when the captain of the tramp steamer decided not to leave the harbor that night, Joe and Bud were only too glad to go on board for a good meal, and it was well on toward morning when they reached their huts and prepared to sleep. In the morning when Joe Arnold went to find the girls, they had disappeared. Pedro seemed truthful when he declared that his people knew nothing about them.
36497_222	love stories	Beerbohm, Max, Sir	He was the secular confessor of his day, always able to give absolution. A unique position! The street was as quiet as a village street. At an open window over the way, a handsome lady, wrapped in a muslin _peignoir_, sat sipping her cup of chocolate. It was La Signora Gambogi, and Mr. Aeneas made her many elaborate bows. This morning, however, her thoughts seemed far away, and she did not notice the little man's polite efforts. Nettled at her negligence, Mr. Aeneas was on the point of retiring into his shop, when he saw Lord George Hell hastening up the street, with a posy of wild flowers in his hand. "His Lordship is up betimes!" he said to himself. "An early visit to La Signora, I suppose." Not so, however. His Lordship came straight towards the mask-shop. Once he glanced up at Signora's window and looked deeply annoyed when he saw her sitting there. He came quickly into the shop. "I want the mask of a saint," he said. "Mask of a saint, my Lord? Certainly!" said Mr. Aeneas, briskly. "With or without halo? His Grace the Bishop of St. Aldred's always wears his with a halo? Your Lordship does not wish for a halo? Certainly! If your Lordship will allow me to take his measurement----" "I must have the mask to-day," Lord George said. "Have you none ready-made?" "Ah, I see. Required for immediate wear," murmured Mr. Aeneas, dubiously. "You see, your Lordship takes a rather large size." And he looked at the floor. "Julius!" he cried suddenly to his assistant, who was putting the finishing touches to a mask of Barbarossa which the young king of Zürremburg was to wear at his coronation the following week. "Julius! Do you remember the saint's mask we made for Mr. Ripsby, a couple of years ago?" "Yes, sir," said the boy. "It's stored upstairs." "I thought so," replied Mr. Aeneas. "Mr. Ripsby only had it on hire. Step upstairs, Julius, and bring it down. I fancy it is just what your Lordship would wish. Spiritual, yet handsome." "Is it a mask that is even as a mirror of true love?" Lord George asked, gravely. "It was made precisely as such," the mask-maker answered.
31922_235	science fiction	Causey, James	It's a routine association test." For the next ten minutes he timed Amenth's responses with a stop watch. Most of the words were familiar shop words and most of the responses were standard. "_Job._" "Escape," Amenth said instantly. "_Blueprint._" "Create." "_Noise._" "Hate." "_Want._" "Home!" It was all so childish, so obvious, and Amenth's eyes were frightened amber pools when Vogel dismissed him. No matter. Let him suspect. Vogel studied the reaction results with grim amusement. Outside, the shop roared. And Amenth's travelers sped the rounds: Issue material; Shear to size; Form on brake; Weld per print; Miter, drill, inspect, stock. One by one, the strange details were being formed, finished, to lie inert in the stockroom, to await final assembly. Assembly. Of _what_? Tonight was project completion. * * * * * Midnight. Vogel stood in darkness, leaning against the wall. He was tired. He had maintained this vigil for three hours. His right leg was numb and he started to shift position, then froze as he heard footsteps. Three aisles over, a light exploded, blindingly. He held his breath. From outside in fabrication came the muffled clang of drill press and power brake, the sounds of the night shift. He waited. Three aisles over, something moved. Someone fumbled in the stock bins, collecting shaped pieces of metal, grunting with the effort of piling them on the salvage bench, now panting with impatience while assembling the parts. There was a hammering, a fitting together, a flash of light, a humming of power and finally a sob of relief. Vogel's hand slipped into his coat pocket and grasped the gun. He moved silently. Amenth stood at the salvage bench, adjusting studs and connecting terminals. Vogel stared at the final assembly. It was a helmet. A large silvery helmet, connected to a nightmarish maze of wiring, mounted on a rectangular plastic base. It hummed, although there was no visible source of power. Amenth put on the helmet with a feverish haste. Vogel chuckled. Amenth stood motionless. Then as his hand darted toward a stand, Vogel said sharply, "Don't!" Amenth stared at the gun. "Take it off!" Vogel's voice was iron. Amenth slowly took off the helmet. His eyes were golden with tears. "Please," he said.
12678_1389	detective and mystery stories	Irwin, Will	" "I was a darned little fool when I was young," pursued Rosalie Le Grange, "an' now that I'm gettin' on in years I'm just as darned an old one. I like to take chances. See?" "Mme. Le Grange," said her sitter, again clapping her rounded shoulder, "you're a fellow after my heart." "Just a second before we come to the bouquets," responded Rosalie Le Grange, "there's another reason. Can you guess it?" "I've already given up guessing on you." On the table beside Mme. Le Grange lay an embroidery frame, the needle set in a puffy red peony. Mme. Le Grange picked it up and took a stitch or two. Her head bent over her work, so that the playful light made gold of the white in her chestnut hair, she pursued: "Maybe you specialize on mendin' people's bones and maybe your specialty is their insides. I've got a specialty, too. You see, in this business it's easy to go all to the bad unless you do somethin' for other people. You have to have a kind of religion to tie to. Mine is unitin' and reunitin' lovin' hearts. Of course you're saying that this is a lot of foolishness. Never mind." She paused a moment, and plied the needle. "What's the trouble between you and that slim little niece of Mrs. Markham's that you want her aunt exposed? An' can't I fix it some other way?" "What do you know about Miss Markham?" asked the sitter. "I've opened myself up to you like a school-girl in a cosey corner chat," said Rosalie Le Grange; "ain't it time _you_ was doin' some confidin'?" "Did you ever hear that Miss Markham had been brought up to be a medium? That she mustn't marry because it would destroy her powers? That she's been taught to believe that she will never develop fully until she's put aside an earthly love?" "O-ho!" quoth Rosalie; "so that's the way the wind sets! My! I must say that's the fakiest thing I ever heard about Mrs. Markham. We all know that a medium's born. This dark room developin' seance work is bosh to stall the dopes along. Still, Mrs. Markham has always played a lone hand.
61090_441	science fiction	Westlake, Donald E.	"Well, well," he said. "He says that's the third letter," Roberts pointed out. "We asked around in the office, and we found out who got the first two. They were both back a ways. The first one was early in the summer, and the guy who read it remembered it said something about a bank robbery. So I was sent out this morning to check up on bank robberies in June and July. You're the third one I've talked to this morning. The first two figured me for some kind of nut." * * * * * "My Captain figures me the same way," Stevenson told him. "What about the second letter? Or, wait, don't tell me, I'll tell you. It's that guy in August, the one who ran amok over in Canarsie." "Right you are," said Roberts. "How did you know?" "I was there. He left his mark on the rifle stock." "Okay," said Roberts. "So there's something in it, after all." "There's _something_ in it," said Stevenson. "The question is, what?" "Well," said Roberts, "what have we got so far? Somebody--call it person or persons unknown, for the fun of it--is stepping in every once in a while when there's a crime being committed. He stops it. He calls himself the Scorpion, and he uses some pretty dizzy methods. He melts automobile tires, makes a rifle too hot to hold, makes knives and leather jackets ice cold--how in heck does he do things like that?" "Yeah," said Stevenson. "And just incidentally, who is he?" "Well," said Roberts, "he's a kid, that much is obvious. That whole letter _sounds_ like a kid. Talking about 'the bad boys' and stuff like that." "What do you figure, some scientist's kid maybe?" "Maybe," said Roberts. "His old man is working on something in his little old laboratory in the cellar, and every once in a while the kid sneaks in and makes off with the ray gun or whatever it is." Roberts laughed. "I feel silly even talking about it," he said. "I'd feel silly, too," Stevenson told him, "if I hadn't seen what this kid can do.
35425_642	science fiction	Leinster, Murray	The great majority of people had depended upon machines and their leaders to think for them. Burl's tribefolk depended on their stomachs. Burl, however, was gradually developing the habit of thinking which makes for leadership and which would be invaluable to his little tribe. He stood up again and faced upstream, moving slowly and cautiously, his eyes searching the ground before him keenly and his ears alert for the slightest sound of danger. Gigantic butterflies, riotous in coloring, fluttered overhead through the misty haze. Sometimes a grasshopper hurtled through the air like a projectile, its transparent wings beating the air frantically. Now and then a wasp sped by, intent upon its hunting, or a bee droned heavily along, anxious and worried, striving in a nearly flowerless world to gather the pollen that would feed the hive. Here and there Burl saw flies of various sorts, some no larger than his thumb, but others the size of his whole hand. They fed upon the juices that dripped from the maggot-infested mushrooms, when filth more to their liking was not at hand. Very far away a shrill roaring sounded faintly. It was like a multitude of clickings blended into a single sound, but was so far away that it did not impress itself upon Burl's attention. He had all the strictly localized vision of a child. What was near was important, and what was distant could be ignored. Only the imminent required attention, and Burl was preoccupied. Had he listened, he would have realized that army ants were abroad in countless millions, spreading themselves out in a broad array and eating all they came upon far more destructively than so many locusts. Locusts in past ages had eaten all green things. There were only giant cabbages and a few such tenacious rank growths in the world that Burl knew. The locusts had vanished with civilization and knowledge and the greater part of mankind, but the army ants remained as an invincible enemy to men and insects, and the most of the fungus growths that covered the earth. Burl did not notice the sound, however. He moved forward, briskly though cautiously, searching with his eyes for garments, food, and weapons. He confidently expected to find all of them within a short distance. Surely enough he found a thicket--if one might call it so--of edible fungi no more than half a mile beyond the spot where he had improvised his sandals to protect the soles of his feet. Without especial elation, Burl tugged at the largest until he had broken off a food supply for several days.
10608_402	love stories	Smith, Arthur Cosslett	"Four years at least," said Pietro. "You have your ceremonial dress, but nothing better for the street." "I caught a glimpse of myself in one of Testolini's mirrors yesterday," said the cardinal, "and I thought I looked rather well." "Your eminence," said Pietro, "you saw your face and not your coat." "Pietro," said the cardinal, rising, "you should have turned your hand to diplomacy; you would have gone far." At half-past four o'clock the cardinal's barca drew up to the molo. The oarsmen were dressed in black, save that their sashes and stockings were scarlet. The bowman landed. It was as though a footman came off the box of a brougham and waited on the curb. While the figures on the clock-tower were still striking the half-hour, the cardinal came limping across the Piazza. The gondoliers at the molo took off their hats and drew up in two lines. The cardinal passed between them, looking each man in the face. He beckoned to one, who left the ranks and came up to him, awkward and sheepish. "Emilio," said the cardinal, "I have arranged your matter. You are to pay four lire a week, and are to keep out of the wine-shops. Mind, now, no drinking." To another he said, "I have looked into your case, Marco. You are perfectly right. I have employed counsel for you. Attend to your business and forget your trouble. It is my trouble, now." To a man to whom he beckoned next he spoke differently. "How dare you send me such a petition?" he exclaimed. "It was false from beginning to end. You never served in the legion. The woman you complain of is your lawful wife. You married her in Padua ten years ago. You have been imprisoned for petit theft. You got your gondolier's license by false pretences. Mark you, friends," he said, turning, "here is one of your mates who will bear watching. When he slips, come to me," and he stepped into his barca. "To the English yacht," he said. When they arrived they found the Tara dressed in flags, from truck to deck; Lady Nora stood on the platform of the boarding-stairs, and the crew were mustered amidships.
37271_1406	western stories	Vandercook, Margaret	What this interest would be she had not then conceived. What it might be in the future was still uncertain. Yet the next step lay straight ahead. Never in all their lives had she and Frieda had so serious a difference of opinion, and Frieda's words and manner had hurt more than anything that had happened since her return to the security of her former home. She could only hope that Frieda would relent, that Professor Russell would use his influence in her favor. Nevertheless, although frequently led by Frieda in small matters, on this occasion she had not been in the slightest degree affected. This was a big decision which she faced, a decision in which Frieda had but scant right to interfere. Of course she must allow for prejudice, certain suggestions which her sister had put forward had made her wince more than she cared to show. But over and against the small things was there not the one big opportunity that she might serve both her country and other women if she did not fail too completely in the work which might or might not lie ahead? Then in a boyish fashion wiping the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, Jack laughed. "Oh, Frieda will probably forgive me if I make a success, never if I am a failure! People forgive nearly everything to success." "Jimmie," she called a little later, running around the side of the lodge where her small son was engaged in playing with a magnificent St. Bernard dog which had been a recent gift from Jim Colter, "won't you go up into the woods behind the Rainbow creek with me and spend the day? We will take our lunch and I'll take my rifle. I don't believe there are many animals left in our woods these days, but there used to be years ago and at least we can play at being pioneers." But Jack and Jimmie were not to escape so easily. Opening the gate which led from the front yard half an hour later, they came face to face with Jean Merritt and Olive MacDonnell. "Trying to run away into your beloved outdoors in the usual fashion, Jack?" Olive said, smiling. "Well, you may go after a while, but Jean and I wish to talk to you first." "Please don't," Jack murmured, slipping a hand into the hand of the two other original Rainbow ranch girls. "Frieda has already reduced me to tears by overmuch conversation this morning. One could scarcely describe the conversation as argument, as I was allowed to say nothing.
805_2683	love stories	Fitzgerald, F. Scott (Francis Scott)	You sink to the third hell of depression when you think you've been slighted. In fact, you haven't much self-respect.” “Centre of target twice, Clara. How do you do it? You never let me say a word.” “Of course not--I can never judge a man while he's talking. But I'm not through; the reason you have so little real self-confidence, even though you gravely announce to the occasional philistine that you think you're a genius, is that you've attributed all sorts of atrocious faults to yourself and are trying to live up to them. For instance, you're always saying that you are a slave to high-balls.” “But I am, potentially.” “And you say you're a weak character, that you've no will.” “Not a bit of will--I'm a slave to my emotions, to my likes, to my hatred of boredom, to most of my desires--” “You are not!” She brought one little fist down onto the other. “You're a slave, a bound helpless slave to one thing in the world, your imagination.” “You certainly interest me. If this isn't boring you, go on.” “I notice that when you want to stay over an extra day from college you go about it in a sure way. You never decide at first while the merits of going or staying are fairly clear in your mind. You let your imagination shinny on the side of your desires for a few hours, and then you decide. Naturally your imagination, after a little freedom, thinks up a million reasons why you should stay, so your decision when it comes isn't true. It's biassed.” “Yes,” objected Amory, “but isn't it lack of will-power to let my imagination shinny on the wrong side?” “My dear boy, there's your big mistake. This has nothing to do with will-power; that's a crazy, useless word, anyway; you lack judgment--the judgment to decide at once when you know your imagination will play you false, given half a chance.” “Well, I'll be darned!” exclaimed Amory in surprise, “that's the last thing I expected.” Clara didn't gloat. She changed the subject immediately. But she had started him thinking and he believed she was partly right.
31524_1411	western stories	McCarter, Margaret Hill	I wondered what it could all mean in such an hour, on such a night as this. Then I thought of old Conlow's children, of "Possum" in his weak, good-natured homeliness, and of Lettie. How I disliked her, and wished she would keep out of my way, which she never would do. Her face was clear to me, there in the dark. It grew malicious; then it hardened into wickedness, and I slipped from watching into a drowsy, half-waking sleep in my chair. The red bar of light became the flame of cannon on a battlefield, I saw our men in a life-and-death struggle with the enemy on a rough, wild mountainside. Everywhere my father was leading them on, and by his side Irving Whately bore the Springvale flag aloft. And then beside me lay the color-bearer with white, agonized face, pleading with me. His words were ringing in my ears, "Take care of Marjie, Phil; keep her from harm." I woke with a start, stiff and shivering. With one half-dazed glance at the black night and that sullen tell-tale light below me, I groped my way to my bed and slept then the dreamless sleep of vigorous youth. The rain continued for many hours. Yeager and his company could not get away from town on account of the booming Neosho. Also several other strange men seemed to have rained down from nobody asked where, and while the surface of affairs was smooth there was a troubled undercurrent. Nobody seemed to know just what to expect, yet a sense of calamity pervaded the air. Meanwhile the rain poured down in intermittent torrents. On the second evening of this miserable gloom I strolled down to the tavern stables to find O'mie. Bud and John Anderson and both the Mead boys were there, sprawled out on the hay. O'mie sat on a keg in the wagon way, and they were all discussing affairs of State like sages. I joined in and we fought the Civil War to a finish in half an hour. In all the "solid North" there was no more loyal company on that May night than that group of brawny young fellows full of the fire of patriotism, who swore anew their eternal allegiance to the Union.
66390_784	love stories	Prime-Stevenson, Edward	All that the proud can feel of pain, The agony they do not show.... Which speaks it in its loneliness. BYRON A couple of miles out of Szent-Istvánhely, one finds the fine old seat, or what was such, of the Z... family, with its deserted chateau and neglected park. The family is a broken and dispersed one. The present owner of the premises lives in Paris. He visits them no oftener, and spends no more for their care than he cannot help. The park itself is almost a forest, so large it is and so stately are the trees. Long, wide alleys wind through the acacias and chestnuts. You do not go far from the very house without hares running by you, and partridges and pheasant fluttering; so left to itself is the whole demesne. Like most old estates near Szent-Istvánhely, it has its legends, plentifully. One of these tales, going back to the days of the Turkish sieges of the city, tells how a certain Count Z..., a young soldier of only twenty-six years, during the investment of 1565, was sitting at dinner, in the citadel, when word was brought that a Turkish skirmishing-party had captured his cousin, to whom he was deeply attached; and had cruelly murdered the young man here, in the park of this same chateau, which during some days the lines of the enemy had approached. The officer sprang up from the table. He held up his sword, and swore by it, and Saint Stephen of Hungary, that he would not put the sword back into its sheath, nor sit down to a table, nor lie in a bed, till he had avenged his cousin's fate. He collected a little troop--in an hour. Before another one had passed, he made a sortie, under a pretext, toward his invaded estate. He forced its defences. He drove out the enemy's post. He found and buried his cousin's mutilated body. Then, before dawn, he himself was surprised by a fresh force of Turks. He was shot, standing by his friend's grave... in which he too eventually was buried. Their monument is there to-day, with the story on it, beginning: "To The Unforgettable Memory of _Z_... Lorand, and _Z_... Egon", after the customary Magyar name-inversion. The public was not admitted to this old bit of the Szent-Istvánhely suburbs. But persons known to the caretakers were welcome.
2714_5438	adventure stories	Rinehart, Mary Roberts	A great meerschaum pipe, a stag’s head with branching antlers and colored dark with years of use, lay on his tray; and on his knee, but no longer distinguishable in the dusk, lay an old daguerreotype of Maria Menrad. When he heard Nikky’s quick step as he came along the tiled passage, he slipped the case into the pocket of his shabby house-coat, and picked up the pipe. Nikky saluted, and made his way across the room in the twilight, with the ease of familiarity. “I am late, sir,” he apologized. “We found our man and he is safely jailed. He made no resistance.” “Sit down,” said the Chancellor. And, touching a bell, he asked Mathilde for coffee. “So we have him,” he reflected. “The next thing is to discover if he knows who his assailants were. That, and the person for whom he acted--However, I sent for you for another reason. What is this about the Princess Hedwig?” “The Princess Hedwig!” “What folly, boy! A young girl who cannot know her own mind! And for such a bit of romantic trifling you would ruin yourself. It is ruin. You know that.” “I am sorry,” Nikky said simply. “As far as my career goes, it does not matter. But I am thinking of her.” “A trifle late.” “But,” Nikky spoke up valiantly, “it is not romantic folly, in the way you mean, sir. As long as I live, I shall--It is hopeless, of course, sir.” “Madness,” commented the Chancellor. “Sheer spring madness. You would carry her off, I dare say, and hide yourselves at the end of a rainbow! Folly!” Nikky remained silent, a little sullen. “The Princess went to the King with her story this evening.” The boy started. “A cruel proceeding, but the young are always cruel. The expected result has followed: the King wishes you sent away.” “I am at his command, sir.” The Chancellor filled his pipe from a bowl near by, working deliberately. Nikky sat still, rather rigid. “May I ask,” he said at last, “that you say to the King that the responsibility is mine? No possible blame can attach to the Princess Hedwig. I love her, and--I am not clever.
51840_789	western stories	Beach, Rex	They pushed through the tangle of tents, past piles of lumber, and emerged upon the main thoroughfare, which ran parallel to the shore. Nome consisted of one narrow street, twisted between solid rows of canvas and half-erected frame buildings, its every other door that of a saloon. There were fair-looking blocks which aspired to the dizzy height of three stories, some sheathed in corrugated iron, others gleaming and galvanized. Lawyers’ signs, doctors’, surveyors’, were in the upper windows. The street was thronged with men from every land--Helen Chester heard more dialects than she could count. Laplanders in quaint, three-cornered, padded caps idled past. Men with the tan of the tropics rubbed elbows with yellow-haired Norsemen, and near her a carefully groomed Frenchman with riding-breeches and monocle was in pantomime with a skin-clad Eskimo. To her left was the sparkling sea, alive with ships of every class. To her right towered timberless mountains, unpeopled, unexplored, forbidding, and desolate--their hollows inlaid with snow. On one hand were the life and the world she knew; on the other, silence, mystery, possible adventure. The roadway where she stood was a crush of sundry vehicles from bicycles to dog-hauled water-carts, and on all sides men were laboring busily, the echo of hammers mingling with the cries of teamsters and the tinkle of music within the saloons. “And this is midnight!” exclaimed Helen, breathlessly. “Do they ever rest?” “There isn’t time--this is a gold stampede. You haven’t caught the spirit of it yet.” They climbed the stairs in a huge, iron-sheeted building to the office of Dunham & Struve, and in answer to their knock, a red-faced, white-haired, tousled man, in shirt-sleeves and stocking-feet, opened the door. “What d’ye wan’?” he bawled, his legs wavering uncertainly. His eyes were heavy and bloodshot, his lips loose, and his whole person exhaled alcoholic fumes like a gust from a still-house. Hanging to the knob, he strove vainly to solve the mystery of his suspenders--hiccoughing intermittently. “Humph! Been drunk ever since I left?” questioned Glenister. “Somebody mus’ have tol’ you,” the lawyer replied. There was neither curiosity, recognition, nor resentment in his voice.
61133_29	science fiction	Banta, Frank	"Silence!" shouted the suddenly enraged judge. "This court depends entirely on the Very Complicated Monstrous Proximilator machine for its evidence." He turned to the jury, still seething. "The jury will completely disregard the defendant's utterly uncalled-for admission. Proceed, Mr. Prosecutor." The prosecutor fastened the ground cable of the machine to Fannie's big toe by means of an immense alligator clamp. Then taking the bulbous radio-frequency probe in his hand he said portentously, "Now we shall search for the memory-recording of Fannie Bork's moment of death!" He touched her brain lightly with the probe. Those seeing it for the first time were chilled by the dead body's sudden animation. "Oh, Winston!" cooed dead Fannie Bork, her aims raising from the cot to embrace an invisible something. She kissed. "You tastes good!" The prosecutor moved the probe. "George?" called Fannie, her slim arms searching at the side of her cot. "I didn't hear you leave, George." She relaxed. "Oh, I hope he found his shoes." "He didn't though," contributed John Bork. The prosecutor moved the probe, hurrying on by emotion-stirred quavers: Angelo, Moose, Maudie, Deacon and Quasimodo. "Speed, darlin', what's your _hurry_?" asked Fannie in her plaintive, metallic voice as she held out her hands beseechingly. "I never got to know him very well," interjected John Bork. "His visits were all so short." The prosecutor moved his probe. "Bork! Bork!" "Ah," said the prosecutor. "Now we are getting down to cases. I shall try that spot again." "Bork! Bork!" "She's not calling for me," advised Bork. "She just had a cold that week." * * * * * The prosecutor moved his probe. At each touch, the body broke into quaking action: Ferdinand, Frenchy, Yacob; Peyton, Rebel, Young foo Yum; and John. "Ah!" said the prosecutor. "Here we are now." "John!" whispered Fannie. "John, John, John! Oh, Johnny Johnson, my love! _Stay_ here forever!" "Wife's other John," said John Bork succinctly. The prosecutor moved his probe: Sinclair, Henrik, Sitting Duck, Oscar, Kenny, and Aqueduct.
29748_3292	western stories	Ogden, George W. (George Washington)	He stepped clear of his shelter to look at him, hoping against his conviction that he would rise. Somebody laughed behind the rock on his right, a laugh that plucked his heart up and cast it down, as a drunken hand shatters a goblet upon the floor. "I guess you'll never race me on _that_ horse again, fence-rider!" There was the sound of movement behind the rock; in a moment Grace Kerr rode out from her concealment, not more than four rods beyond the place where his horse lay. She rode out boldly and indifferently before his eyes, turned and looked back at him, her face white as an evening primrose in the dusk, as if to tell him that she knew she was safe, even within the distance of his arm, much as she despised his calling and his kind. Lambert put his gun back in its sheath, and she rode on, disappearing again from his sight around the rock where the blasted valley of stones branched upon its arid way. He took the saddle from his dead horse and hid it behind a rock, not caring much whether he ever found it again, his heart so heavy that it seemed to bow him to the ground. So at last he knew her for what Vesta Philbrook had told him she was--bad to the core of her heart. Kindness could not regenerate her, love could not purge away the vicious strain of blood. She might have scorned him, and he would have bent his head and loved her more; struck him, and he would have chided her with a look of love. But when she sent her bullet into poor old Whetstone's brain, she placed herself beyond any absolution that even his soft heart could yield. He bent over Whetstone, caressing his head, speaking to him in his old terms of endearment, thinking of the many fruitless races he had run, believing that his own race in the Bad Lands had come to an end. If he had but turned back from the foot of the hill where he recognized her, as duty demanded of him that he turn, and not pressed on with his simple intention of friendliness which she was too shallow to appreciate or understand, this heavy loss would have been spared him. For this dead animal was more to him than comrade and friend; more than any man who has not shared the good and evil times with his horse in the silent places can comprehend.
5165_3205	love stories	Corelli, Marie	With a sensitive pain which thrilled every nerve in her body she unfolded the letter, written in Hugo Jocelyn's firm clear writing--a writing she knew so well, and which bore no trace of weakness or failing in the hand that guided the pen. How strange it was, she thought, that the written words should look so living and distinct when the writer was dead! Her head swam.--her eyes were dim--for a moment she could scarcely see--then the mist before her slowly dispersed and she read the first words, which made her heart swell and the tears rise in her aching throat. "MY LITTLE WILDING!--When you read this I shall be gone to that wonderful world which all the clergymen tell us about, but which none of them are in any great hurry to see for themselves. I hope--and I sometimes believe--such a world exists--and that perhaps it is a place where a man may sow seed and raise crops as well and as prosperously as on Briar Farm--however, I'm praying I may not be taken till I've seen you safely wed to Robin--and yet, something tells me this will not be; and that's the something that makes me write this letter and put it with the pearls that are, by my will, destined for you on your marriage-morning. I'm writing it, remember, on the same night I've told you all about yourself--the night of the day the doctor gave me my death-warrant. I may live a year,--I may live but a week,--it will be hard if I may not live to see you married!--but God's will must be done. The bank-notes folded in this letter make up four hundred pounds--and this money you can spend as you like--on your clothes for the bridal, or on anything you fancy--I place no restriction on you as to its use. When a maid weds there are many pretties she needs to buy, and the prettier they are for you the better shall I be pleased. Whether I live or whether I die, you need say nothing of this money to Robin, or to anyone. It is your own absolutely--to do as you like with. I am thankful to feel that you will be safe in Robin's loving care--for the world is hard on a woman left alone as you would be, were it not for him.
62907_5349	adventure stories	Jewell, Edward Alden	Her voice reached the heart with its pathetic deadness. The woman drooped and gently shook before him. Another silence, with the sad swish of the jungle outside, under a white moon. “Hagen’s Island,” she murmured brokenly after awhile, “is a place where you come to know yourself through and through.” And he saw still more vividly that this was not the girl he had known in his groping days of hobbledehoy. “I’ve tried to believe it would come right in the end,” she resumed in a moment, “—maybe after a long, long time. But all the while—” it faltered just a little—“all the while I’ve had a feeling I’d never see home again.” Then she looked up and spoke with a touch of hysterical brightness: “I used to sit on the rocks, Jerome, and imagine what a home-coming it would be! You don’t mind my rambling on like this, do you Jerome?” “Of course not.” But he was privately marvelling. Stella—great Scott!—actually sighing over the thought of home, where nothing ever happened! It made him smile—oh, ever so worldly and sophisticated a smile; and he couldn’t help remembering again how she used to sail into him in her impetuous, young, rebellious way, for being so satisfied with his humdrum lot. “Jerome,” she said presently, in a voice it was obviously a little difficult still to control, “you haven’t told me anything about your wife.” He made an indefinite sound with his lips, and a look half of amusement, half of grimness, yet also somewhat of a gentler sadness, came into his eyes. “No, I haven’t,” he admitted. “Are you happy, Jerome?” “Now? Oh, yes.” “Where is she?” “Where? Oh, off on the high seas somewhere. The fact is,” he continued more bluffly, “we’ve separated, Stella. It wasn’t a success. We bored each other. As Captain Utterbourne would say, these experiments require a sort of real genius if they’re not to turn out failures. I believe,” he added with a sparkle, “the Captain speaks from experience.” Stella looked at him, then her eyes faltered. There was an immense confusion in her heart. All at once she, too, remembered how she had scolded him so bitterly that afternoon in the fog.
11229_1861	science fiction	Shiel, M. P. (Matthew Phipps)	There was nothing remarkable in the narrative that I could see--common-place descriptions of South Sea scenes, records of weather, cargoes, and the like--till I came to the last written page: and that was remarkable enough. It was dated the 13th of April--strange thing, my good God, incredibly strange--that same day, twenty long years ago, when I reached the Pole; and the writing on that page was quite different from the neat look of the rest, proving immoderate excitement, wildest haste; and he heads it '_Cinq Heures_,'--I suppose in the evening, for he does not say: and he writes: 'Monstrous event! phenomenon without likeness! the witnesses of which must for ever live immortalised in the annals of the universe, an event which will make even Mama, Henri and Juliette admit that I was justified in undertaking this most eventful voyage. Talking with Captain Tombarel on the poop, when a sudden exclamation from him--"_Mon Dieu!_" His visage whitens! I follow the direction of his gaze to eastward! I behold! eight kilomètres perhaps away--, _ten monstrous waterspouts_, reaching up, up, high enough--all apparently in one straight line, with intervals of nine hundred _mètres_, very regularly placed. They do not wander, dance, nor waver, as waterspouts do; nor are they at all lily-shaped, like waterspouts: but ten hewn pillars of water, with uniform diameter from top to bottom, only a little twisted here and there, and, as I divine, fifty _mètres_ in girth. Five, ten, stupendous minutes we look, Captain Tombarel mechanically repeating and repeating under his breath "_Mon Dieu!_" "_Mon Dieu!_" the whole crew now on the poop, I agitated, but collected, watch in hand. And suddenly, all is blotted out: the pillars of water, doubtless still there, can no more be seen: for the ocean all about them is steaming, hissing higher than the pillars a dense white vapour, vast in extent, whose venomous sibilation we at this distance can quite distinctly hear. It is affrighting, it is intolerable! the eyes can hardly bear to watch, the ears to hear! it seems unholy travail, monstrous birth! But it lasts not long: all at once the _Marie Meyer_ commences to pitch and roll violently, and the sea, a moment since calm, is now rough!
32429_876	love stories	Erskine, Payne	What they were saying he could not make out, but he again cautiously lifted his head and looked below. Suddenly the child drew back and lifted his arm as if to ward off a blow, but the blow came. Frale saw one of the men turn as he mounted his horse to ride away, and cut the boy cruelly across his face and arm with his rawhide whip. The little one's shriek of fright and pain pierced his big brother to the heart and caused him to forget for the moment his own abject fear. He made as if he would leap the intervening space to punish the brute, but a cry of anger died in his throat as he realized his situation. The selfishness of his fear, however, was dispelled, and he no longer cringed as before, but had the courage again to watch, awake and alert to all that passed beneath him. Hoyle's cry brought Cassandra out of the house flying. She walked up to the man like an angry tigress. Frale rose to his knees and strained eagerly forward. "If you are such a coward you must hit something small and weak, you can strike a woman. Hit me," she panted, putting the child behind her. Muttering, the man rode sullenly away. "He no business hangin' roun' we-uns, list'nin' to all we say." Frale could not make out the words, but his face burned red with rage. Had he been in hiding down below, he would have wreaked vengeance on the man; as it was, he stood up and boldly watched them ride away in the opposite direction from which they had come. He sank back and waited, and again the hours passed. All was still but the rushing water and the gentle soughing of the wind in the tops of the towering pines. At last he heard a rustling and sniffing here and there. His heart stood still, then pounded again in terror. They had--they had set Nig to track him. Of course the dog would seek for his old friend and comrade, and they--they would wait until they heard his bark of joy, and then they would seize him. He crept close to the rock where the water rushed, not a foot away, and clinging to the tough laurel behind him, leaned far over. To drop down there would mean instant death on the rocks below. It would be terrible--almost as horrible as the strangling rope.
20563_3338	love stories	Thomson, Charles Goff	Ahma calmly returned to the Major's side and together they resumed their hopeless contemplation of the Agong. He peered up till his neck ached. "Terry," he whispered, "to ring it you have to strike that little knob in the center, don't you?" "Yes." Then inspiration shone in the Major's face. He eyed Terry covertly. "Wish we had a rifle," he suggested. Terry caught his meaning. He fingered his holster but shook his head. "It can't be done, Major." "Sure it can--sure _you_ can! I've seen you shoot!" Terry shook his head but the excited Major insisted: "Try it. Rest your gun on my head. Sure you can do it--and think what it will mean--the Hills opened up for all time--think what it will mean to the Governor--and to the Service!" The hushed crowd stiffened as they saw the two white men draw back a hundred feet, wondered as to the character of the strange black thing the smaller drew from his leather pocket. They watched intently, thinking to see sorcery wrought before their eyes. Terry cocked the weapon and resting his wrist upon the tall Major's head, sighted carefully. A thousand pairs of eyes focussed upon him. Could the slim white man ring the gong by pointing a magic finger? The Major, braced for the shock of explosion, felt the iron wrist tremble, grow limp and lift away. He wheeled around to find Terry shaking his head, uncertain, faltering. He slowly holstered the gun. "Major, I keep thinking how I have deceived--this fine old man," he said. The Major stared at him, then exploded: "By making this 'sign' that saved your life--and mine? Sus-marie-hosep! I've heard of those New England consciences but--Sus-marie-hosep!" Disgust, dismay, affection swept in succession across the Major's countenance: affection held. He laid his hand upon Terry's shoulder as he played his ace: "Terry, I thought you had a date in Zamboanga on the twenty-sixth!" The crowd then saw the white youth stiffen with swift decision, saw him whirl to face the crag. For a moment he stood with eyes riveted upon the Agong till the little knob swung toward him, then he bent slightly at the knees and his hand swept back with a swiftness that seemed to bring the pistol leaping to meet the extended arm.
58820_2218	detective and mystery stories	Sayers, Dorothy L. (Dorothy Leigh)	Mrs. Tommy Frayle will be at Lady Swaffham’s, my lord, and Mr. Milligan—” “Mr. who?” “Mr. John P. Milligan, my lord, and—” “Good God, Bunter, why didn’t you say so before? Have I time to get there before he does? All right. I’m off. With a taxi I can just—” “Not in those trousers, my lord,” said Mr. Bunter, blocking the way to the door with deferential firmness. “Oh, Bunter,” pleaded his lordship, “do let me—just this once. You don’t know how important it is.” “Not on any account, my lord. It would be as much as my place is worth.” “The trousers are all right, Bunter.” “Not for Lady Swaffham’s, my lord. Besides, your lordship forgets the man that ran against you with a milk-can at Salisbury.” And Mr. Bunter laid an accusing finger on a slight stain of grease showing across the light cloth. “I wish to God I’d never let you grow into a privileged family retainer, Bunter,” said Lord Peter, bitterly, dashing his walking-stick into the umbrella-stand. “You’ve no conception of the mistakes my mother may be making.” Mr. Bunter smiled grimly and led his victim away. When an immaculate Lord Peter was ushered, rather late for lunch, into Lady Swaffham’s drawing-room, the Dowager Duchess of Denver was seated on a sofa, plunged in intimate conversation with Mr. John P. Milligan of Chicago. * * * * * “I’m vurry pleased to meet you, Duchess,” had been that financier’s opening remark, “to thank you for your exceedingly kind invitation. I assure you it’s a compliment I deeply appreciate.” The Duchess beamed at him, while conducting a rapid rally of all her intellectual forces. “Do come and sit down and talk to me, Mr. Milligan,” she said. “I do so love talking to you great business men—let me see, is it a railway king you are or something about puss-in-the-corner—at least, I don’t mean that exactly, but that game one used to play with cards, all about wheat and oats, and there was a bull and a bear, too—or was it a horse?—no, a bear, because I remember one always had to try and get rid of it
29481_494	love stories	Sousa, John Philip	" "Thirty-two!" said the father, rising angrily and pacing the floor. "Yes, thirty-two. I remember all of them distinctly." Her father came over to her, half coaxingly, half seriously. "Mildred, I wish his visits to cease; people will imagine there is a romantic attachment between you." "There is, father," out it came, "he loves me and I love him." [Illustration: Father I will obey you implicitly] "What!" shouted Mr. Wallace, and then severely, "this must cease immediately." She rose quietly and led her father over to the mantel. Placing a hand on each of his shoulders she said: "Father, I will obey you implicitly if you can name a reasonable objection to the man I love. But you can not. I love him with my whole soul. I love him for the nobility of his character, and because there is none other in the world for him, nor for me." IX Old Sanders as boy and man had been in the employ of the banking and brokerage firm of Wallace Brothers for two generations. The firm gradually had advanced his position until now he was confidential adviser and general manager, besides having an interest in the profits of the business. He enjoyed the friendship of Mr. Wallace, and had been a constant visitor at his house from the first days of that gentleman's married life. He himself was alone in the world, a confirmed bachelor. He had seen Mildred creep from babyhood into childhood, and bud from girlhood to womanhood. To Mildred he was one of that numerous army of brevet relations known as "gran-pop," "pop," or "uncle." To her he was Uncle Sanders. If the old man had one touch of human nature in him it was a solicitude for Mildred's future--an authority arrogated to himself--to see that she married the right man; but even that was directed to her material gain in this world's goods, and not to any sentimental consideration for her happiness. He flattered himself that by timely suggestion he had "stumped" at least half a dozen would-be candidates for Mildred's hand. He pooh-poohed love as a necessity for marital felicity, and would enforce his argument by quoting from the bard: "All lovers swear more performance than they are able, and yet reserve an ability that they never perform; vowing more than the perfection of ten, and discharging less than the tenth part of one.
36497_190	love stories	Beerbohm, Max, Sir	He did not heed them. Through that dim conflict between darkness and day, which is ever waged silently over our sleep, Lord George strode on in the deep absorption of his love and of his despair. At dawn he found himself on the outskirts of a little wood in Kensington. A rabbit rushed past him through the dew. Birds were fluttering in the branches. The leaves were tremulous with the presage of day, and the air was full of the sweet scent of hyacinths. How cool the country was! It seemed to cool the feverish maladies of his soul and consecrate his love. In the fair light of the dawn he began to shape the means of winning Jenny Mere, that he had conceived in the desperate hours of the night. Soon an old woodman passed by, and, with rough courtesy, showed him the path that would lead him quickest to the town. He was loth to leave the wood. With Jenny, he thought, he would live always in the country. And he picked a posy of wild flowers for her. His _rentrée_ into the still silent town strengthened his Arcadian resolves. He, who had seen the town so often in its hours of sleep, had never noticed how sinister its whole aspect was. In its narrow streets the white houses rose on either side of him like cliffs of chalk. He hurried swiftly along the unswept pavement. How had he loved this city of evil secrets? At last he came to St. James's Square, to the hateful door of his own house. Shadows lay like memories in every corner of the dim hall. Through the window of his room, a sunbeam slanted across his smooth white bed, and fell ghastly on the ashen grate. II It was a bright morning in Old Bond Street, and fat little Mr. Aeneas, the fashionable mask-maker, was sunning himself at the door of his shop. His window was lined as usual with all kinds of masks--beautiful masks with pink cheeks, and absurd masks with protuberant chins; curious Trpocrctiira [Greek: prosopa] copied from old tragic models; masks of paper for children, of fine silk for ladies, and of leather for working men; bearded or beardless, gilded or waxen (most of them, indeed, were waxen), big or little masks. And in the middle of this vain galaxy hung the presentment of a Cyclops' face, carved cunningly of gold, with a great sapphire in its brow. The sun gleamed brightly on the window and on the bald head and varnished shoes of fat little Mr. Aeneas.
61911_1093	detective and mystery stories	Roberts, Theodore Goodridge	He must of had some good skins. But of course that bill is no proof that Conley traded his skins with Luke Watt. I guess he did, though; for he wasn’t gone long enough to travel all the way down to Harlow and back. He did all his buying from Luke Watt, anyhow.” The old woodsman refolded the paper carefully and returned it to his partner. Then he filled his pipe and lit it with deliberate motions. “Young Dan, I was feelin’ kinder fretful a while back when I talked to ye that-a-way,” he said at last. “My knee was hurtin’ me cruel. Yer guess is as good to me as another man’s oath. What d’ye reckon to do, pardner?” “I reckon to go out and fetch a doctor in to fix your knee for you, first thing,” replied Young Dan, as he stowed the paper away safely in a breast-pocket. Andy Mace shook his head. “This here j’int plays out on me like this every now an’ agin,” he returned “and I got medicine for it at home, made for me by Doc Johnston down to Harlow—inside medicine. The trouble’s a touch o’ rheumatics in my blood, so the Doc said, an’ maybe the fight I had with the Quebecer fifty year ago ain’t got as much to do with it as I let on—an’ then agin, maybe it has. Anyhow, Doc Johnston’s medicine loosens up the j’int every time, an’ I got two bottles in my pantry this minute as good as new. If I had them here I’d be right as wheat in a day or two.” “Why didn’t you tell me so before?” asked Young Dan. “Well, I reckoned it would sound kinder babyish; an’ I was hopin’ all along until yesterday that it would quit hurtin’ an’ loosen up any minute. I was bankin’ on the b’ar’s grease. But last night didn’t help it none.” Young Dan went out with his axe to chop wood and at the same time to consider the imposing problem which confronted him.
60978_2990	detective and mystery stories	Morris, Charles	He wrote to you, but his letter failed to reach you. I thought I would call and request you to visit him.” “Why, Miss Arlington,” he said, confusedly. “I have really been too busy. I have felt for him in his misfortune, for John is really an excellent man. I am sorry for him.” “On what account, sir?” “Of this unpleasant difficulty. I cannot believe that he is guilty of the charge against him.” “You should take the time to call on him, sir, if you have not lost your friendship for him.” “The fact is,” said Mr. Powers, “the visiting hours at the prison come in my busiest time.” “Mr. Elkton and you were close friends?” “Oh, yes! In a measure. I had much respect for John. For his part he would persist in feeling grateful to me.” “Yes. You had rendered him a service,” she said, assuming a knowledge which she did not possess. “Not much,” he said quietly. “No doubt, though, he had reason to view it strongly. I saved his life by pulling him from the river. It was easy enough for me to do, but he seemed to think it the greatest favor.” “He had reason,” she replied. “I begin to see through John’s action now,” she said to herself. “The gratitude of an honorable man is a strong feeling. Has he allowed it to make him take the place of a guilty man?” “I would very much like to call on John,” he said. “And will if I can spare the time.” “You know, I presume, the cause of his imprisonment?” she asked, shifting her chair so that she could look him more directly in the face. “Not fully. It is on suspicion of being concerned in a robbery at Mr. Leonard’s.” “It is on account of his having a small piece of the stolen goods,” she said. “I have learned where he got the silk. You have seen this before, Mr. Powers?” She displayed the fatal bow, which again had fallen into her possession. “I can’t say that I have,” he replied, looking at it very closely. She rose to her feet, her large eyes scanning him from head to foot. He sat unmoved, with no trace of feeling or confusion in his face.
64757_1291	western stories	Coburn, Walt	my ten a month fer sody pop and sweet truck. I’ve likewise bought myse’f a sore-backed, ring-boned Mexican mule which I gits from a drunken Pisano fer six-bits and a pint uh rot-gut licker. “My daddy, bein’ a good drinkin’ man and jest about slick enough at stud poker tuh hang and rattle all night afore he loses his taw to the tin-horns, ain’t much better off, financial, as me. “Then one fall night, in a Mex town along the Rio, my daddy gits downed in a gun scrap. I’m sleepin’ on a poker table at the time, waitin’ till paw goes broke so’s I kin load him on his hoss and go tuh camp. By the time the smoke’s cleared away and I gits full waked up, dad’s a-passin’ out fast and callin’ fer me. I sets there on the _’dobe_ floor and wipes the blood off his mouth while he crosses the Big Divide, a grin on his face while his eyes goes glassy. “‘Kid,’ says he, afore the blood chokes him, ‘it was Pedro Sanchez, the bronc peeler, that done it. Here’s my gun. When the time comes, git that greaser.’ “I’m some twelve years old then. That night I pads that mule uh mine with gunny sacks, throw’s my dad’s saddle on him and proceeds tuh foller this Sanchez gent who has left town _pronto_ after the killin’. My ol’ rusty Chihuahua spur is tied to my bare foot and the long-barreled .45 gouges my ribs and starts wearin’ the hide off my hip bone. Thus burdened, as the sayin’ goes, I hits the trail uh the gent that’s downed my daddy.” Tad smiled reminiscently. “Yuh found him?” asked Kipp, his own troubles momentarily forgotten. “Ten years later, I finds him. He dealin’ faro bank in Juarez and alongside him on the table lays a white-handled six-gun with five notches filed on the handle, plain and insultin’ like. Sanchez, havin’ got off to a good start, has done turned out tuh be a killer, _sabe_? “Up to now, I bin as peaceful a kid as ever follered a long-horned steer. I’ve done got outa the notion, almost, uh shootin’ up this greaser.
47738_827	adventure stories	Stephens, Robert Neilson	They were to sail in three days. Jerningham was pacing the terrace, frowning upon the ground at his feet, his look more moody than ever, and with something distraught in it; now and then he drew in his breath audibly between his lips, or allowed some restless movement of the hands to belie his customary self-control. "What a devil is it afflicts you, man?" was Ermsby's greeting, while his page stood at a respectful distance, and began playing with two greyhounds that came bounding up. "This manner is something new. I've seen it for a week in you. Beshrew me if I don't think an evil spirit has crept into you. What's the matter?" "Nothing's the matter," said Jerningham, in a growling tone. "'Tis my humour." "'Tis a humour there's no excuse for, then, on a day like this, and with such a prospect before one's eyes." As Sir Clement spoke, he looked over the balustrade to the Thames and the countless-gabled front of the spire-studded city. The Thames and London were fair to see then. The river was wider than it is now, and was comparatively clean. Swans floated upon its surface, and it was lively with passenger craft,--sailboats, rowboats, tilt-boats, and boats with wooden cabins, gaily decorated barges belonging to royalty and nobility. The Thames, with its numerous landing-stairs, was the principal highway of London. When the queen went from Whitehall to Greenwich, it was, of course, by this water thoroughfare. It was the more convenient way of transit between the city and Westminster, where the courts were held. It had but one bridge at London then,--the old London Bridge of the children's song, "London Bridge is falling down;" the bridge that was a veritable street of houses, and which stood some distance east of where the present London Bridge stands. To many people the better way of crossing to Southwark, when they went to the playhouses or the bear-gardens, was by boat. Water-men were at every landing-place, soliciting custom. When at work, they often sang as they plied the oars. The rich, when they would amuse themselves upon the river in their handsome tilt-boats, took musicians with them.
55801_2438	science fiction	Elam, Richard M. (Richard Mace)	“Nix on that, Rock,” tall, wiry Hugh Blankenship objected. “It’s your dad’s ship and we know about his dream to build a satellite hospital. Besides, you’re the one who’s been holding the clue to its location all these years.” All of them nodded. “We can talk that over later,” Rock answered. “Now we’ve got to decide how we’re going to split expenses with Kalmus.” The boys had accumulated tidy sums while working at the space station. Even Rock had a fair amount of savings despite the fact that he sent much of his monthly check home to his mother. Space pay was high, and the boys had had no place to spend their money. But of course it cost a lot of money to take a ship out into space. The boys figured that the best they could do would not be quite enough. Rock told them that he had an idea Kalmus would advance them some on their share. It was likely that he wouldn’t have come this far without being sure the trip could be financed. Rock next told them about Kalmus wanting to furnish most of the crew. “If all of us go,” said little Sparky Finn, with the bristly hair, “then Kalmus will have to limit the men he wants to take. It’s a simple matter of arithmetic—seven of us and four of them.” “I’ll tell him that,” Rock agreed. “We all go or none of us goes. I’ll insist on it.” “Do you reckon we can trust Kalmus?” Ed Somerton asked. “He looks all right to me,” Shep said, “although of course you can’t trust first impressions sometimes.” “He looks all right to me too,” Rock agreed. “But just the same, while we’re waiting to get the ship outfitted, I think I’ll check his references at central identification headquarters on Earth.” Just as they were going to break up, there came a sharp rap on the dormitory door. Before the visitor could be invited in, he flung the door open and strode inside. Rock flared at this invasion of their privacy, especially when the newcomer proved to be a person disliked by all of them. He was Carl Mugger, their immediate supervisor. Behind his back he was known as “Yap” because of his shrewish tongue. “What have we got here—a tea party?” he blurted.
59242_120	science fiction	Smith, George H. (George Henry)	Washington rushed through clearance for the local officers and the inquest was held three days later. The coroner proved to be a shrewd country doctor, who had the inquest adjourned to the computer room as soon as he heard MacKinney's ideas about Edith. The security guards on duty the night of the murder testified that only MacKinney, Thompson, Ballard and I had had access to the computer room; and it had already been established that it would have been impossible for a spy or foreign agent to have slipped into the heavily guarded room. It was clearly an inside job. With all of us at the scene of the crime, the coroner summed it up for us. "--and since it could not have been the work of an outsider, it must have been a crime of a private nature." He looked closely at Thompson, MacKinney and me. "A crime of a private nature with the motive either revenge, jealousy or ambition. We know that the victim was an over-bearing man with a good many unpleasant traits. We know he was a man who forced his attentions on women, who was ill-tempered and abusive to those who worked with him. A man who had many enemies--but there were only three people who had the chance to attack him on this particular night. "I am going to attempt to establish the identity of the killer by the unusual procedure of questioning a machine. It will be for later courts to establish the validity of such testimony. Because of the nature of this case and because of the urgent need to get this computer back to its proper work, I am going to ask the questions in a more direct manner than I would ordinarily employ." MacKinney took his place before Edith. They didn't even trust me to feed the tapes into her under their very eyes. "Mr. Thompson, I object to the use of this delicate piece of equipment in--" They ignored me, and MacKinney punched out the questions the coroner asked: "Do you know who murdered Dr. Ballard?" There was a pause. Edith blinked several times. I was shaking with apprehension for her. A mind so delicate and noble should not be faced with such a dilemma. _Yes, she typed back._ "Did you witness the murder?" There was a longer pause this time. "You must answer the question," MacKinney reminded her. _I was here._ "Is it true that you do not lose your perceptive qualities when we turn you off?" MacKinney asked this on his own. _
42069_2409	adventure stories	Wheeler, Ruthe S.	To her it looked pretty terrible, but her voice was well modulated and pleasing. After that the lights came on and Henry Thorne went over to speak to Billy Fenstow. When he returned a few minutes later Janet couldn't even guess what the decision had been. "The action was punk," Helen's father said frankly, "but the supervisors liked your voices. You've got good faces and figures. In other words you report Monday morning and both of you go into 'Broad Valley,' Billy's next picture." _Chapter XXII_ WESTERN ACTION In the days intervening Janet and Helen found plenty to do. Billy Fenstow sent over scripts of his new western and they had a chance to familiarize themselves with the general theme of the play. The story, briefly, was the efforts of a band of ruthless men to gain control of "Broad Valley," a great cattle ranch which had been left to young Fred Danvers by his father. There was plenty of action, some gunplay, and a love theme in which Fred fell in love with the leader of the band of men who sought his property. The theme was as old as western pictures, but Billy Fenstow had a knack of dressing them up and making them look new. Janet and Helen reported at stage nine at eight o'clock Monday morning, Henry Thorne driving them over himself. He left as soon as they reached the lot. Nearly a score of people were clustered around the chubby little director and he nodded as Janet and Helen joined the crowd. Janet nudged Helen. "There's Curt Newsom, the western star. I'll bet he's got the lead." "He looks nice," replied Helen, "but older than he appears on the screen." A rather artificial blonde was seated at Billy Fenstow's right, idly thumbing through the sheaf of script from which the picture would be shot. Mr. Fenstow spoke sharply. "Attention everybody. All of you have had a chance to study the script; all of you should be familiar with the parts. We'll make plenty of changes as we go along, but in general you know what we're aiming at. We've got two weeks assigned for the shooting and that means we'll be done in two weeks, and not three." He looked around at each of them, then went on. "Curt Newsom goes into the lead as Fred Danvers and Miss Jackson will play the rôle of Ruth Blair, the girl he falls in love with." He ran on down the list.
27475_1037	western stories	Ryan, Marah Ellis	And as you seem to know each other, I need not do any introducing," he answered, as she seemed to grow confused. "But I have a little time to talk to you this morning and so came early." "Which means that I can set sail for the far shore," added Lyster, amiably. "All right; I'm gone. Good-by till to-morrow, Miss Rivers. I'm grateful for the clay Indian, and more grateful that you have agreed to be friends with me again. Will you believe, Dan, that in our short acquaintance of half an hour, we have had time for one quarrel and 'make up'? It is true. And now that she is disposed to accept me as a traveling companion, don't you spoil it by giving me a bad name when my back is turned. I'll wait at the canoes." With a wave of his hat, he passed out of sight around the clump of bushes, and down along the shore, singing cheerily, and the words floated back to them: "Come, love! come, love! My boat lies low; She lies high and dry On the Ohio." Overton stood looking at the girl for a little time after Lyster disappeared. His eyes were very steady and searching, as though he began to realize the care a ward might be, especially when the antecedents and past life of the ward were so much of stubborn mystery to him. "I wonder," he said, at last, "if there is any chance of your being my friend, too, in so short a time as a half-hour? Oh, well, never mind," he added, as he saw the red mouth tremble, and tears show in her eyes as she looked at him. "Only don't commence by disliking, that's all; for unfriendliness is a bad thing in a household, let alone in a canoe, and I can be of more downright use to you, if you give me all the confidence you can." "I know what you mean--that I must tell you about--about how I came here, and all; but I won't!" she burst out. "I'll die here before I do! I hated the people they said were my people. I was glad when they were dead--glad--glad! Oh, you'll say it's wicked to think that way about relatives.
22466_50	science fiction	DeKy, Thornton	This had never been accomplished before. How could it possibly be a success now? Even The Masters had never quite succeeded at this final test, how could he, only a servant? Yet it must work for he had no desire in life but to make it work. Then, suddenly, he was on his feet, eyes wide. From the two long, coffin-like liquid baths, there arose two perfect specimens of the _Homo sapiens_. Man and woman, they were, and they blinked their eyes in the light of the noonday sun, raised themselves dripping from the baths of their creation and stepped to the floor before Kiron. The man spoke, the woman remained silent. "I am Adam Two," he said. "Created, by you Kiron from a formula they left, in their image. I was created to be a Master and she whom you also have created is to be my wife. We shall mate and the race of Man shall be reborn through us and others whom I shall help you create." The Man halted at the last declaration he intoned and walked smilingly toward the woman who stepped into his open arms returning his smile. Kiron smiled too within his pumping heart. The words the Man had intoned had been placed in his still pregnable mind by the tele-teach phones and record that the last Master had prepared before death had halted his experiments. The actions of the Man toward the Woman, Kiron knew, was caused by the natural constituents that went to form his chemical body and govern his humanness. He, Kiron, had created a living man and woman. The Masters lived again because of him. They would sing and play and again people the magnificent crysolite city because he loved them and had kept on until success had been his. But then why not such a turnabout? Hadn't they, The Masters, created him a superb, thinking _robot_? Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Comet_ July 1941. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
40176_2592	love stories	Richards, Laura Elizabeth Howe	They would, sure! Kind of an old charm; couldn't call it a prayer, but mebbe as nigh one as Granny Faa could manage to come. Pippin had tried to say it late times, but he couldn't seem to fetch it: now--now-- He lifted his head; it was coming back, the age-long jargon. Word by word, dropping into his mind from some limbo of things forgotten; word by word, he said it over aloud, standing in the wood road, the trees arching over his head, the moss curling round his feet. White paternoster, St. Peter's brother, What hast 'ou i' the left hand? White-book leaves! What hast 'ou i' the right hand? Heaven-gate keys! Open heaven-gate and steek hell-gate! White paternoster, amen! Back in the cellar! Darkness, foul air, fumes of liquor. Some one singing in drunken tones snatches of song vile as the liquor. The child, on his huddle of rags in the corner, shrinks and shudders, he knows not why. The old woman rises; there is a cuff, a curse, a maudlin whimper; she makes her way to the corner and bends over the child. "When he gets singin'," she whispers, "don't 'ee listen, Pippin! Stop your ears and say White Patter! Hark now, till I larn it 'ee!" Bending lower, she recites the charm over and over, till the child with faltering lips can say it after her. "That'll keep 'ee safe!" says Granny Faa, and hobbles back to the spark of fire that keeps her old bones alive. "'Twas all the prayer she knew!" said Pippin. "Green grass! But yet I expect the Lord understood. There's Amen to it, you see." Joy of the road on a June morning! Who could taste it as Pippin did? It stood to reason that no one who had not been behind the bars could really know what it meant. Blue sky overhead--not a little square patch, but all you wanted, all there was--clear, deep, stainless, from rim to rim of the horizon. That would be enough just itself, wouldn't it, after three years of gray-white walls?
47633_1316	adventure stories	Hendrick, Edward P.	rasped Charlie Rogers, wrathfully. “Can’t do it,” drawled Dave. “I’ve got half a day’s work to do yet before sundown. Hop in here now, you bewitched watchmen! Let’s get going!” Left to themselves, Ned and Dick carefully examined the ground where had occurred the alleged ghostly happenings so vividly described by Beals and Rogers. “It’s mighty funny that if there actually was somebody out here between the house and the woods, he or she or it didn’t leave a single track of any kind,” mused Ned as he surveyed the open space with puzzled eyes. “Here’s over thirty yards of sand from the house to the hard ground near the woods and not a mark on it, except our own tracks!” “Well, if the same thing happens again tonight, we’ll try to have a better look at it than Red and Fatty could get in one flash of lightning,” declared Dick. “I’m hoping it stays clear after the moon comes up.” Dick’s wish was granted only in part, however, for after climbing above the line of trees, the moon was covered much of the time by drifting clouds, through which it peeped at infrequent intervals. The boys had decided to pass the night outside the house, as this would allow them to observe a much more extensive part of the premises than could be seen from inside. The spot selected for their sentry post was a thicket of oak, from which they had an unobstructed view of the stretch of sand between the end of the house and the woods. At intervals one or the other crept from this leafy covert and scouted entirely around the building, moving with caution and scanning every possible approach to the house. Returning from one of these rounds, Dick reported the lights of a vessel out upon the lake. “Let’s take a look at her,” suggested Ned, and together they walked down to the beach. The vessel seemed to be moving in a southwesterly direction, and they could see the ruddy gleam of her port light. “She’s some freight boat making for Cleveland,” guessed Dick, but even as he spoke, the green starboard light flashed into view and it was evident that the boat had altered her course and headed in shore. For a time the boys watched the strange craft as it drew steadily nearer, when suddenly her lights winked out, leaving her a black hulk which loomed dimly in the darkness. “Well, what the deuce does _that_ mean!
62768_1977	adventure stories	Roberts, Theodore Goodridge	Red Chief arose, shook himself, hunted through the woods for a few minutes, circled the hollow, then returned to the fallen fire and sleep. The other dog awoke a little later, scouted around for ten minutes, drank at the ferny spring and returned to sleep. The hours passed. Red Chief awoke again, sniffed the still air and got purposefully to his feet. He entered and vanished into the heavy underbrush with a single bound. Red Lily awoke in a flash and flashed after him. They were both back in less than a minute. They awoke Noel Sabattis by licking his face violently. They were in too great a hurry to be particular. Noel awoke spluttering and sat up. The big dogs jumped on him and over him a few times, then turned and disappeared in the underbrush. The old man wiped his face with the back of his hand and reached for the duck gun. He had reloaded it before breakfast. He raised the hammers, produced two copper percussion caps from a pocket of his rag of a vest, capped each nipple and lowered the hammers to half cock. Then he crawled after the dogs. He found them awaiting him impatiently at the outer edge of the hollow. They jumped about him, nosed him and made eager, choky noises deep in their throats. They moved forward slowly and steadily then, with Noel crawling after. But they did not advance far; suddenly they lay down. Noel listened. He heard something. He set his best ear close to ground while one dog watched him with intent approval and the other gazed straight ahead. He raised himself to his knees, lifted his head cautiously and looked to his front through a screen of tall brakes. He saw two men approaching, one of whom he recognized as Mel Lunt; and though he could see only their heads and shoulders he knew that they were placing their feet for each step with the utmost care. Also, he saw that each had a rifle on his shoulder. Noel’s round eyes glinted dangerously. Man hunters, hey! Sneaks! Sneaks sneaking around to jail poor Sherwood, hunting him down by tracking his friends. He stooped for a moment and patted each dog on the head. “Lay close,” he whispered. He stood straight, advanced two paces and halted. He brought the old gun up so that the muzzles of the two barrels were in line with the heads of the intruders and in plain sight and the butt was within a few inches of the business position in the hollow of his right shoulder. “How do.
9182_2072	love stories	Brontë, Charlotte	I saw her through a space in the boughs overhead. She and the stars, visible beside her, were no strangers where all else was strange: my childhood knew them. I had seen that golden sign with the dark globe in its curve leaning back on azure, beside an old thorn at the top of an old field, in Old England, in long past days, just as it now leaned back beside a stately spire in this continental capital. Oh, my childhood! I had feelings: passive as I lived, little as I spoke, cold as I looked, when I thought of past days, I _could_ feel. About the present, it was better to be stoical; about the future--such a future as mine--to be dead. And in catalepsy and a dead trance, I studiously held the quick of my nature. At that time, I well remember whatever could excite--certain accidents of the weather, for instance, were almost dreaded by me, because they woke the being I was always lulling, and stirred up a craving cry I could not satisfy. One night a thunder-storm broke; a sort of hurricane shook us in our beds: the Catholics rose in panic and prayed to their saints. As for me, the tempest took hold of me with tyranny: I was roughly roused and obliged to live. I got up and dressed myself, and creeping outside the casement close by my bed, sat on its ledge, with my feet on the roof of a lower adjoining building. It was wet, it was wild, it was pitch-dark. Within the dormitory they gathered round the night-lamp in consternation, praying loud. I could not go in: too resistless was the delight of staying with the wild hour, black and full of thunder, pealing out such an ode as language never delivered to man--too terribly glorious, the spectacle of clouds, split and pierced by white and blinding bolts. I did long, achingly, then and for four and twenty hours afterwards, for something to fetch me out of my present existence, and lead me upwards and onwards. This longing, and all of a similar kind, it was necessary to knock on the head; which I did, figuratively, after the manner of Jael to Sisera, driving a nail through their temples. Unlike Sisera, they did not die: they were but transiently stunned, and at intervals would turn on the nail with a rebellious wrench: then did the temples bleed, and the brain thrill to its core.
4246_2466	love stories	Evans, Augusta J. (Augusta Jane)	I was cognizant of the whole truth before I left the city." "Artful wretch! She is as false as contemptible!" muttered the sister, through set teeth. "Take care! Do not too hastily apply your own individual standard of action to others. She does not dream that I am acquainted with the truth, though doubtless she wonders that, knowing you so well, I should not suspect it." "Ah, guided by your favorite Mephistopheles, you wrapped the mantle of invisibility about you, and heard it all. Eh?" "No; Mephistopheles is not ubiquitous, and I left him at home here, it seems, when I took that child to ride. It is difficult for me to believe you are my sister! very difficult! It is the most humiliating thought that could possibly be suggested to me. May, I very nearly decided to send you and Pauline out into the world without a dime!--without a cent!--just as I found you, and I may do so yet--" "You dare not! You dare not! You swore a solemn oath to the dying that you would always provide for us! I am not afraid of your breaking your vow!" cried Mrs. Chilton leaning heavily against the table to support herself. "You give me credit for too much nicety. I tell you I would break my oath to-morrow--nay, to-night; for your duplicity cancels it--but for that orphan you hate so cordially. She would never return if you and Pauline suffered for the past. For her sake, and hers only, I will still assist, support you; for have her here I will! if it cost me life and fortune! I would send you off to the plantation, but there are no educational advantages there for Pauline; and, therefore, if Beulah returns, I have resolved to buy and give you a separate home, wherever you may prefer. Stay here, you cannot and shall not!" "And what construction will the world place on your taking a young girl into your house at the time that I leave it? Guy, with what marvelous foresight you are endowed!" said she, laughing sardonically. "I shall take measures to prevent any improper construction! Mrs. Watson, the widow of one of my oldest and best friends, has been left in destitute circumstances, and I shall immediately offer her a home here, to take charge of my household and look after Beulah when I am absent.
65383_1273	detective and mystery stories	Wallace, Edgar	She threw her cloak over the back of a chair, pulled a stool to the fire and sat down, warming her knees. Gordon, the soul of delicacy, strolled out of the line of vision. “We talked about tradesmen and the superiority of Australian beef and the difficulty of finding servants and Mrs. Carter-Corrillo’s fearful indiscretion--she went to France with the third secretary of the Montenegrin Embassy. She was only there three days, but, as Lady Pennefort said, there are twenty-four hours in every day. Some women are fools--and most men. This young man’s career is ruined, even though he swears that their mutual interest in the gravel deposits of Abbeville was the explanation of the visit. They are both keen on geology.” “And why shouldn’t that be the true explanation?” demanded Gordon stoutly, his heart warming to the geological third secretary. “Why should not men and women have mutual scientific interests?” “We’ll hear what the judge says,” she answered complacently. “Mr. Carter-Corrillo is suing for a divorce.” “On what grounds--incompatibility of interest in strata?” sneered Gordon. “Don’t be silly. Conventions are the by-laws of society. It is presumed that, if you break a by-law, you are capable of breaking the law.” He stared, amazed at her cool inconsistency. “Here are you, living, unchaperoned, in the house of a bachelor----” “Cousins are different,” she said promptly. “Nobody suggests that the third secretary is Mrs. Carter-Corrillo’s cousin. That would make a difference. Besides, everybody knows how much you dislike me.” “I don’t dislike you,” after a moment’s thought; “but if you think I do, why do you stay?” “I have a mission,” she said, with a finality of tone that brought the subject out of discussion. Gordon broke the news of his impending departure after breakfast the next morning. “I am thinking of running up to Scotland to have a shot at the birds,” he said. He felt rather like a liar. “What have they been doing?” she asked, her grey-blue eyes wide. “Nothing. One shoots them at this season of the year. You have game laws in Australia, I suppose?” “I don’t know. I have shot wallaby and dingo and rabbits and things, but never birds. To Scotland? That’s an awful long way.
59428_4565	detective and mystery stories	Hecht, Ben	You are in Rollo. The streets are dark and chill. And you search for clews.” “I see. You are prepared to flout my story.” “I’m listening, Hugo.” “Before I go on, Julien, I must impress one thing on you. Prejudice is a poor guide for deduction. If you are in love with poor Florence you will be helping her more by facing the facts squarely....” “My emotions are in abeyance, Hugo. I listen only as a Dr. Watson.” “Very well. I will first indulge in a modest preamble.” “A short one would be better.” “Facetiousness,” smiled Dr. Lytton, “is a good outlet for nerves. I make no claim to any sort of intelligence on my part for what happened during the dawn in Rollo. Accident is very often the determining factor in philosophical as well as scientific discoveries. “I had come to Rollo to find Floria, and as I was walking the streets with no place to go or sit down I found her. I saw her at the end of the block hurrying toward me. Her face was pale, her hair was in disorder, and her eyes were wide and staring. It was Florence Ballau. She passed me without any sign of recognition, and I realized at once from the obvious physical symptoms she presented that she was in a pathologic state. I followed her. She walked through the streets without purpose or destination, moving swiftly and blindly. “After an hour, or what seemed an hour, I caught up with her and took her arm. She looked at me and said nothing. Now there is one principle in pathology which is elemental. In talking to a dual personality it is a waste of energy to address the ‘wrong’ person. Thus, it is futile to waste one’s breath trying to convince a man who fancies himself the king of Siam that he is not the king of Siam. Because when addressing the victim of such an hallucination, one is addressing not the victim, but the hallucination. Do you follow me?” De Medici nodded. His mind had grown violently active. The scientist’s words died in his ears, as more and more he gave himself desperately to the unraveling of a new and astounding theory that had entered his thought. “Well,” continued Dr. Lytton, “knowing this, I took her arm. She looked at me. I said to her, ‘Good morning, Floria.’ The ruse worked instantly.
18563_1861	western stories	Sinclair, Bertrand W.	"So I think it'll be wise to keep south along the open bottoms. If they see us splitting the breeze down Lost River, they won't look for us to bob up from the opposite quarter to-morrow. When it gets dark and we're far enough ahead, we can swing into the hills. That'll fool them plenty for to-night. They'll probably try tracking us to-morrow, but I reckon they'll find that a tough job." They kept persistently after us, and we were more or less on the anxious seat, till it did get dark. Then we turned sharp to the left and gained high ground once more, congratulating ourselves on so easily getting out of a ticklish place. If we hadn't moved up on Bevans they might have surrounded us before we got wind of them. But we'd beaten them fairly, and so we looked back through the dark and laughed; though I'm sure we had no particular cause for merriment. CHAPTER XV. PIEGAN TAKES A HAND. I don't believe a detailed account of how we spent that night would be classed as wildly interesting; if memory serves me right, it was a bleak, hungry, comfortless passage of time, and I am willing to let it go at that. We managed to secure a buffalo steak for breakfast. No man needed to starve in that country during those days of plentiful game; but we were handicapped by the necessity of doing our hunting in a very surreptitious manner. However, we didn't starve; the worst we experienced was an occasional period of acute hunger, when we didn't dare fire a shot for fear of revealing our whereabouts. Nor can I see, now, where we accomplished anything beyond killing time the following day. To be sure, we scouted faithfully, and once or twice came perilously near being caught by squads of Mounted Police appearing from unexpected quarters. Our scouting was so much wasted energy. We got nowhere near the Police camp; we failed to get a glimpse of any of our men; and so, for all we knew to the contrary, they might have loaded the plunder and decamped for other regions. When night again spread its concealing folds about us, we had only one tangible fact as a reward for our exertions--Lessard had returned to Fort Walsh--presumably. Early that morning, escorted by four troopers, he had crossed Lost River and disappeared in the direction of the post. Of his identity the field-glasses assured us.
60978_2620	detective and mystery stories	Morris, Charles	He was fully aware of the natural conclusion from his persistent silence, and could not blame people for distrusting his innocence. But he had fondly hoped that she had more confidence in him, and would not turn away from him so lightly. But as the days wore on and she came not he began to fear that she was lost to him, and to grow miserably unhappy in consequence. Another thing seemed to annoy him. Some of his friends kept aloof from him, one in particular of whom he had had a very exalted opinion, and whose absence caused him much mental disquiet. He finally sent a message to this man, Jesse Powers by name, with an urgent request to have him come to the prison and see him. It failed in its effect. His friend was out of town and did not get his epistle. It was nearly the end of the first week in prison life when the door of his cell was one morning unlocked, and a new visitor admitted. He sat disconsolate and moody, fretting in spirit at the defection of his betrothed, when he lifted his eyes and saw her standing before him, her eyes full of love and sympathy. “Oh, John!” was her piteous exclamation. He sprung to his feet with new life, clasped her in his arms, and rained kisses on her distressed face. “This is very good in you, Jennie,” he said. “I have just been thinking of you, and wishing for you; but not hoping.” “You did not think I had forgotten you?” she said, reproachfully. “No, no, Jennie; I had faith in your love. But how I did want you!” He kissed her again, clasping her still closer. “And what a place this is,” she said, looking round the cell. “I would have been here before, John, but I was hindered. I thought, indeed, the first few days, that you would not stay here.” “How could I help myself, Jennie? No bird would stay in its cage if the door was open.” “You could open the door with a word. You know you could,” she said, looking tenderly but eagerly into his face. “You are innocent. Why will you not clear yourself?” “It looks as if I were guilty,” he replied, leading her to the only chair the cell afforded. “The law and the public seem to think so.” “It is your own fault, John.
18563_1171	western stories	Sinclair, Bertrand W.	you go, anyway, after you stopped in that creek-bottom?" he asked, eying me with much curiosity. "We nearly played our horses out galloping around looking for you--after we'd gone a mile or so, and you didn't catch up." "Then you must have kept damned close to the coulée-bottoms," I retorted ungraciously, "for I burnt the earth getting up on a pinnacle where you could see me, before you had time to go very far." "Oh, well, it's easy to lose track of a lone man in a country as big as this," he returned suavely. "We all got here, so what's the odds? I guess we'll stick here till morning. We can't make the round trip this afternoon, and I'm not camping on the hills when it's avoidable." It struck me that he was uncommonly philosophical about it, so I merely grunted and went on with my dinner. That evening, when we went to the stable to fix up our horses for the night, I got a clearer insight into his reason for laying over that afternoon. They had been doing some tall riding, and their livestock was simply unfit to go farther. The four saddle-horses looked as if they had been dragged through a small-sized knothole; their gauntness, and the dispirited droop of their heads, spelled complete fatigue to any man who knew the symptoms of hard riding. By comparison, my sweat-grimed dun was fresh as a morning breeze. CHAPTER XI. THE GENTLEMAN WHO RODE IN THE LEAD. It took us all of the next day to make the trip to Stony Crossing and back by way of the place where Rutter was buried. Goodell had no fancy, he said, for a night camp on the prairie when it could be avoided. He planned to make an early start from Pend d' Oreille, and thus reach Walsh by riding late the next night. So, well toward evening, we swung back to the river post. Goodell and his fellows were nowise troubled by the presence of dead men; they might have been packing so much merchandise, from their demeanor. But I was a long way from feeling cheerful. The ghastly burdens, borne none too willingly by the extra horses, put a damper on me, and I'm a pretty sanguine individual as a rule.
3702_6316	love stories	Boucicault, Dion	To divert this anyhow, Hazel looked up at the roof, and said faintly, "If I had known, I would have made more haste, and set pearl _there_ as well." "What does that matter?" said Helen, looking down. "Not much, indeed," replied he, sadly. "I am a fool to utter such childish regrets; and, more than that, I am a mean selfish cur to _have_ a regret. Come, come, we can't eat; let us go round the Point and see the waves reddened by the beacon that gives you back to the world you were born to embellish." Helen said she would go directly. And her languid reply contrasted strangely with his excitement. She played with her supper, and wasted time in a very unusual way, until he told her plump she was not really eating, and he could wait no longer, he must go and see how the beacon was burning. "Oh, very well," said she; and they went down to the beach. She took his crutch and gave it to him. This little thing cut him to the heart. It was the first time she had accompanied him so far as that without offering herself to be his crutch. He sighed deeply, as he put the crutch under his arm; but he was too proud to complain, only he laid it all on the approaching steamboat. The subtle creature by his side heard the sigh, and smiled sadly at being misunderstood--but what man could understand her? They hardly spoke till they reached the Point. The waves glittered in the moonlight; there was no red light on the water. "Why, what is this?" said Hazel. "You can't have lighted the bonfire in eight places, as I told you." She folded her arms and stood before him in an attitude of defiance; all but her melting eye. "I have not lighted it at all," said she. Hazel stood aghast. "What have I done?" he cried. "Duty, manhood, everything demanded that I should light that beacon, and I trusted it to you." Then Helen's attitude of defiance melted away. She began to cower, and hid her blushing face in her hands. Then she looked up imploringly. Then she uttered a wild and eloquent cry, and fled from him like the wind. CHAPTER XLVII.
63389_4200	western stories	Young, Elizabeth G.	Harry felt pretty sure that the Bianes had not sent for any assistance. If it had not been for the ride to Soldier, she would probably have gone up to see how Isita was and have insisted on having the doctor at once. The spotted fever was short and sharp, sometimes a matter of hours only. Like most buoyant people, Harry's spirits went correspondingly low when she was depressed, and now, morbidly self-conscious over one blunder, she felt herself largely to blame for Isita's neglected condition. "I declare," Mrs. Robinson said suddenly, "you ain't eatin' a thing, girlie. You'd oughten't to of took that long ride this hot weather; and after workin' so hard yestiddy and all. You're clean drilled down. That's right, go along out on the porch and I'll bring your tea to you. It's hot enough in here to fry fat out of an iceberg." Stammering an excuse, Harry pushed away from the table, furious with herself for the tears that had suddenly blinded her. In another moment, she felt, she would have disgraced herself by sobbing aloud. Mrs. Robinson's sympathy was the one thing that her aching heart could not resist. Rob had an instinctive idea that under the pressure of kindly solicitude, Harry would relate the whole affair to their neighbor; and he knew that if she did she would get pungent advice and wholesome consolation from that sagacious friend. He rode home after supper, satisfied that Harry would be herself in another twenty-four hours. It turned out as he hoped. Mrs. Robinson had divined that something more than fatigue had affected the girl. As she was showing Harry to her room she put her hand on the girl's shoulder and said gently, "Yestiddy was just one lick too much for you, wa'n't it, child?" "It wasn't that. Oh, it wasn't!" Harry began: and then, dropping her face on her hands, she sobbed miserably. But oh, the relief of having it out! Of telling some one who could and would say exactly what she thought of it all--why Harry's firing a rifle merely in warning had been so reprehensible. That was exactly what Mrs. Robinson did tell her.
62768_1194	adventure stories	Roberts, Theodore Goodridge	Noel showed the body—where he had hidden it in the bushes. He took Sherwood to the pirogue and showed him faint stains in it. He had tried to wash away the stains but with only partial success. Sherwood spoke then in a whisper, trembling all over. He said that he didn’t do it but that he had planned to tell Balenger to get out that night and shoot him if he refused to go. Then he grabbed Noel by the arm and accused him of killing Balenger. His eyes were wild, but old Noel kept cool. Old Noel said that he knew nothing of the shooting, that neither of them had done the thing and that the woods were wide open. Sherwood didn’t care who had pulled the trigger. It was all up with him, whoever the murderer was! His only chance was to run and run quick. Every one knew what was between him and Louis Balenger and he would be hanged for a murderer if he was caught. And what would become of Marion then? Noel had a difficult time with Sherwood, who was mad with terror for a few minutes, but he calmed him at last sufficiently to take him back to the house. Sherwood ate his supper in a quivering silence. When the little girl kissed him he burst into tears. As soon as Marion was asleep Noel and Sherwood dug a grave and buried Balenger. Sherwood worked like a tiger. His mood had changed. He was defiant. The law would never catch him to misjudge him! Fate and the world were all against him now but he would fool them! Nothing would hurt his little daughter while he was alive—and he intended to live! He would take Marion to the O’Dells and make his way into the States and get work where no one knew he was a failure or had ever been a coward. For he was not a coward now, by Heaven! He feared nothing but the hangman. Fate had hit him just once too often, kicked him when he was down and tried to crush his little girl. But he would outwit fate! They returned to the cabin. Sherwood’s eyes gleamed in the lamplight and his face was flushed. He wrote a note, telling Noel it was for Mrs. O’Dell, the widow of his old friend. He packed a bag, his gun and a bed roll, muttering to himself all the while. Then he went outside and looked up at the summer stars and laughed. Noel was frightened.
4515_1704	western stories	Curwood, James Oliver	"That is, if you belong to him. And if you didn't why would you stand there with your arms about his neck and he hugging you up like that!" A few minutes before he had crumpled the picture in his hand and dropped it on the floor. He picked it up now and mechanically smoothed it out as he made his observation, through the window. The pack had returned to the stockade. By the aimless manner in which they had scattered he concluded that for the time at least their mysterious enemies had drawn away from the corral. Celie had not moved. She was watching him earnestly. It seemed to him, as he went to her with the picture, that a new and anxious questioning had come into her eyes. It was as if she had discovered something in him which she had not observed before, something which she was trying to analyze even as he approached her. He felt for the first time a sense of embarrassment. Was it possible that she had comprehended some word or thought of what he had expressed to her? He could not believe it And yet, a woman's intuition-- He held out the picture. Celie took it and for a space looked at it steadily without raising her eyes to meet his. When she did look at him the blue in her eyes was so wonderful and deep and the soul that looked out of them was so clear to his own vision that the shame of that moment's hypocrisy when he had stood with his arm about her submerged him completely. If she had not understood him she at least HAD GUESSED. "Min fader," she said quietly, with the tip of her little forefinger on the man in the picture. "Min fader." For a moment he thought she had spoken in English. "Your--your father?" he cried. She nodded. "Oo-ee-min fader!" "Thank the Lord," gasped Philip. And then he suddenly added, "Celie, have you any more cartridges for this pop-gun? I feel like licking the world!" CHAPTER XIV He tried to hide his jubilation as he talked of more cartridges. He forgot Bram, and the Eskimos waiting outside the corral, and the apparent hopelessness of their situation. HER FATHER! He wanted to shout, or dance around the cabin with Celie in his arms. But the change that he had seen come over her made him understand that he must keep hold of himself.
42010_1704	detective and mystery stories	Flynn, William J. (William James)	"'When we get to the new farm.' "I told Calichio that I certainly would not print any of them at this season and he suggested that they probably were to be printed in November. He said: "'They will probably be printed in November, at the beginning of the winter season, for now the waters are troubled. The police is making arrests daily.' "He placed the plates in the suit-case and together we went to Weehawken Ferry and arrived in Highland at 11 A. M. There found Peppino waiting for us at the station with a carriage. He drove to his brother's house (Cina's). There we found Uncle Vincent and Bernardo, the others having gone to Poughkeepsie on business and left word that they would return by evening. After lunch I played with Cina's children while Calichio, Uncle Vincent, Bernardo and Peppino locked themselves into a room for a conference. About 8 P. M. Salvatore Cina returned from Poughkeepsie with Sylvester and immediately ordered his brother to prepare the horse and carriage and take us to the 'Third' farm." CHAPTER XVII CAUGHT AGAIN! "About two o'clock in the morning we arrived, Calichio, Bernardo, Sylvester, Peppino and Cina, at the 'Third' farm. Peppino returned immediately from the 'Third' farm to Cina's house. The four of us who remained slept on straw, there being no mattresses. About three o'clock the next afternoon Cina brought us some mattresses, pillows and covers; some food-stuffs and ten quarts of wine. Cina remarked that this was a splendid place, and that no one could disturb us there. He gave the following orders: "Calichio and I were to remain in the house and work. Uncle Vincent would watch along the railroad track to see if any strangers came near. About noontime, Uncle Vincent would come in and do the cooking; then Bernardo, armed with revolver and rifle, was to do his turn and guard the farm. He was to be helped in this by Giglio and Sylvester whenever they were about. Cina said that if Calichio or I wanted to have our mail addressed to us we must tell our folks and friends to send it to 20 Duane Street, Poughkeepsie, where Uncle Turi (the well-dressed man referred to before in this story) had opened a grocery store. Cina assured me that news would be brought to us daily from the outside and that a horse and carriage had been brought for the express purpose of going to and from Poughkeepsie and bringing groceries.
64128_1331	love stories	Phillips, David Graham	Then he turned to Grafton. “A thousand pardons, Mr. Grafton. We trust you will forget this folly. We owe you an apology. We feel profoundly humiliated.” “Pray think no more about it,” said Grafton. “You will pardon us for the brevity of our apologies to-day, we beg. Baron Zeppstein will escort you to your hotel. And we look forward to the pleasure of seeing you at the galleries at eleven to-morrow.” “At eleven,” said Grafton, bowing to Erica as the Grand Duke, taking his arm, escorted him to the anteroom. They shook hands, the Grand Duke placing his left hand cordially, even affectionately, on Grafton’s shoulder. Zeppstein had an abstracted companion on the drive, and when Grafton was alone he flung himself on the divan in his sitting-room and abandoned himself to thoughts that gave his face an expression of deep discouragement. When the Grand Duke returned to his cabinet, he withered Moltzahn with a furious look. “What!” he snarled. “Still here? Be off! You are a loathsome creature. Don’t show yourself at court for three months. And if we ever hear that a word of this has passed your lips, we’ll strip your epaulettes from you before the entire army and banish you. Out of our sight!” Moltzahn backed from the room, bowing and cringing. When he was gone the Grand Duke turned on his son. “And now for you, sir! Apologize to Her Serene Highness! Say after me--put your heels together and bend--now say: ‘Your Serene Highness, I humbly ask pardon for my infamous conduct, for my lies, for my insults.’” The Inheriting Grand Duke repeated the words in a choked voice. “And,” continued the Grand Duke, “if you should meet Mr. Grafton again, we command you to speak to him as one gentleman to another with whom he is on friendly terms. Do you hear?” “Yes, Your Royal Highness,” murmured his heir. “You will withdraw.” Erica and the Grand Duke were now alone. “I’m sorry, indeed, my dear child, that this has happened.” He took her hand affectionately. “You have done all that I expected--more.” Erica was blushing and looked extremely guilty. She felt that Aloyse and Moltzahn had outrageously insulted her, but she did not like this reparation on false pretences.
60283_50	science fiction	Fisher, David E.	They were aware that they stood in the midst of an unprecedented happening; indeed, an emergency. For a machine had failed! Not in the memory of the eldest among us has a machine failed. They were created so long ago, indeed, that the ignorant believe them to have been constructed by the gods themselves. And never, so far as I know, has one failed. Small wonder that the watcher had been negligent. Indeed, the watcher is more a tradition than a necessity. Besides, had he been sober, he would not have known what to do. For who knows the mysterious workings of the machines? * * * * * I hastened to the City Hall and found the Conclave assembled, waiting for me to bring them to order. Xeon and Melia stopped as I mounted the steps, but I smiled and motioned them in. They accompanied me past the marble pillars into the cool recesses of the Hall, then seated themselves on the floor as I took my place by the great table. Well, you know how these things are. At such a time, many men feel impelled to make speeches, and one must not be disrespectful. Prayers and supplications were offered to the gods, priests were sent to sacrifice, and finally, as the light of the sun was falling between the pillars, the High Priest of the Maternite Machine was heard. He rambled through the customary opening remarks and then, continually smoothing his white beard--of which he is excessively proud--approached the crux of the matter and the Conclave finally heard the facts it had assembled to hear. By this time, unfortunately, many of the Conclave had departed for home and supper. Yet perhaps it is for the best, for those left were the most earnest and intelligent. "I would not bore you," he said, "with details of which only the gods are sure. Know, then, that once granted a few cells of Prelife, it is an easy matter for the Maternite Machine to add more and more; thus assuring us, as has always been, a continuous source of Prelife to be born by the Generating Machine as children. The machines bear the exact number of children each year to balance the number of us whom the gods claim. Such it has always been from time immemorial." A murmur of assent and approval of these virtuous words whispered around the Hall. "But now," he continued, however, with less assurance and indeed with even a stutter here and there, "an unprecedented situation has arisen.
50317_2349	love stories	Hamilton, Cosmo	The drummer was already committing demented acts upon a scavenger collection of tins, boxes, and whistles. They went out into the moonlight and through the gardens to the summer house. The dynamic energy which radiated from Franklin did much, so far as Fraser was concerned, to spoil the exquisite peace and lassitude of the night. All the poet in him gave him the keys with which to open some of the unnoticed doors to Nature’s storehouses of beauty and called him to stand very still and fill his brain and soul with the sight that met his eyes. He had never felt prouder of his country than when he revelled in the picture of the moon-touched Sound, magic with the reflection of a multitude of stars, and ran his eyes along the dim outline of shore to his right and caught the bright eyes of thousands of cheerful lights. It seemed to him that Nature, with the proud consciousness of her genius as an artist, had outdone herself in setting a scene for the human comedy in which he had been cast for the second male part. Water and moon and stars, the mystery of night, the feeling of illimitable space, the scent of sleeping flowers, the whisper of fairies, all as old and even older than the hills—surely this was an appropriate setting for the working out of the ancient and inevitable drama, the ever-recurring clash, between a man and a woman. "Go ahead, Pel," he said. "This morning in New York you left this strange story of yours at the point where the entrance of York into it made you decide to marry Beatrix. I have not got the novelist’s brain so I can’t for the life of me see what can have happened in the chapter that has been begun since then." "My dear chap," said Franklin, flinging the end of a cigarette over the wall, "don’t you know that more impossible things are done every hour in life than ever find their way into books?" "Yes, I know that." "Well, the thing that I should have thought the very limit of impossibility happened here, on this very spot, this afternoon when I got back. Take a guess." Fraser’s answer came quickly. "Beatrix loves you." There was no mirth in Franklin’s laugh. "Guess again." "You love Beatrix." "A precious clever fellow, aren’t you? What the devil made you get to love so quickly?
1312_3171	western stories	Harte, Bret	Damn nonshense b'long dead man. I'sh your chile? no! whose chile then? Chile b'long to 'ts mother. Unnerstan?” “Where is she?” said Mrs. Starbottle, with a very white face and a very low voice. “I'll splain all. Chile b'long to 'ts mother. Thash law. I'm lawyer, leshlator, and American sis'n. Ish my duty as lawyer, as leshlator, and 'merikan sis'n to reshtore chile to suff'rin mother at any coss--any coss.” “Where is she?” repeated Mrs. Starbottle, with her eyes still fixed on the colonel's face. “Gone to 'ts m'o'r. Gone East on shteamer, yesserday. Waffed by fav'rin gales to suff'rin p'rent. Thash so!” Mrs. Starbottle did not move. The colonel felt his chest slowly collapsing, but steadied himself against a chair, and endeavored to beam with chivalrous gallantry not unmixed with magisterial firmness upon her as she sat. “Your feelin's, m'm, do honor to yer sex, but conshider situashun. Conshider m'or's feelings--conshider MY feelin's.” The colonel paused, and flourishing a white handkerchief, placed it negligently in his breast, and then smiled tenderly above it, as over laces and ruffles, on the woman before him. “Why should dark shed-der cass bligh on two sholes with single beat? Chile's fine chile, good chile, but summonelse chile! Chile's gone, Clar'; but all ish'n't gone, Clar'. Conshider dearesht, you all's have me!” Mrs. Starbottle started to her feet. “YOU!” she cried, bringing out a chest note that made the chandeliers ring--“You that I married to give my darling food and clothes--YOU! a dog that I whistled to my side to keep the men off me--YOU!” She choked up, and then dashed past him into the inner room, which had been Carry's; then she swept by him again into her own bedroom, and then suddenly reappeared before him, erect, menacing, with a burning fire over her cheekbones, a quick straightening of her arched brows and mouth, a squaring of jaw, and ophidian flattening of the head. “Listen!” she said in a hoarse, half-grown boy's voice. “Hear me! If you ever expect to set eyes on me again, you must find the child. If you ever expect to speak to me again, to touch me, you must bring her back.
39865_4297	love stories	Clifford, W. K., Mrs.	"We wondered where you'd got to," she said. "I went to the garden, and through the field--I wanted to think for a little while." "I made the bed in your room ready, but I suppose when you looked in it was still covered up, and you didn't feel like staying there." "I don't like staying anywhere," Margaret answered, with the restlessness that cannot find expression keen upon her. "You had better come into the kitchen--there's a cup of hot milk ready; you must want something. Hannah's just gone to lie down; she's been anxious and wondering what had become of you; but she thought you had gone to the wood, and it was no good looking for you." They sat down in the kitchen opposite each other by the table, the old woman, whose eyes were swollen with weeping, and the girl with the scared, white face, who had just seen death for the first time. "I am thinking of my father," she said to Towsey; "he doesn't know yet--probably he's grieving for Uncle Cyril, but looking forward to coming back to mother. It is so dreadful to think that he'll never see her more." "Life's a queer thing," Towsey answered, "and difficult to make the best of, and worse when one's old, for then one knows; but when one's young one hopes." "There's nothing left to hope for." "There is for you, Miss Margaret. When any one's first gone one feels adrift, and doesn't see the good of living one's self, but when one's young others come along after a bit. Just you go and lie down, poor lamb; you look worn enough." "Is Hannah asleep?" "Maybe--she's in her room. She's been pretty bad, but she doesn't like any one to see." Margaret put down the milk she could not finish. "I'll go up-stairs," she said. "Rest a bit yourself; you look so tired, Towsey, dear." She crept up again, past her mother's closed door, and towards her own room. Hannah's door was open; she hesitated, then went softly towards it and looked in. Hannah was lying on the bed in her clothes, asleep, or appearing to be asleep. The dawn shed a blue light into the room.
1312_4942	western stories	Harte, Bret	Now--as to diet? you look all wrong there. “My food is of the simplest--I have no hankering for fleshpots,” responded the patient. “I suppose you call saleratus bread and salt pork and flapjacks SIMPLE?” said the doctor, coolly; “they are COMMON enough, and if you were working with your muscles instead of your nerves in that frame of yours they might not hurt you; but you are suffering as much from eating more than you can digest as the veriest gourmand. You must stop all that. Go down to a quiet watering-place for two months.” . . . “I go to a watering-place?” interrupted Masterton; “to the haunt of the idle, the frivolous and wanton--never!” “Well, I'm not particular about a 'watering-place,'” said the doctor, with a shrug, “although a little idleness and frivolity with different food wouldn't hurt you--but you must go somewhere and change your habits and mode of life COMPLETELY. I will find you some sleepy old Spanish town in the southern country where you can rest and diet. If this is distasteful to you,” he continued, grimly, “you can always call it 'a trial.'” Stephen Masterton may have thought it so when, a week later, he found himself issuing from a rocky gorge into a rough, badly paved, hilly street, which seemed to be only a continuation of the mountain road itself. It broadened suddenly into a square or plaza, flanked on each side by an irregular row of yellowing adobe houses, with the inevitable verandaed tienda in each corner, and the solitary, galleried fonda, with a half-Moorish archway leading into an inner patio or courtyard in the center. The whole street stopped as usual at the very door of the Mission church, a few hundred yards farther on, and under the shadow of the two belfry towers at each angle of the facade, as if this were the ultima thule of every traveler. But all that the eye rested on was ruined, worn, and crumbling.
36079_2654	detective and mystery stories	Lowndes, Marie Belloc	He often takes the early afternoon train down from London." But to that he made no answer, and Laura, with a rather painful sensation, saw the light suddenly die out of his face. He came round to the stable. "I'll walk a little way with you," he said. But she exclaimed rather hurriedly, "No, don't do that, Oliver! Stay with your mother and Lord St. Amant." And without any word of protest he obeyed her. * * * * * It is strange what a difference the return of a friend may make to life! Laura Pavely felt another woman as she busied herself that afternoon, happily waiting for Oliver Tropenell. Honestly she hoped that Godfrey would come back by the early afternoon train; he, too, would be glad to see Oliver. But the time went by, and there came no message through from London ordering the car to be sent to the station, and Laura told herself that perhaps Godfrey had gone straight to the Bank. At last, a little after five, Oliver Tropenell came sauntering in, very much as he used to saunter in, during the long happy summer days when they had just become friends. They had tea in Alice's day-nursery, and after tea, they all three played games till it was nearly seven. Then, reluctantly, Oliver got up, and said he must go home. And as he stood there, gazing down into her face, Laura was struck, as she had been that morning in the first moment of their meeting, by his look of fatigue and of strain. She, who was so little apt to notice such things, unless her little girl was in question, glanced up at him anxiously. "You don't look well," she said, with some concern. "You don't look as if you'd had a holiday, Oliver." "I shall soon get all right," he muttered, "now that I'm here, with mother." And then, in a lower voice, he added the words, "and with you, Laura." She answered, nervously determined to hark back to what had been their old, happy condition, "Alice and I have both missed you dreadfully--haven't we, my darling?" And Alice said gaily, "Oh yes, indeed, we have, mother." Then the child turned, in her pretty, eager way to Oliver, "I hope you'll stay a long, long time at Freshley.
60907_204	science fiction	Jones, Bascom	His black pin-prick eyes darted up toward the time unit on the wall. "There's no time to wait, Meyers," he said eagerly. "Spicer knows the schedule. We must go without him." Conscious of the stares of Meta and Meyers, I pushed the button which opened the door into the inner corridor. I looked directly at the Master Machine technician. "I asked Spicer to get a late report on the incident for us. But you know that Chambers is right--we cannot afford to wait any longer. Perhaps he'll catch up." We followed the corridor toward the hub of the Pentagon. Senator Chambers led the way, almost at a trot, as though he were afraid that Spicer would catch up. General Marshall and Meyers, hard put to keep up, were strung out behind him, with Meta and me bringing up the rear. That was the way we went through the check points manned by the security guards. Twice I caught Meta looking at me. At one of the check points, I thought she was going to say something. I lifted the tip of my cane and put my finger near the stud, but she remained silent. * * * * * The tension began to mount inside me as we approached the door opening on the invisible force wall. Through the wall, I could see the squat, ugly building in the center of the hub of the Pentagon, which was our destination. I held my cane ready. But even a CT-bomb wouldn't break through the force field. As we drew near the final guard point, a scrubwoman who had been working on the floor of the corridor picked up her bucket and fell in with our party. Chambers was already gesturing at the guard to set the combination, which would open the force wall at precisely 1330. I looked at the time unit on my wrist and saw that we had twenty seconds to wait. I resisted the betraying impulse to rub the irritated area around the electrodes set in my neck. When I looked up from the time unit, everything was too quiet. Senator Chambers was no longer dancing around impatiently. He was staring at the bucket carried by the scrubwoman. The inside of the bucket was not even damp. And the mop she had been using was dry. The implication must have hit both Chambers and me at the same moment. I wanted to shout a warning. Chambers jumped back against the wall, yelling at the guard, "Shoot her! Shoot! She is an alien!
34369_3071	detective and mystery stories	Clark, Joan	They tiptoed to the outside door and softly opened it. The hall was dark. At first they could distinguish nothing. Then Penny noticed that the door opening upon the second floor corridor was ajar. "He went downstairs," she whispered. "Let's find out what he's up to." The stairs creaked alarmingly as they crept down to the second floor. On the landing they hesitated an instant and were relieved to hear no unusual sound. They peered into the long corridor and saw that it was empty. Caleb was nowhere to be seen. "Perhaps he brought another bat for Mrs. Leeds' room," Rosanna suggested, glancing toward the chamber which the woman shared with her daughter. The door, however, was tightly closed. The one at the other end of the hall which opened into Max Laponi's room was slightly ajar. Rosanna and Penny failed to notice. Somewhere on the lower floor a board creaked. The two girls moved noiselessly to the stairway and looked down over the banister. Even Penny was unprepared for the sight which greeted her eyes. Caleb Eckert was working at the dials of the living room safe! CHAPTER XVIII A Daring Theft Old Caleb had relighted his lantern and in its dim yellow glow the girls could make out every detail of the center hall and living room. In astonishment they watched the man spin the tiny dials of the safe. He manipulated them with a speed and skill which was amazing. "Why, I do believe the scoundrel intends to steal Mr. Winters' valuables," Rosanna whispered with growing anger. "We can't let him do that." With one accord they tiptoed down the long spiral stairway to the center hall. For a minute they were exposed to view but Caleb was so absorbed in what he was doing that he did not even glance up. Hiding behind a heavy velvet curtain which partially screened the arched door of the living room, the girls watched. Twice Caleb tried without success to open the safe. Although his movements were deft and sure it was obvious that he had made some slight mistake in the combination. Each time he failed he grew more impatient. They could see his hand shake. "Drat it all!" they heard him mutter to himself. "That's the right combination. It ought to open." At length the old man's efforts were rewarded. As he manipulated the dials for the third time there was a significant click from within the safe. Chuckling to himself, Caleb turned the handle and swung open the steel door.
33498_2900	western stories	Rhodes, Eugene Manlove	If I'm Bransford what the deuce am I doing here? Why, you was both asleep! I could 'a' shot your silly heads off and you'd 'a' never woke up. You make me tired!" "Don't mind him, Long. He'll feel better when he takes a nap," said Gurd joyfully. "He has poor spells like this and he misses his nurse. We always make allowances for him." Mr. Long's indignation at last overcame his politeness, and in his wrath he attacked friend and foe indiscriminately. "Do you mean to tell me you two puling infants are out hunting down a man you never saw? Don't the men at the other side know him either? By jinks, you hike out o' this after breakfast and send for some grown-up men. I want part of that reward--and I'm going to have it! Look here!" He turned blackly to Gurdon. "Are you sure that Bransford, or any one else, came in here at all yesterday, or did you dream it? Or was it all a damfool kid joke? Listen here! I worked like a dog yesterday. If you had me stand guard three hours, tired as I was, for nothing, there's going to be more to it. What kind of a sack-and-snipe trick is this, anyway? You just come one at a time and I'll lick the stuffin' out o' both o' you! I ain't feelin' like any schoolboy pranks just now." "No, no; that part's all straight. Bransford's in there, all right," protested Gurdon. "If you hadn't been working in the tunnel you'd have seen him when he went by. Here's the note he left. And his horse and saddle are up at the spring. We left the horse there because he was lame and about all in. Bransford can't get away on him. Rex is just excited--that's all the matter with him. Hankering for glory! I told him last night not to make a driveling idiot of himself. Here, read this insolent note, will you?" Long glowered at the note and flung it aside. "Anybody could 'a' wrote that! How am I to know this thing ain't some more of your funny streaks? You take these horses to water and bring back Bransford's horse and saddle, and then I'll know what to believe.
3702_6809	love stories	Boucicault, Dion	But for all that she did not do it. She said piteously, "What offense had I ever given you? What crime had I ever committed, that you must make me the victim of this diabolical deceit? Oh, sir, what powers of mind you have wasted to achieve this victory over a poor unoffending girl! What was your motive? What good could come of it to you? He won't speak to me. He is not even penitent. Sullen and obstinate! He shall be taken to England, and well punished for it. Papa, it is your duty." "Helen," said the general, "you ladies are rather too fond of hitting a man when he is down. And you speak daggers, as the saying is; and then wish you had bitten your tongue off sooner. You are my child, but you are also a British subject; and, if you charge me on my duty to take this man to England and have him imprisoned, I must. But, before you go that length, you had better hear the whole story." "Sir," said Robert Penfold, quietly, "I will go back to prison this minute, if she wishes it." "How dare you interrupt papa," said Helen, haughtily, but with a great sob. "Come, come," said the general, "be quiet, both of you, and let me say my say." (To Robert.) "You had better turn your head away, for I am a straightforward man, and I'm going to show her you are not a villain, but a madman. This Robert Penfold wrote me a letter, imploring me to find him some honest employment, however menial. That looked well, and I made him my gardener. He was a capital gardener; but one fine day he caught sight of you. _You_ are a very lovely girl, though you don't seem to know it; and _he_ is a madman; and he fell in love with you." Helen uttered an ejaculation of great surprise. The general resumed: "He can only have seen you at a distance, or you would recognize him; but (really it is laughable) he saw you somehow, though you did not see him, and-- Well, his insanity hurt himself, and did not hurt you. You remember how he suspected burglars, and watched night after night under your window. That was out of love for you.
2568_3349	detective and mystery stories	Bentley, E. C. (Edmund Clerihew)	‘I remembered you had said nothing about telling any one. It is for you--isn’t it?--to decide whether we take the world into our confidence at once or later on.’ ‘Then will you tell him?’ She looked down at her clasped hands. ‘I wish you to tell him. Perhaps if you think you will guess why.... There! that is settled.’ She lifted her eyes again to his, and for a time there was silence between them. *** He leaned back at length in the deep chair. ‘What a world!’ he said. ‘Mabel, will you play something on the piano that expresses mere joy, the genuine article, nothing feverish or like thorns under a pot, but joy that has decided in favour of the universe? It’s a mood that can’t last altogether, so we had better get all we can out of it.’ She went to the instrument and struck a few chords while she thought. Then she began to work with all her soul at the theme in the last movement of the Ninth Symphony which is like the sound of the opening of the gates of Paradise. CHAPTER XV: Double Cunning An old oaken desk with a deep body stood by the window in a room that overlooked St. James’s Park from a height. The room was large, furnished and decorated by some one who had brought taste to the work; but the hand of the bachelor lay heavy upon it. John Marlowe unlocked the desk and drew a long, stout envelope from the back of the well. ‘I understand,’ he said to Mr. Cupples, ‘that you have read this.’ ‘I read it for the first time two days ago,’ replied Mr. Cupples, who, seated on a sofa, was peering about the room with a benignant face. ‘We have discussed it fully.’ Marlowe turned to Trent. ‘There is your manuscript,’ he said, laying the envelope on the table. ‘I have gone over it three times. I do not believe there is another man who could have got at as much of the truth as you have set down there.’ Trent ignored the compliment. He sat by the table gazing stonily at the fire, his long legs twisted beneath his chair. ‘You mean, of course, he said, drawing the envelope towards him, ‘that there is more of the truth to be disclosed now. We are ready to hear you as soon as you like.
29290_196	science fiction	Hensley, Joe L.	It was faint and reedy. "I hurt," she whispered. Quickly, as the doctor had taught him, he made up a shot of morphine, a full quarter grain, and gave it to her. Her eyes glazed down, but did not close. "John," she said softly, "the children ... they ... talk to ..." She twisted on the bed and he held her with strong arms until the eyes closed again and her breathing became easy. He pushed the ruffled hair back from her eyes and straightened the awry sheets. The vibration of his walking might have wakened the twins. He tiptoed to _their_ bed--for they refused to be parted even in sleep. For a second he thought that the small night-light had tricked him by shadows on shadows. He reached down to touch ... They were gone. He fought down sudden panic. Where can two children, deaf and dumb and blind go in the middle of the night? Not far. He opened the door to the kitchen, hand-hunted for the hanging light. They were not there--nor were they on the small back porch. The panic passed critical mass, exploded out of control. He lurched back into the combination living room, bed room. He looked under all of the beds and into the small closet--everywhere that two children might conceal themselves. Outside the rain had increased. He peered out into the lightning night. A truck horn blew ominously far down the road. The road? He slogged through the mud, instantly soaking as soon as he was out of shelter, not knowing or caring. Through the front yard, out to the road. He could see the lights of the truck coming from far away, two tiny points in the darkness. But no twins. He waited helplessly while the truck rushed past, its headlights cutting holes in the darkness--fearing those lights would outline something that he had not seen. But there was nothing. For another eternity he hunted the muddy fields, the small barn and outbuildings. The clutch of fear made him shout their names, though he knew they could not hear. And then, suddenly, all fear was gone--like a summer squall near the sea, with the sun close behind. It was as if their hands had reached out and touched him and brought the strange feeling again. "They are in the house," he said aloud and knew he was right. He took time to discard muddy shoes on the porch before he opened the door.
54010_499	love stories	Hubback, Mrs. (Catherine-Anne Austen)	"You women, who think of nothing but bedizening yourselves out, fancy we have nothing else to do either. You are fine enough for us both, so pray let me alone." Mrs. Watson covered her mortification by an affected laugh, and retreating to the sofa, cried out: "Emma, do come, and let me have a little conversation with you, there's a good girl." Emma coloured, but obeyed the summons; and her sister, after surveying her dress with satisfaction, seemed, for a moment, to hesitate how to begin. "You do not dress your hair, Emma, quite _en règle_—you understand French, I suppose, now look at mine—your curls are too long—really, it's a pity, for you have pretty hair—a nice color—very much the same as mine. How odd," laughing, "that you should be so dark—like me—all your sisters quite fair—you should not put your tucker so high—mine is quite the _ton_—you see how the lace is arranged—how do you like Winston? I suppose you have not much company? I dare say, it is dull; you shall come to Croydon, as Margaret will not go back, and I will shew you a little of the world. Have you been used to much company?" "Not much," replied Emma. "Well, then, Croydon will be a pleasant change. I wonder at that, however, I thought your uncle was a man of wealth. My father saw so much society; and, at my uncle's, Sir Thomas, I am sure I have met the best company in London." "Indeed," said Emma, not very well knowing what else to say. "In consequence, I am quite accustomed to move in a gay circle—though my friends there, tell me, indeed, I am quite the Queen of Croydon. I believe I am rather looked up to—one is, you know, when one has high relations, and goes to town, and gets patterns and books from London; now, it's something quite remarkable the number of houses we visit—and the white gloves I wear out in the year—I am excessively particular about my gloves; and Margaret, whose hand is small, was quite glad to take some of mine; and, really, when she had cleaned them a little, they did very well for her. _I_ seldom wear them a second time.
58711_3100	detective and mystery stories	M'Govan, James	“Yes sir, guilty,” was Jim’s hurried answer, with his head lower on his breast. “Hae mercy on him!” rang out from the benches behind in the unmistakable tones of Jim’s mother, as the magistrate paused in doubt, possibly feeling to send such a fine lad to prison. “Let him off this time, and he’ll never come back again.” I was motioned to the side of the magistrate to give my opinion in an undertone. I did try to make it light for the lad. I said I thought he had been prompted to the acts by some one who was uncaught, that his home training had been against such a course, and that he had never been in court before. But I could not refute the statements of his employers, that their losses had extended over more than a year, and been serious indeed. A few moments thought, and the magistrate spoke out without comment of any kind—“Thirty days.” There was an impassioned outcry in a woman’s voice, but I did not turn in that direction, as I did not want to see anything. I hurried out the prisoner by the side door a moment or two later, and was again clutched by the mother. “He’ll come oot waur than he gangs in,” she exclaimed in despairing accents, and with bitter reproach. “Exactly, there’s little doubt of that,” I answered with assumed coolness. “Is that a just punishment?” she pursued, almost choked with tears, as she clung to the arm of her son, who now seemed to shrink from her in shame, and to long for the seclusion of the cells. “It’s the Nemesis of crime—the chief part of the punishment,” I returned; “they should think of that before they begin.” We had to part them by force, and she called me a monster and a brute, which I don’t think I am, though I did feel a little like one at that moment. Whether Jim had any prompter to his first crime, other than poverty or the desire for tobacco and other luxuries, I never knew. If he had, the man was probably one of the working plumbers, and possibly took warning by Jim’s detection and pilfered no more. At the end of the thirty days his mother was over at the jail door to receive him with open arms and take him home with her. He promised there, at the jail gate, that he would have done with crime for ever.
27682_2102	science fiction	MacKaye, Harold Steele	"He's the richest man that ever lived!" "Yes--and perhaps we'll go back of then and see Abraham and Noah." "Ef we could see Noah, 'twould be worth while," said Rebecca. "Joe Forrest said he didn't believe about the flood. He said Noah couldn't hev packed all them animals in tight enough to hev got 'em all in the Ark. I'd like mighty well if I could ask Noah himself 'bout it." "He couldn't understand ye," said Phoebe. "All he spoke was Hebrew, ye know." "Oh!" exclaimed Rebecca. Then, after a pause: "S'pose we went back to the tower of Babel. Couldn't we find the folks that was struck with the English language an' get one of 'em to go back an' speak to Noah?" "What good would that do? If he was struck with English he wouldn't know Hebrew any more. That's what made-- But there!" she exclaimed, "what ninnies we are!" There was a long pause. After many minutes, Rebecca asked one more question. "Do you s'pose the flood would come up as fur's this, Phoebe?" "I don't know, Rebecca. The Bible says the whole earth, you know." And so passed the slow hours. When they were not dozing they were either nibbling frugally the scant fare in reach or conversing by short snatches at long intervals. For thirty hours had they thus whirled ceaselessly around that circle, when Phoebe, glancing through the window at the ring to which their rope was attached, noticed that its constant rubbing against the ball at the top of the pole had worn it nearly through. "My goodness, Rebecca!" she cried. "I believe we're goin' off at a tangent in a minute." "What? How?" "The ring on the pole is nigh worn out. I believe it'll break in a minute." "If it breaks we'll move straight an' get rid o' this side weight, won't we?" "Yes--but goodness only knows where we'll fly to." "Why--ain't Mr. Droop there? If the side weight goes, he can get into the engine-room an' let us down easy." "That's so!" cried Phoebe. "Oh, won't it be grand to stand still a minute after all this traipsin' around and around!
61133_77	science fiction	Banta, Frank	Bork! "That cough again?" muttered the prosecutor, ready to move on. "No, she's calling for me that time," corrected Bork. "How can you tell?" "It has more of a snarl in it than her cough has." The prosecutor tried the spot once more. "Bork! Bork! Why are you pointing that at me, Bork? What are you going to _do_, Bork?" She held out her hands to ward him off. "Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!" Then she dropped her hands. "I missed twice," John said, nodding. "The defendant will keep his lousy confessions to himself!" shrieked the judge. "I will not have the importance of our Very Complicated Monstrous Proximilator machine vitiated by these unwanted confessions!" Bork shrugged. "I just wanted to clear up a couple of details, your honor. I just like to be tidy." "We don't _need_ your help," responded the judge crushingly. "The Very Complicated Monstrous Proximilator machine tells us _all_ we want to know." He turned to the prosecutor. "You may proceed." "The state rests." * * * * * Bork's lawyer advised the court that no defense would be presented. The prosecutor exhorted the jury that its duty was plain. The judge gave final instructions, and the jury filed out. It returned in four minutes. "Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict in such a gratifyingly short space of time?" the judge asked, beaming. The foreman arose. "We have, your honor." "Just for the record, what is your verdict?" twinkled the judge. "Not guilty, your honor." The prosecutor jumped up. "Why, that can't be!" he shouted. "It's a _prima facie_ case, unrefuted and therefore patent. What else do you _need_?" "Yeah!" agreed the judge, outraged. "We need some plain, old-fashioned evidence of a crime," answered the juryman, unperturbed. "Old-fashioned?" The fuming prosecutor rejected the heresy, pushing it away from him with both hands. "This is all unscientific now," he warned. "The Very Complicated Monstrous Proximilator machine--especially the new model with the forty-three meters which replaces the old thirty-nine meter machine--is the _ne plus ultra_ of justice!
31524_1441	western stories	McCarter, Margaret Hill	" He paused, and there came into his eyes a pathetic pleading look as of one who sought protection. It gave place instantly to a fearless, heroic expression that has been my inspiration in many a struggle. I know now how he longed to tell us all he knew, but his word to Le Claire held him back. "I can't tell you exactly phwat's in the air, fur I don't know it all yit. But there's trouble brewin' here, an' we must be ready, as we promised we would be when our own wint to the front." O'mie had hit home. Had we not sworn our fealty to the flag, and protection to our town in our boyish patriotism the Summer before? "Boys," O'mie went on, "if the storm breaks here in Springvale we've got to forgit ourselves an' ivery son av us be a hero for the work that's laid before him. Safe or dangerous, it's duty we must be doin', like the true sons av a glorious commonwealth, an' we may need to be lightnin' swift about it, too." Tell Mapleson and Jim Conlow had come in as O'mie was speaking. We knew their fathers were bitter Rebels, although the men made a pretence to loyalty, which kept them in good company. But somehow the boys had not broken away from young Tell and Jim. From childhood we had been playmates, and boyish ties are strong. This evening the two seemed to be burdened with something of which they dared not or would not speak. There was a sort of defiance about them, such as an enemy may assume toward one who has been his friend, but whom he means to harm. Was it the will of Providence made O'mie appeal to them at the right moment? "Say, boys," he had a certain Celtic geniality, and a frank winning smile that was irresistible. "Say, boys, all av the crowd's goin' to stand together no matter what comes, just as we've done since we learned how to swim in the shallows down by the Deep Hole. We're goin' to stand shoulder to shoulder, an' we'll save this town from harm, whativer may come in betwane, an' whoiver av us it's laid on to suffer, in the ind we'll win. For why? We are on the right side, an' can count on the same Power that's carried men aven to the inds av the earth to fight an' die fur what's right.
23149_108	science fiction	Mohler, Will	This moist and muted sound had reminded Dewforth of a hippopotamus venting its wind under water, and in a moment of thoughtless exhilaration he had even thought of sharing this bizarre notion with his wife. He never did so, as it happened. * * * * * Why had he ever told his wife about that wretched Leadership Star? Her laughter persisted through his dreams, or through his dream. He only had one. In this dream she was always a massive machine which ingested songbirds between steel rollers and stamped them into pipe-flange gaskets at a rate of one hundred and twenty per minute. And the prize-winning line he had drawn--it revealed its true nature in the perspective of days. There was no mistaking what it was. It was The Abyss. It could widen and it could engulf. How much light would a Leadership Star cast in that bottomless inkiness? Acute restless had the effect of sending Dewforth frequently to the lavatory, not so much for physiological reasons as because there was no other place to go and he had to go somewhere when the white walls of the drafting room threatened to crush him. He went as often as he thought he could without attracting the attention of Mr. Shrank or eliciting ponderous jocosities from the other workers. After several visits, however, he did begin to question himself. What drew him to that bleak refuge again and again? He was not aware of bladder irritation. He had no infantile obsession about such facilities. Was he driven by an aggregation of petty forces, each too small to make sense by itself? Or was there one reason hiding behind a cloud of small rationalizations? There was a difference in the air in the lavatory, and in the sound--the undifferentiated background sound which came from nowhere. Nowhere? It came through a window. He had been staring at a window--probably the only one in the building--and it had failed to register on his mind at the time because he had not expected it to be there. It was not part of the habitual pattern. He had seen a window. He had, moreover, looked through a window. What had he seen? He thought about this, and at the same time he thought about being sick--administratively sick. He succeeded in working up a palpable fever and a windy yawning beneath the diaphragm. Before taking any action he would have to confirm what he had seen through the window of the lavatory. On his last trip to the lavatory he climbed up onto the slippery washbasin and looked through the high window.
64965_227	science fiction	Marlowe, Stephen	Yes, facing the sun. Can you do something to show you're almost--almost ancestral?" "I don't understand, Miss." "Goodness, I mean your muscles. Flex them. Use them to do something like lifting a heavy object. Break something if you want to. I'm sure those muscles are good for something besides weeding your fields or pulling a plow." Marsden began to feel foolish but obliged her with a handstand. He lost his balance, though, before she could take the picture and tumbled flat on his back in the dusty street, landing so hard he saw stars. * * * * * A couple of men who had been watching from the hotel steps snickered. "I didn't know Marsden was an acrobat." "His old lady claims she's going to sell him to the interstellar circus when it comes around." "What do you say we give him a hand?" Marsden sat up, rubbed his head. One of the men came over and offered his arm. Cat-quick, Marsden leaped to his feet and thrust the man away from him so hard that he stumbled back, crashed against the bottom steps and fell. Something clicked, and Alice Cooper squealed excitedly: "I got it! That was perfect, Harry. Thank you ever so much. I caught it just after you started to shove him and now when my friends see this they'll know Talbor is a primitive place. Are there many murders here?" "I've never heard of one," said Harry, dusting his trousers off. "We're too busy for crime, I guess." "How terribly dull. Statistics show that more advanced societies are prone to higher crime rates, particularly crimes of passion, since everyone is high strung and capable of flying off the handle as the expression goes. Did you ever think of committing a crime of passion, Harry?" She stood there, small and frail in the sunlight, delicately, lushly curved. She wet her lips and they were very red in the sunlight and against her pale white face. "No," said Marsden thickly. "I'd better take you back inside to your friends, maybe." "Why, don't be ridiculous. See, they're all outside anyway." Marsden's gaze took in Talbor City's one street. The crowds had thinned considerably; people moved off toward the outskirts and the farmlands in twos and threes, the Earth people scattered among them and going to see Talbor with them.
12678_821	detective and mystery stories	Irwin, Will	" "That," Dr. Blake said mentally, "is a lie." Almost as if Annette had heard his thought--were answering it--she spoke for the first time with something of the old resiliency in her tone. "Auntie, do tell Dr. Blake about some of your adventures with those wonderful Yogis, and that fascinating rajah who was so kind to us." "The Yogis!" commented Dr. Blake to himself; "Ha, ha, and ho, ho! I bet you learned a bag of tricks there, madam." "Why, Annette, dear." Mrs. Markham laughed her purring laugh--that laugh could grow, Dr. Blake discovered, until it achieved a singularly unpleasant quality. "Your romantic ideas are running away with you. Whenever we arrived anywhere, of course, like anybody else, I called at Government House and the authorities there always put me in the way of seeing whatever sights the neighborhood afforded. I met one rajah in passing and visited one Yogi monastery. Do tell me about the Philippines!" Annette settled back into her appearance of weariness. Dr. Blake complied. He had intended to stay an hour at this first formal call. He had hoped to be led on, by gentle feminine wiles, to add another hour. He had even dreamed that Aunt Paula might be so impressed by him as to hold him until midnight. As a matter of fact, he left the house just thirty-five minutes after he entered. Just why he retreated so early in the engagement, he had only the vaguest idea. Even fresh from it as he was, he could not enumerate the small stings, the myriad minor goads, by which it became established in his mind that his call was not a success, that he was boring the two ladies whom he was trying so hard to entertain. At the end, it was a labored dialogue between him and Mrs. Markham. Again and again, he tried to drag Annette into the conversation. She was tongue-tied. The best she did was to give him the impression that, deep down in her tired psychology, she was trying to listen. As for Aunt Paula--if his gaze wandered from her to Annette and then back, he caught her stifling a yawn. Her final shot was to interrupt his best story a hair's breadth ahead of the point. When he said good-night, his manner--he flattered himself--betrayed nothing of his sense of defeat.
5901_1118	detective and mystery stories	Pinkerton, A. Frank	" "Would a dying man be likely to utter a falsehood?" "I can't say. What is your opinion?" There was a peculiar look in the eyes of Dyke Darrel, as he put the question. "I should think there could be no doubt on the subject." "Indeed; then you consider that the last name that fell from the lips of Sam Swart was that of the man who instigated the wicked crime on the midnight express?" "Certainly, that is my opinion." Dyke Darrel drew out a cigar and lit it, his friend refusing to take one. "I can't feel so sanguine as you seem to, Harper. Will you go on?" "I shall go to Chicago." "You do not care to remain with me longer?" Dyke Darrel regarded his friend closely through a cloud of smoke. "You forget that I left urgent business to keep you company last night," answered Mr. Elliston, a tinge of rebuke in his voice. "I do not. You have my hearty thanks for your disinterested kindness, Harper," returned Dyke Darrel. "If the delay has cost you anything---" "See here, old chum, don't insult me," cried Elliston, as the detective drew out a well-filled wallet. "I am able and willing to pay my own bills, I hope." "Certainly. I meant no offense." "It is time we were on the move, Dyke, if we do not wish to miss the up train." Dyke Darrel realized the force of his friend's words, and at once made preparations for departure. A little later the two were on board the morning express, speeding Northward. Dyke Darrel informed the conductor of the fate of Sam Swart, the outlaw, but did not intimate that the fellow was a member of the gang of train robbers, whose deed of blood had sent a shudder of horror and indignation throughout the nation. When the train halted at Black Hollow, the station at which the terrible crime of a few days previous had been discovered, Dyke Darrel arose to go. "When shall I see you again, Dyke?" questioned Mr. Elliston. "I am not sure. I shall be in Woodburg next week." "I will see you there, then." "Very well." The detective left the train, and stood alone on the platform of the little station.
10608_247	love stories	Smith, Arthur Cosslett	He presented you to me and called you 'your grace.' He forgot, or did not know, that you are a cardinal--a prince--and that I should have been presented to you. Bobby means well, but he is an English peer and a guardsman, so we don't expect much else of Bobby." "He has done a very gracious thing today," said the cardinal. "He has brought me to you." Lady Nora looked up quickly, scenting a compliment, and ready to meet it, but the cardinal's face was so grave and so sincere that her readiness forsook her and she stood silent. The earl seemed to be interested in a crucifix of the eleventh century. "While my lord is occupied with the crucifix," said the cardinal, "will you not walk with me?" "Willingly," said Lady Nora, and they went out into the church. "My dear lady," said the cardinal, after an interval of silence, "you are entering upon life. You have a position, you have wealth, you have youth, you have health, and," with a bow, "you have beauty such as God gives to His creatures only for good purposes. Some women, like Helen of Troy and Cleopatra, have used their beauty for evil. Others, like my Queen, Margarita, and like Mary, Queen of the Scots, have held their beauty as a trust to be exploited for good, as a power to be exercised on the side of the powerless." "Your eminence," said Lady Nora, "we are now taught in England that Queen Mary was not altogether proper." "She had beauty, had she not?" asked the cardinal. "Yes," replied Lady Nora. "She was beheaded, was she not?" asked the cardinal. "Yes," said Lady Nora, "and by a very plain woman." "There you have it!" exclaimed the cardinal. "If Elizabeth had been beautiful and Mary plain, Mary would have kept her head. It is sad to see beautiful women lose their heads. It is sad to see you lose yours." "Mine?" exclaimed Lady Nora, and she put her hands up to her hat-pins, to reassure herself. "Yes," said the cardinal, "I fear that it is quite gone." Lady Nora looked at him with questioning eyes.
58132_3129	adventure stories	Brady, E. J. (Edwin James)	Tom had been out kangaroo shooting, and he knew the mechanism of a Winchester. In less time that it takes to write, the pirate had the rifle out of the boat, twelve cartridges in the magazine, and the balance of the box loose in his pocket. His hand shook with excitement but there was a fire in his eye that boded no good for Jean Petit. “Let him come now!” sobbed Tom, pulling the hammer back to full cock. “Let the d——hound come!!” “What are you goin’ to do?” asked Dave from behind. Tom laid down behind the drifted log, and sighted the Winchester along the track. “Keep down be’ind me,” he said excitedly, “and lay close!” “Suppose you kill ’im, we might get ’ung,” ventured Dave. “I don’t care.” replied Tom. “I’ll ’ang for ’im, the blood-thirsty hound. ’E’d a’ killed us afore ’e left the island most likely.” “Are you goin’ to call on him to surrender first?” “Not a call! ’E’s an outlaw. They can’t touch you for shootin’ outlaws.” “Suppose you miss ’im.” whimpered Dave. “I ain’t _goin’_ to miss ’im,” replied Tom, grimly. “If you do he’ll kill us both.” “’E won’t never get the chance!” said Tom. “I got her lined jest in front of that myrtle, in the clear. ’E’s got to come by there. It ain’t more’n sixty yards at the outside. If I don’t drop ’im first shot, there’s eleven more, an’ I got a pocketful o’ cartridges, an’ we’re between ’im an’ the boat.” Tom shut his left eye and sighted. His forefinger was crooked over the trigger. The barrel of his rifle rested steadily on the log. Jean Petit broke into view, running. The canvas belt was in his hand. “They’ve seen him,” whispered Dave. “Maybe they’re following him.” Tom made no reply. He held his breath, as a kangaroo shooter does just before he squeezes the trigger gently to him. Petit rounded the myrtle tree. CHAPTER XVIII. TOM PAGDIN GOES GUNNING. Tom Pagdin’s crooked forefinger closed on the trigger.
2127_1538	love stories	Saint-Pierre, Bernardin de	No sooner was the seal broken, than they all crowded round Madame de la Tour, to hear the letter read. Virginia informed her mother that she had experienced much ill-usage from her aunt, who, after having in vain urged her to a marriage against her inclination, had disinherited her, and had sent her back at a time when she would probably reach the Mauritius during the hurricane season. In vain, she added, had she endeavoured to soften her aunt, by representing what she owed to her mother, and to her early habits; she was treated as a romantic girl, whose head had been turned by novels. She could now only think of the joy of again seeing and embracing her beloved family, and would have gratified her ardent desire at once, by landing in the pilot's boat, if the captain had allowed her: but that he had objected, on account of the distance, and of a heavy swell, which, notwithstanding the calm, reigned in the open sea. As soon as the letter was finished, the whole of the family, transported with joy, repeatedly exclaimed, "Virginia is arrived!" and mistresses and servants embraced each other. Madame de la Tour said to Paul,--"My son, go and inform our neighbour of Virginia's arrival." Domingo immediately lighted a torch of bois de ronde, and he and Paul bent their way towards my dwelling. It was about ten o'clock at night, and I was just going to extinguish my lamp, and retire to rest, when I perceived, through the palisades round my cottage, a light in the woods. Soon after, I heard the voice of Paul calling me. I instantly arose, and had hardly dressed myself, when Paul, almost beside himself, and panting for breath, sprang on my neck, crying,--"Come along, come along. Virginia is arrived. Let us go to the port; the vessel will anchor at break of day." Scarcely had he uttered the words, when we set off. As we were passing through the woods of the Sloping Mountain, and were already on the road which leads from the Shaddock Grove to the port, I heard some one walking behind us. It proved to be a negro, and he was advancing with hasty steps. When he had reached us, I asked him whence he came, and whither he was going with such expedition.
29408_157	science fiction	Vincent, Harl	I have called this fifth dimension the interval of oscillation, though the term is not precisely correct. It has to do with the arrangement, the speed and direction of movement, and the polarity of protonic and electronic energy charges of which matter is comprised. It upsets some of our old and accepted natural laws--one in particular. Bert, two objects can occupy the same space at the same time, though only one is perceptible to our earthbound senses. Their differently constituted atoms exist in the same location without interference--merely vibrating in different planes. There are many such planes in this fifth dimension of space, all around us, some actually inhabited. Each plane has a different atomic structure of matter, its own oscillation interval of the energy that is matter, and a set of natural laws peculiar to itself. I can't begin to tell you; in fact, I've explored only a fraction. But here--look!" * * * * * Tom's instrument set up a soft purring at his touch of a lever, and eery blue light flickered from behind the double eyepiece, casting grotesque shadows on walls and ceiling, and paling to insignificance the light of day that filtered through the long-unwashed windows. Bert squinted through the hooded twin lenses. At first he was dazzled and confused by the rapidly whirling light-images, but these quickly resolved into geometric figures, an inconceivable number of them, extending off into limitless space in a huge arc, revolving and tumbling like the colored particles in an old-fashioned kaleidoscope. Cubes, pyramids and cones of variegated hues. Swift-rushing spheres and long slim cylinders of brilliant blue-white; gleaming disks of polished jet, spinning.... Abruptly the view stabilized, and clear-cut stationary objects sprang into being. An unbroken vista of seamed chalky cliffs beside an inky sea whose waters rose and fell rhythmically yet did not break against the towering palisade. Wave-less, glass-smooth, these waters. A huge blood-red sun hanging low in a leaden though cloudless sky, reflecting scintillating flecks of gold and purple brilliance from the ocean's black surface. At first there was no sign of life to be seen. Then a mound was rising up from the sea near the cliff, a huge tortoiselike shape that stretched forth several flat members which adhered to the vertical white wall is if held by suction disks. Ponderously the thing turned over and headed up from the inky depths, spewing out from its concave under side an army of furry brown bipeds.
56902_1011	detective and mystery stories	Reeve, Arthur B. (Arthur Benjamin)	" I could see no reason at all in the proceeding, yet I knew Kennedy too well to suppose that he had not some purpose. The questioning thus strangely over, Kennedy withdrew, leaving Celeste more mystified than ever. "Well," I exclaimed, "what was all that kindergarten stuff?" "That?" he explained. "It is known to criminologists as the 'Aussage test.' Just try it sometime when you get a chance. If there are, say, fifty objects in a picture, normally a person may recall perhaps twenty of them." "I see," I nodded. "A test of memory." "More than that," he replied. "You remember that, at the end, I suggested that she might have overlooked something? I mentioned an object--the flowers--likely to have been on the table. They were not there, as you might have observed if you had had the picture before you. That was a test of the susceptibility to suggestion of Celeste." By this time we were on the street and walking slowly back to the laboratory. "She may not mean to lie deliberately," concluded Kennedy, "but I'm afraid we'll have to get along without her in getting to the bottom of this case. There were no flowers there, yet in her anxiety to please she said there were, and even went farther and added favors, which were not there. You see, before we go any farther, we know that Celeste is unreliable, to say the least." V THE PSYCHANALYSIS Back at the laboratory again, we found that not even yet had the materials arrived from Doctor Leslie with which to make the examination that Craig desired. It seemed to me that Leslie was very slow, but it didn't worry Craig. Evidently there were other and even more absorbing problems on his mind, problems that pressed for solution even above the discovery of the poison. "What was your idea in having her write those dreams out again?" I asked. "Well"--he smiled--"I wanted to see whether she would make any changes. Changes in the telling of dreams over again are often very significant. They indicate what the psychanalysts call the 'complexes,' the root ideas, often hidden away, out of which many actions and feelings spring." "I see--and did you find anything?" "A great deal. There are some important changes, some variations between what she told and what she wrote which are very significant. Don't you see?
32704_3110	western stories	Rhodes, Eugene Manlove	Officer--do your duty! I make demand of you. Dake dot mon into gustody!" Preisser's eyes were dancing as he fought down a grin. Mr. Gwinne regarded the impassioned disputants with grave eyes. "You are under arrest, Mr. Lull," he said with somber official severity. "Can you give bail?" "Not one red cent." "Come in, then." Lull followed through the door. Turning, he smiled back at the little assayer. Preisser winked. "I'll have to lock you up, you know," said Gwinne. "District attorney particularly desired that no one should hold communication with Dines, over yonder." He locked Lull in a cell; forgetfully leaving the key in the lock. "Don't try to shout across to Dines, now," he warned. "I'll hear you. Well, I'll be meanderin' along to the kitchen and starting supper." Hobby reached through the bars and turned the key. He went over to Johnny's cell. "Well, Dines, how goes it? You don't look much downhearted." "I'm not," said Johnny. "I'm sorry about the dead man, of course. But I didn't know him, and you can't expect me to feel like you do. I'm right as rain--but I can't say as much for you. You look like you'd been dragged through a knothole." "No sleep. I went back to Garfield, made medicine, and hurried back here. Seventy-five miles now, after a day's work and not much sleep the night before. I thought you'd be having your prelim, you see, or I'd have waited over. Didn't know that Judge Hinkle was out of town." "Any news?" "Yes," said Hobby, "there is." He held out his hand. Johnny took it, through the bars. "You don't think I killed your friend, then?" "I know you didn't. But, man--we can't prove it. Not one scrap of evidence to bring into court. Just a sensing and a hunch--against a plain, straight, reasonable story, with three witnesses. You are It." "Now you can't sometimes most always ever tell," said Johnny. "Besides, you're tired out. Get you a chair and tell it to me. I've been asleep.
31286_1160	science fiction	Del Rey, Lester	I just found it out when the automatic switch to a new tank failed to work. We now have the air in the ship, and no more. Dr. Napier and I have figured that this will keep us all alive with the help of the plants for no more than fifteen days. I am open to any suggestions!" * * * * * There was silence after that, while it soaked in. Then it was broken by a thin scream from Phil Riggs. He slumped into a seat and buried his head in his hands. Pietro put a hand on the man's thin shoulders, "Captain Muller--" "Kill 'em!" It was Grundy's voice, bellowing sharply. "Let'em breathe space! They got us into it! We can make out with the plants left! It's our ship!" Muller had walked forward. Now his fist lashed out, and Grundy crumpled. He lay still for a second, then got to his feet unsteadily. Jenny screamed, but Muller moved steadily back to his former place without looking at the mate. Grundy hesitated, fumbled in his pocket for something, and swallowed it. "Captain, sir!" His voice was lower this time. "Yes, Mr. Grundy?" "How many of us can live off the plants?" "Ten--perhaps eleven." "Then--then give us a lottery!" Pietro managed to break in over the yells of the rest of the crew. "I was about to suggest calling for volunteers, Captain Muller. I still have enough faith in humanity to believe...." "You're a fool, Dr. Pietro," Muller said flatly. "Do you think Grundy would volunteer? Or Bullard? But thanks for clearing the air, and admitting your group has nothing more to offer. A lottery seems to be the only fair system." He sat down heavily. "We have tradition on this; in an emergency such as this, death lotteries have been held, and have been considered legal afterwards. Are there any protests?" I could feel my tongue thicken in my mouth. I could see the others stare about, hoping someone would object, wondering if this could be happening. But nobody answered, and Muller nodded reluctantly. "A working force must be left. Some men are indispensable. We must have an engineer, a navigator, and a doctor. One man skilled with engine-room practice and one with deck work must remain." "And the cook goes," Grundy yelled.
1495_2407	detective and mystery stories	Steele, Chester K.	“I wouldn’t in the least,” she answered, as she arose. “As I said, I don’t believe I have been in the place more than twice, and that was two years ago.” “Then I’ll have to inquire myself,” said the colonel, and he remained standing while Viola left the room. And for some little time he stood looking at the door as it closed after her. And on Colonel Ashley’s face there was a peculiar look. LeGrand Blossom came to The Haven bearing a bundle of books and papers, and with rather a wry face--for he had no heart for business of this nature. Miss Mary Carwell sat down at the table with him and Viola. “We want to know just where we stand financially,” said Viola. “What is the condition of my father’s affairs, Mr. Blossom?” The confidential clerk hesitated a moment before answering. Then he said slowly: “Well, the affairs are anything but good. There is a great deal of money gone, and some of the securities left are pledged for loans.” “You mean my father spent a lot of money just before he died?” asked Viola. “He either spent it or--Well, yes, he must have spent it, for it is gone. The car cost ten thousand, and he spent as much, if not more, on the yacht.” “But they can be sold. I don’t want either of them. I’m afraid in the big car,” said Viola, “and the yacht isn’t seaworthy, I’ve heard. I wouldn’t take a trip in her.” “I don’t know anything about that,” said LeGrand Blossom. “But even if the car and yacht were sold at a forced sale they would not bring anything like what they cost. I have gone carefully over your father’s affairs, as you requested me, and I tell you frankly they are in bad shape.” “What can be done?” asked Miss Carwell. “I don’t know,” LeGrand Blossom frankly admitted. “You may call in an expert, if you like, to go over the books; but I don’t believe he would come to any other conclusion than I have. As a matter of fact, I had a somewhat selfish motive in looking into your father’s affairs of late. You know I was thinking of going into partnership with him, and--and--” He did not finish. Viola nodded.
33466_4166	detective and mystery stories	Reeve, Arthur B. (Arthur Benjamin)	" "Creighton," I repeated, looking at the man on the floor, "a dummy?" "Oh--he's dead!" wailed Adele Laidlaw. "He's dead!" "Electrocuted by his own machine rather than face disgrace and disbarment," cut in Craig. "No wonder she was in doubt which of the two men fascinated her most." I moved forward and bent over the contorted form of the lawyer, Tresham, who was wearing the whiskers and iron gray wig of his alter-ego, Creighton. CHAPTER XXVIII THE CANCER HOUSE "You've heard of such things as cancer houses, I suppose, Professor Kennedy?" It was early in the morning and Craig's client, Myra Moreton, as she introduced herself, had been waiting at the laboratory door in a state of great agitation as we came up. Just because her beautiful face was pale and haggard with worry, she was a pathetic figure, as she stood there, dressed in deep mourning, the tears standing in her eyes merely because we were a little later than usual. "Well," she hurried on as she dropped into a chair, "that is what they are calling that big house of ours at Norwood--a cancer house, if there is such a thing." Clearly, Myra Moreton was a victim of nervous prostration. She had asked the question with a hectic eagerness, yet had not waited for an answer. "Oh," she exclaimed, "you do not, you cannot know what it means to have something like this constantly hanging over you. Think of it--five of us have died in less than five years. It haunts me. Who next. That is all I can think about. Who next?" Her first agitation had been succeeded by a calmness of despair, almost of fatalism, which was worse for her than letting loose her pent-up emotions. I had heard of cases of people in whom there was no record of hereditary predisposition to cancer, people apparently in perfect health, who had moved into houses where cancer patients had lived and died and had themselves developed the disease. Though I had, of course, never even remotely experienced such a feeling as she described, I could well fancy what it must be to her. Kennedy watched her sympathetically. "But why do you come to me?" he asked gently. "Don't you think a cancer specialist would be more likely to help you?" "A specialist?" she repeated with a peculiar hopelessness.
1699_3852	detective and mystery stories	Oppenheim, E. Phillips (Edward Phillips)	“To me he looks terrible ill. But there’s one thing sure, he’s having all the care and attention that’s possible. And now, sir, I’ll not intrude further upon your time. I’ll just make my report, and you’ll probably have a visit from the Scotland Yard man sometime within the next few days.” Mr. Fentolin escorted the inspector to his dog-cart, shook hands with him, and watched him drive off. Only Mrs. Seymour Fentolin remained upon the terrace. He glided over to her side. “My dear Florence,” he asked, “where are the others?” “Mr. Hamel and Esther have gone for a walk,” she answered. “Gerald has disappeared somewhere. Has anything--is everything all right?” “Naturally,” Mr. Fentolin replied easily. “All that the inspector desired was to see Mr. Dunster. He has seen him. The poor fellow was unfortunately unconscious, but our friend will at least be able to report that he was in good hands and well cared for.” “Unconscious,” Mrs. Fentolin repeated. “I thought that he was better.” “One is always subject to those slight relapses in an affair of concussion,” Mr. Fentolin explained. Mrs. Fentolin laid down her work and leaned a little towards her brother-in-law. Her hand rested upon his. Her voice had fallen to a whisper. “Miles,” she said, “forgive me, but are you sure that you are not getting a little out of your depth? Remember that there are some risks which are not worth while.” “Quite true,” he answered. “And there are some risks, my dear Florence, which are worth every drop of blood in a man’s body, and every breath of life. The peace of Europe turns upon that man up-stairs. It is worth taking a little risk for, worth a little danger. I have made my plans, and I mean to carry them through. Tell me, when I was up-stairs, this fellow Hamel--was he talking confidentially to Gerald?” “Not particularly.” “I am not sure that I trust him,” Mr. Fentolin continued. “He had a telegram yesterday from a man in the Foreign Office, a telegram which I did not see. He took the trouble to walk three miles to send the reply to it from another office.” “But after all,” Mrs. Fentolin protested, “you know who he is.
20714_2101	western stories	Garland, Hamlin	It brought age and decay close to him. For the first time in his life he felt that he was fighting a losing battle. A man like this lives so much in the flesh, that when his limbs begin to fail him everything else seems slipping away. He had gloried in his strength. He had exulted in the thrill of his life-blood and in the swell of his vast muscles; he had clung to the idea that he was strong as ever, till this last blow came upon him, and then he began to think and to tremble. When he was able to crawl about again, he was a different man. He was gloomy and morose, snapping and snarling at all that came near him, like a wounded bear. He was alone a great deal of the time during the winter following his hurt. Neighbors seldom went in, and for weeks he saw no one but his hired hand, and the faithful, dumb little old woman, his wife, who moved about without any apparent concern or sympathy for his suffering. The hired hand, whenever he called upon the neighbors, or whenever questions were asked, said that Daddy hung around over the stove most of the time, paying no attention to any one or anything. "He ain't dangerous 't all," he said, meaning that Daddy was not dangerously ill. Milton rode out from school one winter day with Bill, the hand, and was so much impressed with his story of Daddy's condition that he rode home with him. He found the old man sitting bent above the stove, wrapped in a quilt, shivering and muttering to himself. He hardly looked up when Milton spoke to him, and seemed scarcely to comprehend what he said. Milton was much alarmed at the terrible change, for the last time he had seen him he had towered above him, laughingly threatening to "warm his jacket," and now here he sat, a great hulk of flesh, his mind flickering and flaring under every wind of suggestion, soon to go out altogether. In reply to questions he only muttered with a trace of his old spirit: "I'm all right. Jest as good a man as I ever was, only I'm cold. I'll be all right when spring comes, so 't I c'n git outdoors. Somethin' to warm me up, yessir; I'm cold, that's all.
43114_1722	adventure stories	Bryden, H. A. (Henry Anderson)	The wind was light. Poeskop picked up a handful of dry sand and let it run through his fingers. The direction was all right, and the falling sand was puffed gently towards them. On they went, now stepping with the greatest caution so as not to break a twig or make any kind of unnecessary noise. Now they crossed the bed of a dry streamlet, negotiated some more bush and timber, and then suddenly, in a great opening of the forest, dotted here and there with islets of heavyish bush, came upon the herd. It was a wonderful spectacle. Sixty or seventy elephants, big and little, but most of them full-grown bulls and cows, were shambling slowly along; some plucking at clumps of bush, some tearing at branches of trees; two or three, with their huge gleaming tusks, stripping the bark from some good-sized timber and conveying it to their mouths. One or two great cows were caressing with their trunks some half-grown babies that moved alongside them. With a motion of his hand Mr. Blakeney signified that he and Tom would take a big bull that was engaged in stripping a tree of its bark. Guy nodded, and indicating that he would go farther up the herd for his shot, turned back into the shelter of the forest and ran swiftly along. As he ran he heard the loud report of two barrels from his uncle’s rifle; then Tom’s Martini rattled out twice. In an instant the forest, but a moment before so silent and so peaceful--for the elephant moves with singularly noiseless tread--was in an uproar. Wild trumpetings conveyed the danger signal from one to another. The great beasts massed more closely together and moved on. Yet, at present, they were no more than walking quickly. They had not broken into a run. Guy skirted the glade, and reached the point he had aimed at just in the very nick of time. As he crouched behind a patch of bush the troop came right past him, within fifteen yards. He let two or three cows and calves go by, and then, as a huge bull with immensely long tusks shuffled up, looking, as Guy thought, like some gigantic mammoth of the primeval world, the lad knew that the supreme moment had come. Raising his .303 very gently, he took aim for that part of the great beast’s skull which lies between the eye and the orifice of the ear, and let drive. To his immense astonishment the mighty beast went down like a shot rabbit.
30353_48	science fiction	Hernhuter, Albert	" "Not exactly. The agent usually persuades the writer to make any such changes, as the agent is considered an authority on what will or will not sell." "The writers always agree?" "Not always. If stubbornness is encountered, the agent merely shelves the manuscript and tells the writer it has been repeatedly rejected." The Coroner glanced at the two policemen. Both were obviously puzzled. They returned the Coroner's look, apparently ready to move on his order. The thin, mirthless smile was still on Cole's lips. Maniacal violence could lie just behind it. Possibly Cole was armed. Better to play for time--try to quiet the madness within. The Coroner continued speaking. "You Martians have infiltrated other fields also?" "Oh, yes. We are in government, industry, education. We are everywhere. We have, of course, concentrated mainly upon the ranks of labor and in the masses of ordinary, everyday people. It is from these sources that we will draw our shock troops when the time comes." "That time will be--?" "Soon, very soon." The Coroner could not forebear a smile. "You find the science-fiction writers more dangerous than the true scientists?" "Oh, yes. The scientific mind tends to reject anything science disproves." There was now a mocking edge to Cole's voice. "Science can easily prove we do not exist." "But the science-fiction writer?" "The danger from the imaginative mind cannot be overestimated." The Coroner knew he must soon order the officers to lay hands upon this madman. He regretted his own lack of experience with such situations. He tried to put a soothing, confidential note into his voice. "You said a moment ago that if you'd had the right kind of weapon to use on Smith--" Cole reached into his pocket and brought out what appeared to be a fountain pen. "This. It kills instantly and leaves no mark whatever. Heart failure is invariably stated as the cause of death." The Coroner felt better. Obviously, Cole was not armed. As the Coroner raised a hand to signal the officers, Cole said, "You understand, of course, that I can't let you live." "Take this man into custody." The police officers did not move. The Coroner turned on them sharply. They were smiling. Cole pointed the fountain pen. The Coroner felt a sharp chill on his flesh.
17418_712	western stories	Woodrow, Wilson, Mrs.	the exclamation was disgustedly incredulous. "And so, simply because Hughie chooses to take a dislike to me, I'm to be watched like a criminal and treated, even by you, with suspicion." "No," she said, "I've been studying over it, but I can't quite make it out. Pop don't pay much attention, usually. But," she spoke slowly, "I thought maybe you'd tell me this morning." "Well, there's nothing to tell," he affirmed obstinately. She looked out over the desert for a moment. "Bob Flick hit the trail last night," she spoke casually. "To go where?" "I don't know. I wish I did. But I kind of feel, I can't help but feel, that it had something to do with you, and I wanted to tell you, to let you know, so that you can clear out if you've a mind to." "I've no cause to clear out," said Hanson. "Gee!" his bold eyes looked gaily into hers, "you all seem determined to make me out bad, don't you? But if that's your way of trying to get rid of me, it don't go. When you tell me that you won't sign up with me, and are going back to Sweeney, for just half of what I offer you, then I'll know that you want to get rid of me, and I'll clear out." "But I ain't told you that yet," the corners of Pearl's mouth were dimpling. "No, and, by George, until you do I stay right here." "Look!" she cried with a change in her voice. They had entered a cañon, where palms grew and involuntarily they drew up their horses to gaze at the sight before them. The stately, exotic palms lifted their shining green fronds to the blue, intense, illimitable sky, flooded with the gold of sunshine, and beyond them was the background of the mountains, their dark wooded slopes climbing upward until they reached the white, dazzling peaks of snow. The sharp and apparently impossible contrasts, the magic illusions of color made it a land of remote enchantment, even to the most unimaginative. And to Hanson the world outside became as unreal as a dream that is past. Here was beauty, and the wide, free spaces of nature, where every law of man seemed puny, ineffectual and void.
36497_360	love stories	Beerbohm, Max, Sir	He felt his past was a dream. He felt he was a new man indeed. His voice went strangely through the mask's parted lips, as he thanked Mr. Aeneas. "Proud to have served your Lordship," said that little worthy, pocketing his fee of fifty guineas, while he bowed his customer out. When he reached the street, Lord George nearly uttered a curse through those sainted lips of his. For there, right in his way, stood La Gambogi, with a small pink parasol. She laid her hand upon his sleeve and called him softly by his name. He passed her by without a word. Again she confronted him. "I cannot let go so handsome a lover," she laughed, "even though he spurn me! Do not spurn me, George. Give me your posy of wild flowers. Why, you never looked so lovingly at me in all your life!" "Madam," said Lord George, sternly, "I have not the honour to know you." And he passed on. The lady gazed after her lost lover with the blackest hatred in her eyes. Presently she beckoned across the road to a certain spy. And the spy followed him. III Lord George, greatly agitated, had turned into Piccadilly. It was horrible to have met this garish embodiment of his past on the very threshold of his fair future. The mask-maker's elevating talk about the gods, followed by the initiative ceremony of his saintly mask, had driven all discordant memories from his love-thoughts of Jenny Mere. And then to be met by La Gambogi! It might be that, after his stern words, she would not seek to cross his path again. Surely she would not seek to mar his sacred love. Yet, he knew her dark Italian nature, her passion of revenge. What was the line in Virgil? _Spretaeque_--something. Who knew but that somehow, sooner or later, she might come between him and his love? He was about to pass Lord Barrymore's mansion. Count Karoloff and Mr. FitzClarence were lounging in one of the lower windows. Would they know him behind his mask? Thank God! they did not. They merely laughed as he went by, and Mr. FitzClarence cried in a mocking voice, "Sing us a hymn, Mr. Whatever-your-saint's-name is!" The mask, then, at least, was perfect. Jenny Mere would not know him. He need fear no one but La Gambogi. But would not she betray his secret? He sighed.
54445_2829	detective and mystery stories	Davis, Means	Perhaps if she did that for thirty counts, she would drift off to sleep. If she buckled. ... she’d show ’em. Begin to get some rest ... plenty of it ... it had been a long day ... a trying evening ... now everything was peaceful and everybody was beginning to sleep. But if she dared to go to sleep, why couldn’t the person ... whoever it was ... come while she was asleep and ... and.... She reached for her glass of water and took a drink. Her lips were so dry it hurt to open them. This was foolish. How was her heart doing? She took her pulse and discovered it was 106. Perhaps she had better have a potion after all. She looked toward the desk. Miss Kerr wasn’t there! »VI« The Second Doll At nine o’clock Dr. Harrison entered the hospital through the accident room door and started up the main corridor. The last of the nurses and internes were returning from breakfast, the morning sun as they passed the occasional windows was picking each face out of its oblivion and then throwing it back again. Dr. Harrison shivered. The faces looked as the faces did upon the streets of every city in the United States the morning after the Lindbergh baby had been found.... The cynically young, the frightened vacant, the intelligent, the eager, the stupid, all reflected the knowledge that Rose Standish was dead. “A nurse died last night,” the stupid faces, the childish faces, the vacant faces reflected, and as the intelligence increased, the horror in the eyes grew.... Upon the internes and residents they showed: “A nurse was murdered last night.” And with an increasing frequency he saw eyes which knew: “She was murdered in Cub Sterling’s Clinic.” He passed the entrance to his own clinic, and then retraced his footsteps. His duty was to MacArthur, but his first duty was to suppress as much staff hysteria as possible. With the staff in such a condition, it was only a question of hours before the patients, all over the hospital.... His resident was standing beside the elevator upon the first floor. He turned and Dr. Harrison noted the first, second, and then a third horror in his eyes. “’Morning, Wheeler,” his voice was calm and measured. “Good morning, Doctor Harrison. Do you know?” “About the nurse? I do.” “No, sir. About Doctor Bear.” Dr. Harrison turned his searching brown eyes into the man’s gray ones. “What?”
64125_2466	detective and mystery stories	Robertson, Alexander, M.D.	” “Where the silver is kept—it ain’t been brought out yet awhile, and by a little bold work the hull of it can be spirited away.” At this the two men can hardly restrain their delight. “Lead us to it, and the third is yourn.” “You’re on the steal, then?” “Ready to take anything that counts.” “This is the steel I deal in.” One of the men, the fellow nearest him, felt something like a piece of ice pressed against his left temple. He put up his hand. The investigation did not afford him any particular pleasure, for what he touched sent a shiver through his whole frame. It was a cold revolver. “Move a hand or a foot and you are a dead man. And you also,” to the other fellow. The board had just come off in this latter chap’s arms, and light from the house poured through the opening in a stream that was strong enough to show him the situation. He dared not drop the board, and he was also prevented from attacking the unknown. Eric was master of the situation. “Now see here, men, listen to me.” “Go ahead!” growled one. “In mercy’s name don’t press that trigger,” groaned the other. Darrell had to smile at the sudden termination to which circumstances had brought the bold raid of the two sneak thieves. They had come after plunder, but found something more awaiting them. The little scheme, concocted on the spur of the moment, had been driven into obscurity. “I am a detective, watching this house.” Both men groaned. “Fools we was.” “And although I’m going to let you go this time, if I see either of you here again you’ll make a bee-line for the Tombs.” “Don’t worry, mister—if we get off this time we’ll make ourselves scarce. It gives me a chill to think of Sing Sing.” “You ought to get the chill before you start on such an expedition, and not after you are caught. You know that when ‘the devil was sick, the devil a monk would be; but when the devil got well, the devil a monk was he’.” “Kin we go, mister?” “Yes—pass out the front door, gentlemen, just as you came in.
36079_748	detective and mystery stories	Lowndes, Marie Belloc	Her friend might be a man--a man as other men were; but he was noble, and singularly selfless, for all that. On the evening of the very day on which she had grievously offended and wounded him, he had written her a kindly letter, offering to be her trustee. There had been moments to-day when she had thought of writing Mrs. Tropenell a note to say she did not feel well--and that she would not dine at Freshley that night. But oh, how glad she was now that a mixture of pride and feminine delicacy had prompted her to behave just as if nothing had happened, as if words which could never be forgotten had not been uttered between herself and Oliver! She had thought he would punish her this evening by being sulky and disagreeable--that was her husband's invariable method of showing displeasure. But with the exception of a word or two uttered very quietly, and more as if she, rather than he, had something to forgive, he had behaved as if yesterday had never been. He had heaped coals of fire upon her head, making it plain that even now he was only thinking of her--of her and of Gillie, of how he could pleasure them both by securing her a holiday with her only brother. Every word of that restrained, not very natural, conversation held just now under the beech trees re-echoed in her ears. She seemed to hear again the slowly uttered, measured words, "I am going to be your friend, Laura".... And then there came over Laura Pavely an extraordinary sensation of moral and mental disturbance. Once more everything which had happened to-day was blotted out, and she went back to yesterday morning. Again she lived through those moments during which Oliver Tropenell had offered her what was to him the greatest thing man has it in him to bestow--love, even if illicit, unsanctified. And she had rejected the gift with a passion of scorn, spurning it as she would have done a base and unclean thing. Years and years ago, in her quiet, shadowed youth, she too had believed love to be the most precious, beautiful thing in life. Then, with marriage to Godfrey Pavely had come the conviction that love was not beautiful, but very, very ugly--at its best one of those dubious gifts to man by which old Dame Nature works out certain cunning designs of her own.
43374_1231	adventure stories	Allen, Willis Boyd	he exclaimed; and indeed they all were standing on the edge of a huge snow bank. Something about this appeared to please Solomon very much, though the boys could not tell why. But now he was stopping and pointing again. Ah! that was why the old hunter was gratified by finding that the trail crossed a snow bank. Master Bruin could pass through the thick scrub of the forest so deftly that even the keen eye of the best guide in Juneau could hardly distinguish the course of his journey. Not so when he crossed the snow. There was his track, plain enough. "My! don't it look like a boy's barefoot mark?" exclaimed Tom, quivering with excitement. "Is he near here, do you think, Solomon? What sort of a bear is it? Is he a big one?" Baranov answered at once, as he shouldered his pack and rifle again: "The trail's abaout an hour old. He's a purty good-sized black b'ar, I should say. An' it's my opinion we can fetch him afore night." On they went, faster than before. Indeed, the boys soon noticed that they were now following a sort of beaten track--no other, Solomon assured them, than one of the famous "bear-paths," thousands of which thread the deepest and loneliest jungles of Alaska. They halted for a hasty dinner and then pressed forward. Baranov could not be positive that the same bear was before them on this hard track, but it seemed highly improbable that _Ursus Americanus_ had left his easy highway for the almost impenetrable growth of evergreens on either side. It was about three in the afternoon when Baranov halted so suddenly that Fred, who was next behind him, fairly tumbled against him, nearly upsetting the hunter. The latter, however, paid no attention to this. He was too much occupied in examining half a dozen hairs, which he had picked from a low spruce bough projecting across the path. "What is it?" the boys whispered eagerly, their fatigue gone in a moment. "Look at them ha'rs!" "Why, they're almost white! They are white at the tips." "The animil that went through here ahead of us, left 'em behind," said the guide. "An' it wa'n't no black b'ar, neither, as you can see for yourselves." "What was it--not grizzly?" The idea was not wholly a pleasant one, and the young hunters looked nervously around.
2730_59	adventure stories	Haggard, H. Rider (Henry Rider)	I dropped the match in a hurry, and was making my way from the hut as quick as I could go, when I caught sight of two bright eyes staring out of a corner. Thinking it was a wild cat, or some such animal, I redoubled my haste, when suddenly a voice near the eyes began first to mutter, and then to send up a succession of awful yells. “Hastily I lit another match, and perceived that the eyes belonged to an old woman, wrapped up in a greasy leather garment. Taking her by the arm, I dragged her out, for she could not, or would not, come by herself, and the stench was overpowering me. Such a sight as she was--a bag of bones, covered over with black, shrivelled parchment. The only white thing about her was her wool, and she seemed to be pretty well dead except for her eyes and her voice. She thought that I was a devil come to take her, and that is why she yelled so. Well, I got her down to the waggon, and gave her a ‘tot’ of Cape smoke, and then, as soon as it was ready, poured about a pint of beef-tea down her throat, made from the flesh of a blue vilderbeeste I had killed the day before, and after that she brightened up wonderfully. She could talk Zulu--indeed, it turned out that she had run away from Zululand in T’Chaka’s time--and she told me that all the people whom I had seen had died of fever. When they had died the other inhabitants of the kraal had taken the cattle and gone away, leaving the poor old woman, who was helpless from age and infirmity, to perish of starvation or disease, as the case might be. She had been sitting there for three days among the bodies when I found her. I took her on to the next kraal, and gave the headman a blanket to look after her, promising him another if I found her well when I came back. I remember that he was much astonished at my parting with two blankets for the sake of such a worthless old creature. ‘Why did I not leave her in the bush?’ he asked. Those people carry the doctrine of the survival of the fittest to its extreme, you see.
45870_1201	adventure stories	Phillipps-Wolley, Clive	After a while an owl, which had been murdering squirrels in their sleep, came gliding on still wings, and lit without a sound on the limb of a tall pine near the camp. The light from the camp-fire dazzled its big red-brown eyes, but after a little time it could see that two of the strange bundles, which lay like mummies round the smouldering logs, were sitting up and talking together. But the owl could not catch what they said, except once, when it saw a bright, white gleam flash from the little bundle like moonlight showing through a storm-cloud, and then as the bigger bundle snatched the white thing away, the listening owl heard a voice say: "No, my God, no! That may do very well for a Chinee; it won't do for a Britisher, Phon!" And another voice answered angrily: "Why not? You white men all fool. You savey what _he_ did. S'pose you no kill him, by'm bye he--" But the rest was lost to the owl, and a few minutes later, just as it raised its wings to go, it saw the smaller bundle wriggle across the ground again to its old place by the embers. CHAPTER X. THE SHADOWS BEGIN TO FALL. When Corbett woke, the first beams of the rising moon were throwing an uncertain light over the forest paths, and the children of night were still abroad, the quiet-footed deer taking advantage of the moonlight to make an early breakfast before the sun and man rose together to annoy them. The camp-fire had just been made up afresh, and a frying-pan, full of great rashers, was hissing merrily upon it, while a kettle full of strong hot coffee stood beside it, ready to wash the rashers down. Men want warming when they rise at midnight from these forest slumbers, and Roberts, knowing that it would be long ere his friends broke their fast again, had been up and busy for the last half-hour, building a real nor'-west fire, and preparing a generous breakfast. Cruickshank too was up, if not to speed the parting, at any rate to see them safely off the premises, a smile of unusual benevolence on his dark face. Between them, he and Roberts put up the travellers' packs, taking each man's blankets as he got out of them, and rolling in them such light rations as would just last for a four days' trip.
50939_2139	western stories	Turner, William Oliver	" Rejack bustled up, red-faced and wild-eyed with anger. He took a quick look at the dead man and seemed to grow calmer. He said, "We can't hitch up till that murdering devil stops shooting. Aren't you going after him?" "I think I know where he'll head for," Tesno said. "I can get there first, I guess. Maybe I can take this one alive." He strode down-grade to his horse and headed over the hill in the direction of the hidden cabin. He followed the same course he and Charlie had taken that morning, annoyed at its tedious winding and thinking that there might be a shorter way. When he was near the cabin, he hid his horse well back in the woods and approached on foot. Everything was just as he had left it. He closed the door behind him and sat down to wait, rifle on his knees. His lack of sleep caught up with him now, and several times in the space of a few minutes he got up to stretch and move about to ward off drowsiness. He couldn't get the dead man out of his mind. He was reasonably sure he had never seen the face before; yet something about that figure sprawled out on the hillside nagged him. His eye fell on two canvas bags of supplies resting against the wall. And it all came to him then. Two bags of supplies. Two men. One in woolly chaps. The dead man and Jim Palma were the pair he had seen come out of the back of the townhouse two days ago! It seemed a long guess, on the face of it; yet he was sure. _All right_, he told himself. _They came out of the far end of the building, the office end. That means that Sam Lester is involved, not Persia._ But why Sam? What did he have to gain by wrecking Ben Vickers' boiler? A little longer life for the town, no doubt. But Persia would profit by that as much as Sam. And it was after the men had left that she had suggested a picnic.... There was the soft sound of hoofs outside. He rose and moved quietly to one side of the door. A saddle creaked as a man dismounted. The door was pushed quietly open. "You here, Boss?" Muckamuck Charlie asked. Tesno groaned and stepped forward. "Where's Palma?" he demanded. Charlie stepped into the cabin, looking past Tesno at the canvas bags.
13497_2035	love stories	Dell, Ethel M. (Ethel May)	Poor old Eustace!" Scott paused, faintly smiling. "He meant her to marry well if she married at all, and Basil was no more than the son of a country parson without a penny to his name. However, the thing was past remedy. I saw that when they came home, and Isabel told me about it. I was at Oxford then. She came down alone for a night, and begged me to try and talk Eustace over. It was the beginning of a barrier between them even then. It has grown high since. Eustace is a difficult man to move, you know. I did my level best with him, but I wasn't very successful. In the end of course the inevitable happened. Isabel lost patience and broke away. She was on her way out again before either of us knew. Eustace--of course Eustace was furious." Scott paused again. Dinah's silence denoted keen interest. Her expression was absorbed. He went on, the touch of constraint again apparent in his manner. It was evident that the narration stirred up deep feelings. "We three had always hung together. The family tie meant a good deal to us for the simple reason that we were practically the only Studleys left. My father had died six years before, my mother at my birth. Eustace was the head of the family, and he and Isabel had been all in all to each other. He felt her going more than I can possibly tell you, and scarcely a week after the news came he got his things together and went off in the yacht to South America to get over it by himself. I stayed on at Oxford, but I made up my mind to go out to her in the vacation. A few days after his going, I had a cable to say they were married. A week after that, there came another cable to say that Everard was dead." "Oh!" Dinah drew a short, hard breath. "Poor Isabel!" she whispered. "Yes." Scott's pale eyes were gazing straight ahead. "He was killed two days after the marriage. They had gone up to the Hills, to a place he knew of right in the wilds on the side of a mountain, and pitched camp there. There were only themselves, a handful of Pathan coolies with mules, and a _shikari_.
47471_1391	detective and mystery stories	Webb, Marion St. John	For me, it was useless.... I know I am dying now. For you—I am praying for you.... Pamela read the signature of Beryl’s mother through a blur of tears. She was not a girl who cried easily, and she bit her underlip in an effort to stop it quivering; but the tears forced their way into her eyes so that she dared not look up at Beryl for a moment. She stared instead at the old letter in her hands—the letter written over fourteen years ago, seeing nothing but the white sheet of paper glimmering through her tears. She did not realize that Beryl was waiting in an agony of suspense for her to speak, until she looked up at length and saw Beryl’s face. "Oh, Beryl," was all she could say. And the next moment she had flung her arms round Beryl, and both girls were crying together. "You see," said Beryl, after a while, "it isn’t that I’m ashamed of my father—oh, it _isn’t_ that, but I couldn’t ever explain to Isobel—I couldn’t talk to her about him at all—she’d be all out of sympathy, and she wouldn’t understand a bit.... you understand how I mean, Pamela, don’t you? ... I’ve never shown this letter to anyone but you. It was left to me—locked up in an old box with some other things from my mother, with instructions that I was to open it on my fourteenth birthday.... I can’t tell you how I felt when I first read it—it came just at a time when I was needing it badly.... But I wouldn’t show it to Isobel for anything—you do understand, Pamela?" "I think I understand," said Pamela gently. "But, Beryl, dear, about your school, and the other things, you’ve let the thought of Isobel’s opinion gain an unreasonable power over you—and you said just now you didn’t really mind what she thought of you?" "Yes, I know," said Beryl, tearfully. "It’s all been so silly, and it seems sillier when it’s talked of even than when I only thought about it.... Pamela, do you—do you despise me?" "Of course I don’t," replied Pamela promptly. "Not for anything?" "Not for anything, you old silly," said Pamela.
27824_3741	detective and mystery stories	Campbell, Alice	Roger said as they quickened their pace again. "What are you in such a hurry for? Don't you want the doctor to see you?" "It isn't that; I only feel I'd like to be home first," Esther excused herself, not quite sure of her own reasons for trying to escape Sartorius's notice. "Rubbish. You don't want him to see you with me. Now own up, my dear. Isn't that true?" "No, it isn't a bit true. That's too absurd!" "Well, true or not, why should we mind? We are not the conspirators," Roger retorted lightly. Somehow the word "conspirators," jokingly uttered, gave her a queer, uncomfortable feeling. There had been something about those two sauntering figures, so close together, that had emphasised the dim, instinctive notion she had had before of something between the pair. Yet what was there strange in Lady Clifford's taking a short stroll with her private physician? "More of my nonsense!" was Esther's mental comment as she put the matter determinedly out of mind. It was much later in the afternoon, nearly six o'clock, when Lady Clifford returned in the Rolls. Esther heard her come upstairs and go to her room, but she did not see her, being busy making Sir Charles ready for the night. When it came time to take the old man's temperature she discovered her watch had stopped for want of winding. She went into the boudoir to look at the clock on the mantelpiece there, throwing open the door, feeling sure the room was empty. The next instant she heard herself murmuring "I beg your pardon!" as she retreated hastily, utterly flabbergasted by what she had seen. Standing bolt upright on the hearthrug was Roger, his arms awkwardly embracing Lady Clifford, who leaned against him, her golden head pressed close to his shoulder, her eyes gazing up at him with every evidence of clinging affection. What in heaven's name did it mean? CHAPTER XXI One of the habits of men most annoying to the opposite sex is their reluctance to give explanations. When one is eager to know the reasons why they did or failed to do a thing, instead of satisfying one's curiosity they go quietly away and say nothing. Women in the same position itch to justify, to excuse, to exonerate. Men keep silent and let one think what one pleases--a form of moral cowardice which remains at once their weakness and their strength.
9609_276	adventure stories	Fielding, Henry	you are indeed a Christian of the true primitive kind, and an honour to the country wherein you live. I would willingly have taken a pilgrimage to the Holy Land to have beheld you; for the advantages which we draw from your goodness give me little pleasure, in comparison of what I enjoy for your own sake when I consider the treasures you are by these means laying up for yourself in a country that passeth not away. We will therefore, most generous sir, accept your goodness, as well the entertainment you have so kindly offered us at your house this evening, as the accommodation of your horses to-morrow morning." He then began to search for his hat, as did Joseph for his; and both they and Fanny were in order of departure, when the gentleman, stopping short, and seeming to meditate by himself for the space of about a minute, exclaimed thus: "Sure never anything was so unlucky; I had forgot that my house-keeper was gone abroad, and hath locked up all my rooms; indeed, I would break them open for you, but shall not be able to furnish you with a bed; for she has likewise put away all my linen. I am glad it entered into my head before I had given you the trouble of walking there; besides, I believe you will find better accommodations here than you expected.--Landlord, you can provide good beds for these people, can't you?" "Yes, and please your worship," cries the host, "and such as no lord or justice of the peace in the kingdom need be ashamed to lie in." "I am heartily sorry," says the gentleman, "for this disappointment. I am resolved I will never suffer her to carry away the keys again." "Pray, sir, let it not make you uneasy," cries Adams; "we shall do very well here; and the loan of your horses is a favour we shall be incapable of making any return to." "Ay!" said the squire, "the horses shall attend you here at what hour in the morning you please;" and now, after many civilities too tedious to enumerate, many squeezes by the hand, with most affectionate looks and smiles at each other, and after appointing the horses at seven the next morning, the gentleman took his leave of them, and departed to his own house. Adams and his companions returned to the table, where the parson smoaked another pipe, and then they all retired to rest.
1260_6149	love stories	Brontë, Charlotte	"I advise you to live sinless, and I wish you to die tranquil." "Then you snatch love and innocence from me? You fling me back on lust for a passion--vice for an occupation?" "Mr. Rochester, I no more assign this fate to you than I grasp at it for myself. We were born to strive and endure--you as well as I: do so. You will forget me before I forget you." "You make me a liar by such language: you sully my honour. I declared I could not change: you tell me to my face I shall change soon. And what a distortion in your judgment, what a perversity in your ideas, is proved by your conduct! Is it better to drive a fellow-creature to despair than to transgress a mere human law, no man being injured by the breach? for you have neither relatives nor acquaintances whom you need fear to offend by living with me?" This was true: and while he spoke my very conscience and reason turned traitors against me, and charged me with crime in resisting him. They spoke almost as loud as Feeling: and that clamoured wildly. "Oh, comply!" it said. "Think of his misery; think of his danger--look at his state when left alone; remember his headlong nature; consider the recklessness following on despair--soothe him; save him; love him; tell him you love him and will be his. Who in the world cares for _you_? or who will be injured by what you do?" Still indomitable was the reply--"_I_ care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself. I will keep the law given by God; sanctioned by man. I will hold to the principles received by me when I was sane, and not mad--as I am now. Laws and principles are not for the times when there is no temptation: they are for such moments as this, when body and soul rise in mutiny against their rigour; stringent are they; inviolate they shall be. If at my individual convenience I might break them, what would be their worth? They have a worth--so I have always believed; and if I cannot believe it now, it is because I am insane--quite insane: with my veins running fire, and my heart beating faster than I can count its throbs.
2950_3152	adventure stories	Fleming, May Agnes	They went along, down to the river, both of them, and I saw a boat shove off, shortly after, and that something, with its head in a shawl, lying as peaceable as a lamb, with one of the two beside it. That's all--I went asleep about then, till you two were shaking me and waking me up.” Sir Norman and Hubert looked at each other, one between despair and rage, the other with a thoughtful, half-inquiring air, as if he had some secret to tell, and was mentally questioning whether it was safe to do so. On the whole, he seemed to come to the conclusion, that a silent tongue maketh a wise head, and nodding and saying “Thank you!” to the watchman, he passed his arm through Sir Norman's, and drew him back to the door of Leoline's house. “There is a light within,” he said, looking up at it; “how comes that?” “I found the lamp burning, when I returned, and everything undisturbed. They must have entered noiselessly, and carried her off without a struggle,” replied Sir Norman, with a sort of groan. “Have you searched the house--searched it well?” “Thoroughly--from top to bottom!” “It seems to me there ought to be some trace. Will you come back with me and look again?” “It is no use; but there is nothing else I can do; so come along!” They entered the house, and Sir Norman led the page direct to Leoline's room, where the light was. “I left her here when I went away, and here the lamp was burning when I came back: so it must have been from this room she was taken.” Hubert was gazing slowly and critically round, taking note of everything. Something glistened and flashed on the floor, under the mantel, and he went over and picked it up. “What have you there?” asked Sir Norman in surprise; for the boy had started so suddenly, and flushed so violently, that it might have astonished any one. “Only a shoe-buckle--a gentleman's--do you recognize it?” Though he spoke in his usual careless way, and half-hummed the air of one of Lord Rochester's love songs, he watched him keenly as he examined it. It was a diamond buckle, exquisitely set, and of great beauty and value; but Sir Norman knew nothing of it.
42800_5227	western stories	Clay, John Wood	"Ou, ay!" quoth Whitby and Margaret broke into bubbling laughter that reflected from Rose’s face in the faint shadow of a smile. "Too bad of me to be laughing this way, Mr. Peters," apologized Margaret, correctly interpreting the expression of Rose, whose glance had turned to Buck; "but I have so much cause to be merry when I least expected it that I forgot for the moment you are wounded." She resolutely avoided looking at Whitby who, thus unobserved, displayed a grin more fittingly adapted to the countenance of the famous Cat of Cheshire. Rose glanced swiftly from Whitby to Margaret and the two women were already aware of that which the men would never guess in each other. "Shucks! I been shot up worse ’n this, Miss McAllister," assured Buck; "if that pig-headed Britisher would on’y take orders like he oughta. He ’s obstinater nor a cow with a suckin’ calf." "Right-o!" assented Whitby, who had finished his preparations for the lift. "Now, Miss LaFrance." He had managed to pass the blanket under Buck’s middle, looping it over his own neck; while this arrangement eased but little weight from Rose, it had the advantage of keeping Buck comparatively straight. Whitby, backing up into the buckboard, his hands tightly grasping Buck beneath the arms, was ably assisted by Rose, who moved and steadied her load without apparent effort. Margaret was genuinely surprised. "How strong you are!" she exclaimed, admiringly. "Gentle as rain," commended Buck. "If you got that flask handy, Whit, I ’d like to feel it." CHAPTER XXIII HOPALONG’S MOVE Hopalong, nursing Allday with due regard to the miles yet to be travelled, was disagreeably surprised to recognize Cock Murray in the horseman approaching. The explanation offered did not improve his temper. He turned on Murray a hard stare that was less a probe than an exponent of destruction to a liar. There was that about Hopalong which spelled danger; no strong man is without it; and few men, honest or not, fail of the impression when in the presence of it. Cock Murray was no coward. He was distinctly not afraid to meet death at a moment’s notice or with no notice at all, if it came that way; yet he was grateful to be able to face that stare with an honest purpose in his heart. "Murray, down Texas way h—l-raisin’ on a range means sudden death.
65760_1102	adventure stories	Standish, Burt L.	He had saved the life of the man his brother wanted out of the way, and, given the opportunity, he would do it as promptly again. CHAPTER XIII. THE LIMIT Curly Kollock’s interest and liking for his boss grew stronger day after day. There was something about Bob Bainbridge which stirred the finer qualities in his nature, and brought twinges of shame to the young riverman whenever he thought how near he had come to throwing his lot with his brother. If Bill ever showed up he resolved to tell him just what he thought of him, too. But in the meantime, not being much of a penman, he made no effort to answer the letter. It was sufficient that he considered himself cut loose from the whole miserable bunch. If they were expecting aid from him in their plotting they were doomed to disappointment. More and more often as they descended the Katahdin River, the boy was stirred to anger at the constant succession of moves made by that gang of crooks against the man who fought them practically alone and singlehanded. Along the river were several dams placed for the purpose of regulating the head of water and facilitating the process of driving. They belonged to the trust, but their owners were bound at all times to allow a normal head of water when it was called for. Instead of doing this now, they played all sorts of tricks on Bainbridge. When he particularly needed plenty of water to float his drive past a shallow or narrow spot, the gates were arbitrarily shut down, and the drive hung up. Again, at one point where the middle part of the drive had jammed and the crew were occupied in picking it instead of using dynamite, the gates which Bob had personally closed were raised without warning, letting down a flood of water which struck the jam with terrific force. It gave instantly, carrying three men with it. Two managed to escape by a miracle, and were dragged ashore with broken limbs; the other was crushed and drowned. After that Bainbridge placed guards at the various dams with instructions to shoot any one who attempted to interfere with them. This resulted in a terrific outcry on the part of Crane’s underlings, an appeal to the law, injunctions, and all that sort of thing. To which Bainbridge paid no attention whatever. He went on his way calmly, knowing well that they could not stop him in this manner, and willing to put up with the inconvenience that would follow when it was all over and he had returned to civilization.
13396_437	love stories	Van Schaick, George	Nondescript dogs, bearing very little resemblance to the original well-known breed, wandered aimlessly under the pelting rain. Frenchy reached his dilapidated shack, and was the first to stop. "Vell, so long," he said. "_Au revoir à demain_!" I answered, as well as I could. His somber, swarthy face brightened at the sound of words of his own tongue. I believe that to him they were a tiny glimpse of something well-beloved and of memories that refused to grow dim. For a moment he stood at the door, beaming upon me. A small boy came out, very grimy of face and hands and with a head covered with yellow curls. He was chiefly clad in an old woollen jersey repaired with yarn of many hues, that nearly reached his toes. "_Papa Yves_!" he cried, leaping up joyfully, quite heedless of Frenchy's dripping oilskins. The sailor lifted up the child and kissed him, whereupon he grasped the man's flaring ears as they projected from the huge tangled beard, and with a burst of happy laughter kissed him on both cheeks, under the eyes, in the only bare places. We hurried on and soon reached one of the few houses distinguished from others by a coat of paint. By this time the evening was near at hand, yet the darkness would not have justified as yet a thrifty Newfoundland housewife in burning valuable kerosene. But from the windows of this place poured forth abundant light showing recklessness as to expense. Upon the porch were a few feeble geraniums, and some nasturtiums and bachelor's buttons twined themselves hopefully on strings disposed for them. At the sound of our footsteps the door was quickly opened. A young woman appeared but the light was behind her and her features were not very distinct. "Couldn't you get him?" she cried, in sore disappointment. "Yes, ma'am. That's what I went for," said Sammy. "I telled yer I'd sure bring him, and here he be." I had come nearer, and then, I am afraid, I somewhat forgot my manners and stared at her. CHAPTER IV _From Miss Helen Jelliffe to Miss Jane Van Zandt_ _Dearest Aunt Jennie_: I did try so hard to get you to come on this cruise with us. You said you preferred remaining in Newport to sharing in a wild journey to places one has never heard of, and now I am compelled to recognize your superior wisdom. I wish we had never heard of this dreadful hole.
5165_3758	love stories	Corelli, Marie	"Would you like to see the paper?" he asked, politely. The warm colour flushed her cheeks--she accepted it shyly. "Thank you very much!" she murmured--and, gratefully shielding her tearful eyes behind the convenient news-sheet, she began glancing up and down the front page with all its numerous announcements, from the "Agony" column down to the latest new concert-singers and sailings of steamers. Suddenly her attention was caught by the following advertisement-- "A Lady of good connection and position will be glad to take another lady as Paying Guest in her charming house in Kensington. Would suit anyone studying art or for a scholarship. Liberal table and refined surroundings. Please communicate with 'Lavinia' at--" Here followed an address. Over and over again Innocent read this with a sort of fascination. Finally, taking from her pocket a little note-book and pencil, she copied it carefully. "I might go there," she thought--"If she is a poor lady wanting money, she might be glad to have me as a 'paying guest,' Anyhow, it will do no harm to try. I must find some place to rest in, if only for a night." Here she became aware that the old gentleman who had lent her the paper was eyeing her curiously yet kindly. She met his glance with a mixture of frankness and timidity which gave her expression a wonderful charm. He ventured to speak as he might have spoken to a little child. "Are you going to London for the first time?" he asked. "Yes, sir." He smiled. He had a pleasant smile, distinctly humorous and good-natured. "It's a great adventure!" he said--"Especially for a little girl, all alone." She coloured. "I'm not a little girl," she answered, with quaint dignity--"I'm eighteen." "Really!"--and the old gentleman looked more humorous than ever--"Oh well!--of course you are quite old. But, you see, I am seventy, so to me you seem a little girl. I suppose your friends will meet you in London?" She hesitated--then answered, simply-- "No. I have no friends. I am going to earn my living." The old gentleman whistled. It was a short, low whistle at first, but it developed into a bar of "Sally in our Alley," Then he looked round--the other people in the compartment, the husband and wife, were asleep. "Poor child!"
12791_967	western stories	Adams, Andy	"Well, since you expect to be our neighbor, better unsaddle and stay for dinner," urged Forrest. "Let's get acquainted--at least, come to some friendly understanding." "No, thank you. My partner is waiting my return to the herd, and will be anxious for my report on the range above. If possible, we don't care to locate any farther north." "You ought to have secured your range before you bought your cattle. You seem to have the cart before the horse," observed the wounded man. "Oh," said the novice, with a sweeping gesture, "there's plenty of unclaimed range. There's ample grass and water on this creek to graze five thousand cattle." "Wells Brothers estimate that the range, tributary to the Beaver, will carry ten thousand head the year round," replied Forrest, languidly indifferent. "Who are Wells Brothers?" inquired the newcomer. Forrest turned to the stranger as if informing a child. "You have the name correct," said he. "The brothers took this range some time ago, and those cattle that you met up the creek are theirs. Before you round up any cattle and drive them out, you had better look into the situation thoroughly. You surely know and respect range customs." "Well," said the stranger explosively,--they mustn't expect to hold the whole country with a handful of cattle." "They only took the range recently, and are acquiring cattle as fast as possible," politely replied Forrest. "They can't hold any more country than they can occupy," authoritatively asserted the novice. "All we want is a range for a thousand cows, and I've decided on that hackberry grove as headquarters." "Your hearing seems defective," remarked Forrest in flute-like tones. "Let me repeat: This is headquarters for Wells Brothers. Their range runs from the trail crossing, six miles below, to the headwaters of Beaver, including all its tributaries. Since you can't stay for dinner, you'll have time to ride down to the crossing of the Texas and Montana trail on this creek. There you'll find the posted notice, so that he who runs may read, that Wells Brothers have already claimed this range. I'll furnish you a pencil and scrap of paper, and you can make a copy of the formal notice and show it to your partner.
23149_126	science fiction	Mohler, Will	Or was there one reason hiding behind a cloud of small rationalizations? There was a difference in the air in the lavatory, and in the sound--the undifferentiated background sound which came from nowhere. Nowhere? It came through a window. He had been staring at a window--probably the only one in the building--and it had failed to register on his mind at the time because he had not expected it to be there. It was not part of the habitual pattern. He had seen a window. He had, moreover, looked through a window. What had he seen? He thought about this, and at the same time he thought about being sick--administratively sick. He succeeded in working up a palpable fever and a windy yawning beneath the diaphragm. Before taking any action he would have to confirm what he had seen through the window of the lavatory. On his last trip to the lavatory he climbed up onto the slippery washbasin and looked through the high window. His position there would be impossible to explain, of course, if anyone should come in. He was past caring about that. The unpasteurized air made him a little drunk and the sound--the immense distant sighing groan like a giant's whisper--filled his brain. It made him want to expand to meet it somehow. Only one immense skeleton foot was visible, but there was no question about exactly what it was. No conventional structure would curve upward in that way. There was no point of reference by which to determine how far away it was, and the air was blue with haze, giving everything an appearance of remoteness and of unreality. He had never seen the city from that angle before, but if what he saw was what he thought it was, how could it have been so close without his knowing about it before this time? It was a thing which belonged to vast distances--spatial distances and other kinds of distance as well. Now it was close, or he was closer to it than he had ever imagined he would be in his life. It was accessible. Dewforth left at half past three when the somnolence of afternoon was heaviest on the heads of the other draftsmen. He did not speak to Mr. Shrank about it.
27682_4188	science fiction	MacKaye, Harold Steele	Copernicus Droop's my name." "Ah, yes! And the service you require--? I beg your indulgence, but, sooth to say, being nigh starved of late in this tavern of ill repute, my poor wits have grown fat. I am slow of apprehension, Master Wither----" "Droop, sir--Droop." "Nay--cry you mercy--Master Droop." "Why, now, Sir Percy," said Copernicus, with oily grace, "ef you wouldn't mind, I'd be proud ef you'd set down over yonder, perchance, and have a glass with me. We'd be more private then, and I could make this hull business clear to ye. What say ye, sir?" "Why, there's my hand, Master Dupe--Droop," said the knight, his face brightening mightily. "Five yards are a mile for a man of my girth, Master Droop, but praise God such words as these of yours cheer my heart to still greater deeds than faring a mile afoot." Slowly and painfully the corpulent knight drew himself to his feet, and with one hand bearing affectionately but heavily on Droop's shoulder, he shuffled over to the recess and seated himself. "What ho, there! Drawer!" he shouted, as soon as they were comfortably disposed face to face. "Anon, sir, anon!" came the familiar reply, and the drawer, who had just served two new guests at the long table, now hurried over to the nook behind the casks. "A quart of sack, villain!" said Sir Percevall. "And for you, sir?" said the drawer, turning to Droop. "Yes, yea, bring me the same." He had no idea what sack was, but he felt that in all probability it was a mild beverage, or no one would order a quart at once. "And this same letter, now," Sir Percevall began. "To warn you truly, friend, this matter of monopolies hath something of an ill savor in the public mind. What with sweet wines, salt, hides, vinegar, iron, oil, lead, yarn, glass, and what not in monopoly, men cry out that they are robbed and the Queen's advisers turn pale at the very word." He interrupted himself to give his attention to the wine which had just been placed before him. "To better acquaintance!" he said, and the two drank deep together.
9150_1351	adventure stories	Verne, Jules	" He relapsed into silence. Then, brightening up, he added,-- "But, thank God! at least we have now the satisfaction of knowing where we really are; we are no longer lost upon the wide Pacific; if only this hurricane will cease, long as the distance seems, we are on our proper course to the shores of America." The tone of confidence with which the youthful captain spoke had the effect of inspiring new hope into all who heard him; their spirits rose, and to their sanguine mood it seemed as if they were approaching to the end of all their troubles, and had hardly more to do than to await the turning of a tide to bring them into a glad proximity to port. Easter Island, of which the true name is Vai-Hoo, was discovered by David in 1686 and visited by Cook and Lapérouse. It lies in lat. 27° S., and long. 112 E.; consequently, it was evident that during the raging of the hurricane the schooner had been driven northwards no less than fifteen degrees. Far away, however, as she was from shore, the wind could hardly fail within ten days to carry her within sight of land; and then, if the storm had worn itself out, (as probably it would,) the "Pilgrim" would again hoist sail, and make her way into some port with safety. Anyhow, the discovery of his true position restored a spirit of confidence to Dick Sands, and he anticipated the time when he should no longer be drifting helplessly before the storm. To say the truth, the "Pilgrim" had suffered very little from the prolonged fury of the weather. The damage she had sustained was limited to the loss of the topsail and the small jib, which could be easily replaced. The caulking of the seams remained thoroughly sound, and no drop of water had found its way into the hold. The pumps, too, were perfectly free. Dick Sands did not fear for the stability of his ship; his only anxiety was lest the weather should not moderate in time. Only let the wind subside, and the schooner once more would be under his control; but he never forgot that the ordering of the winds and waves were in the hands of the Great Disposer of all. CHAPTER XIII. LAND AT LAST. It was not long before Dick's sanguine expectations were partially realized, for on the very next day, which was the 27th, the barometer began to rise, not rapidly, but steadily, indicating that its elevation would probably continue.
30705_398	science fiction	Page, Gerald W.	"It doesn't feel like metal," she said, after she had taken the knife from its scabbard. "It isn't. It's a kind of plastic, stronger than most metals. Do you like it?" He was wasting time, he knew, and he cursed himself for it. But it didn't matter. "It's real nice," she answered. "I'm glad you like it," he said, taking her elbow in his hand. "We'd better go now. They'll be after us." They ran most of the night, although it wasn't always running. Nelson picked a lot of terrain that was too uneven or too thickly covered with growth for running. They kept to rocks and creekbeds as much as they could, and they stopped only a few hours before dawn to get a few hours sleep they were too exhausted to postpone any longer. When Nelson awoke the sun was a little higher than he had wanted it to be. He got to his feet and scanned the morning sky but saw nothing to indicate sky patrol robots. He felt uneasy about not having made more territory; but the way had been erratic and uneven. A thorough search pattern could find him easily; the further away he got from the depot the better chance he stood of not being discovered by a robot. He wondered, briefly, just how many would be called out, but there was no reason to wonder. Three patrolmen dead meant a lot of searching to find the killers. He and Glynnis couldn't waste much time. He nudged the still sleeping girl with his foot to wake her. She awoke suddenly, her hand darting toward her new knife and a low but startled cry came from her. "Quiet." He had dug two cans out of his pack and handed one to her. "We overslept. Eat in a hurry." She opened her breakfast. "We'll be traveling most of the day?" she asked. When he nodded, "yes," she said, "I can take it." "I know you can; but they'll have a search out for us by now and a thorough one. If we hadn't met when we had they'd have picked you up for sure after I raided that depot--if I could have pulled it off alone." She smiled. "You ever see an air robot?" he asked. "No." "I hope you never do.
21998_4039	adventure stories	Williamson, A. M. (Alice Muriel)	You're the bravest person I ever met, and the most loyal. If the woman for whose sake you've done this is worthy of her friend, why, I'll be on her side from this night on." "Thank you," said Clo, meekly. She was very tired, but vitality flowed through her newly at O'Reilly's words and look. "I don't deserve such a compliment, but she deserves everything. If I've behaved badly to you, it was for her." "I know," said O'Reilly. "But you weren't precisely 'bad.' You were, on the whole, rather--wonderful. How did you get out of my room with the only door locked on the inside?" "Oh!" the girl cried, surprised, "I thought you'd guess. I went along the stone ledge under the window of your bedroom till I came to an open window of a room in the next suite." "I thought of that, when it was too late; but it seemed incredible." "It wasn't as hard to do as I was afraid it would be," said Clo. "The other window was open, the curtain was blowing out. I caught hold of it, and got along somehow, through not looking down. Then in the room where I went in, there was a man. He was at the door, and I scared him popping in that way at the window, so he let me run past. That's all." Firmly the girl closed the subject. "Let's talk about the pearls," she said. "Peterson was a wicked man. I can't pretend to be sorry he's been killed. He was acting for others higher up. I want to find Kit, not because I think she murdered him, but because I'm sure she's got the pearls. Who called out 'Come in!' in a man's voice, when Peterson was dead? We haven't got time to discuss the whole business before half-past eleven. Here comes my coffee! It's going to give me new life!" "You must need it. Try to nibble a few crumbs of this rusk," O'Reilly advised. "I've been thinking hard since you told me how 'Chuff' 'phoned to 'Pete,' and took you for Kit.
29303_284	science fiction	Archibald, Joe	Then we get another jolt. They bring us our chow and say it is angleworm and hellgrammite porridge as that is what the Subterro denizens live on mostly. There is a salad made out of what looks like skunk cabbage leaves. We found out later that Hitler's brain trust had made an artificial sun for the Subterrors and they had been given greens for the first time and increased in size over a hundred per cent. "We have got to escape," I says to my pals. "That is easy," Zahooli sniffs. "First we have to break through the walls here, get to the Mole which can't never move again, and then fight off maybe six million creeps. We would git reduced to cinders by ray Betsys the minute we hit the street." I sigh deeply and reach into my knapsack. I find some lamb stew and tapioca pudding capsules and split them with Zahooli and Wurpz. Then I come up with a little box and glance at the label. It says, URGOXA'S INSECT POWDER--Contains Radiatol. I get up nonchalantly and call the guard to the barred window. Beetlehead sticks his face in close and asks what I want. I empty some of the powder into the palm of my hand and then blow it into his face. The Subterro sentry's eyes cross. His face turns as pale as milk and he collapses like a camp stool. "Eureka!" I yelp. "We are in business, pals." I hide the box of bug powder when I hear two other creeps come running. They start yakking in Universa and in bug language both. Agrodyte Hitler appears and looks in at us. "What happened, Great One?" I ask very politely. "We will perform an autopsy," Hitler's grandson says, and turns to another beetlehead. "Open the door," he says. "I am showing my guests something before we exterminate them. Too bad about Voklogoo. Most likely a coronary entomothrombosis. Achtung! Raus mitt!" "It means get the lead out in old Germanic literature," I says to Wurpz and Zahooli. "It is curtains," D'Ambrosia gulps. "In about five minutes we will be residue." The Neofeuhrer is like all egomaniacs before him. He wants to brag. We get into a Subterro Jetjeep and drive about twenty miles through the underground countryside to the entrance to a cave guarded by some extra tall Subterrors.
63389_1778	western stories	Young, Elizabeth G.	But how soon can we find out?" "When court opens. As soon as Boykin comes up for trial, Garnett will appear as a witness against him in this case of assault that he arrested him for." "He attacked another man?" "Yes, he got into a fight up on the way to the reserve; ran his sheep under the fence onto Rudy Batt's land, and when Rudy set his dogs on the sheep, Boykin, or Hunter, leaped on him with a stick, just as he did on me, and beat him up." "Mercy! What a murderous creature! I'm glad some one arrested him at last." "Yes, that's another thing I want to stay over here for: to appear against him in court. He may get six months in the pen." "I hope he will. I wonder what he changed his name for? What a funny thing to do!" "That's not so uncommon. A man often skips the country and changes his name when he's done something and is afraid of the law. Garnett says that Hunter was herding cattle for the same outfit he was with, and that he was always quarreling with some one. Then one night he pulled a gun on one of the boys, and lit out without waiting to see whether he'd killed him or not." "Had he killed him?" "No, lucky for him. But you see he had filed on a homestead out there, and so he's got no right to this one." "Then we can surely get it." "Not so sure. As soon as Joyce sees what's going to happen, he may jump in and put another man on there." "O Bob! Could he? Would it be possible?" "Why not? If he's slick enough to have done it so often, it won't bother him to do it once more. But there's time enough to think about that later. You must hit for home now, if you're to make it before dark. Let's see. You need groceries, don't you?" "Yes. I forgot that to-day was Sunday." "Well, see here. Go to the hotel and ask the clerk, Dougherty, to telephone down to his brother at the mercantile company store. Jack Dougherty is bookkeeper there, and he's usually down at the store early Sunday morning; he'll let you in to get what you want.
42441_2837	western stories	Mulford, Clarence Edward	Th’ other feller grunts an’ sits up, bumpin’ his head solid against that fool rafter. No dead man that was shoved in a herd consigned to heaven ever used such language, which makes me all the shorer of where I am. But if hell’s hot we ’ve still got a long way to go. "He sits there rubbin’ his head an’ cussin’ steadily, an’ I ’m so moved by it that I compliments him. He jumps an’ bumps his head again, an’ looks at me close. ’D—d if you ain’t a husky corpse,’ he says. That settles it. I ain’t crazy, like I was hopin’, but I ’in dead. ’You an’ me is on th’ ragged edge of h—l,’ he adds. "’But who tipped _you_ off?’ I asks. ’They just shoved me in here an’ did n’t tell me nothin’ at all.’ "’Crazy as th’ devil,’ he grunts, lookin’ at me harder. "’Yo ’re a liar,’ I replies. ’I may be dead, but d—d if I ’m crazy!’ "’An’ I don’t blame you, either,’ he mused, sorrowful. ’Now you keep quiet till I gets somethin’ to eat,’ an’ he crawls into a li’l round hole at th’ other end of th’ room. "Purty soon I smell smoke again, an’ after a long time he comes back with some hot coffee an’ burned meat. I grab for th’ grub, an’ while I ’m eatin’ I demands to know where I am. "He laughs, real cheerful, an’ tells me. I ’m under his waggin, surrounded by canvas an’ any G—d’s quantity of snow. Th’ drift over us is fifteen foot high, th’ wind has died down, an’ it’s still snowin’ so hard he can’t see twenty feet. It is also away down below freezin’. "We stayed under that drift ’most three weeks, livin’ on raw meat after our firewood gave out. We didn’t suffer none from th’ cold, though, under all that snow an’ with all th’ blankets we had.
22466_63	science fiction	DeKy, Thornton	Kiron smiled too within his pumping heart. The words the Man had intoned had been placed in his still pregnable mind by the tele-teach phones and record that the last Master had prepared before death had halted his experiments. The actions of the Man toward the Woman, Kiron knew, was caused by the natural constituents that went to form his chemical body and govern his humanness. He, Kiron, had created a living man and woman. The Masters lived again because of him. They would sing and play and again people the magnificent crysolite city because he loved them and had kept on until success had been his. But then why not such a turnabout? Hadn't they, The Masters, created him a superb, thinking _robot_? Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Comet_ July 1941. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
4903_1531	detective and mystery stories	Allen, Grant	“Then come to my ward and see. After you have seen, you will perhaps believe me.” Nothing that I could say would get any further explanation out of her just then. “You would laugh at me if I told you,” she persisted; “you won't laugh when you have seen it.” We walked on in silence as far as Hyde Park Corner. There my Sphinx tripped lightly up the steps of St. George's Hospital. “Get Mr. Travers's leave,” she said, with a nod, and a bright smile, “to visit Nurse Wade's ward. Then come up to me there in five minutes.” I explained to my friend the house surgeon that I wished to see certain cases in the accident ward of which I had heard; he smiled a restrained smile--“Nurse Wade, no doubt!” but, of course, gave me permission to go up and look at them. “Stop a minute,” he added, “and I'll come with you.” When we got there, my witch had already changed her dress, and was waiting for us demurely in the neat dove-coloured gown and smooth white apron of the hospital nurses. She looked even prettier and more meaningful so than in her ethereal outside summer-cloud muslin. “Come over to this bed,” she said at once to Travers and myself, without the least air of mystery. “I will show you what I mean by it.” “Nurse Wade has remarkable insight,” Travers whispered to me as we went. “I can believe it,” I answered. “Look at this woman,” she went on, aside, in a low voice--“no, NOT the first bed; the one beyond it; Number 60. I don't want the patient to know you are watching her. Do you observe anything odd about her appearance?” “She is somewhat the same type,” I began, “as Mrs.--” Before I could get out the words “Le Geyt,” her warning eye and puckering forehead had stopped me. “As the lady we were discussing,” she interposed, with a quiet wave of one hand. “Yes, in some points very much so. You notice in particular her scanty hair--so thin and poor--though she is young and good-looking?” “It is certainly rather a feeble crop for a woman of her age,” I admitted. “And pale at that, and washy.” “Precisely.
32732_2574	detective and mystery stories	Oppenheim, E. Phillips (Edward Phillips)	Thank you so much for looking after me, Mr. Pratt." "It has been a great pleasure," Jacob assured her. "I hope I haven't kept you too long, and that your people won't be annoyed." The Marchioness, however, received them without any sign of displeasure and listened complacently to her daughter's account of their doings. "So nice of you, Mr. Pratt," she said, "to have looked after Lady Mary. So many of our friends are not down to-day that I am sure she would have had quite a dull time but for you. We shall see you on Thursday." "With great pleasure," Jacob answered truthfully. CHAPTER XVII "The aristocracy," Dauncey remarked the next morning, as he brought Jacob his private letters, "is sitting up and taking notice of us. Two coronets!" "Anything in the rest of the correspondence?" Jacob enquired, as he opened his desk and made himself comfortable. "Nothing worth your troubling about. Five or six addle-headed schemes for getting rid of your money, and about as many bucket shop prospectuses." Jacob opened the first of his two letters. It was dated from Belgrave Square and was simply a cordial reminder from the Marchioness of his promise to dine at Delchester House on the following Thursday. The second was dated from the same address, and Jacob read it over twice before he came to a decision. Dear Mr. Pratt, I know you will think me very foolish, but I am feeling most unhappy about the money which I thoughtlessly accepted this afternoon. It was really only a sovereign I asked you to put on Gerrard's Cross for me, and the remainder of the money, except nine pounds, surely belongs to you. Are you, by any chance, ever near Kensington Gardens about twelve o'clock? I walk there most mornings, and I should feel so much happier if I could have just a word with you about this. Please don't think I am quite mad. Sincerely yours, Mary Felixstowe. Jacob dictated a few letters, studied his stockbroker's list for half an hour, and drove to Kensington Gardens. Lady Mary was almost the first person he saw. She greeted him with a friendly little nod and led him from the broad avenue into one of the narrower paths. From the first he had been aware that Lady Mary, escaped from the shadow of her parents, was a very different person. "Well?"
21834_1401	love stories	Milne, James	You should have seen the languor in her eyes, the blushing red of her lips, the delicate contour of her arm, as she raised her glass to me and then bade me empty it. "'Ah,' said I, bowing and taking it from her hand, against whose baby pinkness the champagne sparkled; 'ah, it is good to see, chère Madame, that you know the ceremony of the Loving Cup, and how, elegantly, to express it.' My phrase of the Loving Cup took her, I saw, it and my significance in using it, and her dark eyes, her pouting lips, and the turn of her lovely head, all had a new meaning as, saying, 'To our Lady Venus, in New France,' I emptied the glass and set it on the table beside her. "We fell a-talking, Madame Angélique and I, and she was good enough to praise my French, and I said that, alas! it was not sufficient to do justice to her charms. She flushed with pleasure, and said archly that she wished her husband, Monsieur Pean, or even her very good friend the Intendant, would pay her like compliments. 'But,' she added, 'you Scotsmen are so gallant and so truthful,' and in her sweet French the token rang true. With it she raised her eyebrows, expecting me to confirm her raillery, which I did, for I said, 'Madame, truth is the only gallantry that tells twice, and so I am content to employ it, for I hope we are to be friends.' "It was a bold measure to take, but Madame Angélique, I judged, with her on-coming air, was precisely the woman who would respond to bold measures. She is none of your woo-me-slowly ladies, her bosom, as it rose and fell in her French laces, being eloquent of that. She is a singularly fine animal to whom Providence has, by an unusual generosity, given a soul, though mostly, maybe, it hides in the silken dalliance which is the note of Angélique. "You will perceive, my old friend and, I hope, old enemy, that I present to you a whole bouquet of charms: beauty of form, the radiance of a personality, and brains with an edge to flatter or flout. Very rarely does Providence dower so many graces to one woman, but they are all in Madame Angélique.
42423_1854	western stories	Whitson, John Harvey	Helen was the child of Steve and Pearl Harkness, and was now nearly two years old. “No,” said Justin, thinking of the plum bushes. “Are they out this way?” “I dunno where they air; but they said at the house Pearl come this way with Helen. That was more’n an hour ago. They was on horseback, she carryin’ Helen in front of her; and she had a tin bucket. So she must have been goin’ after plums. That fire made me worried about ’em.” He rode on toward the plum bushes, and Justin followed him, through the smoke that now filled the air and obscured the sun. Harkness’s horse was the speedier, and he disappeared quickly. As he vanished, Ben Davison dashed out of the smoke and rode across the mesa. In the roar and crackle of the fire Justin heard Harkness shout at Ben, but he could not distinguish the words. Justin called to Ben, repeating what he believed had been Harkness’s question, asking if he had seen Pearl and Helen; but Ben did not hear him, or did not wish to answer. He rode right on, as if frightened. And indeed that fire, which pursued him even as he fled, was not a thing to be regarded lightly. Yet Justin wondered at Ben’s action, his wonder changing to bewilderment when he saw that a woman’s saddle was on the horse Ben rode. A horrible suspicion was forced upon him. He knew that Ben had deteriorated; had become little better than a loafer about the stores of the little town, consorting with Clem Arkwright and kindred spirits. Arkwright had also changed for the worse. He had lost his position as justice-of-the-peace, and was now often seedy and much given to drinking. He was said to be an inveterate gambler, gaining an uncertain livelihood by the gambler’s arts. Ben Davison was never seedy. Whether he obtained his money from Davison or secured it in other ways Justin did not know, but Ben was always well dressed and had an air of prosperity. Ben was again the candidate of the ranch interests for the legislature. Lemuel Fogg, also representing the ranch interests, had secured for himself a nomination to the state senate; for which purpose he had become temporarily a resident of the town of Cliveden, some miles away, where he had established a branch of his Denver store.
32732_1564	detective and mystery stories	Oppenheim, E. Phillips (Edward Phillips)	she exclaimed. "He looks as though he had come out of a bandbox. I think he is perfectly sweet. What a lucky girl you are to know him, Sybil!" "You all seem to have taken such a fancy to him that you had better divide him up amongst you," Sybil suggested coldly. "I detest him." "Please introduce me," Grace Powers begged,--"that is, if you are sure you don't want him yourself." "And me," Mason echoed. "Can't I be in this?" the third man, young Lord Felixstowe, suggested, leaning forward and dropping the eyeglass through which he had been staring at Jacob. "Seems to me I am as likely to land the fish as any of you." Sybil thoroughly disliked the conversation and did not hesitate to disclose her feelings. "Mr. Pratt is only an acquaintance of mine," she declared, "and I do not wish to speak to him. If he has the temerity to accost me, I will introduce you all--not unless. It will serve him right then." Mason looked at her reprovingly. "My dear Miss Bultiwell," he said, "in the tortuous course of life, our daily life, an unpleasant action must sometimes be faced. If you remember, barely an hour ago, over our cocktails, we declared for a life of adventure. We paid tribute to the principle that the unworthy wealthy must support the worthy pauper. We are all worthy paupers." Grace Powers laughed softly. "I don't know about the worthiness," she murmured, "but you should see my dressmaker's bill!" "Useless, dear lady," Mason sighed. "We five are, alas! all in the same box. We must look outside for relief. Since I have studied your friend's physiognomy, Miss Bultiwell, I am convinced that an acquaintance with him is necessary to our future welfare. I can see philanthropy written all over his engaging countenance." "Mr. Pratt isn't a fool," Sybil observed drily. "Neither are we fools," Mason rejoined. "Besides," he went on, "you must remember that in any little exchange of wits which might take place between Mr. Pratt and ourselves, the conditions are scarcely equal. We have nothing to lose and he has everything. He has money--a very great deal of money--and we are paupers." "There are other things to be lost besides money," Sybil reminded him.
42423_3967	western stories	Whitson, John Harvey	“It would be only natural for me to like the man I have promised to marry, wouldn’t it?” “I was merely hoping that you love me; like is too mild a word.” Then they began to talk again of that delightful day, ever hastening nearer, as they believed, when they should be not merely lovers, but husband and wife. It was a pleasant dream, and they lingered by the way, as they contemplated its beauties. As they thus talked and loitered, Ben Davison came driving by in his clog-cart, with Clem Arkwright. Arkwright’s pudgy form was not quite so pudgy, for he had not lived as well of late, but his face and nose were as red as ever, and his old manner had not forsaken him. He bowed elaborately to both Lucy and Justin. “A great day,” he called, “a glorious day, and the old mountain is grand; just take a glance at it now and then as you ride along; you’ll never see anything finer!” Ben did not look at Justin; but to Lucy he shouted: “I’m going to town to sell the horse and dogcart. I told you I would. Arkwright knows a man who will buy them.” When Lucy called on Mary, she heard details of a story which Mary had not ventured to hint to Justin. Mary had made a discovery too long delayed. Ben’s frequent visits to Denver were not merely to see her; the real attraction was Sibyl Dudley. Sibyl was the recipient of most of the money Ben had been able to wring from his father or gain at gambling. Her calls for money had increased his recklessness. Sibyl was the horse-leech’s daughter, crying ever for more, and Ben was weak. Mary had pedestaled Sibyl and believed in her, refusing to see aught but goodness, until her foolish belief became no longer possible. Then, with her eyes opened, she marveled at her almost incomprehensible blindness. Why had she not seen before? If she had seen before she might have saved Ben, she thought. She recalled the genial Mr. Plimpton. Had Sibyl, by incessant demands for money, wrought the financial overthrow of Plimpton? Every suggestion that came to her now was sickening and horrible. Such an awakening is often disastrous in its results. Doubt of humanity itself is a fruit of that tree of knowledge, and that doubt had come to Mary. Lucy took the unhappy girl in her arms. She was herself grieved and shocked.
29278_2113	love stories	Bradley, Mary Hastings	" "It does not matter what you say or what you intend. You do not need to reassure me that you will not kiss me, Signor. That will not happen again." Maria Angelina's voice was like ice. "But you are not coming within this place." Tensely she confronted him. He loomed before her as a wolfish brute, seeking his comfort at this last cost of her pride. . . . But no man, she thought tragically, should ever say that he had spent the night within the same four walls. She sprang forward, her hands outstretched, then shrank back. She could not touch him. Not only the perception of the ludicrous folly of matching her strength against his withheld her, but some flaming fury against putting a hand upon a man who had so repudiated her. Her brain grew alert. Suddenly very intent and collected she stepped aside and Johnny Byrd came in. Close to the wall she pressed, edging nearer and nearer the door, and as he stumbled and fumbled with the blankets she gave a quick spring and flashed out. Like mad she ran across the clearing, through a thicket, and out again and away. On the instant he was after her; she heard his steps crashing behind her but she had the start of her swiftness and the speed of her desperation. Brambles meant nothing to her, nor the thickets nor branches. She flew on and on, lost in the darkness, his shouts growing fainter and fainter in her ears. At last, in a shrub, she stopped to listen. She could hear nothing. Then came a call--very faint. It came from the wrong direction. She had turned and doubled like a hare and Johnny was pursuing, if he still pursued, a mistaken way. She was safe . . . and she stood still for a few minutes to quiet her pounding heart and catch her gasping breath, and then she stole out, cautiously, anxiously hurrying, to make her own way down. She had no idea of time or of distance. Vaguely she felt that it was the middle of the night but that if she were quick, very quick, she might reach the Lodge before it was too disastrously late. She might meet a searching party out for them--there would be searching parties if people were truly worried at their absence. Of course if they thought it an elopement, they might not take that trouble. They might be merely waiting and conjecturing. If only Cousin Jim had not returned to New York!
34905_6771	adventure stories	Jones, P.	Vranic did not give him any answer. "Are you a sailor?" asked the boy, after a while. "No. I--I have some business in Italy." As soon as they were alongside the ship, Vranic called for the captain. The master, who was having his supper on deck, asked him what he wanted. "Are you bound for Naples?" "Yes." "Can you take me on board?" "As?" "As sailor? I'll work my way." "No. I have no need of sailors." "Then as a passenger?" "We are a cargo ship." "Still, if I make it worth your while?" "Our accommodation might not be such as would suit you." The captain suspected this man, who came to him in the midst of the darkness asking for a passage, of having perpetrated some crime. He felt sure that Budua was too hot a place for him, and that he was anxious to get away. "I can put up with anything--a sack on deck." "Climb up," replied the captain. Vranic managed to catch the rope ladder, and, after much difficulty, he climbed on board. The captain, seeing him and not liking his looks, felt confirmed in his suspicions; therefore he asked him a rather large sum, at least three times what he would have asked from anybody else. Vranic tried to haggle, but at last he paid the money down. The lad with the boat disappeared; still, he only felt safe when--a few hours afterwards--the anchor having been heaved, the sails spread, the ship began to glide on the waters, and the dim lights of Budua disappeared in the distance. The sea was calm, the breeze fair; the crossing of the Adriatic seemed likely to be a prosperous one. A bed having been made up for him in the cabin, Vranic, weary and worn out, lay down; and, notwithstanding all his torturing thoughts, his mind, by degrees, became clouded and he went off to sleep. It is true, he had hardly closed his eyes when he woke up again, thinking of Uros as he had seen him when the blood was gushing out of his wound; then a spectre even more dreadful to behold rose before his eyes. It was the _voukoudlak_, from which he was escaping.
29303_173	science fiction	Archibald, Joe	He paws at his dome and takes a hyperbenzadrine tablet. "Well, thank you, Septimus Spink. And have a good trip." It is Friday. We climb up the ladder and into the Magnificent Mole. "Check everything," I says to Wurpz. "You are the sub-strata astrogator." "Rogeria. I hope this worm can turn," Wurpz says. * * * * * Zahooli checks the instruments. We don't put on space suits, but have a pressure chamber built in to insure against the bends. I wave good-bye to the citizens outside and close the door. "I have got to git out," D'Ambrosia Zahooli says and heads for the door. "I forgot somethin'." "Huh?" "I forgot to resign," he says, and I pull a disintegrator Betsy on him and tell him to hop back to the controls. "Awright, we have computed the masses of fuel we need. Stand by for the takeoff--er, takedown. Eight seconds. Seven--Six--Five--Four--" "I know now my mother raised one idiot," Zahooli says. "Three seconds--two seconds--one second!" I go on. "Awright, unload the pile in one and three tubes! Then when we have gone about five hundred miles, give us the radium push." Whir-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-o-o-om! The Mole shudders like a citizen looking at his income tax bite and then starts boring. There is a big bright light all around us, changing color every second, then there is a sound like all the pneumatomic drills in all the universe is biting through a thousand four-inch layers of titanium plate. And with it is a rumble of thunder from all the electric storms since the snake bit Cleopatra. In less than five seconds we turn on the oxygen just in case, and I jump to the instrument panel and look at the arrow on a dial. "Hey," I yell, "we are makin' a thousand miles per hour through the ground!" "Don't look through the ports," Wurpz says. "In passin' I saw an angleworm three times the size of a firehose, and a beetle big enough to saddle." "Git into the compression chamber quick," I says to him. "You are gettin' hallucinations.
9649_961	adventure stories	Leslie, Lawrence J.	"Oh," said Steve, "you wouldn't have felt it much, for p'r'aps we'd have buried you with your clothes. But, however, are we going to coax him out of there, boys?" "I move Steve be appointed a committee of one to go and ask our friend the skunk to vacate the ranch," said Owen. "A good idea," added Max. "Steve, he's got a most convincing way with animals. They take to him on sight." "Yes, that five-pronged buck did, you're right, Max," admitted the candidate for fresh honors. "But I draw the line on skunks." "They ain't got a line; Uncle Jim says it's a stripe," vociferated Bandy-legs. "But the day's nearly done and we've got to do something about it," remarked Trapper Jim. "Can't one of you think up a way? He acts like he meant to stay in there as long as the feed holds out." "Perhaps he's heard the dogs," suggested Owen. "We've got them tied up close by, and every little while one gives a yelp." "They seem to just know there's something up," declared Bandy-legs. "S-s-sure t-t-thing," added Toby, seriously. "Max, haven't you got a plan?" asked the owner of the cabin, turning toward the other eagerly, as though he guessed that if they found help at all it would be in this quarter. "I was just thinking of something," replied the boy, smiling. "Yes, go on," Trapper Jim continued. "We couldn't coax him out, and if we tried to frighten the little rascal it'd be all day with our staying in that cabin again while we boys are up here. But perhaps he might be made to feel so unpleasant in there that he'd be glad to move off." "Good for you, Max; I can see you've got an idea," cried out Jim, approvingly. "I don't think skunks like smoke any more than any other wild animals!" Max ventured. "Smoke!" ejaculated Steve. "Hallelujah! Max has caught on to a bully good idea. Let's smoke the little beggar out. Everyone get busy now." "Hold on," said Trapper Jim, catching Steve by the sleeve again; "go slow.
31870_1237	western stories	Marlowe, Amy Bell	And now he's going to come for his share----" "Come for his share, Daddy?" asked Frances, in surprise. "Yes--sir-ree--sir!" chuckled the old ranchman. "Think I'm going to let old Lon stay in that soldiers' home? Not much!" "But will he be able to travel here to the Panhandle?" "Of course! What the matter is with Lon, he's been shut indoors. I know what it is. Why! he's younger than I am by a year or two." "But if he can't travel alone----" "I'll go after him! I'll hire a private car! My goodness! I'll hire a whole train if it's necessary to get him out of that Bylittle place! That's what I'll do! "And he shall live here with us--so he shall! He and I will divide this treasure just as I've been aching to do for years. You shall have jewels then, my girl!" "But, dear!" gasped Frances, "you are not well enough to go so far." "Now, don't bother, Frances. Your old dad isn't dead yet--not by any means! I'll be all right in a day or two." But Captain Rugley was not all right in so short a time. He actually grew worse. Frances sent a messenger for the doctor the very next morning. Whether it was from the exposure of the night the stranger tried to climb over the _hacienda_ roof or not, Captain Rugley took to his bed. The physician pronounced it rheumatic fever, and a very serious case indeed. CHAPTER X THE MAN FROM BYLITTLE Responsibility weighed heavily upon the young shoulders of Frances of the ranges in these circumstances. Old Captain Rugley insisted upon being out of doors, ill as he was, and they made him as comfortable as possible on a couch in the court where the fountain played. Ming was in attendance upon him all day long, for Frances had many duties to call her away from the ranch-house at this time. But at night she slept almost within touch of the sick man's bed. He did not get better. The physician declared that he was not in immediate danger, although the fever would have to run its course.
34369_2668	detective and mystery stories	Clark, Joan	" "Where?" "In Bresham's Department Store. I think it's the same ring that was stolen the afternoon I met you there." "Laponi does bear a slight resemblance to the shoplifter," Rosanna admitted thoughtfully. "Only the store thief was a much older man." "Disguised perhaps. Oh, I may be wrong, but at least it will do no harm to have Father look into the matter." "When he gets your wire, Penny, he'll probably be so alarmed that he'll send word for you to start back to Mt. Ashland at once." "Not Dad. He'd rather catch a crook than eat. I'm sure he'll help me." "When will you send the wire?" "Right away. I'd like to leave the house before Laponi sees me." However, as the girls stepped out into the hall a few minutes later they heard loud voices coming up from the living room. Penny instantly recognized Laponi's sharp tones and paused at the top of the stairs to peer down. "It's Max and Caleb Eckert," she reported in a whisper. "My, what a quarrel they're having!" The girls listened for a minute but the voices of the two men died to a low murmur and they could distinguish only an occasional word. "Unless you want Laponi to see you we'd better slip down the back way," Rosanna suggested. Using the rear stairs the girls were able to leave the house without being observed. They drove directly to Andover where Penny dispatched a lengthy wire to her father. She requested him to learn all he could concerning Max Laponi and if possible to send her a complete description of the diamond ring which had been stolen from the department store. "I wonder why Caleb and Max Laponi were going at each other in such dreadful fashion?" Rosanna mused as they drove back toward the Winters' mansion. Penny had been pondering over the same question. "I suppose Caleb may be suspicious of him," Rosanna went on when Penny did not answer. "Possibly. Old Caleb hasn't acted too honestly himself, Rosanna." "I know he hasn't. He doesn't like to answer questions and his interest in Mr. Winters' safe is rather puzzling. It seems to me that everyone at Raven Ridge acts queerly." "Including me?" Penny teased. Rosanna laughed and squeezed her arm affectionately. "Of course I don't mean you.
60947_103	science fiction	Anvil, Christopher	Several hours later, a thin flexible cable shot out from shallow water at the edge of the junglelike coastline. The cable whipped around the trunk of a tree well back from the water's edge, there was a faint low hum, a grating noise, and something slid up over the rocks and pebbles and came to rest among the tangled trunks and roots of the trees. A moment later, Dan was out and dragging the boat further inland. When he was satisfied that the boat was safe, he glanced at his watch. The planet's large moon should soon be up and he intended to waste no time making his position more secure. He broke open a carton of the little mataform transceivers, clipped several of them on small, almost completely transparent gliders, and checked to be sure the little auxiliary motors of the gliders were in working order. He slid on a helmet that fit tightly over his head and eyes, and sent up the first glider. As the faint whir of the small engine receded, Dan could see before him in the helmet a clear view of the sea, with the thin rim of the planet's moon just rising, huge and blood-red, over the horizon. The small sensor unit on the glider sent back an image from a safe height above the forest, and Dan switched the helmet from this glider long enough to send up another. By dawn, he had landed gliders, with their small mataform transceivers, in isolated spots outside three moderate-sized cities within range of the boat. Dan then took another of the mataform units and buried it. Standing nearby, he mentally pronounced a key word. As he did this, the electro-chemical change in a nervous tract triggered a tiny implanted device that sent its imperceptible signal to the mataform transceiver. The transceiver interpreted the signal, and for an instant Dan sensed a shift in the pattern of things around him. Abruptly he was standing in the clearing where he had brought down the first glider. Around him were several tall wind-thrown trees. In the gray light of early dawn, he could barely make out the glider and little mataform unit clipped to it. A few minutes later, the unit was temporarily hidden, he had returned the glider to the boat, and he was picking up the second glider in a badly burned tract of forest near the second city. * * * * * When the three mataform units were all hidden, Dan paused for a moment to think through the next step.
33466_1092	detective and mystery stories	Reeve, Arthur B. (Arthur Benjamin)	She did not seem to be able to add much to the scanty stock of facts we had, even after repeating the story of her discovery of Rawaruska, which was substantially as the purser had already told it. "I--I think perhaps Mr. Kennedy ought to question Cecilie," she suggested finally, turning toward De Guerre, who nodded his assent. A sudden movement in the passageway followed, and the door opened quietly. A man entered, a youngish fellow of fine physique and attractive face. I recognized him immediately as Dr. Preston. His apparently usually debonair manner was visibly subdued by the presence of death. Evidently he had just heard that someone was investigating the tragedy and had hastened to be present. Both De Guerre and Elsa nodded to him, a trifle coldly. Only a moment did he pause to look at the drawn face on the pillow, then stood apart, ill at ease until Kennedy had finished his minute examination. As Kennedy moved away from the bed, Dr. Preston contrived to place himself near him and apart from the rest. "Mr. Kennedy," he began in a husky undertone, "they tell me you have been engaged to investigate this--this awful affair." Kennedy assented. "If there is anything I can do to help you," Preston added anxiously, "I hope you will command me. In fact," he added as Kennedy nodded while Preston glanced covertly at De Guerre and Miss Hoffman, "I hope you'll get at the truth." "Thank you," responded Kennedy, meeting his eye squarely this time; "I shall be glad to call on you if occasion arises." I watched Preston closely, not quite making out just what he was driving at, nor the reason for the strained relations that now seemed to exist among the former friends. Still following Kennedy's every motion, Preston retired to the position of a more than interested spectator. CHAPTER VIII THE ANESTHETIC VAPORIZER Craig had completed a hasty search of the room, with its little dressing table, two trunks, and a cabinet. Everything seemed to have been kept in a most neat and orderly manner by the attentive Cecilie, who was apparently a model servant. The little white bathroom was equally immaculate, and Kennedy passed next to an examination of the little room of the French maid. Cecilie was a pretty, dark little being, with snapping black eyes, the type of winsome French maid that one would naturally have expected Rawaruska, with her artist's love of the beautiful, to have picked out to serve her dainty self.
36497_551	love stories	Beerbohm, Max, Sir	He would keep some little part of his patrimony, enough for him in the wood with Jenny, but no more. "I shall be quite poor, Jenny!" he said. And they talked of the things that lovers love to talk of, how happy they would be together and how economical. As they were passing Herbert's pastry shop, which as my little readers know, still stands in Kensington, Jenny looked up rather wistfully into her lover's ascetic face. "Should you think me greedy," she asked him, "if I wanted a bun? They have beautiful buns here!" Buns! The simple word started latent memories of his childhood. Jenny was only a child after all. Buns! He had forgotten what they were like. And as they looked at the piles of variegated cakes in the window, he said to her, "Which are buns, Jenny? I should like to have one, too." "I am almost afraid of you," she said. "You must despise me so. Are you so good that you deny yourself all the vanity and pleasure that most people love? It is wonderful not to know what buns are! The round, brown, shiny cakes, with little raisins in them, are buns." So he bought two beautiful buns, and they sat together in the shop, eating them. Jenny bit hers rather diffidently, but was reassured when he said that they must have buns very often in the cottage. Yes! he, the famous toper and _gourmet_ of St. James's, relished this homely fare, as it passed through the insensible lips of his mask to the palate. He seemed to rise, from the consumption of his bun, a better man. But there was no time to lose now. It was already past two o'clock. So he got a chaise from the inn opposite the pastry-shop, and they were swiftly driven to Doctors' Commons. There he purchased a special licence. When the clerk asked him to write his name upon it, he hesitated. What name should he assume? Under a mask he had wooed this girl, under an unreal name he must make her his bride. He loathed himself for a trickster. He had vilely stolen from her the love she would not give him. Even now, should he not confess himself the man whose face had frightened her, and go his way? And yet, surely, it was not just that he, whose soul was transfigured, should bear his old name.
64835_39	western stories	Thompson, Will H.	“A month after Tigre’s departure I visited Pico. Never before had I seen the garden so beautiful. The intense heat of the afternoon failed at sunset, and the full moon rose in cloudless beauty beyond the crenelated wall of the Canille Mountains. The air was delicious in its clearness and serenity. So great was the temptation to escape the stifling heat, still retained by the rooms, that Isola yielded to her father’s request and mine, and came out upon the east porch and sat for an hour listening to our talk, but taking no part therein. “The soft moonlight fell over her like a veil. It seemed more to conceal than to reveal her. It dimmed the traces of sorrow and softened the unnatural luminosity of her eyes. She was very beautiful and, as I watched her face from my position in the shadow of the great clematis vine, her expression of hopelessness and terror was almost unbearable. I was younger then than now, and, as I said, Isola Pico was very beautiful. “Moving my seat into the light, I looked across the silent garden and little shining river to the highlands beyond. In the silvery glory the landscape came out like a cameo. The garden seemed alert and watching with a thousand eyes. Beyond the garden the slender river gleamed in its stony bed. Wasted by the Summer’s heat, it was too weak to grieve. In the lowland beyond the river a space of alfalfa ran to the first swell of the foothills. Upon the plain at the base of the rise, a great rock, deeply imbedded in the earth, and rising fifty feet above the surface, was all in shadow; but, as the moon overlooked the mountain crest, the top of the rock seemed slowly to rise from out the darkness and break into the white flood. “This movement appeared so real and affirmative that I turned to Isola to learn if she had noticed it. She did not heed my action, but sat with her eyes fixed upon the rock with such a stare as one might have who saw the rending of the solid earth. Quickly turning, I saw that on the top of the rock a man was standing, with lifted face and folded arms. The pose was grandly pathetic. The form looked larger than human in the wan moonlight.
3641_1546	love stories	Hamilton, Cosmo	It was, at any rate, all to the good that Joan kept her promise and utterly refused to be turned by the pleadings and blandishments of Cannon and Hosack. They drove together to Palgrave's elaborate house, a faithful replica of one of the famous Paris mansions in the Avenue Wagram and sat down to a little supper in Alice's boudoir. They made a curious picture, these two children, one just over twenty, the other under nineteen; and as they sat in that lofty room hung with French tapestries and furnished with the spindle-legged gilt chairs and tables of Louis XIV, they might have been playing, with all the gravity and imitative genius of little girls in a nursery, at being grown up. While the servants moved discreetly about, Joan kept up a rattle of impersonalities, laughing at Cannon's amazing mustache and Gargantuan furniture, enthusing wildly over Caruso's once-in-a-century voice, throwing satire at Mrs. Cooper Jekyll's confirmed belief in her divine right to queen it, and saying things that made Alice chuckle about the d'Oylys--that apparently ill-matched pair. She drank a glass of champagne with the air of a connoisseur and finally, having displayed an excellent appetite, mounted a cigarette into a long thin mother-of-pearl holder, lighted it and sank with a sigh into the room's one comfortable chair. "Gilbert gave me a cigarette holder like that," said Alice. "Yes? I think this comes from him," said Joan. "A thoughtful person!" That Joan was not quite sure from whom she received it annoyed Alice far more than if she had boasted of it as one of Gilbert's numerous gifts. She needed no screwing up now to say what she had rather timidly brought this cool young slip of a thing there to discuss. "Will you tell me about yourself and Gilbert?" she asked quietly. There was no need for Joan to act complete composure. She felt it. "What is there to tell, my dear?" "I hope there isn't anything--I mean anything that matters. But perhaps you don't know that people have begun to talk about you, and I think you owe it to me to be perfectly frank." Even then it didn't occur to Joan that there was anything serious in the business. "I'll be as frank as the front page of The Times--'All the news that's fit to print,'" she said. "What do you want to know?" Alice proved her courage.
61090_695	science fiction	Westlake, Donald E.	They all sat and looked at the jangling phone. Then Marshall and Lang moved simultaneously, but it was Marshall who answered. "Marshall here." The others watched him, heard him say, "Yes, Miss English. Right." And reach forward on the desk for pad and pencil. "Right, got it. You're sure that's the one? Right. Thank you very much." Marshall cradled the phone, and looked at the others. "The woman came in. Her name is Mrs. Albert J. Clayhorn, and she lives on Newkirk Avenue. Miss English said the number would be near East 17th." "Five blocks from the bank," said Stevenson. "And about eighty blocks from Higgins' house," said Roberts. "That's why it took him so long to go to work that time. He saw what was happening on television, grabbed his weapon and his trusty bike and went riding out to Canarsie. The Scorpion rides again!" Marshall looked at his watch. "It's only a little after one," he said. "We can talk to the mother before the boy comes home." "Right," said Stevenson, getting to his feet. V Mrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn was a short, roundish, pleasant-faced woman in a flower-pattern apron. She looked at the identification Marshall showed her, and smiled uncertainly. "FBI? I don't under--Well, come in." "Thank you." The living room was neat and airy. The four men settled themselves. Marshall, uncomfortably, was the spokesman. "I'm going to have to explain this, Mrs. Clayhorn," he said, "and frankly, it isn't going to be easy. You see--" He cleared his throat and tried again. "Well, here's the situation. Someone in New York has a rather strange machine of some sort--well, it's sort of a heat machine, I suppose you could say--and we've traced it, through its use, to, uh--well, to your son." "To Eddie?" Mrs. Clayhorn was looking very blank. "Eddie?" "I take it," said Marshall, instead of answering, "that your son hasn't told you about this machine." "Well, no. Well, of course not. I mean, he's just a little boy. I mean, how could he have any sort of machine? What is it, a blowtorch, something like that?
53456_2009	science fiction	Elam, Richard M. (Richard Mace)	They worked out an exchange. The Lunar stamps were curious specimens, imperforate and circular. They depicted the Lunar hemisphere which faces Earth. The single-stamp issue had been distributed on the fiftieth anniversary of man’s first landing on the moon and was much in demand. Suddenly there was a knock on the outer door of the compartment. Hugh got up and went to the door. As he walked, his magnetic-sole shoes rasped against the metallic floor like a knife being honed. He opened the door. A man with the face and build of a leprechaun looked at Hugh. His pale but alert blue eyes peered steadily into Hugh’s. Hugh also began to wonder why this customer at Davone’s Philatelic Shop should be making the voyage to Mars with them. “Yes, sir?” Hugh asked. “May I come in?” the man asked. “My name is Oscar Benasco.” Hugh hesitated, thinking about the valuable cargo, then he replied reluctantly, “Yes.” “Your father certainly has a fine shop, Hugh Davone,” the elderly man said brightly as he entered. “However, I was disappointed to find out that he had packed up some of his choicest space items and was selling them to Mr. Elfs, a dealer on Mars.” “You know quite a lot, Mr. Benasco,” Link remarked coolly. “Yes, I pride myself on my shrewdness,” Mr. Benasco replied in a modest manner. His roving eyes came to rest on the boys’ albums. “I see you two have collections of your own.” “Nothing very valuable,” Hugh replied. “But we enjoy our stamps just the same.” “Ah, yes,” Benasco said. His eyes brightened with eagerness and he placed the tips of his outspread fingers together. “Speaking of valuable items—those you are taking to Mars—no doubt you keep them in your compartment safe. I wonder if you might show them to me?” “I’m sorry, Mr. Benasco,” Hugh said, “but I promised my dad I wouldn’t take the stamps out to show anyone until they were safely in the hands of Mr. Elfs on Mars.” Benasco looked completely crestfallen. His rounded shoulders slumped and the most pained expression covered his face. “Surely just a look—” he pleaded.
52683_3079	detective and mystery stories	Powell, Van	“And what do you think you’d do?” Nicky demanded. “This,” answered Cliff. “Suppose me to be Huayca. Well, I slipped away and tried an ambush in the white pass and then reported to my ruler, the Inca. Then, a little later, I found out that my ambush had not frightened the white invaders away. Do you see what I am trying to make plain?” “Yes,” Tom nodded. “When the white invaders escaped from the dungeons and you heard about it, you might go with a party—or even lead it, as Whackey, of course—to destroy them if they were in the secret pass.” “How would he know that they were not drowned in the tunnel?” Nicky objected. “How could he believe they were in the secret pass?” “Easy!” Cliff said. “We—the white invaders were seen in the open part of the aqueduct by a chasqui—remember? Well, that proved they were not drowned in the flooded tunnels. But they were not found in the aqueduct, either, when daylight came.” “That’s so,” Nicky agreed. “Then what?” “Then—still pretending I am Huayca!—I would think they might have climbed out or someone might have helped—the Spaniard, maybe. The high priest might tell me that Pizzara knew about the secret pass or had heard of it. So I would go there.” “Well,” said Bill, “that all fits in. Pizzara was caught during the night——” “There!” cried Cliff, eagerly. “That is the point. It was at night! His band was wiped out. Now—if I were Whackey, I think I would go back there in daylight! And——” “I see!” Tom put in. “Even at night the party could see that stuff was strewn all around. And in daytime—it was gone!” “That is just what I mean!” Cliff was eager. “By gravy!” Bill broke in, “I didn’t even think about that. Of course the average Peruvian is no detective and might not go as deep as that. But he would wonder what happened to all the stuff!” “Huayca was a very intelligent fellow,” Mr. Whitley admitted. “If he did as Cliff said——” He stopped, thinking deeply. “Then he might gather a party and follow us!” Nicky exclaimed.
65450_118	science fiction	Reinsberg, Mark	"One of us has to go back to Titan and tell them our terms." "Isn't that pretty risky?" said Matt. "They'll hold that guy hostage." "No, we aren't doing it that way." Jake withdrew an envelope from his coat. "We just get there and mail this registered letter to the city manager. It says, deliver the money to Hyperion, and no monkey business or we destroy the oxygen. That means, the city dies if anyone tries to tail us or pull a double cross." "They won't take a chance when so many lives are at stake," said Henry. "And we'll each make ten million on the deal." "All right," said Matt. "Which of us goes?" Jake cut up three slips of paper. "Let's draw lots," he suggested. "That's the fairest way." Henry drew the assignment. "Be sure to bring back some whiskey," said Matt. "We forgot to lay in a supply." Henry took off for Titan. Jake turned to Matt. "Look," he said, "I arranged it so Henry would take the letter because I wanted to talk to you. When you come right down to it, Matt, what need do we have for three people in the deal?" Matt slowly nodded his thick black head of hair, as comprehension spread over his features. "With just two people to divide up the pot, our shares would be fifteen million apiece," said Jake. "And less chance of getting caught afterwards," Matt added. They shook hands. Henry returned from Titan eight hours later. "I mailed the letter," he said. "And I bought the whiskey." "Good," said Matt, "pour us all a drink." Henry started to uncork the bottle. Jake and Matt reached for their guns and shot him simultaneously. A look of bewilderment crossed his baby face as he fell dead. The whiskey bottle tipped over, but Matt retrieved it quickly, before more than half had spilled. With an amused look at the dead partner, he lifted the bottle to his lips and took a deep swig. Matt handed the bottle to Jake, who drank several ounces. But his enjoyment was interrupted by a bleating sound from the ship's proximity alarm. "There's another ship nearby!" said Jake in alarm. A rocket ship appeared suddenly overhead. "That's a police ship from Titan!"
32732_2974	detective and mystery stories	Oppenheim, E. Phillips (Edward Phillips)	Surely this involves a certain amount of what a purist would call deceit?" "On the contrary," Jacob pointed out, "that is a fair bargain, because the two men have different ideas of the value of a thing, and each backs his own opinion." "But there are surely many cases," the Marquis argued, "in which the seller knows and the buyer does not know? Is it incumbent on the seller to impart to the buyer his superior knowledge? I think not. Without a doubt, business in the city is conducted on the general lines of the man knowing the most making the most. I look upon our little transaction as being exactly on parallel lines. We knew that the Shoreditch Music Hall was meant. The people who advanced the money thought that the Leicester Square Music Hall was meant. Therefore, we make the money." Jacob rose to his feet. He was feeling a little dazed. "Your ideas of commercial ethics, Marquis," he acknowledged, "are excellent in their way, but do you imagine that they will be shared by the members of your family who have parted with their money?" "I trust, sir," the Marquis replied stiffly, "that they will behave like sportsmen and see the humour of the transaction." "I hope they will!" Jacob murmured fervently, as he took his leave. "In any case," the Marquis concluded complacently, "their cheques have been cashed." CHAPTER XIX In the course of his financial peregrinations amongst the highways and byways of the city, Mr. Dane Montague made many acquaintances. It chanced that soon after the exploitation of the Shoreditch Empress Music Hall, a flotation which brought Mr. Montague many admirers from the underworlds of finance, it fell to his lot to give a luncheon party to celebrate the culmination of a subsidiary financial swindle and to plan further activities in the same direction. His guests were Philip Mason, the well-known man about town, and Joe Hartwell, the trans-atlantic young adventurer. After the third bottle of champagne, it transpired that the luncheon party had a further object. "It's queer that you should have run across the little beast, too," Mr. Dane Montague observed. "Got it laid by for him, haven't you?" Mason's good-looking but dissipated face was suddenly ugly. "If I could wring his neck," he muttered, "I'd do it to-morrow and thank my stars.
57415_1747	detective and mystery stories	Speight, T. W. (Thomas Wilkinson)	" "What if there should be, eh?" asked the Captain, with a quick, suspicious glance at his questioner. "Why simply this, sir," replied the landlord, "that I think I know of somebody who might perhaps take it off your hands, furniture and all." "Oh, indeed! Who's that?" asked the Captain. "A Mr. Norris, sir, who is stopping in the hotel. He says----" "What's his business here?" "Nothing in particular, sir: halted here quite promiscuous yesterday; been going about a bit to see places. He's not a gentleman by any means," added the landlord. "I hope I know a gentleman when I see one, Captain; but he seems to have plenty of money. Retired from business, I should put it. Says he should like to settle down in this part of the country, for it takes his fancy, and is on the look-out for what he calls a 'quiet little shanty' that would suit himself and his two grown up daughters. So I thought, Captain, that if----" "I understand," interrupted Lennox in his quick way. He paused for a moment or two, biting his lip, his eyes bent on the ground. "He looks awfully ill," was the landlord's unspoken thought, as he stood watching him. "But I suppose he goes the pace when he's in London. It's sure to tell on a man in the long-run." "It might be worth my while to see this Mr. Norris in the morning," said Lennox, breaking out of his reverie. "To tell you the truth, Butterby, I _have_ some notion of leaving Nullington." "So we heard. But I'm sorry to hear you say so, sir." "Nothing, however, is settled at present. You see my sister finds this part of the country a little too bleak for her, and I myself have been out of sorts for some time. We have some idea of travelling for a year or two. I shall see how she is when I next run up to town. We may perhaps come back here, after all." "We shall miss you, sir, if you don't," spoke Butterby. Captain Lennox looked undecided: as if he could not make up his mind. A minute or two passed before he spoke.
42069_911	adventure stories	Wheeler, Ruthe S.	I'll have a little lunch ready when you get back." Janet put on her coat, but paused at the door and called to her mother. "If Helen comes before I get back, tell her I'll be along soon." Janet enjoyed the walk to the Times office for the air was invigorating. The Times was housed in a narrow two-story building with its press in the basement. The news department was on the second floor with the city editor's desk in front of a large window where he could look the full length of the main business street of Clarion. Pete Benda, thin and too white-faced for his own good health, saw Janet come in. "Here's a desk and typewriter you can use," he said. "I'm counting on having that story in less than an hour. You'll have to come through, young lady." Janet flushed at Pete's appellation, for the city editor of the Times was only a little older than she. Oh well, perhaps Pete was twenty-two, but she could remember when he had been in high school, playing football, and one of the best ends in the state. Janet rolled some copy paper into the typewriter and looked rather blankly at the sheet. It was hard now to concentrate on the events which had been so tragically real the night before. If she could only get the first sentence to click the rest would come easily. She tried one phrase. That wouldn't do; not enough action in it. Ripping the sheet of paper from the typewriter, she inserted another and tried again. This was better. Perhaps it would do; at least she had started, and the words came now in a smooth flow for Janet could type rapidly, thanks to a commercial course in her junior year. Pete Benda, on his way to the composing room, looked over her shoulder and read the first paragraph but Janet, now engrossed in the story, hardly noticed him. Pursing his lips in a low whistle, a trick that he did when pleased, Pete went on about his work. Janet finished one page and then another. Even a third materialized under the steady tapping of her fingers on the keyboard. Then she was through. Three pages of copy, three pages of short, sharp sentences, of adjectives that caught and held the imagination, that gave a picture of the cold and the apprehension of those in the bus, of the relief, almost hysterical, when rescue came. Janet didn't read it over.
62907_4835	adventure stories	Jewell, Edward Alden	Also there seemed something cryptic about her whole destiny. The _Skipping Goone_ had always seemed like a nice, plump, amiable, sensible old lady, whereas about the _Star of Troy_ there was something ageless, lithe, and alert, something unfathomable: the very rush of water under her bow had a mysterious thrill behind it. Here was a bow accustomed to explore strange waters. Yes, the two craft were wholly alien creatures. Yet Jerome found the subtler atmosphere of the taciturn, drab tramp no less alluring. In place of the swishing sails and the comfortable strain of rigging there was now the rhythmic plod of an engine. He grew to love it. By all means there was a wealth of romance here, if of a less garrulous and gypsy sort, and the former clerk responded to it keenly—though soberly, too, for the old Jerome was no more. His talks with Captain Utterbourne held for him the fascination of a piece of strange, vivid fiction. What a mine the man was; what a life he lived! As for his life, no one but Utterbourne himself could really know the full richness of it, since with no one did he choose to share it save in flashes and fractions. The talk now largely centered about the project of the new Mediterranean experiment. But Jerome felt that although the Captain might appear for a moment wholly engrossed in it, even this venture, important and daring, even, as it might seem, was but one venture out of a score, perhaps, with which his brilliant mind was ever busy. The evenings were rich and unforgettable, with the _Star of Troy_ slipping so steadily on through tropic seas and the little white cabin, with the map of the world covering all one wall, so cheerful and bright. They would gather here after dinner: Utterbourne, Elsa, Jerome, and usually one or two of Utterbourne’s men—Sutherland or Sargeant or maybe Rutherford, keen-faced and clever, playing their parts in the mysterious game about which no mind save one could really know all. The China boy, smiling with his usual affectionate understanding (though sometimes, too, with that more cryptic smile which belongs to the unsearchable East) would mix them suave, delicious drinks. And they would smoke and talk of life in many climes and under all sorts of conditions. Captain Utterbourne, whatever the theme, could hold them in a thrall, when it pleased him. Sometimes he would elect silence.
29954_55	science fiction	De Vet, Charles V.	"It is lighted, dimly, but there is nothing for me to see." Blue veins showed through the flesh of his cheeks like watermarks on translucent paper. He paused and I urged, "Go on." "I am alone," he said. "The realities I knew no longer exist, and I am damp and cold. All about me is a sense of gloom and dejection. It is an apprehension--an emanation--so deep and real as to be almost a tangible thing. The walls to either side of me seem to be formed, not of substance, but rather of the soundless cries of melancholy of spirits I cannot see. "I am waiting, waiting in the gloom for something which will come to me. That need to wait is an innate part of my being and I have no thought of questioning it." His voice died again. "What are you waiting for?" I asked. "I do not know," he said, his voice dreary with the despair of centuries of hopelessness. "I only know that I must wait--that compulsion is greater than my strength to combat." The tone of his voice changed slightly. "The tunnel about me is widening and now the walls have receded into invisibility. The tunnel has become a plain, but the plain is as desolate, as forlorn and dreary as was the tunnel, and still I stand and wait. How long must this go on?" He fell silent again, and I was about to prompt him with another question--I could not afford to let the time run out in long silences--but abruptly the muscles about his eyes tightened and subtly a new aspect replaced their hopeless dejection. Now they expressed a black, bottomless terror. For a moment I marveled that so small a portion of a facial anatomy could express such horror. "There is something coming toward me," he said. "A--beast--of brutish foulness! Beast is too inadequate a term to describe it, but I know no words to tell its form. It is an intangible and evasive--thing--but very real. And it is coming closer! It has no organs of sight as I know them, but I feel that it can see me. Or rather that it is aware of me with a sense sharper than vision itself. It is very near now. Oh God, the malevolence, the hate--the potentiality of awful, fearsome destructiveness that is its very essence! And still I cannot move!
58155_4309	western stories	Mulford, Clarence Edward	" "What's th' use of makin' trouble for yoreself by bein' stubborn?" asked McCullough. He looked at Corwin. "Sheriff, I know for shore that he never knowed any Bill Long or Red Thompson until after he come to Mesquite. What news did you get about th' rustlers?" "Huh!" muttered Corwin, searching the face of the trail-boss, whose reputation for veracity was unquestioned. "I ain't got any news about 'em. Once they got on th' hard stretch they could go for miles an' not leave no trail. I'm figgerin' on spendin' quite some time north of where Lukins' boys quit an' turned back. There's three cows missin' that are marked so different from any I've ever seen that I'll know 'em in a herd of ten thousan' head; an' when they're cut out for me to look at there's some marks on horns an' hoofs that'll prove whose cows they are. I'm takin' a couple of his boys with me when I go, to make shore. Of course, I don't know that we'll ever see 'em, at all. Well," he said, turning toward his horse, "reckon I'll be goin'." He waved to the deputies, who approached, picked up their guns under Johnny's alert and suspicious scrutiny, and mounted. "As for you, Nelson, _next_ time I'll be dead shore; an' I'll mebby shoot first, on a gamble, an' talk afterward. So-long." Watching the three arms of the law ride away and out of sight, Johnny swung around and faced the grinning trail-boss. "You told th' truth, Mac; but I wonder if Corwin heard it like I did?" McCullough shrugged his shoulders. "Who cares? I'm thankin' you for an interestin' lesson in how to beat th' drop; but I reckon I'm gettin' too old to be quick enough to use it. I reckon Waffles has been tellin' th' truth about yore Bar-20 outfit. Where you goin' now?" "Off to see a couple of better men from that same outfit," grinned Johnny. He went on with his preparations and soon rode Pepper toward a gap in the southern chain of hills, leading a loaded pack horse behind him.
1028_2982	love stories	Brontë, Charlotte	No boasting--no heroics; I won’t hear them. What is she? To what caste does she belong?” I smiled. Hunsden unconsciously laid stress on the word caste, and, in fact, republican, lord-hater as he was, Hunsden was as proud of his old ----shire blood, of his descent and family standing, respectable and respected through long generations back, as any peer in the realm of his Norman race and Conquest-dated title. Hunsden would as little have thought of taking a wife from a caste inferior to his own, as a Stanley would think of mating with a Cobden. I enjoyed the surprise I should give; I enjoyed the triumph of my practice over his theory; and leaning over the table, and uttering the words slowly but with repressed glee, I said concisely-- “She is a lace-mender.” Hunsden examined me. He did not SAY he was surprised, but surprised he was; he had his own notions of good breeding. I saw he suspected I was going to take some very rash step; but repressing declamation or remonstrance, he only answered-- “Well, you are the best judge of your own affairs. A lace-mender may make a good wife as well as a lady; but of course you have taken care to ascertain thoroughly that since she has not education, fortune or station, she is well furnished with such natural qualities as you think most likely to conduce to your happiness. Has she many relations?” “None in Brussels.” “That is better. Relations are often the real evil in such cases. I cannot but think that a train of inferior connections would have been a bore to you to your life’s end.” After sitting in silence a little while longer, Hunsden rose, and was quietly bidding me good evening; the polite, considerate manner in which he offered me his hand (a thing he had never done before), convinced me that he thought I had made a terrible fool of myself; and that, ruined and thrown away as I was, it was no time for sarcasm or cynicism, or indeed for anything but indulgence and forbearance. “Good night, William,” he said, in a really soft voice, while his face looked benevolently compassionate. “Good night, lad. I wish you and your future wife much prosperity; and I hope she will satisfy your fastidious soul.”
31699_2112	western stories	Mulford, Clarence Edward	" The tenderfeet were pugnacious, but doubtful of their ground; the trader was abashed by the keen knowledge of his guilt and the enormity of his offense. He was a just man and had no retort to make. The teamster, a bully and a rough, with a reputation to maintain, scowled around the closely packed circle, looking for sympathy, and found plenty of it because the crowd was anxious to see the corporal, as personifying authority, soundly thrashed. They felt that no one had any right to expect a man to stand guard in such a rain out in the cheerless dark for two hours, especially when it was admitted that there was no danger to be feared. Finding encouragement to justify his attitude, and eager to wipe out the sting of the lecture, the bully grinned nastily and took a step forward. "Reg'lar pit-cock, ain't ye?" he sneered. "High an' mighty with yer mouth, ain't ye? Goin' ter boss things right up ter th' hilt, _you_ air! Wall, ye--I'm wettin' yer primin', hyar an'----" Tom stopped the words with a left on the mouth, and while the fight lasted it was fast and furious; but clumsy brute strength, misdirected by a blind rage, could not cope with a greater strength, trained, agile, and cool; neither could a liquor soaked carcass for long take the heavy punishment that Tom methodically was giving it and come back for more. As the bullwhacker went down in the mud for the fifth time, there was a finality about the fall that caused his conqueror to wheel abruptly from him and face the ring of eager and disappointed faces. "I warn't too busy ter hear some o' th' remarks," he snarled. "Now's th' time ter back 'em up! If ye don't it makes a double liar out o' ye! Come on--step out, an' git it over quick!" He glanced at the two pugnacious tenderfeet. "You two make about one man, th' way we rate 'em out hyar; come on, both o' ye!" While they hesitated, Captain Woodson pushed through the crowd into the ring, closely followed by Tom's grim and silent friends, and a slender Mexican, the latter obviously solicitous about Tom's welfare. In a few moments the excitement died down and the crowd dispersed to its various wagons and pack animals.
9150_522	adventure stories	Verne, Jules	" "What sort of tricks?" asked Dick, who was almost as much interested as little Jack. "When he had to perform in public," continued Mrs. Weldon, "a lot of letters like yours, Jack, were spread out upon a table, and Munito would put together any word that the company should propose, either aloud or in a whisper, to his master. The creature would walk about until he stopped at the very letter which was wanted. The secret of it all was that the dog's owner gave him a signal when he was to stop by rattling a little tooth-pick in his pocket, making a slight noise that only the dog's ears were acute enough to perceive." Dick was highly amused, and said,-- "But that was a dog who could do nothing wonderful without his master." "Just so," answered Mrs. Weldon; "and it surprises me very much to see Dingo picking out these letters without a master to direct him." [Illustration: Negoro, with a threatening gesture that seemed half involuntary, withdrew immediately to his accustomed quarters.] "The more one thinks of it, the more strange it is," said Captain Hull; "but, after all, Dingo's sagacity is not greater than that of the dog which rang the convent bell in order to get at the dish that was reserved for passing beggars; nor than that of the dog who had to turn a spit every other day, and never could be induced to work when it was not his proper day. Dingo evidently has no acquaintance with any other letters except the two S V; and some circumstance which we can never guess has made him familiar with them." "What a pity he cannot talk!" exclaimed the apprentice; "we should know why it is that he always shows his teeth at Negoro." "And tremendous teeth they are!" observed the captain, as Dingo at that moment opened his mouth, and made a display of his formidable fangs. CHAPTER VI. A WHALE IN SIGHT. It was only what might be expected that the dog's singular exhibition of sagacity should repeatedly form a subject of conversation between Mrs. Weldon, the captain, and Dick. The young apprentice in particular began to entertain a lurking feeling of distrust towards Negoro, although it must be owned that the man's conduct in general afforded no tangible grounds for suspicion.
36170_5034	western stories	Cullum, Ridgwell	But somehow Hazel kept her eyes averted. "Now for the enchanted tunnel again," he cried, in a less serious mood. "More enchantment, more delight! And then--then to the serious criminal work we have on hand. Criminal. It sounds splendid. It sounds exciting. We're conspirators of the deepest dye." CHAPTER XVII THE CODE BOOK It seemed as though Peter McSwain never did anything without perspiring. He perspired now with the simple effort of thought. But it was a considerable effort and a considerable thought. He crowded more of the latter into five minutes, he assured himself, than a bankrupt Wall Street man could have done on the eve of settling day. The object of his thought was the telegraph operator and the subject of it the interesting thesis of bribery. Then, too, there were the side issues, which included David Slosson, a telegraph message, and two men waiting at the other end of things for the result of his share in the proceedings. He made no attempt at pleasant conversation with the row of guests lounging with feet skywards on the shady veranda. For the time at least the affairs of his hotel were quite secondary. It seemed to him just now that these men were the misfortunes of a commercial interest. They were the things that kept him living concealed beneath an exterior of polite attention which he detested. He had never had a chance of being his real self until this moment. There was work of a delicate nature to be performed, work which was to prove his ability in those finer channels where individuality would count and genuine cleverness must be displayed. A lot was depending upon his capacity. This feeling inspired him, and the dew on his forehead became a moist and shallow lake that was already overflowing its banks. At the end of five minutes, after having seen David Slosson leave the telegraph office and move off down the Main Street, this lake became a streaming torrent as he left the veranda and passed round to the back of the hotel. This retrograde movement was a part of his deeply laid plans. He had no object in visiting either his barn or his kitchens. The Chinese cook possessed no interest for him at the moment, and as for the hens and the team of horses, and his lame choreman who tended them, they had never been farther from his thoughts. He appeared interested, however, and mopped his forehead several times as he surveyed the scene with attentive eye. Then he passed on without a word. Now his route became circuitous.
2695_399	western stories	Harte, Bret	Jeff lumbered on clumsily. His high boots had become suddenly very heavy. “I'm so glad to see you. I've just tired poor mother out--I'm always tiring people out--and she's gone back to the house to write letters. Sit down, Mr. Jeff, do, please!” Jeff, feeling uncomfortably large in Miss Mayfield's presence, painfully seated himself on the edge of a very low stone, which had the effect of bringing his knees up on a level with his chin, and affected an ease glaringly simulated. “Or lie down, there, Mr. Jeff--it is so comfortable.” Jeff, with a dreadful conviction that he was crashing down like a falling pine-tree, managed at last to acquire a recumbent position at a respectful distance from the little figure. “There, isn't it nice?” “Yes, Miss Mayfield.” “But, perhaps,” said Miss Mayfield, now that she had him down, “perhaps you too have got something to do. Dear me! I'm like that naughty boy in the story-book, who went round to all the animals, in turn, asking them to play with him. He could only find the butterfly who had nothing to do. I don't wonder he was disgusted. I hate butterflies.” Love clarifies the intellect! Jeff, astonished at himself, burst out, “Why, look yer, Miss Mayfield, the butterfly only hez a day or two to--to--to live and--be happy!” Miss Mayfield crossed her knees again, and instantly, after the sublime fashion of her sex, scattered his intellect by a swift transition from the abstract to the concrete. “But you're not a butterfly, Mr. Jeff. You're always doing something. You've been hunting.” “No-o!” said Jeff, scarlet, as he thought of his gun in pawn at the “Summit.” “But you do hunt; I know it.” “How?” “You shot those quail for me the morning after I came. I heard you go out--early--very early.” “Why, you allowed you slept so well that night, Miss Mayfield.” “Yes; but there's a kind of delicious half-sleep that sick people have sometimes, when they know and are gratefully conscious that other people are doing things for them, and it makes them rest all the sweeter.” There was a dead silence.
2546_2082	western stories	Mulford, Clarence Edward	“Nice day, stranger,” replied the man with the rifle, “but don’t yu reckon yu’ve made a mistake?” Hopalong glanced at the number burned on a near-by stake and carelessly blew another smoke ring. He was waiting for the gun to waver. “No, I reckons not,” he answered. “Why?” “Well, I’ll jest tell yu since yu asks. This yere claim’s mine an’ I’m a reg’lar terror, I am. That’s why; an’ seein’ as it is, yu better amble some.” Hopalong glanced down the street and saw an interested group watching him, which only added to his rage for being in such a position. Then he started to say something, faltered and stared with horror at a point several feet behind his opponent. The “terror” sprang to one side in response to Hop-along’s expression, as if fearing that a snake or some such danger threatened him. As he alighted in his new position he fell forward and Hopalong slid a smoking Colt in its holster. Several men left the distant group and ran toward the claim. Hopalong reached his arm inside the door and brought forth his rifle, with which he covered their advance. “Anything yu want?” he shouted savagely. The men stopped and two of them started to sidle in front of two others, but Hopalong was not there for the purpose of permitting a move that would screen any gun play and he stopped the game with a warning shout. Then the two held up their hands and advanced. “We wants to git Dan,” called out one of them, nodding at the prostrate figure. “Come ahead,” replied Hopalong, substituting a Colt for the rifle. They carried their badly wounded and insensible burden back to those whom they had left, and several curses were hurled at the cowboy, who only smiled grimly and entered the hut to place things ready for a siege, should one come. He had one hundred rounds of ammunition and provisions enough for two weeks, with the assurance of reinforcements long before that time would expire. He cut several rough loopholes and laid out his weapons for quick handling. He knew that he could stop any advance during the day and planned only for night attacks. How long he could go without sleep did not bother him, because he gave it no thought, as he was accustomed to short naps and could awaken at will or at the slightest sound.
66030_3195	adventure stories	Gould, Nat	Yacka had spoken correctly, for towards sundown the familiar homestead came in sight. Yacka wished them to gallop on and leave him, but this they declined to do, saying he had done so much for them, it was only making a small return to remain with him. As they neared the homestead they noticed several figures moving about, evidently in an excited way, on the veranda. ‘There’s Ben Brody!’ said Edgar eagerly. ‘He has recognised us. What a time we shall have to-night!’ Ben Brody was standing leaning against the door-post when he saw something moving across the plain in front of him. He went inside for his glasses, and, after looking through them for several minutes, he gave a loud shout. It was such an unusual thing for Ben Brody to shout, except when issuing orders, or expressing his feelings to some unfortunate new-chum, that the hands about the place fancied the homestead must have caught fire. Several of them rushed round to the front, and found Ben Brody executing a kind of war-dance on the veranda. ‘What’s up now?’ asked Will Henton. ‘Something stinging you?’ ‘No, you fool,’ roared Brody. ‘Do you think I’m as tender as you? It’s them lads coming back!’ ‘Not Foster and Brown?’ asked Will. ‘That’s just it, you bet,’ said Brody. Off ran Will Henton, and in a few moments Harry Noke, Jim Lee, and two or three more came round. ‘Give me the glasses,’ said Noke. ‘No need for that,’ said Jim Lee. ‘I can spot ’em from here.’ ‘We must go and meet them,’ said Will Henton. ‘Right you are,’ said Brody. ‘Boys, we’ll have a terrible night of it.’ They mounted their horses, and in less time than it takes to write it down were galloping towards the home-comers. The scene was one to be remembered. They sprang from their horses, and pulled Edgar and Will out of their saddles, and shook them by the hands, cheered and hallooed until the plain rang with their hearty shouts. Yacka stood quietly looking on, and when they had almost wrung Edgar’s and Will’s hands off they tackled him. ‘Don’t handle Yacka as roughly as you have handled us,’ laughed Edgar; ‘he’s got a bad wound.’
30189_81	science fiction	Ellanby, Boyd	I tell you how." He took another long swig of _shchikh_. "Vat your Eart'men did not realize was dat dey cannot acclimate themselves as do we Venusians. You know de character of our planet made adaptability a condition of survival. It is true dat our atmosphere is heavy, but on top of our so-high mountains de air is t'in. We must live everywhere, de space is so few. I first adapted myself on Eart' to live. I was dere a whole year, you vill recollect. Den I go further. Your engineers construct air tanks dat make like de air of mountains, t'in. So, I learn to live in dose tanks. Each day I haf spent one, two, three hours in dem. I get so I can breathe air at one-third the pressure of your already t'in atmosphere. And at one-sixt' the tension of oxygen. No, my vriend, you could not do this. Your lungs burst. But old Dworken, he has done it. "I take wit' me only some water, for I know de Martians dey not give water. To trade, some miniature kerosene lamps. You know dey got no fuel oil now, only atomics, but dese little lamps dey like for antiques, for sentiment, because their great-grandfathers used dem. "Well, I walk through Vlahas, and not stop. Too close by the capital. Too much contact with men of odder planets. I walk also through Bhur and Zamat. I come to a small place where dey never see foreigner. Name Tasaaha. Oh, I tell you, ze men of ze odder planets do not know Mars. How delightful, how unsboiled, are ze Martians, once you get away from de people by tourists so sboiled! How wonderful, across the sands to go, free as birds! The so friendly greetings of de Martian men. And de Martian women! _Ah!_ "Well, in Tasaaha I go to t'eater. Such lovely girls! You shall see. But I saw somet'ing else. That, my friend, you hardly believe!" Dworken looked down at his empty glass and snorted gently. I took the hint, although for myself I ordered the less lethal Martian _azdzani_. I was already having difficulty believing parts of his narrative; it would be interesting to see if the rest were any harder. My companion continued. "They not only have de chorus, which you haf seen on Earth, imported from Mars--and such a chorus!
17418_691	western stories	Woodrow, Wilson, Mrs.	And I'm seeing your lips and they draw me like a magnet does a needle; but if they drew me through hell, I'd go." "Listen," she spoke more imperiously than before. "Have you noticed how Pop's been watching you--looking slantwise out of the corners of his eyes whenever you come around." "I sure have," replied Hanson, "being as I'm not blind. But what of it? I supposed he treated every one that came around you like that." "No," she shook her head thoughtfully. "I been studying over it, but I can't quite make it out. Pop don't pay much attention to men that ain't his kind, and you're not. And Bob Flick is always jealous, of course, but he doesn't usually take it out watching folks like a ferret does a rat hole. No, it isn't that." "Well, what do you put it down to?" Rudolf tried to speak easily. Pearl paid no particular heed to this question. "And it's not all Hughie," she mused. "Of course," and here he saw an expression of real regret, almost worry, on her face, "of course it's bad for all of us when Hughie takes a dislike to any one." Hanson's sense of injury was inflamed. "But why the devil," he cried, "should Hughie's unreasoning cranks count with commonsense people? I can't understand," with wondering impatience, "why you all act like you do about that boy!" "We've all learned that Hughie knows things that we don't know." "Umph!" the exclamation was disgustedly incredulous. "And so, simply because Hughie chooses to take a dislike to me, I'm to be watched like a criminal and treated, even by you, with suspicion." "No," she said, "I've been studying over it, but I can't quite make it out. Pop don't pay much attention, usually. But," she spoke slowly, "I thought maybe you'd tell me this morning." "Well, there's nothing to tell," he affirmed obstinately. She looked out over the desert for a moment. "Bob Flick hit the trail last night," she spoke casually. "To go where?" "I don't know. I wish I did.
60283_103	science fiction	Fisher, David E.	" Rocsates' voice made itself heard. "It is true. Such creatures did indeed exist. It is recorded most scientifically in the films." "If it be so," I said, quieting the hub-bub that followed, "and I would not doubt your word, Rocsates, for all know you are the wisest of men--if it were so, then, what of it?" "May it not be," Rocsates put in, "that these animals had no machines to reproduce their kind? For surely the gods would not grant machines to such creatures. And indeed, if they had Maternite Machines, why then we would yet have these animals among us." "And how, then, did these animals reproduce?" I asked. "How, indeed? And is there not a legend--admitted only a legend--that says there was a time before the machines, and before the Maternite Machine, and that at such a time both the animals and Men reproduced from within their own bodies?" At this two members of the Conclave fell immediately into a faint, and I would gladly have joined them. I hoped that the youngsters, Xeon and Melia, had not heard, but as I turned they were listening most attentively to Rocsates, who, amid cries of "Heresy" and "Treason", went on: "I should like to ask the Conclave for permission to search the ancient records, in the hope of finding some such knowledge that would prove or disprove my words." "You wish to search the films--" I began. "Not the films, Sias, but the books." Gods, this Rocsates! The books, as well he knows, are so ancient, and so delicate, that they are kept in an air-tight tomb; lest, being handled, they be destroyed and all knowledge within them lost. Therefore, they have not been read in the known history of our race. And Rocsates has been anxious for an excuse-- "Sias," he went on, "if there exists such knowledge as I seek, is it not indeed lost to the memory of Man? And if so, are not the books the only place where it may be found?" Rocsates, it is suspected, will never ask a question unless he knows the answer beforehand. And so I acquiesced, and agreed, and granted permission. And with much misgiving and foreboding of evil, the Conclave adjourned. * * * * * Several weeks elapsed before Rocsates requested that the Conclave meet.
51967_3110	adventure stories	Paltock, Robert	"--"Pray," says he, "what is become of Nicor? Is he under the same condemnation?"--"No," says I, "Nicor is now by my means absolutely free, and no two greater than he and I." I told him then my proceedings with him; he was glad of it; for, he said, Nicor he believed was honest at bottom. By this time up came the cannon; and truly had my countrymen but the graundee to convey their cannon at so easy an expense from place to place, the whole world would not stand before us. They brought me five cannon, and three swivel guns, and a larger quantity of ammunition than I had spoken for. I introduced Nasgig to the king upon his return, as the person to whose conduct the safe arrival of my cannon was owing. His majesty embracing him, told him the service he had done him was so great in the affair of Barbarsa, and his management of it so prudent, he should from thenceforth take him into his peculiar confidence and esteem. Nasgig thanked his majesty for his acceptance of that act of his duty, and desired to know when he pleased the operations for the campaign should begin.--"Ask my father," says the king; "do you conduct the war, and let him conduct you." Then Nasgig desired to know what number of troops would be requisite. I asked him what number the enemy had; he said about thirty thousand.--"Then," says I, "take you six only, besides the bearers of me and the artillery; and pick me out fifty of the best men you have, as a guard for my person, and send them to me." I showed these men my cutlasses and pistols, and showed them the use and management of them: "And," says I, "as our enemies fight with pikes, keep you at a distance first, and when you would assault, toss by the pike with your hand, and closing in, have at the graundee; and this edge" (showing them the sharpness of it) "will strip it down from shoulder to heel; you need strike but once for it, but be sure come near enough; or," says I, "if you find it difficult to turn aside the pike, give it one smart stroke with this; it will cut it in two, and then the point being gone, it will be useless." "These instructions," says I, "if rightly observed, will make us conquerors.
5965_1797	science fiction	Flint, Homer Eon	"It's only fair," stoutly, "after what you told Fort, through Mona." And Billie had no answer to that. So the geologist watched the chief closely, finding it decidedly hard to catch him in the required state of semiconsciousness. Apparently Powart was always alert, even up to the exact moment of going to sleep; after which he invariably slept like a log, but awakening with a start, bolt upright in bed. But Van Emmon continued to watch his chance. Meanwhile another message had been received from the Alma expedition. It ran as follows, after decoding: People here are planning to construct a great fleet to visit Hafen and Holl about the middle of next year. To carry a regular army of missionaries, to preach the gospel of social democracy. Better make the most of your reign while it lasts, Mr. Powart. Married yet? The chairman was glad to get this, rather than otherwise. Somehow the thing strengthened his whole plan. From his standpoint the proposed invasion of missionaries "to preach the gospel of social democracy," was far more to be feared than a military invasion. So, although he made certain changes in the message, he did not have to counterfeit his earnestness when he presented the matter to his staff, the former commission. Perhaps the expedition's last remark, "Married yet?" had something to do with the vigor of his tones. "They are planning," he told the nine, "to undo all that our civilization has accomplished. Unless we can circumvent them, Hafen and Holl will be turned into bedlam." He lost no time about what he had next to say. "Knowing what we do about Alma's designs upon us, I believe that it would be folly to wait until we are attacked. They doubtless possess inventions against which we would be powerless; they are such highly advanced people in such matters. So what I propose is to prevent them from attacking us at all!" He paused portentously, finding in each face before him an anxious excitement which was exactly what he wanted. They were hanging breathlessly upon his words. "Let me remind you that Alma is not only our nearest neighbor in the solar system, but that, at present, only a few million miles separate us. She is within a few weeks of the nearest point. Furthermore"--speaking with care--"we must remember that Alma is not only nearer the sun than we are, but it is a much older planet.
47471_893	detective and mystery stories	Webb, Marion St. John	Elizabeth Bagg is a very kind-hearted creature." "I shall do my best to get to know her," said Pamela. Half an hour later—after a slight delay caused by Caroline being unable to make up her mind whether she should take her mackintosh as well as her goloshes and umbrella, and finally deciding to take it in spite of Isobel’s unconcealed mirth—the four girls started off on their walk to Inchmoor. Beryl and Caroline were introduced to the village by the other two girls, before they all turned up the lane that led through the fields, and over the hill, to the market town. This was the lane that led past the picturesque old windmill that Millicent Jackson had told Pamela about in the paper-shop; and knowing this, Pamela had brought a notebook and pencil with her in case she felt tempted to stop and make a sketch of it while the others went on to Inchmoor. There was nothing she wanted to get particularly at the shops in the little town, and a fine day in January was a thing to seize for sketching—there were so few fine days; and one could always do shopping in the rain. The lane that ran between the fields was very pretty even in January, and Pamela found herself wishing that her brother Michael was with her; he always appreciated the same scenery as she did, and her thoughts were with him and those at home while she joined in, more or less at random, the animated conversation that was going on around her. She dared not let herself think too much about her home, or such a wave of homesickness would have engulfed her that she would have wanted to go straight off to the station and take a through ticket to Oldminster at once. She felt she could not possibly endure six whole months without a sight of her mother or any of them. "But I’ve got to see this thing through now," she told herself. "I mustn’t be silly. And six months will pass quickly if I’ve got plenty to do." Pamela had thought over her duties as hostess carefully, and was convinced that it was necessary to have some kind of work for each of them to do, day by day, if they were not to become bored or irritable with each other, and if their six months’ stay in Barrowfield was to be a success.
1204_2524	western stories	Bower, B. M.	“No, no, no!” Lovin Child admonished himself gravely, and got it and threw it back again. Cash did not say anything. Indeed, he hid a grin under his thick, curling beard which he had grown since the first frost as a protection against cold. He picked up the mitten and laid it to dry on the slab mantel, and when he returned, Lovin Child was sitting in the pan, rocking back and forth and crooning “'Ock-a-by! 'Ock-a-by!” with the impish twinkle in his eyes. Cash was just picking him out of the pan when Bud came in with a load of wood. Bud hastily dropped the wood, and without a word Cash handed Lovin Child across the dead line, much as he would have handed over a wet puppy. Without a word Bud took him, but the quirky smile hid at the corners of his mouth, and under Cash's beard still lurked the grin. “No, no, no!” Lovin Child kept repeating smugly, all the while Bud was stripping off his wet clothes and chucking him into the undershirt he wore for a nightgown, and trying a man's size pair of socks on his legs. “I should say no-no-no! You doggone little rascal, I'd rather herd a flea on a hot plate! I've a plumb good notion to hog-tie yuh for awhile. Can't trust yuh a minute nowhere. Now look what you got to wear while your clothes dry!” “Ee? Ee?” invited Lovin Child, gleefully holding up a muffled little foot lost in the depths of Bud's sock. “Oh, I see, all right! I'll tell the world I see you're a doggone nuisance! Now see if you can keep outa mischief till I get the wood carried in.” Bud set him down on the bunk, gave him a mail-order catalogue to look at, and went out again into the storm. When he came back, Lovin Child was sitting on the hearth with the socks off, and was picking bits of charcoal from the ashes and crunching them like candy in his small, white teeth. Cash was hurrying to finish his scrubbing before the charcoal gave out, and was keeping an eye on the crunching to see that Lovin Child did not get a hot ember. “H'yah! You young imp!” Bud shouted, stubbing his toe as he hurried forward. “Watcha think you are--a fire-eater, for gosh sake?”
35031_1205	adventure stories	Sinclair, Bertrand W.	“That depends on how much of a start I get,” he said grimly. “I think I can fool them. If not—well——” He relapsed into silence. Someone clanked into the guard-room, and Barreau snuffed out his cigarette with one swift movement. In a second or two the trooper went out again. We could see him by flattening our faces against the bars, and when he was gone Blackie sat alone, his feet cocked up on a chair. “That reminds me,” Barreau spoke so that his words were audible to me alone. “Blackie’s a good fellow, and I must keep his skirts clear. He will be on guard till about eight this evening. Eight—nine—ten o’clock. At ten it should be as dark as it will get. I’ll drift then. Some other fellow will be on guard when you give the alarm.” It was then mid-afternoon. At half-past five two prisoners were set to arranging a long table by the palings that separated the cells from the guard-room proper. With a trooper at their heels they lugged from the Police kitchen two great pots, one of weak soup, the other containing a liquid that passed for tea. A platter of sliced bread and another of meat scraps completed the meal. Then the rest of us were turned out to eat; sixteen men who had fallen afoul of the law munching and drinking, with furtive glances at each other. And while we ate a trooper made the round of the cells, giving each tumbled heap of quilts a tentative shake, peering into the half-dark corners. That also was part of the routine, perfunctory, as a general thing, but occasionally developing into keen-eyed search. It was the rule to confiscate tobacco or any small articles a prisoner might manage to smuggle in, if he failed of its concealment. But the faint traces of Barreau’s floor-cutting escaped his eye, and the tobacco was in our pockets. The knife and saw Barreau had slipped within his boot-leg. Personal search was the one thing we had to fear. And it passed us by. The guards—four of them during the meal hour—contented themselves with routine inspection, and when the table was swept clean of food we were herded back to our cells.
31995_110	science fiction	Myers, Howard L.	The Fool was recovered sufficiently to hit the discomfited Lord of War with a pebble when Tresqu was not watching. The Weapon had drifted into sight during this exchange, floating out of a shady hollow, as if blown by a breeze. It was very simple in appearance--an impalpable three-foot glowing sphere with a squat metallic cylinder at its base. "Tell me not the purpose of your visit, petty lord!" It said. "It is known to me only too well. Ah, great First Principle! Little did I reck when, in ages past, I nursed your species to civilization, just how poorly you would serve my purpose. Peace it was I desired, but do I get it? No! Your kingdom is powerful, but you have not the strength to handle your own troubles. You rule twenty-nine planets--" [Illustration] "Thirty-seven," corrected Tresqu politely. "--thirty-seven planets, but when a malignant force appears on your borders, I, the Weapon, must be called upon to act in my own defense, and for the sake of a few more restful moments in this calm glade, I am obliged to destroy, yet it was to avoid destroying that I helped your species to empire in the old days." "In truth," spoke the deeply sympathetic Tresqu, "yours is a sad story. I disturb your richly earned rest only after the sincerest soul-searching. But affairs of state are at cross purposes in a moment of crisis, and without your help Hova will be in danger." "Ah, cruel Fate!" entoned the Weapon, "It aids me in no manner to protest against your inscrutable machinations! There is no turning aside, no avoidance of necessity!" In a less declamatory style, the Weapon addressed Tresqu: "Very well, what is the trouble?" Tresqu described the events on Terra for the Weapon, concluding, "Now that the Humans have knowledge of our space drive and armament, they are certain to attack, especially if they realize they have been subjects for experiment." The Weapon flitted about restlessly along the bank of the brook. "I question the motives of my own thoughts. Do I quibble with myself in an attempt to escape unwelcome necessities? Tell, petty lord, do your scientists confirm the picture you paint of the Humans? Are they, like you, alas, masterfully vicious enough to destroy the peace of dozens of planets for nothing but revenge?" "So the scientists say, mighty Weapon," answered Tresqu.
14211_432	love stories	Ford, Paul Leicester	"Wheer's dem cloes youse promised me?" he demanded. "Oh, I entirely forgot--" "Ah, forgit youse mudder! Youse a peach, oin't youse?" contemptuously broke in the child. Miss Durant and Dr. Armstrong both burst out laughing. "Youse t'ink youse a smarty, but Ise know'd de hull time it wuz only a big bluff dat youse wuz tryin' to play on me, an' it didn't go wid me, nah!" went on the youngster, in an aggrieved tone. "Isn't he perfectly incorrigible?" sighed Constance. "Ise oin't," denied the boy, indignantly. "Deyse only had me up onct." With the question the girl had turned to Dr. Armstrong; then, finding his eyes still intently studying her, she once more gave her attention to the waif. "Really, I did forget them," she asserted. "You shall have a new suit long before you need it." "Cert'in dat oin't no fake extry youse shoutin'?" "Truly. How old are you?" "Wotcher want to know for?" suspiciously asked the boy. "So I can buy a suit for that age." "Dat goes. Ise ate." "And what's your name?" "Swot." "What?" exclaimed the girl. "Nah. Swot," he corrected. "How do you spell it?" "Dun'no'. Dat's wot de newsies calls me, 'cause of wot Ise says to de preacher man." "And what was that?" "It wuz one of dem religious mugs wot comes Sunday to de Mulberry Park, see, an' dat day he wuz gassin' to us kids 'bout lettin' a guy as had hit youse onct doin' it ag'in; an' w'en he'd pumped hisself empty, he says to me, says he, 'If a bad boy fetched youse a lick on youse cheek, wot would youse do to 'im?' An' Ise says, 'I'd swot 'im in de gob, or punch 'im in de slats,' says I; an' so de swipes calls me by dat noime. Honest, now, oin't dat kinder talk jus' sickenin'?" "But you must have another name," suggested Miss Durant, declining to commit herself on that question. "Sure." "And what is that?" "McGarrigle." "And have you no father or mother?" "Nah.
55415_1391	adventure stories	Palmer, Don	Jack too, heard the sound, and joined Ken at the railing. “That boat’s heading straight for the _Shark_,” he observed uneasily. “A government launch too,” added Ken. “It looks very much as if the red tape is on its way!” Chapter 9 CAPTAIN CARTER’S DECEPTION Captain Carter moved swiftly to the rail to ascertain that Ken spoke the truth. “It’s the customs boat all right!” he exclaimed. “They’ll search the _Shark_ from stem to stern. If any of these boxes are found, I’m a dead duck!” “You admit you’ve been helping the Revolutionists?” Mr. Livingston demanded. “I admit nothing! What’s more, if you have any thought of trying to find Burton Monahan, you’ll keep clear of this. Help me get these boxes overboard!” “Overboard?” “You don’t want the government men to find ’em, do you?” Captain Carter snarled. “They’re your boxes, remember! Come on, there’s not a second to lose.” “You’ll get no help from me.” “Then you’re cooking your own goose! Either you lay hold and help heave the guns overboard, or I’ll deny all knowledge of the cargo.” “That lie wouldn’t get you far.” “You think not? I’m afraid, my dear Livingston, that you don’t know Peruvian officials as I do. They’ll believe me all right.” Seizing a fire ax, the captain smashed open a box bearing the Scout name. Hauling out dynamite and other explosives, he dropped them overboard. By this time, the government boat was drawing close to the schooner. Abandoning the axe, Captain Carter dragged the filled boxes to the port railing. One by one he shoved them overboard. The heavily laden containers fell with loud splashes, sinking slowly out of sight into the dark water. Silently, Mr. Livingston and the four Explorers witnessed the disposal of the contraband cargo. Once, as the Scout leader tried to halt the dumping, Captain Carter drew his revolver. “Keep back!” he warned. “Move out of my way!” He dropped the last telltale box into the water, letting it fall carefully to avoid a heavy splash. The government boat emerged from the dark a moment later, pulling alongside the _Shark_. “_Shark_, ahoy!” “Ahoy, there!” Captain Carter returned the shout. “We’re coming aboard for inspection!”
7303_4858	science fiction	Bellamy, Edward	At the crisis you are describing they must doubtless have made themselves extremely turbulent. What did the new order do with them? Its just and humane propositions would scarcely appeal to the members of the criminal class. They were not reasonable beings; they preferred to live by lawless violence, rather than by orderly industry, on terms however just. Surely the new nation must have found this class of citizens a very tough morsel for its digestion." "Not nearly so tough," replied the doctor, "as the former society had found it. In the first place, the former society, being itself based on injustice, was wholly without moral prestige or ethical authority in dealing with the criminal and lawless classes. Society itself stood condemned in their presence for the injustice which had been the provocation and excuse of their revolt. This was a fact which made the whole machinery of so-called criminal justice in your day a mockery. Every intelligent man knew in his heart that the criminal and vicious were, for the most part, what they were on account of neglect and injustice, and an environment of depraving influences for which a defective social order was responsible, and that if righteousness were done, society, instead of judging them, ought to stand with them in the dock before a higher justice, and take upon itself the heavier condemnation. This the criminals themselves felt in the bottom of their hearts, and that feeling forbade them to respect the law they feared. They felt that the society which bade them reform was itself in yet greater need of reformation. The new order, on the other hand, held forth to the outcasts hands purged of guilt toward them. Admitting the wrong that they had suffered in the past, it invited them to a new life under new conditions, offering them, on just and equal terms, their share in the social heritage. Do you suppose that there ever was a human heart so base that it did not at least know the difference between justice and injustice, and to some extent respond to it? "A surprising number of the cases you speak of, who had been given up as failures by your civilization, while in fact they had been proofs of its failure, responded with alacrity to the first fair opportunity to be decent men and women which had ever come to them. There was, of course, a large residuum too hopelessly perverted, too congenitally deformed, to have the power of leading a good life, however assisted. Toward these the new society, strong in the perfect justice of its attitude, proceeded with merciful firmness.
31922_171	science fiction	Causey, James	That afternoon he ranged the shop like a hound. In the shipping crib, he found a half-completed detail that struck a chord of strangeness. Two twisted copper vanes with a crumpled shop traveler signed by Amenth. The next operation specified furnace braze. Vogel squinted at the attached detail print. It was a current job number. He spent the next two hours in the ozalid room, leafing through the print files. The job number called for a deep-freeze showcase, and there were exactly two hundred and seven detail drawings involved. Not one of them matched the print in shipping. After an almost silent dinner at home, he sat smoking his pipe, waiting for the phone to ring. It rang at eight. "It's platinum," Carstairs said. Tim Carstairs was a night-shift chemist. "Anything wrong, Mr. Vogel?" "No." Vogel paused. "Thanks, Tim." He hung up, glanced at his fingers. They were shaking. "You," Alice said, "look ready to call mate in three." "I'm going over to the shop," he said, kissing her. "Don't wait up." * * * * * He was not surprised to see the light on in the parts control section. Amenth was writing planning sheets. "I don't believe we authorized overtime," Vogel told him mildly, hanging up his coat. "Just loose ends." Amenth's smile was nervous. "Tying up these burden charts. I'm on my own time." "Thought I'd set up next month's budget." Vogel sat at his desk. "By the way, what did you do before you came here?" "Odd jobs." Amenth's lips twitched. "Your family live on the coast?" Sweat glistened on the little man's forehead. "Ah--no. My folks passed on years ago." Cat and mouse. "You've done good work lately." Vogel yawned, studying the progress chart on the wall. Behind him he heard a soft exhalation of relief, the furtive rustle of papers as Amenth cleaned off his desk. When Amenth finally left, Vogel went over to his desk and methodically ransacked the work in process file. It took him two hours to find what he was looking for. One: A schematic detail on graph paper which resembled no type of circuit Vogel had ever seen. Two: Fourteen completed shop travelers on which were typed clearly, _Call Amenth upon completion_.
66390_841	love stories	Prime-Stevenson, Edward	("Auf Wiedersehen!") or, more sensibly, saying to him "Goodbye?" Was _that_ the real weight in my breast? I, a man--strong-willed, firm of temper and character! Surely I had other friends, many and warm ones, old ones, in a long row of places between Constantinople and London; in France, Germany, Austria, England. O dear, yes!... there were A.., and B..., and C... and so, on very decently through a whole alphabet of amities. Why should I feel so fierce a hatred at this interrupting of a casual, pleasant but not extraordinary intimacy, quite one _de voyage_ on its face, between two men, who, no matter how companionable, were of absolutely diverse races, unlike objects in life and wide-removed environments?... who could not even understand each other's mother-tongues? Why did existence itself seem so ironical, so full of false notes, so capricious in its kindness... seem allowed us that we might _not_ be glad in it as... Elsewhere? The reply to each of these queries was close to another answer to another question; that one which Imre von N... had asked,.. "And why, pray, have you found yourself so wonderfully happy _lately_?" That I should find myself so wonderfully unhappy now? Perhaps so. Imre was at the tram, and in high spirits. "We shall have a beautiful afternoon, my dear fellow.... Beautiful!" he began. Then... "What the mischief is the matter with you? You look as if you had lost your soul!" In a few words, I told him of my summons North. "Nonsense!" he exclaimed. "You are making a bad joke!" "Unfortunately I never have been less able to joke in my life! Tomorrow afternoon I must be off, as surely as Saint-Stephen's Crown has the Crooked Cross." Imre "looked right, looked left, looked straight before". For an instant his look was almost painfully serious. Then it changed to an amused bewilderment. "Well... sudden things come by twos! You have got to start off for God knows where, tomorrow afternoon: I have got to be up at dawn, to rush my legs off! For, about noon I go out by a pokey special-train, to the Summer-Camp at P...
29290_263	science fiction	Hensley, Joe L.	He strove for rational meaning within his brain. _These are my sons--they can not see or hear or speak. They are identical twins--born with those defects._ Take two children, blind them, make them deaf to all sound, cut away their voices. They are identical twins, facing the same environment, sharing the same heredity of blasted chromosomes. They will have intelligence and curiosity that increases as they mature. They will not be blinded by the senses--the easy way. The first thing they will discover is each other. What else might they then discover? It has been said that when sight is lost the sense of touch and hearing increase to almost unbelievable acuteness--Rush knew that. The blind often also develop a sense almost like radar which allows them to perceive an object ahead of them and gives them the ability to follow twisting paths. Take one child and put him under the disability that the twins were born with. As intelligence grows so does single bewilderment. The world is a puzzling and bewildering place. Braille is a great discovery--a way to communicate with the unknown that lies beyond. But the twins had shown almost no interest in Braille. He reached back down for the tiny hands. * * * * * "Yes, we can communicate," the single voice that spoke for two said. "We have tried with you before, but we could not break through. Your mind speaks in a language we do not understand, in figures and equations that are not real to us. Those things lie all through your mind--on the surface we have sensed only your pity for us and your hate for the shadowy ones around you, the ones we do not know. It was a wall we could not climb. She is different. "A part of her will go with us," the voice said. "There is another place that touches this one which we perceive and know more fully than this one." The voice died away and brief pictures of a land of other dimensions beyond sight flashed in his brain. He had seen them before imperfectly in the disquieting dreams. "She must go with us for she can no longer exist here," the voice said softly. "Perhaps there are others like us to come--we do not yet know what we are or whether there will be others like us. But we must go now, before we were ready, because of her." The mother's voice came. "You must go too. There is nothing here for you but sorrow.
33466_4579	detective and mystery stories	Reeve, Arthur B. (Arthur Benjamin)	Others, equally brilliant, have shown why it should be ignored. "In the absence of better proof--or rather in the presence of other facts--perhaps, in this case, it would be better to see whether there is not some other theory that may fit the facts better." "Dr. Goode thought that the cancers might have been caused artificially by X-rays or radium," I ventured. Craig shook his head. "I have taken a piece of filter paper saturated with a solution of potassium iodide, starch paste, and ferrosulphate and laid it over a sample of blood, not four millimeters away. The whole I have kept in the dark. "Now, we know that blood gives off peroxide of hydrogen. Peroxide of hydrogen is capable of attacking photographic plates. The paper can be permeated by a gas. No, that was not a case of photo-activity observed by Dr. Goode. It was the emission of gas from the blood that affected the plates." "But suppose that is the case," objected Dr. Goode hastily. "There are the deaths from cancer. How do you explain them? It is not a cancer house, you say. Is it mere chance?" "Anyone may be pardoned for believing that cancer houses or even cancer districts exist," reiterated Craig. "Indeed some observations seem to show it, as I have said, though the opponents of the theory claim to have found other causes. Here, as you hint, five people, living in close association, have died in five years." He paused and drew from the satchel the little porcelain cone which he had picked up between the Moreton and Goode houses. "I have here," he resumed, "what is known as a Berkefeld filter. Its meshes let through none of the germs that we can see with a microscope. It is bacteria-proof. Only something smaller than these things can pass through it, something that we cannot see, a clear watery fluid. That something in this case is a filterable virus." Kennedy paused again, then went on, "Although the filterable viruses have only recently come to attention, it is known that they are of very diverse character. Here we have opened up the world of the infinitely little--the universe that lies beyond the range of the microscope. The study of these tiny particles is now one of the greatest objects in scientific medicine. "Are they living? It seems so, for a very little of the virus gives rise to growths from which many others start.
28550_22	science fiction	Moore, C. L. (Catherine Lucile)	He closed his eyes and drew another deep breath. Better not even look; better to lie here like an animal, absorbing the sun and the feel of Earth blindly, wordlessly. * * * * * Now he was not Northwest Smith, scarred outlaw of the spaceways. Now he was a boy again with all his life before him. There would be a white-columned house just over the hill, with shaded porches and white curtains blowing in the breeze and the sound of sweet, familiar voices indoors. There would be a girl with hair like poured honey hesitating just inside the door, lifting her eyes to him. Tears in the eyes. He lay very still, remembering. Curious how vividly it all came back, though the house had been ashes for nearly twenty years, and the girl--the girl ... He rolled over violently, opening his eyes. No use remembering her. There had been that fatal flaw in him from the very first, he knew now. If he were the boy again knowing all he knew today, still the flaw would be there and sooner or later the same thing must have happened that had happened twenty years ago. He had been born for a wilder age, when men took what they wanted and held what they could without respect for law. Obedience was not in him, and so-- As vividly as on that day it happened he felt the same old surge of anger and despair twenty years old now, felt the ray-gun bucking hard against his unaccustomed fist, heard the hiss of its deadly charge ravening into a face he hated. He could not be sorry, even now, for that first man he had killed. But in the smoke of that killing had gone up the columned house and the future he might have had, the boy himself--lost as Atlantis now--and the girl with the honey-colored hair and much, much else besides. It had to happen, he knew. He being the boy he was, it had to happen. Even if he could go back and start all over, the tale would be the same. And it was all long past now, anyhow; and nobody remembered any more at all, except himself. A man would be a fool to lie here thinking about it any longer. Smith grunted and sat up, shrugging the gun into place against his ribs. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Fantastic Universe_ January 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
21854_748	detective and mystery stories	Bentley, E. C. (Edmund Clerihew)	" "I think I will," said Trent. Mr. Marlowe nodded and went on his way. The thick turf of the lawn round which the drive took its circular sweep made Trent's footsteps as noiseless as a cat's. In a few moments he was looking in through the open leaves of the window at the southward end of the house, considering with a smile a very broad back and a bent head covered with short grizzled hair. The man within was stooping over a number of papers laid out on the table. "'Twas ever thus," said Trent in a melancholy tone, at the first sound of which the man within turned round with startling swiftness. "From childhood's hour I've seen my fondest hopes decay. I did think I was ahead of Scotland Yard this time, and now here is the largest officer in the entire Metropolitan force already occupying the position." The detective smiled grimly and came to the window. "I was expecting you, Mr. Trent," he said. "This is the sort of case that you like." "Since my tastes were being considered," Trent replied, stepping into the room, "I wish they had followed up the idea by keeping my hated rival out of the business. You have got a long start, too--I know all about it." His eyes began to wander round the room. "How did you manage it? You are a quick mover, I know; the dun deer's hide on fleeter foot was never tied; but I don't see how you got here in time to be at work yesterday evening. Has Scotland Yard secretly started an aviation corps? Or is it in league with the infernal powers? In either case the Home Secretary should be called upon to make a statement." "It's simpler than that," said Mr. Murch with professional stolidity. "I happened to be on leave with the Missus at Halvey, which is only twelve mile or so along the coast. As soon as our people there heard of the murder they told me. I wired to the Chief, and was put in charge of the case at once. I bicycled over yesterday evening, and have been at it since then." "Arising out of that reply," said Trent inattentively, "how is Mrs. Inspector Murch?" "Never better, thank you," answered the inspector, "and frequently speaks of you and the games you used to have with our kids.
504_947	love stories	Sousa, John Philip	When he emerged into the street, he saw her resting on a rustic bench, and hastened to join her. As he came up, he was greeted with: "Why, Tom, I thought you went fishing with Gil, and papa, and Sandy, and the rest." "No, Lily. I felt so bad 'bout my dad being arrested yest'day I couldn't git up no courage to go," answered the boy with simulated contrition. "What d'yer say? let's s'prise Gil, and go down to the landin' an' meet him when he comes in from fishin'," suggested Foley, knowing the intense love she had for her brother. "That'll be lovely, won't it? And Gil will be so glad if I come." Lillian whipped the hoop rapidly, and Tom kept pace with her. "Gil will be surprised, sure enough, when he sees me coming, won't he?" "Yes, he'll be s'prised, you bet!" said the boy, taking a firmer hold of her hand. The night was fast approaching and Foley was leading the child through unfrequented alleys and streets. "But maybe Gil won't come back this way, and it's getting awful dark." "Oh, he'll come back this way, all right." They were now on the shore of the river, dark and desolate in its winter dress. The restless splash of the water sent icy sprays over the child, and, clinging still closer to her treacherous companion, she stopped him for a second and begged him to return. "Don't be afear'd, nuthin's goin' ter happen to yer," he said, jerking her savagely, and almost breaking into a run at the same time. "Oh, Tom, please let's go back," supplicated the child. They were now at the old wharf. He gave a low whistle, and, without waiting for an answer, pulled the helpless child through the entrance. Then, groping his way over the slimy stones and through the oozing mud, he dragged the affrighted little one after him, to the mouth of the cave, and called: "Dad, I'm here." "Come right in," answered a voice. "I've got her, an' I got her easy as dirt," said the son, pushing the terrified child into the cave, and then roughly into the arms of his father. "Don't yell, yer brat!"
2546_1273	western stories	Mulford, Clarence Edward	He was the brother of Tamale Jose. As he backed away from the cool touch of the weapon he thought out swiftly his revenge. Some of his brother’s old companions were at that moment drinking mescal in a saloon down the street, and they would be glad to see this Americano die. He glanced past his house at the saloon and Hopalong misconstrued his thoughts. “Shore, go home. I’ll just circulate around some for exercise. No hard feelings, only yu better throw it next time,” he said as he backed away and rode off. Manuel went down the street and then ran into the saloon, where he caused an uproar. Hopalong rode to the end of the plaza and tried to sing, but it was a dismal failure. Then he felt thirsty and wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before. Turning his horse and seeing the saloon he rode up to it and in, lying flat on the animal’s neck to avoid being swept off by the door frame. His entrance scared white some half a dozen loungers, who immediately sprang up in a decidedly hostile manner. Hopalong’s Colts peeped over the ears of his horse and he backed into a corner near the bar. “One, two, three--now, altogether, breathe! Yu acts like yu never saw a real puncher afore. All th’ same,” he remarked, nodding at several of the crowd, “I’ve seen yu afore. Yu are th’ gents with th’ hot-foot get-a-way that vamoosed when we got Tamale.” Curses were flung at him and only the humorous mood he was in saved trouble. One, bolder than the rest, spoke up: “The senor will not see any ‘hot-foot get-a-way,’ as he calls it, now! The senor was not wise to go so far away from his friends!”’ Hopalong looked at the speaker and a quizzical grin slowly spread over his face. “They’ll shore feel glad when I tells them yu was askin’ for ‘em. But didn’t yu see too much of ‘em once, or was yu poundin’ leather in the other direction? Yu don’t want to worry none about me--an’ if yu don’t get yore hands closter to yore neck they’ll be heck to pay! There, that’s more like home,” he remarked, nodding assurance.
64128_623	love stories	Phillips, David Graham	But I strongly object to your blaming me for fate’s fault.” “You are rude,” she said, hotly. “You are taking an unfair advantage of my helpless position.” “Pray calm yourself,” he answered. “All I ask of you is ordinary civility or silence. I certainly have no desire to thrust myself upon you.” Both were silent and sat watching the boar as it ranged frantically from one tree to the other, pausing at each to look up with an insane gleam in its wicked, little, blood-shot eyes. After fifteen minutes Grafton moved slowly back towards the fork of the tree. As he reached it and seemed about to descend, she said, in a humble tone that made him smile inwardly, “Where are you going, please?” “I’m going to make a dash for a rifle I see on the ground,” he answered. “You mustn’t--you mustn’t. I forbid it!” she exclaimed. “Have you any suggestion to offer as to how we are to escape?” “No,” she replied, reluctantly, “except to call out.” “And bring somebody else to make an amusing spectacle of himself--if he doesn’t happen to get killed. I can’t congratulate you on your scheme.” And he continued his descent. “Stop; for God’s sake, stop!” she called out. “I am ashamed of myself. I am sufficiently punished.” “My dear young lady, I’m not punishing you; I’m trying to get myself, and incidentally you, out of this mess.” “Please--_please_--come back where I can see you; I wish to say something to you.” It was certainly Erica and not Her Serene Highness who was speaking now. He obeyed her. When he could see her again he said, “Well?” “I--I want you to say that you forgive me,” she said, earnestly. “I want to see that you forgive me.” He looked at her in a friendly way. “I understand how it is with you. I don’t in the least blame you. Only, in my country, we never permit any one to take that tone towards us. And now, please, Your Majesty of the Oak Tree, may I go for the rifle?” “May I say that you mustn’t?” she asked, a smile in her eyes. “I’d like to have a reason.”
54121_2032	love stories	Sykes, D. F. E.	but it's gran' to see yo', Hannah," one would say, "Why aw declare aw hannot seen yo' donned up an' aat sin' we put owd Susan o' 'Lijah's under th' graand. An' yo' do looik weel to be sure, an' aw will say 'at if theer's a woman i' th' village 'at does her clo'es credit it's yo', Hannah. And your Lucy, too, aw declare oo's quite a colour. Yo're lookin' mony a pund better nor th' last time aw seed thi, Lucy, an' tha mun keep thi heart up, lass, theer's no tellin' yet. See yo' Hannah, theer's yar Jud (George) an' yo'r Ben t'other side o'th' field, an' Jud's shakkin' his fist i' Ben's face, an' Ben's dancin' like peeas on a bake-ston'. It's them plaguing politics, but they're enjoyin' theirsen. An' theer's yar 'Tilda yonder i'th' kiss-i'th-ring an Jim Sykes after her. Run, lass, run--eh! he's caught her. Th' clumsy felly, he'll rive all th' clo'es off her back. Gi' 'im one an' get it ovver. Eh! it fair ma'es one young agin to see th' young folk enjoy theirsen." Lucy had insisted on Tom joining the revels of the field, the gay and innocent sports of the youths and maidens, and her eyes followed him as he joined in the games at "Tirzy," hand ball, and what not. But Tom's thoughts seemed elsewhere, and Lucy knew that his eyes wandered from the laughter-ringing throngs to the rustic gate that led from Wilberlee to the pasture land. "He's watching for Dorothy," she thought, and there passed, maybe, a shadow over Lucy's gentle face, "and there comes Dorothy herself. Ah! well, I knew it long ago. God send it may not spoil our Tom's young life." There was a rush of twinkling little feet to meet the young mistress of Wilberlee as she passed slowly through the gateway, and moved into the field, clad in a loose gown of sprayed muslin of palest blue. She swung her hat in one hand that the soft cool air might play about her face, and the rays of the declining sun gleamed upon the auburn tresses, and gave them a golden sheen.
62236_1430	western stories	Ward, William (Author at Arthur Westbrook Co. (Cleveland, Ohio))	"I'll take the big one and you get the girl, but don't hurt her. Give her a hunch as to what we're up to as soon as you get your clamps on her. Now." Silently and with bated breaths, the two desperadoes waited until the medicine man, who indeed did loom up a veritable giant in stature, had passed Texas. He was right beside Tony now, and so close that the bandit could easily have reached out and touched him. But Tony did not propose to adopt the ordinary methods of catching an Indian and for the very good reason that he had no ordinary man to deal with. His plans had been quickly matured. And what he did was successful from the very novelty of the proceeding. What Tony did was to shove a stout stick squarely between the medicine man's shins, at the same time giving a quick, sharp twist. The effect was magical. The Indian plunged head foremost to the ground, his feet waving wildly in the air for a moment. But before he could gain equilibrium or cry out, the same stout stick came down on his head with crushing force. The copper-hued sawbones lay still. "Holy snakes!" exclaimed Texas with genuine admiration. "Ef that ain't the all-firedest way to catch a doctor that I ever seen. Here, my pretty squaw, you're my prisoner too. Now come along like a good little papoose." Dew Drop, with a surprised look in her eyes, turned to flee. Texas caught her. "Keep yer head plumb. We're just makin' believe capturin' you and when old sawbones wakes up we'll have you tied so he don't get wise to your little game. See?" A smile slowly rippled over the face of the little red girl. "Pale face smart like Indian," she answered, nodding her head vigorously. "Um hurry. Big Bear and braves up yonder. Come for Jess Jame pretty soon." "Jess?" questioned Tony rising from the medicine man whose arms and hands he had been pinioning. "By the way, where's the chief. He went with you, didn't he?" Dew Drop shook her head. "Dew Drop no see um." "That's funny. Lend a hand here, Texas and let's get this red devil into the cave. No need to blindfold him now--" "Didn't put out his light, did you Tony?" asked Texas a bit anxiously. "Kill him?
29303_297	science fiction	Archibald, Joe	Beetlehead sticks his face in close and asks what I want. I empty some of the powder into the palm of my hand and then blow it into his face. The Subterro sentry's eyes cross. His face turns as pale as milk and he collapses like a camp stool. "Eureka!" I yelp. "We are in business, pals." I hide the box of bug powder when I hear two other creeps come running. They start yakking in Universa and in bug language both. Agrodyte Hitler appears and looks in at us. "What happened, Great One?" I ask very politely. "We will perform an autopsy," Hitler's grandson says, and turns to another beetlehead. "Open the door," he says. "I am showing my guests something before we exterminate them. Too bad about Voklogoo. Most likely a coronary entomothrombosis. Achtung! Raus mitt!" "It means get the lead out in old Germanic literature," I says to Wurpz and Zahooli. "It is curtains," D'Ambrosia gulps. "In about five minutes we will be residue." The Neofeuhrer is like all egomaniacs before him. He wants to brag. We get into a Subterro Jetjeep and drive about twenty miles through the underground countryside to the entrance to a cave guarded by some extra tall Subterrors. Hitler the Third leads us into the spelunker's nightmare and we finally come to a big metal door about eighty feet long and twenty feet high. Agrodyte pushes a button and the steel door lifts. Then we walk up a flight of steps to the top of a dam and take a gander at a fleet of submarines that makes Earthian pig-boats look like they belonged in antique shops. "We will take you for a ride in one," the dictator of Subterro says. "After that I will turn you over to the executioner." "We need lawyers," Wurpz says. We cross a thin gangplank and enter the sub. The lights in it are indirect and are purplish green. Hitler Number Three shows us the telepathic machine, the radar, and the viso-screen that pictures everything going on upstairs on Earth, and on Mars, Jupiter and all other planets. There are four other beetleheads on the sub and they carry disintegrators. "These Subterro U-boats," our genial host brags, "can go as fast in reverse as full speed ahead, as the situation warrants.
17844_5893	western stories	Lillibridge, Will	She controls me, not I her." Blair settled back in his chair. The mask of impassivity dropped back over his face, not again to lift. He was again in command of himself. "You expect to do nothing more, then?" he asked finally. Scotty did not look up. "No," he responded. "I can do nothing more. She will have to find out her mistake for herself." Ben regarded the older man steadily. It would have been difficult to express that look in words. "You'd be willing to help, would you," he suggested, "if you saw a way?" The Englishman's eyes lifted. Even the incredible took on an air of possibility in the hands of this strong-willed ranchman. "Yes," he repeated. "I will gladly do anything I can." For half a minute Ben Blair did not speak. Not a nerve twitched or a muscle stirred in his long body; then he stood up, the broad sinewy shoulders squared, the masterful chin lifted. "Very well," he said. "Call a carriage, and be ready to leave town in half an hour." Scotty blinked helplessly. The necessity of sudden action always threw him into confusion. His mind needed not minutes but days to adjust itself to the unpremeditated. "Why?" he queried. "What do you intend doing?" But Ben did not stop to explain. Already he was at the door of the vestibule. "Don't ask me now. Do as I say, and you'll see!" And he stepped inside. Within the entrance, he paused for a moment. He had never been in any room of the house except the library adjoining; and after a few seconds, walking over, he tapped twice on the door. There was no answer, and he stepped inside. The place was empty, but, listening from the dining-room on the left he heard the low intermittent murmur of voices in conversation and the occasional click of china. Sliding doors connected the rooms, and again for an instant he hesitated. Then, pulling them apart, he stood fairly in the aperture. As he had expected, Florence and her mother were at breakfast. The doors had slid noiselessly, and for an instant neither observed him. Florence was nearest, half-facing him, and she was the first to glance up.
22462_223	science fiction	Lande, Irving W.	He musta been throwin' curves at us. Man, cap'n, this is our lucky day!" [Illustration] Paul felt no surprise, only relief at having the trouble located. The reaction to the close call might not come till hours later. "This kind of luck we can do without. Can you patch the holes?" "Ah can patch the one where it came in, but it musta been explodin' on the way out. There's a hole Ah could stick mah head through." "That's a good idea." Johnson was not usually very witty, but this was one he couldn't resist. "Never mind, Guns. A patch that big wouldn't be safe to hold air." * * * * * They were about eighty thousand miles out. He set course for Earth at about five and a half mps, which Johnson calculated to bring them in on the station on the "going away" side of its orbit, and settled back for the tedious two hours of free wheeling. For ten or fifteen minutes, the interphone crackled with the gregariousness born of recent peril, and gradually the ship fell silent as each man returned to his own private thoughts. Paul was wondering about the men on the other ship--whether any of them were still alive. Eighty thousand miles to fall. That was a little beyond the capacity of an emergency rocket--about 2 G's for sixty seconds--even if they had them. What a way to go home! He wondered what he'd do if it happened to him. Would he wait out his time, or just unlock his helmet. Guns' drawl broke into his reverie. "Say, cap'n, Ah've been readin' in this magazine about a trick they used to use, called skip bombin'. They'd hang a bomb on the bottom of one of these airplanes, and fly along the ground, right at what they wanted to hit. Then they'd let the bomb go and get out of there, and the bomb would sail right on into the target. You s'pose we could fix this buggy up with an A bomb or an H bomb we could let go a few hundred miles out? Stick a proximity fuse on it, and a time fuse, too, in case we missed. Just sittin' half a mile apart and tradin' shots like we did on that last mission is kinda hard on mah nerves, and it's startin' to happen too often." "Nice work if we could get it.
66390_854	love stories	Prime-Stevenson, Edward	"And why, pray, have you found yourself so wonderfully happy _lately_?" That I should find myself so wonderfully unhappy now? Perhaps so. Imre was at the tram, and in high spirits. "We shall have a beautiful afternoon, my dear fellow.... Beautiful!" he began. Then... "What the mischief is the matter with you? You look as if you had lost your soul!" In a few words, I told him of my summons North. "Nonsense!" he exclaimed. "You are making a bad joke!" "Unfortunately I never have been less able to joke in my life! Tomorrow afternoon I must be off, as surely as Saint-Stephen's Crown has the Crooked Cross." Imre "looked right, looked left, looked straight before". For an instant his look was almost painfully serious. Then it changed to an amused bewilderment. "Well... sudden things come by twos! You have got to start off for God knows where, tomorrow afternoon: I have got to be up at dawn, to rush my legs off! For, about noon I go out by a pokey special-train, to the Summer-Camp at P... And I must stay there five, six, ten mortal days, drilling Slovaks, and other such cattle! No wonder we have had a fine time of it here together! Too beautiful to last! But, Lord, how I envy you! Won't you change places with me? You're such an obliging fellow, Oswald! You go to the Camp: let me go to London?" At this moment, up came the tram. It was packed with an excursion-party. We were hustled and separated during our leisurely transit. Imre met some fair acquaintances, and made himself exceedingly lively company to them, till we reached the Z... cross-road. We stepped out alone. I did not break the silence as the noisy tram vanished, and the country's quietness closed us in. "Well?" said Imre, after fully five minutes, as we approached the Z.... gateway. "Well," I replied quite as laconically. "Oh come, come," he began, "even if it is I routing out of bed by sunrise tomorrow, to start in for all that P.. Camp drudgery, and you to go spinning along in the afternoon to England... why, what of it! We mustn't let the tragedy spoil our last afternoon. Eh?...
58155_3683	western stories	Mulford, Clarence Edward	They disappeared into the stable and when they came out again Johnny ordered Trask into the saddle, mounted behind him and rode for the arroyo which lay not far from the hotel. At last away from the buildings he made Trask dismount, climbed over the cantle and settled himself in the vacated saddle. "I'm goin' down to offer myself to McCullough," he said. "You can tell Kane that, too. They'll need men down there, an' I'll be th' maddest man they got. An' th' next time me an' you have any gun talk, I'm shootin' to kill. _Adios!_" He left the cursing deputy and went straight for the trail, where the rising wind played with the dust, and along it until stopped by a voice in a barranca. "I'm puttin' 'em up," he called. "My name's Nelson an' I'm mad clean through. Get a rustle on; I want to see Mac." "Go ahead, Bar-20," drawled the voice. "I wasn't dead shore. There's a good friend of yourn down there." "Quayle?" asked Johnny. "There's another: Waffles, of th' O-Bar-O," came the reply, and a verse of a nearly forgotten song arose on the breeze. _I've swum th' Colorado where she runs down clost to hell,_ _I've braced th' faro layouts in Cheyenne;_ _I've fought for muddy water with a howlin' bunch of Sioux,_ _An' swallered hot tamales, an' cayenne._ "There's more, but I've done forgot most of it," apologized the singer. Johnny laughed with delight. "Why, that's Lefty Allen's old song. Here's th' second verse:" _I've rid a pitchin' broncho till th' sky was underneath,_ _I've tackled every desert in th' land;_ _I've sampled Four-X whisky till I couldn't hardly see,_ _An' dallied with th' quicksands of th' Grande._ "That's shore O-Bar-O. Lefty made it up hisself, an' that boy could sing it. It all comes back to me now--he called it 'Th' Insult.' Why--here, _you_!" he chuckled. "I said I was mad an' in a hurry.
27089_243	science fiction	Westlake, Donald E.	" "That's appearance," I said. "What I was looking for was personality." "Same thing," he said. "All of them. Close-mouthed, anti-social, fiercely independent, incurably romantic, always convinced that the big strike is just a piece of rock away. McCann, now, he was a bit more realistic than most. He'd be the one I'd expect to take out a retirement policy. A real pence-pincher, that one, though I shouldn't say it as he's dead. But that's the way he was. Brighter than most Belt boys when it came to money matters. I've seen him haggle over a new piece of equipment for their scooter, or some repair work, or some such thing, and he was a wonder to watch." "And Karpin?" I asked him. "A prospector," he said, as though that answered my question. "Same as everybody else. Not as sharp as McCann when it came to money. That's why all the money stuff in the partnership was handled by McCann. But Karpin was one of the sharpest boys in the business when it came to mineralogy. He knew rocks you and I never heard of, and most times he knew them by sight. Almost all of the Belt boys are college grads--you've got to know what you're looking for out here and what it looks like when you've found it--but Karpin has practically all of them beat. He's _sharp_." * * * "Sounds like a good team," I said. "I guess that's why they stayed together so long," he said. "They complemented each other." He leaned forward, the inevitable prelude to a confidential remark. "I'll tell you something off the record, Mister," he said. "Those two were smarter than they knew. Their partnership was never legalized, it was never anything more than a piece of paper. And there's a bunch of fellas around here mighty unhappy about that today. Jafe McCann is the one who handled all the money matters, like I said. He's got IOU's all over town." "And they can't collect from Karpin?" He nodded. "Jafe McCann died just a bit too soon. He was sharp and cheap, but he was honest. If he'd lived, he would have repaid all his debts, I'm sure of it.
19330_1047	western stories	King, Charles	Poor Daly had passed away with hardly a chance to tell his tale, with only a loving, weeping woman or two to mourn him. Over the camp the shadow of death tempered the dazzling sunshine, for all Sandy felt the strain and spoke only with sorrow. He meant well, did Daly, that was accorded him now. He only lacked "savvy" said they who had dwelt long in the land of Apache. Over at the hospital two poor women wept, and twice their number strove to soothe. Janet Wren and Mrs. Graham were there, as ever, when sorrow and trouble came. Mrs. Sanders and Mrs. Cutler, too, were hovering about the mourners, doing what they could, and the hospital matron, busy day and night of late, had never left her patient until he needed her no more, and then had turned to minister to those he left behind--the widow and the fatherless. Over on the shaded verandas other women met and murmured in the soft, sympathetic drawl appropriate to funereal occasion, and men nodded silently to each other. Death was something these latter saw so frequently it brought but little of terror. Other things were happening of far greater moment that they could not fathom at all. Captain Wren, after four days of close arrest, had been released by the order of Major Plume himself, who, pending action on his application for leave of absence, had gone on sick report and secluded himself within his quarters. It was rumored that Mrs. Plume was seriously ill, so ill, indeed, she had to be denied to every one of the sympathizing women who called, even to Janet, sister of their soldier next-door neighbor, but recently a military prisoner, yet now, by law and custom, commander of the post. Several things had conspired to bring about this condition of affairs. Byrne, to begin with, had been closely questioning Shannon, and had reached certain conclusions with regard to the stabbing of Mullins that were laid before Plume, already stunned by the knowledge that, sleeping as his friendly advisers declared, or waking, as his inner consciousness would have it, Clarice, his young and still beautiful wife, had left her pillow and gone by night toward the northern limit of the line of quarters. If Wren were tried, or even accused, that fact would be the first urged in his defense. Plume's stern accusation of Elise had evoked from her nothing but a voluble storm of protest. Madame was ill, sleepless, nervous--had gone forth to walk away her nervousness.
1699_1689	detective and mystery stories	Oppenheim, E. Phillips (Edward Phillips)	He stretched out his hand and took a cigarette from a curiously carved ivory box which stood by his side. He tapped it gently upon the table and looked up. “I think, sir,” Henderson said respectfully, “that I can answer for the servants. Being mostly foreigners, they see little or nothing of the village people.” No one else made any remark. It was strange to see how dominated they all were by that queer little fragment of humanity, whose head scarcely reached a foot above the table before which he sat. They departed silently, almost abjectly, dismissed with a single wave of the hand. Mr. Fentolin beckoned his secretary to remain. She came a little nearer. “Sit down, Lucy,” he ordered. She seated herself a few feet away from him. Mr. Fentolin watched her for several moments. He himself had his back to the light. The woman, on the other hand, was facing it. The windows were high, and the curtains were drawn back to their fullest extent. A cold stream of northern light fell upon her face. Mr. Fentolin gazed at her and nodded his head slightly. “My dear Lucy,” he declared, “you are wonderful--a perfect cameo, a gem. To look at you now, with your delightful white hair and your flawless skin, one would never believe that you had ever spoken a single angry word, that you had ever felt the blood flow through your veins, or that your eyes had ever looked upon the gentle things of life.” She looked at him, still without speech. The immobility of her face was indeed a marvellous thing. Mr. Fentolin’s expression darkened. “Sometimes,” he murmured softly, “I think that if I had strong fingers--really strong fingers, you know, Lucy--I should want to take you by the throat and hold you tighter and tighter, until your breath came fast, and your eyes came out from their shadows.” She turned over a few pages of her notebook. To all appearance she had not heard a word. “To-day,” she announced, “is the fourth of April. Shall I send out the various checks to those men in Paris, New York, Frankfort, St. Petersburg, and Tokio?” “You can send the checks,” he told her. “Be sure that you draw them, as usual, upon the Credit Lyonaise and in the name you know of. Say to Lebonaitre of Paris that you consider his last reports faulty.
11229_591	science fiction	Shiel, M. P. (Matthew Phipps)	(He was one of the coolest of men ordinarily.) 'There is no gallows on the _Boreal_, but Clark could easily rig one for you. I want to kill you, too, because there are no criminal courts up here, and it would be doing a good action for my country. But not here--not now. Listen to me--don't shoot. Later we can meet, when all is ready, so that no one may be the wiser, and fight it all out.' As he spoke I let the gun drop. It was better so. I knew that he was much the best shot on the ship, and I an indifferent one: but I did not care, I did not care, if I was killed. It is a dim, inclement land, God knows: and the spirit of darkness and distraction is there. Twenty hours later we met behind the great saddle-shaped hummock, some six miles to the S.E. of the ship. We had set out at different times, so that no one might suspect. And each brought a ship's-lantern. Wilson had dug an ice-grave near the hummock, leaving at its edge a heap of brash-ice and snow to fill it. We stood separated by an interval of perhaps seventy yards, the grave between us, each with a lantern at his feet. Even so we were mere shadowy apparitions one to the other. The air glowered very drearily, and present in my inmost soul were the frills of cold. A chill moon, a mere abstraction of light, seemed to hang far outside the universe. The temperature was at 55° below zero, so that we had on wind-clothes over our anoraks, and heavy foot-bandages under our Lap boots. Nothing but a weird morgue seemed the world, haunted with despondent madness; and exactly like that world about us were the minds of us two poor men, full of macabre, bleak, and funereal feelings. Between us yawned an early grave for one or other of our bodies. I heard Wilson cry out: 'Are you ready, Jeffson?' 'Aye, Wilson!' cried I. '_Then here goes!_' cries he. Even as he spoke, he fired. Surely, the man was in deadly earnest to kill me. But his shot passed harmlessly by me: as indeed was only likely: we were mere shadows one to the other.
59172_428	science fiction	Ellis, Mike	The sun was halfway to the western horizon when they stopped to rest on a pile of small boulders near the top. Tom leaned back against the rock behind him. A trickle of sweat ran down his ribs from his armpit under his coveralls. Bart snorted through his nose. "It'll be dark soon." He wiped his arm across his forehead, the sweat making a dark stain on the sleeve. "Damn that fool Willie. He'll pay for this when we get him back to Earth. He must be crazy or something." "My God," Tom said. "Is that finally dawning on you?" Bart looked up at Tom, his dark brown eyes small in his broad sweat-streaked face. As he continued to stare at Tom without saying anything, Tom felt the stir of annoyance, then the beginning of hot tempered anger. They sat and waited, looking for the movement Willie would make if he showed himself. Nothing stirred in the yellow-green ferns below. After an hour of watching, Bart got to his feet. "He's holed up somewhere and pulled the hole in after him. Let's get down there and drag him out." He started back down the ridge the way they had come up. Halfway down, as they stopped for a breather, Tom noted the height of the sun. It was going to be dark before they could work their way back to the ship. A low bank of rolling grey clouds lay all along the straight horizon line of the sea; as the sun sank behind the clouds, it turned the edges of them to fiery red. Bart hurried down the ridge, watching only for a glimpse of Willie, but Tom looked at the sunset occasionally, trying to store up the memory of the color for the months ahead. As they reached the stream cliff, Tom stopped Bart. "Bart, I've got an idea. It's almost dark. Willie will think we've headed back to get to the ship before it's too dark to find our way. He's probably sitting on a rock, watching the sunset and daydreaming. Let's look on the edge of this little cliff where it ends at the sea." "O.K.," Bart said, leading the way. The only light left was the reflected red light of the clouds that made long dark shadows behind the rocks.
61967_330	science fiction	Hasse, Henry	It may not be easy dealing with him." Prokle patted his own ray-pistol at his side. "No," Garth cautioned. "We don't want to use those and I don't think we'll have to." Slowly, circuitously and with much effort they gained the opposite rim. It took them nearly ten minutes but the negotiation was masterful and noiseless. Finally, from behind a protecting rock formation they peered again into the depths, their eyes becoming slowly accustomed to that darker darkness. Then Garth silently pointed. "What is it?" Prokle whispered. "I don't see a thing." "Keep looking. A little to the right." Then Prokle saw it. The missing life-boat, lying quite still there below, like a tiny silver bug with its nose smashed. And that disseminated whatever slight doubt they may have had. "What now?" Prokle whispered. "We've got to go down!" Garth said hoarsely. "Nothing else. This side doesn't seem so steep; if we get to a point where we can see him, we'll talk to him." "Can't do that, unless he's got a phone, too!" "We'll see about that when we have to. Keep looking down there a while, let your eyes get used to it." Presently, Garth first, they began the descent. It was slow and ticklish work, but now they could dimly see their way enough to proceed in safety. Garth followed a little gully which at times was only arm's width. For perhaps two hundred feet they descended; then Garth stopped so suddenly that Prokle bumped into him and nearly lost balance. "What is it?" Prokle forged carefully forward. Garth merely pointed. They had come nearer to the bottom than they supposed. They now stood upon a narrow ledge scarcely forty feet above the sharp little valley. And below the edge of their protecting ledge they saw a light. That was not surprising. It was half expected. But the light wasn't a signal-flare, it was a crude, open bonfire. "Well, Hype, you were right about that, too!" Prokle murmured. "That means there's air of some kind down here." Hype nodded, and pointed to another ledge perhaps twenty feet below them, and to the right. Carefully they negotiated to it. Again they peered below. * * * * * Then, for the first time, they saw the man, but only a silhouette.
37466_1276	western stories	Calhoun, A. R. (Alfred Rochefort)	It was growing dark, and he knew that it would be madness to attempt the river again till the light of another full day lay before them. In answer to Wah Shin’s question, Ike said: "I’ll tell yeh w’at I’d like to do, Wah." "I can tellee mesel lat too," said Wah Shin. "In de fust place I’d like some nice dry clothes." "I too," said Wah. "Den I wouldn’t mind bein’ in a nice house." "Ugh," and Wah shrugged himself as if he thought that a very lovely idea. "Den," continued Ike, as he smacked his lips, "I’d like to be a settin’ down to a table in dat house." "Ha!" cried Wah. "An’—an’ I’d like to hab dat table filled way up wid good tings, an’ me a settin’ dar free to pile in all I wanted——" "Dat am belly nice," said Wah. "Den arter I’d eat, an’ eat an’ eat, till I couldn’t more’n stan’, I’d have some one pick me up and tote me off to de wahmest, softest bed——" At this point Sam interrupted by saying: "We must all take off our clothes and wring them out, for I am not going to try it again till morning." CHAPTER XIX.—AFLOAT AGAIN. Work is the one certain remedy for a troubled mind. Sam felt that if he didn’t do something he should go distracted, and judging by his own feelings he reasoned that it would be better for Ike and Wah Shin if their hands and brains were employed. He made them wring out their own clothes and the blankets, and spread them on the rocks to dry; and then all three set to work to repair the damage to the raft. They found that the ropes that held the logs together had been cut and frayed by the keen edges of the rocks, with which they were brought into contact. They took the whole raft to pieces; first having tied the rope till it was as strong, though shorter, than it was before, and then they refastened the whole structure, making it as secure as possible with the material at hand. They had but just completed their work, and made the raft fast by anchoring it to a stone, when it suddenly grew so dark that they could hardly see each other.
36246_565	western stories	Ryan, Marah Ellis	Fascinated by the uncertainty, she stood still. Would it stay where it was? Would it fall? The silent query was soon answered--it fell, dropped lightly down on the man's shoulder, and he, raising his head from the folded arms, showed a face from which the girl took a step back in astonishment. He had not been asleep, then; but to the girl's eyes he looked like a man who had been either fighting or weeping. She had never seen a face so changed, telling so surely of some war of the emotions. He lay in the shadow, one hand involuntarily lifting itself as a shade for his eyes while he looked up at her. "Well!" The tone was gruff, almost hoarse; it was as unlike him as his face at that moment, and Rachel Hardy wondered, blankly, if he was drunk--it was about the only reasonable explanation she could give herself. But even with that she could not be satisfied; there was too much quick anger at the thought--not anger alone, but a decided feeling of disappointment in the man. To be sure, she had been influenced by no one to have faith in him; still--someway-- "Are you--are you ill, Mr. Genesee?" she asked at last. "Not that I know of." What a bear the man was! she thought; what need was there to answer a civil question in that tone. It made her just antagonistic enough not to care so much if his feelings had been hurt by Clara's remarks, and she asked bluntly: "Have you been here long?" "Some time." "Awake?" "Well, yes," and he made a queer sound in his throat, half grunt, half laugh; "I reckon I--was--awake." The slow, half-bitter words impelled her to continue: "Then you--you heard the--the conversation over there?" He looked at her, and she thought his eyes were pretty steady for a drunken man's. "Well, yes," he repeated, "I reckon--I--heard it." All her temper blazed up at the deliberate confession. If he had seemed embarrassed or wounded, she would have felt sorry; but this stoicism angered her, as the idea of drunkenness had done--perhaps because each set herself and her feelings aside--I do not know, but that may have been the reason; she was a woman.
33498_2260	western stories	Rhodes, Eugene Manlove	And he then held forth at some length upon the hand of Providence, as manifested in the unconscious self-betrayal which had frustrated and brought to naught the prisoner's fiendish designs. On the whole, he spoke well of Providence. Now Jeff had not once thought of the discarded noseguard since he first found it in his way; he began to see how tightly the net was drawn round him. "There was a serpent in the garden," he reflected. A word from Miss Hoffman would set him free. If she gave that word at once, it would be unpleasant for her: but if she gave it later, as a last resort, it would be more than unpleasant. And in that same hurried moment, Jeff knew that he would not call upon her for that word. All his crowded life, he had kept the happy knack of falling on his feet: the stars, that fought in their courses against Sisera, had ever fought for reckless Bransford. He decided, with lovable folly, to trust to chance, to his wits and to his friends. "And now, Your Honor, we come to the unbreakable chain of evidence which fatally links the prisoner at the bar to this crime. We will prove that the prisoner was not invited to the masquerade ball given last night by Mr. Lake. We will prove----" There was a stir in the courtroom; the prosecutor paused, disconcerted. Eyes were turned to the double door at the back of the courtroom. In the entryway at the head of the stairs huddled a group of shrinking girls. Before them, one foot upon the threshold, stood Ellinor Hoffman. She shook off a detaining hand and stepped into the room, head erect, proud, pale. Across the sea of curious faces her eyes met the prisoner's. Of all the courtroom, Billy and Deputy Phillips alone turned then to watch Jeff's face. They saw an almost imperceptible shake of his head, a finger on lip, a reassuring gesture--saw, too, the quick pulsebeat at his throat. The color flooded back to Ellinor's face. Men nearest the door were swift to bring chairs. The prosecutor resumed his interrupted speech--his voice was deep, hard, vibrant. "Your Honor, the counts against this man are fairly damning! We will prove that he was shaved in a barber shop in Arcadia at ten o'clock last night; that he then rode a roan horse; that the horse was then sweating profusely; that this horse was afterward found at the house of--but we will take that up later.
61911_1621	detective and mystery stories	Roberts, Theodore Goodridge	“Me and the depity-sheriff are old friends. I’ll make you known to him.” So Young Dan followed the hotel-keeper, and three of the four patrons followed close upon the heels of Young Dan. The deputy-sheriff’s house was not more than fifty yards from the hotel; and the young trapper smiled politely and said nothing all the way to it. The hotel-keeper rang the bell and took up a position on the top step in front of Young Dan. The door was opened by a tall, lean man who looked like a woodsman and wore a Cardigan jacket and grey homespun trousers tucked into high-legged larrigans of oil-tanned leather. “Here’s a young feller lookin’ for you on important business, Archie,” said the hotel-keeper. “It is so all-fired important that I brought him right along to you myself, so there wouldn’t be no possible mistake.” The deputy-sheriff looked at Young Dan Evans with calm inquiry. “It is private business,” explained Young Dan, smiling; “and these gentlemen don’t know any more about it or me than I do about them. I never so much as set eyes on any one of them in my life until five minutes ago. What I have to say is for your private hearing, if you are really an officer of the law.” “Step in,” said the tall man to Young Dan; and to the others he said drily, “Thanks, boys, for escortin’ the young stranger to the right place.” Then he closed the door in the hotel-keeper’s face. He led the way into a small room opening off the narrow hall—an untidy, stale cigar-scented room poorly illumined by an oil lamp with a green paper shade. “Dump your outfit in the corner and sit down,” he invited. Young Dan obeyed and removed his cap and mitts and outer coat. The deputy-sheriff sat down in his own arm-chair beside the untidy table and removed the shade from the lamp so that the light reached his visitor’s face. For several seconds he gazed keenly but pleasantly at Young Dan. “I’ve seen you before, somewheres or other,” he said. “Seems to me I have known you pretty well, sometime or other. Who are you an’ where from?” Young Dan answered the questions briefly but clearly. “You remind me of someone I know well,” said Mr. Wallace.
63321_1241	love stories	Winthrop, Theodore	Mrs. Tootler was not to be weeded out. They could not spare her presence, blithe and débonnaire, nor in the discussion her unembarrassed womanly rectitude. “You must be indignant, Tommy,” said Ira, “at the intrusion of those kidnappers.” “Unfortunately our moral sense on these subjects is too much degraded,” answered Tommy. “I am angry, of course, but I do not think half enough of the infernal shame to that poor darkey. He must go to Canada, just as much an exile as any of the foreigners we make such disturbance about.” “I may seem rather ignorant,” said Waddy, “after my long absence, but tell me, do men with the social position of gentlemen here accept office from a government that is willing to make and execute such laws as this Fugitive Slave Bill?” “Why not? Mere social position does not make men gentlemen. They call themselves conservatives.” “It seems to me,” said Ira, “that in the present condition of things, a conservative must be either an ignoramus, a coward, or a knave. But, madam,” he added, turning to Mrs. Tootler, “we are boring you with politics. _Parlons chiffons._” “_Chiffons!_” cried Cecilia. “I am really indignant, Mr. Waddy. I do not believe that the gentleman so quietly smoking by your side would ever have been really roused if I were not always buzzing in his ears.” “She is right,” admitted Mr. Tootler, sipping the last drops of his now cold coffee. “Women are vigorous antidotes to moral or mental sleepiness. But, Waddy, our little adventure is bringing the present too near us; to-night must be devoted to recalling our dear old days together. To-morrow we’ll talk politics and be sad for the uncertainties of our cause--‘ma quest oggi n’ é dato goder,’” he sang. “‘Non contiamo l’ incerto domani,’” responded Cecilia, with spirit, from the same air, “which I freely translate that we do not count the future of our cause uncertain at all, either to-morrow or after.” It is a fascinating thing to see a lovely woman in wrath, and probably Mr. Waddy thought for the moment more of how startlingly bright were the eyes of the lady, and how quick her heart’s blood leaped to her vivid cheek, than of the cause that made the eyes electric and the cheek burning.
43114_3494	adventure stories	Bryden, H. A. (Henry Anderson)	It was a long and toilsome ascent; but at length the little party stood above the kloof, and knee-haltering the horses, crept to the edge of the chasm and looked over. It was a wonderful scene. Far below lay spread one of the fairest valleys that the eye of man has ever rested upon. Green and well bushed it was in places, and here and there thorn trees and wild olives spread their shade. Through the very centre of the valley ran a clear, shallowish stream, which seemed to take its source in a narrow cleft or ravine far up at the eastern end of the kloof. A troop of graceful red pallah wandered along the stream, apparently no whit the worse for their imprisonment in this lovely valley. Wildfowl and wading birds of various kinds checkered the surface of the stream, or ran hither and thither along the yellowish-red sands of the shallows. The kloof appeared to be about a mile and a half long by half a mile in breadth. Right in front of the watchers, on the other side of the valley, towered the mountain of the aasvogels, around the summit of which numbers of huge vultures were circling in the clear sunlit air. "What a lovely spot!" exclaimed Tom. "It looks like gold all over." "Yes," added Guy; "and it’s quite certain we’ve got it all to ourselves." "How does the stream escape out of this kloof?" asked Mr. Blakeney of Poeskop. "It makes its way somewhere under the mountain, baas," answered the Bushman, "and comes out to the right of the poort where I used to enter--" "And from there flows down the valley where our camp lies?" interrupted Mr. Blakeney. "Ja, baas, that is just so," said the Bushman. "Poeskop," again interrogated Guy, "whereabouts does the gold chiefly lie?" "All along the banks of the river-bed, Baas Guy," returned Poeskop, "and in the river, right through the kloof. But the most of it is in the upper half of the kloof. Right up towards the deep, narrow cleft where the stream runs down from the mountain," he added, pointing to the far end of the valley, "there is plenty gold; heaps of it. You may find nuggets about the stream every ten yards or so." "That’s all right, Guy," broke in Mr. Blakeney.
57236_3137	detective and mystery stories	Footner, Hulbert	The door to the adjoining room was hidden behind a tall file. The second little room was supposed by the employees to be Keenan's private office, but in reality it was designed as a sanctum for Sadie. There was a telephone here by which she might talk to me in safety. Sadie had her own door on the corridor and was never seen in the front room. The third office which was at right angles to the first and second was intended for the operatives in general when we were obliged to have them in. They were not supposed to come in without being instructed to do so. The other operatives looked on Sadie as one of themselves, and considered Keenan the boss. The door to the third room opened on a side corridor so that the men were never seen around the front office. REPORT OF S. F. (SADIE FARRELL) Last evening at 5:15 operative S. C. came into the office without instructions. He had been told like the others to mail in his reports, and keep in touch with Mr. Keenan by telephone. The excuse he gave was that the man he was trailing had led him around so fast and so far that it had used up all his money. I had Mr. Keenan give him some money and call him down, and thought no more about it. Unfortunately, it appears to-day that his disobedience has had very unfortunate results. This morning I heard loud talking in the front office. Mr. Keenan explained later that a queer old man had come in, and had told a long rambling story about being persecuted. It seems that he wanted to engage the agency to protect him. It seemed a natural enough thing--we have had these harmless cranks before. Mr. Keenan soothed him down by telling him we were too busy to do proper justice to his case, and referred him to the police station. Neither of us thought anything more about it. This afternoon shortly before five I heard the old man's voice again in the outer office. Mr. Keenan had stepped out to post some papers to you. The old man was excited, and I could hear by Miss Reilly's voice that she was very much frightened. So I went to her assistance. I saw a bent, old man in shabby black, with wild, straggly hair, broken teeth and red-rimmed eyes, a repulsive sight. The instant I laid eyes on him I saw that he was not very insane. His manner was both servile and threatening. It was like stage insanity, incoherent jabbering and wild gestures.
52683_1816	detective and mystery stories	Powell, Van	“This servant of the messenger from the stars came to my fields soon after Chasca appeared among us: he observed the corn and he took up the earth and made magic with it.” The crude tests Mr. Whitley had been able to make had seemed to be incantations to the untutored Indian. “Then went he afar among the hills with one of my servants. They came back with something borne in a sack and from that which they brought my servants did make a magic fluid by mixing it with water.” “Their earth is starving for nitrogen,” Mr. Whitley said in a low tone to Cliff, “they do not rotate their crops here; that is they plant the same crop until the earth is exhausted, instead of resting it by changing the crop from one sort to another. I brought them some mineral salts rich in nitrogen and saved time by sprinkling the earth around the cornstalks. And we had to make tiny holes in a golden crock to sprinkle with—imagine! A golden sprinkling can.” “Already my corn begins to change and no longer does it droop.” The Indian cast a triumphant look at the high priest: evidently there was jealousy. “It was not the insects, as Huamachaco did tell you, oh, my father, but the earth that starved the grain, as I have said to many.” The high priest turned away, but as he did so Cliff, surprised, his eyes bent on himself with a baleful glance. However, he simply stared straight and level at Huamachaco whose eyes shifted aside. “You have heard,” said Bill. “Let the Feast of Raymi go on, and let it be a feast, indeed! When it is finished, all shall divide into bands, some to fetch the magical earth, some to mix the powerful liquid, others to fashion urns with which to make it fall like rain upon the corn, and so, very soon, all of your dying earth will live again and make the corn lift its tassels in joy to Raymi, whose humble messengers we are.” Cliff had not dreamed that Bill could be so glowing in his speech, and he saw that not only the Inca, but his younger son and all of the nobles were impressed. The Inca evidently foresaw trouble between the two men, and rather eagerly he waved his hand toward them all in dismissal. “Let the feast go on,” he said.
4702_3056	western stories	Curwood, James Oliver	It was the voice of Bateese in a snatch of wild and discordant song that brought him back into grim reality. There was, after all, that embarrassing matter of justice--and the accursed Law! After a little he observed that the canoe was moving faster, and that Andre's paddle was working steadily and with force. St. Pierre no longer sat hunched in the bow. His head was erect, and he was waving a hand in the direction of the raft. A figure had come from the cabin on the huge mass of floating timber. David caught the shimmer of a woman's dress, something white fluttering over her head, waving back at St. Pierre. It was Marie-Anne, and he moved away from the window. He wondered what was passing between St. Pierre and his wife in the hour that followed. The bateau kept abreast of the raft, moving neither faster nor slower than it did, and twice he surrendered to the desire to scan the deck of the floating timbers through his binoculars. But the cabin held St. Pierre and Marie-Anne, and he saw neither of them again until the sun was setting. Then St. Pierre came out--alone. Even at that distance over the broad river he heard the booming voice of the chief of the Boulains. Life sprang up where there had been the drowse of inactivity aboard the raft. A dozen more of the great sweeps were swiftly manned by men who appeared suddenly from the shaded places of canvas shelters and striped tents. A murmur of voices rose over the water, and then the murmur was broken by howls and shouts as the rivermen ran to their places at the command of St. Pierre's voice, and as the sweeps began to flash in the setting sun, it gave way entirely to the evening chant of the Paddling Song. David gripped himself as he listened and watched the slowly drifting glory of the world that came down to the shores of the river. He could see St. Pierre clearly, for the bateau had worked its way nearer. He could see the bare heads and naked arms of the rivermen at the sweeps. The sweet breath of the forests filled his lungs, as that picture lay before him, and there came into his soul a covetousness and a yearning where before there had been humiliation and the grim urge of duty. He could breathe the air of that world, he could look at its beauty, he could worship it--and yet he knew that he was not a part of it as those others were a part of it.
13497_11960	love stories	Dell, Ethel M. (Ethel May)	a man's voice asked. "Yes, sir. Just here, sir," came the answer, and Scott rose with a weary gesture. "Oh, here you are!" Airily Guy Bathurst advanced to meet him. "Don't let me interrupt your drink! I only want a few words with you." "I'll fetch another glass, sir" murmured the discreet man-servant, and vanished. Scott stood, stiff and uncompromising, by his chair. There was a hint of hostility in his bearing. "What can I do for you?" he asked. Bathurst ignored his attitude with that ease of manner of which he was a past-master. "Well I thought perhaps you could give me news of Dinah" he said. "Billy tells me he left you with her this morning." "I see" said Scott. He looked at the other man with level, unblinking eyes. "You are beginning to feel a little anxious about her?" he questioned. "Well, I think it's about time she came home," said Bathurst. He took out a cigarette and lighted it. "Her mother is wondering what has become of her," he added, between the puffs. "I posted a letter to Mrs. Bathurst about an hour ago," said Scott. "She will get it in the morning." "Indeed!" Bathurst glanced at him. "And is her whereabouts to remain a mystery until then?" "That letter will reassure you as to her safety," Scott returned quietly. "But it will not enlighten you as to her whereabouts. She is in good hands, and it is not her intention to return home--at least for the present. Under the circumstances you could scarcely compel her to do so." "I never compel her to do anything," said Bathurst comfortably. "Her mother keeps her in order, I have nothing to do with it." "Evidently not." A sudden sharp quiver of scorn ran through Scott's words. "Her mother may make her life a positive hell, but it's no business of yours!" A flicker of temper shone for a second in Bathurst's eyes. The scorn had penetrated even his thick skin. "None whatever," he said deliberately. "Nor of yours either, so far as I can see." "There you are wrong." Hotly Scott took him up. "It is the duty of every man to prevent cruelty.
9649_1611	adventure stories	Leslie, Lawrence J.	So on this night Bandy-legs could go to sleep in peace on the floor, he having given up the bunk to the next one on the list. If he woke up in the night and raised his head to find the fire burning low, he need not imagine every grotesque shadow in the dimly lighted cabin to be a fierce animal that had crept in while they slept. When day came again they laid out their programme as usual. Of course, Uncle Jim, having started his season's work, could not neglect his traps. Every day when the weather allowed he must trudge the rounds and see what Fortune had sent him. Besides, a humane trapper wishes to end as quickly as possible the torture of any creature that has been caught by the leg in one of his steel contraptions. "It's a cruel enough business at the best," Jim Ruggles told the boys as he sat and spoke of his past experiences, "and often I've been sorry I ever took it up. But there must be trappers as long as women will demand rich furs in the winter season. My only satisfaction is that I've been kinder toward the little animals of the woods than most brutal trappers would be." "But, however did you come to take up such a queer profession in the beginning, Uncle Jim?" asked Owen that morning, as they got to talking about the many years the old man had spent in this way. Owen had discovered, before now that that Jim Ruggles was really a man of education, having been a college graduate. He smiled at the question, did the old trapper. "Oh, there were a lot of things combined to send me to the woods," he said, musingly. "First of all was my intense love for all the Big Outdoors. Seemed like I could never get enough of it. The more I saw of the forest, the more I felt drawn to it. I guess I had the woods hunger from boyhood. Max, here, knows what it is." "I think I do," remarked the one mentioned. "I feel the craving come over me at times and have hard work to resist." "Well, take my advice, son, and fight it off," remarked Trapper Jim. "Anyhow keep it in subjection. The world needs you. There's plenty of work for such as you in the busy marts of men. Don't allow yourself to ever dream of spending your whole life lost in the wilderness like I've done.
57203_2777	adventure stories	Prime-Stevenson, Edward	They had died, grandmothers both, long ago. And of all the Jennison estate was left to-day only this single lonely corner of it, the island, its very name changed on the government maps by some State maneuver. Furthermore, to bear the family name and own the scattered remnants of this world’s goods left to its credit, there was now only a single representative, one Wentworth Jennison, according to Mrs. Probasco’s reserved account, an erratic and wandering man, who seldom set his foot near the home of his ancestors――once or twice a year, perhaps; then not again for another two or three seasons. He allowed an old lawyer at Chantico to lease island, farm, and house to the Probascos. They paid their modest rent and kept the mansion from destruction. They had long been its tenants. Of course, the connection between these details became clearer in his later talks with the good farmer’s wife; but Philip gathered enough in her scraps of explanation that afternoon and evening to interest his boyish love of romance and novelty and to fill his heart with gratitude for this hospitable situation. Just before supper-time Gerald awoke. “Philip,” he called, “Philip! where have you gone?” Touchtone hastened in from the kitchen. A few sentences with the sick boy gave him a delightful sense of relief. It was quite confirmed during the next half hour. Gerald’s fever had almost departed. He was told the good news of the Probascos’ return. On the first sight of his sympathetic hostess he “took to her” (so she expressed it), “as if we’d never done nothing but spend our hull lives in this same old house.” Obed was permitted by his vigilant spouse to come in and hold the boy’s slender hand in his for a few moments and speak his few kindly words of welcome and help. The invalid’s appetite that had developed was rewarded with a dainty supper, and he was made comfortable in fresh sheets. “O, I guess he’s all right, an’ doing splendidly, Mr. Touchtone,” Mrs. Probasco declared. “We wont give him a chance to get real sick, between us.” “What kind people they are!” Gerald said, softly, to Touchtone, just as he was dropping off into a fresh doze, with the clink of Mrs. Probasco’s dishes and the murmur of her conference with Obed making a homely lullaby from the adjoining room. “Yes, the kindest sort,” assented Touchtone.
21513_1396	adventure stories	Paltock, Robert	We sat us down and sorted out our cargo, piece by piece; and having found several things proper for the children, my wife longed to enter upon some piece of work towards clothing Pedro in the manner she had heard me talk of, and laid hard at me to show her the use of the needles, thread, and other things she had brought. Indeed I must say she proved very tractable; and from the little instruction I was able to give her, soon out-wrought my knowledge; for I could only show her that the thread went through the needle, and both through the cloth to hold it together; but for anything else I was as ignorant as she. In much less time than I could have imagined, she had clothed my son Pedro, and had made a sort of mantle for the youngest. But now seeing us so smart (for I took upon me sometimes to wear the green waistcoat she had brought under my dirty jacket), she began to be ashamed of herself, as she said, in our fine company; and afterwards (as I shall soon acquaint you) got into our fashion. Seeing the advantages her flight to the ship, and that so many conveniences arose from it, she was frequently at me to let her go again. I should as much have wished for another return of goods as she, but I could by no means think of parting with my factor; for I knew her eagerness to please me, and that she would stick at nothing to perform it. And, thinks I, should any accident happen to her, by over-loading or otherwise, and I should lose her, all the other commodities of the whole world put together would not compensate her loss. But as she so earnestly desired it, and assured me she would run no hazards, I was prevailed on at length, by her incessant importunities, to let her go; though under certain restrictions which she promised me to comply with. As first, I insisted upon it that she should take a tour quite round the rock, setting out the same way I had last gone with my boat; and, if possible, find out the gulf, which I told her she could not mistake, by reason of the noise the fall of the water made; and desired her to remark the place, so as I might know within-side where it was without.
504_727	love stories	Sousa, John Philip	" "That would be an unselfish love," said the elder. "Suppose they have declared their passion?" asked Diotti. "A parting before doubt and jealousy had entered her mind would let the image of her sacrificing lover live within her soul as a tender and lasting memory; he always would be her ideal," and the accent old Sanders placed on ALWAYS left no doubt of his belief. "Why should doubt and jealousy enter her life?" said the violinist, falling into the personal character of the discussion despite himself. "My dear sir, from what I observed to-night, she loves you. You are a dangerous man for a jealous woman to love. You are not a cloistered monk, you are a man before the public; you win the admiration of many; some women do not hesitate to show you their preference. To a woman like Mildred that would be torture; she could not and would not separate the professional artist from the lover or husband." And Diotti, remembering Mildred's words, could not refute the old man's statements. "If you had known her mother as I did," continued the old man, realizing his argument was making an impression on the violinist, "you would see the agony in store for the daughter if she married a man such as you, a public servant, a public favorite." "I would live my life not to excite her suspicions or jealousy," said the artist, with boyish enthusiasm and simplicity. "Foolish fellow," retorted Sanders, skeptically; "women imagine, they don't reason. A scented note unopened on the dressing table can cause more unhappiness to your wife than the loss of his country to a king. My advice to you is: do not marry; but if you must, choose one who is more interested in your gastronomic felicity than in your marital constancy." Diotti was silent. He was pondering the words of his host. Instead of seeing in Mildred a possibly jealous woman, causing mental misery, she appeared a vision of single-hearted devotion. He felt: "To be loved by such a one is bliss beyond the dreams of this world." XII A tipsy man is never interesting, and Sanders in that condition was no exception. The old man arose with some effort, walked toward the window and, shading his eyes, looked out. The snow was drifting, swept hither and thither by the cutting wind that came through the streets in great gusts.
55801_1025	science fiction	Elam, Richard M. (Richard Mace)	The breakoff had come suddenly after landing, and the source of the trouble was unknown. As soon as Rob had heard that the _Rigel_ was going in search of the missing explorers, he had signed up for the trip as assistant to the navigator. He’d been grateful for the companionship of young Duff Ford, a likeable fellow he’d met in space school. Duff was a regular crewman, an air purifier, on the _Rigel_. Duff was speaking again. “Think we’ll get by the big boy there with the halo?” Rob looked at the giant, glowing pearl of Saturn, which had been growing before their eyes for the past couple of days. Though placid and beautiful against the velvet sky, the ringed planet was a real menace to the _Rigel_. “Lieutenant Stone said it’s going to be a tight squeeze,” Rob answered. “We hope we’ve got enough rocket power to fight off the terrific gravity pull of Saturn and his moons.” “I can’t understand why we couldn’t go on a beeline to Pluto without even coming close to the other planets,” Duff said. “Pluto is a long ways off the plane of the outer planets, isn’t it?” “We could,” Rob answered, “if it weren’t for floating clouds of explosive hydrogen which have been found to exist outside of the plane of the ecliptic. That’s why we have to stay in close until we’re past Neptune.” “Won’t Uranus and Neptune give us trouble?” Duff asked. “They’re pretty big too.” “Uranus is far around on his orbit, and Neptune is heading away from us. However, we’ll see Neptune at a distance.” Hours later Rob was in the navigation compartment with Lieutenant Stone, his immediate superior. They were leaning over a level ground-glass screen upon which were a projected television image and a panel of dials. In the middle of the scene was poised the oblate sphere of Saturn and its spinning necklace of millions of meteoric particles. Scattered about were globes of varying sizes, which were Saturn’s moons. The screen surface was roughened to take pencil marks. A tiny dot represented the _Rigel_, and arcs were drawn to show the motions of all the objects. “Our closest approach to the planet will be here at point ‘X’,” spoke the navigator. Glancing at his watch, he added, “We’ve got about five minutes to go.”
1260_5734	love stories	Brontë, Charlotte	I perceived that I was sickening from excitement and inanition; neither meat nor drink had passed my lips that day, for I had taken no breakfast. And, with a strange pang, I now reflected that, long as I had been shut up here, no message had been sent to ask how I was, or to invite me to come down: not even little Adele had tapped at the door; not even Mrs. Fairfax had sought me. "Friends always forget those whom fortune forsakes," I murmured, as I undrew the bolt and passed out. I stumbled over an obstacle: my head was still dizzy, my sight was dim, and my limbs were feeble. I could not soon recover myself. I fell, but not on to the ground: an outstretched arm caught me. I looked up--I was supported by Mr. Rochester, who sat in a chair across my chamber threshold. "You come out at last," he said. "Well, I have been waiting for you long, and listening: yet not one movement have I heard, nor one sob: five minutes more of that death-like hush, and I should have forced the lock like a burglar. So you shun me?--you shut yourself up and grieve alone! I would rather you had come and upbraided me with vehemence. You are passionate. I expected a scene of some kind. I was prepared for the hot rain of tears; only I wanted them to be shed on my breast: now a senseless floor has received them, or your drenched handkerchief. But I err: you have not wept at all! I see a white cheek and a faded eye, but no trace of tears. I suppose, then, your heart has been weeping blood?" "Well, Jane! not a word of reproach? Nothing bitter--nothing poignant? Nothing to cut a feeling or sting a passion? You sit quietly where I have placed you, and regard me with a weary, passive look." "Jane, I never meant to wound you thus. If the man who had but one little ewe lamb that was dear to him as a daughter, that ate of his bread and drank of his cup, and lay in his bosom, had by some mistake slaughtered it at the shambles, he would not have rued his bloody blunder more than I now rue mine. Will you ever forgive me?" Reader, I forgave him at the moment and on the spot.
3702_1944	love stories	Boucicault, Dion	At daybreak she had gone a hundred and twenty miles. But this was balanced by a new and alarming feature. The water from the pumps no longer came up pure, but mixed with what appeared to be blood. This got redder and redder, and struck terror into the more superstitious of the crew. Even Cooper, whose heart was stout, leaned over the bulwarks and eyed the red stream, gushing into the sea from the lee scuppers, and said aloud, "Ay, bleed to death, ye bitch! We shan't be long behind ye." Hazel inquired, and found the ship had a quantity of dye-wood among her cargo. He told the men this, and tried to keep up their hearts by his words and his example. He succeeded with some; but others shook their heads. And by and by, even while he was working double tides for them as well as for himself, ominous murmurs met his ear. "Parson aboard!" "Man aboard, with t'other world in his face!" And there were sinister glances to match. He told this, with some alarm, to Welch and Cooper. They promised to stand by him; and Welch told him it was all the mate's doings; he had gone among the men and poisoned them. The wounded vessel, with her ever-beating heart, had run three hundred miles on the new tack. She had almost ceased to bleed; but what was as bad, or worse, small fragments of her cargo and stores came up with the water, and their miscellaneous character showed how deeply the sea had now penetrated. This, and their great fatigue, began to demoralize the sailors. The pumps and buckets were still plied, but it was no longer with the uniform manner of brave and hopeful men. Some stuck doggedly to their work, but others got flurried and ran from one thing to another. Now and then a man would stop and burst out crying; then to work again in a desperate way. One or two lost heart altogether, and had to be driven. Finally, one or two succumbed under the unremitting labor. Despair crept over others. Their features began to change, so much so that several countenances were hardly recognizable, and each, looking in the other's troubled face, saw his own fate pictured there. Six feet water in the hold! The captain, who had been sober beyond his time, now got dead drunk. The mate took the command. On hearing this, Welch and Cooper left the pumps. Wylie ordered them back.
53456_1333	science fiction	Elam, Richard M. (Richard Mace)	His blue eyes were tired. “How far away is Apollo’s Chariot now?” Sue asked. Mr. Shannon grinned. “That’s the umpteenth time you two have asked that. But I suppose I’m as restless as you are to get back to Mom in Arkansas.” Hearing this made Steve suddenly homesick. There was really no place like home, just like the poet had said. Steve knew Sue felt the same way. He had seen a wistful look in her hazel eyes every time they had talked of Little Rock. The seemingly endless days finally did end. The three Shannons went up into the lookout dome with the crewmen. The dome was covered by a darkened plastic screen to cut down the blinding glare of the sun, which was very close. It was a heart-stopping sight for Sue and Steve. The planet Mercury covered the face of the sun like a black plate. Streaming out from the edges were mountainous tongues of living fire. Mr. Shannon called this flaming halo the sun’s _chromosphere_. “Gee, what a thing to see!” Steve gasped. “It’s—it’s unbelievable!” Sue added, breathless. “Indeed, it is,” Mr. Shannon agreed. “See that thing like a lighted wheel just ahead of us? That’s Apollo’s Chariot. It was named after the famous Greek sun god, you know.” Sue and Steve knew that Apollo’s Chariot was really a space laboratory that was a home for scientists who were studying the sun. They had been the ones who had given their tiny world its colorful nickname. It was protected with asbestos and other special material to shield it from the heat as it circled the great star, month after month, year after year. “We had to contact Apollo’s Chariot while Mercury was shading our ship from the sun’s rays,” Mr. Shannon said. “We aren’t protected like Apollo’s Chariot is.” “Mercury seems as big as the sun, the way it covers it completely,” Steve remarked. “That’s because we’re so close to Mercury,” his father explained. “Actually, the sun is so much bigger it’s like comparing a pinpoint to a grapefruit!” In the midnight darkness between the ships, giant searchlights had to be turned on. Then the scientists on the other ship came out onto their loading platform to receive their cargo. Conversation was carried on by means of space suit radios with those aboard the freighter, who stood on their own outside platform.
45236_1437	adventure stories	Vandercook, Margaret	He had also plenty of time as his duties by no means kept him constantly engaged. It was during the first week of March and President Wilson having returned to the United States for a brief period, there was a temporary lull in the activities of the Peace Conference. One morning, opening a note at the breakfast table, Miss Patricia Lord frowned and glanced over toward Mrs. Burton. At the same instant the Camp Fire guardian was reading a letter of her own, and although aware of Miss Patricia’s gaze, made no effort to return it, or reply in any fashion. Under the present circumstances, which she chanced to understand, the first remark must emanate from Miss Patricia. “Young David Hale has written me to say that if we like he has been able to obtain permission for us to make a day’s journey along the edge of one of the French battlefields. I presume this may be partly due to the fact that I told him the other evening it was my intention to devote the rest of my life and fortune toward helping with the restoration work in France. I also told him that it was probably my wish to erect a monument to the heroes who died for France near one of the battlefields, although I did not say what the character of the monument would be,” Miss Patricia declared, finally breaking the silence. “Do you mean that it may be possible for any of the Camp Fire girls to make the journey with you?” Bettina Graham demanded impetuously and then subsided, observing that Miss Patricia was not in a mood at present to open a discussion with her. “Yes,” Mrs. Burton returned quietly, “it sounds like a remarkable opportunity, Aunt Patricia. I have a letter from Senator Duval saying he has been pleased to use his influence to accomplish what Mr. Hale requested. And, although the French Government is not for the present permitting tourists to journey over her battlefields, a special concession has been made in view of your services and your desire to aid France. Senator Duval would like to travel with us, as it is necessary we should have a Frenchman of authority and influence as our companion. I suppose you do not mind, Aunt Patricia, as there is no danger from a German shell these days and I shall try to keep out of trouble?” Refusing to reply to Mrs. Burton’s final remark, Miss Patricia arose. “We are to leave Paris at five o’clock next Thursday morning and travel a number of hours by train.
61946_1281	western stories	Ward, William (Author at Arthur Westbrook Co. (Cleveland, Ohio))	The only thing to do, she decided, was to meet Jesse. And as she trudged along, a little voice whispered: "Perhaps you can persuade him to allow the wedding." Her spirits buoyed by this thought, Susie responded lightly to the surprised, but hearty, greetings of the Priors. During the dinner, to which the family was just sitting down when she arrived, her friends regaled her with the account of the doings of the mysterious strangers, whose wealth, bravery and deeds were the wonder of the Springs. Smiling at the romance woven around her brother, Susie was on the point of enlightening them, when the pounding of hoofs was heard in the yard and looking from the window, Mr. Prior gasped: "Wal, I swan! 'Speak of the devil and he's sure to appear.' Here they be, now. What on airth kin they want here?" With the arrival of the outlaws, the girl's fears for their safety drove all else from her mind, yet before she could act, the farmer had risen from the table and opened the door, calling, cordially: "Jest hitch your horses and come in, won't yeh? We're finishin' dinner but thar's plenty left, I reckon." The reply to the invitation, delivered with all the hospitality of the South, was awaited with fluttering hearts by the daughters of the house of Prior, Helen and Marjorie, two comely lasses. Afraid that the disclosure of their identity out of doors might lead their friend to exclamations that would excite any watching man-hunter, the world-famous desperado replied: "Thank you, we'll come in. We came to see about buying some of your horses." And without delay the trio made fast their animals and passed in through the door. But their entrance was easier than their exit! "Ma, this is Mr.--" began the farmer awkwardly, then paused in amazement. No sooner was the door shut behind them, than Jesse had rushed to his sister and kissed her while the others stared in open mouthed bewilderment. "There's nothing improper," laughed the bandit-chieftain as he beheld the blank amazement on the faces of his friends. "Your mysterious 'Mr. Howard' is only Sue's brother, Jesse." The announcement, however, astounded the Priors even more than the episode of the kissing. "I might have known it," pouted Helen.
29748_758	western stories	Ogden, George W. (George Washington)	Close by the station there were cattle pens for loading stock, with two long tracks for holding the cars. In autumn fat cattle were driven down out of the hidden valleys to entrain there for market. In those days there was merriment after nightfall in Glendora. At other times it was mainly a quiet place, the shooting that was done on its one-sided street being of a peaceful nature in the way of expressing a feeling for which some plain-witted, drunken cowherder had no words. A good many years before the day that the Duke and Taterleg came riding into Glendora, the town had supported more than one store and saloon. The shells of these dead enterprises stood there still, windows and doors boarded up, as if their owners had stopped their mouths when they went away to prevent a whisper of the secrets they might tell of the old riotous nights, or of fallen hopes, or dishonest transactions. So they stood now in their melancholy, backs against the gray hill, giving to Glendora the appearance of a town that was more than half dead, and soon must fail and pass utterly away in the gray-blowing clouds of dust. The hotel seemed the brightest and soundest living spot in the place, for it was painted in green, like a watermelon, with a cottonwood tree growing beside the pump at the porch corner. In yellow letters upon the windowpane of the office there appeared the proprietor's name, doubtless the work of some wandering artist who had paid the price of his lodging or his dinner so. ORSON WOOD, PROP. said the sign, bedded in curlicues and twisted ornaments, as if a carpenter had planed the letters out of a board, leaving the shavings where they fell. A green rustic bench stood across one end of the long porch, such as is seen in boarding-houses frequented by railroad men, and chairs with whittled and notched arms before the office door, near the pump. Into this atmosphere there had come, many years before, one of those innocents among men whose misfortune it is to fall before the beguilements of the dishonest; that sort of man whom the promoters of schemes go out to catch in the manner of an old maid trapping flies in a cup of suds. Milton Philbrook was this man. Somebody had sold him forty thousand acres of land in a body for three dollars an acre. It began at the river and ran back to the hills for a matter of twenty miles. Philbrook bought the land on the showing that it was rich in coal deposits. Which was true enough.
57203_3334	adventure stories	Prime-Stevenson, Edward	And, look here, do you know what I’d do next――the very minute you’ve got through your dispatch?” “No; what, sir?” “I’d go down to the office of the _Knoxport Anchor_ and ask for Benny Fillmore, the editor. Fillmore sends all the news from this part of the country to some of the New York and Boston papers. He’ll telegraph your whole story to two or three, to-night. It’ll be in print to-morrow, and that’s a way of telling all your friends that you’re alive and waiting to hear from them that likely will beat any other.” “That _is_ a good idea,” Philip replied, struck with it. “It’s doubtful how soon we can get direct word.” But as he spoke he remembered a reason why Mr. Banger’s last suggestion was not a good one, after all. No, better not adopt it. “I’ll just step to the desk and register for you, or let you do it for yourselves. Eh? What’s that?” “I think it would be better for us not to register,” Philip said, slowly, “if you don’t mind; and, on second thoughts, perhaps we hadn’t better be telegraphed about――to the papers.” “Why not, for pity’s sake? You can keep as much to yourselves while you are here as you like. You needn’t be pestered by visitors out of curiosity, if that’s what you’re thinking of.” “No, not that. The fact is, there is――a person who might give us a great deal of trouble and upset all our plans badly if he happened to know that we were here alone――if this person could get here before Mr. Marcy or Mr. Saxton.” Mr. Banger was nonplused. He deprecated keeping from all the rest of Knoxport and of creation this romantic return of the dead to life. Good could be done by it; and besides his own name and his hotel’s would attain the glory of New York print. What foolishness was this? “I don’t understand,” he said. “What kind of a person? How could you be annoyed? I’ll look after you.” There was no helping it. Philip had to explain as much of the Hilliard-Belmont persecution as made its outlines clear. He hurried it over. But of the names, and especially of his discovery that the man Belmont and Mr. Winthrop Jennison were the same person, he uttered not a syllable.
41534_1225	western stories	Boyles, Virgil D. (Virgil Dillin)	“Better black than yellow,” he retorted. “It looks cleaner, now, doesn’t it?” “Maybe you think my home a fit dwelling place for John Chinaman,” pouted Louise. “Yes—if that will persuade you that South Dakota is infinitely better. Are you open to conviction?” “Never! I should die if I had to stay here.” “You will be going back—soon?” “Some day, sure! Soon? Maybe. Oh, I wish I could. That part of me which is like Uncle Hammond says, ‘Stay.’ But that other part of me which is like the rest of us, says, ‘What’s the use? Go back to your kind. You’re happier there. Why should you want to be different? What does it all amount to?’ I am afraid I shall be weak enough and foolish enough to go back and—stay.” There was a stir in the forward part of the car. A man, hitherto sitting quietly by the side of an alert wiry little fellow who sat next the aisle, had attempted to bolt the car by springing over the empty seat in front of him and making a dash for the door. It was daring, but in vain. His companion, as agile as he, had seized him and forced him again into his place before the rest of the passengers fully understood that the attempt had really been made. “Is he crazy? Are they taking him to Yankton?” asked Louise, the pretty color all gone from her face. “Did he think to jump off the train?” “That’s John Yellow Wolf, a young half-breed. He’s wanted up in the Hills for cattle-rustling—United States Court case. That’s Johnson with him, Deputy United States Marshal.” “Poor fellow,” said Louise, pityingly. “Don’t waste your sympathy on such as he. They are degenerates—many of these half-breeds. They will swear to anything. They inherit all the evils of the two races. Good never mixes. Yellow Wolf would swear himself into everlasting torment for a pint of whiskey. You see my cause of complaint? But never think, Miss Dale, that these poor chaps of half-breeds, who are hardly responsible, are the only ones who are willing to swear to damnable lies.” There was a tang of bitterness in his voice.
63321_1579	love stories	Winthrop, Theodore	Not so well personally; one look of a practised eye discovers more than all description or all history can reveal. Granby was a wide-worldling of the best type, and the ladies and Mr. Waddie found him charming. Sir Com Ambient, that pleasant pinkling of hesitant utterance, was also a favourite; indeed, Diana had quite petted him on the voyage, for she liked travellers, even verdant ones. Freshmen, when they are honest and ardent, are pleasant to meet. So she had petted him--poor Sir Com! He was not at all blasé, a fresh and susceptible youth; and of course he lost his heart utterly. Granby spoke of his friend Ira. Mr. Ambassador Waddie had heard of this gentleman; in fact, who had not? “We suppose Mr. Ira Waddy to belong to a younger branch of our somewhat ancient family,” he explained. “Indeed, I have already written him to inquire our relationship. We shall be happy to meet him as a kinsman and as a friend of Major Granby.” The young ladies were interested in the major’s account of his friend. He was not, Granby said, a misogynist, though he always avoided women if he could. He was a cynic of the kindest heart. Utterly careless of money, but possessed of a Pactolian genius for making it, he dashed at a speculation as a desperate man rides through a front of opposing battle. It seemed that he valued success so little that the Fates were willing to give it him. “Perhaps,” said Diana, “the Fates took an antecedent revenge. Perhaps they are lavishly compensating him with what he does not value for the fatal loss of what he did.” Granby looked hard at her, studying the hieroglyphs of her expressive face. What experience had this young person had, enabling her to divine such secrets of his own life and what he had divined in his friend’s history? A sham Champollion would have given his interpretation that she was generalising from some disappointment of the wrong man and not the right one having offered her a bouquet. Granby, looking deeper, perceived that to this maiden, whom the gods loved, they had given some early sorrow, which she was endeavouring to explain to herself. Granby went on with the character of Mr. Waddy. He was a man who concerned himself not much with books. Having his own thoughts, he did not hungrily need those of other men. He could exhaust the books by a question or two from those who took the trouble to read them.
46588_1285	adventure stories	Hemyng, Bracebridge	" "You're Alfred Van Hoosen?" said Jack, in a faint voice. "Certainly, I am." "Did I win the race?" "Did you win it? Why, man alive! It was the finest race on record, they tell me. Every one is perfectly wild about it, and--" "Excuse me," interrupted Jack. "I know I ought not to have ridden your horse, but I wanted your sister to have the cup, and if you'll accept my apology--" It was now Van Hoosen's turn to interrupt Jack. "Apology! my dear fellow," he said. "I don't know what you mean." "You didn't treat me well the other day, and I know it was wrong to ride your horse." "You have done me the greatest service one man could do another," replied Van Hoosen. "When I sprained my ankle, I hurt it badly, and I am told I shall not get out of the house for a month at least. At present I am suffering terrible torture. If you had not ridden my horse, I should have been a ruined man, for I don't mind telling you I had backed my mount heavily, and I stood to lose more than I can afford. It would have broken my heart to go to my mother and ask her to pay my debts of honor. You have saved me." Jack's face lighted up with a faint smile. It was the brother of the girl he loved who was talking to him. "I'm awfully glad," he said. "It pleases me to help a man out of a bad place. If your man will give me my coat, I'll go home now, and send you the colors in the morning. I've got friends here--drove my drag down, you know, and I fear I have neglected them." "Sit down a moment," replied Van Hoosen. "You're a fine fellow, Harkaway, and I'm sorry for what I said yesterday." "Don't mention it, my dear fellow. I've forgotten it." "I've sent for some wine. Won't you wait?" "Well, yes. Just a moment--the fact is--I'm not well--I've got a sudden vertigo--I--I can't see.
32544_486	science fiction	Reynolds, John Murray	They passed some of the barrier forts, square and stone walled buildings reminiscent of medieval castles on Earth. In the misty hills beyond, Closana told Gerry, lay the country of the Scaly Ones. "What is it like?" he asked. She shrugged, but her eyes were shadowed. "All I know about it is legend, the sort of tales that old women tell in the evenings. Many of our people have been taken there as prisoners in raids, but none has ever returned alive." Leaving Steve Brent in command in the control room for the moment, Gerry went aft to his quarters where he had a compact Tri-dimensional-cinema outfit. He was passing along one of the corridors on B-deck when he abruptly halted. A faint humming was coming from behind the closed door of the radio room! The _Viking's_ sending outfit was not strong enough to bridge the vastness of interplanetary space. Such outfits existed, of course, but only a small set had been installed on the space-ship because of the extra weight involved. The radio room had been closed and locked weeks ago. No one was supposed to have access to it except Steve Brent and Gerry himself. And yet--the unmistakable hum of a generator was coming from behind the closed door! Gerry cautiously tested the knob of the door. It gave under his hand. As he opened the portal a crack, he clearly heard the sharp murmur of the sending apparatus. Then he swung the door wide on its noiseless and well oiled hinges. A dim light gleamed across the room! A dark figure was crouched tensely over the table that held the sending set. At the moment Gerry could not see who it was. Two steps Gerry took into the room. Three steps. The rubberoid soles of his shoes made no sound. Then a crushing weight descended on top of his head! In the half second before he lost consciousness, he realized that there had been a second interloper in the radio room. Someone who had been crouching against the wall by the door, and who had slugged him as he passed. * * * * * When consciousness returned to Gerry Norton, he was lying alone on the floor of the darkened radio room. He sat up, and rubbed his aching head, and swore softly. There was no sign of the interlopers, nor any clue to their identity. The whole incident puzzled him. His assailants must have been from among the _Viking's_ crew.
27824_6548	detective and mystery stories	Campbell, Alice	What's more, I could take my oath she's as sensible as you or me, let them say what they will." The old man's habitually wooden face showed deep emotion. "See here, Chalmers, lock the door of my room and bring me the key. We'll see that no one gets in there to tamper with that bottle, just in case there's anything wrong." "Yes, sir, and if you'll take my advice, sir, you'll keep an eye on that doctor. I don't think we can trust him, sir." With this parting counsel, spoken in a tone of strong conviction, the butler departed on his mission. Although burning to know what Esther had said to Chalmers on her precipitate dash up the stairs, Roger felt his curiosity must remain unsatisfied for the present. At the moment all that mattered was her safety, already he had left her too long. He suddenly realised that he had been away at least five minutes, and assailed by fresh fears he hurried at once into the boudoir. He entered confident of finding his aunt in charge of the situation. The next instant he cursed his folly in ever leaving the room. The old lady was not there. Instead, the clumsy figure bending over the couch and concealing its occupant from view was that of Sartorius. To his excited brain there was a sinister suggestion in the heavy body that approached so close to the girl lately terrified into unconsciousness. Roger did not stop to think. He strode forward and with a brusque movement caught hold of the man's arm and pulled him away. As he did so his nostrils detected a familiar odour and he caught sight of some object held in the doctor's hand. Was it a hypodermic syringe? A sick feeling swept over him. "What are you doing to her?" he demanded furiously. The doctor straightened up and for a second the two eyed each other in tense silence. Then a shadow of contempt passed over the taller man's face. "My dear Mr. Clifford," he replied deliberately, "if you go away and leave this woman in a critical condition for a considerable length of time, you can hardly expect me not to do what I can for her. You may even admit that my knowledge of what is best is perhaps more extensive than yours." Steadily Roger's eyes met the gaze of the doctor's little cold greyish ones. "I don't question your superior knowledge, doctor," he replied with careful emphasis.
35833_4096	detective and mystery stories	McCulley, Johnston	And they would be able to keep up their volleys until the launch was some distance away, endangering the Black Star and his men and prisoners every moment of the time. But the master criminal, it appeared, though he pretended to abhor all violence, was no physical coward. He sprang to his feet, away from the protection of the bulwarks, and jumped forward to the searchlight. While bullets rained around him he reached the light and turned it. It flashed straight into the faces of the foes on the shore, blinding them at that short range, making them easy targets, and rendering them incapable of aiming at the men on the launch. Some continued firing in the path of light; others sprang for cover in the brush, expecting the men on the boat to fire a volley. The laugh of the Black Star rang out; he continued playing the light on them. The launch was out in the stream now and turning; a moment later the engineer gave her the maximum amount of speed, and she dashed beneath the bridge and toward the city. “Too bad our prisoners could not have been conscious and enjoyed this little battle,” he told his men. “Really, Muggs and Verbeck are not in the thick of it at all to-night. Generally they cause a part of the trouble, but to-night all our trouble has come from others.” He chuckled as if well pleased with himself. “Some joke this—stealing the enemy’s boat,” he observed. CHAPTER XXX—MUGGS IN ACTION For fifteen minutes they ran in silence, and then the Black Star went forward and stood beside the engineer. “Put in at the alley between National and Washington Streets,” he ordered. “Out with your lights, and make as little noise as possible. The two taxicabs should be waiting at the end of the alley. Get ready, men, and pick up Verbeck and Muggs. We don’t want to lose any more time—we’ve lost enough already.” He was not chuckling now; he spoke in a stern voice, and his men knew that the Black Star was thinking only of the big-planned crime now, of getting the money and securities from the vault of the National Trust Company and removing the fortune to his headquarters. Then the band would scatter as usual, and in the morning the police would discover that the lodge hall of the Knights of Certainty had been a crooks’ workshop and the robbery made possible because of it—but they would make the discovery too late, as usual.
65450_32	science fiction	Reinsberg, Mark	How about telling us now?" Jake smiled with self-contentment. "I said it would be worth your while. Be patient a few minutes longer." The cargo hold of the freighter opened. A rocket-propelled net shot out into space. Their tiny unit was caught up like a fish and dragged into the freighter's maw. The first mate stood by as they clambered out of the unit. "We sure do thank you," said Jake to the ship's officer. "Another hour and it would have been too late." "Say," said Matt, "has your ship picked up any of the others?" "No," said the mate. "How many more were there?" "Seven, I think. We had a ship about your size. How many are in your crew?" "Eight altogether," said the mate. "Perhaps you had better tell the captain about your accident." He led them to the bridge. It was a darkened compartment, with green luminescent control panel, and a great steel-glass turret overlooking the universe. Dominating the scene was a huge, dramatic closeup of Saturn, girdled by its thin, tilted rings. "You are the captain?" said Jake to the grave elderly man at the controls. "I am. You are the survivors?" Jake and his companions bared their guns. "Call your entire crew," said Jake, pressing the muzzle into the captain's side. "I want to see eight men in this room." "Ah," said the captain sadly. "So this is what our mercy stop has let us in for." * * * * * They marched the eight crew members to the ship's air lock. "Get in," said Jake. "Surely it is not necessary for you to kill us," said the captain. "Why don't you set us adrift in a survival unit? Give us a fighting chance." "Space death is such a terrible way to go," said the first mate. "Get in," said Jake. "I haven't said anything about what I was going to do with you." The eight looked at one another, then slowly, apprehensively, entered the air lock. Matt pushed the button closing the inner door. Henry pushed the button opening the outer door. Eight bodies drifted in space. Jake took over the freighter's controls. "You sure you can find your way to Japetus?" Matt queried.
27682_3894	science fiction	MacKaye, Harold Steele	"I've heerd tell about how simple Britishers was, but this beats all! Do you reely mean to tell me," she continued, vehemently nodding her head at the Queen, "that you think the's nothin' but Indians in America?" A murmur of indignation spread through the assembly caused by language and manners so little suited to the address of royalty. "The woman hath lost her wits!" said the Queen, dryly. "There 'tis again!" said Rebecca, testily. "Why, ef it comes to talk of simpletons and the like, I guess the pot can't call the kettle black!" Elizabeth gripped the arm of her chair and leaned forward angrily, while two or three gentlemen advanced, watching their mistress for the first sign of a command. At the same moment, a triumphant thought occurred to Rebecca, and, dropping her umbrella, she opened her satchel with both hands. "Ye needn't to get mad, Mrs. Tudor," she said. "I didn't mean any offence, but I guess you wouldn't like to be called a lunatic yerself. See here," she continued, dragging forth a section of the newspaper which she had brought with her, "ef you folks won't believe my word, jest look at this! It's all here in the newspaper--right in print. There!" She held the paper high where all might see, and with one accord Queen and courtiers craned forward eagerly, burning with curiosity at sight of the printed columns interspersed with nineteenth-century illustrations. Rebecca stepped forward and handed the paper to the Queen, and then, drawing forth another section from her bag, she carried it to the bewildered Raleigh, who took it like one in a trance. For some time no one spoke. Elizabeth turned the paper this way and that, reading a bit here and a bit there, and gazing spellbound upon the enigmatic pictures. Having completely mastered the situation, Rebecca now found time to consider her comfort. Far on one side, near the door through which she had entered, there stood a youth of perhaps sixteen, clad in the somewhat fantastic garb of a page. Having picked up her umbrella, Rebecca approached this youth and said in a sharp whisper: "Couldn't you get me a chair, sonny?" The lad disappeared with startling promptitude, but he did not return. It was an agony of perplexity and shyness which had moved him, not a willingness to serve.
321_834	adventure stories	Norris, Frank	Wilbur looked over at the schooner and noted with immense relief that Moran was not in sight. Suddenly an abrupt reaction took place in the Captain's addled brain. “Can't bury 'um 'ithout 'is teeth,” he gabbled solemnly. He laid back the canvas and replaced the set. “Ole man'd ha'nt me 'f I kep' 's teeth. Strike! look a' that, I put 'em in upside down. Nev' min', upsi' down, downsi' up, whaz odds, all same with ole Bill, hey, ole Bill, all same with you, hey?” Suddenly he began to howl with laughter “T' think a bein' buried with y'r teeth upsi' down. Oh, mee, but that's a good grind. Stan' by to heave ole Uncle Bill over--ready, heave, an' away she goes.” He ran to the side, waving his hat and looking over. “Goo'-by, ole Bill, by-by. There you go, an' the signal o' distress roun' you, H. B. 'I'm in need of assistance.' Lord, here comes the sharks--look! look! look at um fight! look at um takin' ole Bill! I'm in need of assistance. I sh'd say you were, ole Bill.” Wilbur looked once over the side in the churning, lashing water, then drew back, sick to vomiting. But in less than thirty seconds the water was quiet. Not a shark was in sight. “Get over t' the 'Bertha' with those papers, son,” ordered Kitchell; “I'll bide here and dig up sh' mor' loot. I'll gut this ole pill-box from stern to stem-post 'fore I'll leave. I won't leave a copper rivet in 'er, notta co'er rivet, dyhear?” he shouted, his face purple with unnecessary rage. Wilbur returned to the schooner with the two Chinamen, leaving Kitchell alone on the bark. He found the girl sitting by the rudderhead almost as he had left her, looking about her with vague, unseeing eyes. “Your name is Moran, isn't it?” he asked. “Moran Sternersen.” “Yes,” she said, after a pause, then looked curiously at a bit of tarred rope on the deck. Nothing more could be got out of her.
20320_3009	adventure stories	Hemyng, Bracebridge	A good round sum it was too. "Now, then," said the Turk, producing a small phial containing a pale greenish fluid. "Observe this." "Well?" "Anoint your dagger with this. Scratch him with it; let your scratch be no more than the prick of a pin, and he will be beyond the aid of mortal man." "Is this sure?" "Beyond all doubt. Would you have proof?" "Yes." "Wait here a moment." The Turk left the room, and presently he appeared carrying a small iron cage. "Look." He held up the cage, and showed that it contained two large rats. "Now," said he, "remove the stopper and dip your dagger's point in." The Englishman obeyed. "Now, prick either of the rats ever so slightly." The Englishman pushed the point of the dagger through the bars of the cage, and one of the rats came to sniff at it--probably anticipating a savoury tit-bit to eat. Moving the dagger slightly, it barely grazed the rat's nose. But it sufficed. The poor beast shivered once, and sank dead. "What do you say now?" demanded the Turk. "I am satisfied," replied the Englishman. "Now, before you go," said the Turk, "I will give you a hint. The slightest scratch will suffice, as you see." "Yes." "Dip two ordinary pins in the poison, and send them by letter to your enemy. Place them so that in opening the envelope, he will probably scratch his finger." The Englishman's eyes sparkled viciously. "I will, I will." "Let me know the result, and should you want my aid, you will note well the house on leaving so as to know where to return." "Yes. What is your name?" demanded the Englishman. "Hadji Nasir Ali," was the reply; "and yours?" The other hesitated. "Don't give it unless you feel it is safe," said the Turk. "There's no harm in your knowing it," returned the Englishman. "My name is Harkaway." "Hark-a-way?" "In one word." "I see. Farewell, then." "Farewell." And the interview was concluded. * * * * "That letter is a splendid dodge.
27475_5196	western stories	Ryan, Marah Ellis	I can't see that he had any very pressing reason for going at all." "He doesn't talk much about his reasons," she answered. "No; that's a fact," he agreed, "and less of late than when I knew him first. But he'll make Akkomi talk, maybe, when he arrives--and I hope you, too." "When he arrives!" She thought the words, but did not say them aloud. She sat long after Max had left her, and thought how many hours must elapse before they discovered that Dan had not followed the other men to the lake works. She felt sure that he was somewhere in the wilderness, avoiding the known paths, alone, and perhaps hating her as the cause of his isolation, because she would not confess what the man was to her, but left him blindly to keep his threat, and kill him when found in her room. Ah! why not have trusted him with the whole truth? She asked herself the question as she sat there, but the mere thought of it made her face grow hot, and her jaws set defiantly. She would not--she could not! so she told herself. Better--better far be suspected of a murder--live all her life under the blame of it for him--than to tell him of a past that was dead to her now, a past she hated, and from which she had determined to bar herself as far as silence could build the wall. And to tell him--him--she could not. But even as she sat, with her burning face in her hands, quick, heavy steps came to the door, halted, and looking up she found Dan before her. "Oh! you should not," she whispered, hurriedly. "Why did you come back? They do not suspect; they think I did it--and so--" "What does this all mean?--what do you mean?" he asked. "Can't you speak?" It seemed she could not find any more words, she stared at him so helplessly. "Max, come here!" he called, to hasten steps already approaching. "Come, all of you; I had only a moment to listen to the captain when he caught up with me. But he told me she is suspected of murder--that a ring she wore last night helped the suspicion on.
34905_6159	adventure stories	Jones, P.	Far down a lake full many fathoms deep, There dwelt this dragon dreadful to behold; For from his round red eyes he shot forth flames, And spouted from his snout a sooty smoke That burnt and blasted all around the mere. This dragon daily slew those daring knights, Who, mounted all on prancing, warlike steeds Had gone to try their strength against the beast; For on his ghastly green and scaly skin They bent and broke, or blunted, their best blades, As striking on the dragon's horrid hide Was worse than hitting at a coat of mail, Or cleaving some hard, flinty rock in twain; So, therefore, like an Eastern potentate, He reigned and ruled the region round Syrene. It was a terror-striking sight to see The horrid beast rise out in snaky coils, And rear his head with widely-gaping mouth, As towards the town he hissed with such a din That shook the strong and battlemented walls; Thereon to satisfy his hungry maw. The craven townsfolk, all appalled with fear, Would--as a dainty morsel--send the beast Some lovely maiden in the prime of youth. If naught was offered to the famished beast, He lifted up his huge and bat-like wings, And flapping, leapt upon the town's white walls; There, gripping 'twixt his sharp and cruel claws, Whoever stood thereby within his reach, He mauled and maimed, and gulped down men by scores, Until the ground seemed all around to be A marsh of mangled flesh and muddy gore, With skulls half split and jagged, splintered bones. When each and every man within the town Had offered up his child unto the fiend, And every mother wept from early morn, And saw at night her child in dreadful dreams, They told the King his turn had come at last To offer up his daughter to the beast-- His cherished child, the apple of his eye, The only heir of all his wide domains. Oh! brother mine, hadst thou but seen just then The hot and blinding tears rush from his eyes, Whilst cruel grief convulsed his manly frame; At such a woful sight you would have thought It was some abject woman, not a King, Who, crouching low, was sobbing on the ground. He kissed his child and said: "My daughter dear, Woe worth the day that thou art reft from me! For now, alas! who is to wear my crown, Who is to grace my throne when thou art gone?"
1699_1117	detective and mystery stories	Oppenheim, E. Phillips (Edward Phillips)	Mr. Dunster contemplated the speaker steadfastly. “You will forgive me,” he said. “I am an American and I am used to plain speech. I am quite unused to being attended by strange doctors. I understand that you are not in general practice now. Might I ask if you are fully qualified?” “I am an M.D. of London,” the doctor replied. “You can make yourself quite easy as to my qualifications. It would not suit Mr. Fentolin’s purpose to entrust himself to the care of any one without a reputation.” He left the room, and Mr. Dunster closed his eyes. His slumbers, however, were not altogether peaceful ones. All the time there seemed to be a hammering inside his head, and from somewhere back in his obscured memory the name of Fentolin seemed to be continually asserting itself. From somewhere or other, the amazing sense which sometimes gives warning of danger to men of adventure, seemed to have opened its feelers. He rested because he was exhausted, but even in his sleep he was ill at ease. The doctor, with the telegrams in his hand, made his way down a splendid staircase, past the long picture gallery where masterpieces of Van Dyck and Rubens frowned and leered down upon him; descended the final stretch of broad oak stairs, crossed the hall, and entered his master’s rooms. Mr. Fentolin was sitting before the open window, an easel in front of him, a palette in his left hand, painting with deft, swift touches. “Ah!” he exclaimed, without looking around, “it is my friend the doctor, my friend Sarson, M.D. of London, L.R.C.P. and all the rest of it. He brings with him the odour of the sick room. For a moment or two, just for a moment, dear friend, do not disturb me. Do not bring any alien thoughts into my brain. I am absorbed, you see--absorbed. It is a strange problem of colour, this.” He was silent for several moments, glancing repeatedly out of the window and back to his canvas, painting all the time with swift and delicate precision. “Meekins, who stands behind my chair,” Mr. Fentolin continued, “even Meekins is entranced. He has a soul, my friend Sarson, although you might not think it. He, too, sees sometimes the colour in the skies, the glitter upon the sands, the clear, sweet purity of those long stretches of virgin water.
30705_628	science fiction	Page, Gerald W.	Glynnis fired once more, missing as the machine suddenly dropped about a foot. For perhaps a second the machine remained motionless. Then it died without sound, and fell to the ground, landing with a dull noise and setting fire to the grass under and around it. [Illustration] For that matter, they had started a major forest fire with their blastings. The trees across the clearing from them were already roaring with flames. Nelson didn't wait to check on the machine. He grabbed Glynnis and pulled her around toward the way they had come. She stumbled, staring back at the machine. "Come on!" he said, in agitation. She came to life, mechanically, and let him propel her along. The wind was away from them, but the fire growing. They ran madly until they had to stop and fall exhausted to the ground. When he could breathe again without torturing his lungs, Nelson looked back and saw the smoke from the fire in the distance behind them. They were safe from the fire, but their escape was cut off by it. It would, he knew with dull certainty, attract attention. When he had rested as long as he dared, he said, "We'd better get going." "I'm not sure I can," she said. "Well, you've got to. If we stay here, we'll be caught." * * * * * They did not pause to eat. It was about midday when they encountered the robot and they walked well into the afternoon, their only purpose being to put as much distance between them and the place where they had shot the robot down as possible. Nelson found himself moving numbly, blindly uncaring of anything by making progress forward. He listened to the humming of an approaching robot for a long while before it registered on his consciousness. He whirled, drawing his gun, momentarily giving way to the panic that had been threatening to engulf him all afternoon. He saw the machine, high above the trees behind them, safely out of range, he knew. Bitterly, he fought down the urge to fire the gun anyway. It took a tremendous exertion of will to make his arm return the gun to its holster. "What can we do?" asked Glynnis, a slight quaver in her voice. "Not a thing," said Nelson; then, almost in a rage he cried it. "Not one damned thing!
21891_3995	detective and mystery stories	McCulley, Johnston	But some who were handling the affair went too far. You were assaulted in Central Park. Your valet was knocked on the head and kidnaped, and an attempt made to get him to take payment and spy upon you. At that time I told a certain man who had the handling of the affair that there could be no more violence. "We should not break a law to undo you, I declared. If we did that, we were as bad as you. I said that, if there was any more violence, I should cease having anything to do with the affair, and would come to you and tell you so. An hour ago, I found out that Detective Farland, a man in your employ, had been seized and treated with violence and was being held prisoner because he insisted upon remaining loyal to you. So I am here!" "This is amazing, Miss Gilbert!" Sidney Prale told her. "The whole thing has been amazing. Somebody has tried to connect me with that murder. Somebody tried to smash my alibi. The little annoyances were bad enough, and the knowledge that I had unknown foes who fought in the dark; but the murder charge was the worst of all, for it placed me in a position where I had to clear myself absolutely or remain forever suspected by many persons." "I understand that," Kate Gilbert said. "And now you have come to me to say that you are no longer associated with my enemies?" "For what you did, there can be no forgiveness, Mr. Prale. I want to see you punished. But I will not be a party to violence. It seems to me that the man who has been managing this affair has gone beyond proper bounds. For some reason, he is particularly vindictive, though he did not suffer at all, as did some of the others. I cannot forgive you for what you did, Sidney Prale. But I can wash my hands of the entire affair and try to forget you entirely and hope that there is a law of retribution that will take vengeance for me. That is all, Mr. Prale. Only please remember that, from this hour, I am not concerned with the others in this affair." She started to rise, but Prale motioned for her to retain her seat. He bent forward and looked at her searchingly. "I am very glad that you have come here and spoken to me in this way, Miss Gilbert," he said.
46774_1429	detective and mystery stories	Burton, Frederick R. (Frederick Russell)	but she thought better of it. This detective unquestionably had no interest to find other than the truth, and with his low conceptions of character, due doubtless to his frequent contact with criminals, it would be but natural for him to see no other explanation for Ivan's disappearance than the one to substantiate which he had obtained a certain amount of evidence. If even her good uncle were disposed to view the idea of the elopement as a possibility, nay, as a probability, what better could be expected of one to whom Ivan was merely a man like other men? And the evidence of the "second driver" which was undoubtedly straightforward---- Perhaps Ivan had gone to New York. How could she tell? Not with Lizzie White, of course, but---- She would talk with the driver. "I shall be greatly obliged," she concluded, "if you will send me word should any new development turn up. I don't suppose I can expect you to pay any further attention to the case." "We may hear from New York at any time," replied Bowker; "the police there are on the lookout for Strobel, and if we hear anything I will let you know." Louise tucked her arm affectionately within Clara's, and asked: "Where now, dear?" "We will go to Mrs. White's," responded Clara, drearily. Her faith was yet undisturbed, but the mystery seemed the darker, for if the wily Russian had had to do with Ivan's departure, how much harder it would be to find him in New York than in Boston! Then, had he gone voluntarily, might it not be possible that he did not wish her to search for him? Surely he would write if he could. With that thought, and a renewed conviction that Ivan was somehow constrained of his liberty, she arrived at Mrs. White's house. "I'm so glad to see you," cried the landlady, "with all this talk in the papers. I have heard from Lizzie. See! Here is the letter." She handed a sheet of paper to Clara. It was not a long letter, but what little there was was rambling in style. It was dated from Second Avenue, New York, and stated that the writer had found a new home. "I should be happy," she wrote, "if it wasn't for the way I had to go. But there wasn't any other way. After a while I shall tell you all about it.
54121_2390	love stories	Sykes, D. F. E.	afore we were wed i'stead o' after, but ther's no tellin'. Some folk are born so; an' ther ne'er wer' a fooil brought into th' world but there wer' a bigger born to match him. But aw see hah it is, we'st burn more can'les talkin' abaat th' new venture, as yo ca' it, nor th' takkin's 'll run to i' a gooid season. Get thee to bed, Tom, an' dunnot yo' forget yo're Jabez Tinker's 'prentice lad yet, whativver yo' may be some day when me an' Ben's both under th' sod." The end of Tom's apprenticeship drew near. Stories of his project had already been whispered about the village, and some of the quidnuncs of the barber's shop, which was the central Exchange of local news tapped their foreheads significantly. "Talk abaat a slate off," the slubber at Wilberlee had been heard to say, "yon' Ben Garside's got a whole roof off, and that d--d young bastard fro' Saddleworth's worse nor Ben." But in time the real nature of the new enterprise was bruited abroad and was much discussed. The novel theme was felt to be a perfect godsend in a community which, like others of its size, becomes more agitated over a runaway horse in its main street than over a European convulsion. The landlord of the Croppers' Arms began to feel quite a glow of gratitude towards the sober, drink-shunning Pinder, so many pints of ale did his nightly customers feel necessary for the ample criticism of Tom's scheme. "Aw know for certain room an' power's ta'en at Hinchliff Mill," said Jim Thewlis, the landlord. "Th' agent for lettin' Denham's mill, as was, called in on his way fro' Huddersfilt' other day. We wer' speerin' abaat this young Pinder. Weel, aw wanted to do fair like so aw said at th' country talk wor' he'd had a fortin' left; th' worst there wer' agen him, so far as ivver aw'd heer'd, wer' 'at he wer' a teetotaller. Aw thowt that wer' enuff, but th' agent seemed no ways taken a-back. Said it were common as measles nah a days," concluded Jim, heaving a sigh over the degeneracy of the times.
57203_3960	adventure stories	Prime-Stevenson, Edward	He stepped down into the path, saying to Banger, “Don’t wait. I’ll be with you immediately.” But the white gate had opened. Two strangers came down the walk, hurrying, and straight toward them. Jennison glanced about him once more, but with a wildness suddenly flashing out in his eyes and a low exclamation as if he forgot himself and feared something. Ah, that hasty, searching glance! The men came directly up to him. One of them, a thick-set personage, nodded hastily to the others. He struck his hand on Jennison’s shoulder. “Mr. Winthrop Jennison? I arrest you, sir,” he said, sharply. “Arrest me?” demanded Jennison, as white as his collar. “Arrest _me_?” Mr. Banger stood with his mouth open, most unmannerly. “Yes,” retorted the red-haired man; “here’s the writ――‘Winthrop Jennison, otherwise called John A. Belmont, otherwise called Murray Nicoll, otherwise called Gray Hurd. Forgery in Boston.’ You know, I guess. The others in it have all been looked after. No trouble, _please_. Billy!” What did Mr. Jennison-Belmont-Nicoll-Hurd do? He held out his wrists mechanically. They were suitably embellished. Then he turned to Mr. Banger, Gerald, and Touchtone. His look, as much as his odd words (which were the beginning of that day’s memorable disconcertment of the luckless proprietor of the Kossuth House), showed that he knew thoroughly that the “double life” and the relics of such local respect as was left in this place, near the house of his ancestors, were forever shattered. “I bid you good-day, Mr. Banger,” he said, smiling with all his fine teeth. “I shall leave Mr. Touchtone to tell his story again. It is, likely, a perfectly true one. At least, I withdraw mine as being――substantially incorrect. Please remember that, Mr. Touchtone. You have beaten in this fight. _I shall not trouble you again._ Good-morning.” He turned, with his easiest manner, to the officers in plain clothes, muttering something. If an evil spirit had suddenly risen before Mr. Banger――or, for that matter, before the two lads still facing him, Gerald holding Philip’s arm in a desperate grip――Mr. Banger could not have been more frightened and mute. He gasped. Then he ejaculated, with difficulty, “Mr. Jennison! You don’t――”
54632_2992	adventure stories	Palmer, Don	“My father’s,” Craig Warner said. “There was a marker with his name.” “An odd thing,” Mr. Livingston contributed. “Ferns and flowers have been planted beside the grave.” “Recently too,” added Ken. “At least, the earth around them has been loosened recently.” Warner gazed toward the distant mountains, glistening in the bright sunlight. “This trip has already been worth while for me,” he said. “The gold doesn’t matter.” “But there is gold!” Jack insisted. “At least, when I was at the lake I saw particles of it that had washed down from the hills. And I found a sluice box someone had been using.” “Our unknown enemy, probably,” Warner said. “He didn’t show himself while we were gone?” “No one.” “Any sign of a plane?” “None.” In the afternoon, Ken took his turn staying behind, while the others resumed search for the caches of ore. According to Warner’s recollection of the map, both had been near the entrance to a ravine some distance from the lake, but the morning search had proven unfruitful. “I may have made a miscalculation,” the rancher admitted. “Maybe we picked the wrong ravine,” said Jack. They began the afternoon search nearer the lake and cabin. Immediately, landmarks seemed somewhat more familiar and similar to the chart markings they remembered. “We must be on the right track!” Jack said jubilantly. They were encouraged to find old holes drilled in the hillside. This they took to be evidence that Old Stony or other prospectors who followed him had tested the area as a possible mine site. But the hiding place, if ever there had been one, could not be found. “Maybe Walz has had better luck,” Jack said, sinking down on a rock. “Queer we haven’t had a glimpse of him all day.” “He’s lying low,” Mr. Livingston said. “Either that, or he’s hit out for Elks Creek.” Disheartened, the trio finally headed back toward the cabin. As they rounded a ridge, Jack suddenly stiffened. “Listen!” Faintly in the distance, they could hear the drone of an airplane engine. “War and Willie are sending help!” Jack cried. “Food!” With all haste, the three fought their way up the crumbling rocks. Reaching a high spot, they eagerly scanned the sky.
7303_2417	science fiction	Bellamy, Edward	With abundance of dainties at hand he wasted away from the lack of power to absorb nutriment. Although unable to eat enough to support life, he was constantly suffering the pangs of indigestion, and while actually starving for want of nourishment, was tormented by the sensation of an overloaded stomach. Now, the economic condition of a community under the profit system afforded a striking analogy to the plight of such a dyspeptic. The masses of the people were always in bitter need of all things, and were abundantly able by their industry to provide for all their needs, but the profit system would not permit them to consume even what they produced, much less produce what they could. No sooner did they take the first edge off of their appetite than the commercial system was seized with the pangs of acute indigestion and all the symptoms of an overloaded system, which nothing but a course of starvation would relieve, after which the experience would be repeated with the same result, and so on indefinitely." "Can you explain why such an extraordinary misnomer as overproduction, should be applied to a situation that would better be described as famine; why a condition should be said to result from glut when it was obviously the consequence of enforced abstinence? Surely, the mistake was equivalent to diagnosing a case of starvation as one of gluttony." "It was because the economists and the learned classes, who alone had a voice, regarded the economic question entirely from the side of the capitalists and ignored the interest of the people. From the point of view of the capitalist it was a case of overproduction when he had charged profits on products which took them beyond the power of the people to buy, and so the economist writing in his interest called it. From the point of view of the capitalist, and consequently of the economist, the only question was the condition of the market, not of the people. They did not concern themselves whether the people were famished or glutted; the only question was the condition of the market. Their maxim that demand governed supply, and supply would always meet demand, referred in no way to the demand representing human need, but wholly to an artificial thing called the market, itself the product of the profit system." "What was the market?" "The market was the number of those who had money to buy with. Those who had no money were non-existent so far as the market was concerned, and in proportion as people had little money they were a small part of the market.
37271_734	western stories	Vandercook, Margaret	I should have known better and taken more time to consider and investigate. I was suffering from the same trouble that's taken hold of a good many young American fellows these days, trying to get rich in too great a hurry. I am sorry, chiefly for your sake, Jean dear, and the little girls, but more for you because the little girls won't mind seriously. I'll be able to make a living all right, but for a while I'm afraid not a big one, and these are hard times to make money go very far. I have an offer to go into New Mexico and look over another mine, and if it's any good I am to have the job of engineer." Ralph was now sitting up, his look of fatigue and discouragement a little less apparent as he continued to talk. He was a splendid looking young fellow, a typical American with a fine, clear-cut face, a strong nose and a sensitive mouth. The eyes he turned toward Jean were wistful at this moment. But Jean was white with disappointment and anger. "The old story with you, Ralph, always something in the future, nothing for the present. I trust you are not expecting the little girls and me to go with you on your wild goose chase into New Mexico. I suppose when I tell Jim Colter and Jack that we have not a cent to live upon, they will allow us to remain at the ranch for a time anyhow. If I were only as clever as Jack perhaps I might be able to support the family without your help. I have little faith left in you." CHAPTER VII THE TEA PARTY "Jack, you will try to make yourself as agreeable as possible." Jacqueline Kent laughed: "Frieda dear, don't I always try? And is it fair of you to blame me when I am unsuccessful? But I know you want me to be as staid and well behaved this afternoon as if I were the Dowager Lady Kent, in order to conquer the reputation I seem already to have acquired in the neighorhood. Do they think me a kind of wild west show? Well, I will make my best effort." The motor in which Olive, Frieda and Jack were driving had by this time entered the grounds of the summer home of Senator and Mrs. Marshall. The house was a big frame building with a wide porch filled with attractive porch furniture and shaded by striped awnings of brown and yellow.
41151_2061	detective and mystery stories	Harvey, Marion	Thinking! I was thoroughly disgusted. With my intimate knowledge of the case thinking for five consecutive days had brought me nowhere, yet here was this man whom I had engaged to find clues and investigate the murder thoroughly, sitting back in a chair thinking--goodness knows about what, since all the thinking in the world would not produce the tangible material evidence of which we stood in such dire need! "Jenkins!" McKelvie sat up with a suddenness that startled me. "Open that safe." As Jenkins knelt before the huge contraption and manipulated the dial with deft fingers, McKelvie turned to me with a quizzical smile. "Don't become annoyed, Mr. Davies," he said quietly. "Each man his own method, you know. I was just trying to decide a certain small point and now that I have satisfied myself as to my correctness in the matter, I'll be as energetic as anyone could possibly wish." I felt the blood surge into my cheeks, as I said a little stiffly, "I didn't mean to criticize----" "No harm done," he interrupted lightly, rising and laying a hand on my arm for a moment. Then he addressed my man. "You're mighty slow for an adept, Jenkins." "An adept! Jenkins!" I could hardly articulate the words. "A former adept in the art of safe-cracking," answered McKelvie with a flourish. "But I trust you won't count that against him since he reformed some years ago." "No, of course not," I murmured hastily, as Jenkins looked up at me with pleading in his somber eyes. "He's a very good servant, whatever else he may have been." With a beaming smile Jenkins rose and opened the door of the safe. "Now," said McKelvie, "I'm going to show you several curious, but rather interesting facts." He turned to the lamp upon the table and gazed at it thoughtfully for a moment, then he snapped it on and off. "Did you notice anything odd about it?" he asked. In imitation of his manner, I too gazed steadily at the lamp. I had paid no great attention to it before, being too overwrought to notice details, but now I saw, or thought I saw, what he meant.
20714_2088	western stories	Garland, Hamlin	But don't you worry, sir; it won't happen again, sir; no, sir." His hands got stiffer year by year, and his simple tunes became practically a series of squeaks and squalls. There came a time when the fiddle was laid away almost altogether, for his left hand got caught in the cog-wheels of the horse-power, and all four of the fingers on that hand were crushed. Thereafter he could only twang a little on the strings. It was not long after this that he struck his foot with the axe and lamed himself for life. As he lay groaning in bed, Mr. Jennings went in to see him and tried to relieve the old man's feelings by telling him the number of times he had practically cut his feet off, and said he knew it was a terrible hard thing to put up with. "Gol dummit, it ain't the pain," the old sufferer yelled, "it's the dum awkwardness. I've chopped all my life; I can let an axe in up to the maker's name, and hew to a hair-line; yes, sir! It was jest them dum new mittens my wife made; they was s' slippery," he ended with a groan. As a matter of fact, the one accident hinged upon the other. It was the failure of his left hand, with its useless fingers, to do its duty, that brought the axe down upon his foot. The pain was not so much physical as mental. To think that he, who could hew to a hair-line, right and left hand, should cut his own foot like a ten-year-old boy--that scared him. It brought age and decay close to him. For the first time in his life he felt that he was fighting a losing battle. A man like this lives so much in the flesh, that when his limbs begin to fail him everything else seems slipping away. He had gloried in his strength. He had exulted in the thrill of his life-blood and in the swell of his vast muscles; he had clung to the idea that he was strong as ever, till this last blow came upon him, and then he began to think and to tremble. When he was able to crawl about again, he was a different man. He was gloomy and morose, snapping and snarling at all that came near him, like a wounded bear. He was alone a great deal of the time during the winter following his hurt.
1028_2808	love stories	Brontë, Charlotte	At last our school ranks took their ground, The hard-fought field I won; The prize, a laurel-wreath, was bound My throbbing forehead on. Low at my master’s knee I bent, The offered crown to meet; Its green leaves through my temples sent A thrill as wild as sweet. The strong pulse of Ambition struck In every vein I owned; At the same instant, bleeding broke A secret, inward wound. The hour of triumph was to me The hour of sorrow sore; A day hence I must cross the sea, Ne’er to recross it more. An hour hence, in my master’s room I with him sat alone, And told him what a dreary gloom O’er joy had parting thrown. He little said; the time was brief, The ship was soon to sail, And while I sobbed in bitter grief, My master but looked pale. They called in haste; he bade me go, Then snatched me back again; He held me fast and murmured low, “Why will they part us, Jane?” “Were you not happy in my care? Did I not faithful prove? Will others to my darling bear As true, as deep a love? “O God, watch o’er my foster child! O guard her gentle head! When minds are high and tempests wild Protection round her spread! “They call again; leave then my breast; Quit thy true shelter, Jane; But when deceived, repulsed, opprest, Come home to me again!” I read--then dreamily made marks on the margin with my pencil; thinking all the while of other things; thinking that “Jane” was now at my side; no child, but a girl of nineteen; and she might be mine, so my heart affirmed; Poverty’s curse was taken off me; Envy and Jealousy were far away, and unapprized of this our quiet meeting; the frost of the Master’s manner might melt; I felt the thaw coming fast, whether I would or not; no further need for the eye to practise a hard look, for the brow to compress its expanse into a stern fold: it was now permitted to suffer the outward revelation of the inward glow--to seek, demand, elicit an answering ardour. While musing thus, I thought that the grass on Hermon never drank the fresh dews of sunset more gratefully than my feelings drank the bliss of this hour.
2950_3885	adventure stories	Fleming, May Agnes	Soon, they left the city behind them; the succeeding two miles were quickly passed over, and the “Golden Crown,” all dark and forsaken, now hove in sight. As they reached this, and cantered up the road leading to the ruin, Sir Norman drew rein, and said: “I think our best plan would be, to dismount, and lead our horses the rest of the way, and not incur any unnecessary danger by making a noise. We can fasten them to these trees, where they will be at hand when we come out.” “Wait one moment,” said the count, lifting his finger with a listening look. “Listen to that!” It was a regular tramp of horses' hoofs, sounding in the silence like a charge of cavalry. While they looked, a troop of horsemen came galloping up, and came to a halt when they saw the count. No words can depict the look of amazement Sir Norman's face wore; but Hubert betrayed not the least surprise. The count glanced at his companions with a significant smile, and riding back, held a brief colloquy with him who seemed the leader of the horsemen. He rode up to them, smiling still, and saying, as he passed, “Now then, Kingsley; lead on, and we will follow!” “I go not one step further,” said Sir Norman, firmly, “until I know who I am leading. Who are you, Count L'Estrange?” The count looked at him, but did not answer. A warning hand--that of Hubert--grasped Sir Norman's arm; and Hubert's voice whispered hurriedly in his ear: “Hush, for God's sake! It is the king!” CHAPTER XX. AT THE PLAGUE-PIT. The effect of the whisper was magical. Everything that had been dark before, became clear as noonday; and Sir Norman sat absolutely astounded at his own stupidity in not having found it out for himself before. Every feature, notwithstanding the disguise of wig and beard, became perfectly familiar; and even through the well-assumed voice, he recognized the royal tones. It struck him all at once, and with it the fact of Leoline's increased danger. Count L'Estrange was a formidable rival, but King Charles of England was even more formidable.
45776_777	detective and mystery stories	Newcomb, Ambrose	When we’ve gone something like ten or fifteen miles we’ll get on the curve, swing around to the south, and then when in sight of the gulf turn due west; after that we’ll be on our way to the place where our work is waiting for us.” “Huh! had an idea you’d just climb till out o’ sight, an’ then cross over the city and river—how ’bout it, Jack?” “Too much risk to begin with,” came the ready reply, showing how Jack always planned ahead; “you know how a rushing boat can be heard clearly even when lost to sight among the clouds. It might be those same smart chaps, backed by the authority of the police, would commandeer a ship, and cruise around over the city, so as to learn if we _did_ come back so as to line out into the heart of Texas; to make sure such a giveaway of our plans can’t upset our calculations we’ll cross the delta of the Mississippi close to where it joins its muddy waters with the gulf.” “I get you now, partner, an’ let me say I guess that’s the safest game we c’n play. Time don’t count anything wuth while with us on this trip but results are what we crave.” “You said it that time, boy, the Big Boss has confidence in our being able to fetch home the bacon, and we’re bound to prove he didn’t make any mistake in putting us on the job.” All this time they continued to zoom along like a frightened wild duck, and it was not long before Jack was turning the nose of his ship toward the south. The night had not as yet settled down over the earth, although they were holding an altitude of several thousand feet and by straining his eyes a bit Perk was able to distinguish objects far below—he could tell when they passed over a large sheet of water, probably Lake Ponchartrain, with narrower cuts winding through vast marshes, and seas of waving reeds; also begin to catch fugitive glimpses of the still distant Mexican Gulf stretching away to the mysterious south.
14054_2491	love stories	Thurston, Katherine Cecil	Your romance--whatever it may be!" He raised the half-empty tumbler, drank a little, and handed it across the table. Max laughed and drank as well. "My romance--whatever it may be!" "Whatever it may be! And now for that breath of air we promised ourselves! It's close on ten o'clock." So the meal ended; coats were found, candles blown out, and a last proprietary inspection of the _appartement_ made by the aid of matches. They ran down the long, smooth staircase, and, stepping into the quiet, starlit rue Müller, linked arms and began their descent upon Paris with as much ease, as nice a familiarity as though life for both of them had been passed in the shadow of the Sacré-Coeur. On the Boulevard de Clichy the usual confusion of lights and humanity greeted them like welcoming arms, and with the same agreeable nonchalance they yielded to the embrace. Conscious of no definite purpose, they turned to the right and began to breast the human tide with eyes carelessly critical of the thronging faces, ears heedlessly open to the many tangled sounds of street life. Outside the theatres, flaunting posters made pools of color; in the roadway, the network of traffic surged and intermingled; from amid the flat house fronts, at every few hundred yards, some _cabaret_ broke upon the sight in crude confusion of scenic painting and electric light; while dominating all--a monument to the power of tradition--the sails of the time-honored mill sprang red and glaring from a background of quiet sky. But the two, walking arm-in-arm, had no glance for revolving mill-sails or vivid advertisement, and presently Blake halted before a house that, but for a certain prosperity of stained-glass window and dark-green paint, would have seemed a common wine shop. "Max," he said, "do you remember the famous night when we went to the Bal Tabarin, and saw much wine spilled? It was here I was first going to bring you then." "Here?" "This very place! 'Tis one of the old artistic _cabarets_ of Paris--grown a bit too big for its shoes now, like the rest of Montmartre, but still retaining a flavor. What do you say to turning in?" "I say 'yes.'" "Come along, then! I hope 'twon't disappoint you! There's a good deal of rubbish here, but a scattering of grain among the chaff.
61946_2061	western stories	Ward, William (Author at Arthur Westbrook Co. (Cleveland, Ohio))	But if you want to do me a favour, will you ride faster and keep quiet? There's no telling who's abroad." Recalled to the reality of the danger they were running in traveling at night when the whole section of the state was supposed to be searching high and low for the dread Jesse and his companions, the little troop rode on in silence. As they approached a dark place in the highway the bandit-chieftain and John galloped ahead to draw the fire, in case any patrols were in ambush, while Cole and Jim guarded the rear. Villages and towns were given a wide berth, the cavalcade making a wide detour around them, even avoiding clusters of farm houses in their anxiety not to arouse any dogs which might give the alarm and enable the course of the fugitives to be traced. At last, as the sky was growing green with the first tinge of the coming day, the spires of Deepwater came in sight, their white sides looking like spectres hovering between heaven and earth. As they approached the town, the crowing of the cocks announced the wakening life. "I don't believe we'll go any farther," declared Jesse, calling a halt on the outskirts of the village. "No one will interfere with you now and if any body should, you can say you're guests of Mrs. Jarvis out for an early ride. Tim knows how to work the bluff. I think you'd best get back to Kearney this morning, boy. You can explain to mother about Sue's trip to Monegaw Springs and tell her that it's all right for I've given my consent. When you've eased her mind, you come back here. Oh, you might tell her I'm going on a business trip to Ste. Genevieve and that I'll run in to see her on my way back. Say that Frank and Texas have gone north on a surveying expedition to be gone several weeks. If she, or any of you, have anything important to communicate to me, you can meet me in the old wood-chopper's camp at Sni Mills in five weeks. "Take care of yourselves, now." And touching his lips to his sister's forehead, the dare-devil bandit turned, caught Marjorie around the waist and planted a resounding smack on her luscious mouth, repeated the salute on Helen and cantered away, laughing gaily, before the blushing girls could remonstrate.
61946_1618	western stories	Ward, William (Author at Arthur Westbrook Co. (Cleveland, Ohio))	Make for the woods!" Convinced that the men whom they had believed wealthy miners were in reality the terrible bandits, the men and women who had gathered to condone with the Priors had experienced a change of feeling and were yelling and shouting for the capture of the men who had defied the law so many times and with such success. As they heard the angry cries, Susie and the Prior girls trembled with fear. "They'll be caught! They'll be caught!" moaned Helen, wringing her hands. "Why don't they fire back?" From the windows they had seen the wounding of Clell and the killing of his horse under him and believing that it was the beginning of the end, they buried their heads on each other's shoulders, unwilling to see the capture of their brother and heroes, and sobbed. Yet as they waited for the shouts of triumph that would announce the fact, they were surprised to hear the shout: "Get horses! Get horses! Ring the church bells! Summon every man in town! We'll surround the woods!" Doubting their ears, they raised their heads and peered from the windows. There lay the dead horse, but no sign could they see of Jesse and his chums. "Thank goodness, they got away!" murmured Marjorie. "Amen to that," exclaimed a voice behind them. Startled by its nearness, the girls turned and beheld Lawyer Perkins, a merry twinkle in his eyes. "I used to do his father's business when the Rev. James lived in these parts," he explained, in response to the looks of amazement on the fair young faces gazing at him. "If people had given Jesse and Frank a fair show after the war, they'd never have taken to their life of outlawry. And if they ever are caught, which I don't believe they will be, I hope I may be one of the men to defend them. I can tell a great many things that were done to hound them from home that would open peoples' eyes! "But now that they've gone, my girl," he continued, patting Susie on the shoulder, "I think it is best for you to leave town as soon as possible. The people may seek to vent their disappointment at Jesse's escape on his sister. I know the nature of the Springites all too well." "But there's no train till night," protested Marjorie. "True, but Susie can come to my office and--hark!
45627_1198	detective and mystery stories	Newcomb, Ambrose	It was interesting work, but with such slight chances for success, much of the glamour was lost for Jack. As the friendly sun was about to drop behind the western horizon, so jagged, so fantastic in contour, they must soon give up the flight for that day and hasten back to the valley town where a safe landing could be effected and a decent meal secured, something to tempt poor, disconsolate and yet brave Suzanne to break her long fast. Already it was growing difficult to distinguish objects in some of the canyons and defiles over which they sailed, indicating that they might be missing something of value. Accordingly Jack swung abruptly around and rising like an eagle on the wing, started to go back. He could see that Suzanne noticed this abrupt change in their course for she displayed some uneasiness. He motioned to Perk to let her have the earphones again and proceeded to explain just what must be done. At first the girl was distressed, for to her mind it looked as though her staunch friends might be growing weary of their hopeless quest and meant to abandon it altogether, but as Jack carefully explained why it was necessary they should land for the night while the opportunity offered and that nothing would be sacrificed in so doing, Suzanne began to comprehend and nod her head in approval. "We can stop over and get rested up instead of keeping on this gruelling task without the slightest chance for accomplishing anything," he told her finally, though immediately adding: "that covers the night only, for as soon as morning comes we shall start out, fixed to keep going all day long." "I understand just what you mean, Jack, and I don't know how to thank you both for all you are doing for me--for Buddy--for Ma Warner, waiting there at home and hardly sleeping a wink as she thinks and thinks and prays her boy may be given back to her safe and sound." Jack did not say any more, he could not because by now his own hopes were diminishing at a rapid rate. Was it any wonder that such should be the case when three full days had now crept along since the air-mail pilot vanished into the realms of space, and never a single word coming back to explain his fate? For the sake of this brave girl, so ready to risk her own life in the service of the one she loved, he must try to keep up a confident front.
31286_806	science fiction	Del Rey, Lester	This guy came down here ahead of me. Didn't think nothing of it, sir. But when he started fiddling with the panel there, I got suspicious." He pointed to the external control panel for the engine room, to be used in case of accidents. "With all that's been going on, how'd I know but maybe he was gonna dump the fuel? And then I seen he had keys. I didn't wait, sir. I jumped him. And then you come up." Wilcox came from the background and dropped beside the still figure of Lomax. He opened the man's left hand and pulled out a bunch of keys, examining them. "Engine keys, Captain Muller. Hey--it's my set! He must have lifted them from my pocket. It looks as if Grundy's found our killer!" "Or Lomax found him!" I pointed out. "Anybody else see this start, or know that Lomax didn't get those keys away from Grundy, when _he_ started trouble?" "Why, you--" Grundy began, but Wilcox cut off his run. It was a shame. I still felt like pushing the man's Adam's apple through his medulla oblongata. "Lock them both up, until Dr. Lomax comes to," Muller ordered. "And send Dr. Napier to take care of him. I'm not jumping to any conclusions." But the look he was giving Lomax indicated that he'd already pretty well made up his mind. And the crew was positive. They drew back sullenly, staring at us like animals studying a human hunter, and they didn't like it when Peters took Grundy to lock him into his room. Muller finally chased them out, and left Wilcox and me alone. Wilcox shrugged wryly, brushing dirt off his too-clean uniform. "While you're here, Tremaine, why not look my section over? You've been neglecting me." I'd borrowed Muller's keys and inspected the engine room from, top to bottom the night before, but I didn't mention that. I hesitated now; to a man who grew up to be an engineer and who'd now gotten over his psychosis against space too late to start over, the engines were things better left alone. Then I remembered that I hadn't seen Wilcox's quarters, since he had the only key to them. I nodded and went inside. The engines were old, and the gravity generator was one of the first models. But Wilcox knew his business.
40464_4150	detective and mystery stories	Machray, Robert	On the face of the certificate, which we now believe to be a false one, there is written, plain as if it had been in ink, collusion between Silwood and the Syndic. They were, you may be sure, in league, and they may be so still. Be that as it may, you can make investigations, which I am positive will have valuable results." Eversleigh leaned back wearily, fatigued with so much speaking. "Will you try and find Sir John at the Foreign Office, then return and let me know? Meanwhile I'll rest a little," said Eversleigh. In a couple of hours Gilbert was back again in Lincoln's Inn. He had been lucky enough in his errand. He had seen the Under-Secretary, who had given him the introduction he had wanted to the Ambassador at the Quirinal. "I did not think it necessary to tell Sir John," said Gilbert, relating what had taken place at the Foreign Office, "anything regarding what we now know about Silwood. On the way to Downing Street I went over the circumstances carefully, and I came to the conclusion that it might serve our purpose well enough merely to say to him that, as Silwood had died in Italy, you desired me to make inquiries, to see the body had been buried decently, to have a tombstone put up, and so on. And that it would, or might be, of great service if he would give me a note to the Ambassador, to be presented, however, only if an occasion arose for doing so." "And Sir John was satisfied?" "Perfectly. He was very nice about it, and said he was delighted to be of use to you." Eversleigh smiled wanly. Then he spread out on his table some papers, which Gilbert saw were the certificate of Silwood's death, the letter of Ugo Ucelli, the Syndic of Camajore, that had accompanied it, and the envelope in which both had been enclosed. "It occurred to me," observed Eversleigh, "that it would be well for you to take these with you." He handed them to his son. "Do you recall the contents of the Syndic's letter?" he went on. "Perhaps you had better have the translation." "I remember what he said in a general sort of way, but the translation might be a help," replied Gilbert. "Well, here it is," said Eversleigh, drawing a folded sheet from a packet.
57415_1827	detective and mystery stories	Speight, T. W. (Thomas Wilkinson)	asked Lennox, with an air of languid interest. "When I was a lad at home we used to play loo and speculation for nuts at Christmas time, and since then I've sometimes played a rubber of whist, but nothing more," answered Mr. Norris, with his broad smile. "Still, I'm no spoil-sport, and if one of you will only give me a lesson or two I'll do my best." Mr. Sandys kindly undertook the part of mentor, and found his pupil a most apt one. In about ten minutes he said rather drily, "And now, I think, Mr. Norris, you will be quite able to take care of yourself," at which Mr. Norris nodded his head. During the early part of the evening the luck seemed decidedly against Mr. Norris. But by-and-by there came a change, and his lost sovereigns began to find their way back to his pocket. It appeared to be a peculiarity of this Mr. Norris, that whenever he sustained a more severe loss than ordinary he leant back in his chair and gave vent to a hearty guffaw; whereas, when the cards happened to be in his favour and the pool fell to him, he looked as glum as a judge. Young Sandys stared at him through his eye-glass as though he were some strange animal who had found his way there by mistake, while Captain Lennox's cold, keen glances began to be directed more and more frequently towards his guest. It was dawning on the Captain's mind that Mr. Norris was, perhaps, not so much of a novice as he had tried to make himself out to be. At the close of the evening he rose from the table a winner to a small amount. Norris was the first to leave. He bowed his awkward bow to the company generally, and shook hands with the Captain. "Everything shall be settled in a week from now," he whispered with a meaning look. "Rely upon that. Good-night." "Queer fish that," said young Sandys, as the door closed on Mr. Norris's lanky figure. "Not quite the greenhorn he would have had us believe," remarked Gray, another of the guests. "Where the deuce did you pick him up, Lennox?" "I'm glad he's gone," said Lennox, with an air of weariness, as he dropped into a chair "The fellow is after this place--if I should make up my mind to leave it.
6993_481	science fiction	Shiel, M. P. (Matthew Phipps)	But I must tell you, Mr. Frankl, that Richard knows nothing of the fifty pounds--” “Well, then it is _your_ fault! Oh, he did not know of the fifty pounds? Then it is your fault entirely, this rage of his against me--He threatened to shoot me dead--thrice he threatened--soon, he said--” “Not Richard?” “Yes, Richard!--your nice Richard! But what did I want you for to-night? It was to let you see that I have it in my power to let your brother in for three months hard--not less. But you know, my dear, don’t you, that I wouldn’t do anything to give you pain? That is why, so far, I’ve taken no steps. But your brother must be unarmed. I can’t have my life exposed, after his threats, and all”. “Unarmed....” “Yes. I have it on good authority that your brother has guns. I must have those guns put into my own hands by you...” “But I couldn’t! He would find out...” “Then I must act, that’s all. Or no--I give you another chance--tell him of the fifty pounds I sent--that may disarm him in another way--” He was sure that this she would not now do, yet felt relieved when she cried out: “I couldn’t! Not now! Can’t you see?” “Well, there is nothing to be done, then. I must act, that’s all”. “But don’t be _hard_! What can I do? Sooner or later he’d be sure to miss them!” “Poh! he is not always shooting, I suppose? And after a few weeks I’d give them back. Anyway, think it over: and I’ll be here on Tuesday night next at nine to receive them. Good night--” She looked palely after him, her feet in a net, new to her, woven of concealments and deceit. At eleven that night she was sitting in their diminutive parlour,--Hogarth at a table inscribing the association’s names received by post that evening; and at last, bending low over her sewing, she said: “Richard, is it true you have been to the Hall?” He started! “Yes. Who told you?” “I heard it”. He looked at her piercingly.
59012_1035	adventure stories	Hemyng, Bracebridge	“That’s a problem. I might exist in the future on the memory of it!” “Massa Jack!” exclaimed Monday, coming up breathless and panting. “How you was to-morrow?” “To-day you mean.” “All de same, sah.” “How is my wife?” inquired Jack, anxiously. “She berry well; so Massa Mole, considering all that has happen us.” “Come right inside. Eat, drink and make merry----” “Don’t finish the biblical quotation--you know what it is,” said Harry. “For to-morrow we die,” supplemented Jack; “don’t be a death’s head at the banquet. I did not mean to suggest that, although in this country we never know from one day to the other what is going to occur.” Harry and Monday joined him, sitting down and partaking of some refreshment. There was a splendid view of the sea, and here and there were the waving palms. “Not a bad crib, this,” said Harry, drinking a glass of wine and eating some cold chicken. “Berry good tack,” remarked Monday, filling his capacious mouth. “When you ravenous beings have finished eating,” answered Jack, “perhaps you will have the kindness to relate your adventures.” “We have had an odyssey,” exclaimed Harry; “Ulysses could scarcely beat it, nor Jason, when he went in search of the Golden Fleece.” “That is interesting; let me hear your story.” In a few words Harry Girdwood related his experiences, winding up with the terrible scene on board the P. & O. steamship. Jack seemed to hear the savage whoops of the pirates, and to see the brave men fighting for life on board the unfortunate vessel. “By Jove! You have had a lucky get out,” replied Jack; “but why did you not bring Clara and old Mole on with you?” “We started out to explore.” “That’s so, sah. How we know where we comin’ to? Had to leab Missy Clara and ole Mole with the rest of the saved.” “Have you got a camp?” “Not up to much, sah. The people from the ship stop dar ’cos they don’t know where to go. All starve soon.” “But my wife and Mole must be brought on here.” “Me go and get ’em,” said Monday.
57236_2104	detective and mystery stories	Footner, Hulbert	"He convicted himself," I insisted. "We invited him, we begged him to explain. He could not." "Would not, you mean." "What's the difference?" She favoured me with an extraordinary glance of scorn. "And you set up to understand human nature!" "Well, let me have your understanding of it," I said sarcastically. "He was in love with her," said Sadie. "I suppose you don't question that." "No, strange as it seems, I believe he was in love with her." "That makes goose eggs of all your fine reasoning! Reason all night and it wouldn't make sense. He might have stolen anybody else's pearls but never hers. It was she who wronged love in believing that he could. To find out that she suspected him killed his love dead. Losing that, what did he care about his reputation? If he does away with himself it will be not because he was accused of a theft, but because she killed his trust in her, and he doesn't care to live without it." I listened to all this with an affected smile of superiority, but it reached me. Every word that the unhappy Quarles had uttered fitted in with Sadie's theory. "Suppose some one accused you of stealing Miss Hamerton's purse to buy me a present," she went on, artfully changing her tone. "I would make a tremendous virtuous fuss, of course, but in my heart I couldn't love you any less, though you might not have the sense to know it. But if they said you had stolen my purse to buy me something, how I would laugh! It's too silly for words." I was rapidly weakening, but it was damnably hard to own up. "The same with this case. You think I'm in love with Quarles because I defend him. That's just like a man! The truth is, what hurts me is to see you deceive yourself, and then look fatuous about it." She was now wielding a double-edged sword. "But if the woman who loves him was deceived, surely I have some excuse," I said meekly. "That's the weakness of her character--or the penalty of her position, whichever you like. She is so surrounded by flattery and meanness, it has taught her to suspect even her lover." "But how did the pearls get in his safe?" I cried, begging for mercy.
32704_1845	western stories	Rhodes, Eugene Manlove	You're over the line." "I'm not doing this official," said Caney. "Neither is Hales, here, though he is a deputy in Socorro County. We're private cits in this man's county--playin' a hunch. Here's the lay: There's been a heap of stealing saddles for a business lately--saddles and other truck, but saddles, wholesale, most particular. Got so it wasn't safe for a man to leave a saddle on a horse at night, down round Las Cruces." "They got Bill McCall's saddle in Mesilla three months ago," broke in Jody, laughing. "So Bill, he went and broke a bronc backward. Yes, sir! Broke him to be saddled and mounted from the wrong side. Only left-handed horse in the world, I reckon. Then Bill slips off down to Mesilla, ties his horse in front of Isham Holt's house about dark, and filters inside to jolly Miss Valeria. Pretty soon Bill heard a tur'ble row outside, and when he went out he found a Mex boy rollin' round in the street and a-holdin' both hands to his belly. Claimed he had the cramps, he did--but that's why we're rather looking for Mexicans." "We figured they were a regular gang, scattered up and down, hurrying the stuff along by relays, and likely taking it down in old Mexico to dispose of," said Caney. "Then we hear that saddles are being missed up in Socorro County too. So Hales and me gets our wise heads together. Here is our hugeous hunch: This is lonesome country here, the big roads dodge the river from San Marcial to Rincon, 'count of it being so rough, so thieves wouldn't go by the Jornada nor yet take the big west-side roads through Palomas or Hillsboro. No, sir. They just about follow the other side of the river, where nobody lives, as far down as Engle Ferry. There or thereabouts they cross over, climb up Mescal Cañon and ooze out through the rough country east of Caballo Mountain. Then they either come through by MacCleod's and cross the river here again, or they keep on down below Rincon to Barela Bosque. Maybe they save up till they get a wagonload of saddles, cover them up with a tarp or maybe some farm truck, and drive whistlin' down the big road to El Paso.
2568_2997	detective and mystery stories	Bentley, E. C. (Edmund Clerihew)	‘If you’re resolved to be so kind as this about it, I am not high-principled enough to insist on your blasting me with your lightnings. And now, Mrs. Manderson, I had better go. Changing the subject after this would be like playing puss-in-the-corner after an earthquake.’ He rose to his feet. ‘You are right,’ she said. ‘But no! Wait. There is another thing--part of the same subject; and we ought to pick up all the pieces now while we are about it. Please sit down.’ She took the envelope containing Trent’s manuscript dispatch from the table where he had laid it. ‘I want to speak about this.’ His brows bent, and he looked at her questioningly. ‘So do I, if you do,’ he said slowly. ‘I want very much to know one thing.’ ‘Tell me.’ ‘Since my reason for suppressing that information was all a fantasy, why did you never make any use of it? When I began to realize that I had been wrong about you, I explained your silence to myself by saying that you could not bring yourself to do a thing that would put a rope round a man’s neck, whatever he might have done. I can quite understand that feeling. Was that what it was? Another possibility I thought of was that you knew of something that was by way of justifying or excusing Marlowe’s act. Or I thought you might have a simple horror, quite apart from humanitarian scruples, of appearing publicly in connection with a murder trial. Many important witnesses in such cases have to be practically forced into giving their evidence. They feel there is defilement even in the shadow of the scaffold.’ Mrs. Manderson tapped her lips with the envelope without quite concealing a smile. ‘You didn’t think of another possibility, I suppose, Mr. Trent,’ she said. ‘No.’ He looked puzzled. ‘I mean the possibility of your having been wrong about Mr. Marlowe as well as about me. No, no; you needn’t tell me that the chain of evidence is complete. I know it is. But evidence of what? Of Mr. Marlowe having impersonated my husband that night, and having escaped by way of my window, and built up an alibi. I have read your dispatch again and again, Mr. Trent, and I don’t see that those things can be doubted.’ Trent gazed at her with narrowed eyes.
58711_2618	detective and mystery stories	M'Govan, James	No sooner did Bet hear of the capture than she appeared in a frenzied state at the office, tearing her hair and altogether conducting herself like a maniac, and loudly declared that she and not Mary was the thief. I had known so many cases in which a mother sacrificed all, even her reputation, to save her offspring from prison, that I felt certain this was but another instance of the kind, and we paid little attention to Bet’s story. The same day Mary’s affianced appeared at the office, and was allowed to see the prisoner, when he besought her in the most piteous accents to declare the truth and save her name, but to all this Mary would say nothing. At the trial she was informed that her sentence would be lighter if she pled guilty, and “Guilty” she pled accordingly. Her sentence was one month’s imprisonment, but the moment it was pronounced she turned to her affianced, who had been seated behind her, and whispered with a face positively radiant— “Now, I may speak, Herbert. Yes, I am innocent.” Strenuous efforts were immediately made to quash the conviction and have Mary released, but the law gives forth no uncertain sound on the point, and Mary served the full month like an ordinary malefactor. When the position was explained to me by her lover, I said to him— “Stick by her. She is a noble girl. Marry her when she comes out; for, when she could sacrifice so much from love of her mother, what would she not sacrifice for her husband!” He thought the advice good enough to act on, and I believe has never regretted his choice. M^cSWEENY AND THE MAGIC JEWELS. A kick from a brute having iron toe-plates on his boots had placed me on the sick, or rather the lame, list, and so the scientific gentleman, with his strange story of robbery, was referred to M^cSweeny. The gentleman, who was well known as an author and student, and whom I may here name Mr Hew Stafford, insisted that none but the very cleverest and most acute detective on the staff could properly follow and understand the almost supernatural events connected with the robbery of the jewels, and as my chum’s opinion has always been that he answers to that description, and every one else was busy, he was allowed to take the case in hand. “I’m Detective M^cSweeny, at your service, sur,” he said, bowing stiffly, as the old gentleman blinked at him through his spectacles.
39865_4107	love stories	Clifford, W. K., Mrs.	She found it, and, still not making a sound, put it down beneath the window, mounted, and looked in. Through the muslin curtain she could see Towsey by the fireplace; she had put a little saucepan on the fire, and was beginning to stir something that was in it, and there was no one else in the kitchen. Margaret tapped gently, and Towsey started as if she divined that it was Margaret; she came to the window and, lifting the curtain, looked out. Margaret put her head close to the glass so that in the darkness there could be no mistake of her identity. Then Towsey signed to her to go to the back door, and went and softly unbarred it. She only opened it a little way and put out her head as if she were afraid that even a whisper might be heard inside the house. "Miss Margaret," she said, "I knew you would be here." "Is she better?" Margaret asked, breathlessly. Towsey shook her head. "She's never going to be better," she whispered; "but she's always been a healthy woman, and it may take a deal of dying to bring her to the end." The words smote Margaret, and she held on to the doorway to support herself. "Is Hannah with her?" she asked. "Ay, she is with her; you may be sure of that." "Has she said nothing about me? Didn't she mean to send for me?" "Not a word. You see it has all been so sudden; she was only took worse last night." "Did she get a telegram yesterday?" "Ay, late yesterday afternoon. She said I wasn't to say anything to Hannah about it; she looked as if she were pleased. Hannah had gone over to Petersfield for the afternoon when it came and didn't get back till half an hour after." "What is the matter with mother?--is it her heart, or what?" "Yes, it's her heart, I expect; we sent Daddy for the doctor at nine o'clock last night, and he came again this morning. He hadn't been since last week. He said she was better; but he didn't seem to think well of her." "Has Hannah said nothing about me?" "I asked her if she'd wrote after he had gone, but she told me to mind my work and leave her to mind other things.
57415_2539	detective and mystery stories	Speight, T. W. (Thomas Wilkinson)	"I order you to be gone," she said, her quavering voice marring the implied authority in no small degree. "Go out of the house at once; how dared you to come into it?" "Who is that?" cried the gipsy. "Hush! It be Mrs. Stone, the housekeeper," whispered Phemie. "You had better go." The gipsy woman rose, showing her large white teeth, and strode to the door of the inner room. "Let the poor gipsy tell your fortune, good mistress," she said, with smiling lips and a curtsey. For once Dorothy was roused to anger. "Go away, you bold woman!" she cried shrilly. "Don't attempt to tell your lies to me. You have told enough to those silly girls." The gipsy's face darkened; she strode a pace or two into the room. "I have been telling lies, have I? Well, then, let me tell the truth to you:" and, bending her tall form, she whispered a few words rapidly in the old woman's ear. Dorothy's face turned ashy white as she heard them. She sank back in her chair with a low cry. "Is that the truth, or is it not?" asked the gipsy. But Dorothy could not answer. She could only stare tremblingly and helplessly at the fortune-teller. The gipsy turned to the wondering maids. "Shut that door and leave us together," she said in an imperious tone. "This good mistress here and I have something to say to each other." The door was closed immediately, and the two women were left alone. The servants waited long enough to grow uncomfortable. What could that strange gipsy woman be doing with the old missis? "We had better go in and see that all's right," at length spoke Phemie, who had perhaps a shade more thought than the rest, "She may have frighted her into a fit." At that moment the parlour door was opened, and the gipsy came out. Shutting the door behind her, she strode through the kitchen without a word to the frightened group standing there, let herself out of the house, and departed by the shrubbery, as she had come. The servants gazed into each other's faces in silence. Then, as with one accord, they opened the parlour door, and peeped in.
61090_812	science fiction	Westlake, Donald E.	Not until now. Abner Streitman Long was Resident Professor of Psychology at Mandar University. He was also one of the world's foremost and best-known experimenters in the area of parapsychology, also called Extra-Sensory Perception, also called psionics. The government, as a matter of principle, didn't believe in psionics. But the government, also as a matter of principle, kept a psionics expert handy, just in case. The "just in case" had maybe happened. Professor Long sat in Marshall's office and listened stolidly to the problem. The expert was a tall, barrel-chested man with a fantastic shock of white hair exploding out in all directions from his head. His nose was bulbous, his jaw out-thrust, his eyes deepset, his ears hairy, his hands huge and his feet huger. He looked like a dressed-up lumberjack, of the old school. He listened, and they talked, and every once in a while he nodded, and said, "Huh." His voice was, predictably, basso profundo. * * * * * Then they were finished, and Professor Long summed it all up. "He changes the temperature of objects. Yes?" "Yes," said Marshall. "You looked for a machine. Yes?" "Yes, and we didn't find it." "And your thermodynamics people said no such machine could exist anyway, yes?" "That's right." "Then why did you look for it?" "Because," said Marshall desperately, "we'd seen it in action. That is, we'd seen the result of its use." "Yes," said the professor. He sucked on his lower lip and abstractedly watched his thumbs twiddle. "Pyrotic," he announced at last. "I beg your pardon?" asked Marshall. "Pyrotic," repeated the professor. "Yes? Yes. Pyrotic. Do you know what that is?" "No," said Marshall. "Good," said the professor. "Neither do I. But I have a theory. There are more theories than there are phenomena. That always happens. But listen to this theory. The mind reaches into the object on the molecular level, and adjusts the molecules, _so_. The temperature changes. Do you see?" "Not exactly," said Marshall doubtfully. "Neither do I. Never mind. I know lots of theories, none of them make any sense. But they all try to explain.
1260_7894	love stories	Brontë, Charlotte	"You give it up very gleefully," said he; "I don't quite understand your light-heartedness, because I cannot tell what employment you propose to yourself as a substitute for the one you are relinquishing. What aim, what purpose, what ambition in life have you now?" "My first aim will be to _clean down_ (do you comprehend the full force of the expression?)--to _clean down_ Moor House from chamber to cellar; my next to rub it up with bees-wax, oil, and an indefinite number of cloths, till it glitters again; my third, to arrange every chair, table, bed, carpet, with mathematical precision; afterwards I shall go near to ruin you in coals and peat to keep up good fires in every room; and lastly, the two days preceding that on which your sisters are expected will be devoted by Hannah and me to such a beating of eggs, sorting of currants, grating of spices, compounding of Christmas cakes, chopping up of materials for mince-pies, and solemnising of other culinary rites, as words can convey but an inadequate notion of to the uninitiated like you. My purpose, in short, is to have all things in an absolutely perfect state of readiness for Diana and Mary before next Thursday; and my ambition is to give them a beau-ideal of a welcome when they come." St. John smiled slightly: still he was dissatisfied. "It is all very well for the present," said he; "but seriously, I trust that when the first flush of vivacity is over, you will look a little higher than domestic endearments and household joys." "The best things the world has!" I interrupted. "No, Jane, no: this world is not the scene of fruition; do not attempt to make it so: nor of rest; do not turn slothful." "I mean, on the contrary, to be busy." "Jane, I excuse you for the present: two months' grace I allow you for the full enjoyment of your new position, and for pleasing yourself with this late-found charm of relationship; but _then_, I hope you will begin to look beyond Moor House and Morton, and sisterly society, and the selfish calm and sensual comfort of civilised affluence. I hope your energies will then once more trouble you with their strength." I looked at him with surprise. "St. John," I said, "I think you are almost wicked to talk so.
22462_108	science fiction	Lande, Irving W.	Now, there were Reds around practically every mission. _Thirteen missions to go, after today._ He wondered if he'd quit at seventy-five. Deep inside him, the old pride and excitement were still strong. He still got a kick out of the way the girls looked at the silver rocket on his chest. But he didn't feel as lucky as he used to. Twenty-nine years old, and he was starting to feel like an old man. He pictured himself lecturing to a group of eager kids. _Had a couple of close calls, those last two missions._ That Red had looked easy, the way he was wandering around. He hadn't spotted them until they were well into their run, but when he got started he'd made them look like slow motion, just the same. If he hadn't tried that harebrained sudden deceleration.... Coulter shook his head at the memory. And on the last mission they'd been lucky to get a draw. Those boys were good shots. * * * * * "We're crossing his track, Paul. Turn to nine point five o'clock and hold 4 G's for thirty-two seconds, starting on the count ... five--four--three--two--one--go!" He completed the operation in silence, remarking to himself how lucky he was to have Johnson. The boy loved a chase. He navigated like a hungry hawk, though you had to admit his techniques were a bit irregular. Coulter chuckled at the ad lib way they operated, remembering the courses, the tests, the procedures practiced until they could do them backwards blindfolded. When they tangled with a Red, the Solter co-ordinates went out the hatch. They navigated by the enemy. There were times during a fight when he had no more idea of his position than what the old ladies told him, and what he could see of the Sun, the Earth, and the Moon. And using "right side up" as a basis for navigation. He chuckled again. Still, the service had had to concede on "right side up," in designing the ships, so there was something to be said for it. They hadn't been able to simulate gravity without fouling up the ships so they had to call the pilot's head "up." There was something comforting about it. He'd driven a couple of the experimental jobs, one with the cockpit set on gimbals, and one where the whole ship rotated, and he hadn't cared for them at all.
26956_52	science fiction	Sevcik, Al	Those men aren't lying, Jim." "I never thought they were lying, Doc." Rothwell paused for a minute and studied the long yellow hairs that grew sparsely across the back of his hand, thickened to a dense grove at his wrist, and vanished under the sleeve of his uniform. He looked back at the intercom. "Doc, all I know is that three perfectly normal guys got on board that ship, and when it came back we found a lot of jammed instruments and three men terrified almost to the point of insanity." "Jim, if you'd seen ..." Rothwell interrupted. "I know. Five radioactive planets with the fresh scars of cobalt bombs and the remains of civilizations. Then radar screens erupting crazily with signals from a multi-thousand ship space fleet; vector computers hurriedly plotting and re-plotting the fast-moving trajectory, submitting each time an unvarying answer for the fleet's destination--our own solar system." He slapped his hand flat against the desk. "The point is, Doc, it's not much to go on, and we don't dare send another ship to check for fear of attracting attention to ourselves. If we could only be _sure_." "Jim," over the intercom, Philips' voice seemed to waver slightly, "those men honestly saw what they say. I'd stake my life on it." "All of us are, Doc." He flipped the off button. Just thirty days now, since the scout ship _Leo's_ discovery and the panicked dash for home with the warning. Not that the warning was worth much, he reflected, Earth had no space battle fleet. There had never been any reason to build one. Then, two weeks ago, Aku's trading fleet had descended from nowhere, having blundered, he said, across Earth's orbit while on a new route between two distant star clusters. When told of the impending attack, Aku immediately offered to cancel his trip and evacuate as many humans as his ships could hold, so that humanity would at least survive, somewhere in the galaxy. Earth chose to accept his offer. "Hobson's choice," Rothwell growled to himself. "No choice at all." After years of handling hot and cold local wars and crises of every description, his military mind had become conditioned to a complete disbelief in fortuitous coincidence, and he gagged at the thought of Aku "just happening by."
62516_2721	love stories	Smith, Harriet L. (Harriet Lummis)	She spoke as one who knew the sex, to whom its little idiosyncrasies were an open book. And hardly less significant than the change in herself was the fact that Agatha accepted her altered attitude without surprise. At the same time the girl's impulsive kiss on her old friend's tear-stained cheek was irrelevantly tender. "I must go back to bed," said Agatha. "It'll soon be time to get up. And don't worry over those adorers of yours. It'll do them good to be kept waiting. Men--most men--need to have the conceit taken out of them." Though she paused in the doorway to charge Miss Finch to go to sleep immediately, she did not act on her own counsel. Instead she ensconsed herself on the broad sill of the east window and swinging her dangling bare feet, watched the face of the sky slowly brighten, flushing pink at last, like the cheek of a girl. Overhead little rosy clouds floated, like cherubs, listening to the chorus of bird song which grew in volume moment by moment. Another day was beginning, a good day, Agatha was ready to believe. For though between herself and her heart's desire a tortuous deception lay, to be explained and forgiven, the prospect no longer seemed hopeless. It was an eminently satisfactory world, Agatha decided, with Julia out of the running. CHAPTER XV UNDERNEATH THE BOUGH The kind-hearted Miss Kent had decreed a holiday for Howard. With characteristic thoughtfulness she had volunteered to take Forbes off his hands, and suggested they fill in the time by a long walk with a picnic lunch in some shady place, dinner to be postponed until a convenient hour after their return. Howard showed hilarious approval of the plan, and Forbes aroused himself from his melancholy abstraction sufficiently to agree, whereupon Agatha fell to making sandwiches, giving directions to Phemie as she worked. Nature in the raw did not appeal to Miss Finch. She hated long walks. She hated sitting on the grass; while sandwiches, without an accompanying cup of tea, were as ashes to her taste. The others accepted her excuses with fortitude, and left her at home to see that Phemie did not set the house afire, and to grope wearily toward a solution of her vexing problem. Howard, having stuffed his pockets with a generous proportion of the sandwiches, shouldered his fishing rod and departed to make the most of his holiday. And while the fragrant freshness of the night still lingered in the air, Forbes and Agatha set out in the direction of the woods.
20840_884	western stories	Norton, Andre	You’ve been hiring Rebs again!" Once before Drew had seen explosive anger curbed visibly by a man who knew the folly of losing control over his emotions. It had been on a hilltop back in Tennessee, with the storm clouds of January overhead. General Bedford Forrest, watching men driven to the limit by necessity and his own orders, had looked just that way when he had rounded on Drew, bearing news of yet another break-through by the Federals. Now it was this Anglo wearing Spanish dress and standing in a dim stable, reining temper to meet the open hostility of the captain. "Captain Bayliss." The words sounded as remote as if the speaker bestrode some peak of the Chiricahuas to address a pygmy in a canyon below. "I know of no law which states that I may not employ whom I choose on my own land. If a man does his job and makes no trouble, his past does not matter. I am as ready to fire a former Union soldier as I am a Confederate—" "I tell you again: I’m not going to have Rebs around here passing on information to Kitchell!" "And _I_ say once again, Captain, that men who ride for me do not in addition ride for Kitchell." "_Sí_—!" Bartolomé’s face was as flushed as Bayliss’ now. "We do not help those _bandidos_. Do they not also raid us? Two weeks ago Francisco Perez, his horse comes in with blood on the saddle. We ride out and find him—shot, dragged with the rope. That is not Apache trick, that, but the work of Kitchell and his snakes!" "Peace, _amigo_." _Don_ Cazar’s raised finger silenced his man. "Bartolomé is right, Bayliss. Kitchell is beginning to nibble at the Range. He has not many sources of supply left. Soon he will either have to cross the border to stay or make some reckless raid which will give us a chance at him." "These damned Rebs around here will keep him going! You can’t tell me they don’t back him every chance they get. And I’m warning you, Rennie, if you hire any man you can’t answer for, he’s going to the stockade and you’ll hear about it from the army!" "And you also listen, Captain. I will not be dictated to, and the army had best understand that.
64125_1176	detective and mystery stories	Robertson, Alexander, M.D.	I shall feel like a criminal,” and the good-natured giant shuddered. He was not accustomed to deceit. “Well, you mark my words—she will reproach you less than you believe.” “You speak in riddles—why should she be delighted to know it is no worse—why are you here—Heavens alive, man, has she employed you to watch me—does she already know I am engaged in this shameful deceit?” He poured these questions out. Already a light was beginning to shine before his eyes. The detective smiled. “Thank your stars, Joe Leslie, that when you face your sweet wife you have nothing more serious to confess than this fault.” “What did you suspect—what does she think?” he asked, almost breathlessly. “That you were false to her.” “Darrell, I’d sooner be torn to pieces than be such a wretch,” he declared, vehemently. “I believe you now, Joe, but must confess that up to this very hour things looked black for you.” “How was that?” “Circumstances were against you.” “Tell me all, Eric—everything.” The detective sees no reason why he should not. He believes in this man thoroughly now, and would trust him through everything. So he begins and tells him all. Joe’s head rests upon his hand—the detective could not see his face, but he knew how it worked with feeling, and when he described how Lillian was dreadfully shocked when she heard of the _bal masque_ and Joe’s apparent presence there, he was not at all surprised to see a large tear drop upon the arm of the chair. With tears in his eyes Joe looked up. “Darrell, you ought to know me better than that. I am not that kind of a man. My whole life is wrapped up in my wife, and if I should lose her, either by death or any other means, it would kill me outright.” “I believe it, Joe, I do indeed.” Then he finished his story. Joe was greatly wrought up. “I shall go to Lillian at once—she shall hear the truth from my lips first, not yours. Perhaps she will forgive me. If she says the word I will break my pipe”—with a sort of sob—“and quit the whole infernal business if it kills me.” “I can arrange it so that she will beg you to smoke, Joe.
538_3646	western stories	Bower, B. M.	Or was he afraid she would ask her Uncle Carl, and find that there was no letter? "Why don't you ask your dad, if you are so anxious to know all about it?" Art demanded abruptly. "Anyway, that's the last time I was ever over there." "Ask dad!" Jean's anger flamed out suddenly. "Art Osgood, when I think of dad, I wonder why I don't shoot you! I wonder how you dare sit there and look me in the face. Ask dad! Dad, who is paying with his life and all that's worth while in life, for that murder that you deny--" "What's that? Paying how?" Art leaned toward her; and now his face was hard and hostile, and so were his eyes. "Paying! You know how he is paying! Paying in Deer Lodge penitentiary--" "Who? YOUR FATHER?" Had Art been ready to spring at her and catch her by the throat, he would not have looked much different. "My father!" Jean's voice broke upon the word. "And you--" She did not attempt to finish the charge. Art sat looking at her with a queer intensity. "Your father!" he repeated. "Aleck! I never knew that, Jean. Take my word, I never knew that!" He seemed to be thinking pretty fast. "Where's Carl at?" he asked irrelevantly. "Uncle Carl? He's home, running both ranches. I--I never could make Uncle Carl see that you must have been the one." "Been the one that shot Crofty, you mean?" Art gave a short laugh. He got up and stood in front of her. "Thanks, awfully. Good reason why he couldn't see it! He knows well enough I didn't do it. He knows--who did." He bit his lips then, as if he feared that he had said too much. "Uncle Carl knows? Then why doesn't he tell? It wasn't dad!" Jean took a defiant step toward him. "Art Osgood, if you dare say it was dad, I--I'll kill you!" Art smiled at her with a brief lightening of his eyes. "I believe you would, at that," he said soberly. "But it wasn't your dad, Jean." "Who was it?" "I--don't--know." "You do!
538_2758	western stories	Bower, B. M.	" Robert Grant Burns looked at her from under his eyebrows and made a sound between his grunt of indignation and his chuckle of amusement. "Sure you won't?" he queried shortly. "Stay the way you are, if you want to; chances are you won't go to work right away, anyhow." Jean flashed him a glance of inquiry. Did that mean that she had at last gone beyond the limit? Was Robert Grant Burns going to FIRE her? She looked at Gil, who was sauntering off with the perfectly apparent expectation that she would follow him; and Mrs. Gay, who was regarding her with a certain melancholy conviction that Jean's time as leading woman was short indeed. She pursed her lips with a rueful resignation, and followed Gil to the spring behind the house. "Say, you mustn't hand out things like that, Jean!" he protested, when they were quite out of sight and hearing of the others. "Let me give you a tip, girl. If you've got any photo-play ideas that are worth talking about, don't go spreading them out like that for Bobby to pick and choose!" "Pick to pieces, you mean," Jean corrected. "You're going to tell me I'm in bad. But I can't help it; he's putting on some awfully stagey plots, and they cost just as much to produce as--" "Listen here. You've got me wrong. That plot of yours could be worked up into a dandy series; the idea of a story running through a lot of pictures is great. What I mean is, it's worth something. You don't have to give stuff like that away, make him a present of it, you know. I just want to put you wise. If you've got anything that's worth using, make 'em pay for it. Put 'er into scenario form and sell it to 'em. You're in this game to make money, so why overlook a bet like that?" "Oh, Gil! Could I?" "Sure, you could! No reason why you shouldn't, if you can deliver the goods. Burns has been writing his own plays to fit his company; but aside from the features you've been putting into it, it's old stuff. He's a darned good director, and all that, but he hasn't got the knack of building real stories. You see what I mean.
61283_78	science fiction	Banta, Frank	As they seated themselves, he complacently surveyed the slits burned between the charred boards of the walls and roof. "The roof will leak a mite when it rains, but it will let in lots of light," he observed optimistically. "There's nothing like lots of light," Bliss agreed. "Charcoal is healthful, too." "It absorbs poison like nobody's business!" "However, since it rains every day on Venus we will have to have a new cabin." He sighed resignedly. "And you know what that means: Lower production, fewer of the magical, antibiotic pretzins. I'd better radio the Division Chief." * * * * * As the jet plane flashed across their vision, the Kentons saw a tiny bundle drop from it. Pole ran out into the jungle and was under the parachute when it landed. He came back into the clearing unwrapping a package. "It sure was thoughtful of Mr. Wattles to answer so fast," said Pole, as he opened the little package. "And will you look here in the middle! He even sent us a present!" "It's a beautiful, plain white, rectangular carton of approximately three by seven inches," she said breathlessly. "But we mustn't be selfish," Pole reminded hastily. "Let's see what Mr. Wattles has to say in his memorandum here first." They both read the green memorandum. To: Napoleon B. Kenton, Special Agent, Pretzin Division, Venus From: Chief, Pretzin Division, Venusport, Venus Subject: Personal Problems of Special Agents In a radio message dated January 25, 1982 you related certain personal problems you were experiencing, and you stated that delays might be encountered in your harvesting of pretzins. We regret your difficulties. However, it is believed these misfortunes may be overcome during leisure hours and should be soon resolved without loss of a measurable part of your productive time. Pole interrupted his reading to beam at his wife. "He's sorry for us, Bliss, and he hopes things will be better for us soon." "Isn't he the nicest man?" They read on. In your radio message you refer to difficulties you are having with a snake and a lizard (which you colloquially refer to as a dragon). It is believed that the enclosed package, serial number 93G-18, will cope with the matter, and that no further report will be necessary with respect to snakes and lizards.
65383_4073	detective and mystery stories	Wallace, Edgar	Diana shook her head. There was some good Puritan blood in the Fords. Bobbie never received evidence of its presence without a little shock of surprise. “No! Isn’t it terrible? They’re not married. They are not even engaged: I could tell that by the way she orders him about. She does so with the air of a woman who has nothing to lose. But I’m determined on one thing. I thought it out before I went to bed. He shall marry her before he leaves this house! She has been hopelessly compromised. This adventure shall have one good result.” Bobbie was not enthusiastic. “I shouldn’t meddle if I were you,” he said, but made no impression on her. Gordon Selsbury came into the room unnoticed. He carried a dustpan and a short-handled broom. He stood for a while irresolutely, neither of the pair noticing him. Then: “Have you heard from Gordon?” Her face lit up. “I’ve had the loveliest wires from him. Really he has been most thoughtful! The dear man has telegraphed from almost every station.” Bobbie coughed. “Somehow I thought he would,” he said. She was searching her handbag and brought out a folded paper. “Here is the last, from Crewe; it didn’t arrive until ten o’clock this morning. ‘Having a comfortable journey. Hope everything is going smoothly--Gordon.’” Bobbie sat up. “Oh, I say, that’s too bad,” he protested warmly--too warmly, he realised. “I mean, it’s too bad that didn’t arrive until to-day. Write to the Post Office.” Gordon growled under his breath, and took another step into the room. Diana saw him, but made no sign. He was one with the furniture. “If he’d only stay away for another week!” she sighed. It was the opportunity for which Bobbie had hoped. “You know, old Gordon isn’t such a bad chap,” he said. “I know one’s first impression is that he is a terrible prig, and his manner is bad, I admit; and he’s a thought conceited. These intellectuals are. Though why, I’ve never understood.” She shook her head. Evidently she had already found excuses for Gordon, and there was no need for his championship. “Conceited? But most men are, don’t you think?
61334_55	science fiction	Banta, Frank	Why unable drive off these predators yourselves?" The mayor laughed bitterly. "It would be easy to tell you'd just arrived on this planet--although the birds are not well known in the other cities either; they are all concentrated in this area. Yes, our sportsmen tried to shoot down the whirlybirds. No luck, of course. Imagine the problems you have when one of these forty-foot balls of commotion comes at you: You try to aim but you can't hold your arm still because of the swirling wind they raise; and then the dust clouds thicken and you're firing wildly, and you can't begin to tell which is body and which is feathers anyway." "Very well," accepted Charles DeCrabbe mercifully. "You've made attempt. My first step therefore the attachment of high explosives to boobytrapped mannequins. Brought these with me." * * * * * "Great winds of catastrophe. I'm glad you mentioned it before you did it!" exclaimed the mayor. "We tried that once. The city was six weeks digging out from under the feathers--and it didn't kill the whirlybird!" "Aren't you exaggerating difficulties encountered in picking up few feathers?" loftily inquired DeCrabbe. "How do you think we got the name of Featherton? Before the deluge we were called West Applebury!" "Then why haven't you attempted lure them into boobytraps outside town? Could detonate them there without even slight inconvenience of picking up feathers." "Believe me, if there were only a _few_ feathers," insisted Mayor Prince, "few enough for you to pick up by yourself, we wouldn't mind you blowing up a whirlybird." "Wasn't considering picking up _any_ feathers," replied Five-gun with dignity. "Had supposed a menial or two could be supplied for that." The mayor shook his head. "It would take everybody in town to clean up. And as for blowing one up outside the city, one of our orchardists tried it. He blew it to bits all right, but eighty acres of his apple trees were smothered under the debris!" "Now anticipate that the extermination of the whirlybirds will almost certainly take me up to two days," conceded Five-gun DeCrabbe calmly. "However will be all the more interesting to defeat them without recourse large explosives." "Gee, what a man!" admired the mayor's son. "Only two days!
62516_1969	love stories	Smith, Harriet L. (Harriet Lummis)	In her earlier anger the girl had been merely a lovely virago. Now, in her furious defense of the man he had apparently misjudged, she was superb. Warren felt himself swept from his moorings. "Very well, Hephzibah. I'll take your word for it that he's all right." "He doesn't know. He doesn't even dream. There's--He loves some one else." "Don't, Hephzibah. Poor little girl! What a damned muddle life is." He was fumbling for his card. "Can you write, dear?" "After a fashion." All in a minute she was another woman, with radiant mischief peering out of her eyes. "Here's my address on this card. If you should change your mind, write me. I hope and believe you will. Just because one man is blind, it doesn't follow that there's nothing else in life." She gave a slight start, looking at him obliquely, the mischief quite gone from her eyes. But she accepted his card, and then of her own accord gave him her hand. "You have been good to take so much trouble," she said. "Thank you." The two had changed markedly since the dialogue under the elm tree began. The girl's hostility had vanished as completely as the man's condescension. On his way back to the city that night, Warren evolved the theory that Hephzibah was originally of gentle blood. That accounted for the quality of her beauty, for something in her manner suggesting one accustomed to homage rather than to service. Warren was inclined to believe it also explained a singular fact which impressed him more as he thought over the events of the afternoon than it had at the time. There could be no question but that in moments of extreme excitement, a certain uncouthness disappeared from her speech and manner, and she lapsed, so to speak, into the idioms of her presumably cultured forebears. In Warren's opinion this cast a most interesting side-light on the subject of heredity. CHAPTER XI A WILFUL MAN MUST HAVE HIS WAY Though there was no likelihood of another letter from Julia for a week at least, Forbes showed an abnormal interest in the contents of the mail bag, and Agatha guessed he was expecting to hear from Warren. She, too, found herself anxiously anticipating the arrival of the letter addressed in the vigorous hand which in some obscure way was so suggestive of the man's personality.
57758_5977	adventure stories	Deeping, Warwick	“No, not that, Dick. I am preparing for what I hold to be my duty.” “Well, sir, well?” “I am going to save this woman from the past, and act with honor for her, even though our love may come to nothing.” Wilson sat up and looked hard at Jeffray, profoundly interested in the problem-play before him. “You can trust me, sir; what do you mean to do?” “Make her a new life, Dick.” “Yes.” “Money is nothing to me. I can give her all of it she needs in this world, a home, and safety from all sordid care and dread.” “Well, what then?” Jeffray leaned back against the wall, and looked out gravely through the open window. “I have not found the end yet,” he said. Wilson nodded. “She has trusted me; God help me to deserve her trust.” As the morning wore on, Wilson noticed that an increasing restlessness was taking possession of the rebel. He grew moody, distraught, and silent, called for wine, and wandered hesitatingly about the room. The painter began to wonder whether Jeffray’s enthusiasm was abating, and whether he was tempted to regard the adventure in a more cold and calculating light. The affair reminded the painter of love as it was pictured in the old ballads. The beggar’s daughter of Bethnal Green could have had no more monstrously impossible romance than this peasant girl in a Sussex forest. Mr. Wilson’s surmises, however, were utterly at fault, though logic upheld them with an obvious display of probabilities. It was his ignorance of Lot Hardacre’s fate that was troubling Jeffray at the eleventh hour. No news had come from Rookhurst, and his cousin might have bled to death in the coach for all Jeffray knew to the contrary. Bess’s surrender, the bustle of preparation, had carried Richard above the wreckage of the past for the morning. The memory of Lot’s gray face and bloody body haunted him as the hours passed by. The restless stirrings of compunction were not to be refused a hearing. Jeffray met his fears with the answer of action. He would ride to Rookhurst, go to Stott’s house, and hear the truth from the surgeon’s own lips. “I cannot rest, Dick,” he said, “until I have heard the truth about poor Lot.” Wilson suggested that he might send a servant.
12678_317	detective and mystery stories	Irwin, Will	he asked suddenly. Bulger crossed the room and looked down over his shoulder. "Where?" he asked, "The Street or--" "Trinity Churchyard." "Once I sang my little love lays there in the noon hour," answered Bulger. "I was a gallant clerk and hers the fairest fingers that ever caressed a typewriter--" The intent attitude of Norcross, the fact that he neither turned nor smiled, checked Bulger. With the instinct of the courtier, he perceived that the wind lay in another tack. He racked the unused half of his mind for appropriate sentiments. "Bully old graveyard," he brought out; "lot's of good people buried there." "Know any of the graves?" "Only Alexander Hamilton's. Everyone knows that." "That one--see--that marble shaft--not one of the old ones." "If you're curious to know," answered Bulger easily, "I'll find out on my way down to-morrow. I suppose if you were to go and look, and the reporters were to see you meditating among the tombs, we'd have a scare head to-morrow and a drop of ten points in the market." Bulger's shift to a slight levity was premeditated; he was taking guard against overplaying his part. "No, never mind," said Norcross, "it just recalls something." He paused the fraction of a second, and his eye grew dull. "Wonder if they're--anywhere--those people down under the tombstones?" "I suppose we all believe in immortality." "Seeing and hearing is believing. I believe what I see. Born that way." Norcross was speaking with a slight, agitated jerk in his voice. He rose now, and paced the floor, throwing out his feet in quick thrusts. "I'm getting along, Bulger, and I'd like to know." More pacing. Coming to the end of his route, he peered shrewdly into the face of the younger man. "Have you read the Psychical Society's report on Mrs. Fife?" Bulger's mind said, "Good God no!" His lips said, "Only some newspaper stuff about them. Seemed rather remarkable if true. Something in that stuff, I suppose." "I've read them," resumed Norcross. "Got the full set. We ought to inform ourselves on such things, Bulger. Especially when we get older. That gravestone now.
13282_1361	love stories	Sangster, Margaret E. (Margaret Elizabeth)	"Are you running away to be married, Ella?" she asked. A second flush ran over Ella's face, and receded slowly--leaving it very pale. But her head went up rather gallantly. "No, I ain't," she retorted. "Marriage," she said the words parrot-like, "was made fer th' sort o' folks who can't stick at nothin' unless they're tied. I ain't one of those folks!" Across the nearly forgotten suit-case, Rose-Marie leaned toward Ella Volsky. Her eyes were suddenly hot with anger. "Who gave you that sort of an argument?" she demanded. "Who has been filling your head with lies? You never thought of that yourself, Ella--I know you never thought of that yourself!" Ella's eyes met Rose-Marie's angry glance. Her words, when she spoke, came rapidly--almost tumbled over each other. It was as if some class-resentment, long repressed, were breaking its bounds. "How d' you know," she demanded passionately, "that I didn't think of that myself? How do you know? You're th' only one, I s'pose," her tone was suddenly mocking, "that knows how t' think! No"--as Rose-Marie started to interrupt--"don't try t' pull any alibi on me! I know th' way you Settlement House _ladies_"--she accented the word--"feel about _us_. You have clubs for us, an' parties, an' uplift meetin's. You pray fer us--an' with us. You tell us who t' marry, an' how t' bring up our children, an' what butcher t' buy our meat off of. But when it comes t' understandin' us--an' likin' us! Well, you're too good, that's all." She paused, staring at Rose-Marie's incredulous face with insolent eyes. "You're like all th' rest," she went on, after a moment, "just like all th' rest. I was beginnin' t' think that you was diff'rent. You've been so white about Bennie. An' you washed Ma's hair--I wouldn't 'a' done that myself! But now--now it sticks out all over you; th' I'm-better-'n-you-are stuff. I never could think of a thing, _I_ couldn't. But you--you're smart, you are.
7326_5618	adventure stories	Gough, George W.	" "My lord," I answered firmly, "by the direct commission of His Royal Highness, given to me personally, I am escorting this lady to jail." "Then I'll forgive ye!" he retorted, and his strong face lost all its anger and found the wraith of a smile. "Dinnae be too hard on the lassie! She's ane of the right sort." He returned my salute, bowed courteously to Margaret, and strode on "Good lad!" said Margaret, happily mimicking her father. "You shall have some of the olives in a minute or two." "Olives seem to me precisely the right thing for us," said I. "And why, sir?" It was very curious to me to see how, in her speech to me, she whipped about from the familiar "Oliver" to the stately "Sir." There was always a reason for it, and I would have given much to know it. "Your olives come from Italy, and I have been thinking of your Italian count." "So have I," she said very soberly, and never said another word till we were safe and quiet in her day-room at the "Bald-Faced Stag." For over two hours I had Margaret to myself, and we were as happy and companionable as we had been in Dick Doley's cottage. And at this I marvelled. Our Kate was the only woman I had to judge by, and when our Kate got into her very best Sunday gown she got into her tantrums along with it, and poor Jack, what with awe of her finery and anxiety lest he should anger the minx, commonly had a thorny time of it. With Margaret it was just the opposite. When we got in, she excused herself and went off to her own room, coming back, after a weary time, in such a glory of silks and satins that I blinked my eyes before her dazzlements. What made it worse was that there was a comb--as she called it, though I should in my ignorance have thought it some rich and rare work in filigree belonging to an empress--which, owing to the smallness of her mirror and the poor light, she could not get to sit perfectly in its golden cushion, and I was bidden to put it where and as it ought to be. I was a long time over the task, in part because I was really clumsy, but mainly because I was in no hurry.
3294_3655	adventure stories	Sabatini, Rafael	“And behold how sound he is. See how excellent are his teeth.” He seized Lionel's head and forced the jaws apart. “Ay,” said Ali, “but consider me those lean shanks and that woman's arm.” “'Tis a fault the oar will mend,” the dalal insisted. “You filthy blackamoors!” burst from Lionel in a sob of rage. “He is muttering curses in his infidel tongue,” said Ali. “His temper is none too good, you see. I have said five philips. I'll say no more.” With a shrug the dalal began his circuit of the well, the corsairs thrusting Lionel after him. Here one rose to handle him, there another, but none seemed disposed to purchase. “Five philips is the foolish price offered me for this fine young Frank,” cried the dalal. “Will no True-Believer pay ten for such a slave? Wilt not thou, O Ayoub? Thou, Hamet--ten philips?” But one after another those to whom he was offered shook their heads. The haggardness of Lionel's face was too unprepossessing. They had seen slaves with that look before, and experience told them that no good was ever to be done with such fellows. Moreover, though shapely, his muscles were too slight, his flesh looked too soft and tender. Of what use a slave who must be hardened and nourished into strength, and who might very well die in the process? Even at five philips he would be dear. So the disgusted dalal came back to Ali. “He is thine, then, for five philips--Allah pardon thy avarice.” Ali grinned, and his men seized upon Lionel and bore him off into the background to join the two negroes previously purchased. And then, before Ali could bid for another of the slaves he desired to acquire, a tall, elderly Jew, dressed in black doublet and hose like a Castilian gentleman, with a ruffle at his neck, a plumed bonnet on his grey locks, and a serviceable dagger hanging from his girdle of hammered gold, had claimed the attention of the dalal. In the pen that held the captives of the lesser raids conducted by Biskaine sat an Andalusian girl of perhaps some twenty years, of a beauty entirely Spanish. Her face was of the warm pallor of ivory, her massed hair of an ebony black, her eyebrows were finely pencilled, and her eyes of deepest and softest brown.
40751_1720	adventure stories	Strang, Herbert	" At the head of the stairway two priests were awaiting them. One signed to Mackenzie to descend, and followed him. When they were out of sight, the other indicated that Forrester was to go down. Singly they passed through the silent corridors, and were locked in their cells, each alone. CHAPTER X THE UNDERWORLD Meanwhile, what of Jackson and Hamid Gul? The former, more nervous and highly-strung than either of his friends, had suffered still more poignantly the malignant influence of the monster’s eye. Like them, he had been taken that morning to the foot of the stairway, but the sight of the dizzy ascent had proved too much for him. He could not bring himself to face it, and returned to his cell, where he had remained all day in miserable solitude, his meals being brought to him at intervals. Hamid Gul, the first to fall into unconsciousness, was also the first to revive. He came to himself as he was being carried along the corridor to the cell allotted him, and immediately began to plead for mercy on the ground that he was only a servant, only the humble cook. One of the priests, who understood Hindustani, had reasons of his own for testing the man’s skill. Accordingly Hamid, after a night of solitude, was conducted to the kitchen attached to the priestly buildings on the plateau, and ordered to prepare one of his most appetising dishes. The man was as quick-witted as he was timorous. Like many native servants, he cherished a dog-like devotion for his master, and instantly made up his mind to employ his utmost art in the hope of ingratiating himself with his captors to the advantage of the whole party. He concocted one of Forrester’s favourite dishes, under the eye of the priest, who, having made him eat a portion, as a precaution against poison, carried the rest away. Returning presently, he said "It is well," and informed Hamid that he was to consider himself attached, at any rate temporarily, to the kitchen staff. Hamid was delighted with his success, and would have been wondrously elated if he could have foreseen the remarkable events that were to spring from his clever cooking. Forrester had dreaded the approach of night, when he would again have to encounter the unwinking glare of the eye. As soon as he had finished the meal brought to him by two negritos, as before, and was locked in, he took from his pocket the small article given him by the Indian girl.
43944_2902	science fiction	Aubrey, Frank	" "I saw them," Jack remarked. "He must have been a big fine man, if that suit fitted him. But, to go back to the son of this great king, said to have been saved after all, and then put on the throne; did he have any descendants?" Zonella nodded. "There have been five kings in the direct line since." "I see. So that the present king is----" "A great-great-great-grandson of the great Mellenda," put in Ulama. "I think it was rather fortunate you managed as you did when you came here," Zonella said after a pause; "for, if Coryon had been the first to know of you strangers being in the country, he would have striven in every way to have killed or captured you. They say he is a firm believer in the early coming of Mellenda, and is in mortal terror about it." Jack was silent awhile, and then he observed drily, "Well, all I can say is that I should very much like to see the good gentleman, if he is still about; and I only hope and wish he will arrive while we are here. If he has been travelling around all these years, by this time he must know a thing or two! I wonder whether he will come in a balloon!" CHAPTER XIX. HOPES AND FEARS. Amongst other advantages of the peace or truce that had been arranged with the mysterious Coryon, one was that Elwood and Templemore were free to visit the canyon and the caves where their reserve stores lay, and assure themselves that they were all safe. To do this they had to arrange to be away one night, since it was a day's journey each way. That night they passed in the cavern--which they had named 'Monella Cave' in honour of their friend; the canyon itself they called 'Fairy Valley'--and their camp equipage being all found intact where they had hidden it away, they had everything at hand for making themselves comfortable. They found, on examination, that the stone that closed the entrance was in the same position as when they had left it. Having removed the wooden bars, they rolled it to one side, and looked out into the gloomy depths of Roraima Forest. From this outlook Templemore turned back with a shudder of disgust. "How I hate that forest!" he exclaimed. "How miserable it seems out there!
45859_2038	adventure stories	Busk, Rachel Harriette	Then he thought, "While He is here, no harm can come; I will keep His slumber sacred." So he looked out on the fury of the storm, and waited. Then that shining One arose and waved His hands abroad towards the winds, and there came a sweet melody from His mouth, which said, "Peace! peace!" Then suddenly all was still and bright again, and the soft breeze echoed back the music of "Peace! peace!" Then Pepe, when he saw what He had done, fell on his knees before Him, and said, "Lord, as Thou hast done this, send me now a draft of fishes, that my net may be full." Then the Bright One stretched out His hands over the sea; and there rose out of the rippling waves great handsome fishes such as Pepe had never seen the like. They were of the height of a man in length, and their skin shone like silver interwoven with many colours, and their fins of gold. Docile at His gesture, they rose gently over the side of the boat, and laid them obedient at His feet. One by one, on they came till--appalling sight!--the boat began to sink under their priceless weight. For one moment Pepe's heart almost fainted within him at seeing the rich prize sink away again just as it was within grasp, and with it his boat, his tackle, all that he had to call his own! But his eye rested on the Bright One who stood there, and his faith and confidence returned. He observed that some folds of His glistening mantle, as it hung loosely from His shoulders, floated on the waves which were now meeting over the place where he stood. Confident that it would bear him up, Pepe stepped on to it, as on to dry land, while all his earthly treasure sunk out of sight. Then Pepe woke. The sun had nearly set; a light breeze was gently carrying off the superfluous heat of the day; but his bark was empty, no Bright One sat in it, no beautiful fish lay there. Pepe listlessly looked over the side of his boat; the influence of his dream was yet upon him, and he could not restrain a look after his sunken prize. What was that? Something large and shining swam under his boat, surely! Hastily Pepe detached a little lamp which always burnt under a cross hung on the mast, and looked down into the clear blue waters, when lo!
83_3886	science fiction	Verne, Jules	" "They would make the voyage for nothing but to see the moon!" replied Michel. "Very well!" continued Barbicane, "that astonishment is reserved for the Selenites who inhabit the face of the moon opposite to the earth, a face which is ever invisible to our countrymen of the terrestrial globe." "And which we should have seen," added Nicholl, "if we had arrived here when the moon was new, that is to say fifteen days later." "I will add, to make amends," continued Barbicane, "that the inhabitants of the visible face are singularly favored by nature, to the detriment of their brethren on the invisible face. The latter, as you see, have dark nights of 354 hours, without one single ray to break the darkness. The other, on the contrary, when the sun which has given its light for fifteen days sinks below the horizon, see a splendid orb rise on the opposite horizon. It is the earth, which is thirteen times greater than the diminutive moon that we know-- the earth which developes itself at a diameter of two degrees, and which sheds a light thirteen times greater than that qualified by atmospheric strata-- the earth which only disappears at the moment when the sun reappears in its turn!" "Nicely worded!" said Michel, "slightly academical perhaps." "It follows, then," continued Barbicane, without knitting his brows, "that the visible face of the disc must be very agreeable to inhabit, since it always looks on either the sun when the moon is full, or on the earth when the moon is new." "But," said Nicholl, "that advantage must be well compensated by the insupportable heat which the light brings with it." "The inconvenience, in that respect, is the same for the two faces, for the earth's light is evidently deprived of heat. But the invisible face is still more searched by the heat than the visible face. I say that for _you_, Nicholl, because Michel will probably not understand." "Thank you," said Michel. "Indeed," continued Barbicane, "when the invisible face receives at the same time light and heat from the sun, it is because the moon is new; that is to say, she is situated between the sun and the earth.
362_2432	love stories	Porter, Eleanor H. (Eleanor Hodgman)	retorted Kate, indignantly. “The _wedding_ is at noon sharp--as the best man should know very well.” “All right; then tell Billy, please, to see that it is sharp, or I won't answer for the consequences.” “What do you mean? What is the matter?” “Cyril. He's broken loose at last. I've been expecting it all along. I've simply marvelled at the meekness with which he has submitted himself to be tied up with white ribbons and topped with roses.” “Nonsense, Bertram!” “Well, it amounts to that. Anyhow, he thinks it does, and he's wild. I wish you could have heard the thunderous performance on his piano with which he woke me up this morning. Billy says he plays everything--his past, present, and future. All is, if he was playing his future this morning, I pity the girl who's got to live it with him.” “Bertram!” Bertram chuckled remorselessly. “Well, I do. But I'll warrant he wasn't playing his future this morning. He was playing his present--the wedding. You see, he's just waked up to the fact that it'll be a perfect orgy of women and other confusion, and he doesn't like it. All the samee,{sic} I've had to assure him just fourteen times this morning that the ring, the license, the carriage, the minister's fee, and my sanity are all O. K. When he isn't asking questions he's making threats to snake the parson up there an hour ahead of time and be off with Marie before a soul comes.” “What an absurd idea!” “Cyril doesn't think so. Indeed, Kate, I've had a hard struggle to convince him that the guests wouldn't think it the most delightful experience of their lives if they should come and find the ceremony over with and the bride gone.” “Well, you remind Cyril, please, that there are other people besides himself concerned in this wedding,” observed Kate, icily. “I have,” purred Bertram, “and he says all right, let them have it, then. He's gone now to look up proxy marriages, I believe.” “Proxy marriages, indeed! Come, come, Bertram, I've got something to do this morning besides to stand here listening to your nonsense. See that you and Cyril get here on time--that's all!”
3404_2397	love stories	Howells, William Dean	But we were no more fit to accept or reject each other at that infantile period--” “Do you really think so?” asked Miss Cotton, only partially credulous of Mrs. Brinkley's irony. “Yes, it does seem out of all reason,” admitted Mrs. Stamwell. “Of course it is,” said Mrs. Brinkley. “If she has rejected him, she's done a very safe thing. Nobody should be allowed to marry before fifty. Then, if people married, it would be because they knew that they loved each other.” Miss Cotton reflected a moment. “It is strange that such an important question should have to be decided at an age when the judgment is so far from mature. I never happened to look at it in that light before.” “Yes,” said Mrs. Brinkley--and she made herself comfortable in an arm chair commanding a stretch of the bay over which the ferry-boat must pass--“but it's only part and parcel of the whole affair. I'm sure that no grown person can see the ridiculous young things--inexperienced, ignorant, featherbrained--that nature intrusts with children, their immortal little souls and their extremely perishable little bodies, without rebelling at the whole system. When you see what most young mothers are, how perfectly unfit and incapable, you wonder that the whole race doesn't teeth and die. Yes, there's one thing I feel pretty sure of--that, as matters are arranged now, there oughtn't to be mothers at all, there ought to be only grandmothers.” The group all laughed, even Miss Cotton, but she was the first to become grave. At the bottom of her heart there was a doubt whether so light a way of treating serious things was not a little wicked. “Perhaps,” she said, “we shall have to go back to the idea that engagements and marriages are not intended to be regulated by the judgment, but by the affections.” “I don't know what's intended,” said Mrs. Brinkley, “but I know what is. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred the affections have it their own way, and I must say I don't think the judgment could make a greater mess of it. In fact,” she continued, perhaps provoked to the excess by the deprecation she saw in Miss Cotton's eye, “I consider every broken engagement nowadays a blessing in disguise.” Miss Cotton said nothing. The other ladies said, “Why, Mrs. Brinkley!” “Yes.
14219_6734	love stories	Runkle, Bertha	It was as pretty a sight as ever I beheld, but it was not to smile at such that we had risked our heads. Of Mlle. de Montluc there was no sign. No one was marking me, and I wondered if I might not slip out unseen and make my way to mademoiselle's chamber. I knew she lodged on this story, near the back of the house, in a room overlooking the little street and having a turret-window. But I was somewhat doubtful of my skill to find it through the winding corridors of a great palace. I was more than likely to meet some one who would question my purpose, and what answer could I make? I scarce dared say I was seeking mademoiselle. I am not ready at explanations, like M. le Comte. Yet here were the golden moments flying and our cause no further advanced. Should I leave it all to M. Étienne, trusting that when he had made his sales here he would be permitted to seek out the other ladies of the house? Or should I strive to aid him? Could I win in safety to mademoiselle's chamber, what a feat! It so irked me to be doing nothing that I was on the very point of gingerly disappearing when one of the ladies, she with the yellow curls, the prettiest of them all, turned suddenly from the group, calling clearly: "Lorance!" Our hearts stood still--mine did, and I can vouch for his--as the heavy window-curtain swayed aside and she came forth. She came listlessly. Her hair sweeping against her cheek was ebony on snow, so white she was; while under her blue eyes were dark rings, like the smears of an inky finger. M. Étienne let fall the bracelet he was holding, staring at her oblivious of aught else, his brows knotted in distress, his face afire with love and sympathy. He made a step forward; I thought him about to catch her in his arms, when he recollected himself and dropped on his knees to grope for the fallen trinket. "You wanted me, madame?" she asked Mme. de Mayenne. "No," said the duchess, with a tartness of voice she seemed to reserve for Mlle. de Montluc; "'twas Mme. de Montpensier." "It was I," the fair-haired beauty answered in the same breath. "I want you to stop moping over there in the corner. Come look at these baubles and see if they cannot bring a sparkle to your eye. Fie, Lorance!
63613_77	science fiction	Gilbert, Robert E.	Drusilla actually blushed and giggled. Jak, who considered himself above petty embarrassment, felt rather ashamed himself, for the visitor had never had his facial hair removed. It grew profusely in a disgusting fringe between nose and upper lip and formed a horrid black triangle on the point of his chin. Jak rubbed a shaking hand over his own smooth cheeks and shaven head and stammered, "Welcome to the--the Box. How's your hobby? I--I am Jak SP345O926O, and this is Drusilla GW414249834. How may we help?" The man with the hairy lip paid little attention to the traditional greeting, nor did he reply. His black eyes smoldered at Drusilla. In a vibrant voice, he purred, "Drusilla, Latin, meaning 'with dewy eyes.' How appropriate! What a rare and sweet old name! I detest these ugly modern names." The eyes flashed to Jak. "I presume your name is a horrid modern one?" Jak, maddened with indignation, snapped, "I told you I'm Jak SP345O926O. Who are you, and how may we help? In about an hour and a half--" "Silence!" shouted the visitor. This brutal direction shocked Jak into acquiescence. An even greater shock stunned him when the other man who had remained in the cabin removed his helmet. This one, Jak decided, must be mentally deficient, or else he would have had a plastidoc treat the red scar tissue covering the left side of his face. Jak could not understand the semicircle of black cloth over the man's left eye. The leader bent his torso toward Drusilla as much as the spacesuit allowed, and said, "My true name and serial number, you shall never know, fair lady; but for practical purposes, I have adopted the name of the most famous pirate of the early Twentieth Century, Earl Flim. You may call me Captain Flim." The third man came back through the passage. He looked ordinary enough, although he had let his hair grow. He reported, "No one else aboard, captain." Flim said, "Excellent, Ger. Destroy all communication apparatus." Ger pulled a wrench from his tool kit and took a preliminary slash at the radio. Completely puzzled, Jak protested, "Wait! What do you mean 'pirate?' Pirate? What--" "Silence!" Flim roared. Only then did Jak notice the pistol.
55801_2964	science fiction	Elam, Richard M. (Richard Mace)	But before they could launch themselves, Kalmus had already begun his act of treachery. “Look what those crooks are doing!” Shep exclaimed. The boys could hardly believe what they saw. It was more like a bad dream. The cable had jerked away from the side of the _Northern Cross_ as its magnetic attraction was broken. Then the five saw Kalmus lean out and pull it into the _Dog Star_. “We’re too late!” Rock groaned. The ex-cadets shouted in frustration and anger at the cold-blooded act. Over their suit radios, they warned their former partners of the consequences of abandoning men in space. But even as they yelled themselves hoarse, Rock knew it wasn’t going to do any good. Kalmus had simply gotten the jump on them, something that had probably been planned at the very beginning of the voyage. The outer door of the _Dog Star_ closed. A feeling of utter desperation took possession of Rock. Here they were, five of them, marooned on a ghost ship in space, without any foreseeable chance of returning alive to Earth. An hour had passed since the five ex-cadets had been cut off from the mother ship. The _Dog Star_ had blasted off and was now out of sight. Rock guessed that Kalmus and his rebel crew had compelled Leo and Ed to assist Jack Judas in running the ship. During this time, the castaways had been taking stock of their situation. Any hopes of sending an SOS were virtually gone. The radio antenna had been badly damaged at its base when loosened by the bulging wall. The radio’s present range could not be over a few thousand miles. However, things did not look nearly so dark now as they had earlier. The boys found air tanks that would sustain them for quite a while, if not indefinitely. Upon refilling their suits with the aged gas, they found it breathable but carrying a metallic odor. There was a fair abundance of irradiated food such as all space craft carried. By receiving special treatment in an electronic oven, such food could be preserved for years. Although hard and rather tasteless, the present supply would at least keep them alive. The water-making machine was still in good order, and a drink from it was as fresh as if just drawn from a spring. However satisfactory these three main essentials were, though, they would all run out some day. That meant that the _Northern Cross_ would have to move out of her stagnant orbit if there was any chance for survival.
36246_3720	western stories	Ryan, Marah Ellis	" He turned without further words, and rode away through the soft flakes of snow that were already beginning to fall. He did not even say a good-bye; and Tillie, hedged in by her convictions and her anxiety, let him go without even a word of thanks. "I simply did not dare to say 'thank you' to him," she thought, as he disappeared. And then she went into the house and eased Fred's heart and her own conscience with the statement that Kalitan, the best guide Rachel could have, had gone to meet her. She made no mention of the objectionable character who had sent Kalitan. By the time of sunset, Scot's Mountain was smothered in the white cloud that had closed over it so suddenly, and the snow was still falling straight down, and so steadily that one could not retrace steps and find tracks ten minutes after they were made. Through the banked-up masses a white-coated unrecognizable individual plowed his way to MacDougall's door, and without ceremony opened it and floundered in, carrying with him what looked enough snow to smother a man; but his eyes were clear of it, and a glance told him the cabin had but one occupant. "When did she leave?" was the salutation MacDougall received, after a separation of six weeks. "Why, Jack, my lad!" "Yes, that's who it is, and little time to talk. Has she been here?" "The lass--Rachel? She has that--a sight for sore eyes--and set all things neat and tidy for me in no time;" and he waved his hand toward the clean-swept hearth, and the table with clean dishes, and a basket with a loaf of new bread showing through. "But she did na stay long wi' me. The clouds were comin' up heavy, she said, and she must get home before the snow fell; an' it snows now?" "Well, rather. Can't you see out?" "I doubt na I've had a nap since she left;" and the Old man raised himself stiffly from the bunk. "I got none the night, for the sore pain o' my back, but the lass helped me. She's a rare helpful one." "Which trail did she take?" asked Genesee impatiently.
30353_70	science fiction	Hernhuter, Albert	"You find the science-fiction writers more dangerous than the true scientists?" "Oh, yes. The scientific mind tends to reject anything science disproves." There was now a mocking edge to Cole's voice. "Science can easily prove we do not exist." "But the science-fiction writer?" "The danger from the imaginative mind cannot be overestimated." The Coroner knew he must soon order the officers to lay hands upon this madman. He regretted his own lack of experience with such situations. He tried to put a soothing, confidential note into his voice. "You said a moment ago that if you'd had the right kind of weapon to use on Smith--" Cole reached into his pocket and brought out what appeared to be a fountain pen. "This. It kills instantly and leaves no mark whatever. Heart failure is invariably stated as the cause of death." The Coroner felt better. Obviously, Cole was not armed. As the Coroner raised a hand to signal the officers, Cole said, "You understand, of course, that I can't let you live." "Take this man into custody." The police officers did not move. The Coroner turned on them sharply. They were smiling. Cole pointed the fountain pen. The Coroner felt a sharp chill on his flesh. He looked at the jury, at the newspaperman, the spectators. They were all smiling cold, thin, terrible smiles.... * * * * * A short time later, the newspaperman phoned in his story. The afternoon editions carried it: CORONER BELL DIES OF HEART ATTACK Shortly after this morning's inquest, which resulted in a jury verdict of suicide in the case of Sanford Smith, Coroner James Bell dropped dead of heart failure in the hearing room of the County building. Mr. Bell leaves a wife and-- THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _If Worlds of Science Fiction_ July 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
57415_3101	detective and mystery stories	Speight, T. W. (Thomas Wilkinson)	"No." "Seeing that Heron Dyke is to be given up, it will be necessary to fix upon some nest or other, will it not?" he continued. Ella's eyelashes grew wet in a moment, and she turned away her head. A little while, and the old home that she had known and loved all her life would be hers no longer: how bitter the parting would be, no one but herself could tell. "And there will be the furniture to select," continued Conroy, in the same light tone; "chairs, and tables, and carpets, and fire-irons, and a thousand other things that we can't do without: but all that I shall leave to you." "I hope you won't do anything of the kind," said Ella, in some alarm. "I should be the greatest ignoramus in the world at selecting furniture." "And I should not be one whit better," lamented Conroy. "Mrs. Carlyon, we shall have to fall back upon you. You must purchase for us." "Time enough for that," returned Mrs. Carlyon, rather crossly. Any reminder of the giving up of Heron Dyke put her out at once. "You intend to travel, you both tell me, for two or three months after your marriage: you can come to me when you return and look out for a house then." "So be it," said Conroy. Mrs. Carlyon and Ella returned to Heron Dyke together, Conroy travelling to Nullington with them. Just to make sure that they got down in safety, he observed, laughingly: on the next day, or the next day but one, he should have to go back again. It was with a heavy heart that Ella entered her many-years home. Not much longer would she be able to call it her own: indeed the feeling of its being hers had already left her. In her heart she began to say farewell to all the sweet familiar places that seemed now almost as if they were a part of herself. No whisper had yet gone abroad of any impending changes at the Hall. Neither had the servants been spoken to. It was best to keep the matter quiet until the last moment drew nearer. So long as she remained at the Hall, Miss Winter did not care to become an object of commiseration, or listen to the condolences of the neighbourhood; after she was gone people might talk as they pleased.
61405_741	science fiction	Panshin, Alexei	There was a fetid, unwashed odor that hung about the pens that the misting rain did nothing to dispel. We slipped by the pens, the Losels watching us but making no noise, and came to the stables, which smelled better. Jimmy stood guard while I broke the lock and slipped inside. Ninc was there, good old Nincompoop, and a quick search turned up his saddle as well. I saddled him up and then stood watch while Jimmy picked himself out a horse and gear. I did one last thing before I left. I took out the pencil and paper in my pocket and wrote in _correct_ Inter E, in great big letters: I'M A _GIRL_, YOU STINKER. I hung it on a nail. It may have been childish, but it felt good. We rode from there to Mr. Kutsov's house, still following back alleys. As we rode, I told Jimmy about Mr. Kutsov and what he'd done for me. When we got there, we rode around to the back. "Hold the horses," I said. "I'll slip in and get the packs. They're just inside." We both dismounted and Jimmy took Ninc's reins. I bounded up the steps. Mr. Kutsov was waiting in the dark inside. He said, "I read your note." "Why did you come back?" I asked. He smiled. "It didn't seem right to leave you here by yourself. I be sorry. I think I underestimated you. Be that Jimmy Dentremont outside?" "You're not mad?" "No. I ben't angry. I understand why you couldn't tell me." For some reason, I started crying and couldn't stop. The tears ran down my face. "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm sorry." The front door signal sounded then and Mr. Kutsov answered the door. A green-uniformed policeman stood in the doorway. "Daniel Kutsov?" he asked. Instinctively, I shrank back out of sight of the doorway. I swiped at my face with my sleeve. Mr. Kutsov said, "Yes. What can I do for you." The policeman moved one step inside the house where I could see him again. He said in a flat voice, "I have a warrant for your arrest." * * * * * There was only one light on in the house, in the front room. From the shadows at the rear I watched them both.
30353_40	science fiction	Hernhuter, Albert	It was vital material." "But there are many other such writers. You can't control--" "We control ninety percent of the output. We have concentrated on the field and all of the science-fiction agencies are in our hands. This control was imperative." "I see." The Coroner spoke in the gentle tones one uses with the insane. "Any writing dangerous to your cause is deleted or changed by the agents." "Not exactly. The agent usually persuades the writer to make any such changes, as the agent is considered an authority on what will or will not sell." "The writers always agree?" "Not always. If stubbornness is encountered, the agent merely shelves the manuscript and tells the writer it has been repeatedly rejected." The Coroner glanced at the two policemen. Both were obviously puzzled. They returned the Coroner's look, apparently ready to move on his order. The thin, mirthless smile was still on Cole's lips. Maniacal violence could lie just behind it. Possibly Cole was armed. Better to play for time--try to quiet the madness within. The Coroner continued speaking. "You Martians have infiltrated other fields also?" "Oh, yes. We are in government, industry, education. We are everywhere. We have, of course, concentrated mainly upon the ranks of labor and in the masses of ordinary, everyday people. It is from these sources that we will draw our shock troops when the time comes." "That time will be--?" "Soon, very soon." The Coroner could not forebear a smile. "You find the science-fiction writers more dangerous than the true scientists?" "Oh, yes. The scientific mind tends to reject anything science disproves." There was now a mocking edge to Cole's voice. "Science can easily prove we do not exist." "But the science-fiction writer?" "The danger from the imaginative mind cannot be overestimated." The Coroner knew he must soon order the officers to lay hands upon this madman. He regretted his own lack of experience with such situations. He tried to put a soothing, confidential note into his voice. "You said a moment ago that if you'd had the right kind of weapon to use on Smith--" Cole reached into his pocket and brought out what appeared to be a fountain pen. "This. It kills instantly and leaves no mark whatever. Heart failure is invariably stated as the cause of death." The Coroner felt better.
63613_266	science fiction	Gilbert, Robert E.	he exclaimed. "Henry Morgan loaded his from the other end of the barrel." Drusilla made an unseemly noise with her mouth. "I never thought you were brave, Jak," she jeered. "Why didn't the big hero take that away from the Captain?" "How did I know he didn't have a shell in the chamber? I didn't want you to be hurt--" "Silence!" commanded the pirate. "Male prisoner, prepare to be perforated. Which wall shall we use?" "Outside. I wouldn't want Drusilla to see--" "Yes, outside. We shall spare the fair lady any unpleasantness. Don your armor, male prisoner." "What?" Flim said, "Your spacesuit." He bowed to Drusilla. "Soon, I shall return to claim you, fair lady. Together, we shall approach the speed of light." Drusilla began to pant. Jak pulled his spacesuit from the rack and squirmed into it. "Aren't you going to tell me seelata?" he asked. "Seelata, Jak," Drusilla said absently, her eyes on Flim. Several words, the meaning of which Jak did not know, seeped from his unconscious mind. As they became vocal, Flim glanced at him with an expression--indicative of faint admiration. The pirate said, "Avast, it is the custom. All male prisoners must be deathed unless they join the jolly crew. You wish to join?" Clutching his helmet to his aluminum breast, Jak thrust out his wedge of chin and cried, "Never! I regret having one vitality to give for my planet!" "I salute you," said Flim, and clamped on his helmet. Ger and Looge did likewise; and Jak, with a despairing glance at the entranced Drusilla, sealed his own. Flim adjusted Jak's tuning dial and said, "Hear me?" "Yes." "Men! Follow the prisoner. Forward!" They stepped out on the dark side of the Box, a right quadrangular prism of dull metal. A tube ran through the long axis of the craft with a swivel-mounted Carver Atomicket located at the center of gravity and steering jets slightly forward. By turning the Atomicket, acceleration or deceleration could result without the necessity for rotating the entire plane. Their suits glowing with luminous paint, the four men stood for a moment beneath the starry spectacle. Jupiter, the largest celestial object in sight, appeared as a small belted moon to left.
7132_1284	adventure stories	Hudson, W. H. (William Henry)	For some time I wandered about the wood, and even shouted aloud in the wild hope that the young fiends were not going to carry things so far as to leave me without a horse in that solitary place. Nothing could I see or hear of them, however, and as it was getting late and I wasbecoming desperately hungry and thirsty, I resolved to go in search of some habitation. On emerging from the forest I found the adjacent plain covered with cattle quietly grazing. Any attempt to pass through the herd would have been almost certain death, as these more than half-wild beasts will always take revenge on their master man when they catch him dismounted in the open. As they were coming up from the direction of the river, and were slowly grazing past the wood, I resolved to wait for them to pass on before leaving my concealment. I sat down and tried to be patient, but the brutes were in no hurry, and went on skirting the wood at a snail’s pace. It was about six o’clock before the last stragglers had left, and then I ventured out from my hiding-place, hungry as a wolf and afraid of being overtaken by night before finding any human habitation. I had left the trees half a mile behind me, and was walking hurriedly along towards the valley of the Yí, when, passing over a hillock, I suddenly found myself in sight of a bull resting on the grass and quietly chewing his cud. Unfortunately the brute saw me at the same moment and immediately stood up. He was, I think, about three or four years old, and a bull of that age is even more dangerous than an older one; for he is quite as truculent as the other and far more active. There was no refuge of any kind near, and I knew very well that to attempt to escape by running would only increase my danger, so after gazing at him for a few moments I assumed an easy, unconcerned manner and walked on; but he was not going to be taken in that way, and began to follow me. Then for the first, and I devoutly hope for the last, time in my life I was compelled to resort to the gaucho plan, and, casting myself face downwards on the earth, lay there simulating death. It is a miserable, dangerous expedient, but, in the circumstances I found myself, the only one offering a chance of escape from a very terrible death. In a few moments I heard his heavy tramp, then felt him sniffing me all over.
2546_885	western stories	Mulford, Clarence Edward	Pete had gained his last cover and was all eyes and Colts. Lanky was also very close in and was intently watching one particular rock. Several shots echoed from the far side of the knoll and they knew that Red was all right. Billy was covering a cluster of rocks that protruded above the others and, as they looked, his rifle rang out and the last defender leaped down and disappeared in the chaparral. He wore yellow trousers and an old boiled shirt. “By an’-by, by all that’s bad!” yelled Hopalong. “Th’ measly coyote! An’ me a-fillin’ his ornery hide with liquor. Well, they’ll have to find him all over again now,” he complained, astounded by the revelation. He fired into the chaparral to express his pugnacious disgust and scared out a huge tarantula, which alighted on Skinny’s chaps, crawling rapidly toward the unconscious man’s neck. Hopalong’s face hardened and he slowly covered the insect and fired, driving it into the sand, torn and lifeless. The bullet touched the leathern garment and Skinny remonstrated, knowing that Hopalong was in no condition for fancy shooting. “Huh!” exclaimed Hopalong. “That was a tarantula what I plugged. He was headin’ for yore neck,” he explained, watching the chaparral with apprehension. “Go ‘way, was it? Bully for yu!” exclaimed Skinny, tarantulas being placed at par with rattlesnakes, and he considered that he had been saved from a horrible death. “Thought yu said they wasn’t no bugs over here,” he added in an aggrieved tone. “They wasn’t none. Yu brought ‘em. I only had th’ main show--Gilas, rattlers an’ toads,” he replied, and then added, “Ain’t it cussed hot up here?” “She is. Yu won’t have no cinch ridin’ home with that leg. Yu better take my cayuse--he’s busted more’n yourn,” responded Skinny. “Yore cayuse is at th’ Cross Bar O, yu wall-eyed pirute.” “Shore ‘nuff. Funny how a feller forgets sometimes. Lemme alone now, they’s goin’ to git By-an’-by. Pete an’ Lanky has just went in after him.” That was what had occurred. The two impatient punchers, had grown tired of waiting, and risked what might easily have been death in order to hasten matters.
14532_6496	love stories	Ford, Paul Leicester	It is curious, man's instinctive desire to stand up to and be near the object for which anger is felt. "You've been talking against me in the ward, and makin' them down on me." "No, I didn't talk against you. I've spoken with some of the people about the way you think of voting on the franchises." "Yes. I wasn't round, but a friend heard Dennis and Blunkers a-going over it last night. And it's you did it." "Yes. But you know me well enough to be sure, after my talk with you yesterday, that I wouldn't stop there." "So you try to set the pack on me." "No. I try to see how the ward wants its alderman to vote on the franchises." "Look a-here. What are you so set on the Hummel crowd for?" "I'm not." "Is it because Hummel's a big contractor and gives you lots of law business?" "No," said Peter, smiling. "And you don't think it is, either." "Has they offered you some stock cheap?" "Come, come, Denton. You know the _tu quoque_ do here." Denton shifted in his seat uneasily, not knowing what reply to make. Those two little Latin words had such unlimited powers of concealment in them. He did not know whether _tu quoque_ meant something about votes, an insulting charge, or merely a reply, and feared to make himself ridiculous by his response to them. He was not the first man who has been hampered and floored by his own ignorance. He concluded he must make an entire change of subject to be safe. So he said, "I ain't goin' to be no boss's puppy dog." "No," said Peter, finding it difficult not to smile, "you are not that kind of a man." "I takes my orders from no one." "Denton, no one wants you to vote by order. We elected you alderman to do what was best for the ward and city, as it seems to you. You are responsible for your votes to us, and no other man can be. I don't care who orders you or advises you; in the end, you must vote yourself, and you yourself will be held to account by us." "Yes.
32543_1131	adventure stories	Drayson, Alfred W. (Alfred Wilks)	Why do you go on this expedition?" The three chiefs sat silent for a few minutes, and then the elder said, "We believe the Amakosa. Their chiefs say the white men are not numerous, and are very slow--that in spite of their guns, which are not much use in the bush, the assagy has gained the victory; unless we fight the white man, he will march on and will soon want our country, and we shall be wiped out. We are now bound by promise to fight, so it is no use now thinking any more about it. Besides, the Amakosa tell us that the white men employed to fight are not allowed to fight as they like or could, but are bound up with straps and tight clothes, and are made to wear red blankets round their bodies, so as to be easily seen and therefore easily shot. They have to carry a number of things also, which prevent them from running fast, and tires them when they walk. So an Amakosa warrior feels he is better able to fight than a white soldier, who cannot move through the bush, as the thorns hold him by his clothes; so that he cannot shoot, and is easily assagied." I endeavoured to convince these chiefs that it was no use fighting against the English; but they listened patiently, and then said that, when I left my friends the whites, I was too young to be able to judge correctly of numbers and strength, and that I should see them return with many guns and plenty of cattle. CHAPTER TEN. Nearly all our fighting men had left our country, whilst I remained with the very old men, the young boys and the women. I did not like remaining inactive in this, way, yet I could not have fought against my own people. I felt very dull and lonely; so took my gun and wandered in the bush, following the old elephant-paths, and looking out for a buck or a leopard. Left to myself, I was accustomed to sit in the bush for hours, meditating on my past life, and on my probable future. Lately, a strange longing had come over me to return to civilisation. The novelty of my wild life had worn off, and the Caffres were not the companions to me that they had been when I was younger. Their aims and ambitions were limited. To eat abundance of meat, to possess abundance of cattle, to have four or five wives, was the looked-for happiness of the men.
58155_5192	western stories	Mulford, Clarence Edward	The leveled telescope kept the herd in sight as mile followed mile across the scorched and scorching sand. The sun had passed the meridian only half an hour when the sweeping spyglass revealed no herd, but only a distant ridge of rock, like a tiny island on a stilled sea. "It shore is time," muttered the rider, dismounting. "Seein' as how we're nearly there, I reckon you can have th' last canteen. You shore deserve it, you game old plodder. An' I'm shore glad them rustlin' snakes have their orders to get back _pronto_; but it would just be our luck if that bull-headed trail-boss held a powpow in that valley of theirs. His name's Roberts, bronch; Hugh Roberts, it is. We'll remember his name an' face if he makes us stay out here till night. You an' me have got to get to that water before another sunrise if all th' thieves in th' country are campin' on it--we _got_ to, that's all." An hour passed and then the busy telescope showed a diminutive something moving out past the far end of the distant ridge. Despite the dancing of the heat-distorted image on the object-glass the grim watcher knew it for what it was. Another and another followed it and soon the moving spots strung out against the horizon like a crawling line of grotesque, fantastic insects, silhouetted against the sky. "There they go back to Mesquite to capture Quayle's hotel an' win th' fight," sneered Hopalong. "I could tell 'em somethin' that would send them th' other way--but we'll let 'em ride with Fate; an' get to that water as quick as yore weary legs can take us. Th' herd is there, bronch; all alone, waitin' for us. It's our herd now, if we want it, which we don't. Huh! Mebby they left a guard! All right, then; he's got a big job on his hands. Come on; get a-goin'!" Swinging more and more to the south he soon forsook the windings of the hollows and struck boldly for the eastern end of the valley, and when he reached it he hobbled and picketed the horse, frantic with the heavy scent of water in its crimson, flaring nostrils, and went ahead on foot, the hot Sharp's in his hands full cocked and poised for instant action.
24380_509	science fiction	Von Wald, E. G.	Still, that spore business isn't such a bad--" "Let it go," Spender cut him off with a mixture of irritation and affection. "Somebody told me about it, and so I just passed it on. It isn't as easy as it sounds, because that stuff can kill, and you stand a pretty good chance of making a mistake and catching it yourself." Then he looked up at me and smiled again. "You might as well stick around with us tonight and get drunk, Maise. No place else to go." I hesitated. It was a genuine offer of comradeship, and God knows I wanted it. I had been an outcast among these men too long. So I grinned back at him and slid down into the booth again, pressing the button for another drink. "I'll have one more, but then I think I have some work to do. Got to see a man about something." Korsakov stirred himself. He wasn't as drunk as he seemed, I think. He raised his head and looked at me carefully for a moment, but then he mumbled, "Once in three times. How do you figure it?" * * * * * I left them soon after, located and spoke to Frendon, and then returned to the ship. The following morning at nine thirty Commander Frendon suddenly complained of a fever, and said he was going to the hospital. A couple of hours later, we received notification of his condition from the hospital, and at the same time orders from CINCMARS. Korsakov, eyes still bloodshot from his hangover, took the message out of the scanner and stared at it. Then he wordlessly handed it over to me. I read it. It said that Commander Frendon had contracted the spore disease, but that his condition was satisfactory due to the speedy treatment. He would, however, be confined to the hospital for one month. There was an empty space of three lines, and the orders followed, addressed to Frendon, to prepare to lift off planet in three days and rejoin the Seventh Fleet. Harding, Spender and Korsakov stared at me with awe when I read them the information. Nobody said anything for a full minute. "All right," I snapped finally. "Kors, ship out a quickie to CINCMARS and notify him that we can't join the fleet, because we don't have a captain, and the orders are to him, personally, and not the ship. Something has to be changed.
62768_2188	adventure stories	Roberts, Theodore Goodridge	Louis Balenger’s record was also known to them. CHAPTER IX THE SICK MAN Jim McAllister and Noel fed Sherwood with milk, dosed him with quinine, bathed his hand with a hot solution of boric powder and touched it with iodine, placed hot compresses on his arm and bandaged him generously if not scientifically. He responded encouragingly to the treatment. It was easy to see that the pain in his arm had lessened. For a few hours of the afternoon he appeared to be cooler and felt cooler, lay awake without gabbling and slept without muttering and tossing. Once he recognized Noel Sabattis and spoke to him by name; and Noel patted his head and told him not to worry about anything for everything was going fine. Sherwood was delirious during the night but not to the extent of the night before. In the morning he showed marked improvement, took his bitter dose of quinine as if he knew that it was good for him, drank an egg beaten up in milk, spoke affectionately to the red dogs and then to Jim McAllister, in puzzled tones, with something of recognition and more of fear and suspicion in his eyes. “What are you going to do with me?” he asked. “Take you home, Dick, and get a doctor for you,” replied Jim. “What’s the idea?” “I’m Jim McAllister. I live with my sister and young Ben O’Dell and your little girl—all one family—at O’Dell’s Point. And that’s where Noel and I mean to take you to. That’s the idea. So there’s nothing for you to worry about.” “Where’s Louis Balenger?” “You don’t have to worry about him any more. He’s dead.” “Yes, I remember that. Noel and I buried him. You remember that, Noel? He was dead, wasn’t he?” “Yep, he won’t never move no more,” replied the Maliseet. “Did I shoot him?” asked the sick man. “No, you didn’t,” said Jim sternly. “You weren’t anywheres near him when he was shot; and if you hadn’t been sickening with fever you wouldn’t of run away. Balenger was shot by a man from Quebec and Ben O’Dell is hunting him this very minute.” “Who’s Ben O’Dell?” “He’s John’s son. Now you quit talking and take a rest.” “I was at John’s funeral. You didn’t know it but I was there.
1028_1125	love stories	Brontë, Charlotte	I laughed: a sentiment of exquisite pleasure played over my nerves at the thought that “vives impressions” were likely to be created; it was the deadness, the sameness of life’s daily ongoings that had hitherto been my bane; my blouse-clad “eleves” in the boys’ seminary never stirred in me any “vives impressions” except it might be occasionally some of anger. I broke from M. Pelet, and as I strode down the passage he followed me with one of his laughs--a very French, rakish, mocking sound. Again I stood at the neighbouring door, and soon was re-admitted into the cheerful passage with its clear dove-colour imitation marble walls. I followed the portress, and descending a step, and making a turn, I found myself in a sort of corridor; a side-door opened, Mdlle. Reuter’s little figure, as graceful as it was plump, appeared. I could now see her dress in full daylight; a neat, simple mousseline-laine gown fitted her compact round shape to perfection--delicate little collar and manchettes of lace, trim Parisian brodequins showed her neck, wrists, and feet, to complete advantage; but how grave was her face as she came suddenly upon me! Solicitude and business were in her eye--on her forehead; she looked almost stern. Her “Bon jour, monsieur,” was quite polite, but so orderly, so commonplace, it spread directly a cool, damp towel over my “vives impressions.” The servant turned back when her mistress appeared, and I walked slowly along the corridor, side by side with Mdlle. Reuter. “Monsieur will give a lesson in the first class to-day,” said she; “dictation or reading will perhaps be the best thing to begin with, for those are the easiest forms of communicating instruction in a foreign language; and, at the first, a master naturally feels a little unsettled.” She was quite right, as I had found from experience; it only remained for me to acquiesce. We proceeded now in silence. The corridor terminated in a hall, large, lofty, and square; a glass door on one side showed within a long narrow refectory, with tables, an armoire, and two lamps; it was empty; large glass doors, in front, opened on the playground and garden; a broad staircase ascended spirally on the opposite side; the remaining wall showed a pair of great folding-doors, now closed, and admitting, doubtless, to the classes. Mdlle.
41010_3109	love stories	Willard, Kate Livingston	" The woman confused by her hurried orders, and embarrassed by the unusual duty of waiting upon the door, grew very red in the face, as she answered bluntly: "She says she won't see yer, sir." Farr stared blankly at her. "What? Oh, I think you must be mistaken. Just take my message up to Miss Jean, please." In her hiding-place Miss Stuart clutched tightly at the folds of her gown, and a look of desperation burned in her eyes. But her fears were unfounded. The woman's thickset figure barred the doorway, and she stood her ground stolidly. "It ain't no use, sir. She told me herself she pertick'ly wouldn't see you, sir." Farr's face went very white, and without another syllable he turned on his heel and strode away. "Sure I didn't say it just the same way yer told me, Miss," the woman said apologetically, as Miss Stuart opened the backdoor and confronted her, "but I sent him away for yer, well enough, I guess," and grinning broadly, she lifted her hamper, and proceeded heavily up the stairs. A moment later Miss Stuart quietly followed her, congratulating herself on the wonderful success of her maneuver. "It was a master-stroke," she said to herself triumphantly, as she closed the door of her room. "Susie will never know that he called, for I don't believe that stupid creature will mention the occurrence. Ah, how fortunate Mrs. Dennis's room is at the rear of the house," and she flung herself down on the lounge and closed her eyes wearily, for the excitement had worn upon her. At the same moment, Aunt Helen's door softly shut, and Jean, her face full of glad expectancy, ran lightly down the stairs. More than an hour later she crept slowly up again, all the joy gone out of her blanched face, her sensitive lips quivering piteously; despair and misery in her eyes. The following morning the _Vortex_ sailed. Captain Dodd and Dudley had called at the manor the evening before, and in the merry little party speculations were rife as to the cause of Farr's desertion, on this his last evening in Hetherford. Jean forced herself to sit quietly by and listen, and her heart grew numb and cold. Outwardly, however, her manner was so natural and self-possessed that Helen drew a deep breath of relief, and persuaded herself that Jean could not be so very unhappy.
45973_1196	detective and mystery stories	Newcomb, Ambrose	" "Well, I have; and if you'll think back some you'll remember just _one_ occasion in the bargain--both of us remarked it as a queer kind of a voice--particularly for a big, bold fellow, who scorned to show a sign of weakness even when hemmed in, and taken prisoner by a couple of fresh Secret Service detectives, belonging to the Flying Corps." The effect of these words on Perk was electrical--he started as though he had been shot, stared hard at his companion, then grinned broadly, and gave vent to his feelings in a suppressed _roar_--as near as he dared under such sensitive conditions. "Well, well, well--hot-diggetty-dig! what a blind loon I am, not to 've s'pected that same! Yeou mean that boob was no other than Slippery Slim hisself, the Ole Scratch we're runnin' after right at this minute, doant yeou, partner mine? Glory be! what a great chanct we lost o' fillin' aout aour job in the start--why, we could aturned back to the ship, gone aboard, an' cut loose at two miles a minute fur the home airport, with _him_ safely bagged." "On the other hand, Perk, we might have given ourselves away, and let him slip out of our hands; when it would be ten times as hard to capture him as if he didn't dream we were around this district. Depend on it this is all for the best--we'll imitate the hungry wolf, and lie in ambush until such time as we can pounce down on Slim, and carry him off unbeknown to the balance of the gang." "Yeah! I kinder guess that's 'baout the ticket, partner; but it gives me a bad case o' the willies jest to think haow close we was, an' let 'em skip aout. Gee! I'm in a cold sweat, drat the luck!" "While I was listening to his coarse language, and hard rasping laugh," Jack went on to say, softly; "do you know what came into my mind--a picture of that cottage in the suburb of San Diego, where we took that clever little lad we managed to keep from falling into the jaws of the mad dog." "I've thought o' the same many times since we left town," Perk declared, in a sincere tone that bespoke his feelings in the matter.
40520_1074	science fiction	Thorne, Guy	Of course, he can't really know what _love_ is, like a younger man or a man who has not made his mark in the world. He can't feel what I feel, for instance. And so he bows to the inevitable, and in the kindest and most chivalrous way wants to make every one happy. Charliewood! It's just like a story-book!" "I don't read 'em myself much, the papers do for me. But, 'pon my soul, since you put it in that way, so it is." Mr. Charliewood quite forgot to add what sort of story-book. Even the most popular novels of to-day don't always have the traditional happy ending. "Sit down, old fellow," Charliewood said with great kindness. "You mustn't miss this chicken, it is a rather special dish, and I'm going to ring for William." "Oh, hang chicken!" Rathbone answered, his face glowing. "Never abuse your dinner," Charliewood answered. "Only people who are not able to dine do that. You never know when you may dine again." As he said this the wicked exhilaration at having successfully played with sure and dexterous fingers upon this young and impressionable nature flowed over the older man. An evil joy in his own powers came to him--a devilish satisfaction in his knowledge of the horrid future. For a moment the Tenant who had lately taken up his abode within Mr. Eustace Charliewood was looking out of his host's eye. Rathbone laughed carelessly. Then, after the waiter had once more entered and left the room, he bent over the table and began to speak more earnestly. "I suspect," he said, "that I owe you a great deal in this matter, Charliewood, more than you would care to confess. Now tell me, don't I?" Charliewood waved his hand. "Oh, we won't go into that part of the question," he said. "But there's just one thing I would like to say. Your feeling in the matter has been quite splendid, Rathbone. I admire you for the way you have felt and spoken since you have been telling me about your engagement, from first to last. Such a lot of men would have congratulated themselves upon winning the girl away from the other fellow without a thought of what the other fellow would feel.
32704_2750	western stories	Rhodes, Eugene Manlove	The pipestem was long of necessity; with a short stem Mr. Gwinne had certainly set that beard alight. It was a magnificent beard, such as you may not see in these degenerate days. Nor did you see many such in those degenerate days, for that matter. It was long and thick and wide and all that a beard should be; it reached from his two big ears to below the fifth rib. It was silky and wavy and curly, and--alas for poor human nature!--it was kempt and kept--an Assyrian beard. Yet Mr. George Gwinne was, of all the sons of man, unlikeliest to be the victim of vanity. His beard was a dusty red brown, the thick poll of hair on his big square head was dusky red brown, lightly sprinkled with frost, his big eyes were reddish brown; and Argive Helen might have envied his brows, perfect brows in any other setting; merely comic here--no, no, "tragic" is the word, since all else about the man was coarse of grain and fiber, uncouth and repulsive. His hands were big and awkward, and they swung from arms disproportionately long; his feet were big and flat, his body was big and gross, he was deep-chested and round-shouldered, his neck was a bull's neck, his ears were big and red, his head was big and coarse and square, his face was gnarled where it was not forested, his chance-seen lips were big and coarse, his nose was a monstrous beak, his voice was a hoarse deep rumble. And somewhere behind that rough husk dwelt a knightly soul, kindly and tender and sensitive--one of that glorious company, "who plotted to be worthy of the world." He had friends--yes, and they held him high--but seeming and report held him pachyderm, and they trod upon his heart. Only to a few have time and chance shown a glimpse of the sad and lonely spirit behind those tired eyes--and they have walked softlier all their days for it. This is not his story; but there will be a heavy reckoning when George Gwinne's account goes to audit. Mr. Gwinne's gaze rested benignantly on a sleeping man; a young and smallish man, very different from Mr. Gwinne in every respect, sprightly and debonair, even in sleep, with careless grace in every line of him, just as he had thrown himself upon the bunk. He had removed hat and boots by way of preparation for bed, and his vest served for a pillow.
1260_1376	love stories	Brontë, Charlotte	I had had no communication by letter or message with the outer world: school-rules, school-duties, school-habits and notions, and voices, and faces, and phrases, and costumes, and preferences, and antipathies--such was what I knew of existence. And now I felt that it was not enough; I tired of the routine of eight years in one afternoon. I desired liberty; for liberty I gasped; for liberty I uttered a prayer; it seemed scattered on the wind then faintly blowing. I abandoned it and framed a humbler supplication; for change, stimulus: that petition, too, seemed swept off into vague space: "Then," I cried, half desperate, "grant me at least a new servitude!" Here a bell, ringing the hour of supper, called me downstairs. I was not free to resume the interrupted chain of my reflections till bedtime: even then a teacher who occupied the same room with me kept me from the subject to which I longed to recur, by a prolonged effusion of small talk. How I wished sleep would silence her. It seemed as if, could I but go back to the idea which had last entered my mind as I stood at the window, some inventive suggestion would rise for my relief. Miss Gryce snored at last; she was a heavy Welshwoman, and till now her habitual nasal strains had never been regarded by me in any other light than as a nuisance; to-night I hailed the first deep notes with satisfaction; I was debarrassed of interruption; my half-effaced thought instantly revived. "A new servitude! There is something in that," I soliloquised (mentally, be it understood; I did not talk aloud), "I know there is, because it does not sound too sweet; it is not like such words as Liberty, Excitement, Enjoyment: delightful sounds truly; but no more than sounds for me; and so hollow and fleeting that it is mere waste of time to listen to them. But Servitude! That must be matter of fact. Any one may serve: I have served here eight years; now all I want is to serve elsewhere. Can I not get so much of my own will? Is not the thing feasible? Yes--yes--the end is not so difficult; if I had only a brain active enough to ferret out the means of attaining it.
54012_1943	love stories	Hubback, Mrs. (Catherine-Anne Austen)	It was because I could not bear a blot on your fair fame—you whom I love so very much: dear Emma—you who are so kind, so good-natured, will you not love me!" "Lord Osborne," said she with profound gravity, "cease I beg; this species of conversation becomes neither your station nor mine. If I own myself obliged by your exertions for my sake, do not annul the obligation by words which never should have been spoken. Let me go!" But he stood before her, and would not let her pass; whilst saying in a low, deep voice, "You must misunderstand me, Miss Watson, or you would not speak thus. Have I not as much right as any one, to love what is fair and excellent—if I am plain and awkward myself, can that make my love an insult—and you—are you not deserving to be loved, worshipped, idolised by every man who comes near you. Have you not everything that I want—everything that would grace a far higher title, a much larger fortune than mine. But because I have none of these things is that any reason I should not admire, and love them, or offer my coronet to one who would so well become it. It is yours if you will but accept it; hand, fortune, title, everything—do give me an answer." But before Emma could find voice to answer, or arrange her ideas, they were startled by a scream from the ball-room—the music stopped completely, and a sudden stillness for a moment prevailed, seeming awful by the contrast to what preceded: then came a murmur, like a hundred whispers in one, which seemed to gather and increase. Emma had started up at the scream, and now stood suspended, with a beating heart and unsteady breath. "What can be the matter," said he, "shall I go and see—sit down, do not alarm yourself." She really was obliged to seat herself, for she could not stand; he went a few steps, where he was met by Sir William. "For Heaven's sake Osborne come here and send off all these people, your sister is in a fit, and I am almost as bad from horror." "What in the world is the matter," cried he, struck by the agitated tone and look of his brother-in-law.
65383_1557	detective and mystery stories	Wallace, Edgar	“Don’t be ridiculous.” Trenter’s voice lacked confidence. “I wish you wasn’t--weren’t going away,” she sobbed. “I’ve got the creeps. That window man will do something. The moment I saw him I said ‘that man’s a villain,’ didn’t I, cook?” “You did. You said ‘I’m sure there’s something wrong about that man,’” agreed cook. As for Gordon Selsbury, he went to bed at ten. At one o’clock he was pacing his room. At three he went down to The Study and started the percolator working. Whilst the coffee was in process of making, he opened the safe and took out the fifty thousand dollars, counted them and put them back. The safe looked very fragile, he thought. Once this wretched trip was over he would attend to the matter. The house was not difficult to burgle. The big, stained-glass window--an enterprising craftsman with a penknife could get in.... In a corner of the room flush with the window was a small door, hidden behind a curtain. This led to the courtyard and was never used. As to its design, and what purpose it was intended to serve, only the builder and original owner of the house might testify. His name was Gugglewaite, he had been three times divorced, and was at the moment in heaven--or his well-edited epitaph lied. Gordon went upstairs for his pass-key, opened the door and stepped out into the “garden.” It was very dark and still, and the wet wind smelt sweet and fresh. Across the yard was a door that gave to a small side passage. The wall was high, but no obstacle to an active burglar. He shivered and went in again to his coffee and a returning serenity induced by the fire he had kindled and the comfort of his surroundings. He would have gladly given a thousand--ten thousand--to cancel his fool adventure; to remain here with ... well, with Diana. He told himself this with a certain defiance as though one half of a dual personality were challenging the other. Diana was really a dear. He wished he had been a little more loyal to her and had talked less about Dempsi ... a boy and girl affair and perfectly understandable. On Dempsi, his identity, his appearance, he mused till the light began to show in a ghostly fashion behind the painted window. There was no thrill in the secrecy, the plotting, the wile within wile.
14334_2093	western stories	Bower, B. M.	She might have jumped out and escaped while I was down opening the gate--but she didn't. She sat quite still, as if we were only out on a commonplace little jaunt. I wondered if she didn't have the spirit of adventure in her make-up, also. Girls do, sometimes. When I had got in again, I turned to her, remembering something. "Gadzooks, madam! I command you not to scream," I quoted sternly. At that, for the first time in our acquaintance, she laughed; such a delicious, rollicky little laugh that I felt ready, at the sound, to face a dozen fathers and they all old Kings. As we came chugging up to the house, several faces appeared in the doorway as if to welcome and scold the runaway. I saw old King with his pipe in his mouth; and there were Aunt Lodema and Weaver. They were all smiling at the escapade--Beryl's escapade, that is--and I don't think they realized just at first who I was, or that I was in any sense a menace to their peace of mind. When we came opposite and showed no disposition to stop, or even to slow up, I saw the smiles freeze to amazement, and then--but I hadn't the time to look. Old King yelled something, but by that time we were skidding around the first shed, where Shylock had been shot down on my last trip through there. It was a new shed, I observed mechanically as we went by. I heard much shouting as we disappeared, but by that time we were almost through the gantlet. I made the last turn on two wheels, and scudded away up the open trail of the pass. CHAPTER XVI. One More Race. A faint toot-toot warned from behind. "They've got out the other car," said Beryl, a bit tremulously; and added, "it's a much bigger one than this." I let her out all I dared for the road we were traveling; and then there we were, at that blessed gate. I hadn't thought of it till we were almost upon it, but it didn't take much thought; there was only one thing to do, and I did it. I caught Beryl by an arm and pulled her down to the floor of the car, not taking my eyes from the trail, or speaking. Then I drove the car forward like a cannon-ball.
30189_175	science fiction	Ellanby, Boyd	I know. You t'ink it is impossible. You t'ink the talking is faked. So I t'ought too. But vait." It seems Dworken had inquired among the audience as to who owned the performing animals. The local Martians were not as impressed as he was with the performance, but they guided him to the proprietor of the trained animal act. He was a young Martian, hawk-nosed, with flashing black eyes, dusky skin, and curly hair. "So I say to him, dis Martian," Dworken continued, "'If your act on the level is, I buy.' I had three small diamonds with," he explained. "But de Martian was hard to deal wit'. First, he said he vould not sell his so-valuable and so-beloved animals. De only talking animals on Mars, he said--de liar! At long last I get him to make a price. But, on condition dat he bring ze animals around to my inn in the morning, for a private audition." "I suppose," I interrupted, "you were beginning to have some doubts as to the Martian's good faith? After all, a talking _tllooll_ and a talking _shiyooch'iid_ all at one time is quite a lot to ask. I would have--" "Blease, vriend, blease!" interrupted my companion. "Do you not t'ink old Dworken knows dese things? Of course he does! I t'ink. De owner, he is pulling a fake, I guess. I know dat animals do not really talk. "Next morning, I t'ink he no show up. But no, I am mistaken. Bromptly at nine o'clock he come to my inn with a little dogcart, wit' de animals. He puts dem on de stage in de bar of de inn. They act like before." "But they didn't talk, of course?" "Oh, my vriend, dat's where you are wrong. Dey talk like nobotty's business. De jokes are funnier than ever. Even dirtier, maybe. But Dworken is not fooled. He t'ink. 'Aha!' I say to de Martian, 'You fake this, what? De animals not talk. Suppose you have them do de act while you outside stay, what?' Then I t'ink I have him. "Ze Martian tear his curly hair, flash his black eyes. He takes insult that I t'ink he is fake. 'Name of de Martian gods!' he cry.
4515_620	western stories	Curwood, James Oliver	Rather it was the study of one filled with doubt and uneasiness, and confronted by a question which he could not answer. There was not a line of the face which Philip could not see now--its high cheek-bones, its wide cheeks, the low forehead, the flat nose, the thick lips. Only the eyes kept it from being a terrible face. Straight down through the generations Bram must have inherited those eyes from some woman of the past. They were strange things in that wild and hunted creature's face--gray eyes, large, beautiful. With the face taken away they would have been wonderful. For a full minute not a sound passed between the two men. Philip's hand had slipped to the butt of his revolver, but he had no intention of using it. Then he found his voice. It seemed the most natural thing in the world that he should say what he did. "Hello, Bram!" "Boo-joo, m'sieu!" Only Bram's thick lips moved. His voice was low and guttural. Almost instantly his head disappeared from the opening. Philip dug himself quickly from his sleeping-bag. Through the aperture there came to him now another sound, the yearning whine of beasts. He could not hear Bram. In spite of the confidence which his first look at Bram had given him he felt a sudden shiver run up his spine as he faced the end of the tunnel on his hands and knees, his revolver in his hand. What a rat in a trap he would be if Bram loosed his wolves! What sport for the pack--and perhaps for the master himself! He could kill two or three--and that would be all. They would be in on him like a whirlwind, diving through his snow walls as easily as a swimmer might cut through water. Had he twice made a fool of himself? Should he have winged Bram Johnson, three times a murderer, in place of offering him a greeting? He began crawling toward the opening, and again he heard the snarl and whine of the beasts. The sound seemed some distance away. He reached the end of the tunnel and peered out through the "door" he had made in the crust. From his position he could see nothing--nothing but the endless sweep of the Barren and his old trail leading up to the snow dune. The muzzle of his revolver was at the aperture when he heard Bram's voice. "M'sieu--ze revolv'--ze knife--or I mus' keel yon.
2950_963	adventure stories	Fleming, May Agnes	I'm sure I don't. I never go near it myself; but there are others who have, and some of them tell of the most beautiful lady, all in white, with long, black hair, who walks on the battlements moonlight nights.” “A beautiful lady, all in white, with long, black hair! Why, that description applies to Leoline exactly.” And Sir Norman gave a violent start, and arose to proceed to the place directly. “Don't you go near it, sir!” said the host, warningly. “Others have gone, as he told you, and never come back; for these be dreadful times, and men do as they please. Between the plague and their wickedness, the Lord only knows what will become of us!” “If I should return here for my horse in an hour or two, I suppose I can get him?” sad Sir Norman, as he turned toward the door. “It's likely you can, sir, if I'm not dead by that time,” said the landlord, as he sank down again, groaning dismally, with his chin between his hands. The night was now profoundly dark; but Sir Norman knew the road and ruin well, and, drawing his sword, walked resolutely on. The distance between it and the ruin was trifling, and in less than ten minutes it loomed up before him, a mass of deeper black in the blackness. No white vision floated on the broken battlements this night, as Sir Norman looked wistfully up at them; but neither was there any ungainly dwarf, with two-edged sword, guarding the ruined entrance; and Sir Norman passed unmolested in. He sought the spiral staircase which La Masque had spoken of, and, passing carefully from one ancient chamber to another, stumbling over piles of rubbish and stones as he went, he reached it at last. Descending gingerly its tortuous steepness, he found himself in the mouldering vaults, and, as he trod them, his ear was greeted by the sound of faint and far-off music. Proceeding farther, he heard distinctly, mingled with it, a murmur of voices and laughter, and, through the chinks in the broken flags, he perceived a few faint rays of light.
31922_82	science fiction	Causey, James	A net saving of 93 cents per unit, or eight hundred dollars total. I believe you planned this item, Charlie." Vogel fired him. That same afternoon Amenth came into the office on Vogel's order. "Sir?" "Don't you know how to read a traveler?" Vogel asked sternly. "It was a lucky accident." Amenth looked terrified. "I just read the print--" "And did what seemed logical." Statement, then a very quiet question. "What happened to your accent?" The little man looked blank. Vogel took a slow deep breath. "I've got a material planning job open," he said tightly. "Three-fifty to start. Interested?" For a moment he thought Amenth would lick his hand. The little man took to planning sheets like a duck to water. He pored feverishly over blueprints, turning out travelers in a steady flood. Vogel watched him. He went over to Personnel, requested Amenth's employment application, read it and scowled. It was a masterpiece of anonymity. Birthplace: New York. Former Occupation: Laborer. Hobbies: None. He memorized Amenth's address and returned the application. Vogel always ate lunch in the office with his expediters. That noon two of them got into an argument about the planets. "I say there is life on Mars," Pete Stone insisted stubbornly. "When the polar ice cap melts, the water runs along the canals and traces of green from growing vegetation can be spotted." "Which proves nothing," Harvey Lamb yawned. Lamb was chief expediter. "Man couldn't live there, anyway. There's not enough oxygen." "You would be amazed," Amenth said quietly, "at the adaptability of Man." Vogel set down his thermos and leaned forward. "You mean Martians, for instance, could live here, assuming they existed and had spaceships?" Amenth's smile was infinitely bitter. "Until they'd go mad." The talk turned to baseball. Vogel lit his pipe and gave Amenth a surreptitious glance. The little man slumped in the corner, bleak and withdrawn. This was delicious. * * * * * Vogel left the shop and drove across town to Amenth's address. It turned out to be an ancient rooming house on the West Side. Mrs. Reardon, the landlady, was an apathetic woman who brightened when he asked her about Amenth. "He moved in just three weeks ago." Her face softened in recollection.
2695_169	western stories	Harte, Bret	“Ez well ez enny critter marked by the finger of the Lord with gallopin' consumption kin be, I reckon. And she, ez oughter be putting off airthly vanities, askin' for a lookin'-glass! And you! trapesin' through the hall with her on yer shoulder, and dancin' and jouncin' her up and down ez if it was a ball-room!” A guilty recollection that he had skipped with her through the passage struck him with remorse as his aunt went on: “It's a mercy that betwixt you and the wet bar-skin she ain't got her deth!” “Don't ye think, aunty,” stammered Jeff, “that--that--my bein' the landlord, yer know, it would be the square thing--just out o' respect, ye know--for me to drop in thar and ask 'em if thar's anythin' they wanted?” His aunt stopped, and resignedly put down the pillows. “Sarah,” she said meekly to the handmaiden, “ye kin leave go that mattress. Yer's Mr. Jefferson thinks we ain't good enough to make the beds for them two city women folks, and he allows he'll do it himself!” “No, no! aunty!” began the horrified Jeff; but failing to placate his injured relative, took safety in flight. Once safe in his own room his eye fell on the bear-skin. It certainly WAS wet. Perhaps he had been careless--perhaps he had imperiled her life! His cheeks flushed as he threw it hastily in the corner. Something fell from it to the floor. Jeff picked it up and held it to the light. It was a small, a very small, lady's slipper. Holding it within the palm of his hand as if it had been some delicate flower which the pressure of a finger might crush, he strode to the door, but stopped. Should he give it to his aunt? Even if she overlooked this evident proof of HIS carelessness, what would she think of the young lady's? Ought he--seductive thought!--go downstairs again, knock at the door, and give it to its fair owner, with the apology he was longing to make? Then he remembered that he had but a few moments before been dismissed from the room very much as if he were the original proprietor of the skin he had taken. Perhaps they were right; perhaps he WAS only a foolish clumsy animal!
25875_4033	detective and mystery stories	Footner, Hulbert	" "By God! English words!" cried Stonor, astounded. "Go to her! Go to her!" cried Clare, urging him with her hands. On the other hand, Mary, falling to her knees, clung to him, fairly gibbering in the extremity of her terror. Stonor was suspicious, yet every instinct of manliness drew him towards these cries. Under that pull it was impossible to think clearly. He shook Mary off, and started to run. He took three steps and pulled himself up short. "Look at Imbrie," he muttered. "Strange he hasn't wakened." It was true the prisoner still lay motionless, entirely covered with his blanket. "It's a trick!" said Stonor. "There could be no English woman near here. It's a trick to draw me out of camp!" "But none of the Kakisas could speak English," said Clare. "I don't know," muttered Stonor, in an agony of indecision. "My first duty is here. Look at Mary. She thinks it's a trick." Mary was lying on the ground, muttering a Kakisa word over and over. "What is it?" Stonor harshly demanded. "Spirits!" she gasped. Stonor turned away, flinging his arms up. "Good God! Ghosts again!" he cried, in exasperation. The dreadful cries were raised again. "Help! Help! He's killing me!" "I can't stand it!" cried Clare. "I must go myself!" "Stay where you are!" commanded Stonor. "It is too strange a thing to happen so close to our camp if it was not staged for our benefit!" Just the same, it was not easy for him to hold himself. When the cries were raised again a deep groan was forced from him: "If I only had another man!" "Go! Mary and I will be all right!" said Clare. "Don' go! Don' go!" wailed Mary from the ground. Stonor shouted into the darkness. "Come this way! Help is here!" The cries were redoubled. Imbrie suddenly awoke, and rolled clear of his blanket. "What's that?" he cried, with an admirable assumption of surprise. "A woman's voice! A white woman! Why don't you go to her?" It was a little too well done; Stonor felt partly reassured. Imbrie appeared to be struggling desperately in his bonds.
29479_6759	western stories	Cullum, Ridgwell	" It was almost dusk. The men had settled down to their evening's occupations. Tresler and Joe were standing alone in the shadow of the bunkhouse wall. The lamp was lit within the building, and the glow from the window, which was quite near them, darkened the prospect still further. However, Tresler still could see the foreman, an indistinct shadow in the growing darkness. Leaving his companion without further remark he hurried after the disappearing man and took up his position near the barn, whence he could both see and hear what might be going forward. Jake reached the door of the stable and knocked on it in a forceful and peremptory manner. CHAPTER XX BY THE LIGHT OF THE LAMP Impelled by curiosity and nervous anticipation Tresler did not long remain in the shelter of the barn. It was too dark to see distinctly all that way off, so he closed up on the object of his watch. He intended to miss nothing of what was happening, so he crept out into the open, quite careless of the chances of being discovered at his undignified occupation. And all the time he was a prey to unpleasant foreboding; that unaccountable foreboding so truly prophetic, which refuses to be shaken off. He knew that disaster was in the air as surely as if it had all happened, and there was nothing left for him but to gaze impotently upon the ruin. He had a certain amount of reason for his fears, of course, but that reason was largely speculative, and, had he been asked to state definitely what he anticipated, on whom disaster was to fall, he could not have answered with any real conviction. Something prompted him that Jake was to be the central figure, the prime mover. But beyond that his ideas were vague. The man's very summons at the door was a positive aggravation, and suggested possibilities. An answer came with the abrupt opening of the stable door, which revealed the lithe figure of the dusky half-breed, framed in a setting of dingy yellow light from the lantern within. He could see the insolent, upward stare of the man's eyes as he looked up into the great man's face; nor at that moment could he help thinking of all he had heard of "Tough" McCulloch. And the recollection brought him a further feeling of uneasiness for the man who had thus come to beard him in his own den. But even while these thoughts passed swiftly through his brain the bullying, hectoring tones of Jake's voice came to him.
7031_3155	love stories	Hull, E. M. (Edith Maude)	that is too big a thing to break down over a difference of opinion. You are a French nobleman, and I----!" He gave a little bitter laugh. "I am an uncivilised Arab. We cannot see things in the same way." "You could, but you will not, Ahmed," replied the Vicomte, with an accent of regret. "It is not worthy of you." He paused and then looked up again with a little crooked smile and a shrug of defeat. "Nothing can ever make any difference with us, Ahmed. I can disagree with you, but I can't wipe out the recollection of the last twenty years." A few minutes later the Sheik left him and went out into the night. He traversed the short distance between the tents slowly, stopping to speak to a sentry, and then pausing outside his own tent to look up at the stars. The Persian hound that always slept across the entrance uncurled himself and got up, thrusting a wet nose into his hand. The Sheik fondled the huge creature absently, stroking the dog's shaggy head mechanically, hardly conscious of what he was doing. A great restlessness that was utterly foreign to his nature had taken possession of him. He had been aware of it growing within him for some time, becoming stronger daily, and now the coming of Raoul de Saint Hubert seemed to have put the crowning touch to a state of mind that he was unable to understand. He had never been given to thinking of himself, or criticising or analysing his passing whims and fancies. All his life he had taken what he wanted; nothing on which he had ever laid eyes of desire had been denied him. His wealth had brought him everything he had ever wished. His passionate temper had been characteristic even when he was a child, but these strange fits of unreasonable irritability were new, and he searched for a cause vainly. His keen eyes looked through the darkness towards the south. Was it the nearness of his hereditary enemy, who had presumed to come closer than he had ever done before to the border of the country that Ahmed Ben Hassan regarded as his own, that was causing this great unrest? He laughed contemptuously. Nothing would give him greater pleasure than coming into actual collision with the man whom he had been trained from boyhood to hate.
11229_683	science fiction	Shiel, M. P. (Matthew Phipps)	Whatever it was, we did not care: we slept deep. We were within ten miles of the Pole. * * * * * In my sleep it was as though someone suddenly shook my shoulder with urgent '_Up! up_!' It was neither Clark nor Mew, but a dream merely: for Clark and Mew, when I started up, I saw lying still in their sleeping-bag. I suppose it must have been about noon. I sat staring a minute, and my first numb thought was somehow this: that the Countess Clodagh had prayed me 'Be first'--for her. Wondrous little now cared I for the Countess Clodagh in her far unreal world of warmth--precious little for the fortune which she coveted: millions on millions of fortunes lay unregarded around me. But that thought, _Be first!_ was deeply suggested in my brain, as if whispered there. Instinctively, brutishly, as the Gadarean swine rushed down a steep place, I, rubbing my daft eyes, arose. The first thing which my mind opened to perceive was that, while the tempest was less strong, the ice was now in extraordinary agitation. I looked abroad upon a vast plain, stretched out to a circular, but waving horizon, and varied by many hillocks, boulders, and sparkling meteor-stones that everywhere tinselled the blinding white, some big as houses, most small as limbs. And this great plain was now rearranging itself in a widespread drama of havoc, withdrawing in ravines like mutual backing curtsies, then surging to clap together in passionate mountain-peaks, else jostling like the Symplegades, fluent and inconstant as billows of the sea, grinding itself, piling itself, pouring itself in cataracts of powdered ice, while here and there I saw the meteor-stones leap spasmodically, in dusts and heaps, like geysers or spurting froths in a steamer's wake, a tremendous uproar, meantime, filling all the air. As I stood, I plunged and staggered, and I found the dogs sprawling, with whimperings, on the heaving floor. I did not care. Instinctively, daftly, brutishly, I harnessed ten of them to my sledge; put on Canadian snow-shoes: and was away northward--alone. The sun shone with a clear, benign, but heatless shining: a ghostly, remote, yet quite limpid light, which seemed designed for the lighting of other planets and systems, and to strike here by happy chance. A great wind from the S.W., meantime, sent thin snow-sweepings flying northward past me.
66030_1719	adventure stories	Gould, Nat	You have picked a good guide in Yacka. What that black chap knows is beyond credit. He’s never said where he came from, but if I’m a judge it is somewhere in the region of the MacDonnell Ranges. There are some powerful savage tribes over there, and I’d advise you to steer clear of them, that is, if you get so far; but you are a precious long way from there, you bet.’ ‘I do not know where we are going,’ said Edgar; ‘but Yacka has made great promises, and if he fulfils them there will be something to talk about when we return.’ Yacka, with some show of reluctance, agreed to Will Brown accompanying them. He yielded when Edgar said he would not go without Will, for the black was determined Edgar should undertake the journey. The night before their departure they had a great ‘send off,’ all hands coming into the homestead for the occasion. The general opinion seemed to be that Edgar and Will were about to follow Yacka purely for the sake of adventure, and the good fellows thought all the better of them for their pluck and spirit. Ben Brody had given each of them a good horse, and they had the pick of the best guns on the station. Will Henton gave them a revolver each, expressing the hope that they would clear the country of a few blacks. ‘I hope we shall not have to use them for any such purpose,’ said Edgar; ‘but if it comes to a fight we shall be all there.’ ‘You are going on a fool’s errand,’ said Harry Noke; ‘much better remain where you are. I would not trust Yacka, or any other blackfellow. It’s like enough he’ll lead you into danger out of pure devilment.’ ‘You are wrong,’ said Jim Lee; ‘Yacka’s square.’ ‘Jim’s right,’ said Brody. ‘You’re riled, Harry, because you have not pluck enough to go with them. As it is the last night, we must have Yacka in and give him a drink.’ Ben Brody went into the veranda and gave a peculiar whistle, which sounded shrilly on the still night air. In a few minutes Yacka appeared. ‘That’s fetched him,’ said Will Henton; ‘Brody’s a wonder at all sorts of signals. I believe he’s a different call for every man on the place.’ ‘Have a drink, Yacka,’ said Ben Brody.
14532_5424	love stories	Ford, Paul Leicester	Ray said to himself, "Peter has some awfully knotty point on hand, and is resting the brain tissue for a moment." Ray had noticed, when Peter interrupted him during office hours, on matters not relating to business, that he had a big or complex question in hand. Peter closed the door and went back to his room. Then he took a fifth sheet of paper, and wrote: "WATTS: A day's thought has brought a change of feeling on my part. Neither can be the better for alienation or unkind thoughts. I regret already my attitude of yesterday. Let us cancel all that has happened since our college days, and put aside as if it had never occurred. "PETER" Just as he had finished this, his door opened softly. 'Peter did not hear it, but took the letter up and read it slowly. "Boo!" Peter did not jump at the Boo. He looked up very calmly, but the moment he looked up, jump he did. He jumped so that he was shaking hands before the impetus was lost. "This is the nicest kind of a surprise," he said. "Bother you, you phlegmatic old cow," cried a merry voice. "Here we have spent ten minutes palavering your boy, in order to make him let us surprise you, and then when we spring it on you, you don't budge. Wasn't it shabby treatment, Dot?" "You've disappointed us awfully, Mr. Stirling." Peter was shaking hands more deliberately with Leonore than he had with Watts. He had been rather clever in shaking hands with him first, so that he need not hurry himself over the second. So he had a very nice moment--all too short--while Leonore's hand lay in his. He said, in order to prolong the moment, without making it too marked, "It will take something more frightful than you, Miss D'Alloi, to make me jump." Then Peter was sorry he had said it, for Leonore dropped her eyes. "Now, old man, give an account of yourself." Watts was speaking jauntily, but not quite as easily as he usually did. "Here Leonore and I waited all last evening, and you never came. So she insisted that we come this morning." "I don't understand?" Peter was looking at Leonore as if she had made the remark. Leonore was calmly examining Peter's room.
20714_2553	western stories	Garland, Hamlin	I'm getting started in great shape. Been up to the court-house and roped in three of the county officials. In these small towns the big man is the politician or the clergyman. I've nailed the politicians through the ear; now you must go for the ministers to head the list--that's your lay-out." "How 'm I t' do it?" asked Bert, in an anxious tone. "I can't sell books if they don't want 'em." "Why, cert! That's the trick. Offer a big discount. Say full calf, two fifty; morocco, two ninety. Regular discount to the clergy, ye know. Oh, they're on to that little racket--no trouble. If you can get a few of these leaders of the flock, the rest will follow like lambs to the slaughter. Tra-la-la--who-o-o-_ish_, whish!" Albert laughed at Hartley as he plunged his face into the ice-cold water, puffing and wheezing. "Jeemimy Crickets! but ain't that water cold! I worked Rock River this way last month, and made a boomin' success. If you take hold here in the--" "Oh, I'm all ready to stand anything short of being kicked out." "No danger of that if you're a real book agent. It's the snide that gets kicked. You've got t' have some savvy in this, just like any other business." He stopped in his dressing to say, "We've struck a great boarding-place, hey?" "Looks like it." "I begin t' cotton to the old lady a'ready. Good 'eal like mother used t' be 'fore she broke down. Didn't the old lady have a time of it raisin' me? Phewee! Patient! Job wasn't a patchin'. But the test is goin' t' come on the biscuit; if her biscuit comes up t' mother's I'm hern till death." He broke off to comb his hair, a very nice bit of work in his case. II There was no discernible reason why the little town should have been called Tyre, and yet its name was as characteristically American as its architecture. It had the usual main street lined with low brick or wooden stores--a street which developed into a road running back up a wide, sandy valley away from the river.
17844_761	western stories	Lillibridge, Will	"You wish to know--what did you say, Ben?" The boy repeated the question. For a minute, and then another, Rankin said nothing; then he knocked the ashes from the bowl of his brier and laid it upon the table. "Never mind now why they wouldn't, son." He arose heavily and drew off his coat. "You'll find out for yourself quickly enough--too quickly, my boy. Now go to sleep." CHAPTER V THE EXOTICS Some men acquire involuntary prominence by being democratic amid aristocratic surroundings. Others, on the contrary, but with the same result, continue to live the life to which they were born, even when placed amid surroundings that make their actions all but grotesque. An example of this latter class was Scotty Baker, whose ranch, as the wild goose flies, was thirteen miles west of the Box R. Scotty was a very English Englishman, with an inborn love of fine horse-flesh and a guileless nature. Some years before he had fallen into the hands of a promoter, and had bartered a goodly proportion of his worldly belongings for a horse-ranch in Dakota, to be taken possession of immediately. Long indeed was the wail which went up from his home in Sussex when the fact was made known. Neighbors were fluent in denunciation, relatives insistent in expostulation; his wife, and in sympathy their baby daughter, copious in the argument of tears; but the die was irrevocably cast. Go he would,--not from voluntary stubbornness, but because he must. The actual departure of the Bakers was much like the sailing of Columbus. Probably not one of the friends who saw them off for their new home expected ever to see the family again. Indians they were confident were rampant, and frantic for scalps. Should any by a miracle escape the savages, the tremendous herds of buffalo, running amuck, here and there, could not fail to trample the survivors into the dust of the prairie. By comparison, war was a benignant prospect; and sighs mingled until the sound was as the wailing of winds. Scotty was very cheerful through it all, very encouraging even in the face of incontestibly unfavorable evidence, until, with the few remnants of civilization they had brought with them, the family arrived at the wind-beaten terminus, a hundred miles from his newly acquired property. Then for the first time he wilted.
11229_2532	science fiction	Shiel, M. P. (Matthew Phipps)	But _they_ hated and schemed, because they were very numerous, and there arose a question among them of dates and wine.' 'Was there not, then, enough land to grow dates and wine for all?' 'There was--yes: much more than enough, I fancy. But some got hold of a vast lot of it, and as the rest felt the pinch of scarcity, there arose, naturally, a pretty state of things--including the vices and crimes.' 'Ah, but then,' says she, 'it was not to their bad souls that the vices and climes were due, but only to this question of land. It is certain that if there had been no such question, there would have been no vices and climes, because you and I, who are just like them, do no vices and climes here, where there is no such question.' The clear limelight of her intelligence! She wriggled on her seat in her effort of argument. 'I am not going to argue the matter,' I said. 'There _was_ that question of dates and wine, you see. And there always must be on an earth where millions of men, with varying degrees of cunning, reside.' 'Oh, not at all necessalily!' she cries with conviction: 'not at all, at all: since there are much more dates and wine than are enough for all. If there should spling up more men now, having the whole wisdom, science, and expelience of the past at their hand, and they made an allangement among themselves that the first man who tlied to take more than he could work for should be killed, and sent to dleam a nonsense-dleam, the question could never again alise!' 'It arose before--it would arise again.' 'But no! I can guess clearly how it alose before: it alose thlough the sheer carelessness of the first men. The land was at first so vely, vely much more than enough for all, that the men did not take the tlouble to make an allangement among themselves; and afterwards the habit of carelessness was confirmed; till at last the vely oliginal carelessness must have got to have the look of an allangement; and so the stleam which began in a little long ended in a big long, the long glowing more and more fixed and fatal as the stleam lolled further flom the source. I see it clearly, can't you?
59012_1864	adventure stories	Hemyng, Bracebridge	“I do. I am determined.” Harry looked amazed. He urged Jack most earnestly to change his mind. But Jack would hear to nothing of the sort. Once his mind was made up to do a certain thing, there was no turning him from his purpose. Harry was too well aware of this to waste much time over the matter. “If you are resolved to go then I am going too,” he declared. “That’s all right,” said Jack. “We’ll both go. You’ll find that I am entirely correct; we’ll be back in no time, and then we’ll move the Catamaran beyond the fog belt and go on our way rejoicing.” “Better tell Clara or Mole or somebody that you are going.” “No, no! There’s no need of disturbing them! We’ll push right along and have something definite to tell them when we get back.” So they launched the boat and pulled away. Jack felt great confidence in the Arab captain, and it was well founded. There are a few Arabs who are honest, and Jack had found one. The captain was a man to be depended upon in every way. He instructed Jack to blow a small ivory whistle which he usually carried, every few moments, and he would whistle in return. The arrangement worked well. The signals were given and answered, but they did not get out of the fog. On the contrary, it seemed to grow thicker as they advanced. “Come,” said Harry, at last; “this won’t do. We really must get back.” “Just a little farther, dear boy,” replied Jack. “I am sure it is growing lighter.” The words were scarcely spoken when a dark, black mass loomed up before them, and the keel of the boat grated on the sand. “Well, by Jove!” cried Harry, “you were right! Here we are on the Arabian shore, hard and fast.” “That’s what it is,” said Jack. “Shall we go back, or shall we make a landing and find out what we’ve struck?” “Let’s go ashore first, if it is only for a minute or two. That seems to be a hill; perhaps if we could get to the top we might see something to the eastward; it certainly does look lighter over there now.”
42800_1577	western stories	Clay, John Wood	Slowly the hand of Guinea descended from before his lips and in unison with it descended the head of Fred until his eyes just cleared the top of the bar. Guinea’s hand rested in the sagging waist of his trousers, a second, two— The roar of the explosion was deafening. Guinea Mike’s right shoulder went into retirement and his gun dropped from his nerveless fingers. Screaming with rage he stooped to grasp it with his left hand and pitched forward at full length, both knee-caps shattered, at the mercy of this stranger who shot as if at a mark. The noise awakened Cheyenne Charley who opened his eyes and smiled foolishly at the distorted face which had so unexpectedly reached his level. "D—n drunk," he observed, and immediately went to sleep again. Tex walked over and kicked the gun across the floor. Irish Mike picked it up and handed it to Fred. "I could a’ killed you just as easy as I didn’t, Guinea," said Tex. "I don’t like you an’ yore ways. It’s just a notion. So don’t you stop. An’ don’t send any o’ yore friends. ’No Guineas need apply.’ That goes, if I has to Garibaldi yore whole d—n country." The spectators had filed back to the room and were engaged in audible comments on the justification and accuracy of the shooting, while they busied themselves in the rough surgery which had to serve. To the suggestion that he ought to be taken to the doctor at Wayback, Fred interposed the objection: "No, dake him to Nell’s. Mike is a friend mit her." Pop Snow, attracted by the excitement, stood peering in a window. Twin River crowded the room but Pop’s resentment was still warm. A man rode up and stooped from the saddle to look over his shoulder. "Who ’s that? What’s up?" he asked. "’T aint nothin’; _only_ Guinea Mike. See th’ feller Fanny ’s hangin’ onto? Well, that’s him: Comin’ Thirty has notions—an’ I ain’t never seen better shootin’." Dave swung down, tied his pony to the rail and went inside to see the new bad-man of Twin River.
41010_2510	love stories	Willard, Kate Livingston	They were abreast of the other couple now, and Farr halted. Miss Stuart's speech had quite escaped him, absorbed as he was in watching Jean, so he was entirely unprepared for her reception of him. As he spoke her name she flashed a light impenetrable smile at him, and then deliberately turned away, and he heard her say gayly to the man at her side: "Mr. Maynard, that waltz is divine. Don't let us miss another bar of it." And Maynard answered softly: "Your wish is my law, Miss Jean." Then the crowd surged between them, and with a somewhat unreasonable bitterness in his heart Farr blindly followed Miss Stuart to a secluded corner of the veranda. Jean's treatment of him was inexplicable. It seemed so much easier for things to go wrong than right that he felt it was well-nigh useless to struggle against the inevitable. Disappointed and dispirited he paid but small heed to his beautiful companion, who was exerting her rare tact and diplomacy to please and divert him. In the ensuing hour, Jean, all unsuspecting of the truth, was amply avenged. Never before had it come home to Lillian Stuart, with such convincing force, that against Farr's love for this young girl she was utterly powerless. In vain love taught her a new unselfishness, a womanly gentleness quite strange to her; in vain did she crush down the rising storm of jealousy within her breast. Farr saw none of these things, cared for her not at all. He sought her society because she made so few demands upon him and accepted his varying moods unquestioningly. If he thought on the subject at all he explained her kindness to him by the fact that he was possibly more in touch with her world than anyone else in Hetherford. The subtle charm of her personality which she had ever found so potent was quite lost on this man whose love she had once possessed, and had valued so lightly. Hope was dead in her heart, but one weapon of revenge--Jean's evident jealousy--lay within her grasp, and this she wielded with unerring skill. The music ceased, and soon the veranda was invaded by a host of flushed and heated dancers, and among their number Jean, with Maynard still at her side. There was a new elasticity in her step, a new light in her eyes, and she was flirting quite openly and markedly with her companion.
19330_1387	western stories	King, Charles	Then, as though impatient, Plume shouted "All right. Go on!" The Concord whirled away, and something like a sigh of relief went up from assembled Sandy, as the first kiss of the rising sun lighted on the bald pate of Squaw Peak, huge sentinel of the valley, looming from the darkness and shadows and the mists of the shallow stream that slept in many a silent pool along its massive, rocky base. With but a few hurried, embarrassed words, Clarice Plume had said adieu to Sandy, thinking never to see it again. They stood and watched her past the one unlighted house, the northernmost along the row. They knew not that Mr. Blakely was at the moment bidding adieu to others in far humbler station. They only noted that, even at the last, he was not there to wave a good-by to the woman who had once so influenced his life. Slowly then the little group dissolved and drifted away. She had gone unchallenged of any authority, though the fate of Mullins still hung in the balance. Obviously, then, it was not she whom Byrne's report had implicated, if indeed that report had named anybody. There had been no occasion for a coroner and jury. There would have been neither coroner nor jury to serve, had they been called for. Camp Sandy stood in a little world of its own, the only civil functionary within forty miles being a ranchman, dwelling seven miles down stream, who held some Territorial warrant as a justice of the peace. But Norah Shaughnessy, from the gable window of the Trumans' quarters, shook a hard-clinching Irish fist and showered malediction after the swiftly speeding ambulance. "Wan 'o ye," she sobbed, "dealt Pat Mullins a coward and cruel blow, and I'll know which, as soon as ever that poor bye can spake the truth." She would have said it to that hated Frenchwoman herself, had not mother and mistress both forbade her leaving the room until the Plumes were gone. Three trunks had been stacked up and secured on the hanging rack at the rear of the Concord. Others, with certain chests and boxes, had been loaded into one big wagon and sent ahead. The ambulance, with the Dalys and the little escort of seven horsemen, awaited the rest of the convoy on the northward flats, and the cloud of their combined dust hung long on the scarred flanks as the first rays of the rising sun came gilding the rocks at Boulder Point, and what was left of the garrison at Sandy turned out for reveille.
47368_93	detective and mystery stories	Beeman, Herbert	"Come in," he said. The door opened slowly, and a strange figure appeared before our astonished eyes. It was a small boy, hardly reaching to the handle of the door, and his little cap was covered with snow. "Ah, ha!" said Keys, in his most impressive manner, "you have just come in from outside." At the evidence of such uncanny powers of deduction the little creature started to run away. "Don’t be frightened, my little man. I knew it from the coagulated moisture collected on your cap, but little boys must learn to be polite. Lift your lid." He did so, scattering the Christmas largesse all over our priceless Bokhara rug. "Now come over here and tell its your troubles," said Keys kindly. In the genial warmth of the roaring fire, his damp clothes steaming like a hot toddy—a strange concoction of the ancient Romans—his little lips lisped a tale of a strangeness such as had surely never been told before, unless I may be allowed to except some stories of mine which have been published by the well-known firm of Brown & Younger. "Please sir, I writted a letter to Mr. Sandy Claws Esq., to bring me a hairy-plain for Christmas all painted red all over, and the Post-Offis they sent the letter back and says as how they carn’t find ’im. I knowed you could find anybody, so I come to you." "Quite right, my little man," and Keys’ keen eyes gleamed with professional pride. "You go straight home to bed and to sleep, and I will see that Mr. Santa Claus calls and you will find the red aeroplane when you wake up in the morning." Quite satisfied the diminutive client departed, and Keys picked up the comb again—I found I had an important engagement and departed also. It was close on one o’clock in the morning when I returned, and Keys was still sitting before the fire. With unusual geniality he got up and held out his hand. "Merry Christmas, Whenson." We shook hands. Feeling something sticky, I looked at my right hand, and saw some red paint on it, and then I noticed some white fluff adhering to the front of his coat.
39865_2113	love stories	Clifford, W. K., Mrs.	"Let's go for a little stroll; but I'm not going to hang about any one's grave. It'll be bad enough when I come to my own." XV The letters from Mr. Vincent were not satisfactory. His brother was no better, but the end was not likely to be immediate. A specialist from Melbourne had even said that he might go on for another year. Mrs. Vincent's heart sank as she read it. She was a strange woman, with a wide outlook, and knew perfectly that time, which had dealt heavily with her, had tempered the years to her husband; there were days when he looked almost like a young man still, and in secret she fretted over her age. She knew, too, though no such thought had ever entered his head, that it was a little hard on him that he should be tied to a woman older than himself, incapable of giving him the companionship that insensibly he needed. She had not felt well lately, and found vague consolation in the possibility to which this pointed. But she wanted to see him again, even for a little while, then she could be content. Those about her guessed nothing of all this: to them it only seemed that she had grown more silent and dreamy than before. Margaret heard of her father's probably protracted absence with despair. Something must happen, she thought; she herself must get out of the way, or Mr. Garratt must become engaged to Hannah. For matters had in no way improved. A sort of struggle was going on. On Margaret's side it was to keep out of his sight, on his to speak to her alone for some uninterrupted minutes; but as yet success had attended neither of them, and his attitude towards Hannah remained what it always had been. Once or twice Margaret had an idea of boldly seeking an interview, and then telling him that his attentions were simply making her miserable, of even throwing herself on his mercy; but something in his manner suggested that Mr. Garratt knew everything already, except the impossibility of his own success. Meanwhile the fifty pounds, that her father had arranged she should receive every quarter, arrived for the second time. "You are sure that you want me to have it, mother?" she asked. "Yes, Margey. I told your father that I wished it." "I feel as if I am rolling in wealth," she said.
50317_692	love stories	Hamilton, Cosmo	You and I always seem to have a great deal to talk about, don’t we?" Franklin knew that she was pulling his leg. Hitherto, during their occasional meetings, their conversation had been more or less monosyllabic. He felt tempted to say that he preferred driving to talking to women, but held his peace. There would perhaps be plenty of opportunities of getting his own back. They passed a double line of men-servants and went into the large hall together. Mrs. Keene gave one quick glance round and, imitating a rabbit which hears the approach of enemy, scuttled across to the elaborate staircase and hurried away. Mrs. Vanderdyke,—a very finished, rather too tall, insistently slight woman who never raised her voice and seldom laughed and seemed to be continually watching herself in a mental looking-glass,—met them. Her dark hair was dressed as carefully as a salad. Her perfectly correct and well-balanced face was as well painted as the cover of a magazine, and without any undue compression she wore a white frock which might have been made for a girl of twenty-four. She gave her left hand to Beatrix and placed a mere suggestion of a kiss on her left ear. "So you’ve come," she said. Her right hand she gave to Franklin, to whom she added, "You are very welcome." "Thanks," said Franklin. "I’m delighted to be here." And then Miss Honoria Vanderdyke sailed forward. With her white hair, thin, thoroughbred face, rather frail, tall figure and old-fashioned dress she might have stepped out of one of Jane Austen’s books. Without any attempt to act the part, she looked every inch the great lady and stood frankly and proudly for all that was best of the generation which is scoffingly referred to as mid-Victorian. She, too, gave Beatrix a perfunctory greeting and the merest peck on the cheek, and turned with the utmost graciousness to Franklin. "I’m very glad to see you," she said. "Your father and I were old friends. I hope that we may know each other better." Franklin bowed over her hand. In all his travels he had rarely seen a woman who so well lived up to his ideas of dignity and beauty grown old gracefully. "Thank you very much," he said. "You’re very kind.
35425_968	science fiction	Leinster, Murray	The slow-dropping, sodden rain kept on. It fell with irregular, drumlike beats upon the tough top of the toadstool under which he had taken refuge. Slowly, slowly, the sodden rainfall continued. Drop by drop, all the night long, the warm pellets of liquid came from the sky. They boomed upon the hollow heads of the toadstools, and splashed into the steaming pools that lay festering all over the fungus-covered earth. And all the night long the great fires grew and spread in the mass of already half-carbonized mushroom. The flare at the horizon grew brighter and nearer. Burl, naked and hiding beneath a huge mushroom, watched it grow near him with wide eyes, wondering what this thing was. He had never seen a flame before. The overhanging clouds were brightened by the flames. Over a stretch at least a dozen miles in length and from half a mile to three miles across, seething furnaces sent columns of dense smoke up to the roof of clouds, luminous from the glow below them, and spreading out and forming an intermediate layer below the cloudbanks. It was like the glow of all the many lights of a vast city thrown against the sky--but the last great city had moulded into fungus-covered rubbish thirty thousand years before. Like the flitting of airplanes above a populous city, too, was the flitting of fascinated creatures above the glow. * * * * * Moths and great flying beetles, gigantic gnats and midges grown huge with the passing of time, they fluttered and danced the dance of death above the flames. As the fire grew nearer to Burl, he could see them. Colossal, delicately formed creatures swooped above the strange blaze. Moths with their riotously colored wings of thirty-foot spread beat the air with mighty strokes, and their huge eyes glowed like carbuncles as they stared with the frenzied gaze of intoxicated devotees into the glowing flames below them. Burl saw a great peacock moth soaring above the burning mushroom hills. Its wings were all of forty feet across, and fluttered like gigantic sails as the moth gazed down at the flaming furnace below. The separate flames had united, now, and a single sheet of white-hot burning stuff spread across the country for miles, sending up its clouds of smoke, in which and through which the fascinated creatures flew. Feathery antennae of the finest lace spread out before the head of the peacock moth, and its body was softest, richest velvet.
37102_2315	adventure stories	Marshall, Bernard Gay	Thou may’st ride through my lands at will for his capture—or we may chance upon him in the wood. How may we know him?” Lord Gilroy smiled, but in a hard, grim way he hath that is more menacing than any frown. “’Tis easy knowing him. He wears an iron collar, like all my thralls, bearing his own name and mine in graven letters. It makes the hunting of them far easier when they have done some violence, or if they attempt to fly from my lands. But give you good day, messieurs! We must fare on. If so be you get sight of him, a cross-bow quarrel would not be amiss if he stop not on order. And if you take and send him to me, I will be much beholden. Our thralls must be kept well in leash, e’en if that leash be on occasion a hangman’s knot. Come Philip, ride to the left, I pray thee, while I follow this path through yonder thicket.” Cedric and I walked on, talking of this bloody mischief, and of the chances of the thrall’s recapture. Somehow the brightness had gone from the sun glints, and the woodland seemed no longer a forest enchanted where nymphs and elves might dance away from hollowed tree or the gray-haired wizard, Merwin, be seen upon a mossy rock, summoning by magic spells a troop of Arthur’s chivalry. “’Tis true this fellow must be taken,” said Cedric, sadly, “for such as he make up the outlaw bands that now and again give trouble sore to honest men. But I know not for the life of me why men that are born and die upon this green earth like any others, and that have as good a wish to live unhampered as you and I, should wear upon their necks collars of iron that mark them forever as slaves and bondmen. I have little wonder that such at times break forth with violence. Nay! I have the more that ever they remain quiet like oxen in a paddock awaiting the plowman’s yoke.” Cedric had stopped short in the path and was facing me. Upon his broad and comely face was the same stern look he had worn that day he withstood my father in the matter of the churls at De Lancey Manor. “Why, God ha’ mercy, Cedric!” I protested, “I see no need for all this heat. These thralls have never known other condition; and ’tis like they live the more in comfort for a master’s guidance.”
59428_1904	detective and mystery stories	Hecht, Ben	and I asked her to marry me. She had told me about her father. She was worried over him and she had complained of a headache.” Simple lies, establishing nothing. De Medici glanced at his hands. Would they ask him about the blood on his fingers? Q. “Do you think that Mr. Ballau committed suicide, from what you saw that night?” A. “No.” Q. “Then it is your opinion that Mr. Ballau was murdered?” A. “Yes.” De Medici waited while the coroner made notes with a pencil. Curious that he should make notes at that moment. And why had they asked him for his opinion? They had asked none of the others. Norton again. Yes, it was Norton. The coroner with his pompous words and heavy manner was a blind. It was the reddish-faced man beside him who was operating the web ... spinning it out carefully and invisibly. Well, he would cross weapons with the man. “I must find out what the fellow is,” mused De Medici behind the attentive poise of his face. Q. “Have you any idea from your observations, Mr. De Medici, by whom the dead man was murdered?” A. “Not yet.” Q. “You were present with Lieutenant Norton in the library when the first examination was made?” A. “I was.” Q. “What time did you arrive at the Ballau apartment?” A. “I don’t recall the exact time.” Q. “Did Miss Ballau have her hat on when she came out of the elevator as you entered the lobby?” A. “No.” Q. “How was she dressed?” Then they knew about the costume! A. “I don’t remember. I failed to notice.” Q. “What gave you the impression that murder had been committed?” A. “It was obvious. The room was in disorder.” Q. “You discussed the case at the time with Lieutenant Norton?” A. “Yes. I am aware of his theory.” De Medici surprised a look of amusement in the detective’s face. An irritation came into his nerves. Yes, they were playing, peering out amusedly from behind concealed evidence. “May I speak openly?” De Medici inquired. He had leaned forward in his chair. He caught a nod from the lieutenant. The coroner answered: “Yes. Go on and tell us in your own way what you believe happened.
65345_3704	detective and mystery stories	Taylor, Bert Leston	We shall have racing enough before we get to Cuba without challenging unsuspicious warships and courting investigation.” Van Zandt laughs at the Cuban gentleman’s anxious tones. “I told you, my friend, that once on the high seas nothing short of a cannon ball can overhaul the Semiramis. Come on deck in an hour, senor, and I will prove to you what may now seem an idle boast.” For excellent reasons Manada is keeping in the background as much as possible. But he finds the luxurious cabin of the Semiramis much to his liking, and he smokes and dreams of “Cuba Libre” while the Semiramis steams down the bay and out upon the bosom of the Atlantic, and when he goes on deck, wrapped in the long semi-military cloak which effectually conceals his person, the sight which greets his eyes fills him with apprehension, though challenging his liveliest interest. The battle of steam is well under way. The America is less than a dozen lengths astern and presents a beautiful sight to the people on the Semiramis. The glistening white hull plows the water at a speed which dashes the spray high in air from the delicately carved cut-water, and the triple funnels vomit great clouds of inky smoke. Manada’s eyes rove to the United States flag whipping out in the breeze and he mutters a favorite malediction as he thinks of the insurgent arms stored in the hold of the Semiramis. But as he grows aware that the yacht of his strange friend is drawing away from the American man-of-war he becomes the incarnation of suppressed excitement. And when Van Zandt claps him on the shoulder and shouts in his ear, “Well, senor, what do you think of the Semiramis?” the Cuban shouts back enthusiastically: “El Semiramis es un diablo verdadero!” Without the change of a muscle in his weather-beaten face, Capt. Sam Beals paces the bridge of the Semiramis, while the exciting duel of steam and steel continues, not a gesture or ejaculation indicating that the beautiful yacht is literally steaming away from the cruiser—a vessel heralded far and wide as the speediest craft among all the navies of the world. But if the chief officer is apparently undisturbed, the same cannot be said of any other person on board.
50939_2040	western stories	Turner, William Oliver	"They go up there," Charlie grunted. "_Halo chako._ Wait. Watch. By and by one go 'way. Come down here someplace. One stay." Tesno squinted thoughtfully up at the butte. "You get a look at 'em, Charlie?" "Damn right. Jim Palma. _Cultus_ no good son-of-a-gun." "You know 'em?" "Know one," Charley said with stubborn serenity. "Jim Palma. Stomp Umatilla boy down to Selah, one-two year ago. Boy die. Don't know other one." Rejack came trotting through the trees and demanded to know what was going on. "Maybe we ought to back the thing down, lash it to that cedar," he said when Tesno had explained. Tesno considered this, then shook his head. "Go ahead with the haul. Let them make their try. Just be sure those boys with the wheel block are on their toes. If--" A rifle shot rang out from the butte, not much louder than a finger snap, and a ricochet screamed its weird song above them. "Damn fool," Rejack muttered. "He's giving us a warning. I don't get it." The rifle cracked again, and now a horse whinnied, plunged in his harness, went down. "My god," Rejack gasped. "He's shooting at the horses!" He dashed out of the woods, waving his arms and yelling to get the team to cover. As he did so, another shot sounded, and another horse plunged and went down. Tesno studied the butte, estimating that its top was at least six hundred yards away. Even at that range, it didn't take an expert to hit a twenty-horse team. As he watched, a man stepped into sight at the very brink of the cliff, fired a quick shot which hit nothing, and disappeared into brush and scrub timber. "Jim Palma," Muckamuck Charlie grunted. "He didn't have to show himself," Tesno muttered. He began to understand the plan now. Another shot rang out. A horse screamed and started to buck, a brilliant red streak across his rump. Rejack barked orders and waved his arms as teamsters jumped around frantically, trying to quiet down the horses and unhook the harness of those that were down. The men who had been posted on the wagon tongue to steer now were streaking up the slope to help with the animals.
30189_39	science fiction	Ellanby, Boyd	Dis time it is show business. You remember, how I haf always been by de t'eater so fascinated? Well, I decided to open a show here in Luna City. T'ink of all the travelers, bored stiff by space and de emptiness thereof, who pass through here during the season. Even if only half of them go to my show, it cannot fail." I waited for some mention of free tickets, but none was made. I was about as anxious to see Dworken's show as I was to walk barefoot across the Mare Imbrium, but I asked with what enthusiasm I could force, "What sort of act are you putting on? Girls?" I shuddered as I recalled the pathetic shop-worn chorus girls that Sam Low had tried to pass off last year on the gullible tourists of the spaceways. That show had lasted ten nights--nine more than it deserved to. There are limits, even to the gullibility of Earth-lubbers. "Yes, girls," replied Dworken. "But not what you are perhaps t'inking. Martian girls." * * * * * This was more interesting. Even if the girls were now a little too old for the stage in the Martian capital, they would still get loud cheers on the Moon. I knew. I started to say so, but Dworken interrupted. "And not de miserable girls dey buy from de slave traders in Behastin. Dese girls I collected myself, from de country along de Upper Canal." I repressed my impulse to show my curiosity. It could all be perfectly true--and if it were not the opening night would tell. But it sounded a lot like one of Dworken's taller tales. I had never been able to disprove any one of them, but I found it a _little_ hard to believe that so many improbable things had ever happened to one man. However, I like being entertained, if it doesn't cost me too much, so finally I said, "I suppose you are going to tell me you ventured out into the interior of Mars, carrying a six weeks' supply of water and oxygen on your back, and visited the Xo theaters on the spot?" "How did you know? Dat is just what I did," solemnly affirmed my companion. He snorted again, and looked at his glass. It was empty, but he tilted it into his face again in an eloquent gesture. No words were needed: I punched the symbols for _shchikh_ into the drinkboard on my side of the table.
45236_1216	adventure stories	Vandercook, Margaret	As if she were a Major-General, having issued her command Miss Patricia, followed by Sally Ashton, departed. A few moments later the others went down into the street together, but separated beyond the bridge. Mrs. Burton, Yvonne, Peggy and Mary drove away in one direction, while the other girls, climbing into an ancient horse cab, moved off toward one of the poorer neighborhoods of the city. Half an hour they drove through the narrow, winding streets of the Latin quarter, the three American girls fascinated by the unique scenes, which were a matter of course to Marguerite Arnot, who had spent years of her life in this vicinity. Along the route were numerous small art shops filled with posters, some of them continuing to represent war and others the approach of peace. The posters were painted in bold, crude colors, or else in pastels. The figures were sometimes bizarre and sometimes beautiful, but always they were unusual, since the French artist has an unusual gift for poster work. At one of the small art shops, Bettina insisted that they dismount for a few moments. She had spied a poster in the window which she wished to purchase for Mrs. Burton. Oddly the figure of the woman, although symbolizing France, was not unlike Mrs. Burton. The drawing represented a woman dark and slender, with a small head and heavy black hair, with delicate and large, expressive eyes. In the drawing the woman had gathered into her arms the children of France. Above the woman and children, seated at a small table, were a group of men who were supposed to be writing the terms of a new world peace. The idea of the poster undoubtedly was that no matter what the peace terms might be, France would continue to protect her children. It was entitled “Glorious France.” Beyond this art shop, a few blocks further on, Marguerite Arnot ordered the cab to stop before a house where lived the friends to whom she was to introduce the three American girls. Bettina stopped to pay the cabman, who was the typical French cab driver in a tall battered silk hat, the girl drivers having nearly all disappeared soon after the signing of the armistice. The other girls went on and stood at the door talking to the concierge. Instead of joining them at once, Bettina stood hesitating at the edge of the sidewalk. Never before had she beheld such a street, or such a house as they were about to enter! The street was narrow and dark, the house had a grey, poverty stricken look and was curiously forbidding.
30680_202	science fiction	Olin, Richard	"Hey," he said to Jory as he lit a cigarette, "Harrigan over in the tool room told me that you write stories. That right?" "Yeah. But I don't have as much time for it as I once did." "You ought to stay home nights like I do. Then you'd have time." Ernie paused and added piously, "It makes you sharper on the job, too." Jory started to laugh but caught it in time. He worked on the line next to Ernie, and had witnessed the foul-up this morning. He said, "What do you do until bedtime? Watch TV?" "Every night. Boxing is good on Fridays. Monday night ain't so hot. Wednesday, tonight, will be good. Lots of Westerns. "You ought to try it. Come to think of it you look sort of tired. You shouldn't go out drinking week nights." Jory shrugged. "Maybe I will try it. What are your favorite programs?" Ernie told him. "Say," Ernie asked, "do you make any money writing stories?" "Once in awhile. If I sell the story I'm working on now, I think I'll lay off for a couple of months and get a cabin down in Mexico. The fishing will be good at Vera Cruz--" He stopped and frowned. "No. I guess I won't. I can't." "Why can't you?" "Something I forgot. Never mind." "No," Ernie persisted, "you were saying--" "Forget it." "Oh, I get it. You're afraid to lay off because they might not hire you back?" "Nuts. There's always some place that is hiring. You'd be surprised at some of the jobs I've had, Ernie." He grinned. "As far as that goes, I might get laid off here before I want to go." "What makes you say that?" "Look around you. How many men are working today?" * * * * * Now that his attention was called to it, Ernie glanced around the cafeteria. Normally, it was packed during the lunch hour. Today, it was less than three-quarters full. "So? Some of the guys are out sick, that's all." "There won't be much work this afternoon. We got most of it out this morning.
5270_1060	detective and mystery stories	Reeve, Arthur B. (Arthur Benjamin)	"I'm tired, Walter," he said. "Furthermore, I think this picture world of yours is a bedlam. We face a hard task." "How do you propose to go about things?" I asked. "I'm afraid this is a case which will have to be approached entirely through psychological reactions. You and I will have to become familiar with the studio and home life of all the long list of possible suspects. I shall analyze the body fluids of the deceased and learn the cause of death, and I will find out what it is on the towel, but"--sighing--"there are so many different ramifications, so many--" Suddenly his eye caught the corner of a piece of paper slid under the glass of Manton's desk. He pulled it out; then handed it to me. MEMORANDUM FOR MR. MANTON Have learned Enid Faye is out of Pentangle and can be engaged for about twelve hundred if you act quickly. Why not cancel Lamar contract after "Black Terror," if she continues up-stage? WERNER. "I caught the name Lamar," Kennedy explained. Then an expression of gratification crept into his face. "Miss Lamar was 'up-stage'?" he mused. "That's a theatrical word for cussedness, isn't it?" I paid little attention. The name of Enid Faye had attracted my own interest. This was the little dare-devil who had breezed into the Pacific Coast film colony and had swept everything before her. Not only had she displayed amazing nerve for her sex and size, but she had been pretty and beautifully formed, had been as much at home in a ballroom as in an Annette Kellermann bathing suit. In less than six months she had learned to act and had been brought to the Eastern studios of Pentangle. Now it was possible that she would be captured by Manton, would be blazoned all over the country by that gentleman, would become another star of his making. "Let's go, Walter!" Kennedy, impatient, rose. I noticed that he folded the little note, slipping it into his pocket. Out in the hall voices came to us from Werner's office. After some little hesitation Kennedy opened the door unceremoniously. At the table, littered with blue prints and drawings and colored plates of famous home interiors, was the director. With him was Manton. Seated facing them, in rare good humor, was a fascinating little lady. The promoter rose. "Professor Kennedy, I want you to meet Miss Enid Faye, one of our real comers.
9609_1241	adventure stories	Fielding, Henry	It is such wretched half-begotten, half-writ, lifeless, spiritless, low, grovelling stuff, that I almost pity the actor who is obliged to get it by heart, which must be almost as difficult to remember as words in a language you don't understand."--"I am sure," said the player, "if the sentences have little meaning when they are writ, when they are spoken they have less. I know scarce one who ever lays an emphasis right, and much less adapts his action to his character. I have seen a tender lover in an attitude of fighting with his mistress, and a brave hero suing to his enemy with his sword in his hand. I don't care to abuse my profession, but rot me if in my heart I am not inclined to the poet's side."--"It is rather generous in you than just," said the poet; "and, though I hate to speak ill of any person's production--nay, I never do it, nor will--but yet, to do justice to the actors, what could Booth or Betterton have made of such horrible stuff as Fenton's Mariamne, Frowd's Philotas, or Mallet's Eurydice; or those low, dirty, last-dying-speeches, which a fellow in the city of Wapping, your Dillo or Lillo, what was his name, called tragedies?"--"Very well," says the player; "and pray what do you think of such fellows as Quin and Delane, or that face-making puppy young Cibber, that ill-looked dog Macklin, or that saucy slut Mrs Clive? What work would they make with your Shakespears, Otways, and Lees? How would those harmonious lines of the last come from their tongues?-- "'--No more; for I disdain All pomp when thou art by: far be the noise Of kings and crowns from us, whose gentle souls Our kinder fates have steer'd another way. Free as the forest birds we'll pair together, Without rememb'ring who our fathers were: Fly to the arbors, grots, and flow'ry meads; There in soft murmurs interchange our souls; Together drink the crystal of the stream, Or taste the yellow fruit which autumn yields, And, when the golden evening calls us home, Wing to our downy nests, and sleep till morn.' "Or how would this disdain of Otway-- "'Who'd be that foolish sordid thing call'd man?'" "Hold! hold! hold!"
10608_1787	love stories	Smith, Arthur Cosslett	" Ali made salaam and glided from the room. "He has left his knife," said the lawyer. The commandant turned to the _spahi_. "Corporal," he said, "go to the citadel and bring back twelve men. Place six of them at the entrance of the square, and six of them before my house. When Abdullah's caravan has entered the square, have the further six close in behind. You may take your time. It will be an hour before you are needed." The _spahi_ saluted, and went out. The commandant turned to the little man in black. "Why in the world," he asked, "did you object to my harboring Abdullah? He is my friend and yours. He is the best man that crosses the desert. He has eaten our salt many times. If all here were like him, you and I might go home to France, with our medals and our pensions." "True," said the lawyer, gathering his cards, "and very likely there is no risk in harboring him and his wife." He shuffled the cards mechanically, his eyes fixed on the opposite wall. "My friend," he said, at length, "whom do you consider the most powerful person in Biskra, the person to be first reckoned with?" The commandant laughed. "As I am in command," he said, "I should be court-martialled if I denied my own superiority." "And yet," said the lawyer, "you are only a poor second." The commandant, who was sitting astride of his chair, his hands upon its back, demi-vaulted as if he were in the saddle of a polo pony. "What do you mean?" he demanded. The lawyer kept shuffling the cards, but he paid no attention to them. "Go to the window," he said, "and tell me what you see." The commandant rose, and went to the window, his spurs jingling. He drew the curtain and looked out. "What do you see?" asked the counsellor. "I see the square," answered the commandant, "with five hundred kettle-lights, and three thousand Mussulmans gorging themselves, making up lost time." "Look over at the left corner," said the lawyer. "I see the mosque," said the commandant, "with its lamps burning." "There you have it," cried the lawyer.
5165_2665	love stories	Corelli, Marie	"I will ask her," he said at last, abruptly--"Will you step inside?" Mr. Medwin accepted the suggestion, taking off his hat as he crossed the threshold, and soon found himself in the quaint sitting-room where, but two days since, Hugo Jocelyn had told Innocent all her true history. He could not help being impressed by its old-world peace and beauty, furnished as it was in perfect taste, with its window-outlook on a paradise of happy flowers rejoicing in the sunlight. The fragrance of sweet lavender scented the air, and a big china bowl of roses in the centre of the table gave a touch of tender brightness to the old oak panelling on the walls. "There are things in this room that are priceless!" soliloquised the clergyman, who was something of a collector--"If the place comes under the hammer I shall try to pick up a few pieces." He smiled, with the pleased air of one who feels that all things must have an end--either by the "hammer" or otherwise,--even a fine old house, the pride and joy of a long line of its owners during three hundred years. And then he started, as the door opened slowly and softly and a girl stood before him, looking more like a spirit than a mortal, clad in a plain white gown, with a black ribbon threaded through her waving fair hair. She was pale to the very lips, and her eyes were swollen and heavy with weeping. Timidly she held out her hand. "It is kind of you to come," she said,--and paused. He, having taken her hand and let it go again, stood awkwardly mute. It was the first time he had seen Innocent in her home surroundings, and he had hardly noticed her at all when he had by chance met her in her rare walks through the village and neighbourhood, so that he was altogether unprepared for the refined delicacy and grace of her appearance. "I am very sorry to hear of your sad bereavement," he began, at last, in a conventional tone--"very sorry indeed--" She looked at him curiously. "Are you? I don't think you can be sorry, because you did not know him--if you had known him, you would have been really grieved--yes, I am sure you would. He was such a good man!--one of the best in all the world! I'm glad you have come to see me, because I have often wanted to speak to you--and perhaps now is the right time.
31699_2363	western stories	Mulford, Clarence Edward	Don't you think Dr. Whiting has a very distinguished air?" "Very; it would distinguish him out of hundreds," replied Tom, scowling at the timber fringe ahead. "He is quite impressive when he is silent. It's a pity he doesn't realize it." He turned in the saddle and looked behind. "What did I say? There comes Hank, with an antelope slung before his saddle. I doubt if the doctor would need the red handkerchief; antelope are notoriously affected by anything curious." She turned away and regarded the caravan studiously. "Isn't every man expected to do his share in the general duties?" she asked. "Yes; but most of them dodge obligations. When we left Council Grove more than half of the members of the train were friendly to Woodson. By the time we leave Cimarron his friends will be counted on the fingers of your two hands. That is only what he expects, so it won't come as an unpleasant surprise." "What is the doctor's party supposed to do?" "Two of them have been assigned to the rear guard; the other four, to our right flank. They can be excused somewhat because of their greenness. Besides, they only came along for the fun of it. In the college of life they are only freshmen. Its seriousness hasn't sunk in yet. The majority of the shirkers should know better, and have their fortunes, meagre as they may be, at stake. Well, here we are. You don't know how much I've enjoyed our ride. Uncle Joe," he said as Patience settled into the wagon seat, "here she is, safe and sound. I'll drop around with some antelope meat by the time you have your fire going." "It's been ten years since I've broiled game over a fire," chuckled the driver. "I'm anxious to get my hand in again. Thank you, Tom." Tom fastened the horse to the rear of the wagon, waved to his friends, and loped ahead toward the nearing creek. CHAPTER XI INDIAN COUNTRY After an enjoyable supper of antelope meat, Hank Marshall drifted over to visit Zeb Houghton and Jim Ogden, and judging from the hilarity resulting from his call, it was very successful. The caravan was now approaching the Indian country and was not very far from the easternmost point where traders had experienced Indian deviltry.
54632_3174	adventure stories	Palmer, Don	He was chattering to himself, but the only word the listening pair could distinguish was: “Gold.” Then, as they watched, the old man turned his half-glazed eyes toward the bush where they crouched. In that instant Warner obtained his first direct look at the withered, weather-tanned face. “Well, what d’you know!” he whispered. “It’s Joe Hansart!” Chapter 22 TRAPPED The gaunt man who had crawled from the mine pit did not see them crouching in the dense thicket. He stood facing them, however, a revolver dangling carelessly at his belt. He was a grotesque, powerfully built fellow amazingly agile, and he was wearing a ragged, red-wool shirt and an open, tattered leather jacket. As Jack and the rancher watched, Joe Hansart wheeled and trotted off over the rocks in the general direction of the pass. “We missed our chance to nab him,” Jack said, emerging. “Yes, but he has my gun, and it’s probably loaded,” Warner replied. “If he sees us he may shoot. The poor old fellow seems completely off his rocker.” “You know him?” “Not very well, but he’s Joe Hansart.” “Is he the prospector you mentioned at your ranch?” “Yes. Years ago I saw him a few times.” “Didn’t you tell us at the ranch that he had set out for this hollow and vanished?” “Yes,” the rancher answered. “So far as I know, Joe hasn’t been seen in Elks Creek for years.” “But how has he managed to live?” Warner shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe he makes trips out, though not to Elks Creek. Probably he stashes food for the winter. In the summer, a man of his ingenuity could get along on very little.” “But why would he stay here year after year?” “Evidently he’s been seized with gold fever, Jack, and it has twisted his brain.” “You think he’s found Old Stony’s caches?” “I suspect so, Jack. Perhaps he has even stumbled onto a rich vein in that pit mine. Let’s find out.” Making certain the old prospector had not doubled back on his trail, the two dropped down into the hole. The mine was a shallow one, bolstered with crudely cut timber. Water dripped from above, making the floor slippery and slimy. Warner’s flashlight came to rest on a box of dynamite.
32543_1987	adventure stories	Drayson, Alfred W. (Alfred Wilks)	I had already seen that white men were suspicious of me, and acted on these suspicions alone. Considering all these points, I felt quite undecided whether to again join the Umzimvubu Caffres, and live all my life as a Caffre; or wait on the chance of some ship coming into the harbour, and of being able to get a passage to Cape Town or England. Although much pre-occupied with these thoughts, I did not neglect the necessities of the present. I must make myself secure from the possible attacks of two forest enemies, viz., snakes and leopards. I must sleep, and when asleep I might be seized by a leopard, or be coiled round by a rock-snake; for there were, I knew, rock-snakes in this bush at least thirty feet long, and to be seized by one of these monsters would be certain death. There was no time before dark to build a kraal, so I cut down branches and brushwood, and arranged this in a circle round the spot on which I intended to pass the night. I cut also two sticks, one having a large knob at the end; the other, which was very hard wood, I sharpened so that it was like a spear. This was the best I could do in the short time before it came dark. I then lay down and listened to hear what might occur near me. I soon heard some rustling in the bush, which sometimes came near and then went away to a distance. This might be caused by a buck, but it might be a leopard. It was so dark that I could see nothing. The nights in Africa are darker than they are in England; and when I held my hand up I could not see it, though it was not half a yard from my eyes. It is difficult to imagine anything more exciting and trying to the nerves than to be thus alone in the bush during a dark night; when you know that dangerous animals are near you, and when noises indicate that these animals are aware of your presence, and are examining you to see whether you can be safely attacked. To sleep was impossible; I did not like even to lie down in a position of rest, but crouched on the ground with my sharpened stick ready for use in case I was attacked. Towards daylight, however, I could resist the desire to sleep no longer; and, as all seemed quiet round me, I lay down and was soon in a sound sleep.
7031_1469	love stories	Hull, E. M. (Edith Maude)	Yes! She understood, plainly enough. The understanding had already been forced upon her. It was an order from one who was prepared to compel his commands, to make herself more attractive with all that it implied in the eyes of the man who held her in his power and who looked at her as no other man had ever dared to look, with appraising criticism that made her acutely conscious of her sex, that made her feel like a slave exposed for sale in a public market. She must take off the boyish clothes that somehow seemed to lend her courage and substitute, to gratify the whim of the savage in the next room, the womanly dress that revealed more intimately the slender lines of her figure and intensified the uncommon beauty of her face. She went to the dressing table with lagging feet and stared resentfully at the white face and haggard eyes that looked back at her from the mirror. It was like the face of a stranger. Aubrey's words came back to her with an irony that was horrible. To-night she did not dress to please herself. Her face was set, her eyes almost black with rage, but behind the rage there was lurking apprehension. She started at every sound that came from the adjoining room. Her fingers, wet with perspiration, seemed almost unable to fulfil their task. She hated him, she hated herself, she hated her beauty that had brought this horror upon her. She would have rebelled if she had dared, but instinctively she hurried--fear had already driven her so far. But when she was ready she did not move from the table beside which she stood. Fear had forced her to haste, but her still struggling pride would not permit her to obey her fear any further. She raised her eyes to the glass again, glowering angrily at the pale reflection, and the old obstinacy mingled with the new pain that filled them. Must she endure his mocking glance with chalk-like cheeks and eyes like a beaten hound? Had she not even courage enough left to hide the fear that filled her with self-contempt? The wave of anger that went through her rushed the colour into her face and she leaned nearer the glass with a little murmur of satisfaction that stopped abruptly as her fingers gripped the edge of the table, and she continued staring into the mirror not at her own face, but at the white robes that appeared behind her head, blotting out the limited view she had had of the room. The Sheik was standing behind her.
35819_1415	love stories	Dorrance, James French	To him came the memory, as if from some far-away day, of the alone-ness in the midst of city throngs which had kept him loping his piebald over park bridle paths. “Strange,” she had called this night’s experience. Yet she could not appreciate how strange was the fact that he was not lonely now. He should never be lonely again. Had he not met her? And did he not recognize her—Jane? Probably she did not yet recognize him. She had snuffed his offer of service in the finding of that unnamed treasure which she had lost, just as she had snuffed his personal interest in her by her rather rude dismissal of him before the Metropolitan. But what she did or said or thought was only her side of it—not necessarily his. He stood committed both by word and wish to accept the situation as she presented it, to trust her wholly in return for her refusal to trust him, to help her whether she wished his help or no. And this because he, Peter, had met her, Jane! CHAPTER X—THE OLD PARK LADY Central Park, even with its horde of transitory inhabitants, looked more than ever like home to Peter Pape this late afternoon. Feeling the necessity of a private conclusion or two, he loped Polkadot into what he hoped would prove the less used path. His thoughts, like the pinto’s hoof-beats, were of a rather violent, not to say exclamatory sort. Three whole days since he had met her, and not once since had he seen her! Considering the emphasis with which he had interpolated himself into her acquaintance that opera evening, the length of the unbroken after-pause seemed incredible. Here was he, lonelier than before receipt of the advices of ’Donis Moore, in that now he knew what earlier he only had suspected he was missing. He felt as forlorn as looked a bent old woman who stood beneath the trail-side shade, leaning against a tree. Out of date was her nondescript bonnet of the poke persuasion, rusty her black silk dress, ineffectual her attitude. Too primitive for the Society into which he had cantered must be his Far-West methods, since rusted over were his hopes and resultless his to-day. Sight of a sheep herd browsing over “The Green” sufficiently surprised and pleased his pastoral eye as to brighten temporarily his mood. He polkaed Dot down to a walk. A flock of Dorsets in the Great Garden of New York Town!
13282_1967	love stories	Sangster, Margaret E. (Margaret Elizabeth)	He was letting her know, without words, that she was utterly helpless--that he could kiss her when he wanted to, and not until he wanted to. There was something horribly playful in his attitude. She struggled again--but more weakly, her strength was going. If there were only somebody to help--somebody! And then, all at once, she remembered--with a blinding sense of relief--what she had been forgetting. She remembered that there was Somebody--a Somebody Who is always ready to help--a Somebody who watches over the fate of every little sparrow. "If you hurt me," she said desperately, to Jim, "God will know! Let go of me--or I'll--" Jim interrupted. "Yer'll scream!" he chuckled, and there was cruel mirth in the chuckle. "Yer'll scream, an' God will take care o' yer! Well--scream! I don't believe as God can help yer. God ain't never been in this tenement--as far as I know!" Despite her weight of fear and loathing, Rose-Marie was suddenly sorry for Jim. There was something pitiful--something of which he did not realize the pathos--in his speech. God had never been in the tenement--_God had never been in the tenement_! All at once she realized that Jim's wickedness, that Jim's point of view, was not wholly his fault. Jim had not been brought up, as she had, in the clean out-of-doors; he--like many another slum child--had grown to manhood without his proper heritage of fresh air and sunshine. One could not entirely blame him for thinking of his home--the only home that he had ever known--as a Godless place. She stopped struggling and her voice was suddenly calm and sweet as she answered Jim's statement. "God," she said slowly, "_is_ in this tenement. God is everywhere, Jim--everywhere! If I call on Him, He will help me!" All at once Jim had swung her away from him, until he was holding her at arm's length. He looked at her, from between narrowed lids, and there was bitter sarcasm in his eyes. "Call on Him, then," he taunted, "call on Him! Lotta good it'll do yer!" The very tone of his voice was a sacrilege, as he said it. Rose-Marie's eyes were blurred with tears as she spoke her answer to his challenge.
35031_1036	adventure stories	Sinclair, Bertrand W.	Something in the way he spoke caused me to look up, and I saw that he was looking fixedly out into the guard-room through the grated opening in our cell door. There was none too much light, but with what there was I made out a paleness of face and a compression of his lips that were strangely at odds with his general bearing. “What now?” I asked, wondering at the sudden change in him. “Something I had hoped to be spared,” he said under his breath; more to himself than to me. Then he turned his eyes from the little window, drew up his knees till his fingers locked before them, and so sat hunched against the wall. Wholly absorbed in my letter-writing I had heard nothing out of the common. Now I distinguished voices, the deep tones of a man and following that the clear treble of a woman. During a brief interval of quiet she laughed, and after that I heard footsteps coming toward the row, out of which our cell faced. Presently the shadow of them darkened the little window in our door. The red coat of the guard passed. Barreau shifted uneasily. I, too, leaned forward listening to the light footfall drawing near, for I had a vivid recollection of that voice—or one that was its twin. It did not seem strange that she should be there; Benton is not so far from MacLeod in that land of great distances. And my recollection was not at fault. An instant later her small, elfish face bent to the opening and she peered in on us—as one who views caged beasts of the jungle. But there was none of the human fear of wild things in her attitude. “So,” she said coolly, tucking a lock of hair under the same ridiculous little cap she had worn on the _Moon_, “this is how the Northwest would have you, is it, Mr. Bar—Mr. Brown. Alas! ‘To what base uses we do return.’ I cannot say you have my sympathy.” “If that is the least cruel thing you can say,” Barreau flung back at her, putting his feet on the floor and resting his hands on the edge of his seat, “I thank you. But my trail is my own, and I have never yet asked you to follow in my stumbling footsteps.” She colored at that, and from where I sat I could see the Police guard lift his eyebrows inquiringly. But she had other shafts at hand.
61405_662	science fiction	Panshin, Alexei	It was dark here, but light from the first and third floors leaking up and down the stairs made things bright enough for me to see what I was doing. There were voices on the third floor and somebody laughed up there. I held my breath and moved quietly to Jimmy's cell. I whispered, "Jimmy!" and he came alert and moved to the door. "Am I glad to see you," he whispered back. I held up the keys. "Do any of these fit?" "Yes, the D key. The D key. It fits the four cells in this corner." I fumbled through until I had the key tagged D. I opened the cell with as few clinking noises as possible. "Come on," I said. "We've got to get out of here in a hurry." He slipped out and pushed the door shut behind him. We headed for the stairs and were almost there when I heard somebody coming up. Jimmy must have heard it, too, because he grabbed my arm and pulled me back. We flattened out as best we could. Talk about walking right into it! The policeman looked over at us and said, "What are you doing up here, Robards? Hey, you're not...." I stepped out and brought out one of the pistols. I said, "Easy now. If things go wrong for us, I have nothing to lose by shooting you. If you want to live, play it straight." He apparently believed me, because he put his hands where I could see them and shut up. I herded him into Jimmy's cell and let Jimmy do the honors with the loaded sock. We taped him up and while Jimmy was locking him in, I heard somebody in one of the cells behind me say, "Shut up, there," to somebody else. I turned and said, "Do you want to get shot?" The voice was collected. "No. No trouble here." "Do you want to be let out?" The voice was amused. "I don't think so. Thank you just the same." Jimmy finished and I asked, "Where is your signal? We have to have that." "In the basement with the rest of my gear." The signal was all we took. When we were three blocks away and on a dark side street, I handed Jimmy his gun and ammunition. As he took them, he said, "Tell me something, Mia.
42069_772	adventure stories	Wheeler, Ruthe S.	so you'll keep warm." Janet's father counted them as they got into the rack, yelled to the operator of the tractor to start, and then piled into the rack himself. With a series of sharp reports from its exhaust, the lumbering tractor got into motion, jerking the rack and its precious load behind it. _Chapter VII_ SANCTUARY AT HOME It was nearly an hour later when the tractor breasted the last grade and rolled down to the paved road where a dozen cars, all of them warmly heated and well lighted, were strung along the road. Anxious fathers and mothers were on hand, including Janet's mother and Mrs. Thorne and they welcomed their thoroughly chilled daughters to their bosoms. Janet's father shepherded them into their own sedan where despite the sub-zero cold the heater had kept the car comfortable. Then they started the final lap of their eventful trip from Youde's home. Helen and Janet sank back on the cushions of the capacious rear seat, thoroughly worn out by their trying experience. Janet's father, one of the most prominent attorneys in Clarion, slipped in behind the wheel, slamming the car door and shutting out the biting blast of air. There were other cars ahead of them and they made no attempt at high speed as they rolled back into the city. "How did you ever find us, Dad?" asked Janet. "You can thank the bus driver for that. Somehow he got through to a farmhouse. He was almost frozen, but he managed to tell them the story and they phoned word in to us." "Who thought of the tractor and hayrack?" asked Helen, warm once more. "It was Hugh Grogan, Bernice's father. He sells the caterpillars. Good thing he did or we'd never have gotten through." "It was a good thing for Bernice, too. She was about all in," said Janet. When they reached the Hardy home, Janet's mother insisted that Helen and Mrs. Thorne come in and have a hot lunch before going to their own home. While the girls took off their coats and Mr. Hardy put the car into the garage, Mrs. Hardy bustled out into the kitchen where she had left a kettle of water simmering on the stove. Lunch was ready in short order, tea, peanut butter sandwiches, cookies and a large bowl of fruit. Janet and Helen had ravenous appetites and the sandwiches disappeared as though by magic. "How cold is it, Dad?" asked Janet. "Twenty-two below.
61911_326	detective and mystery stories	Roberts, Theodore Goodridge	“I guess them Forestry people have kinder over-rated him. That’s the Gover’ment for ye, and always has been. Let a man have a slick way with him, an’ slithers of easy talk, an’ the Gover’ment gives him a job of work with nothin’ to do. This here’s a plumb foolish letter, anyhow. Take this here about his indigestion now, an’ this talk about the woodcock! What d’ye reckon he means? I ain’t had much education, but——” “Ye’re right there, Dan’l Evans,” interrupted Young Dan’s mother, who had held a very high opinion of her brother’s abilities ever since he had become a successful citizen of the great outside world. “Much education! No, indeed. Bill’s clever, an’ always was—an’ I, for one, always knew it. I always knew he should be clever, anyhow, seein’ he was a Tangler; an’ if I ever acted crusty with him it was his own fault for hidin’ his light from me in a bushel-bag, so to speak. He didn’t write that letter to you anyhow, Dan’l Evans, so what you think about it don’t matter a mite to my brother Bill nor anybody.” This discussion concerning the letter from a purely literary standpoint did not disturb Young Dan in the least, for neither of his parents offered any objection to his acceptance of Uncle Bill Tangler’s offers and advice. He set out first thing in the morning to put the proposition before old Andy Mace, who lived three miles below the Bend, in a log house in a small clearing. It was a morning of sun and frost. The road, recently deep with mud, was hard as iron; the sky was bluer than at midsummer; a flock of geese went over, high up, winging tirelessly southward; and there was a skim of black ice along the lips of the Oxbow. It was a grand morning to be a-wing or a-foot and Young Dan pictured Uncle Bill Tangler seated at his desk in the distant city with a twinge of pity. Though there was no wind, red and yellow leaves of maple and birch snapped their stems loose in some mysterious way and circled down to the frosty moss, and the sounds of their falling came out of the woods on both sides of the road like a soft whisper. Young Dan found Andy Mace splitting stove-wood beside the back-door of his primitive habitation.
57236_1711	detective and mystery stories	Footner, Hulbert	Miss Hamerton had no close relatives, and I could not see the sense of sending for any others. I forbade Mrs. Bleecker to telegraph them. In a case of this kind solitude is the best, the most merciful treatment for the sufferer. As it was I pitied the poor girl having to endure the officious ministrations of her inquisitive servants, but I did not feel justified in interfering there. Only two men were allowed past the guard in the corridor, Mr. Maurice Metz, the famous theatrical manager, and Mr. Alfred Mount. The former stormed about the room like a wilful child. His pocketbook was hard hit. I was firm. He could not see Miss Hamerton, he must be satisfied with my report. Miss Hamerton had suffered a nervous breakdown--with that phrase we guarded her piteous secret, and it would be out of the question for her to act for weeks to come. It was her wish that the company be paid off and disbanded. "Who the devil are you?" he demanded. "I speak for Miss Hamerton," I said with a shrug. I remembered how humbly I had besieged this man's door with my play a few weeks since, and now I was turning _him_ down. To satisfy him I had Mrs. Bleecker in. He demanded of her who I was. "I don't know," she snapped. Nevertheless she had to bear me out. Miss Hamerton had sent word that the company was to be paid off with two weeks' salary, and the amount charged to her. I referred Mr. Metz to the doctors. They impressed him with medical phrases he didn't understand. He finally departed talking to himself and waving his hands. Mr. Mount, of course, was very different. He came in all suave sympathy, anxious to uphold me in every way. I had wished to see him for a special purpose. I couldn't allow the possibility of a ghastly mistake being made. I produced the fateful little seal leather box, and snapped it open again. "Are these the lost pearls?" I asked. The man had wonderful self-control. No muscle of his face changed. Only his black eyes flamed up. He took the case quietly, but those eyes pounced on the pearls like their prey, and wolfed them one by one. He returned the case to me. A curious smile wreathed the corners of his voluptuous mouth. "Those are the pearls," he said quietly. "You are _sure_?" "Sure?" He spread out his hands.
63613_228	science fiction	Gilbert, Robert E.	"Without it I couldn't walk at all." Flim frowned ferociously. "True. Too true. Avast, how I wanted to see you walk the plank. We could take you to Earth and land on a Pacific island." "That would take too long," Jak objected. "Let me speak for a minute." Jak placed a hand over his heart. "Captain Flim, my indoctrination makes your methods repellant, but, in my unconscious, I've a certain admiration for you. There may be some of the old romance in me. I know a way of--uh--of devitalization that you may not. I've always wished that when my time came to--uh--go, this way would be used. It's even more romantic than Walk the Plank. It's called the Firing Squad." "The Firing Squad," Flim mused. "Never mind, Ger. Return the plank." Ger, carrying a one meter length of red cedar, shrugged and drifted back to the passage. Flim stroked the mess on his upper lip and said, "Interesting. How does the Firing Squad operate? Do I soak you in alcohol and ignite it?" "No!" Jak gasped quickly. "The Firing Squad was men with weapons. Rifles, I think. The person to be treated stood before a wall and performed a rite called Smoking the Cigarette, whatever that was. Then an officer gave commands, and the person was perforated by the riffles or rifles." "What a manner to death!" exclaimed Flim. Exhibiting great self-control, Jak did not wince at the word, although Drusilla giggled. Flim inexpertly dragged the 6 mm Morgia from the clip holster and smirked at it. He said, "We have but the single weapon, although I will have Ger and Looge stand by to simulate a complete group. I have wanted to test this pistol ever since Ger pockpicked a Patrolman in Mars Base. It is but an advanced model of the flintlock used by noble pirates of old." "Let me show you," Jak said. His fingers barely touched the knob of the optical sight before Flim slapped them away. "I am expert in these matters," the pirate affirmed. His gauntleted hands fumbled until he succeeded in pulling back the slide and letting it snap forward. "A wonderful modern improvement!" he exclaimed. "Henry Morgan loaded his from the other end of the barrel." Drusilla made an unseemly noise with her mouth.
27089_138	science fiction	Westlake, Donald E.	I loaded up on g-sickness pills and they worked fine. I was sick as a dog. By the time we got to Atronics City, my insides had grown resigned to their fate. As long as I didn't try to eat, my stomach would leave me alone. Atronics City was about as depressing as a Turkish bath with all the lights on. It stood on a chunk of rock a couple of miles thick, and it looked like nothing more in this world than a welder's practice range. From the outside, Atronics City is just a derby-shaped dome of nickel-iron, black and kind of dirty-looking. I suppose a transparent dome would have been more fun, but the builders of the company cities in the asteroids were businessmen, and they weren't concerned with having fun. There's nothing to look at outside the dome but chunks of rock and the blackness of space anyway, and you've got all this cheap iron floating around in the vicinity, and all a dome's supposed to do is keep the air in. Besides, though the Belt isn't as crowded as a lot of people think, there _is_ quite a lot of debris rushing here and there, bumping into things, and a transparent dome would just get all scratched up, not to mention punctured. From the inside, Atronics City is even jollier. There's the top level, directly under the dome, which is mainly parking area for scooters and tuggers of various kinds, plus the office shacks of the Assayer's Office, the Entry Authority, the Industry Troopers and so on. The next three levels have all been burned into the bowels of the planetoid. Level two is the Atronics plant, and a noisy plant it is. Level three is the shopping and entertainment area--grocery stores and clothing stores and movie theaters and bars--and level four is housing, two rooms and kitchen for the unmarried, four rooms and kitchen plus one room for each child for the married. All of these levels have one thing in common. Square corners, painted olive drab. The total effect of the place is suffocating. You feel like you're stuck in the middle of a stack of packing crates. Most of the people living in Atronics City work, of course, for International Atronics, Incorporated. The rest of them work in the service occupations--running the bars and grocery stores and so on--that keep the company employees alive and relatively happy. Wages come high in the places like Atronics City.
40464_1907	detective and mystery stories	Machray, Robert	Here, however, it is my duty to neglect nothing. And I must make it my business to find out everything I can about Mr. Silwood, and with regard to that I count with confidence on your father's assistance. Well, to go back, your father, on learning of Mr. Silwood's death, sent for you; what came next?" "He showed me the certificate signed by the Syndic; it was in Italian, a language neither my father nor I understand, but a large part of the certificate was printed, and from our Latin we made out pretty well what it said. The letter, however, we could make nothing of, so I went and got a man to translate it." Gilbert broke off suddenly with a sharp ejaculation. "You have thought of something, Mr. Gilbert?" suggested the inspector, giving him a keen look of inquiry. "Yes, I have, and a very important thing it may prove too. It has been completely driven out of my mind by the dreadful discovery in Stone Buildings. Now I remember it, and I believe it may give us the key to the mystery." "What is it?" asked Gale, as Gilbert paused, his face aglow with excitement. "Before I went out to bring the interpreter something happened," said Gilbert. "Strange that I should have forgotten it so utterly! While my father and I were talking about Mr. Silwood's death, we were interrupted by a man, who had come in answer to the advertisement in the hope of getting the reward of a thousand pounds. The man was as hopeless-looking a waster and vagabond as any I ever saw, but he spoke like a man of education. And he told us that late on the night of the disappearance of Morris Thornton he was in Chancery Lane, and saw a workman coming out of the iron gate at the north-east corner of Lincoln's Inn." "That is just where Mr. Silwood's chambers are, are they not?" asked Gale. "Precisely; his rooms are on the top floor of the house at that very corner. Well, this workman behaved in a suspicious manner, and then disappeared. But he returned in about half an hour, and let himself into the Inn again by the iron gate." "Wait a minute," said Gale. "You said a workman. What was a workman doing in the Inn at that time of night?
61405_823	science fiction	Panshin, Alexei	I started to cry and I went to Mr. Kutsov, passing by the policeman without even looking at him. As I bent down beside him, his eyes opened and he looked at me. I couldn't stop crying. I held his head and cried. "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm sorry." He smiled and said faintly, but clearly, "It be all right." After a minute he closed his eyes, and then he died. After another minute, Jimmy touched my arm and said, "There's nothing we can do. Let's leave now, Mia, while we still can." Outside, it was still raining. Standing in the rain I felt deserted. VI The final morning on Tintera was a fine day. We and the horses were in a rock-enclosed aerie where we had dodged the day before for shelter. In the aerie were grass and a small rock spring, and this day, the final day, was bright with blue and piled clouds riding high. From where we sat, looking from the top of the rock wall, we could see over miles of expanse. Lower hills and curving valleys all covered with a rolling carpet of trees, a carpet of varying shades of gray and green. There were some natural upland meadows, and clearings in the valleys, and far away a line drawn in the trees that might be the path of a river. Down there, under that carpet, were all sorts of things--wild Losels, men hunting us, and--perhaps--some of the others from the Ship. We had seen the Losels and they had seen us; they had gone their way and we had gone ours. The men hunting us for blowing up their scoutship we hadn't seen for four days, and even then they hadn't seen us. As for the others, we hadn't seen them at all. But they might be there, under the anonymous carpet. Jimmy got up from the ground and brushed himself off. He brought the signal over to me and said, "Should I, or do you want to?" "Go ahead," I said. He triggered it. George Fuhonin was piloting and we were the sixth and seventh aboard. The other five crowded around and helped us put our gear away. Jimmy went on inside and I went upstairs to talk to George. I was up there by the time we were airborne. "Hello, Halfpint," George said.
33466_4804	detective and mystery stories	Reeve, Arthur B. (Arthur Benjamin)	" "What do you know of the bankers, Forsythe & Co.?" asked Craig. "Forsythe & Co.?" considered Burke. "Well, not much, perhaps. But for a long time, I believe, they've been the bankers and promoters of defunct Caribbean islands, reaping a rich harvest out of the troubles of those decrepit governments, playing one against the other." "H-m," mused Kennedy. "Can you go over to Brooklyn with me now?" "Of course," agreed Burke, brightening up. "That was what I hoped you'd do." Kennedy and I were just about to leave the laboratory with Burke when an idea seemed to occur to Craig. He excused himself and went back to a cabinet where I saw him place a little vial and a hypodermic needle in his vest pocket. CHAPTER XXXII THE FLUORISCINE TEST Our trip over to the other borough was uneventful except for the toilsome time we had to get to the docks where South and Central American ships were moored. We boarded the _Haytien_ at last and Burke led us along the deck toward a cabin. I looked about curiously. There seemed to be the greatest air of suppressed excitement. Everyone was talking, in French, too, which seemed strange to me in people of their color. Yet everything seemed to be in whispers as if they were in fear. We entered the cabin after our guide. There in the dim light lay the body of Leon in a bunk. There were several people in the room, already, among them the beautiful Mademoiselle Collette. She pretended not to recognize Kennedy until we were introduced, but I fancied I saw her start at finding him in company with Burke. Yet she did not exhibit anything more than surprise, which was quite natural. Burke turned the sheet down from the face of the figure in the bunk. Leon had been a fine-looking specimen of his race, with good features, strong, and well groomed. Kennedy bent over and examined the body carefully. "A very strange case," remarked the ship's surgeon, whom Burke beckoned over a moment later. "Quite," agreed Craig absently, as he drew the vial and the hypodermic from his pocket, dipped the needle in and shot a dose of the stuff into the side of the body. "I can't find out that there is any definite cause of death," resumed the surgeon. Before Craig could reply someone else entered the darkened cabin.
1204_1237	western stories	Bower, B. M.	I have had enough of this darn country. Creek's drying up, and mosquitoes have found way to crawl under bags. Cash wants me to stay till we find good claim, but Cash can go to thunder. Then Cash's record goes on: June 27. Bud very sick & out of head. Think it is heat, which is terrible. Talked all night about burros, gasoline, & camphor balls which he seemed wanting to buy in gunny sack. No sleep for either. Burros came in for water about daylight. Picketed Monte & Pete as may need doctor if Bud grows worse. Thumb nearly well. June 27. Bud same, slept most of day. Gave liver pills & made gruel of cornmeal, best could do with present stores. Burros came at about 3 but could not drink owing to bees around water hold. Monte got stung and kicked over water cans & buckets I had salted for burros. Burros put for hills again. No way of driving off bees. June 28. Burros came & drank in night. Cooler breeze, Bud some better & slept. Sway has badly swollen neck. May be rattler bite or perhaps bee. Bud wanted cigarettes but smoked last the day before he took sick. Gave him more liver pills & sponge off with water every hour. Best can do under circumstances. Have not prospected account Bud's sickness. June 29. Very hot all day, breeze like blast from furnace. Burros refuse to leave flat. Bees better, as can't fly well in this wind. Bud worse. High fever & very restless & flighty. Imagines much trouble with automobile, talk very technical & can't make head or tail of it. Monte & Pete did not come in, left soon as turned loose. No feed for them here & figured Bud too sick to travel or stay alone so horses useless at present. Sponged frequently with coolest water can get, seems to give some relief as he is quieter afterwards. July 4th. Monte & Pete came in the night & hung around all day. Drove them away from vicinity of shack several times but they returned & moped in shade of house. Terrible hot, strong gusty wind. Bud sat up part of day, slept rest of time. Looks very thin and great hollows under eyes, but chief trouble seems to be, no cigarettes. Shade over radishes & lettice works all right. Watered copiously at daylight & again at dusk. Doing fine. Fixed fence which M & P. broke down while tramping around. Prospected west of ranche.
42441_1547	western stories	Mulford, Clarence Edward	Don’t never forget it. Last time I was here they abused me shameful. Now that th’ storm has busted an’ this is gettin’ calm-like, you an’ me ’ll go back an’ get a good look at th’ asylum," he suggested, vaulting into the saddle and starting toward the store. No invitation was needed because the dog had adopted him on the spot. And the next morning, when Jimmy and Bill, loaded with poker-gained wealth, rode out of town and headed south, the dog trotted along in the shadow made by Jimmy’s horse and glanced up from time to time in hopeful expectancy and great affection. A distant, flat pistol shot made them turn around in the saddle and look back. A group of the leading citizens of Sharpsville stood in front of the Emporium and waved hats in one last, and glad farewell. Now that Jimmy had left town, they altered their sudden plans and decided to continue to populate the town of Sharpsville. V THE LUCK OF FOOLS "Did you ever see a dog like Asylum?" demanded Jimmy, looking fondly at the mongrel as they rode slowly the second day after leaving Sharpsville. Bill shook his head emphatically. "Never, nowheres." Jimmy turned reproachfully. "Lookit how he ’s follered us." "Follered _you_," hastily corrected Bill. "He ought to. You feed an’ scratch him, an’ he ’ll go anywhere for that. But he ’s big," he conceded. "Mostly wolf-hound," guessed Jimmy, proudly. "He looks like a wolf—God help it—at th’ end of a hard winter." "Well, he ain’t yourn!" "An’ won’t be, not if I can help it." "He ain’t no good, is he?" sneered Jimmy. "I wouldn’t say that, Kid," grunted Bill. "You know there ’s good _Injuns_; but he looks purty healthy right now. Why did n’t you call him Hank? They look—Good G—d!" he exclaimed as he glanced through an opening in the hills. The ring of ashes that had been a corral still smoldered, and smoke arose fitfully from the caved-in roof of the adobe bunkhouse, whose beams, weakened by fire, had fallen under their heavy load. "Injuns!" whispered Jimmy. "Not gone long, neither.
287_3117	western stories	Barr, Amelia E.	“As you say. If I could only see Jack! For that, I would promise God Almighty and you Roberto to be happy. I would forgive the rebels and the heretics--for they are well acquainted with hell road, and will guide each other there without my wish.” “I am sure if Jack has one day he will come to you. And when he hears of the surrender of General Cos--” “Well now, it was God’s will that General Cos should surrender. What more can be said? It is sufficient.” “Let me call Antonia. She is miserable at your displeasure; and it is not Antonia’s fault.” “Pardon me, Roberto. I have seen Antonia. She is not agreeable and obedient to Fray Ignatius.” “She has been very wickedly used by him; and I fear he intends to do her evil.” “It is not convenient to discuss the subject now. I will see Isabel; she is a good child--my only comfort. Paciencia! there is Luis Alveda singing; Isabel will now be deaf to all else”; and she rose with a sigh and walked towards the casement looking into the garden. Luis was coming up the oleander walk. The pretty trees were thinner now, and had only a pink blossom here and there. But the bright winter sun shone through them, and fell upon Luis and Isabel. For she had also seen him coming, and had gone to meet him, with a little rainbow-tinted shawl over her head. She looked so piquant and so happy. She seemed such a proper mate for the handsome youth at her side that a word of dissent was not possible. The doctor said only, “She is so like you, Maria. I remember when you were still more lovely, and when from your balcony you made me with a smile the happiest man in the world.” Such words were never lost ones; for the Senora had a true and great love for her husband. She gave him again a smile, she put her hand in his, and then there were no further conciliations required. They stood in the sunshine of their own hearts, and listened a moment to the gay youth, singing, how at-- The strong old Alamo Two hundred men, with rifles true, Shot down a thousand of the foe, And broke the triple ramparts through; And dropped the flag as black as night, For Freedom’s green and red and white.[3] CHAPTER XI. A HAPPY TRUCE.
48146_329	adventure stories	Moyer, Bess	A few minutes later Allan and Syd leaped from the cockpits and were waving to the girls with whoops of delight. Terry and Prim hastened back across the field to welcome them. “Hurry up!” cried Terry. “Prim is starving!” “She’s got nothing on us,” Sid answered. “We could eat our shoe strings,—almost!” When they were all seated at breakfast, Terry suddenly turned to ask Allan, “What’s the idea of trailing us down here? Are you taking a vacation?” “A sort of vacation,” answered Allan. “About an hour after you left the other day, Syd and I got home. We finished up our business in half the time we expected. Then we heard some reports. Joe Arnold had been back at the field and was bragging around that he was starting out to make the final deal with Peter Langley for your father’s flying field. He sent notice to your father to vacate the field.” “Why the nerve of that man!” cried Terry. “He’ll do no such thing! I won’t stand for it!” “Anyway,” went on Allan. “We found out that Joe had started south and your father wanted to warn you, so he sent us. And here we are.” “Yes,” Terry broke in. “And Joe Arnold set down his plane at the Havana airport just a little while ago. I’m sure he saw us. Even if he didn’t he’d recognize _Skybird_. That man is up to mischief.” “Do you think he’s going to try and make trouble for us?” asked Prim anxiously. “I’m afraid of that man, after what he did to you boys in Newfoundland.” “We are not going to worry about it,” Terry announced with decision. “We are going to keep right on at the job we set out to do, and trust to luck to get us through safely.” The four friends had an excellent breakfast with tropical fruits and delicious Cuban dishes. At times they forgot all about Joe Arnold and his threats to take away their father’s flying field. It was good to be together in this romantic city of Havana, and hard to realize that danger threatened them. All about them were smartly dressed care-free people, spending money lavishly on the pleasures of the gay city. People came here from all over the world just to enjoy themselves.
37913_1218	detective and mystery stories	Landon, Herman	The thought more than once had appealed to his imagination and the whimsical strain in his nature. He turned toward the window, but he had taken only a few steps when he stopped and looked dreamily into space. Memories thronged his mind and a face appeared out of nowhere--a woman's face. For months it had haunted him in his idle moments, inspiring him with vague and exhilarant emotions. He saw it now, softly radiant among the shadows, an enchanting embodiment of the bloom and freshness of youth that pursued him with the persistence of a delicate scent or the strain of an all-but-forgotten song. "Helen!" he murmured. The vision grew a little clearer. Now he could almost see her figure, slim and straight and moving with the easy swing and grace of a young antelope. Echoes of her voice came to him, clear and unaffected and vibrant with joyous vivacity, each melodious note touching an harmonious chord within him. He remembered that her face had given him a curious impression of youthful buoyancy mingling with the soberness of maturity. Her quick intuition, coupled with a strain of subtlety in her nature and a trace of precocious sophistication that was both puzzling and enchanting, had seemed to bridge the years that lay between them. The vitalic sheen and the subtle aroma of her hair had given him a foolish desire to see what sun and wind would do to it if she were to loosen it and romp in his garden. He sighed musingly. Months had passed since he had last seen her. For a brief, unforgettable moment he had held her hand, and the contact had given him a gentle, all-pervading thrill and filled him with strange and tender emotions. Her eyes, warm and frank, but with a touch of shyness lurking in their depths, as if she were still a little afraid of him, had inspired him with a tingling ecstasy such as The Gray Phantom in his wildest triumphs had never experienced. Twice he had written her since then, once to apprise her of his removal from Azurecrest and once to inquire concerning her well-being, but he had neither expected nor received an answer. He had not forgotten that in the eyes of the world he was still an outlaw, a hunted thing. Again he sighed. The vision was fading, and little of it remained with him save a misty picture of loveliness. The moon was rising over the tree tops, throwing a white sheen over the landscape and the narrow wedge of water visible between the birches and hemlocks.
47738_1725	adventure stories	Stephens, Robert Neilson	"Then they know not?" he queried. "Nay; I got in, and to my chamber, without waking any one." "And had you no further molestation in the streets? One of those men tricked me, and followed you. I learned it after." She looked at him with a little surprise. "Nay, I saw him not, nor heard him. I had no trouble. But you will not tell?" Her wide-open eyes, round and large and of the deepest blue, were turned straight upon his face, as if they meant to leave him not till they should have a direct answer. [Illustration: "'SIR, I THANK YOU FOR WHAT YOU DID THAT NIGHT.'"] "Why--mistress," he blundered, and then dropped his own gaze to where he was beginning to scrape the gravel awkwardly with his shoe, "why need you ask? Did I not protect your secret that night?" "Then why do you hesitate now?" she demanded, with a sudden unconcealed mistrust. "Oh, Master Holyday, what is in your mind? Why have you drawn me hither to speak with you alone? Why do you make a doubt of promising not to betray me? Come, sir, I have little time; they will soon be wondering where I am; either promise me, or I myself will tell them, and then, by St. Anne, I care not--" There was a threat of weeping in her voice and face, and Ravenshaw impulsively threw up his hand, and said: "Nay, fear not. I will not tell. I give my word." Trouble fled from her face, and a smile of gratitude made her appear doubly charming. Ravenshaw cleared his throat, without reason, and tried to meet her glance without seeing her, if that had been possible. "You are a happy maid," quoth he, settling down to a disagreeable business. "'Tis proven that you may play the runaway for an hour or two, when you wish, and none be the wiser. There's many a maid would give her best gown thrice over, for that assurance." "Troth, it serves me nothing," she said, with a forlornness he could not understand.
13077_580	western stories	Jones, J. B. (John Beauchamp)	Jowler!" exclaimed Glenn, preparing to fire. "Down, Joe, too," said Joe, slipping down from his pony, preferring not to risk another fall, and likewise preparing to fire. When the buffalo reached the base of the mound, it saw for the first time the objects above, and halted. It regarded the men with more symptoms of curiosity than alarm, but as it gazed, its distressed pantings indicated that it had been long retreating from some object of dread. Meantime both guns were discharged, and the contents undoubtedly penetrated the animal's body, for he leapt upright in the air, and on descending, staggered off slowly in a course at right angles from the one which he was first pursuing. Glenn then let the hounds go forth, and soon overtaking the animal, they were speedily forced to act on the defensive; for the enormous foe wheeled round and pursued in turn. Finding the hounds were too cautious and active to fall victims to his sharp horns, he pawed the earth, and uttered the most horrific bellowings. As Glenn and Joe rode by the place where he had stood when they fired, they perceived large quantities of frothy blood, which convinced them that he had received a mortal wound. They rode on and paused within eighty paces of where he now stood, and calling back the baying hounds, again discharged their guns. The buffalo roared most hideously, and making a few plunges towards his assailants, fell on his knees, and the next moment turned over on his side. "Come back, Joe!" cried Glenn to his man, who had mounted and wheeled when the animal rushed towards them, and was still flying away as fast as his pony could carry him. "No--never!" replied Joe; "I won't go nigh that awful thing! Don't you see it's getting dark? How'll we over find the way home again?" The latter remark startled Glenn, for he had lost all consciousness of the lateness of the hour in the excitement, and to his dismay had also lost all recollection of the direction of his dwelling, and darkness had now overtaken them! While pausing to reflect from which quarter they first approached the mound, the buffalo, to his surprise and no little chagrin, rose up and staggered away, the darkness seen obscuring him from view altogether. Glenn, by a blast of his horn, recalled the dogs, and joining Joe, set off much dispirited, in a course which he feared was not the correct one.
6993_1783	science fiction	Shiel, M. P. (Matthew Phipps)	Hogarth would simply bribe. And there are three of us--” “Who is this Harris?” “He is a Cockney--assassin”. Frankl took snuff, with busy pats at alternate nostrils. “What will you tell him is in the bag?” “Anything--rings--something prized by you for sentimental reasons. We offer him a thousand--two thousand pounds. And he will not fail. He strikes like lightning”. “And we share--how?” “Come--let us not talk of that again, sir. What could be more generous than my offer? You divide the diamonds into two heaps, and I choose one; or I divide, you choose; and, before I leave you, you give me a declaration that it was by your contrivance that I escaped prison, and that the gems which I have, once yours, are duly made over to me”. “And you collar half!” gibed the Jew with an ogle of guile; “that’s about as cool a stroke of business as I’ve come across. You don’t take into account that the whole is mine, if the concern fell, as you confess, on my own land! And just ask yourself the question: what is to prevent me handing you over this minute to the police, and grabbing the lot? Only I’m not that sort of man--” O’Hara drew a revolver. “You talk to me as though I was a schoolboy, sir”, said he sternly. “Be good enough to learn to respect me. I am not less a man of the world than you are, and quite competent to safeguard my own interests. Supposing I was weak enough to permit you to send for the police, the moment they had me I should tell of Hogarth in hiding; they would go for him, and he, after bribing, may be trusted to take wing with the stones, leaving you whistling. Or perhaps you would care to tackle him in person? He would wheel you by the beard round his arm like a Catherine-wheel, I do assure you. All this you see well, and pretend not to. Do let us be honest with each other!” “Well, I don’t want to be hard”, said Frankl, looking sideward and downward, plotting behind an unwrinkled brow, intending to have every one of the diamonds; so did O’Hara, who already had his plot. “No, don’t be hard”, said O’Hara: “_I_ am not.
31870_1199	western stories	Marlowe, Amy Bell	"And to think of Lon being in need, and living poor--maybe actually suffering--when I've been doing so well here, and have had this old chest right under my thumb all these years. "You see, Frances," said the Captain, making more of an explanation than ever before, "Lon and I got possession of that chest in a funny way. "We'd been sent after as mean a man as ever infested the Border--and there were some mighty mean men along the Rio Grande in those days. He had slipped across the Border to escape us; but in those times we didn't pay much attention to the line between the States and Mexico. "We went after him just the same. He was with a crowd of regular bandits, we found out. And they were aiming to clean up Señor Milo Morales' _hacienda_. "We got onto their plans, and we rode hard to the _hacienda_ to head them off. We knew the old Spaniard--as fine a Castilian gentleman as ever stepped in shoe-leather. "We stopped with him a while, beat off the bandits, and captured our man. After everything quieted down (as we thought) we started for the Border with the prisoner. Señor Morales was an old man, without chick or child, and not a relative in the world to leave his wealth to. His was one of the few Castilian families that had run out. Neither in Mexico nor in Spain did he have a blood tie. "His vast estates he had already willed to the Church. Such faithful servants as he had (and they were few, for the _peon_ is not noted for gratitude) he had already taken care of. "Lon and I had saved his life as well as his personal property, he was good enough to say, and he showed us this treasure chest and what was in it. When he passed on, he said, it should be ours if we were fixed so we could get it before the Mexican authorities stepped in and grabbed it all, or before bandits cleaned out the _hacienda_. It was a toss-up in those days between the two, which was the most voracious! "Well, Frances, that's how it stood when we rode away with Simon Hawkins lashed to a pony between us. Before we reached the river we heard of a big band of outlaws that had come down from the Sierras and were trailing over toward Morales'.
58820_2591	detective and mystery stories	Sayers, Dorothy L. (Dorothy Leigh)	“Confirmation!” he groaned. “As if I needed it!” He sat down again and buried his face in his hands. He remembered quite suddenly how, years ago, he had stood before the breakfast table at Denver Castle—a small, peaky boy in blue knickers, with a thunderously beating heart. The family had not come down; there was a great silver urn with a spirit lamp under it, and an elaborate coffee-pot boiling in a glass dome. He had twitched the corner of the tablecloth—twitched it harder, and the urn moved ponderously forward and all the teaspoons rattled. He seized the tablecloth in a firm grip and pulled his hardest—he could feel now the delicate and awful thrill as the urn and the coffee machine and the whole of a Sèvres breakfast service had crashed down in one stupendous ruin—he remembered the horrified face of the butler, and the screams of a lady guest. A log broke across and sank into a fluff of white ash. A belated motor-lorry rumbled past the window. Mr. Bunter, sleeping the sleep of the true and faithful servant, was aroused in the small hours by a hoarse whisper, “Bunter!” “Yes, my lord,” said Bunter, sitting up and switching on the light. “Put that light out, damn you!” said the voice. “Listen—over there—listen—can’t you hear it?” “It’s nothing, my lord,” said Mr. Bunter, hastily getting out of bed and catching hold of his master; “it’s all right, you get to bed quick and I’ll fetch you a drop of bromide. Why, you’re all shivering—you’ve been sitting up too late.” “Hush! no, no—it’s the water,” said Lord Peter with chattering teeth; “it’s up to their waists down there, poor devils. But listen! can’t you hear it? Tap, tap, tap—they’re mining us—but I don’t know where—I can’t hear—I can’t. Listen, you! There it is again—we must find it—we must stop it.... Listen! Oh, my God! I can’t hear—I can’t hear anything for the noise of the guns. Can’t they stop the guns?” “Oh, dear!” said Mr. Bunter to himself. “No, no—it’s all right, Major—don’t you worry.” “But I hear it,” protested Peter.
32704_4160	western stories	Rhodes, Eugene Manlove	bawled the furious and red-faced prosecutor. "This is an outrage! An outrage! These proceedings are a mockery! This whole trial is a travesty on justice!" The gavel banged down. "This court is now adjourned," announced Judge Hinkle. He leaned back in his chair and sighed luxuriously. He took out a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles and polished them; he held them poised delicately in one hand and beamed benevolently on the crowded court room. "We have had a very trying forenoon," observed Mr. Hinkle blandly. "Perhaps some of us are ruffled a little. But I trust that nothing which has happened in this court room will cause any hard feeling of a lasting character. And I strongly advise that under no circumstances will any of you feel impelled to take any man and put his head under a pump, and pump on his head." The gavel rapped smartly. "This court will now come to order! Mr. Dines, as I remarked before recess, you will now proceed with the case." "I'll not detain you long, Mr. Hales," said Johnny. "I didn't bother to cross-examine the previous witnesses"--he smiled upon Caney and Weir--"because they are suffering from the results of an accident. In the mines, as I hear. Mining is a dangerous business. Very. Sometimes a man is just one-sixteenth of a second slow--and it gets him trouble. I understand, Mr. Hales, that you three gentlemen were together when you found the murdered man?" "Yes." "You had been prospecting together?" "Prospecting, and looking for saddle thieves." "Did you find the saddle thieves?" "No; I told you once." "No," said Johnny; "you told Mr. Wade. Find any mines?" "Yes." "Good prospect?" "I think so." "Um--yes." Johnny hesitated, and fell silent. Hales fidgeted. "And the murdered man," began Johnny slowly, and stopped. Hales heaved a sigh of relief. Johnny darted a swift glance at the judge. "And the murdered man had been shot three times?" "Three times. In the back." "The shots were close together?" "Yes. My hand would have covered all three." "Sure of that?" "Positive." "In your opinion, these shots had been fired at close range?" An interruption came.
22462_316	science fiction	Lande, Irving W.	She sputtered to a stop as he held up both hands in defense. "Whoa, baby. One thing at a time. I'm at the airport. You'll see me tonight, and I'll tell you the rest then. That is, if you're free tonight. And tomorrow. And the day after, and the day after that. Are you free?" Her hesitation was only momentary. "Well, I was going out--with a girl friend. But she'll understand. What's up?" He took a deep breath. "I'd like to get out of the city for a few days, where we can take things easy and be away from the crowds. And there is another guy I'd like to bring along." "We could take my helijet out to my dad's cottage at--_What did you say?_" It was a ticklish job explaining about Kovacs, but when she understood that he just wanted to do a friend a favor, and she'd still have Paul all to herself, she calmed down. They made their arrangements quickly, and switched off. He hesitated a minute before he called Marge. She was quite a dish to give up. Once she'd seen him with Sylvia, he'd be strictly _persona non grata_--that was for sure. It was an unhappy thought. Well, maybe it was in a good cause. He shrugged and called her. She nearly cut him off when she first heard his request, but he did some fast talking. The idea of several days at the cottage intrigued her, and when he described how smitten Kovacs had been, she brightened up and agreed to come. He switched off, adjusted the drape of his genuine silk scarf, and stepped out of the booth. Kovacs and the kids were waiting. The armament officer had apparently been telling them of Paul's exploits. They glowed with admiration. The oldest boy, about eleven, had true worship in his eyes. He hesitated a moment, then asked gravely: "Would you tell us how you kill a Red, sir?" Paul eyed the time-honored weapon that dangled from the youngster's hand. He bent over and tapped it with his finger. His voice was warm and confiding, but his eyes were far away. "I think next we're going to try a slingshot," he said. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Astounding Science Fiction_ November 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
30836_3943	detective and mystery stories	Biggers, Earl Derr	" "Well," went on the hermit, "as I say, through all this downpour of people, including women, I've hung on to one idea. I'm working for you. You give me my wages. You're the boss. That's why I feel I ought to give what information I got to you." "Yes, yes," Mr. Magee agreed impatiently. "Go ahead." "Where you find women," Peters continued, "there you find things beyond understanding. History--" "Get to the point." "Well--yes. This afternoon I was looking round through the kitchen, sort of reconnoitering, you might say, and finding out what I have to work with, for just between us, when some of this bunch goes I'll easily be persuaded to come back and cook for you. I was hunting round in the big refrigerator with a candle, thinking maybe some little token of food had been left over from last summer's rush--something in a can that time can not wither nor custom stale, as the poet says--and away up on the top shelf, in the darkest corner, I found a little package." "Quick, Peters," cried Magee, "where is that package now?" "I'm coming to that," went on the hermit, not to be hurried. "What struck me first about the thing was it didn't have any dust on it. 'Aha,' I says, or words to that effect. I opened it. What do you think was in it?" "I don't have to think--I know," said Magee. "Money. In the name of heaven, Peters, tell me where you've got the thing." "Just a minute, Mr. Magee. Let me tell it my way. You're right. There was money in that package. Lots of it. Enough to found a university, or buy a woman's gowns for a year. I was examining it careful-like when a shadow came in the doorway. I looked up--" "Who?" asked Magee breathlessly. "That little blinky-eyed Professor Bolton was standing there, most owlish and interested. He came into the refrigerator. 'That package you have in your hand, Peters,' he says, 'belongs to me. I put it in cold storage so it would keep. I'll take it now.' Well, Mr. Magee, I'm a peaceful man.
30680_272	science fiction	Olin, Richard	He felt funny. The overly familiar cafeteria had suddenly become strange. A feeling began to grow in him that, somehow, the cafeteria was wrong. "It ... looks funny," he said. Jory became alert. "What looks funny?" "I don't know ... the room." "What's wrong with the room?" Jory bent over. His eyes were intent, but his voice stayed low. He spoke with great care. "I ... don't know. It looks funny. Empty. Older. No, wait--" And the feeling was gone. Ernie shook his head. It was the old, crowded and not too clean cafeteria, again. He turned to Jory. "Well, they better not! I was out of work six months on the last layoff." He paused and marshaled a last, telling argument: "I can't afford it!" Jory laughed. "Take it easy. I said there _might_ be one. Lots of things might happen. Hell, the world itself might come to an end." Ernie said grumpily, "I don't like 'mights'. Why can't they leave a man alone and let him do his work? Why do they gotta--" Jory stood up and grinned. "Come on, Ernie. What do you need money for? I mean, other than to keep up the payments on your TV?" Ernie rose. "Don't be such a guy," he grumbled. "We better get back. If I come in late from lunch, I've had it." It was a quarter of a mile across the plant yard to where they worked. They walked in silence for the first few yards. Ernie thought his own thoughts and listened to the sound of their feet on the gravel. Presently, Jory said, "Ernie, you watch the fights. Do you remember back when they had the Rico-Marsetti bout?" Ernie still felt irritable. "Hell, yes, I remember. It was just two weeks ago. You make it sound like it happened six months back." "How well do you remember it?" "Well enough. That bum Marsetti cost me ten bucks when he dived in the sixth. He was the two-to-one favorite." "He didn't dive." "Yeah? You ask him?" "No. I read the papers.
26956_62	science fiction	Sevcik, Al	"The point is, Doc, it's not much to go on, and we don't dare send another ship to check for fear of attracting attention to ourselves. If we could only be _sure_." "Jim," over the intercom, Philips' voice seemed to waver slightly, "those men honestly saw what they say. I'd stake my life on it." "All of us are, Doc." He flipped the off button. Just thirty days now, since the scout ship _Leo's_ discovery and the panicked dash for home with the warning. Not that the warning was worth much, he reflected, Earth had no space battle fleet. There had never been any reason to build one. Then, two weeks ago, Aku's trading fleet had descended from nowhere, having blundered, he said, across Earth's orbit while on a new route between two distant star clusters. When told of the impending attack, Aku immediately offered to cancel his trip and evacuate as many humans as his ships could hold, so that humanity would at least survive, somewhere in the galaxy. Earth chose to accept his offer. "Hobson's choice," Rothwell growled to himself. "No choice at all." After years of handling hot and cold local wars and crises of every description, his military mind had become conditioned to a complete disbelief in fortuitous coincidence, and he gagged at the thought of Aku "just happening by." Still frowning, he punched a yellow button on his desk, and reviewed in his mind the things he wanted to say. * * * * * "Jim! Isn't everything all right?" Chagrined, Rothwell scrambled to his feet, the President had never answered so quickly before. He faced the screen on the wall to his right and saluted, amazed once again at how old the man looked. Sparse white hair criss-crossed haphazardly over the President's head, his face was lined with deep trenches that not even the most charitable could call wrinkles, and the faded eyes that stared from deep caverns no longer radiated the flaming vitality that had inspired victorious armies in the African war. "Commander Aku was just here, sir. He demands that the children be ready for evacuation next Thursday. I told him that it would be damned difficult." The face on the screen paled perceptibly. "I hope you didn't anger the commander!" Rothwell ground his teeth. "I told him we'd deliver the goods on Thursday." Presidential lips tightened.
2127_1711	love stories	Saint-Pierre, Bernardin de	As I knew that he was not only ignorant of the spot where the body of Virginia had been deposited, but even of the fact that it had been recovered from the waves, I asked him why he had offered up his prayer at the foot of those bamboos. He answered,--"We have been there so often." He continued his course until we reached the borders of the forest, when night came on. I set him the example of taking some nourishment, and prevailed on him to do the same; and we slept upon the grass, at the foot of a tree. The next day I thought he seemed disposed to retrace his steps; for, after having gazed a considerable time from the plain upon the church of the Shaddock Grove, with its long avenues of bamboos, he made a movement as if to return home; but suddenly plunging into the forest, he directed his course towards the north. I guessed what was his design, and I endeavoured, but in vain, to dissuade him from it. About noon we arrived at the quarter of Golden Dust. He rushed down to the sea-shore, opposite to the spot where the Saint-Geran had been wrecked. At the sight of the isle of Amber, and its channel, when smooth as a mirror, he exclaimed,--"Virginia! oh my dear Virginia!" and fell senseless. Domingo and I carried him into the woods, where we had some difficulty in recovering him. As soon as he regained his senses, he wished to return to the sea-shore; but we conjured him not to renew his own anguish and ours by such cruel remembrances, and he took another direction. During a whole week he sought every spot where he had once wandered with the companion of his childhood. He traced the path by which she had gone to intercede for the slave of the Black River. He gazed again upon the banks of the river of the Three Breasts, where she had rested herself when unable to walk further, and upon that part of the wood where they had lost their way. All the haunts, which recalled to his memory the anxieties, the sports, the repasts, the benevolence of her he loved,--the river of the Sloping Mountain, my house, the neighbouring cascade, the papaw tree she had planted, the grassy fields in which she loved to run, the openings of the forest where she used to sing, all in succession called forth his tears; and those very echoes which had so often resounded with their mutual shouts of joy, now repeated only these accents of despair,--"Virginia!
3702_1098	love stories	Boucicault, Dion	Yes, I remember. She went in the _Proserpine."_ General Rolleston knitted his brows in silence for some time; then he said, "I'll set the detectives on his track." "Not to punish him, general. We do not want him punished." "To punish him, protect him, or avenge him, as the case may require," was the reply, uttered very gravely. Mr. White took his leave. General Rolleston rang the bell, and directed his servant to go for Hexham, the detective. He then rang the bell again, and sent for Sarah Wilson. He put some searching questions to this woman; and his interrogatory had hardly concluded when Hexham was announced. General Rolleston dismissed the girl, and, looking now very grave indeed, asked the detective whether he remembered James Seaton. "That I do, sir." "He has levanted." "Taken much, sir?" "Not a shilling." "Gone to the diggings?" "That you must find out." "What day was he first missed, sir?" "Eleventh of November. The very day Miss Rolleston left." Hexham took out a little greasy notebook and examined it. "Eleventh of November," said he, "then I almost think I have got a clew, sir; but I shall know more when I have had a word with two parties." With this he retired. But he came again at night and brought General Rolleston some positive information; with this, however, we shall not trouble the reader just here. For General Rolleston himself related it, and the person to whom he did relate it, and the attendant circumstances, gave it a peculiar interest. Suffice it to say here that General Rolleston went on board the _Shannon_ charged with curious information about James Seaton; and sailed for England in the wake of the _Proserpine,_ and about two thousand miles astern. CHAPTER VIII. WARDLAW was at home before this with his hands full of business; and it is time the reader should be let into one secret at least, which this merchant had contrived to conceal from the City of London, and from his own father, and from every human creature, except one poor, simple, devoted soul, called Michael Penfold.
20563_2722	love stories	Thomson, Charles Goff	He set the time at moonrise." "A husky lot," commented the Major. "They're bigger than the Bogobos, and lighter skinned--but they sure don't get much chance to tan in these woods!" "They're a wild lot, Major, but you'll like them." They saw a woman leave the circle of fires and approach their hut bearing two crude dishes. She hesitated near the door, nervously searching the newcomer with timid black eyes, but reassured by Terry's low word she climbed the bamboo steps and laid before them a supper of venison, yams and boiled rice, then scampered out with a twinkle of brown legs. While they ate the Major outlined the news of Davao. Terry, tired of the monotonous fare, finished quickly and sat on the threshold, looking out upon the savages who squatted at supper about the fires. "Major," he said, "we arrived here at a strange time. These people are all worked up over the question as to who shall succeed Ohto as chief of the tribe. You remember I told you that he has no relatives, that they have all died off. His last grandson died three years ago. He was to have married--" He broke off and turned to face the Major. "You may remember my reporting a Bogobo tale to the effect that a Spanish baby had been abducted?" "Yes, we looked it up, Terry. It was true." "It's true all right. She is here! A wonderful girl, Major, beautiful, wildly reared but--well, you may see her to-night for yourself. She was stolen by these people when she was an infant and Ohto's grandson was three years old, stolen to become his bride when both came of age. That is the way they keep their chieftain strain fresh--by stealing children from outside tribes and mating them when they grow up. Ahma--that is her name--is the only white child they ever abducted. "But Ohto's grandson died a year before the marrying age. She has grown up in Ohto's household, has been taught their beliefs, dresses like them except that as his adopted daughter she is entitled to finer things. She is one of them except for the whiteness of her skin. One of them, yet ... different." His voice trailed off into a silence in which the subdued murmurings of the Hill People sounded loud.
35819_2716	love stories	Dorrance, James French	Just as I used to thank Heaven, looking at those statued ladies, that they couldn’t relax from their perfection, I feel like praying that Jane never will relax into a smile—until she smiles on me.” A crowded silence fell between, but did not separate them. Its most vital question the Westerner next answered bluntly, after his way. “It ain’t impudence, my calling her by her first name, Mr. Lauderdale. I haven’t had a real good opportunity as yet to ask your daughter to marry me. You see, we haven’t met any too often—this is time the fourth and only a shade less perturbed than the former three. But rest assured that I’ll take advantage of the first chance. Our ‘happily-ever-afterward’ is all settled so far as I am concerned.” “I see.” Although in one way the blind man’s quiet statement wasn’t true, in another he looked as though it was. At a call from the rear room, Pape sprang to open the door and relieve Jane of her laden tea-tray. On turning, he noticed that the father’s one hand gripped the other in his strong, firm, Westernwise clasp, as though in self-congratulation. He looked as though he now felt sincere in the welcome extended earlier for form’s sake to one Peter Stansbury Pape. Just why? Well, why not? CHAPTER XVI—AN ACCEPTED ALLY “Mr. Pape has been painting your picture with a brush dipped in colors of the Yellowstone,“ observed Curtis Lauderdale as he sipped the fragrant amber brew which his daughter had poured and passed. The girl flashed their guest an indignant glance. “Attacking dad at his weakest point? For that I should paint him an awful picture of you.” “With a brush dipped in colors of the truth?” At her threat and Pape’s meek retort, the old man’s eyes continued to beam their way, as only sightless eyes can beam. “You needn’t, Jen-Jen. It doesn’t matter what Mr. Pape looks like. Men show less on the outside what they are than women. I’d rather see him as he is inwardly. Already I know that he has both an imagination and a sense of humor. And he is direct with the _skookum_ talk, which doesn’t lend to lies. As for his exterior, I imagine him as moderately sizeable and well-muscled and plain, or you wouldn’t have brought him around.”
53456_1783	science fiction	Elam, Richard M. (Richard Mace)	Some minutes later, the red ground rushed up at them like an enfolding blanket. Their final problem faced them now. If they landed safely, they would have conquered space in a way no spaceman had ever done before. Glen’s muscles drew tight and his heart thumped rapidly as the last few hundred feet melted away. He wanted to close his eyes during these final seconds but he forced himself to watch the rising ground so that he could brace himself at the moment of contact. He was glad they had the foam rubber cushion beneath them. Glen counted off the last few feet. “A hundred—fifty—twenty—!” As they struck, Glen was thrown against the ceiling of the bubble. Plastic clattered against plastic as the bubble rolled over on the ground many times before stopping. Glen straightened himself out. He was shaken up but he was unhurt. He looked across at Skip. “We made it,” Glen said, but his voice shook, as if he wasn’t yet able to believe it. He tore off the door seals, shoved out the door. Then they got out and stretched their legs. Looking at the domes of Mars City in the distance, Glen asked, “Ready to start walking?” “After being cooped up like a chicken, I’m willing to walk all over Mars. Let’s go.” Skip’s natural good humor had returned. Less than an hour later, an astonished captain at the Mars City spaceport heard the boys’ strange story. “Your courage and ingenuity have been incredible!” the captain said when they had finished. “I can’t believe that you two are Wockies. If you weren’t flunked for reasons of scholarship, I’m sure you’ll be reinstated.” “We weren’t flunked for that reason, sir,” Skip said. “For what reason then?” the captain asked. Glen smiled wryly as he replied, “We were flunked, sir, because we failed the test to determine whether we could bear up in an emergency or not!” _THE BIG SPACE BALL GAME_ It was an unusual setting for baseball. Instead of a blue sky, there was the darkness of space and the brilliance of stars overhead. The light of Earth flooded the scene, and surrounding the oversized diamond were the walls of Copernicus crater, over fifty miles across. On the mound, Bill Cherry was pitching practice balls to his catcher, Ollie Taylor.
45629_695	detective and mystery stories	Newcomb, Ambrose	"Between you and me and the lamp-post, brother," Jack remarked a bit seriously, "I don't seem to hanker much about climbing in hopes of getting through all that black mess, it's got a venomous look to me as though it might turn out to be one of those electrical twisters we've heard about. I've half a mind to run in closer to the shore in hopes of finding some sort of a point heading out into the lake behind which we could run and be sheltered from the worst of the blow. How about that, Perk?" "Sounds good to me, ol' hoss an' by the same token I kinder guess I just sighted the cape we want, a mile or so ahead there." He pointed as he spoke to what looked like a fairly sizable point that jutted out from the shore and behind which they would undoubtedly find a lagoon deep enough for their purpose. "Yes, I see what you mean and here we go licketty-split for that headland," Jack told him without loss of time. Indeed, the grumble of distant thunder had by now grown more like a roaring lion or a bull alligator in a swamp, challenging a rival to deadly combat. "The closer we get the better I like that cape," Perk was saying as he continued to stare through the glass, "it's pretty high land and ought to shield us fairly well from any blow I'm glad to say, 'cause the wings o' the best ship ever built are kinder weak stuff and likely to be blowed away in a gale when held fast by an anchor or hawser." Jack was picking the proper spot on which to alight--of course that would be on the water, but then it would be an easy matter for them to taxi around the point and find a safe harbor if things were as they pictured them. This program was duly carried out without the slightest difficulty. The friendly tongue of high land proved all they could have hoped for and Jack readily drove his boat around its tip, to bring up further on where the ground rose to its maximum height. "Looks okay to me, Perk," he called out as he stopped his motor. "Couldn't well be bettered I'd say, partner." "Then drop the mudhook, and see what kind of holding bottom you get," Jack told his mate which Perk proceeded to do without loss of time.
34905_4523	adventure stories	Jones, P.	"And who was the captain of your brig in Fiume?" "One of my late wife's brothers, and as he seems to have disapproved of my second marriage, he has discarded my ship." "And is he married?" "Of course, he is; did you ever know any unmarried captain? Land rats always seem to look upon marriage as a halter, whilst we sailors get spliced as young as possible. Perhaps it's because we are so little with our better halves that we are happy in married life." "And when you give up the sea will you settle down in Fiume?" "I suppose so, though Fiume is not my birth-place." "Isn't it? Where were you born, then?" "Where the dog-king was born!" "And where was the dog-king born? For, never having heard of him before, I am now quite as wise as I was," said Uros. "Well, they say that Atilla, who was a very great king, was born at Starigrad, the old castle, which, as you know, is not very far from Nona. Starigrad is said to have been built on the ruins of a very old city, which was once called Orsopola, but which now hardly deserves the name of a town. The village where I was born goes by the name of Torre-Vezza, but we in Slav know it as Kulina-pass-glav." "What a peculiar name, The Tower of the Dog's Head," added Milenko. "Yes, it is also called The Tower of the Dog-King Kulina-pass-kraljev." "And why?" asked Uros. "Because it was the tower where Atilla was born, and as the king happened to have a dog's ears, the place was called after him The Tower of the Dog-King." "How very strange that a king should have a dog's ears." "Not so very strange either. Once, in olden times, a king actually had ass's ears; but that was long before constitutional monarchy: I doubt whether people would stand such things nowadays. Some historians say that he had a dog's head, but that, I daresay, is an exaggeration; and perhaps, after all, he had only big hairy ears, something like those of a poodle.
9182_4978	love stories	Brontë, Charlotte	"Are they going to interrupt?" said he, glancing at the door with an annoyed expression. "They will not come here," I answered; for we were in the little salon where Madame never sat in the evening, and where it was by mere chance that heat was still lingering in the stove. They passed the door and went on to the salle-à-manger. "Now," he pursued, "they will talk about thieves, burglars, and so on: let them do so--mind you say nothing, and keep your resolution of describing your nun to nobody. She may appear to you again: don't start." "You think then," I said, with secret horror, "she came out of my brain, and is now gone in there, and may glide out again at an hour and a day when I look not for her?" "I think it a case of spectral illusion: I fear, following on and resulting from long-continued mental conflict." "Oh, Doctor John--I shudder at the thought of being liable to such an illusion! It seemed so real. Is there no cure?--no preventive?" "Happiness is the cure--a cheerful mind the preventive: cultivate both." No mockery in this world ever sounds to me so hollow as that of being told to _cultivate_ happiness. What does such advice mean? Happiness is not a potato, to be planted in mould, and tilled with manure. Happiness is a glory shining far down upon us out of Heaven. She is a divine dew which the soul, on certain of its summer mornings, feels dropping upon it from the amaranth bloom and golden fruitage of Paradise. "Cultivate happiness!" I said briefly to the doctor: "do _you_ cultivate happiness? How do you manage?" "I am a cheerful fellow by nature: and then ill-luck has never dogged me. Adversity gave me and my mother one passing scowl and brush, but we defied her, or rather laughed at her, and she went by.". "There is no cultivation in all this." "I do not give way to melancholy." "Yes: I have seen you subdued by that feeling." "About Ginevra Fanshawe--eh?" "Did she not sometimes make you miserable?" "Pooh! stuff! nonsense! You see I am better now.
3294_6587	adventure stories	Sabatini, Rafael	Ali delivered his message breathlessly. “The galleon has weighed anchor. She is moving out of the bay.” Asad clutched his beard, and scowled. “Now what may that portend? Can knowledge of our presence have reached them?” “Why else should she move from her anchorage thus in the dead of night?” said Biskaine. “Why else, indeed?” returned Asad, and then he swung upon Oliver standing there in the entrance of the poop-house. “What sayest thou, Sakr-el-Bahr?” he appealed to him. Sakr-el-Bahr stepped forward, shrugging. “What is there to say? What is there to do?” he asked. “We can but wait. If our presence is known to them we are finely trapped, and there's an end to all of us this night.” His voice was cool as ice, contemptuous almost, and whilst it struck anxiety into more than one it awoke terror in Marzak. “May thy bones rot, thou ill-omened prophet!” he screamed, and would have added more but that Sakr-el-Bahr silenced him. “What is written is written!” said he in a voice of thunder and reproof. “Indeed, indeed,” Asad agreed, grasping at the fatalist's consolation. “If we are ripe for the gardeners hand, the gardener will pluck us.” Less fatalistic and more practical was the counsel of Biskaine. “It were well to act upon the assumption that we are indeed discovered, and make for the open sea while yet there may be time.” “But that were to make certain what is still doubtful,” broke in Marzak, fearful ever. “It were to run to meet the danger.” “Not so!” cried Asad in a loud, confident voice. “The praise to Allah who sent us this calm night. There is scarce a breath of wind. We can row ten leagues while they are sailing one.” A murmur of quick approval sped through the ranks of officers and men. “Let us but win safely from this cove and they will never overtake us,” announced Biskaine. “But their guns may,” Sakr-el-Bahr quietly reminded them to damp their confidence. His own alert mind had already foreseen this one chance of escaping from the trap, but he had hoped that it would not be quite so obvious to the others. “That risk we must take,” replied Asad. “We must trust to the night.
32429_2446	love stories	Erskine, Payne	" "Where's Miss Cassandra now?" he asked, only more determined on his course the more he was hampered by circumstances. "She's in the loom shed weavin'. I throwed on the warp fer a blue and white bed kiver 'fore I war hurt, an' she hain't had time to more'n half finish hit. I war helpin' to get the weavin' done whilst she war at school this winter, an' come spring she war 'lowin' to come back an' help Frale with the plantin' an' makin' crap fer next year. Here in the mountains we-uns have to be forehanded, an' here I be an' can't crawl scarcely yet." After the thrifty soul had taken a few steps, instead of realizing her good fortune in being able to take any, she was bitterly disappointed to find that weeks must still pass ere she could walk by herself. She was seated on her little porch where David had helped her, looking out on the growing things and the blossoming spring all about--a sight to make the heart glad; but she saw only that the time was passing, and it would soon be too late to make a crop that year. She was such a neat, self-respecting old woman as she sat there. Her work-worn old hands were not idle, for she turned and mended Hoyle's funny little trousers, home-made, with suspenders attached. "I don't know what-all we can do ef we can't make a crap. We won't have no corn nor nothin', an' nothin' to feed stock, let alone we-uns. We'll be in a fix just like all the poor white trash, me not able to do a lick." David came and sat beside her a few moments and said a great many comforting things, and when he rose to go the world had taken on a new aspect for her eyes--bright, dark eyes, looking up at him with a gleam of hope. "I believe ye," she said. "We'll do anything you say, Doctah." Thryng walked out past the loom shed and paused to look in on the young girl as she sat swaying rhythmically, throwing the shuttles with a sweep of her arm, and drawing the great beam toward her with steady beat, driving the threads in place, and shifting the veil of warp stretched before her with a sure touch of her feet upon the treadles, all her lithe body intent and atune.
45973_1403	detective and mystery stories	Newcomb, Ambrose	" "Sure was, Jack," the other went on to state, as he managed to regain a stooping position, with the mighty pack still on his back, assisted by a friendly push at the hands of his ally. Jack seemed to breathe easier, showing that he had really worried about the possibility of something happening to their air courier, such as must put a halt to their operations, if not entirely smashing the same. "'Fore I started back," continued Perk, who was now wound up, and capable of running on for any length of time, his wind being assured, "I took time to toss some more o' them evergreens on exposed parts o' the crate. She's camouflaged neow to beat the band--kinder guess a galoot with the eyes o' a hawk might pass by less'n fifty feet away, an' never suspicion what that big mound was. But there ain't been anybody araound there since we cut aout--I'm givin' yeou that straight, Pard Jack." Shortly afterwards they settled down in a secluded spot, where the brush grew thick enough to effectually conceal their presence, assisted in this friendly task as it was by various piles of rough rocks, such as were as plentiful in that wild country as "grains of sand on the seashore," Perk had more than once declared. Jack held to his resolve, and refused to say another word until he had taken the sharp edge off his appetite. Just then he doubtless could appreciate how his always hungry chum must suffer between meals. By the time he had been munching the stuff the sympathizing Perk kept putting before him, for something like ten minutes, the acute sensation had passed away. Perk had also been doing a little side act of his own, and managed to put away a fair proportion of eatables. He was waiting as patiently as he could for Jack to start telling what he meant by the word "discoveries;" and hoping something entertaining might be forthcoming. "I'm glad you saw fit to fetch that big flashlight, _ditto_ the two extra dry batteries along, buddy," observed Jack, finally; "because we're going to find a good use for the same. I've entered a claim for a nice dry residence, which we can use while we're in this region--rain or shine, cold or otherwise, it's a sure enough jim-dandy _cave_!
6993_2417	science fiction	Shiel, M. P. (Matthew Phipps)	for clearance. You will see at a glance the clauses of the law, if you cast your eyes over this schedule--” “Law!” the other broke in: “you talk of _Law_! But doesn’t the sea, then, belong by right to all men--?” “Not more than the land. Ask yourself: why should it? But I do hope you won’t argue: your time must be so precious”. Out shrilled the _Kaiser Wilhelm’s_ whistle of recall. “I must go!” said the officer with a worried hand-toss: “I must go. If you give me those documents, I will show them to the Captain--but he is not the sort of man--this is mere piracy, after all! But, good God, gentlemen, if you only dare touch that ship, I shouldn’t put myself in your place this day week for all--” He snatched the papers, dashed, and his men, in a passion of haste, lay to the oars, the _Kaiser_ only four hundred yards from the _Boodah_; and the officer, shaking aloft the documents, pitched up the stair, the centre of five hundred pairs of scared eyes, while the captain bored his way to him. Two minutes of intense low speech, crowded with gestures: and suddenly the Captain’s face, till now haggard, reddened; out went his shaken fist; with eyes blazing like lunacy, up he flew to the bridge; and now he is bending down with howling throat: “Passengers to their berths!” Simultaneously, above the engine-room stair a bell jangled; round swung the pointer to “_Full Ahead_”; and ere the decks were cleared of their bustle the _Kaiser_, like a back-kicking hen, scratched up under her poop a spreading pool of spume, which tossed spasmodic spray-showers and spoutings: and she stirred, stretched like a street, churned the sea, and, wheeling to reveal her receding stern, was away. By which time Hogarth was standing at a cubical cabin of steel on the roof, with him Loveday and Quilter-Beckett, his brow puckered with wrinkles, the sun troubling his eyes. “I suppose the _chef_ is warned?”--he threw away his cigar. “Oh, yes, my Lord King”, Quilter-Beckett answered. And Loveday: “She sweats like a thoroughbred”--haggard, but assuming calm: “few things could be more profusely expeditious”.
63045_1919	love stories	LM (Leslie Moore)	"I'm attending," he said gravely. "You know," said Miss Mason quietly, "that for a woman who spends as little as I do I am very rich." Barnabas nodded. "I thought you must have a good bit of money," he said, glancing round the studio. Miss Mason followed the direction of his glance. "That was rather--what you would call a splurge--on my part," said Miss Mason. "Fact is, I have about fifteen thousand a year. If I spend two in the year it will be all I shall do." "Yes," said Barnabas gravely. "Of course," went on Miss Mason, growing gruffer as she became more in earnest, "I've told you how much I care for art. Suppose I inherited the love of it from my father. See now, it's little use loving it if one doesn't get the chance to work when one's young--I mean as far as one's own creation is concerned. Get a lot of pleasure dabbing paint on canvas, making pictures of oranges, and drawing charcoal heads. But the time's past for me to do anything serious in that line. Glad you're honest enough not to contradict me. Been thinking, though, that there must be others who would like the chance. Care so much myself, would like to help them." She stopped. "A ripping idea," said Barnabas warmly. "Thought," went on Miss Mason, "that if five thousand pounds a year went for that purpose it'd be something--give twenty would-be artists the chance, anyhow. Each would-be artist to have an income of two hundred and fifty pounds for five years while they are studying--longer if you thought well. Then another to take their place. Want them to be people who'd really care. Love the work. Want you to help me. Don't rush the matter. If you can find the right people let me know. You're a young man. Would like to appoint you as my executor in the scheme. You could carry on the work. Would like, though, to see it started." Miss Mason looked anxiously at Barnabas. The little speech had cost her a great effort. It was the outcome of the thought of many weeks. Barnabas met her look. "There's nothing I should like better than to help you in the scheme," he said warmly. "It's fine. By Jingo!
2730_221	adventure stories	Haggard, H. Rider (Henry Rider)	Out, too, came the lioness like a flash of light, but quick as she went I managed to put the other bullet into her ribs, so that she rolled right over three times like a shot rabbit. I instantly got two more cartridges into the gun, and as I did so the lioness rose again and came crawling towards me on her fore-paws, roaring and groaning, and with such an expression of diabolical fury on her countenance as I have not often seen. I shot her again through the chest, and she fell over on to her side quite dead. “That was the first and last time that I ever killed a brace of lions right and left, and, what is more, I never heard of anybody else doing it. Naturally I was considerably pleased with myself, and having again loaded up, I went on to look for the black-maned beauty who had killed Kaptein. Slowly, and with the greatest care, I proceeded up the kloof, searching every bush and tuft of grass as I went. It was wonderfully exciting work, for I never was sure from one moment to another but that he would be on me. I took comfort, however, from the reflection that a lion rarely attacks a man--rarely, I say; sometimes he does, as you will see--unless he is cornered or wounded. I must have been nearly an hour hunting after that lion. Once I thought I saw something move in a clump of tambouki grass, but I could not be sure, and when I trod out the grass I could not find him. “At last I worked up to the head of the kloof, which made a _cul-de-sac_. It was formed of a wall of rock about fifty feet high. Down this rock trickled a little waterfall, and in front of it, some seventy feet from its face, was a great piled-up mass of boulders, in the crevices and on the top of which grew ferns, grasses, and stunted bushes. This mass was about twenty-five feet high. The sides of the kloof here were also very steep. Well, I came to the top of the nullah and looked all round. No signs of the lion. Evidently I had either overlooked him further down, or he had escaped right away. It was very vexatious; but still three lions were not a bad bag for one gun before dinner, and I was fain to be content.
40751_1357	adventure stories	Strang, Herbert	They sat discussing the strange phenomenon. Mackenzie advanced the theory that the rock was phosphorescent, and Jackson claimed that he had disproved it when, after rubbing his hand on the warm floor, there was no emanation of light from his fingers. Presently, tired out, and lulled by the warm close air, they fell asleep. They were awakened by finding themselves gently shaken. The door had been silently opened, and two visitors were in the room. The prisoners recognised them at once. They were the two Chinamen with whom they had unforgettable links. "Arise!" said the lad in his hushed faltering tone. "Arise! The August and Venerable commands you to his presence." "The August and Venerable isn’t this one-armed villain after all," whispered Forrester. "We must go with them: there’s no help for it." They noticed that the one-armed man had changed his dress. He wore now a long, white, full-sleeved garment with a green girdle about his waist. He signed to them to precede him through the open doorway. On passing out into a vaulted corridor, which, like their room, seemed to have been hewn out of the solid rock, they found awaiting them an escort of a dozen little black men like those they had already seen, and similarly armed. They followed them through corridor after corridor, the floors of which sloped gradually upward, then into a kind of ante-chamber, and finally into a huge rectangular hall. The greenish light had grown stronger and stronger as they proceeded, and the hall was brilliantly illuminated, though the illumination had no visible source. Like diffused daylight, when the sun has gone down, it came apparently from no definite direction: it was everywhere. At first the three white men took in no details of the scene before them. They were dazzled by the brightness, oppressed with a sense of mystery, an apprehension of they knew not what, the dead silence that prevailed. But when their first sensations had passed, they gazed about them with a tingling curiosity. The walls, glowing with the all-pervading greenish light, were decorated with Chinese designs. The predominant feature of the scheme was a figure which at first sight might have been mistaken for the conventional Chinese dragon; but, on closer examination, it seemed to the spectators to resemble more nearly the reconstruction of some prehistoric sea-monster, such as European zoologists have attempted on the basis of fossil discoveries. The figures were arranged in a regular order.
40907_3275	adventure stories	Marchmont, Arthur W.	" "You had not then played us false and worn that domino." "I will go at once and tell all I know," she exclaimed excitedly. Good. She had not told. "It is too late. You were the decoy, but the duke is now in the hands of my men, and no power on earth can save him if I but issue the order. Do you think I do my work so poorly as to leave him where you, or those whom you send, could find him?" She sat, her fingers interlocked and her eyes staring in a fixed, set gaze of abject fright, while her breath came and went with quick catches of agitation. "You have played the subtle part of double treachery, and you will find it deadly dangerous," I went on sternly. It was necessary to frighten her thoroughly for the object I had, and I let a couple of minutes pass in silence, while this conviction of her danger forced itself home. Then I opened the door of relief. "It rests with you to save his life, and your own, and Praga's," I said. She was too panic-stricken to act, and the hope in her face at my words made me rejoice. "Save the Countess Minna von Gramberg. Help me to find her." The light died out as suddenly as it had come. "I cannot. I know nothing of her whereabouts." "Tell me all you know about this trick by which you personated her." At that moment a man dressed as a Venetian gondolier approached to claim her for a dance. "I must know everything at once," I whispered hurriedly. "You must refuse him." It was a test of my power. If she went off to dance I should accept it as a sign of defeat. "I must not refuse. I dare not," she said nervously. "You understand what it means," I replied in the same undertone. The man came up, and the nervous movements of my companion's fingers showed me something of her agitation. "This is our dance, I think," he murmured, bowing. "Yes, I--yes, it is," and she half rose from her seat, but then sank back again. "But I am not quite well enough to dance. I am sitting here for the cooler air. Please excuse me.
9609_257	adventure stories	Fielding, Henry	"Very true, indeed," says the gentleman; "I find, sir, you are a man of excellent sense, and am happy in this opportunity of knowing you; perhaps our accidental meeting may not be disadvantageous to you neither. At present I shall only say to you that the incumbent of this living is old and infirm, and that it is in my gift. Doctor, give me your hand; and assure yourself of it at his decease." Adams told him, "He was never more confounded in his life than at his utter incapacity to make any return to such noble and unmerited generosity." "A mere trifle, sir," cries the gentleman, "scarce worth your acceptance; a little more than three hundred a year. I wish it was double the value for your sake." Adams bowed, and cried from the emotions of his gratitude; when the other asked him, "If he was married, or had any children, besides those in the spiritual sense he had mentioned." "Sir," replied the parson, "I have a wife and six at your service." "That is unlucky," says the gentleman; "for I would otherwise have taken you into my own house as my chaplain; however, I have another in the parish (for the parsonage-house is not good enough), which I will furnish for you. Pray, does your wife understand a dairy?" "I can't profess she does," says Adams. "I am sorry for it," quoth the gentleman; "I would have given you half-a-dozen cows, and very good grounds to have maintained them." "Sir," said Adams, in an ecstasy, "you are too liberal; indeed you are." "Not at all," cries the gentleman: "I esteem riches only as they give me an opportunity of doing good; and I never saw one whom I had a greater inclination to serve." At which words he shook him heartily by the hand, and told him he had sufficient room in his house to entertain him and his friends. Adams begged he might give him no such trouble; that they could be very well accommodated in the house where they were; forgetting they had not a sixpenny piece among them.
65383_5039	detective and mystery stories	Wallace, Edgar	Bobbie’s door closed. He heard the click of Diana’s lock being fastened. Dempsi passed, after rhapsodizing at the closed portals of Diana’s bower. From somewhere below came the snores of Julius Superbus. Every exit from the house was closed, save one. The little casement in the big windows of The Study. Gordon had made a careful examination, for there was a possibility that Diana had taken the precaution of screwing it tight. But this she had neglected, satisfied probably with the presence in The Study of Mr. Superbus. Twice Gordon had tiptoed to the door of his room and turned the handle. It was unlocked to-night. With Bobbie in the house Diana had relaxed her vigilance. Half-past-one chimed. Gordon got off the bed, put on his soiled collar and his coat and gathered up his shoes. He was penniless, but the servants at the hotel knew him, and he would be able to write a cheque on the hotel note-paper and get all the cash he wanted. And then he would return and deal with Mr. Dempsi. He had not yet decided as to the method of Dempsi’s death, but it would be painful. As for Heloise ... he hoped that she would be gone. Extinguishing the light, he opened the door and listened. There was no sound, and, creeping down the stairs, he passed silently into The Study. Mr. Superbus was breathing regularly--the window rattled a little; the floor vibrated; but no other ill effects followed. As Gordon stood listening, the detective grunted and turned over on his side. The snores ceased--Julius was in a deeper sleep than ever. Now was his chance; yet he had not taken a step before he halted. A circle of light had appeared at the window. He waited, holding his breath. There was a rasping sound, and the casement opened. He saw the dark bulk of a figure wriggle through. A long pause, in which the newcomer was invisible, then the circle of light appeared again. This time on the safe. A burglar! His first impulse was to leap at the man and grapple with him. His second was to approach with less commotion.... “Hands up, or I’ll fire!” At the first sibilant of the words, the light went out, and then: “Don’t shoot, guv’nor. It’s a cop!” “Don’t shout, you fool!” hissed Gordon.
57088_4161	detective and mystery stories	Footner, Hulbert	" "Sure, I know you, boss." "Listen; go quick to her apartment--don't telephone. Tell her her father is coming back and to beat it, see? Tell her the old cab will be at the door in five minutes. I'll make it all right with you." "I get you, boss." "Be quick! He's almost there!" Greg then drove the flivver for all there was in her to Sherman Square, to Riverside, to Ninety-fourth Street. As he ran up the narrow roadway to the Stickney Arms a cab stopped there ahead of them. De Socotra sprang out and ran up the steps. The cab went on. Greg stopped just beyond the steps, and waited for a moment or two. If Amy had got out safely, she would be on the lookout for him. But she did not appear. His anxiety became insupportable. He could not rest. He went into the apartment house to learn what had happened. The gorgeous blue-clad ones looked askance at the shabby driver. The boy he knew was not in sight. "Where is Frank?" he asked. "Up-stairs." Even as he asked Frank stepped out of an elevator. There were two elevators, and evidently de Socotra had gone up in one as Frank came down in the other. Greg beckoned Frank aside from the others. "I'm the fellow that telephoned you just now--about Miss de Socotra." Frank's jaw dropped. Greg had not time to make explanations. He showed the boy the five dollar bill de Socotra had just tossed him. That did the trick, though the boy still gaped at him. "You gave her my message?" "Yes, just now." "Only just now! It was a good five minutes ago!" "I know. It wasn't my fault. They kept me waiting at the door. I suppose the girl had to wait for a chance to slip her word." "You should have told the maid! She's safe." "How was I to know that?" "Is she out of the place?" "No, she went back for something." Greg groaned. "Then it's too late. He's just gone up." The boy whistled. Greg jumped for the elevator. But the boy hung back. Greg was too disreputable looking for the Stickney Arms.
51840_5110	western stories	Beach, Rex	Now it seemed a crime to ravage it. He crept towards the nearest wall and listened. Within was the sound of voices, though the windows were dark, showing that the inhabitants were on the alert. Beneath the foundations he made mysterious preparations, then sought out the office building and cook-house, doing likewise. He found that back of the seeming repose of the Midas there was a strained expectancy. Although suspense had lengthened the time out of all calculation, he judged he had been gone from his companions at least an hour and that they must be in place by now. If they were not--if anything failed at this eleventh hour--well, those were the fortunes of war. In every enterprise, however carefully planned, there comes a time when chance must take its turn. He made his way inside the blacksmith-shop and fumbled for a match. Just as he was about to strike it he heard the swish of oiled clothes passing, and waited for some time. Then, igniting his punk and hiding it under his coat, he opened the door to listen. The wind had died down now and the rain sang musically upon the metal roofs. He ran swiftly from house to house, and, when he had done, at the apices of the triangle he had traced three glowing coals were sputtering. The final bolt was launched at last. He stepped down into the ditch and drew his .45, while to his tautened senses it seemed that the very hills leaned forth in breathless pause, that the rain had ceased, and the whole night hushed its thousand voices. He found his lower jaw set so stiffly that the muscles ached. Levelling his weapon at the eaves of the bunk-house, he pulled trigger rapidly--the bang, bang, bang, six times repeated, sounding dull and dead beneath the blanket of mist that overhung. A shout sounded behind him, and then the shriek of a Winchester ball close over his head. He turned in time to see another shot stream out of the darkness, where a sentry was firing at the flash of his gun, then bent himself double and plunged down the ditch. With the first impact overhead the men poured forth from their quarters armed and bristling, to be greeted by a volley of gunshots, the thud of bullets, and the dwindling whine of spent lead. They leaped from shelter to find themselves girt with a fitful hoop of fire, for the “Stranglers” had spread in the arc of a circle and now emptied their rifles towards the centre.
13497_6891	love stories	Dell, Ethel M. (Ethel May)	"He is rather magnanimous, isn't he? Well, come along and tell Isabel!" Scott's eyes came swiftly to him. He released Dinah, and offered his hand to his brother. "Let me congratulate you, old chap!" he said, his voice rather low. "I hope you will both have--all happiness." "Thanks!" said Eustace. He took the hand, looking at the younger man with keen, hawk-eyes. "We mean to make a bid for it anyway. Dinah is lucky in one thing at least. She will have an ideal brother-in-law." The words were carelessly spoken, but they were not without meaning. Scott flushed slightly; even while for an instant he smiled. "I shall do my best in that capacity," he said. "But before you go in, I want you to wait a moment. Isabel has had a slight fainting attack. We mustn't take her by surprise." "A fainting attack!" Sharply Eustace echoed the words. "How did it happen?" he demanded. Scott raised his shoulders. "We were talking together. I can't tell you exactly what caused it. It came rather suddenly. Biddy and I brought her round almost immediately, and she declares that she will make the journey. She did not wish me to tell you of it, but I thought it better." "Of coarse." Sir Eustace's voice was short and stern; his face wore a heavy frown. "But something must have caused it. What were you talking about?" Scott hesitated for a second. "I can't tell you that, old fellow," he said then. Eustace uttered a brief laugh. "Too personal, eh? Well, how did it happen? Did she suddenly lose consciousness?" "She suddenly gasped, and said her heart had stopped. She fell across the table. I called to Biddy, and we lifted her and gave her brandy. That brought her to very quickly. I left her lying down in her room. But she says she feels much better, and she is very set upon leaving the arrangements for the journey unaltered." Scott spoke rather wearily. Dinah's heart went out to him in swift sympathy which she did not know how to express. "May I--could I--go to her?" she suggested, after a moment timidly. Scott turned to her instantly. "Please do! I know she would like to see you.
32697_72	science fiction	Quattrocchi, Frank	"The basis of this contact together with its nature are dependent upon _you_!" The voice had become ugly. There was nothing human about it save only the words, which were in flawless English. "Your system has long been under surveillance by the Races of Wan. Your--progress has been noted." There was almost a note of contempt, thought Harrison, in the last sentence. "Your system is about to reach others. It therefore becomes a matter of urgency that the Races of Wan make contact. "Your cultural grasp is as yet quite small. You reach four of your own system's planets. You have attempted--with little success--colonization. You anticipate further penetrations. "You master the physical conditions of your system with difficulty. You are a victim of many of the natural laws--natural laws which you dimly perceive. "But you master yourselves with greatest difficulty, and you are infinitely more a victim of forces within your very nature--_forces which you know almost not at all_." "What the hell--" began Mills. "Because of this disparity your maturity as a race is much in doubt. There are many among the cultures of the stars who would consider your race deviant and deadly. There are a very few who would welcome you to the reaches of space. "But most desire more information. Thus our visit. We have come to gather data that will determine your--disposition-- "Your race accepts the principle of extermination. You relentlessly seek and kill for commercial or political advantage. You live in mistrust and envy and threat. Yet, as earthlings, you have power. It is not great, but it contains a threat. We wish now to know the extent of that threat. "Here is the test." Suddenly an image resolved itself on the gleaming metal of the ship itself. _It was a blueprint._ A hundred cameras focused on it. "_Construct this. It is defective. Correct that which renders it not useful. We shall return in three days for your solution._" "Good God!" exclaimed Harrison. "It's a--_sword_!" "A what?" asked Mills. "A sword--people used to chop each other's heads off with them." Almost at once the metal giant was seen to move. Quickly it retraced its path across the apron, remained poised on the center of the runway, then disappeared almost instantaneously. * * * * * The Intersolar Council weathered the storm.
58132_1181	adventure stories	Brady, E. J. (Edwin James)	Tom held him in his arms and tried to soothe him in hollow whispers. His own voice was broken and hysterical. “Let us go home and tell them,” sobbed Dave. “I wish I hadn’t come. Oh! I wish I hadn’t ever gone piratin’, I do! It’s awful!” Tom thought a while. “No,” he muttered. “We better not do that; not yet.” “Why?” asked Dave. “Why not? I will if you don’t!” “You’d better not,” said Tom. “I will!” protested Dave. “I will!” “If we do,” said Tom, grimly, “that cove will kill us both. Besides we mightn’t be believed. An’ besides they might say we did it ourselves.” “Us?” said Dave, a new horror overtaking him. “Yes,” replied Tom; “an’ it’s ten to one we’d both get ’ung.” “But we never did it,” cried Dave. “No,” responded Tom; “but there’s many an innocent cove gets ’ung.” “What’ll we do?” sobbed Dave. “It’s too horrible for anything. What will we do?” “I dunno,” replied Tom, in a shaky voice. “I never reckoned on anything like this. I wouldn’t a’ come either if I had. I’d rather be larruped!” “So would I,” moaned Dave, “I’d rather be whaled every day an’ twice on Sunday all me life. I would.” “Lemme think a minute,” said Tom. “I’m all froze.” “I’m sick and froze,” groaned Dave. “So’m I. I saw the knife. Did you?” “Yes,” sobbed Dave. “I saw him draw it out an’ stick it into ’im.” “Yes,” shuddered Tom, “an’ I saw him fall on his face.” “Oh!” exclaimed Dave. “Did you ’ear ’im?” “Don’t!” said Tom, “I can ’ear ’im now. Hist! what’s that?” Dave lay still and shivering. He was too terrified to speak. “It’s only a paddymelon,” remarked Tom, presently. “Do you think he’s gone?” whispered Dave. “Yes,” replied Tom.
11379_3396	love stories	Banks, Nancy Huston	Oh! my heart is breaking, David! Help me--help me to think! We must do something--we mustn't stand here crying like this. Think! Think! Help me to think what we can do." She pushed him away and stood pressing her trembling hands hard against her temples, trying desperately to clear her thoughts. The thought of calling on any one in the house did not cross her mind. There was nothing to expect from the judge; he had fallen asleep in his chair at the table. William Pressley would not believe there was any danger. He never believed in any trouble or agitation. It would only annoy him. Indeed, she scarcely thought of him at all. She caught the boy's arm wildly, with her tears suddenly dried. "Why don't you say something--do something!" she cried bitterly, "You are no better than, a girl yourself." She turned toward the house and ran a few steps only to come flying back. "I have thought of something--you must go after him! That's what you must do! He may be wounded. He may need you to help him. Surely you could fight if you tried. I could, myself! And you will try, dear, I know you will, for my sake. Come! Run! Run! Let's go to the stable and get the pony. He goes fast." Her passionate excitement swept them along, and she and the boy were now running toward the stable, hand in hand, hardly knowing what they did. Her head was bare, her white dress and her delicate slippers were very thin, and the chill of the autumnal night was already coming on. But she thought of none of these things, felt none of them, and did not stop at the door of the stable, although she had never entered it before, and it was now very dark within. But there was nothing for her to fear, she knew all about the horses, as every girl of the country did, since riding was a part of the life of the wilderness. Keeping close to David's side, she followed him to the pony's stall, and when she heard him take down the saddle and bridle that hung overhead, her hands eagerly went out in the darkness to help him buckle the girth. "There! You will ride as fast as you can--I know you will. And you will help him fight. Make haste. Why didn't we think to get your rifle?
65345_2871	detective and mystery stories	Taylor, Bert Leston	“But permit me to say that upon your disposition to listen to what I have to impart depends the success or failure of the expedition which is to start for Cuba to-morrow—or, rather, to-day.” Manada starts violently and bends a searching look upon the other’s face. “Nothing could be of greater importance to me, sir,” he says, and without further remark he follows Van Zandt to the little table where an hour ago he for the third time offered Isabel Harding his hand and heart. “Now, to business,” remarks Van Zandt, glancing at his watch. “It is 1:30. Thirty minutes for talk, the rest of the night for action. You are Don Manada of the Cuban revolutionary society.” That gentleman bows. “I am Phillip Van Zandt. That is all you need know concerning myself. Mrs. Isabel Harding, the lady to whom you made violent love to-night”—the Cuban scowls, but Van Zandt goes on relentlessly—“I have known for some months. She has honored me—shall I say?—with her deep regard. Perhaps she hinted as much to you.” Manada leans back in his chair and looks his new acquaintance over critically. This, then, was his rival; a negative one, to be sure, but a rival that any man might fear. “If it will flatter your vanity to know that the lady in question confessed to me that she loved only one man in the world and that that happy individual was not myself, you are welcome to the information,” Manada offers, sarcastically. “Thank you. But I was already aware of the fact, and it is not to the point. You proposed to Mrs. Harding and were rejected. Stay,” as the other colors and is about to make an angry retort: “I did not bring you here, sir, to refresh your mind one instance in which the usually discriminating Isabel displayed poor taste. But I repeat, she rejected you; hence subsequently something must have occurred between you to lead up to a rather peculiar agreement—Mrs. Harding’s consent to accompany you on a filibustering expedition?” “Caramba! She told you—you overheard—” “I overheard nothing. Eavesdropping is not in my line. And she told me little more; but enough to warrant me in stating that you have been indiscreet, sir, to use no harsher term, and have jeopardized not only your own welfare but that of your fellow-countrymen.” “You seem to be pretty familiar with my affairs, senor.”
24380_467	science fiction	Von Wald, E. G.	Nobody's had time to decontaminate this whole planet like they did Earth. Easiest thing in the world for a new officer on Mars to take a little sight-seeing excursion outside the domes and to be a little careless." "There would be an epidemic if he brought back a lot of spores," I suggested. "Besides, it's out of bounds to leave the dome." Spender shook his head. "You can get around that out-of-bounds business without any trouble," he said. "And there are decontamination chambers in the air locks, which would clean up anything he brought in; so there would be no epidemic. The exposure would take place outside of the domes--say if he opened his helmet to smell the perfume of the famous hypnotic marspoppy, or something like that. Then he would be infected, and after that it's non-contagious. All we need is somebody to buddy up to him, and take him out there. Nature and the poppy will do the rest." "Look," I said angrily, "cut that stuff out, Spender. If you're looking to me to disable the guy, forget about it. I won't. And I'm telling you right now that if I find anybody else does, I'll report it." * * * * * For once Spender laughed. He turned to face me, and his blue eyes were dancing in his scarred, old face. He was laughing at me and my belligerent righteousness, but the real joke, of course, was that unless somebody actually caught him talking Frendon into going out there, there wouldn't be the slightest chance of proving he had done it. It was the simplest thing in the world to sneak out and back without being observed, and we both knew it. "All right," I said then. "Have your laugh, Spender. And you, too, Harding. I don't like the nut we've got any more than you do, but what you're talking about is mutiny and murder--" "Oh, he wouldn't necessarily die," Harding commented thoughtfully. "If he gets the serum within a few hours of the first symptoms, he probably would be just a very sick man for about a month. Too long to take the ship out with us when we go." He grinned at me. "And as for mutiny, nobody would be using any physical force on him.
31485_3313	love stories	Nason, Frank Lewis	He placed the facts squarely before himself. He was hearing of no one so much as of Élise. Whether this was due to an awakening consciousness on his part or whether his interest in Élise had attracted the attention of others he could not decide. Certain it was that Miss Hartwell was continually singing her praise. Jim, who was rapidly recovering from his wounds and from his general shaking up at the wreck of the stage, let pass no opportunity wherein he might express his opinion. "Hell!" he remarked. "I couldn't do that girl dirt by up and going dead after all her trouble. Ain't she just fed me and flowered me and coddled me general? Gawd A'mighty! I feel like a delicatessen shop 'n a flower garden all mixed up with angels." Bennie was equally enthusiastic, but his shadowing gourd had a devouring worm. His commendation of Élise only aroused a resentful consciousness of the Blue Goose. "It's the way of the world," he was wont to remark, "but it's a damned shame to make a good dog and then worry him with fleas." There was also Dago Joe, who ran the tram at the mill. Joe had a goodly flock of graduated dagoes in assorted sizes, but his love embraced them all. That the number was undiminished by disease he credited to Élise, and the company surgeon vouched for the truth of his assertions. Only Zephyr was persistently silent. This, however, increased Firmstone's perplexity, if it did not confirm his suspicions that his interest in Élise had attracted marked attention. There was only one way in which his proposed plan of rescue could be carried out that would not eventually do the girl more harm than good, especially if she was compelled to remain in Pandora. Here was his problem--one which demanded immediate solution. He was at the Falls, unconsciously preparing to dismount, when he saw that neither Élise nor Miss Hartwell was there. He looked around a moment; then, convinced that they were absent, he rode on down the trail. As he entered the town he noted a group of boys grotesquely attired in miner's clothes. Leading the group was Joe's oldest son, a boy of about twelve years. A miner's hat, many sizes too large, was on his head, almost hiding his face. A miner's jacket, reaching nearly to his feet, completed his costume. In his hand he was swinging a lighted candle. The other boys were similarly attired, and each had candles as well. Firmstone smiled.
29954_13	science fiction	De Vet, Charles V.	For a short minute he sat, tense, his body stiffened by the agony that rode it--unable to move a muscle. I watched the torment in his eyes build up to a crescendo of pain, until the suffering became so great that it filmed his eyes, and I knew that, though he still stared directly at me, he no longer saw me. Then, as suddenly as the spasm had come, the starch went out of his body and his back slid slowly down the chair edge. He landed heavily with his head resting limply against the seat of the chair. His right leg doubled up in a kind of jerk, before he was still. I knew the time had come. "Where are you?" I asked. This moment had cost me sixty thousand dollars. Three weeks ago the best doctors in the state had given me a month to live. And with seven million dollars in the bank I couldn't buy a minute more. I accepted the doctors' decision philosophically, like the gambler that I am. But I had a plan: One which necessity had never forced me to use until now. Several years before I had read an article about the medicine men of a certain tribe of aborigines living in the jungles at the source of the Amazon River. They had discovered a process in which the juice of a certain bush--known only to them--could be used to poison a man. Anyone subjected to this poison died, but for a few minutes after the life left his body the medicine men could still converse with him. The subject, though ostensibly and actually dead, answered the medicine men's every question. This was their primitive, though reportedly effective method of catching glimpses of what lay in the world of death. [Illustration] I had conceived my idea at the time I read the article, but I had never had the need to use it--until the doctors gave me a month to live. Then I spent my sixty thousand dollars, and three weeks later I held in my hands a small bottle of the witch doctors' fluid. The next step was to secure my victim--my collaborator, I preferred to call him. The man I chose was a nobody. A homeless, friendless non-entity, picked up off the street. He had once been an educated man. But now he was only a bum, and when he died he'd never be missed. A perfect man for my experiment. I'm a rich man because I have a system.
32543_2224	adventure stories	Drayson, Alfred W. (Alfred Wilks)	This young chief was called Ingwe, and I told him who the captain was, and that he had come to pay a visit to Umnini. Ingwe shook hands with the captain, and then, speaking a few words to the Caffres informing them that we were friends, told them to go on to Umnini's kraal and announce our arrival. Ingwe led the way, and we walked through the bush-paths. The sailors seemed surprised at the order and discipline of these Caffres, and the dignified manner in which they behaved; but their surprise was greater when we approached the chiefs kraal, and found the men drawn up in two lines, between which we marched till we came near the huts, where Umnini met us. Umnini addressed all his conversation to me, and I translated it to the captain, and when the captain spoke I had to turn his words into Caffre. Umnini said he was glad to see the chief of the large ship, and was sorry there had nearly been a mistake made, as the captain came armed and like a war-party; but he was welcome to the kraal, and a young bull would shortly be killed for a feast for the sailors. The captain replied that he did not think his coming armed would have been mistaken for war, as he had no cause of complaint against Umnini, but wished to see the chief in his kraal; that he did not wish an ox killed, as his men would not be allowed to eat at that hour. Umnini then asked the captain and me to come into his kraal, where we saw several of Umnini's wives and children. The captain sat down in the hut, and we had a long conversation about the Zulus, and their attack on the white people at the bay; also about the life the Caffres lived, their habits, etc. The captain kept on making notes in a pocket-book as he received his answers, and seemed much interested in what he heard. He then asked about the white women who had been wrecked with me, and inquired whether it were possible to see them and persuade them to return to civilisation in his ship. I told him I believed they would avoid being seen, and certainly would not leave the country, as they were the mothers of several children, and were regularly accustomed to the life they now led. We stopped about as long as it took the sun to go ten times its diameter; and then, bidding the chief good-bye, we returned to our boats and pulled off to the ship.
21834_686	love stories	Milne, James	My particular rabbit had scarcely run out of hearing when half a dozen others were scurrying hither and thither in the same expectant confusion. Poor little things! What a fluster they made, and their scare communicated itself to a crow in a solitary fir-tree, against which I nearly collided. He croaked, flapped his wings and sailed off heavily, blackly, also anxious for safety. Now, by the sheer exercise of walking, I had spent my restlessness, and the hill air had driven the blood from my head. Moreover, I grew tired, for the road tells when you have to pick your steps in the dark, over rough ground. So, coming upon a fir-tree root, I made a seat of it, and waited for night to fully turn into day, a transformation which came swiftly. We have all seen the first flicker of a piece of tinder, fired by a beaten flint. It is like something come, only to go again, but presently it passes into a stronger flame, and then into light. This is the awakening of a Highland day, when the conditions resemble those of that morning. The heavy pall of clouds, lying low over the hills, seemed to take motion, for trifling rents appeared in them. The rents grew bigger, and then the stars, which had been shining all the time in the welkin above, began to look through those peep-holes. It was the sun setting to work upon the earth once more, our side of the globe returning to his rays and warmth. Slowly I looked about me, like one roused from a half-dream, seeing the near things first, and, as the dawn grew, ranging for the far things. Beneath me lay a glen pavilioned in the splendour of the rising sun, and gilded with the praise of the hills. Browns and reds and greens swam before my eyes into a radiant landscape, along which flowed the water of Don, a ribbon of silver, whose surface the fat trout would presently be breaking. Beside it wandered the road, on which, presently, to my astonishment, I made out two figures. Who could they be, there, at that time? When I left Corgarff Castle I had, out of habit, slung my spyglass over my shoulder, and I set it towards the men. One was in the tartan of my own regiment, the other in a tartan of darkish green with a red stripe in it, like the Farquharson tartan.
45236_2016	adventure stories	Vandercook, Margaret	The note was also written in French and not English. Julie devoted no time to puzzling over this fact. However, the explanation was simple, Bettina and David Hale had been studying French together and therefore David had written in French. At first Julie read the note idly, but with no compunction, and without even glancing toward Mrs. Burton’s door as if she were fearful of interruption. She really scarcely appeared to appreciate the fact that one did not read a note addressed to another person without that person’s consent. Later she grew more absorbed. But to understand the young girl’s apparent lack of principle, one needs to know something of her history and also of the state of mind which her stay in Miss Patricia Lord’s household had engendered. Julie’s mother had died when she was a baby; after a careless fashion she had been brought up by her father, who was a Bohemian and ne’er-do-well. Never for any length of time had her father worked long at any task, or Julie been sure of sufficient food. But always she had shared her father’s confidence and a certain shallow affection and had never criticized or reproached him. Indeed, he was the only person for whom she had ever cared until after her father’s death when she had first learned to know Marguerite Arnot. When war was declared, Robert Dupont, Julie’s father, had gone off to fight and had been killed in so gallant a manner at Verdun, that one must forgive his weaknesses. Yet can one ever escape the consequence of weakness? Julie had been left behind, without training, without a natural sense of honor, to repeat his mistakes, unless some one would help her to a new ideal of life. So far there had been no such influence for good in the young French girl’s life. Marguerite Arnot, Julie cared for devotedly, nevertheless, although this may not have appeared upon the surface, of the two girls Julie Dupont possessed the stronger nature. Meeting by chance in the tiny hall between their two apartments in the old house in Paris, it was Julie who had first made the advances. It was Julie who had done more for Marguerite’s happiness and comfort than the older girl had done for her. Instinctively Julie had recognized that while Marguerite was beautiful and gentle, she was not strong and needed some one to care for her. And Julie had always cared for her father; after his death her strong, clever, but misguided nature had really required some one upon whom she could lavish her affection.
4246_1724	love stories	Evans, Augusta J. (Augusta Jane)	" "Not at all. If you feel worse you must let me know." She turned to her books and soon forgot the presence of the newcomer. The latter watched her, and noticed now that she was dressed in deep mourning. Was she too an orphan, and had this circumstance rendered her so kindly sympathetic? The sweet, gentle face, with its soft, brown eyes, chained her attention, and in the shaping of the mouth there was something very like Lilly's. Soon Clara left her for recitation, and then she turned to the new books which madam had sent to her desk. Thus passed the morning, and she started when the recess bell rang its summons through the long room. Bustle, chatter, and confusion ensued. Pauline called to her to come into lunchroom, and touched her little basket as she spoke, but Beulah shook her head and kept her seat. Clara also remained. "Pauline is calling you," said she gently. "Yes, I hear; but I do not want anything." And Beulah rested her head on her hands. "Don't you feel better than you did this morning?" "Oh, I am well enough in body; a little weak, that is all." "You look quite tired. Suppose you lean your head against me and take a short nap?" "You are very good indeed; but I am not at all sleepy." Clara was engaged in drawing, and, looking on, Beulah became interested in the progress of the sketch. Suddenly a hand was placed over the paper, and a tall, handsome girl, with black eyes and sallow complexion, exclaimed sharply: "For Heaven's sake, Clara Sanders, do you expect to swim into the next world on a piece of drawing-paper? Come over to my seat and work out that eighth problem for me. I have puzzled over it all the morning, and can't get it right." "I can show you here quite as well." Taking out her Euclid, she found and explained the obstinate problem. "Thank you! I cannot endure mathematics, but father is bent upon my being 'thorough,' as he calls it. I think it is all thorough nonsense. Now, with you it is very different; you expect to be a teacher, and of course will have to acquire all these branches; but for my part I see no use in it. I shall be rejoiced when this dull school-work is over.
41529_1761	western stories	Barnes, Will C. (Will Croft)	The kid he's never been there afore, but Deafy tells him the well's only about a hundred feet from where they unpacked, so he moseys out into the dark lookin' for the well, his rope in one hand, the camp coffee pot in 'tother, the idee bein' to let the pot down into the well with the rope. "It were sure dark in them trees, and the kid he's a blunderin' and stumblin' along, a-cursin' the world by sections, when all to once he stepped off into fresh air, and the next thing he knows he's a standin' at the bottom of the well in about four or five feet of ice-cold water, and him a-still hangin' onto the rope and pot with a death grip. Took him about five minutes to git his breath and realize he done found the well all rightee, and then he sets up a squall like a trapped wildcat. He ain't forgot, neither, that Deafy ain't likely to hear him, the ole man bein' deafer than a rock; so after hollerin' a while and gittin' no results he stops it and begins cussin' jist to relieve his mind and help keep him from shakin' all his teeth outen his head account o' shiverin' so blamed hard. "Up on top Deafy he's busy startin' a fire and openin' up the packs gittin' ready to cook supper. The kid not bein' back with the water yit, and he bein' obliged to have water fer bread makin' purposes, Deafy finally decides the kid's gone and got hisself lost out there in the dark, and so he takes a _pasear_ out that a-way huntin' fer him. The ole man's a hollerin' and a trompin' through the cedars an' rocks, thinkin' more how much his wool's a-goin' to fetch than anything else, when he thinks he hears someone a-callin'. He turns to listen, gits a little more sound in his ears, takes a step or two in its direction, and, kerslop, he's into that there well hole, square on top of the young gent from 'ole Missou'. Say, the things them two fellers sed to each other, an' both at the same time, most cracked the walls of the hole." Dad wiped his eyes with the heel of his fat hand.
13282_1145	love stories	Sangster, Margaret E. (Margaret Elizabeth)	Without the knowledge that you're trying to keep from me you'd be as useless as"--she faltered--"as I am!" The Superintendent's expression reflected all the tenderness of her nature; the mother-instinct, which she had never known, made her smile into the girl's serious face. "My dear," she said, "you must not think that you're useless. You must never think that! Look at the success you've had in your club work--remember how the children that you teach have come to love you. You've done more with them, because of the things that you don't know, than I could ever do--despite the hard facts that I've had to brush up against. Find content, dear, in being the sweet place in our garden--that has so pitifully few flowers. Do not long for the hard, uncomfortable places on the other side of the garden wall!" Despite the Superintendent's expression--despite the gentle tone of her voice, Rose-Marie felt a sudden desire to cry out against the irony of it all. She was so tired of being classed with the flowers! "They toil not, neither do they spin," came back to her, from a certain golden text that she had learned, long ago, in Sunday-school. Even at the time it had seemed to her as if the flowers enjoyed lives that were a shade too easy! At the time it had seemed unfair that they, who were not workers, should be beautiful--more beautiful than the ants, for instance, that uncomplainingly toiled all day long for their existence. "I don't want to be a flower," she exclaimed, almost fretfully, "I want to be a worth while member of society--that's what I want! What's the use of being a decoration in a garden! What's the use of knowing only the sunshine? I want to know storms, too, and gales of wind. I want to share the tempests that you go through!" She hesitated; and then--"I read a book once," she said slowly, "I forget what it was--but I remember, in one place, that a woman was being discussed. She was a very beautiful elderly woman who, despite her age, had a face as unlined and calm as a young girl's face could be.
45776_725	detective and mystery stories	Newcomb, Ambrose	Henri maintained a fairly good speed, all the law would permit, so that few cars passed them on the road. Perk managed to watch closely, and never a motor came booming along in their wake, honking to announce the driver’s intention to pass by, than he had his eyes glued on the car and continued to pay strict attention until it had crept well up ahead. But after all nothing out of the way came to pass, and eventually they reached the aviation field where they found lights already in play, since a delayed air mail ship was hovering over signaling for better illumination. There was some small damage in regard to the steering gear, making it a bit risky to try a landing unless the field was brilliantly lighted. “You made an arrangement with a couple of the ground force to hang around so as to help us get the crate out okay, didn’t you, Perk?” queried Jack, as they drew up close to the particular hangar where they had seen their plane placed in quarters. “Yeah, I sure did, Jack,” the other replied. “Must be they’re over where that crate hanging overhead means to land—somethin’ wrong mebbe but they gimme their word to stay around till we got here—there, I c’n lamp the guys runnin’ thisaways right now, so it’s okay, partner.” “Yes, I see them coming,” returned the other, himself a bit relieved, since the intended departure was a most important episode in their plans, and to meet with any sort of a setback would be most aggravating indeed. The two mechanicians quickly arrived, the hanger was unlocked and opened so as to permit the exit of the ship. First of all both flyers hastened to don their working togs, then fasten on the ’chutes with the harness necessary for the purpose, all working smoothly and finally clapping their helmets on their heads, with the earflaps secured to keep things in readiness for any emergency that might crop up. This being accomplished, Jack gave the word to have the heavy ship dragged out into the open. He knew that his assistant would have looked after everything essential to their comfort during the coming flight for Perk was one of those dependable fellows who carry out orders with machine-like regularity.
45870_2601	adventure stories	Phillipps-Wolley, Clive	What did Shropshire or all the world indeed matter to him? he asked himself, and in another moment he might have spoken words which would surely have marred his own life and not made hers one whit happier. Luckily just then a wild laugh broke the silence and recalled Ned to himself. It was only the owl who laughed, but it sufficed. The dangerous charm of the silence was broken, and pressing the girl's hand to his lips he dashed away up the trail. Steve Chance and Phon had made nearly four miles and begun to pitch camp whilst he was getting that map. CHAPTER XX. THE ACCURSED RIVER. This world is a world of contrasts, in which laughter and tears, darkness and light, unite to make the varied pattern of our lives. When Ned Corbett left Lilla standing with tears which would not be denied upon her white cheeks, he felt as if he should never laugh again, and the ball in his throat rose as if it would choke him. In spite of the pace at which he strode through the moonlit forest aisles, his thoughts dwelt persistently upon the girl he had left behind him, or if they wandered at all from her, it was only to remind him of that snow-covered camp in the forest, at which he had taken his last farewell of that other true friend of his. And yet half an hour after he had wrung poor Lilla's hands in parting, Ned Corbett stood watching his comrades, his sides aching with suppressed laughter. Phon's voice was the first sound to warn Ned that he had almost reached the camp, but Phon and Steve were both far too absorbed in the problem before them to notice his approach. "You sure you no savey tie 'um hitch?" asked the Chinaman, who was standing with his hand upon the pack-ropes, whilst Chance held the cayuse by the head. "No, Phon, I no savey. You savey all right, don't you?" "I savey one side," replied the Chinaman. "S'pose the ole man throw the lopes, I catch 'um and fix 'um, but I no savey throw 'um lopes." "What the devil are we to do then?" asked Chance, looking helplessly at the pack and its mysterious arrangement of ropes. "If the old man does not overtake us to-night we can't start before he gets here to-morrow morning. I wonder what the deuce is keeping him?" Phon gave a grunt of contempt at his white companion's want of intelligence.
54010_1299	love stories	Hubback, Mrs. (Catherine-Anne Austen)	The bright fire which was burning in the comfortable little drawing room at the parsonage, irresistably invited them to enter and draw round it, before separating for the night. Their drive had dispelled their sleepiness, and they were all four in good spirits: it was just the time, the situation, when reserve seems naturally cast aside, and friendly chat and the merry laugh go round unrestrained. "Well, Miss Watson," said Mrs. Willis, "is your curiosity gratified? how do you like the Castle? are you envious of their state?" "No, I think not," answered Elizabeth reflectingly, "there are some things I should like, but much that would be troublesome. I dare say Lady Osborne has no worry about housekeeping, but then _I_ should feel the responsibility of having so many dependent on me." "And what part would you chose of her ladyship's manner of living?" asked Mr. Howard, "her jewels perhaps—or her six footmen?" "Neither," replied Elizabeth, laughing a little; "I am used to wait on myself, and should feel it a great restraint to be obliged to wait whilst others waited on me. I could not help thinking of what my father used to say, when Lady Osborne's maid was so long bringing her ladyship a shawl. 'If you want to be served, send—if you want to be _well_ served, go.' That was his motto—and though he never acted on it himself, I think I do—and would rather run up three pair of stairs myself, than wait whilst another does it." "I admire the activity and independence of your spirit, Miss Watson," replied Mr. Howard; "but you have not yet told me what it is you do envy." "No, and I do not mean to do it," replied she; "be satisfied with your own conjectures." "I must if you will say no more. And _you_, Miss Emma, how were you pleased with your evening?" "Very much—I have come back much wiser than I went; I have made up my mind that the more elevated the situation the less pleasant it would be unless one had been brought up to it." "Then you would not change places with Lady Osborne?" said he, fixing a pair of very penetrating eyes on her.
17844_3038	western stories	Lillibridge, Will	As they moved ahead, a realization of their destination at last came to the captive, and for the first time he balked. "Do what you wish with me," he cried. "I'll not go a step farther." They were perhaps a mile down the river. The bordering hills enclosed them like an arena. "Very well." Ben Blair spoke as though the occurrence were one of every-day repetition. "Give me your clothes!" Tom's face settled stubbornly. "You'll have to take them." The youth's hand sought his hip, and a bullet spat at the snow within three inches of the other's feet. There was a meaning pause. Slowly the bravado left the other's face. "Don't keep me waiting!" urged Ben. Slowly, very slowly, off came the captive's coat and vest. Despite his efforts, the hands which loosened the buttons trembled uncontrollably. Following the vest came the shirt, then a shoe, and the sock beneath. His foot touched the snow. For the first time a faint realization of the thing he was choosing came to him. The vicious bite of the frost upon the bare skin was not a possibility of the future, but a condition of the immediate now; and he weakened. But in the moment of his indecision, the wave of stubbornness and of blinding hate again flooded him, and a rush of hot curses left his lips. For a moment, the last time in their lives, the two men eyed each other fairly. Indescribable hate was written upon one face; the other was as blank as the surrounding snow. Its very immobility chilled Tom Blair and cowed him into silence. Without a word he replaced shoe and coat and took up his blanket. An advancing step sounded behind him, and, understanding, he moved ahead. After a while the foot-fall again gained upon him, and once more the walk merged into the interminable jog-jog of the back-trail. It was morning when the two began that last relay. It was four o'clock in the afternoon when they arrived amid the outskirts of the scattered prairie terminus which was their destination. Within ten minutes thereafter the two had separated. The older man, in charge of a lank, unshaven frontiersman, chiefly noticeable from a quid of tobacco which swelled one cheek like an abscess, and a nickle-plated star which he wore on the lapel of his coat, was headed for the pretentious white painted building known as the court-house.
32697_131	science fiction	Quattrocchi, Frank	"Listen to this." He picked up a stapled sheaf of papers from his desk. "'_Analysis of word usage indicates a complete knowledge of the English language_'--that's brilliant, isn't it? '_The ideational content and general semantic tone of the alien speech indicates a relatively high intelligence._ "'_Usage is current, precise...._' Bob, the man who wrote that report is one of the finest semantics experts in the solar system. He's the brain that finally broke that ancient Martian ceremonial language they found on the columns." "Well, mastermind," said Mills. "What will the _Engineering_ report say when you get around to writing it?" "Engineering report? What are you talking about?" "You didn't read the memo on your desk then? The one that requested a preliminary report from every department by 2200 today." "Good God, no," said Harrison snapping up the thin yellow sheet. "What in hell has a sword got to do with Engineering?" "What's it got to do with Semantics?" mocked Robert Mills. * * * * * _Construct this. It is defective. Correct that which renders it not useful._ Harrison's eyes burned. He would have to quit pretty soon and dictate the report. There wasn't any use in trying to go beyond a certain point. You got so damned tired you couldn't think straight. You might as well go to bed and rest. Bob Mills had gone long before. He poured over the blueprint again, striving to concentrate. Why in hell had he not given up altogether? What possible contribution could an engineer make toward the solution of such a problem? _Construct this._ You simply made the thing according to a simple blueprint. You tried out what you got, found out what it was good for, found out then what was keeping it from doing that. You fixed it. Well, the sword had been constructed. Fantastic effort had been directed into producing a perfect model of the print. Every minute convolution had been followed to an incredible point of perfection. Harrison was willing to bet there was less than a ten thousandths error--even in the handle, where the curves seemed to be more artistic than mechanical. _It is defective._ What was defective about it? Nobody had actually tried the ancient weapon, it was true. You didn't go around chopping people's heads off.
64515_105	science fiction	Fennel, Erik	To you this is just a great big childish show-off trick. Like those people who hesitate and draw a big crowd before jumping from some tall building. And it will accomplish just about as much. You'll either louse up the controls and crash, or else you'll have enough liquor aboard to stay in a drunken stupor until your oxygen runs out." Carlin, livid at those outrageously disrespectful words, tried to break in as Harris continued in mingled pleading and fury. "My God, man, don't you see what this means? This is the first spaceship ever built without scrimping and cutting expenses. This one will reach the moon _without crashing_. Why do you think I had it equipped with all sorts of scientific instruments? And why do you think I put so much thought into that light-flash communicator?" A thought came to him. "Good Lord, you probably don't even know Morse!" he said disgustedly. Carlin spluttered. "I had planned a definite program of investigation," Harris continued. "Physical studies of the moon's surface, astronomical observations without atmospheric interference, collection of experimental data that could forward the progress of space-flight by at least a century. And you, an untrained individual who knows nothing but money, would throw away that chance merely to satisfy your ego!" Carlin looked thoughtful and made a few remarks about reconsidering the matter. He could be extremely sly and devious when that would gain his ends, and Verne Harris was completely taken in. But Carlin was taking no chances on having his show spoiled by some pipsqueak engineer he could buy and sell ten thousand times over. It was easy enough, with his money and influence, to have Harris adjudged insane and quietly committed to an asylum. The matter was attended to the next morning. Carlin spent the night before blast-off alone in his desert villa. He had given orders not to be disturbed under any circumstances, so he was not informed that Harris had escaped. And he had enough drinks during the evening to miss the sound of a window catch being jimmied and the tiptoeing footsteps behind him. Only when the hypodermic needle plunged into the muscles of his neck did he know anything was amiss, and then it was too late. * * * * * He awoke five days later in a hot and dingy furnished room in a nearby city. His clothes were strange, cheap, and did not fit. In his pockets was a large roll of money--and nothing else.
362_3749	love stories	Porter, Eleanor H. (Eleanor Hodgman)	She had not forgotten that Arkwright had told her of their hatred of pity. In the sober second thought of the morning, Billy was not sure now of a possible romance in connection with Arkwright and the daughter, Alice; but she had by no means abandoned the idea, and she meant to keep her eyes open--and if there should be a chance to bring such a thing about--! Meanwhile, of course, she should not mention the matter, even to Bertram. Just what would be her method of procedure this first morning, Billy had not determined. The pretty potted azalea in her hand would be excuse for her entrance into the room. After that, circumstances must decide for themselves. Mrs. Greggory was found to be alone at home as before, and Billy was glad. She would rather begin with one than two, she thought. The little woman greeted her cordially, gave misty-eyed thanks for the beautiful plant, and also for Billy's kind thoughtfulness Friday afternoon. From that she was very skilfully led to talk more of the daughter; and soon Billy was getting just the information she wanted--information concerning the character, aims, and daily life of Alice Greggory. “You see, we have some money--a very little,” explained Mrs. Greggory, after a time; “though to get it we have had to sell all our treasures--but the Lowestoft,” with a quick glance into Billy's eyes. “We need not, perhaps, live in quite so poor a place; but we prefer--just now--to spend the little money we have for something other than imitation comfort--lessons, for instance, and an occasional concert. My daughter is studying even while she is teaching. She hopes to train herself for an accompanist, and for a teacher. She does not aspire to concert solo work. She understands her limitations.” “But she is probably--very good--at teaching.” Billy hesitated a little. “She is; very good. She has the best of recommendations.” A little proudly Mrs. Greggory gave the names of two Boston pianists--names that would carry weight anywhere. Unconsciously Billy relaxed. She did not know until that moment how she had worried for fear she could not, conscientiously, recommend this Alice Greggory. “Of course,” resumed the mother, “Alice's pupils are few, and they pay low prices; but she is gaining. She goes to the houses, of course. She herself practises two hours a day at a house up on Pinckney Street.
5270_4145	detective and mystery stories	Reeve, Arthur B. (Arthur Benjamin)	It was obvious she had spent a nervous night. There were circles under her eyes ill concealed by the small quantity of cosmetic she used. Her hands, shifting constantly, displayed the loss of her usual poise. "You are out bright and early," she added. "We've stumbled into a very important clue," Kennedy told her, with a show of giving her his confidence. "In that bag in Walter's hand is one of the studio towels. It contains a hint of the poison used to kill Miss Lamar and--of utmost consequence--it has provided me with an infallible clue to the identity of the murderer himself--or herself." It seemed to me that Marilyn blanched. "Where--where did you find it?" she demanded, in a very awed voice. "In one of the studio washrooms." "It has been--it has been in the washroom ever since poor Stella's death?" "No, not that! Jameson discovered it the same day but"--the very slight pause was perceptible to me; Kennedy hated to lie--"I haven't realized its importance until just this morning." Enid Faye, seeing us from a distance, conquered her dislike of Marilyn sufficiently to join us. She was very erect and tense. Her eyes, wide and sober and searching, traveled from my face to Kennedy's and back. Then she dissembled, softening as she came close to me, laying a hand on my shoulder and allowing her skirt to brush my trousers. "Tell me, Jamie," she whispered, her warm breath thrilling me through and through. "Has the wonderful Craig Kennedy discovered something?" It was not sarcasm, but assumed playfulness, masking a throbbing curiosity. "I found a towel in one of the studio washrooms," I answered, "and Craig has demonstrated that it is a clue to the poison which killed Stella Lamar as well as to the person who did it." Enid gasped. Then she drew herself up and her eyes narrowed. Now she faced Kennedy. "How can the towel be a clue to the crime?" she protested. "Stella was--was murdered way out in Tarrytown! Mr. Jameson found the towel here!" Kennedy shrugged his shoulders. "I cannot tell you that--just yet." He paused deliberately. "You see," he lied. "I have yet to make my analysis.
41529_1913	western stories	Barnes, Will C. (Will Croft)	They made one coffin an' put her an' the two chillun into it, one on each arm, an' they looked so sweet an' peaceful, like they was only asleep--an', anyway, that's what he read from the book at the grave--that they was only asleep. "You fellers all know how everybody in town was at the funeral, an' how one of the men in town had to say a little prayer at the grave, 'cause there wasn't no parson, they all bein' away off in Afriky an' Chiney a-prayin' an' a-singin' with niggers an' Chinees, an' not havin' no time to tend to their own kind of people to home, who p'raps needed prayin' for jist as much as the heathen in Chiney. "Then two sweet little girls sung a hymn 'bout 'Nearer my God to Thee,' an' when they got to the second verse everybody was a-cryin' an' the little girls jist busted out too, an' couldn't finish the song for a long time. "An', boys, that's about all there is to tell." I glanced around the dugout. The fire had burned low and I guess the most of them were glad; for, in the uncertain light, I could see moisture on more than one sunburned cowboy cheek, and my own eyes were, as one of them quaintly put it, "jist a-spillin' clean over with tears." [Illustration] [Illustration] CAMEL HUNTIN' By permission _The Breeder's Gazette_, Chicago, Ill. "Did any of yez ever go camel huntin'?" asked the cook, who had been listening to some tales of bear and lion hunting that had been going the rounds of the men about the chuck wagon. "Camel hunting?" cried the horse-wrangler, a look of astonishment on his face. "What on earth do you mean by camel hunting? We ain't none of us ever been to Afriky." "Camel huntin' is jest what I said," replied the knight of the dish-rag, flourishing that useful article in the air as he mopped off the lid of the chuck box. "Do you mean sure enough camels, camels with humps on 'em like what we seen at the circus in Albuquerque las' fall?" queried another doubting one.
7031_3702	love stories	Hull, E. M. (Edith Maude)	She remembered how, when she had pressed close to him, his hand had sought and gripped hers, conveying courage and sympathy. All that he could do he had done, he had shielded her body with his own, it must have been over his lifeless body that they had taken her. He had proved his faithfulness, sacrificing his life for his master's play-thing. Gaston was in all probability dead, but she was alive, and she must husband her strength for her own needs. She forced the threatening emotion down, and, with an effort, controlled the violent shivering in her limbs, and sat up slowly, looking at the Arab woman, who, hearing her move, turned to gaze at her. Instantly Diana realised that there was no help or compassion to be expected from her. She was a handsome woman, who must have been pretty as a girl, but there was no sign of softness in her sullen face and vindictive eyes. Instinctively Diana felt that the glowing menace of the woman's expression was inspired by personal hatred, and that her presence in the lent was objectionable to her. And the feeling gave a necessary spur to the courage that was fast coming back to her. She stared with all the haughtiness she could summon to her aid; she had learned her own power among the natives of India the previous year, and here in the desert there was only one Arab whose eyes did not fall beneath hers, and presently with a muttered word the woman turned back to her coffee-making. Diana's muscles relaxed and she sat back easily on the cushions, the little passage of wills had restored her confidence in herself. She moved her hand and it brushed against her jacket, coming away stained and sticky, and she noticed for the first time that all one side and sleeve were soaked with blood. She ripped it off with a shudder and flung it from her, rubbing the red smear from her hands with a kind of horror. The little tent was intensely hot, and there was a close, pungent smell that was eminently _native_ that she never experienced in the cool airiness and scrupulous cleanliness of Ahmed Ben Hassan's tents. Her sensitive lip curled with disgust, all her innate fastidiousness in revolt. The heat aggravated a burning thirst that was parching her throat.
4515_1492	western stories	Curwood, James Oliver	He gave an exclamation of satisfaction when under an old blanket in a dusty corner he found a Colt army revolver. But it was empty, and he found no cartridges. At last there was nothing left to search but the wolf-man's bunk. At the bottom of this he found what gave him his first real thrill--three of the silken snares made from Celie Armin's hair. "We won't touch them," he said after a moment, replacing the bear skin that had covered them. "It's good etiquette up here not to disturb another man's cache and that's Bram's. I can't imagine any one but a madman doing that. And yet--" He looked suddenly at Celie. "Do you suppose he was afraid of YOU?" he asked her. "Is that why he doesn't leave even the butcher-knife in this shack? Was he afraid you might shoot him in his sleep if he left the temptation in your way?" A commotion among the wolves drew him to the window. Two of the beasts were fighting. While his back was turned Celie entered her room and returned a moment or two later with a handful of loose bits of paper. The pack held Philip's attention. He wondered what chance he would have in an encounter with the beasts which Bram had left behind as a guard. Even if he killed Bram or made him a prisoner he would still have that horde of murderous brutes to deal with. If he could in some way induce the wolf-man to bring his rifle into the cabin the matter would be easy. With Bram out of the way he could shoot the wolves one by one from the window. Without a weapon their situation would be hopeless. The pack--with the exception of one huge, gaunt beast directly under the window--had swung around the end of the cabin out of his vision. The remaining wolf in spite of the excitement of battle was gnawing hungrily at a bone. Philip could hear the savage grind of its powerful jaws, and all at once the thought of how they might work out their salvation flashed upon him. They could starve the wolves! It would take a week, perhaps ten days, but with Bram out of the way and the pack helplessly imprisoned within the corral it could be done. His first impulse now was to impress on Celie the necessity of taking physical action against Bram. The sound of his own name turned him from the window with a sudden thrill.
21998_787	adventure stories	Williamson, A. M. (Alice Muriel)	Clo had to admit that most of what she knew of mother was from the Sisters who looked after the orphans. Yes, it was in an orphan asylum that the child had been brought up. About father she knew nothing, except that mother had "lost" him before her baby was born, and that he "came from America." Evidently his name had been Riley, because mother was Mrs. Riley, and Clo was Clodagh because "that was a name in mother's family." The Sisters had been particularly kind. Mother had given Clo into their care, because she lodged, and had fallen ill, in the street of the orphan asylum. There had been a little money, which was placed in a bank for the child. The Sisters had known that mother was a lady; but the orphan girls, when they grew up, were supposed to be put into service. Neither Clo nor the Sisters had wanted her to be a servant, and when she was sixteen a situation was found for her as "companion" to an old lady. Clo "stuck it out" for nearly two years. Then she ran away and sailed for the United States, her unknown father's land, with the sixty pounds which was her fortune. This money was all spent, and she was nearly starving when she snatched at what she could get with Moreton and Payntor. "But I just couldn't eat and dress on my wages," Clo explained, in her soft, rich voice, rather deep for so young and small a girl, and made creamy by a touch of Irish brogue. "One has to do both in New York. I was so hungry all the time, if the girls left a crust on their plates I used to hide it. I expect the way I'd look to see if there'd be anything left gave them the idea I was a sly piece. They thought I put on airs, too. Me! P'raps it was my not knowing their kind of slang. And it's true I did steal once, or almost the same thing as steal. There was a dollar bill on the floor under a table one afternoon. 'Stead of trying to find who was the owner, I slipped it inside my dress. I must have been nearly off my head, or I'd never have done it, darling Mrs. Sands! When the time came to go home to my room that night, I didn't go. I went to a restaurant, and I ate.
64965_237	science fiction	Marlowe, Stephen	"I didn't know Marsden was an acrobat." "His old lady claims she's going to sell him to the interstellar circus when it comes around." "What do you say we give him a hand?" Marsden sat up, rubbed his head. One of the men came over and offered his arm. Cat-quick, Marsden leaped to his feet and thrust the man away from him so hard that he stumbled back, crashed against the bottom steps and fell. Something clicked, and Alice Cooper squealed excitedly: "I got it! That was perfect, Harry. Thank you ever so much. I caught it just after you started to shove him and now when my friends see this they'll know Talbor is a primitive place. Are there many murders here?" "I've never heard of one," said Harry, dusting his trousers off. "We're too busy for crime, I guess." "How terribly dull. Statistics show that more advanced societies are prone to higher crime rates, particularly crimes of passion, since everyone is high strung and capable of flying off the handle as the expression goes. Did you ever think of committing a crime of passion, Harry?" She stood there, small and frail in the sunlight, delicately, lushly curved. She wet her lips and they were very red in the sunlight and against her pale white face. "No," said Marsden thickly. "I'd better take you back inside to your friends, maybe." "Why, don't be ridiculous. See, they're all outside anyway." Marsden's gaze took in Talbor City's one street. The crowds had thinned considerably; people moved off toward the outskirts and the farmlands in twos and threes, the Earth people scattered among them and going to see Talbor with them. Marsden felt lost and alone and a little frightened, for he knew he would go off into the country-side with Alice Cooper in another moment, and he hardly trusted himself. "They're not my friends, Harry. We're traveling together, but we hardly know each other. You don't just make friends with anyone, it isn't civilized. People are always out to get you, to trick you, to make fun of you and take advantage of you. Oh, you've got to be careful, I always say. Shall we see Talbor now?" "I should go home and start plowing." "I'm leaving tonight, Harry." Her hand slipped under his arm and nestled there.
62907_3354	adventure stories	Jewell, Edward Alden	And she began to ask herself questions about the future which she could not answer, and which often filled her with a nameless terror. Sometimes in the evening Stella would watch her husband, fascinated by the fearful process of opium smoking, as she had once been fascinated by the sheer dazzle of his eyes and the romance of manners such as she had never dared hope to encounter outside of books. She would sit, almost spellbound, and see the resistless hunger take possession of him. Perhaps he would be working away on his report for Captain Utterbourne; but at length he would fling himself upon the cot. He would scowl at her with eyes which showed a dull glow of something ominous; then his hands would go out to the tabouret, and with fingers no longer altogether steady, but which had taken on of late a curious flutter, he would seize the pipe. After that, absorption would claim him utterly, as though he inhabited a separate universe. He would draw a large drop of opium, twirl it on the point of the dipper, round and round, with uncanny deftness, over the flame of the spirit lamp, hold it there like meat on a skewer till it roasted. He had learned to an exquisite fineness when the tiny browning ball was cooked to the proper pitch—never the least bit burned, never toasted a shade too dry, yet never drawn off underdone, either. Occasionally he would bring the opium away from the flame and roll it gently on the bowl of his pipe. At last he would hold the pipe itself over the flame a moment, and then would quickly thrust the laden end of the dipper into the bowl, just over the orifice—always sure, with fluttering fingers; always uncannily sure. Then he would relax. And there he would lie, a spectacle of manhood in the wrecking, the stem of the pipe between his lips, which had taken on a bloated look and seemed no longer quite the cupid’s bow of old. The pipe would sway slowly back and forth, trembling a little over the fire of the spirit lamp. And as the sphere of drug inside the bowl began to sizzle, the White Kami, who had once been Ferdinand King, that figure extraordinary of beauty and romance, would draw in with all the fervour of his captured soul; and the spent smoke would drift in clouds from mouth and quivering nostrils. She brooded it with a breaking heart when he was away from her; when he returned she looked at him with eyes full of fear and disillusion.
46774_1272	detective and mystery stories	Burton, Frederick R. (Frederick Russell)	What was this sense of loss but a relief from the dominating influence of Poubalov's stronger personality? There, with all his desperation, even at the height of his exaltation, when he seemed to tread the border lands of heroism, he had halted at a single word from the spy. He had stood and listened to threats and sophistry, and had been moved by the one and convinced by the other. No! he could not tell all this to Palovna, or to any other person except Strobel; to him, if he should ever return, he would make a full confession of his defeat. For the present he must keep it to himself, and if he would still do something to effect his vengeance and rescue Strobel, he must work in secret. And as he reflected that it was just this course that Poubalov undoubtedly expected him to take, he groaned and slunk abashed and mortified to his lonely room. In the early morning, without waiting to read newspapers, or submit to interviews from reporters, should they call again at the house, Clara and Louise set forth to finish their search for the "second driver." Again they had a tedious, fruitless experience. Now and again it seemed momentarily as if they had come upon a clew to the man, but Clara's keen questions invariably brought them to the same disappointing end. By noon they had visited every livery stable in Boston. "Don't think me unkind, Clara," ventured Louise, "but I fear we ought to give this up. I don't know that I can say just why, for I sympathize with you as deeply as ever, and, like you, I believe in Ivan; but somehow I fear." "There are the stables in Cambridge and Somerville," responded Clara, absently; "we haven't been there. Forgive me, dear! I didn't mean to ignore what you said. We are both tired. I had meant to call at Mrs. White's before returning, but we will go home and rest, and see if fresh thinking will help us. There may be some word at home by this time." There was, indeed, some word at home. The servant reported that Detective Bowker had called and would be glad to see Miss Hilman, should she care to go downtown during this afternoon; and there were many letters from friends who had learned of her trouble.
40176_5535	love stories	Richards, Laura Elizabeth Howe	"Have you had any talk with her, Lucy?" "I've tried, but I had to do all the talking. She just pulls this little wooden smile--it's just that, Lawrence! it's as if she pulled a string and twitched the corners of her mouth up; there is no smile in her eyes. It's _tragic_! And all she will say is, 'It is my duty to go to my father; I must go, because it is my duty!' over and over; in fact--" with a petulant outburst--"I seem to have lost my Mary, and got a very beautiful talking doll in exchange--Only dolls _do_ look cheerful," she added, "and they don't cry their eyes out all night." "Have you heard her crying?" asked John Aymer. "Heard her? No! But I see her in the morning, don't I? _I_ am not an _owl_, my dear John!" "No, my love, certainly not!" The two men gazed meditatively at each other over their pipes. ("Since my husband must either smoke or fidget," Mrs. Aymer was wont to say, "I prefer to have him smoke; and there shall be no room in my house that he is obliged to fidget in.") But the pipes did not make for peace as usual; the atmosphere of the rose-shaded room was anxious and troubled, reflecting the mood of its little ruler. However things might be with Mary-in-the-kitchen, Lucy-in-the-parlor was not herself this evening. She would knit diligently for a few minutes, then spring up to turn down the lamp, to poke the fire, to straighten an already straight window blind, then plunge at her knitting again, and make the needles fly at a bewildering rate. "It certainly is an extremely rum start!" said John Aymer thoughtfully. "Makes one feel as if one were living behind the scenes at the ----," he named a popular theatre. "John Aymer!" The knitting was dropped, and two indignant sapphires burned on the guilty husband. "I don't _like_ to think you are heartless, John," said Lucy; "but sometimes there seems nothing else _to_ think. To _make game_ of a poor girl's misery! Men are--" "Not at all, my love, not at all!
56278_3894	adventure stories	Standish, Burt L.	“Sure. I know the country hereabouts pretty well, and I may be able to help you in following the course.” “Thank you,” said Frank. “If you can give me any assistance that way I shall try to repay the favor in some manner.” “Oh! that’s all right,” assured the Ashport man. “Every starter must know the course. After that if he can find any means of covering it easier or quicker than the rest, that’s his privilege.” “Well, I reckon some of them will find a few short cuts,” muttered Hodge. “One has already, that’s sure,” said Frank, in a low tone. Bramwell cast a quick glance toward them, having failed to catch their words, although he heard them say something. Merry finished dressing and walked over to the Ashport man. “Who do you consider the best runner in your set, Bramwell?” he inquired. “Why, Prince, of course,” was the prompt answer. “We hope he’ll be able to take the trophy.” “Has Hollingsworth ever told you that you could beat Prince in a cross-country run?” “Well, hardly!” was the laughing answer. “Why should he?” “Because you ought to do it, and I believe you can.” Bramwell looked surprised. “Quit your kidding!” he exclaimed. “I’m going into this thing because I like the sport.” “That’s one good reason why you stand a fine chance to win. You like it. Prince likes the glory, but he does not like the work. I want to tell you something in confidence: Hollingsworth really believes you stand a better show of winning than any other Ashport runner.” Bramwell showed his incredulity, which seemed to turn into resentment in a moment. “Say!” he cried, “do I look soft? What do you take me for? I offered to show you the course in good faith, but if you’re going to give me this sort of hot air——” “If you knew me better,” said Frank, in a convincing manner, “you would not accuse me of dealing in hot air. If we start out together to-day I’m going to tell you a few things that will interest you and may spur you on to victory.” “Why should you do that? You’re out for the trophy, aren’t you?”
2568_591	detective and mystery stories	Bentley, E. C. (Edmund Clerihew)	But I am under an intolerable dread of Mabel being involved in suspicion with regard to the murder. It is horrible to me to think of her delicacy and goodness being in contact, if only for a time, with the brutalities of the law. She is not fitted for it. It would mark her deeply. Many young women of twenty-six in these days could face such an ordeal, I suppose. I have observed a sort of imitative hardness about the products of the higher education of women today which would carry them through anything, perhaps. ‘I am not prepared to say it is a bad thing in the conditions of feminine life prevailing at present. Mabel, however, is not like that. She is as unlike that as she is unlike the simpering misses that used to surround me as a child. She has plenty of brains; she is full of character; her mind and her tastes are cultivated; but it is all mixed up’--Mr. Cupples waved his hands in a vague gesture--‘with ideals of refinement and reservation and womanly mystery. I fear she is not a child of the age. You never knew my wife, Trent. Mabel is my wife’s child.’ The younger man bowed his head. They paced the length of the lawn before he asked gently, ‘Why did she marry him?’ ‘I don’t know,’ said Mr. Cupples briefly. ‘Admired him, I suppose,’ suggested Trent. Mr. Cupples shrugged his shoulders. ‘I have been told that a woman will usually be more or less attracted by the most successful man in her circle. Of course we cannot realize how a wilful, dominating personality like his would influence a girl whose affections were not bestowed elsewhere; especially if he laid himself out to win her. It is probably an overwhelming thing to be courted by a man whose name is known all over the world. She had heard of him, of course, as a financial great power, and she had no idea--she had lived mostly among people of artistic or literary propensities--how much soulless inhumanity that might involve. For all I know, she has no adequate idea of it to this day. When I first heard of the affair the mischief was done, and I knew better than to interpose my unsought opinions. She was of age, and there was absolutely nothing against him from the conventional point of view. Then I dare say his immense wealth would cast a spell over almost any woman.
1312_4912	western stories	Harte, Bret	The eyes of the doomed man caught those of Morse--his expression changed--a kindly smile lit his face--he bowed his proud head for the first time, with an easy gesture of farewell. And then, with a cry, Morse threw himself upon the nearest armed guard, and a fierce struggle began. He had overpowered one adversary and seized another in his hopeless fight toward the cart when the half-astonished crowd felt that something must be done. It was done with a sharp report, the upward curl of smoke and the falling back of the guard as Morse staggered forward FREE--with a bullet in his heart. Yet even then he did not fall until he reached the cart, when he lapsed forward, dead, with his arms outstretched and his head at the doomed man's feet. There was something so supreme and all-powerful in this hopeless act of devotion that the heart of the multitude thrilled and then recoiled aghast at its work, and a single word or a gesture from the doomed man himself would have set him free. But they say--and it is credibly recorded--that as Captain Jack Despard looked down upon the hopeless sacrifice at his feet his eyes blazed, and he flung upon the crowd a curse so awful and sweeping that, hardened as they were, their blood ran cold, and then leaped furiously to their cheeks. “And now,” he said, coolly tightening the rope around his neck with a jerk of his head--“Go on, and be damned to you! I'm ready.” They did not hesitate this time. And Martin Morse and Captain Jack Despard were buried in the same grave. A CONVERT OF THE MISSION The largest tent of the Tasajara camp meeting was crowded to its utmost extent. The excitement of that dense mass was at its highest pitch. The Reverend Stephen Masterton, the single erect, passionate figure of that confused medley of kneeling worshipers, had reached the culminating pitch of his irresistible exhortatory power. Sighs and groans were beginning to respond to his appeals, when the reverend brother was seen to lurch heavily forward and fall to the ground. At first the effect was that of a part of his performance; the groans redoubled, and twenty or thirty brethren threw themselves prostrate in humble imitation of the preacher. But Sister Deborah Stokes, perhaps through some special revelation of feminine intuition, grasped the fallen man, tore loose his black silk necktie, and dragged him free of the struggling, frantic crowd whose paroxysms he had just evoked. Howbeit he was pale and unconscious, and unable to continue the service.
34369_2018	detective and mystery stories	Clark, Joan	After making a brief inspection of her quarters Penny sat down on the floor with her back against the outside door. She riveted her eyes upon the organ. Time dragged slowly. When it seemed to Penny that several hours must have passed, she heard a clock downstairs striking eleven-thirty. "At least another half hour to wait," Penny thought, shifting into a more comfortable position. She grew drowsy. Several times she caught herself on the verge of napping. She aroused herself only to find her eyes growing heavy again. It became increasingly difficult to watch the organ. "I wish that ghost would hurry up and come," she mused impatiently. "Perhaps after all my trouble this won't be one of his working nights!" That was the last thought of which she was aware. Suddenly she heard soft organ music rolling and swelling about her. With a start she aroused herself. She had been sleeping. It took an instant for Penny to gather her wits. She was still sitting with her back to the conservatory door. Yet at the far end of the great room, she distinctly could see a shadowy figure seated at the organ. Penny scrambled to her feet, starting forward. The floor creaked alarmingly. Penny halted, but too late. She had given warning of her presence. The shadowy figure at the organ jerked into alert attention. There was a discordant crash of chords, then silence. Penny blinked. She thought she had heard a sharp click as if a secret panel had opened and closed. That was all. And the organist had disappeared. CHAPTER XII A Suspicious Act Penny caught herself shivering. She decided that she had seen quite enough for one night. She turned toward the door, but with her hand on the brass knob, stood tensely listening. Someone was tiptoeing along the hall. It occurred to her that the mysterious organist might have escaped from the music room by means of a secret panel which opened directly into the adjoining corridor. Even now he could be effecting his escape to the lower floor. Crouching against the wall, Penny waited. She was startled to hear the footsteps coming closer. Then the door opened a tiny crack and the beam of a flashlight slowly circled the room. "Penny!" an anxious voice whispered. "Where are you?" Penny laughed in relief as she reached out to grip Rosanna's hand. "Oh! How you startled me!" the girl gasped. "I'm so glad you're safe, Penny. You stayed up here so long that I was frightened.
14054_4264	love stories	Thurston, Katherine Cecil	I shall make him respect Max as well as love him; Max shall become his equal. Now, suppose you set yourself a task like that, how would you begin?" "Oh, madame!" Jacqueline was all deprecation. "Do not fear. Tell me!" "Madame, it is not for me--" Jacqueline's triumph in the moment, and her concealing of the triumph, were things exquisitely feminine. "Tell me!" "I may speak from the heart, madame?" Maxine bent her head in gracious condescension. "Then, madame, I would make of Monsieur Édouard a book of figures. The princess would learn the rules; Monsieur Max would shut the book, and make up the sum. It would be quite simple." The hot color scorched Maxine's face; she rose quickly. "Jacqueline! I had not expected this!" "Madame desired me to speak from the heart. The heart, at times, is unruly!" "True! Forgive me. But you should not suggest a thing that you know to be impossible." "Pardon, madame! I was thinking of the many impossibilities performed in a good cause!" "Say no more, Jacqueline! To-night was to-night! To-night is over!" She walked across the room and passed out upon the balcony, leaning over the railing at the spot where Blake had stood. Jacqueline, swift and guileful, was instantly beside her. "Madame, at its most serious, to-night was a little comedy. Is it so criminal to repeat a little comedy--once, or even twice--in a good cause? It is not as if madame were not sure of herself! Besides, the comedy was charming!" "Yes; the comedy was charming!" Maxine echoed the sentiment, and in her heart called 'charming' a poor word. "But even if I were weak, Jacqueline," she added, "how could I banish Max? Max could scarcely continue to have important business." "Perhaps not, madame; but Monsieur Max might continue to display temper! Do not forget that he and Monsieur Édouard did not part upon the friendliest terms." Maxine smiled. "But even granted that, I could not be here again--alone." Jacqueline, with airiest scorn, tossed the words aside. "That, madame? Why, that arranges itself! The princess loves her brother! His quarrel is her grief. Is not woman always compassionate?
20714_1472	western stories	Garland, Hamlin	I'd take poison if it wa'n't f'r the young ones." "Lucreeshy Burns!" "Oh, I mean it." "Land sakes alive, I b'lieve you're goin' crazy!" "I shouldn't wonder if I was. I've had enough t' drive an Indian crazy. Now you jest go off an' leave me 'lone. I ain't no mind to visit,--they ain't no way out of it' and I'm tired o' trying to _find_ a way. Go off an' let me be." Her tone was so bitterly hopeless that the great, jolly face of Mrs. Councill stiffened into a look of horror such as she had not known for years. The children, in two separate groups, could be heard rioting. Bees were humming around the clover in the grass, and the kingbird chattered ceaselessly from the Lombardy poplar tip. Both women felt all this peace and beauty of the morning dimly, and it disturbed Mrs. Councill because the other was so impassive under it all. At last, after a long and thoughtful pause, Mrs. Councill asked a question whose answer she knew would decide it all--asked it very kindly and softly:-- "Creeshy, are you comin' in?" "No," was the short and sullenly decisive answer. Mrs. Councill knew that was the end, and so rose with a sigh, and went away. "Wal, good-by," she said, simply. Looking back, she saw Lucretia lying at length, with closed eyes and hollow cheeks. She seemed to be sleeping, half buried in the grass. She did not look up nor reply to her sister-in-law, whose life was one of toil and trouble also, but not so hard and helpless as Lucretia's. By contrast with most of her neighbors, she seemed comfortable. "Sim Burns, what you ben doin' to that woman?" she burst out, as she waddled up to where the two men were sitting under a cottonwood tree, talking and whittling after the manner of farmers. "Nawthin' 's fur 's I know," answered Burns, not quite honestly, and looking uneasy. "You needn't try t' git out of it like that, Sim Burns," replied his sister. "That woman never got into that fit f'r _nawthin_'." "Wal, if you know more about it than I do, whadgy ask _me_ fur?" he replied, angrily.
14054_1396	love stories	Thurston, Katherine Cecil	Wait and see! And, in the mean time, Paris is awake, is she not?" Blake looked at the laughing face, the bright eyes, and shook his head. "I believe you're a cluricaun, come all the way from the bogs of Clare! Come here, and take my arm again, or you'll be vanishing into that plantation!" It is unlikely that Max understood all the other's phrases, but he understood the lenient, bantering tone that had in it a touch of something bordering upon affection, and with a gracious eagerness he stepped forward and slipped his hand through the proffered arm. "Where are you going to take me?" All the lightness, all the arrogance had melted from his voice, his tone was almost as soft, almost as submissive as a woman's. Blake looked down upon him. "I hardly know--after that philosophy of yours! I thought of taking you to a little Montmartre _cabaret_, where many a poet wrote his first verses and many an artist sang his first song--a dingy place, but a place with atmosphere." Max clung to his arm, the light flashing into his eyes. "Oh, my friend, that is the place! That is the place! Let us go--let us run, lest we miss a moment!" "Good! Then hey for the Boulevard de Clichy and the quest of the great idea!" CHAPTER IX The ascent of the heights had been exciting, the descent held a sense of satisfaction. At a more sober pace, with a finer, less exuberant sense of comradeship, the two passed down the hundred-odd steps of the Escalier de Sainte-Marie, taking an occasional peep into some dark and silent corner, halting here and there to glance into the dimly lighted hallway of some mysterious house. On the upward way they had been all anticipation; now, with appetites appeased, they toyed with their sensations like diners with their dessert. "Who are the people living in these houses?" The boy put the question in a whisper, as if fearful of disturbing the strange silence, the close secrecy that hung about them. "The people who live here? God knows! Probably you would find a _blanchisseuse_ on the ground floor, and on the fourth a poet or perhaps a musician, like our fiddler of _Louise_. This is the real Bohemia, you know--not the conscious Bohemia, but the true one, that is lawless simply because it knows no laws.
31426_986	detective and mystery stories	Newcomb, Ambrose	So, too, Perk considered it worth while to try and figure out the exact course of the high flyer as he was probably making directly for his intended goal and this knowledge was likely to prove useful to them later on. This he was able to accomplish. Working mental problems come easily to one who has played the part of a navigator aboard a modern galleon of the clouds. "Huh!" grunted Perk after figuring out his problem twice and both times reaching the same conclusion, "the guy's really striking in to mighty near the same point Jack's meanin' to make and mebee now our lines might cross if we both kept on goin' long enough." He studied this matter for some time, wondering if Jack also realized the fact and had kept silent about it for good and sufficient reasons. It afforded the ambitious Perk considerable satisfaction to hug the idea to his heart that possibly the chance might be given Jack and himself to locate some of these land stations where all this flagrant smuggling business was going on--the prospect of their's being the force to deal the outlaw organization a killing blow brought in its train the thrill he loved so well. Then came the moment when Jack banked and changed his course radically, heading directly into the east where lay the peninsula of Ponce de Leon, seeker after the Spring of Eternal Youth, and finding instead, a land of flowers. Perk knew what this evidently meant--that Jack had flown far enough up the west coast and was now bent on making for that inland sheet of fresh water he had mentioned to his comrade as a likely place for them to drop down and pass the balance of the night. The uncertainty was keeping Perk keyed up to a high tension--something told him in no uncertain tones that Jack had a vastly more important reason for attaining that lake than the mere desire to avoid attracting attention--just what it might mean he could not guess, for when he attempted to solve the enigma he found himself floundering in a shoreless sea of doubt and uncertainty that was baffling, to say the least. Perk was mumbling to himself as if he might be on the verge of reaching some sort of decision. He bent forward several times as if about to make an important remark and on each occasion drew back, as though he could hardly decide how to approach the matter he had in his mind. Then he would chuckle, as if it might have its humorous side as well as a serious one.
61967_317	science fiction	Hasse, Henry	" Garth looked straight at Prokle and spoke calmly: "Maybe he knows it and maybe not. Twenty-one days, Prokle, remember? Imagine three weeks on this place, knowing there's only a chance in a million of you being located. Maybe watching the others die off one by one. You'd hate to be the last, Prokle, wouldn't you? But remember what I said about some men loving life more than others, clinging to it longer, even when it means...." Garth didn't finish, but Prokle nodded and said the last word for him. "Madness. You're right, Hype, that's all it can mean. We've got a madman on our hands. Let's go home." * * * * * Garth shook his head and pointed across the chasm. Fifty yards away the opposite precipice, a bit higher, was limned raggedly against the stars. "Our best bet is to get over there unobserved. It may not be easy dealing with him." Prokle patted his own ray-pistol at his side. "No," Garth cautioned. "We don't want to use those and I don't think we'll have to." Slowly, circuitously and with much effort they gained the opposite rim. It took them nearly ten minutes but the negotiation was masterful and noiseless. Finally, from behind a protecting rock formation they peered again into the depths, their eyes becoming slowly accustomed to that darker darkness. Then Garth silently pointed. "What is it?" Prokle whispered. "I don't see a thing." "Keep looking. A little to the right." Then Prokle saw it. The missing life-boat, lying quite still there below, like a tiny silver bug with its nose smashed. And that disseminated whatever slight doubt they may have had. "What now?" Prokle whispered. "We've got to go down!" Garth said hoarsely. "Nothing else. This side doesn't seem so steep; if we get to a point where we can see him, we'll talk to him." "Can't do that, unless he's got a phone, too!" "We'll see about that when we have to. Keep looking down there a while, let your eyes get used to it." Presently, Garth first, they began the descent. It was slow and ticklish work, but now they could dimly see their way enough to proceed in safety.
30311_335	science fiction	Berryman, John	But they had set a trap--" "I _thought_ it was some light-finger stuff," I grinned. "Well, it will take me a while to set up a real test of your Psi Powers. Where can I reach you--or are you spending the night here?" "Certainly not!" she said, casting an annoyed glance at Elmer. She looked at her watch. "Would it be much longer than an hour? I might still be here, if Elmer--" "Jes' fine," T-shirt said. "Unless yo' mine watching Keys and me practice." He grinned at me. "Keys is he'ping me build up mah TK," he explained. "That'll make you popular," I sneered, as I wrote down Elmer's phone number. They let me out. It had been a pretty room, and in a way I hated to leave it. Still, by the time a cruising 'copter had taken me halfway back to my office up-town, I could relax the shield over my thoughts--and that was worth getting out of that Stigma hideaway. * * * * * It was a little after nine when I walked into the lobby and rang for the elevator. A man lounging against the wall over near the building directory raised a wrist-phone to his mouth and spoke quietly into it as I waited for the car to come. He didn't seem to be interested in me--but then, he wouldn't want to show it if he were. Fool around with the Stigma, would I? The building was mostly dark--in our circle we make too much dough to be interested in overtime. I keyed myself into our waiting room, turned on the ceiling, and went into my private office. There was enough light leaking in from our foyer, so I added none. I found Lindstrom at home--after all, he should have been by nine o'clock. "Maragon!" he said. "Kill your focus. I have guests!" I reached up to twist the 'scope so that my image would be a blur on his screen. Nice beginning. I was as welcome as a thriving case of leprosy. "I want you to make a test for me, Professor," I said. "Tonight." He shook his head. "I told you I had guests. We're entertaining. No thanks, Maragon." "A Normal is being crucified," I said quietly.
46774_954	detective and mystery stories	Burton, Frederick R. (Frederick Russell)	"My poor child," he said, "you have heard everything, I suppose?" "I have heard a great deal, uncle," replied Clara, "and appreciate your motives in withholding the paper from me that published the wicked rumor that Ivan had eloped, but you should have known me better. Do you suppose, uncle dear, that that rumor disturbed me? I dismiss it more lightly than anything that has been said." "Poor child! poor child!" sighed Mr. Pembroke. "Why do you say that?" asked Clara, sitting down wearily. "Of course, I am sorrowful; nobody can realize what I suffer; but I am confident that Ivan has done no wrong, and I cannot believe that we shall not find him. I have returned to rest, not to give up the search." "Clara, my dear girl," said her uncle, tenderly, "you'd best give it up. You have a great sorrow to bear, but I know how brave you are. There is no occasion for further search." "No occasion! Uncle, what do you mean?" "The detective assigned from headquarters to make an investigation has been to see me." "Yes, yes! what did he say?" "The worst possible, Clara. He is convinced that Strobel went to New York, if not with Lizzie White, then to join her there. It is the only possible explanation of his disappearance." "No! no! you know nothing about it, and the detective is a fool!" cried Clara. Mr. Pembroke was immensely surprised at this violent outbreak, when he had expected tears, prostration, the deepest grief. It occurred to him that perhaps his niece's mind had been unsettled by her trouble. She sat looking at him with blazing eyes, her face flushed, her foot nervously patting the floor. "You are greatly excited, Clara," ventured her uncle, gently. "Tell me what the detective said!" retorted Clara, imperiously. "He has found that a closed carriage, such as we know Strobel took at the corner of Park and Tremont Streets, halted at the Park Square Station shortly after that time. The passenger was a young man who answered the description of Strobel. He paid the driver, went into the station, bought a ticket for New York, and immediately took his place in the train. It is further known that Lizzie White took a train from the same station at about the same hour.
28550_8	science fiction	Moore, C. L. (Catherine Lucile)	He had been promising himself this moment for how long--how many months and years on alien worlds? He would not think of it now. He would not remember the dark spaceways or the red slag of Martian drylands or the pearl-gray days on Venus when he had dreamed of the Earth that had outlawed him. So he lay, with his eyes closed and the sunlight drenching him through, no sound in his ears but the passage of a breeze through the grass and a creaking of some insect nearby--the violent, blood-smelling years behind him might never have been. Except for the gun pressed into his ribs between his chest and the clovered earth, he might be a boy again, years upon years ago, long before he had broken his first law or killed his first man. No one else alive now knew who that boy had been. Not even the all knowing Patrol. Not even Venusian Yarol, who had been his closest friend for so many riotous years. No one would ever know--now. Not his name (which had not always been Smith) or his native land or the home that had bred him, or the first violent deed that had sent him down the devious paths which led here--here to the clover hollow in the hills of an Earth that had forbidden him ever to set foot again upon her soil. He unclasped the hands behind his head and rolled over to lay a scarred cheek on his arm, smiling to himself. Well, here was Earth beneath him. No longer a green star high in alien skies, but warm soil, new clover so near his face he could see all the little stems and trefoil leaves, moist earth granular at their roots. An ant ran by with waving antennae close beside his cheek. He closed his eyes and drew another deep breath. Better not even look; better to lie here like an animal, absorbing the sun and the feel of Earth blindly, wordlessly. * * * * * Now he was not Northwest Smith, scarred outlaw of the spaceways. Now he was a boy again with all his life before him. There would be a white-columned house just over the hill, with shaded porches and white curtains blowing in the breeze and the sound of sweet, familiar voices indoors. There would be a girl with hair like poured honey hesitating just inside the door, lifting her eyes to him. Tears in the eyes. He lay very still, remembering.
32732_3717	detective and mystery stories	Oppenheim, E. Phillips (Edward Phillips)	"In other words, I am not having any." "In that case," the visitor announced, after a brief pause, "it is my somewhat painful duty to tell you that we have decided to stop your daily supply of bread and water. You thrive too well on it." "Just as you like," was the careless rejoinder. "I can do with or without food." The Marquis contemplated his guest for several moments in silence. "You will permit me to say, Mr. Pratt, that your courage moves me to the profoundest admiration," he declared at last. "I trust that after this little business negotiation is concluded, I shall have the privilege of your friendship for many years to come." "You're rather boring me," Jacob told him mildly. "I want to get on with my initials. I'm doing them in Old English." "I should be sorry to interfere with so courteous a duty," the Marquis replied--and departed. CHAPTER XXII From that time onward, notwithstanding Jacob's unbroken composure, time began to hang heavily. Towards evening, he pulled up one of his strings and found sandwiches and whisky enough to keep him going. He received no more visitors, friendly or otherwise, and he listened in vain until nightfall for the sound of Lady Mary's boat. In the morning, however, he was awakened early by the sound of her whistle below. The room was half full of grey mist. Leaning out of the aperture, he could scarcely distinguish her form as she stood up in the boat, and in the distance he could hear foghorns from passing steamers blowing. "How are you?" she asked anxiously. "Right as a trivet," he assured her. "Wish I had a mirror, though, to see how I look in a beard." She scrutinised his appearance and laughed softly, balancing herself easily against the oar which she had stretched out to the side of the tower. The moisture of the sea was upon her face and hair. A very becoming _peignoir_ imperfectly concealed her bathing dress. "I never realised before what a spick-and-span person you were," she observed. "You are beginning to look a little dishevelled, aren't you? Would you really like me to bring you a mirror and some shaving things?" "Are you beginning to make fun of me?" he asked, leaning a little farther out.
18563_2581	western stories	Sinclair, Bertrand W.	Behind us, from the river, came a gentle plashing. "Beaver," I hazarded. "Too loud," Piegan murmured. "Let's go back an' see." We reached the river-edge just in time to hear the splashing die away; and though we strained our eyes looking, we could make out no movement on the surface of the river or in the dimly-outlined scrub that fringed the opposite bank. Piegan turned on the instant and ran to where we had tied our horses; but they stood quietly as we had left them. "I got a hunch they'd got onto us, an' maybe set us afoot for a starter," Piegan explained. "I reckon that must 'a' been a deer or some other wild critter." Once more we turned into the canyon, and this time followed its narrow, scrub-patched floor some three hundred yards up from the river. It was dark enough for any kind of deviltry in that four-hundred foot gash in the earth; the sinking moon lightened only a strip along the east wall, near the top; lower down, smoke mingling with the natural gloom cast an impenetrable veil from bank to bank; not a breath of air stirred the tomblike stillness. Directly in front of us a horse coughed. We dropped on all fours, listened a moment, then crept forward. Without warning, we found ourselves foul of a picket-line, and the vague forms of grazing horses loomed close by. Piegan halted us with a touch, and we lay flat; then with our heads together he whispered softly: "We must be right on top uh them. It's a cinch their camp ain't far from their livestock. I wonder----" To the left of us a horse snorted nervously; we heard him trot with high, springy strides to the end of his rope, and snort again. Then a voice cut the stillness that followed: "Here, you fool, what's the matter with you?" We hugged the ground like frightened rabbits. It hardly seemed possible that we could be within speaking-distance of them--yet that was Gregory's clear enunciation; I would know his speech in a jabberfest of several nations. "What's the matter?" That, by the curt inflection, the autocratic peremptoriness, was Lessard. I had one hand on MacRae's shoulder, and I felt a tremor run through his body, like the rising of a cat's fur at sight of an adversary.
14545_3258	western stories	Rhodes, Eugene Manlove	"Man Johnson, will ye bide behind for a word?" said McClintock as the farewells were said. When the others were gone, he made a sign to Van Lear, who left the room. "I'm asking you to have Stanley back soon--though he'll be coming for the lassie's sake, ony gate. But I am wearyin' for a sight of the lad's face the once yet," said the old man. "And yoursel', Mr. Johnson; if you visit to York State again, I should be blithe to have a crack with you. But it must be early days, for I'll be flittin' soon. I'll tell you this, that I am real pleased to have met with you. Man, I'll tell ye a dead secret. Ye ken the auld man ahint my chair--him that the silly folk ca' Rameses Second in their sport? What think ye the auld body whispert to me but now? That he likit ye weel--no less! Man, that sets ye up! Cornelius has not said so much for ony man these twenty year--so my jest is true enough, for all 'twas said in fleerin'; ye bear your years well and the credentials of them in your face. Ye'll not be minding for an old man's daffin'?" "Sure not! I'm a great hand at the joke-play myself," said Pete. "And it's good for me to do the squirmin' myself, for once." "I thought so much. I likit ye mysel', and I'll be thinkin' of you, nights, and your wild life out beyont. I'll tell you somethin' now, and belike you'll laugh at me." He lowered his voice and spoke wistfully. "Man, I have ne'er fought wi' my hands in a' my life--not since I was a wean; nor yet felt the pinch of ony pressin' danger to be facit, that I might know how jeopardy sorts wi' my stomach. I became man-grown as a halflin' boy, or e'er you were born yet--a starvelin' boy, workin' for bare bread; and hard beset I was for't. So my thoughts turned all money-wise, till it became fixture and habit with me; and I took nae time for pleasures.
48963_3287	adventure stories	Bowen, Marjorie	Thoughts of Carrara vanished. He saw the face of the girl on whose account he had risked his dukedom. "Graziosa!" he cried, but the face looked at him unseeingly. "You know me!" as if in appeal. "Graziosa, you know me!" The face suddenly distorted, as if with horror. Visconti shrank from it--and she was gone. "What frightened her? Those other faces," Visconti whispered to himself, then roused himself with a harsh laugh. "Will Carrara come?" He fixed his eyes on the lamp, then on the door. And presently he heard the subdued bustle of arrival, the great door clang; the ringing answers of the soldiers; then outside his own door hushed and respectful voices--the door opened, shut, and Visconti saw his visitor. A man, black-eyed, florid, richly dressed in velvet, well armed, unattended, and carrying the castle keys--Giacomo Carrara. He stood in amazement, and shrank back half-afraid, though the guard had warned him. "Visconti!" he cried. "What has happened?" The sickly light of the lantern showed him a white, haggard face, with wild, bloodshot eyes, the hair hanging lank and damp about its forehead, the plain doublet gashed and torn, hands and face smeared with blood. But, at sight of the man he hoped to buy, Visconti's face took on a more human look. "You have seen my messenger?" "Hush!" and Giacomo looked around cautiously. "Yes, I have seen him, and dispatched my answer." "My offer suits you?" said Visconti grimly. "It suited me, Visconti, till just now," returned the other. "It suited me to such purpose that my men even now await my orders to desert to Milan." "Ah!" Visconti said. "And what of it now?" he added, looking around again, the old subduing spirit in his glance. "What of it? It shall still be done, only," Carrara smiled, "there is an unforeseen addition to the bargain. Not only do you need my men, Visconti; I think, as well, you need your liberty." "And so the price is higher. Is that what you would say? Unloose my arm. It shall not be forgotten in the bribe," he sneered. Carrara advanced and undid the rope in silence. He knew Visconti was unarmed.
66390_1052	love stories	Prime-Stevenson, Edward	if caring for him? Bitterness came over me in a wave, it rose to my lips in a burst. "It is just as well that one of us should show some feeling.... a trifle... when our parting is so near." A pause. Then Imre: "The 'one of us', that is to say the only one, who has any 'feeling' being yourself, my dear Oswald?" "Apparently." "Don't you think that perhaps you rather take things for granted? Or that, perhaps, you feel too much? That is, in supposing that I feel too little?" My reply was quick and acid enough: "Have you any sentiments in the matter worth calling by such a name, at all? I've not remarked them so far! Are friends that love you and value you only worth their day with you?... have they no real, lasting individuality for you? Your heart is not so difficult to please as mine; nor so difficult to occupy." Again a brief interval. Imre was beating a tattoo on his braided cap, and examining the top of that article with much attention. The sky was less light now. The long, melancholy house had grown pallid against the foliage. Still the same fitful breeze. One of the cows lowed. He looked up. He began speaking gravely... kindly.. not so much as if seeking his words for their exactness, but rather as if he were fearful of committing himself outwardly to some innermost process of thought. Afraid, more than unwilling. "Listen, my dear friend. We must not expect too much of one another in this world... must we? Do not be foolish. You know well that one of the last things that I regard as 'of a day' is _our_ friendship.. however suddenly grown. No matter what you think now... for just these few moments... when something disturbs us both... _that_ you know. Why, dear friend! did I not believe it myself; had I not so soon after our meeting believed it..... do you think I would have shown you so much of my real self, happy or unhappy, for better or worse? Sides of my nature unknown to others. Traits that you like, along with traits that I see you do not like? Why Oswald, you understand _me_... the real _me!_--better than anybody else that I have ever met. Because I wished it... I hoped it. Because I--I could not help it.
40176_1021	love stories	Richards, Laura Elizabeth Howe	But--there was one the cook's boy used to sing--how did that go? "Dum de rido! dum de rido! I had a little dog, and his name was Fido--" "What's that?" Something seemed to speak in his heart. "Why not sing one of the Lord's songs? Well, I _am_ a duffer! And tryin' to think of some that would do!" He threw back his head, and let out his voice in a shout that made the listeners start: "Oh, Mother dear, Jerusalem, When shall I come to thee? When shall my sorrows have an end, Thy joys when shall I see?" The baker's wife came to the door and stood, wiping her eyes with her apron. The baker, flushed and floury, left his ovens and came to peer over her shoulder, open-mouthed; people appeared in the neighboring windows and doorways, and the crowd on the sidewalk thickened silently. Pippin neither saw nor heard them; his voice poured out in waves of song, longing, rejoicing, triumphant. "Thy gardens and thy goodly walks Continually are green, Where grow such sweet and pleasant flowers As nowhere else are seen." "You bet they do!" "Right through the streets with silver sound The living waters flow, And on the banks on either side The trees of life do grow." "There, ma'am, there's your knives and scissors as good as I can do 'em, and I hope it's pretty good, to pay for that good breakfast. I surely do." "Good land, young man!" cried the baker's wife. "Who learned you to sing like that? Why, you'd sing the heart out of a stone statue!" Pippin laughed joyously, eyes and teeth flashing together. "I expect the Lord did, ma'am!" he said. "Anyhow it's His song, and you have to sing it as good as you can, ain't that so? Don't know of a job goin' beggin', do you, ma'am?" "What kind of job?" "'Most any kind! I'm lookin' for a trade to work in with my grindin' for a spell. I'm handy, var'ous ways: make brooms, set glass, carpenter or solder, I've done 'em all." "Ever been in a bakery?" "Not yet, but I'd admire to, if there was a chance.
11379_1410	love stories	Banks, Nancy Huston	exulted Miss Penelope. "Now do wait just one minute till I run in the house and get you some money." "No, no, there isn't time. I'll miss my appointment to preach. I will get along somehow. Thank you--good-by." Miss Penelope, reaching up, seized the bridle-reins and held on by main force with one hand while she rummaged in her out pocket with the other. "There!--here are three bits--every cent I've got with me," she said indignantly, shoving it in his hand. "Well, Peter Cartwright, if your mother could know--" But the young backwoodsman, whose fame was already filling the wilderness, and was to fill the whole Christian world, now pressed on riding fast, and was soon beyond her kind scolding. "Well, 'pon my word! Did anybody ever see the like of that!" she cried, seeing that Ruth had followed her to the door. "That boy don't know half the time whether he has had anything to eat or not. And it's just exactly the same to him when he's got money and when he hasn't." The girl did not hear what Miss Penelope said. Her heart was responding, as it always did, to everything great or heroic, and she looked after this boy preacher with newly opened eyes. She suddenly saw as by a flash of white light, that he and the other pioneer men of God--these soldiers of the cross who were bearing it through the trackless wilderness--were of the greatest. Her dim eyes followed the young man--this brave bearer of the awful burden of the divine mission--watching him press on to the river. She thought of the many rivers that he must swim, the forests that he must thread, the savages that he must contend against, the wild beasts that he must conquer, the plague that he must defy, the shelterless nights that he must sleep under the trees--freezing, starving, struggling through winter's cold and summer's heat, and all for the love of God and the good of mankind. VIII THE LOG TEMPLE OF JUSTICE Most of those dauntless soldiers, who first bore the cross through the wilderness were as ready to fight as to pray--as they had to be. No power of earth or evil which he had been able to combat could have turned young Peter Cartwright that day or have held him back. Pressing on without rest or food, he was in time to preach.
25875_4972	detective and mystery stories	Footner, Hulbert	But I had to tell you. You knew already, so it can do no great harm." He glanced back at Imbrie. "If the law should insist on keeping up such a horrible thing it would have to be defied," he said--"even if I am a policeman!" "I tell you he is not the man." "I hope you're right." "But if I am not free, I should not let you ruin yourself on my account." "Ruin? That's only a word. A man's all right as long as he can work." "Oh, Martin, it seems as if I brought trouble and unhappiness on all whom I approach!" "That's nonsense!" he said quickly. "You've made me! However this thing turns out. You've brought beauty into my life. You've taken me out of myself. You've given me an ideal to live up to!" "Ah, how sweet for you to say it!" she murmured. "It makes me feel real. I am only a poor wandering ghost of a woman, and you're so solid and convincing! "There! I'm all right now!" she said, with an abrupt return to the boyish, prosaic air that he found utterly adorable. "I have exploded. I'm hungry. Let's go back and make supper. It's your turn to talk. Tell me how you got here in advance of us, you wonderful man! And Mary----!" She stopped short and her eyes filled. "How selfish of me to forget her even for a moment!" "She was not badly wounded," he said. "We'll probably overtake her to-morrow." "And you? I thought I saw a ghost when you rose up from the bushes." "No magic in that," said Stonor. "I just walked round by the hills." "Just walked round by the hills," she echoed, mocking his offhand manner, and burst out laughing. "That was nothing at all!" Her eyes added something more that she dared not put into words: "You were made for a woman to love to distraction!" When they returned to the dug-out, Imbrie studied their faces through narrowed lids, trying to read there what had passed between them. Their serenity discomposed him. Hateful taunts trembled on his lips, but he dared not utter them.
14219_5438	love stories	Runkle, Bertha	I fancied that in my earlier combat the wound had opened again and that I was bleeding to death; and the fear shook me. I lunged wildly, and I had been sent to my account in short order had not at this moment one of the other pair near us, as it afterward appeared, driven his weapon square through his vis-à-vis's breast. "I am done for. Run who can!" he cried as he fell. The sword snapped in two against the paving-stones; he rolled over and lay still, his face in the dirt. My encounterer, with a shout to his single remaining comrade, made off down the lane. On my part, I was very willing to let him depart in peace. The clash of swords up the lane had ceased at the stricken man's cry, and out of the gloom came the sound of footfalls fainter and fainter. I deemed that the battle was over. The champion came toward me, three white patches visible for his face and hands; the rest of him but darkness moving in darkness. He held a sword rifled from the enemy, and advanced on me hesitatingly, not sure whether friend or foe remained to him. I felt that an explanation was due from me, but in my ignorance as to who he was and who his foes were, and why they had been fighting him and why we had been fighting them, I stood for a moment confused. It is hard to open conversation with a shadow. He spoke first, in a voice husky from his exertion: "Who are you?" "A friend," I said. "My master and I saw two men fighting four--we came to help the weaker side. Your friend was hurt, but he got away safe to fetch aid." The unknown made a rapid step toward me, crying, "What--" But at the word M. Étienne emerged from the shadows. "Who lives?" he called out. "You, Félix?" "Not hurt, monsieur. And you?" "Not a scratch. Nor did I scratch my man. Permit me to congratulate you, monsieur l'inconnu, on our coming up when we did." The unknown said one word: "Étienne!" I sprang forward with the impulse to throw my arms about him, in the pure rapture of recognizing his voice. This struggler, whom we had rushed in, blindfold, to save, was Monsieur!
31995_415	science fiction	Myers, Howard L.	" After a pause, the Weapon quoted, "'Nobility shows its traces in surprising places.' You do not sufficiently comprehend my nature, Technician Slave Jacob. I am a Weapon. My masters point me, as you would point a rifle, and command that I destroy. I kill at their direction, but seldom otherwise. Thus, your Terra is safe until another Weapon or I am aimed and directed. You can make no bargain." Jacob thought this over. While doing so, the Weapon drifted away. "Wait here, slave," it said in parting. "I go to meditate on my recovered sanity." * * * * * During the next two days, Jacob caught an occasional glimpse of the Weapon drifting thoughtfully around in the depths of the forest, but they did not meet for conversation. Jacob amused himself by rigging a fishing line out of some of the packaging material that contained his food. He even succeeded in catching a fish, but its queer odor discouraged him from trying to cook and eat it. Then the royal cruiser of Tresqu the Wisest dropped into the meadow. Its airlock swung open and the Ruler of Hova, followed by his entourage, came out. "Oh, Mighty Weapon!" bawled Tresqu. "Your loving servant craves audience!" "Ah, you have returned, petty lord," said the Weapon, drifting out from among the trees. "Serve me by calling all the crew members from your noble ship, that I may view you all together." Puzzled, Tresqu bowed and said, "Your least whim is law, Mighty Weapon." He turned and called, "All hands, outside!" A half-dozen Hovans tumbled through the lock to stand in line behind the ruler's entourage. "Is this all of them?" asked the Weapon. "All, Great Mentor of--" The Weapon laughed and the Hovans fell dead. "Come, Slave Jacob," commanded the Weapon. "We take this cruiser." Dazed and slack-faced, Jacob came out from behind a bush, where he had hidden himself from the Hovans, and followed the Weapon through the airlock. "Even in my insanity, I planned well," said the Weapon. "These ships, which I taught the Hovans to construct, can be operated simply, even by such as you. Attend my instructions." [Illustration] First, the Weapon taught Jacob to open and close the airlock.
14211_300	love stories	Ford, Paul Leicester	" "Dat's all hunky!" joyfully ejaculated the urchin. "Now, den, wheer kin we sneak it so he don't git his hooks on it?" "This is to be your bed, and let's hide it under the pillow," suggested Constance, feeling as if she were playing a game. "Then you can feel of it whenever you want." "Dat's de way to steal a base off 'im," acceded the waif. "We'll show dese guys wese oin't no bunch of easy grapes." Scarcely was the purse concealed when a nurse appeared with a pail of water and rolls of some cloth, and after her came the doctor. "Now, my boy," he said, with a kindness and gentleness in his voice which surprised Constance, "I've got to hurt you a little, and let's see how brave you can be." He took hold of the left leg the ankle and stretched it, at the same time manipulating the calf with the fingers of his other hand. The boy gave a cry of pain, and clutched Constance's arm, squeezing it so as to almost make her scream; but she set her teeth determinedly and took his other hand in hers. At a word the nurse grasped the limb and held it as it was placed, while the doctor took one of the rolls, and, dipping it in the water, unrolled it round and round the leg, with a rapidity and deftness which had, to Constance, a quality of fascination in it. A second wet bandage was wound over the first, then a dry one, and the leg was gently laid back on the litter. "Take his temperature," ordered the doctor, as he began to apply strips of adhesive plaster to the injured ribs; and though it required some persuasion by the nurse and Constance, the invalid finally was persuaded to let the little glass lie under his tongue. His task completed, Dr. Armstrong withdrew the tube and glanced at it. "Dat medicine oin't got much taste, boss," announced the urchin, cheerfully, "but it soytenly done me lots of good." The doctor looked up at Constance with a pleasant smile. "There's both the sense and the nonsense of the Christian Science idiocy," he said; and half in response to his smile and half in nervous relief, Constance laughed merrily.
14211_219	love stories	Ford, Paul Leicester	Not understanding the fear in the boy's mind, Constance put her free hand down and tried to assist him; but the instant he felt her fingers, his tightened violently. "Youse guv it me," he wailed. "Didn't she guv it me?" he appealed desperately to the policeman. "I'm only trying to help put it in your pocket," explained the girl. "Ah, chase youseself!" exclaimed the doubter, contemptuously. "Dat don't go wid me. Nah!" "What doesn't go?" bewilderedly questioned Miss Durant. "Wotcher tink youse up aginst? Suttin' easy? Well, I guess not! Youse don't get youse pickers in me pocket on dat racket." "She ain't goin' to take none of your money!" asserted the policeman, indignantly. "Can't you tell a real lady when you see her?" "Den let her quit tryin' to go tru me," protested the anxious capitalist; and Constance desisted from her misinterpreted attempt, with a laugh which died as the little fellow, at last successful in his endeavour to secrete the money, moaned again at the pain it cost him. "Shall we never get there?" she demanded impatiently, and, as if an answer were granted her, the carriage slowed, and turning, passed into a porte-cochčre, in which the shoes of the horses rang out sharply, and halted. "Stay quiet a bit, mum," advised the policeman, as he got out; and Constance remained, still supporting the urchin, until two men with a stretcher appeared, upon which they lifted the little sufferer, who screamed with pain that even this gentlest of handling cost him. Her heart wrung with sympathy for him, Miss Durant followed after them into the reception-ward. At the door she hesitated, in doubt as to whether it was right or proper for her to follow, till the sight of a nurse reassured her, and she entered; but her boldness carried her no farther than to stand quietly while the orderlies set down the litter. Without a moment's delay the nurse knelt beside the boy, and with her scissors began slitting up the sleeves of the tattered coat. "Hey! Wotcher up to?" demanded the waif, suspiciously. "I'm getting you ready for the doctor," said the nurse, soothingly. "It's all right." "Toin't nuttin' of de sort," moaned the boy.
65450_154	science fiction	Reinsberg, Mark	"There's another ship nearby!" said Jake in alarm. A rocket ship appeared suddenly overhead. "That's a police ship from Titan!" Matt exclaimed. "But how on Saturn could they have known we were here?" "They must have trailed Henry. That stupid fool probably took his time about buying the whiskey, and the letter got delivered before he left Titan!" He strode to the ship's radio. "It won't do them any good, though. I'll tell 'em I'll blast the entire cargo if they land!" Abruptly, Jake felt a sharp pain in his belly. His throat and windpipe were dry, terribly dry and scorched. "What's wrong with me?" he exclaimed. Then he turned to see Matt doubled over in agony. "The whiskey," Matt whispered hoarsely. "Henry...." "Poisoned!" Jake gasped.
29290_218	science fiction	Hensley, Joe L.	A truck horn blew ominously far down the road. The road? He slogged through the mud, instantly soaking as soon as he was out of shelter, not knowing or caring. Through the front yard, out to the road. He could see the lights of the truck coming from far away, two tiny points in the darkness. But no twins. He waited helplessly while the truck rushed past, its headlights cutting holes in the darkness--fearing those lights would outline something that he had not seen. But there was nothing. For another eternity he hunted the muddy fields, the small barn and outbuildings. The clutch of fear made him shout their names, though he knew they could not hear. And then, suddenly, all fear was gone--like a summer squall near the sea, with the sun close behind. It was as if their hands had reached out and touched him and brought the strange feeling again. "They are in the house," he said aloud and knew he was right. He took time to discard muddy shoes on the porch before he opened the door. And they were there--by the mother's bed, hands clasped over hers. He felt a tiny chill. Their eyes were watching the door as he opened it, their faces set to receive some stimuli--already set--as if they had known he was coming. Mary was breathing softly. On her face all trace of pain had disappeared and now there was the tiny smile that had been hers long ago. Her breathing was even, but light as forgotten conversation. Gently he tried to pry their resisting hands away from hers. The hands fought back with a terrible strength beyond normality. By sheer greater force he tore one of the twins away. It was like releasing a bomb. Sudden pain stabbed through his body. The twin struggled in his arms, the small hands reaching blindly out for the thing they had lost. And Mary's eyes opened and all of the uncontrolled pain came, back into those eyes. Her body writhed on the bed, tearing the coverings away. The twin squirmed away from his slackening hold and once again caught at the hands of the mother. All struggle ceased. Mary's eyes shut again, the pain lines smoothed themselves, the tiny smile flowered. He reached out and touched the small hands on each side of the mother and the feeling for which there were no words came through more strongly than ever before. Tiny voices tried to whisper within the corners of his mind, partially blotted, sometimes heard.
7132_1160	adventure stories	Hudson, W. H. (William Henry)	Of course, the misguided little wretch had no intention of throwing his fat wife at my head; still, I had no doubt that it was she who inspired these complimentary phrases, telling him, perhaps, that he would lose nothing by a courteous treatment of the “English millionaire.” When he rode away he left me sitting on the gate, feeling very much disgusted, and almost wishing that, like Marcos Marcó, I had run away during the night. Never had I taken so sudden and violent a dislike to anything as I then and there did to that estancia, where I was an honoured, albeit a compulsory guest. The hot, brilliant morning sunshone down on the discoloured thatch and mud-plastered walls of the sordid-looking building, while all about wherever I cast my eyes they rested on weeds, old bones, broken bottles, and other rubbish--eloquent witnesses of the dirty, idle, thriftless character of the inmates. Meanwhile my sweet, angelic child-wife, with her violet eyes dim with tears, was waiting for me far away in Montevideo, wondering at my long absence, and even now perhaps shading her face with her lily hand and looking out on the white dusty road watching for my arrival! And here I was compelled to sit, idly swinging my legs on the gate, because that abominable fat woman had taken a fancy to keep me by her! Feeling mad with indignation, I suddenly jumped down from the gate with an exclamation not intended for ears polite, causing my hostess to jump also and utter a scream; for there she was (confound her!) standing just behind me. “The Saints defend me!” she exclaimed, recovering herself and laughing; “what made you startle me so?” I apologised for the strong expression I had used; then added, “Señora, I am a young man full of energy and accustomed to take a great deal of exercise every day, and I am getting very impatient sitting here basking in the sunshine, like a turtle on a bank of mud.” “Why, then, do you not take a walk?” she said, with kind concern. I said I would gladly do so, and thanked her for the permission; then she immediately offered to accompany me. I protested very ungallantly that I was a fast walker, and reminded her that the sun was excessively hot, and I should also have liked to add that she was excessively fat.
5965_2211	science fiction	Flint, Homer Eon	"Into the connection again!" And he threw himself back into his chair. In a minute the three were still. Except for two great tears from Billie's eyes, there were no signs of life. Two minutes passed, then three. Finally all four roused together. "Well!" Van Emmon was the first to speak. His voice was harsh and strained. "By George, that was a narrow squeak! I thought sure I was a goner! They threw Powart--out of his yacht!" Billie caught his hand and patted it. Her lips were trembling; she could not trust herself to speak. Her husband stared at her with eyes that were still bewildered and tried hard to understand. Smith could say nothing. The doctor, however, got to his feet and stretched. "Phew!" taking off the brass bracelets and reaching for a handful of the Venusian books. "That was--going some!" He located a passage in one of the books. "I guess we've had enough of people like ourselves. What do you say," eagerly, "to visiting a place where they're not even the same sort of animals as we are?" He looked around enthusiastically. Smith made a brief sound of agreement, and remained in his chair. Both he and the doctor looked to Billie and Van Emmon for comment. But the man and the woman were content to look at one another. Their minds had room for only one problem; their eyes saw nothing, cared to see nothing, save that which love seeks and, having found, is satisfied with. Did it make any difference to Billie that her husband had sympathized with Capellette's greatest despot and worst failure? Did it make any difference to Van that Billie approved when the woman she was allied with discarded the despot for the devolutionist? Or was Billie still his chief reason for existing, and was Van hers? That was the real question! Small matters like life in other worlds--they could wait! THE EMANCIPATRIX I THE MENTAL EXPEDITION The doctor closed the door behind him, crossed to the table, silently offered the geologist a cigar, and waited until smoke was issuing from it. Then he said: "Well," bluntly, "what's come between you and your wife, Van?" The geologist showed no surprise. Instead, he frowned severely at the end of his cigar, and carefully seated himself on the corner of the table.
37913_2350	detective and mystery stories	Landon, Herman	Then he remembered the vivid descriptions he had read of the mocking laughter that had come from Virginia Darrow's dying lips, and a hazy suspicion entered his mind. He took a jack-knife from his pocket and swiftly slashed the cords around Fairspeckle's arms and legs. Although released from his bonds, the man in the chair scarcely moved. The feet scraped gently against the floor, and the arms fell limply to his sides. Weird snatches of laughter were still trickling through his lips, but the expression of insane merriment in his eyes was slowly yielding to a look of returning reason. The Phantom looked helplessly about him, and suddenly his eyes fell on a sheet of paper lying at the old man's feet. Mechanically he picked it up and glanced at the typewritten lines. From the smudged and indistinct type he was vaguely aware that he was gazing at a carbon copy. A word here and there attracted his attention, and presently he was reading the communication from the beginning. It read: Dear Friend: The poison which has been injected into your veins to-night has been accurately adjusted to produce death within seven days. You will have lucid intervals, but you will be gradually growing weaker and weaker. Consult as many high-priced specialists as you wish, and if they can help you, you are to be congratulated. There is only one antidote, and that is the secret of a confederate of mine. It will be supplied you for a consideration. The exact terms will be communicated to you in a few days. By that time you will probably have been convinced that your life is absolutely in my hands. If misery loves company, I trust you will find consolation in the fact that six others are in precisely the same predicament as yourself. Mr. Shei. The sheet dropped from The Phantom's fingers. If what he had just read seemed grotesque and absurd, a glance at the man in the chair conferred a semblance of hideous reality upon it. Mr. Shei had struck the threatened blow, and he had struck sooner than expected. Fairspeckle's laughter had ceased and a look of reason was coming into his waxen features. The expression of ribald mockery had left his eyes, and now they were fixed on The Phantom's face in a dull, suspicious stare. With a start The Phantom awoke to a realization of his predicament. If he were caught in Fairspeckle's apartment, the police and the public would be firmly convinced of what they already suspected--that Mr. Shei and The Phantom were one.
42423_2504	western stories	Whitson, John Harvey	That’s what I try to do, though I admit I get my mad up sometimes over some of the things they print about me. That paper, which poured vitriol on you to-day, will shower you with rosewater and honey to-morrow, if what you do pleases it.” “I shan’t try to please it!” Justin declared, angrily. “No, I wouldn’t; I’d try to please myself, and I’d try to look out for Number One. Well, I must be going!” He rose again. “And just think over what I’ve said to you in friendship. The range will be here, and the cattlemen, when all these other little barking dogs are dead and forgotten. My word for it, a desire for loot and plunder is really all that holds them together now, though they’re making such a howl about public virtue and honesty. I’ve been in the political whirl before, and I know those men right down to the ground.” He extended his hand as he reached the door, and Justin, having risen also, took it. “I’m your friend,” said Fogg, as a final word, “and what I’ve said is for your own good.” When he was gone Justin sat down to think it over. He knew there was much truth in Fogg’s statements. The conglomerate opposition struggling now to gain control of the legislature would fall to pieces inevitably by and by. If he voted with the ranch interests he would please the cowboys who had worked for his election, he would please Fogg and Davison, and he would not displease Lucy Davison. But would he please himself? Would he please Curtis Clayton? He could not hope by so doing to please the farmers. Justin had ambition, though he was not consumed by it. He did not wish to wreck his future. Philip Davison, in that memorable interview, had told him to do something, be something, accomplish something. In the interval between that time and now no opportunity had come to him. He had left the ranch, where he could earn only cowboy’s wages, though not wholly because of the low wages. He had for a time secured employment in the town, but the position had been neither promising nor permanent. He had been thinking seriously of going to Denver, to try his fortunes in its larger field, when the fire came which incapacitated him, and after the fire this unexpected election.
64757_1373	western stories	Coburn, Walt	“‘My last two bits,’ he ’lows, as he pays fer the sody pop. ‘I bet that’s two bits more than you got, long boy.’ “I admits the charge and he nods happy like. “‘Then we starts even, feller. Down yore p’izen and loan me the use of a fresh chaw. Then I’m gonna take yuh back and watch yuh pull that Sanchez gent’s fangs.’ “‘Yuh seen him bluff me down?’ I asks, plumb ashamed. “‘Yeah, I seen it. And I follered yuh outside. I seen yuh while yuh made up yore mind tuh shoot him from the dark.’ “‘How come yuh know I was layin’ fer him?’ says I. “‘You was talkin’ to yorese’f about it, pardner. All set? Then rattle yore hocks and we’ll git goin’. They th’owed me outa that wigwam last evenin’ after the poker dealer had robbed me uh two months pay.’ “Mebbeso it’s because I’m cooled off, er mebby it’s because this short-legged boy is so danged sure that I kin turn the trick, anyhow, when I goes back into that gamblin’ house, I’m steady as a work ox. “‘Whup him a plenty, Slim,’ whispers my new pardner, as we steps inside. ‘I’m standin’ at yore back till yore belly caves in. I’ll keep the gang off yuh. Whup him with yore hands.’ “Which I does. Sanchez goes fer his gun there on the table when he sees me comin’ but he’s slow and my bullet tears that fancy cannon loose from under his hand without hurtin’ him, though it plumb ruins that white handle with the notches. He unlimbers a knife as I clears the table but I weans him away from it pronto when my gun barrel ketches him across the wrist. Then I hands my smoke pole to my new pardner and proceeds tuh work Mister Snake Eyes over with my hands.” Tad paused to light his cigaret. Kipp was again staring at his saddle horn. “That fight wins me two things that night. One was Shorty Carroway, the gamest pardner a man ever had. The other was what book-learnt folks calls se’f-respect. Only fer Shorty, I’d uh killed that Sanchez from the dark that night and lost my right tuh call myse’f a man.” Kipp shot Tad a covert glance, laden with suspicion.
21891_3308	detective and mystery stories	McCulley, Johnston	" "Yes'm." Without another word, Kate Gilbert got up and left the room, closing the door behind her. In the other room were the masked man, the two thugs, and Marie, the maid. "I have talked to him, and I have a plan," Kate Gilbert told the others. "Marie, I wish you to do something for me. Take the taxicab and go on the errand, and after I am done here I will go home in another car." She stepped across to the maid and gave her whispered instructions, while the men waited. Marie left the room, walked through the hall, and left the house. Kate Gilbert sat down at the table and called the others to her. "That man is loyal to Prale," she explained. "Prale has fooled him. He honestly believes that Prale does not know his enemies or why he is being bothered, and he is grateful to Prale for what Prale has done for him. So, naturally, he refuses to turn against his employer." "If you will leave the matter in my hands----" the masked man suggested. "I may do so after we have had this little talk. Come closer, so I can speak in a low tone and he will not hear." They pulled their chairs up to the table. "This man is stubborn," she said. "You could starve him or beat him, and it would do you not the slightest good. It would only make him the more determined to be faithful to Prale. We would gain nothing. We've got to convince him that we are in the right." "I object to telling him the whole truth," said the masked man. "He could do nothing except tell it to Prale--and Prale knows it already, doesn't he?" Kate Gilbert asked. "You want to let the fellow go?" the masked man cried. "Why, we can use him as a sort of hostage!" "As if Sidney Prale would care if he never saw his valet again!" "He is more than a valet; he is one of Prale's spies! If we can hold this man prisoner, and attend to Jim Farland, that detective, Prale would stand alone. There are not many men he would trust to help him. And, if he stands alone, it will be easier for us to torment him, cause him trouble, drive him away!
61967_288	science fiction	Hasse, Henry	I hate to admit it, but I guess you were right. There's someone here all right, and I've got him spotted. I've got him spotted so damn good that I don't dare move! He's got a ray-pistol and he just took two pot shots at me." Garth's voice came again, thinly: "If this is your idea of a joke, it's out of place and very unfunny." "It's unfunny all right! You get over here damn quick! And Hype, be careful. I'll keep talking to guide you." Ten minutes later Garth crept cautiously to his partner's side and whispered: "You're sure it wasn't a meteor you saw?" "Do meteors singe your ears? It was a ray, I tell you! It came from down there." Garth crept to the edge of the chasm and rolled a fragment of rock over the rim. It bounded steeply down in the dark, but they could hear no sound due to the helmets they wore. No answering ray flashed up. For a minute Garth lay there, peering down cautiously. Then he crept back. "You're right," he told Prokle, "someone's down there." "See something?" Garth shook his head. "Oh, I see, it's one of those--those things of yours again. Well, you've never been wrong yet on those premonitions, but this time you don't need it. Can you tell if there's more than one?" "Not sure," Garth said, "but I don't think so. Just _someone_. Lord knows where he got the ray-pistol, those life-boats aren't equipped with 'em. He was probably carrying one." "But good Lord, why take pot shots at us? He must know who we are! He must know we're here to get him off this blasted rock!" Garth looked straight at Prokle and spoke calmly: "Maybe he knows it and maybe not. Twenty-one days, Prokle, remember? Imagine three weeks on this place, knowing there's only a chance in a million of you being located. Maybe watching the others die off one by one. You'd hate to be the last, Prokle, wouldn't you?
38663_1227	detective and mystery stories	Mason, A. E. W. (Alfred Edward Woodley)	" "Yes," said Hanaud. "It is curious the brain working while the body sleeps, the dream revealing what thought cannot recall." Mr. Ricardo was delighted. He was taken seriously. "But of course," he said, "I could not have worked the problem out but for you. You knew of André Favart and the kind of man he was." Hanaud laughed. "Yes. That is always my one little advantage. I know all the cosmopolitan blackguards of Europe." His laughter ceased suddenly, and he brought his clenched fist heavily down upon the table. "Here is one of them who will be very well out of the world, my friend," he said very quietly, but there was a look of force in his face and a hard light in his eyes which made Mr. Ricardo shiver. For a few moments there was silence. Then Ricardo asked: "But have you evidence enough?" "Yes." "Your two chief witnesses, Calladine and Joan Carew--you said it yourself--there are facts to discredit them. Will they be believed?" "But they won't appear in the case at all," Hanaud said. "Wait, wait!" and once more he smiled. "By the way, what is the number of Calladine's house?" Ricardo gave it, and Hanaud therefore wrote a letter. "It is all for your sake, my friend," he said with a chuckle. "Nonsense," said Ricardo. "You have the spirit of the theatre in your bones." "Well, I shall not deny it," said Hanaud, and he sent out the letter to the nearest pillar-box. Mr. Ricardo waited in a fever of impatience until Thursday came. At breakfast Hanaud would talk of nothing but the news of the day. At luncheon he was no better. The affair of the Semiramis Hotel seemed a thousand miles from any of his thoughts. But at five o'clock he said as he drank his tea: "You know, of course, that we go to the opera to-night?" "Yes. Do we?" "Yes. Your young friend Calladine, by the way, will join us in your box." "That is very kind of him, I am sure," said Mr. Ricardo. The two men arrived before the rising of the curtain, and in the crowded lobby a stranger spoke a few words to Hanaud, but what he said Ricardo could not hear.
83_4050	science fiction	Verne, Jules	" "Ah! ah!" said Michel, in a satisfied tone. "It is very nearly," continued Nicholl, "the course described by a bomb launched from a mortar." "Perfect! And the hyperbola?" "The hyperbola, Michel, is a curve of the second order, produced by the intersection of a conic surface and a plane parallel to its axis, and constitutes two branches separated one from the other, both tending indefinitely in the two directions." "Is it possible!" exclaimed Michel Ardan in a serious tone, as if they had told him of some serious event. "What I particularly like in your definition of the hyperbola (I was going to say hyperblague) is that it is still more obscure than the word you pretend to define." Nicholl and Barbicane cared little for Michel Ardan's fun. They were deep in a scientific discussion. What curve would the projectile follow? was their hobby. One maintained the hyperbola, the other the parabola. They gave each other reasons bristling with _x_. Their arguments were couched in language which made Michel jump. The discussion was hot, and neither would give up his chosen curve to his adversary. This scientific dispute lasted so long that it made Michel very impatient. "Now, gentlemen cosines, will you cease to throw parabolas and hyperbolas at each other's heads? I want to understand the only interesting question in the whole affair. We shall follow one or the other of these curves? Good. But where will they lead us to?" "Nowhere," replied Nicholl. "How, nowhere?" "Evidently," said Barbicane, "they are open curves, which may be prolonged indefinitely." "Ah, savants!" cried Michel; "and what are either the one or the other to us from the moment we know that they equally lead us into infinite space?" Barbicane and Nicholl could not forbear smiling. They had just been creating "art for art's sake." Never had so idle a question been raised at such an inopportune moment. The sinister truth remained that, whether hyperbolically or parabolically borne away, the projectile would never again meet either the earth or the moon. What would become of these bold travelers in the immediate future? If they did not die of hunger, if they did not die of thirst, in some days, when the gas failed, they would die from want of air, unless the cold had killed them first.
66030_1562	adventure stories	Gould, Nat	You could no more get Yacka to conform to our idea of civilized behaviour than you could train a monkey to keep out of mischief. Yacka is full of mischief, but it’s a humorous sort of mischief, and does not do much harm.’ ‘Yacka’s the only useful black we have around here,’ said Will Henton. ‘He’s a splendid fag in the cricket field, and when he’s extra good we let him handle a bat. He shapes well, too, and I’m inclined to think Yacka might be developed into a decent cricketer. He rides well, and that’s more than the other fellows do; and when he’s handled my gun I’ve seen him make some fair shots. The rummy part of the business is that Yacka won’t be civilized, as Ben says, and you can’t get him to leave the camp.’ Edgar Foster thought a good deal about Yacka that night, and resolved to try and make friends with him, and learn something of his past life, which he felt sure would be interesting. CHAPTER XI. YACKA THE BLACK. Edgar Foster, after six months’ experience on Yanda Station, liked the life very much. He was popular with the hands, and Ben Brody had taken to him in a manner that caused men to marvel. It was seldom Brody made a chum of anyone, but he had done so of Edgar, who was young enough to be his son. It was an intense relief to Edgar when he received letters from his father and sister. They were letters such as might have been expected from them, and the way in which they referred to the terrible loss of the _Distant Shore_ brought tears into Edgar’s eyes. His father enclosed him a draft, and said he was proud of his son, and knew he had risked his life to save Captain Manton’s child. Inquiries had been made in every direction, but no relations had been found to claim little Eva. Captain Manton had not saved much money, and what he had was in the hands of the shipping company to which the _Distant Shore_ belonged. Robert Foster wrote that he had consulted the chairman of the company, and it had been arranged that if no relation claimed Eva she was to remain in charge of Wal Jessop and his wife, and a sum of money would be paid annually to them. In concluding his letter Robert Foster gave his son good advice, telling him to go on as he had commenced, and to brave dangers if by doing so he could help others.
32697_66	science fiction	Quattrocchi, Frank	"Jesus!" muttered Mills. Scores of video teams focused equipment on the gleaming alien. "_The Races of Wan desire contact with you._" "In English yet!" amazed Mills. "The basis of this contact together with its nature are dependent upon _you_!" The voice had become ugly. There was nothing human about it save only the words, which were in flawless English. "Your system has long been under surveillance by the Races of Wan. Your--progress has been noted." There was almost a note of contempt, thought Harrison, in the last sentence. "Your system is about to reach others. It therefore becomes a matter of urgency that the Races of Wan make contact. "Your cultural grasp is as yet quite small. You reach four of your own system's planets. You have attempted--with little success--colonization. You anticipate further penetrations. "You master the physical conditions of your system with difficulty. You are a victim of many of the natural laws--natural laws which you dimly perceive. "But you master yourselves with greatest difficulty, and you are infinitely more a victim of forces within your very nature--_forces which you know almost not at all_." "What the hell--" began Mills. "Because of this disparity your maturity as a race is much in doubt. There are many among the cultures of the stars who would consider your race deviant and deadly. There are a very few who would welcome you to the reaches of space. "But most desire more information. Thus our visit. We have come to gather data that will determine your--disposition-- "Your race accepts the principle of extermination. You relentlessly seek and kill for commercial or political advantage. You live in mistrust and envy and threat. Yet, as earthlings, you have power. It is not great, but it contains a threat. We wish now to know the extent of that threat. "Here is the test." Suddenly an image resolved itself on the gleaming metal of the ship itself. _It was a blueprint._ A hundred cameras focused on it. "_Construct this. It is defective. Correct that which renders it not useful. We shall return in three days for your solution._" "Good God!" exclaimed Harrison. "It's a--_sword_!" "A what?" asked Mills. "A sword--people used to chop each other's heads off with them." Almost at once the metal giant was seen to move.
37102_1337	adventure stories	Marshall, Bernard Gay	Twill please me well if, while I still lie at Mannerley, he and thou and Cedric come riding there and visit me. And so good-by with all my heart. May thou win safely home and Heaven’s blessing follow thee.” Gladly we mounted and reined our horses’ heads toward home. As we left the little glade we turned for one more look at the pale youth, lying half prostrate on his couch of leaves; and our hearts did swell with gladness to know his life was safe and that no longer was he a stranger or an enemy. And once more we caught his winsome smile and the wave of his hand that bade us God speed. CHAPTER VII—THE OUTLAWS OF BLACKPOOL ’Twas a fortnight after the fray with the outlaws on the borders of Blackpool Forest, where, all unknowing, we had saved the life of young Sir Geoffrey of Carleton, heir of the house that for so long had been our bitterest enemy, that my father and I rode with Cedric, my comrade and squire, and six stout men-at-arms over the hill road to Mannerley. There our new-made friend, Sir Geoffrey, lay recovering from his wound. Lord Mountjoy wore helmet and cuirass; and his good two-handed broadsword swung by his side, while both Cedric and I wore shirts of linked mail and our followers each a quilted, shaft-proof leathern jacket. Cedric carried the cross-bow which he had often used to such good purpose, and I the sword of Damascus steel which my father had riven from a Saracen noble in the Holy Land. Withal we made a brave array on the woodland roads and one of which the boldest band of outlaws with their bows and bills and coats of Lincoln green might well beware. But no enemy gainsaid us on the road; and at two o’ the clock we rode across the drawbridge of our good friend and neighbor, the Lady of Mannerley. She bade us welcome in the courtly manner to which she was bred, and ushered us to the great hall. Geoffrey was reclining in a great chair before the fire, and rose to greet us with most joyous face. His wound was healing fast, as we had known from the messengers who had passed almost daily to and fro; but the young Lord of Carleton was still pale with the bloodletting, and could leave his chair no longer than the courtesy of a host demanded.
42625_1697	love stories	Reynolds, Baillie, Mrs.	She begged me to put it on. I thought it was her pretty way of telling me that my frock was a bit shabby for the occasion, so I did as she asked." "Well, you look very nice, I must own. You pay for dressing, as they say. It is years since I have seen anybody prettily dressed." Ninian made a restless movement "In my husband’s lifetime we had a house in town as well as a big country place," went on his mother. "Ninian doesn’t realise at all how much I miss it." Her son was very red. "Mother, what is the use of talking so? You know I can’t help it." Madam sighed deeply, but as the ayah now entered, with a silver entrée dish in her hand, they sat down to table and the subject dropped. It had one good effect, for it made Ninian exert himself to talk, so as to turn the current of Madam’s thoughts. Olwen was grateful to him for making conversation, for her own fancy was so full of the fortune-telling as to make it impossible for her to fix her thoughts on anything else. Later, when the ayah had left the room, she could no longer resist speaking of what had occurred. "Is not your Sunia a clairvoyante?" she asked. "She has been saying most extraordinary things to me." Madam stared in faint surprise. "What kind of things?" "About my childhood and early life. Things she could not possibly have known. She spoke of my parents, ’divided in everything but their love for me.’ That is, unfortunately, true, but she could not have known it by any ordinary means." As she spoke, she caught Mr. Guyse’s eye. There was an expression in it which held her attention, but which she could not analyse. It was rather like pity. As their eyes met, he rose from table with a nervous laugh. "She’s an old humbug," he said. "Don’t listen to her, don’t let her bore you. Shall I tell her to let you alone?" "Oh, please don’t tell tales of me! She has been so kind, she has done all she could for me. I—I didn’t mind her saying that, only it seemed a bit uncanny." He gave her another self-conscious look, then turned away and lit his pipe without replying.
57758_2635	adventure stories	Deeping, Warwick	“Do not hope for anything in this life, sir,” she said; “take pleasure as it comes, and make the most of it. Do not be deceived by sentimental notions of propriety, and do not count on the future, for our expectations generally turn out to be ridiculous. Drink the wine in the cup, sir, and don’t plot for the morrow. And stick to your money, Richard; for whatever poets may say, money is the only sure friend in this world.” The Lady Letitia’s philosophy was not vastly cheering to her nephew’s spirit, but then the sordid truth is never welcome to the ardent soul of youth. He pitied her for the poverty of her sentiments, and yet felt uncomfortably conscious all the while that there was much shrewd wisdom in her words. His money, yes! Would Miss Jilian Hardacre have loved him if he had been without a penny? Would Sir Peter have waxed so amiable and hearty? Would the rough boors touch their hats to him and the farmers wax obsequious in his presence? Richard smiled somewhat sadly over these thoughts, like a man finding his creed light in the balance. Yet there was Dick Wilson, the rough knave whose tongue was clumsy. Jeffray believed in him. And Bess? Why should he think of Bess at such a moment? Bess Grimshaw was inclined to pout and quarrel with his wealth because—and Richard flushed at the conviction—because his gentility threw up a barrier between them. Jeffray had never contrasted Miss Jilian and the forest child in this bright light before. The morning after his talk with Aunt Letitia, Jeffray walked in his garden and watched the spring flowers that were spearing through the brown earth in the borders. The snowdrops had melted away, and gaudy crocuses, purple and gold, blazed beyond the hedges of close-clipped box. Hyacinths were thrusting up, tulips spreading their stout leaves. On the lawns below the terrace daffodils were nodding in the wind, lighting the sombreness of the yews and cedars. As Richard walked his gravel-paths, thinking of Bess and of her shrouded history, a short, sturdy figure in black appeared upon the terrace and came down the steps towards the garden. It was Dr. Sugg, the fat rector of Rodenham, whose red face shone forth with fiery solemnity under his powdered wig. Dr. Barnabas Sugg was a favorite with the villagers. He could drink good beer, preach short sermons, and refrain from poking his amiable nose too parsonically into his parishoners’ affairs.
3641_4950	love stories	Hamilton, Cosmo	" She had made another mistake. His sensitiveness gave him as many quills as a porcupine. "Find myself," he said, quoting her unfortunate words with sarcasm. "What on earth do you mean by that, my good child?" She forced back her rising tears. Had she utterly lost her rights as a wife? He was speaking to her in the tone that a man uses to an interfering sister. "What's to become of me?" she asked. "Newport, of course. Why not? Fill the house up. I give you a free hand." "And will you join me there, Gilbert?" "No. I'm not in the mood." He turned on his heel and went to the other side of the summer house, and flicked his half-smoked cigarette into the scrub below. A frog took a leap. When he spoke again it was with his back to her. "Don't you think you'd better rejoin Mrs. Jekyll? She may be impatient to get off." But Alice took her courage in both hands. If this was to be the end she must know it. Uncertainty was not to be endured any longer. All her sleepless nights and fluctuations of hope and despair had marked her, perhaps for life. Hers was not the easily blown away infatuation of a debutante, the mere summer love of a young girl. It was the steady and devoted love of a wife, ready to make sacrifices, to forgive inconstancies, to make allowances for temporary aberrations and, when necessary, to nurse back to sanity, without one word or look of reproach, the husband who had slipped into delinquency. Not only her future and his were at stake, but there were the children for whom she prayed. They must be considered. And so, holding back her emotion, she followed him across the pompous summer house in which, with a shudder, she recognized a horrible resemblance to a mausoleum, and laid her little hand upon his arm. "Gilbert," she said, "tell me the truth. Be frank with me. Let me help you, dear." Poor little wife. For the third time she had said the wrong thing. "Help"--the word angered him. Did she imagine that he was a callow youth crossed in love? He drew his arm away sharply. There was something too domestic in all this to be borne with patience. Humiliating, also, he had to confess. "When did I ever give you the right to delve into my private affairs?
3294_2051	adventure stories	Sabatini, Rafael	The three Jews, lithe, stalwart young men in black tunics that fell to their knees and black skull-caps upon their curly black locks, smiled ingratiatingly, hoping for the best since they were fallen into the hands of people who were nearer akin to them than Christians and allied to them, at least, by the bond of common enmity to Spain and common suffering at the hands of Spaniards. The two heretics stood in stolid apathy, realizing that with them it was but a case of passing from Charybdis to Scylla, and that they had as little to hope for from heathen as from Christian. One of these was a sturdy bowlegged fellow, whose garments were little better than rags; his weather-beaten face was of the colour of mahogany and his eyes of a dark blue under tufted eyebrows that once had been red--like his hair and beard--but were now thickly intermingled with grey. He was spotted like a leopard on the hands by enormous dark brown freckles. Of the entire dozen he was the only one that drew the attention of Sakr-el-Bahr. He stood despondently before the corsair, with bowed head and his eyes upon the deck, a weary, dejected, spiritless slave who would as soon die as live. Thus some few moments during which the stalwart Muslim stood regarding him; then as if drawn by that persistent scrutiny he raised his dull, weary eyes. At once they quickened, the dulness passed out of them; they were bright and keen as of old. He thrust his head forward, staring in his turn; then, in a bewildered way he looked about him at the ocean of swarthy faces under turbans of all colours, and back again at Sakr-el-Bahr. “God's light!” he said at last, in English, to vent his infinite amazement. Then reverting to the cynical manner that he had ever affected, and effacing all surprise-- “Good day to you, Sir Oliver,” said he. “I suppose ye'll give yourself the pleasure of hanging me.” “Allah is great!” said Sakr-el-Bahr impassively. CHAPTER II. THE RENEGADE How it came to happen that Sakr-el-Bahr, the Hawk of the Sea, the Muslim rover, the scourge of the Mediterranean, the terror of Christians, and the beloved of Asad-ed-Din, Basha of Algiers, would be one and the same as Sir Oliver Tressilian, the Cornish gentleman of Penarrow, is at long length set forth in the chronicles of Lord Henry Goade.
60947_654	science fiction	Anvil, Christopher	There was a stir in the room and a low ugly rumble. "I knew it," said the man behind the desk, jumping to his feet. "I knew they'd lie low and then creep back again when things are quiet. If we'd been demobilized, it would all have been for nothing. But we _aren't_ demobilized!" Abruptly there were shouted orders, and someone was gripping Dan by the arm. "Just lead the way. Show us where they are and we'll take care of the rest." Dan said mentally, "Kielgaard?" Kielgaard said, "Good Lord! Go straight outside and turn right." Someone threw a switch beside the door. Outside, they followed Dan to the right. Behind him, Dan heard the mutter and cough of engines starting up. They were in a well-lighted street like that of a large city, but there was no traffic, either because it was late or because of the travel restrictions. Kielgaard said, "Next left and it's in front of you." Dan turned the corner. Directly before him was a large white marble building with a lawn on either side of a broad flight of steps, and guards on the sidewalk, the steps, and in emplacements in the shrubbery on either side of the steps. One of them saw Dan and casually snapped a shot at him. Dan got back around the corner fast and looked around. On both sides of the street, men were lying flat at the bases of the buildings, or crouching in doorways. Down the street, they were running up a block to the left. Up the middle of the street came a tank. It paused just out of sight from the building around the corner, and an amplified voice boomed out, "This is the War Ruler. Get out of that building before the count of thirty, or we clean you out." A voice began to count. There was a sound of fast footsteps on the sidewalk around the corner, and half a dozen men carrying guns came into view. Dan recognized some of the men who had searched the place where he'd landed his boat. One of them, not yet quite in a position to see the tank, called out irritably, "All right, you. Get out here!" Then he caught sight of the men lying at the base of the buildings, and crouched in the doorways. He fired. Flashes of light came from the men by the buildings.
64965_204	science fiction	Marlowe, Stephen	"My, but you have big muscles." Marsden smiled. "You need them in this grim, dreary place, of course. You probably wish you didn't. You probably would rather be thin and wear glasses maybe and spend most of your time in an air-cooled office and do things like that." "I don't know. A man would grow bored working in an office." "See?" Alice Cooper cried. "See? I just knew I'd love Talbor. You're so primitive. Why, you're practically--Cro-Magnon. Come on outside, Harry. I want to take your picture." She took his big hand and led him to the door. Marsden looked back uncomfortably and saw Charlie Adcock off in a corner with two of the women of Earth, talking avidly. Strangely, he thought Charlie was scowling about something. Talbor's strong orange sunlight made him squint while Alice Cooper said: "Tremendous place for a camera enthusiast. I hear it never rains around here. Surprising this place isn't a desert, don't you think?" "It rains when it has to." "Here. Stand over here. Yes, facing the sun. Can you do something to show you're almost--almost ancestral?" "I don't understand, Miss." "Goodness, I mean your muscles. Flex them. Use them to do something like lifting a heavy object. Break something if you want to. I'm sure those muscles are good for something besides weeding your fields or pulling a plow." Marsden began to feel foolish but obliged her with a handstand. He lost his balance, though, before she could take the picture and tumbled flat on his back in the dusty street, landing so hard he saw stars. * * * * * A couple of men who had been watching from the hotel steps snickered. "I didn't know Marsden was an acrobat." "His old lady claims she's going to sell him to the interstellar circus when it comes around." "What do you say we give him a hand?" Marsden sat up, rubbed his head. One of the men came over and offered his arm. Cat-quick, Marsden leaped to his feet and thrust the man away from him so hard that he stumbled back, crashed against the bottom steps and fell. Something clicked, and Alice Cooper squealed excitedly: "I got it! That was perfect, Harry. Thank you ever so much.
3727_3905	love stories	Richardson, Henry Handel	Then, however, Schilsky's mood changed; he struck the table so that the glasses danced. "And shall I tell you what my reward has been for not going? Do you want to know how Lulu has treated me for staying on here? 'You are a quarter of an hour late: where have you been? You've only written two bars since I saw you this morning: what have you been doing? A letter has come in a strange writing: who is it from? You've put on another tie: who have you been to see?' HIMMELSAKRAMENT!" He drained his glass. "I've had the life of a dog, I tell you--of a dog! There's not been a moment in the day when she hasn't spied on me, and followed me, and made me ridiculous. Over every trifle she has got up a fresh scene. She's even gone so far as to come to my room and search my pockets, when she knew I wasn't at home." "Yes, yes," sneered Krafft. "Exactly! And so, gentlemen he was now for slinking off without a word to her." "Oh, PFUI!" spat the American. "Call him a liar!" said a voice. "Liar?" repeated Schilsky dramatically. "Why liar? I don't deny it. I would have done it gladly if I could--isn't that just what I've been saying? Lulu would have got over it all the quicker alone. And then, why shouldn't I confess it? You're all my friends here." He dropped his voice. "I'm afraid of Lulu, boys. I was afraid she'd get round me, and then my chance was gone. She might have shot me, but she wouldn't have let me go. You never know how a woman of that type'll break out--never!" "But she didn't!" said Krafft. "You live." Schilsky understood him. "Some brute," he cried savagely, "some dirty brute had nothing better to do than to tell her." "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the painted boy. Furst blew his nose. "It wasn't me. I was mum. 'Pon my honour, I was." "My God!" said Schilsky, and fell to remembering it. "What a time I've been through with her this afternoon!"
7132_898	adventure stories	Hudson, W. H. (William Henry)	“All flowers are pretty,” I replied. “But surely, señor, some are prettier than others. Perhaps you have observed a particularly pretty one growing in these parts--the white margarita?” Margarita is the Oriental vernacular for verbena; the fragrant white variety is quite common in the country; so that I was justified in ignoring the fellow’s rather impudent meaning. Assuming as wooden an expression as I could, I replied, “Yes, I have often observed the flower you speak of; it is fragrant, and to my mind surpasses in beauty the scarlet and purple varieties. But you must know, my friend, that I am a botanist--that is, a student of plants--and they are all equally interesting to me.” This astonished him; and, pleased with the interest he appeared to take in the subject, I explained, in simple language, the principles on which a classification of plants is founded, telling him about that _lingua franca_ by means of which all the botanists in the world of all nations are able to converse together about plants. From this somewhat dry subject I launched into the more fascinating one of the physiology of plants. “Now, look at this,” I continued, and with my penknife I carefully dissected the flower in my hand, for it was evident that I could not now give it to Margarita without exposing myself to remarks. I then proceeded to explain to him the beautiful complex structure by means of which this campanula fertilises itself. He listened in wonder, exhausting all the Spanish and Oriental equivalents of such expressions as “Dear me!” “How extraordinary!” “Lawks a mussy!” “You don’t say so!” I finished my lecture, satisfied that my superior intellect had baffled the rude creature; then, tossingaway the fragments of the flower I had sacrificed, I restored the penknife to my pocket. “These are matters we do not often hear about in the Banda Orientál,” he said. “But the English know everything--even the secrets of a flower. They are also able to do most things. Did you ever, sir botanist, take part in acting a comedy?” After all, I had wasted my flower and scientific knowledge on the animal for nothing! “Yes, I have!” I replied rather angrily; then, suddenly remembering Eyebrows’ teaching, I added, “and in tragedy also.” “Is that so?” he exclaimed. “How amused the spectators must have been!
27824_2707	detective and mystery stories	Campbell, Alice	" It was the exasperated tone one might employ to a rather tiresome child. She found herself listening idly, wondering who it was who had come into his room. A second later, with a slight shock, she recognised the unmistakable tones of Lady Clifford. As on a former occasion, she was puzzled to know how it was the doctor spoke to her in so peremptory a fashion. She could not catch the words of the Frenchwoman, but the doctor's reply was clearly audible. "That was wrong of you," he was saying. "I distinctly told you not to try. Besides, I am sure you exaggerate the importance of it." Lady Clifford's next speech, uttered in a querulous tone, was distinguishable, from which Esther concluded she had come closer to the window. "But I tell you I must know the truth! I cannot rest until I find out. Something warns me he has done something ... damnable!" "You will know soon enough." "But, mon Dieu, when I know it will be too late!" She seemed almost in tears. The doctor waited a little before replying, in accents of unmoved calm: "Rubbish! How did this idea come to you?" "I will tell you." The woman's voice was eager, importunate. "In January, when we were in Paris, he went to see Hamilton, his English solicitor. I thought nothing of it at the time, but a few days ago something he said made me think--made me afraid---- I don't know what he may have done. He is capable of anything, everything! I tell you, I am terrified!" Esther, by the bathroom window, nodded to herself with satisfaction at the confirmation of her theory. So it had been the will Lady Clifford was trying to see! Matters were clearing up. She heard Sartorius say sceptically: "Don't be a fool! Go back to your room; this is neither the time nor the place for these conferences. I have told you that before." There was a faint murmured protest, then again the doctor's voice, heavy and intolerant: "Good God, woman, what possible difference can he make, or anyone else, for that matter? You appear to overlook the fact that all is being done for your husband that can be done. There is not the slightest cause for alarm.
29954_110	science fiction	De Vet, Charles V.	"What are you waiting for?" I screamed, the tenseness, and the importance of this moment forcing me to lose the iron self-control upon which I have always prided myself. I knew that the answer held the secret of what I must know. If I could learn that, my experiment would not be in vain, and I could make whatever preparations were necessary for my own death. I had to know that answer. "Think! Think!" I pleaded. "What are you waiting for?" "I do not know!" The dreary despair in his eyes, sightless as they met mine, chilled me with a coldness that I felt in the marrow of my being. "I do not know," he repeated. "I ... Yes, I do know!" Abruptly the plasmatic film cleared from his eyes and I knew that for the first time, since the poison struck, he was seeing me, clearly. I sensed that this was the last moment before he left--for good. It had to be now! "Tell me. I command you," I cried. "What are you waiting for?" His voice was quiet as he murmured, softly, implacably, before he was gone. "We are waiting," he said, "for _you_." THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy_ August 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
39865_3583	love stories	Clifford, W. K., Mrs.	He considered for a moment and then he wrote. '_Tom Carringford sends his love to you._' "It shall go as if it were a little message flying out of space." He stopped and considered again. "I should like the Lakemans to know before I get there. I have telegraphed already to say that I start to-night; but if Lena's very ill, it looks rather cruel to burst upon them with news of happiness." "Must they be told at once?" Margaret asked. For some reason she dreaded their knowing. "Well, they've always been so kind to me." Almost mechanically he took up his pen and wrote: '_Margaret and I want you to know that we are engaged, but, of course, I start alone to-night. Kind love._--_Tom._' Margaret kept her lips closed, for she thought of the Lakemans with a dislike that was almost beyond her control, but she felt that her father's memories, no less than the fact that they were Tom's friends, demanded her silence. "Now then," he said, "that's all over. Where's your hat?" "Over there, on the floor," she answered, demurely, "upside down--my best hat." "Never mind, I'll give you a dozen new ones. Let's send off these things and go for an hour's drive in the fastest hansom we can find--just to calm us down a little. Then, suppose we come back and dine quietly here at seven. Mrs. Gilman will manage it. I shall have to fly at half-past." Tom reflected quickly that Great College Street was the best shelter for a quiet _tête-à-tête_. "Come along." He took her hand and ran with her down the narrow staircase. "I don't believe you know how fond I am of you, but you'll find out in time," he said, stopping half-way. "I do know," she answered, "and I love you--dreadfully." He looked at her and kissed her, then a happy thought struck him. "Mrs. Gilman," he called, boisterously, for there were no other people in the house, "I want to tell you," he said, when that good woman appeared, "that Miss Vincent and I are engaged." "Oh, Mr. Carringford!
37304_924	love stories	Prindle, Frances Carruth	“You need not trouble to do anything about the cake, Miss Ware,” she said, proudly, “and I shan’t come here again to hear my father insulted. And we are not going to starve either,” she cried, her girlish wrath rising. “We are going to succeed and be a credit to the best education in the world!” She threw back her head and gazed straight into the older woman’s eyes with a fearless look that was hard to meet. Only the fingers curled tight into the palms of her hands, betrayed the mighty effort she was making to hold herself in check, and this Miss Ware did not see, for Hester’s unflinching eyes held her with a strange fascination. In another moment the girl had turned and left the room. For a while after her departure Miss Ware sat motionless like a person who has received a shock. Presently she began to toy with her lorgnette, dangling it back and forth on its chain with a swinging movement as if keeping time to a rhythmic train of thought. This was not, indeed, the case, and the action arose from nervousness, for the usual calm placidity of her mind was sadly ruffled. She was not in the habit of being contradicted, particularly by what she was pleased to call “a young person”; but she was one of those women who having said their worst, proceed to contradict themselves by an interest in that which they have most condemned, and she was now speculating as to whether it would not be expedient to take Hester’s cake to the meeting of her sewing class the following day, and possibly get an order or two there for it. Only a true Radnorite could realize the possibilities that opened up to one who was introduced as a subject of discussion at _the_ Sewing Class of Radnor. For in the fashionable and exclusive set in which Miss Ware had her being it was a function of tremendous importance, with sacred rites known only to the initiated. In one another’s drawing-rooms, on two mornings of the month, forty chosen spirits met to sew for the poor—that great, clamorous, all-devouring body from which there is no escape. This was ostensibly the purpose; in reality sewing was a minor consideration, albeit much work was accomplished. The chief end of its existence was to discuss, direct and control the movements of that exclusive portion of Radnor society of which it was a part and upon which it sat in fortnightly judgment.
25762_1366	detective and mystery stories	Wheeler, Janet D.	said Billie dolefully. "And now she has four of us!" "I know," chuckled Connie. "Mother was worrying a little about that--as to how she could keep four famished wolves fed at one time. But Uncle Tom said he'd help her out." "Your Uncle Tom," Vi repeated wonderingly. "Can he cook?" "Of course," said Connie, looking at her as if she had asked if the world was square. "Didn't I tell you about his clam chowder?" "Oh," said Vi thoughtfully, while something within her began to cry out for a sample of that clam chowder. "Oh yes, I remember." "Connie, you're cruel," moaned Laura. "Can't you talk of something besides clam chowder when you know I'm starving to death? Goodness, I can almost smell it." "That's the clams you smell," chuckled Connie. "They always have some on board the _Mary Ann_ to sell to the islanders--if they haven't the sense to catch them themselves. We never need to buy any," she added, proudly. "Uncle Tom keeps us supplied with all we want. Look!" she cried suddenly, pointing to a small island which loomed directly ahead of them, looking in the grey mist of evening like only a darker shadow against the shifting background. "That's our island--see? And there's the light," she added, as a sudden beacon flashed out at them, sending a ruddy light out over the dark water. "Oh, isn't it beautiful!" cried Billie rapturously. "Just think what it must mean to the ships out at sea--that friendly light, beckoning to them----" "No, it doesn't--beckon, I mean," said Connie decidedly. "That's just what it isn't for. It's to warn them to keep away or they'll be sorry." "Is there so much danger?" asked Laura eagerly. "I should say there is," Connie answered gravely. "In a storm especially. You see, the water is very shallow around here and if a big ship runs in too close to shore she's apt to get on a shoal. That isn't so bad in clear weather--although a ship did get stuck on the shoal here not so very long ago and she was pretty much damaged when they got her off.
50157_1930	detective and mystery stories	Wheeler, Janet D.	Whether this pleasantry confused Edina, or whether the girl, hating and fearing the water, slipped as she was about to enter the boat, no one ever knew. At any rate, she lost her footing in some way, pushed the rowboat outward as she fell, and plunged headlong into the deep water at the end of the pier! “She can’t swim a stroke!” cried Billie, and without an instant’s hesitation followed the girl into the chilly water. Billie dived for Edina but could not locate her. “She has been caught under the dock!” Billie came up for a breath of air and dived again. This time she, too, came up under the dock. She bumped up against something that was only a fuzzy white blur in the water and cried in her heart: “Thank goodness!” A long nail had caught in the wool stuff of Edina’s skirt and held it fast. Billie’s lungs seemed to be bursting, but she worked at the cloth so frantically that the nail came out of the rotted wood. As she felt herself begin to sink again, Edina twisted in the water and wrapped both arms about Billie’s neck with the desperation of a drowning animal! CHAPTER XVI FIGHTING FOR LIFE Locked in Edina Tooker’s unbreakable embrace, Billie Bradley gave herself up for lost. Edina was stronger than she, and now her strength was the desperate strength of mortal fear. Billie writhed and twisted, striving to wrench herself free; but in her heart she knew her efforts were vain. Edina’s grip was the grip of madness. She was dragging them both down to death. Billie wondered why her lungs did not break with the fearful pressure on them. After a long moment of agony she almost wished they would break--to have done with the torment. Suddenly something swam close to her. There was a sharp jolt and, through glazing eyes, Billie saw Edina’s head snap backward. The hard grip about her neck relaxed, the weight that had been holding Billie to the bottom of the lake slumped away. Billie felt suddenly as light as air. With all the strength that remained to her, she fought her way to the surface of the water. Like a benediction, air swept into her tortured lungs. She lay upon her back and let herself float, gasping. Edina was safe, she knew. It was Paul Martinson who had dealt the merciful blow on the point of Edina’s chin, saving her life and Billie’s. Paul would take care of Edina.
1204_2781	western stories	Bower, B. M.	Bud anointed him as he had anointed Cash, and rocked him in front of the fire, and met the morning hollow-eyed and haggard. A great fear tore at his heart. Cash read it in his eyes, in the tones of his voice when he crooned soothing fragments of old range songs to the baby, and at daylight Cash managed to dress himself and help; though what assistance he could possibly give was not all clear to him, until he saw Bud's glance rove anxiously toward the cook-stove. “Hand the kid over here,” Cash said huskily. “I can hold him while you get yourself some breakfast.” Bud looked at him stupidly, hesitated, looked down at the flushed little face, and carefully laid him in Cash's outstretched arms. He got up stiffly--he had been sitting there a long time, while the baby slept uneasily--and went on his tiptoes to make a fire in the stove. He did not wonder at Cash's sudden interest, his abrupt change from moody aloofness to his old partnership in trouble as well as in good fortune. He knew that Cash was not fit for the task, however, and he hurried the coffee to the boiling point that he might the sooner send Cash back to bed. He gulped down a cup of coffee scalding hot, ate a few mouthfuls of bacon and bread, and brought a cup back to Cash. “What d'yuh think about him?” he whispered, setting the coffee down on a box so that he could take Lovin Child. “Pretty sick kid, don't yuh think?” “It's the same cold I got,” Cash breathed huskily. “Swallows like it's his throat, mostly. What you doing for him?” “Bacon grease and turpentine,” Bud answered him despondently. “I'll have to commence on something else, though--turpentine's played out I used it most all up on you.” “Coal oil's good. And fry up a mess of onions and make a poultice.” He put up a shaking hand before his mouth and coughed behind it, stifling the sound all he could. Lovin Child threw up his hands and whimpered, and Bud went over to him anxiously. “His little hands are awful hot,” he muttered. “He's been that way all night.” Cash did not answer. There did not seem anything to say that would do any good. He drank his coffee and eyed the two, lifting his eyebrows now and then at some new thought.
61283_44	science fiction	Banta, Frank	Fangs struck, and in three seconds--with a loud _slurp_--it had withdrawn a quart of her blood. Then it unwrapped just as swiftly as it had come, and leaped into the cover of the jungle. The hefty young matron wobbled back to the cabin. "Pole!" she called as she hurried in. "I've been slurped!" "Again?" her lanky husband asked, looking up from the reports on his desk. "I'm so sorry, Pole," she said contritely. "Well, sit down and start recovering, Bliss," he said in a kindly manner. "You can't pick any pretzins today." "But I wanted to pick pretzins, Pole. Darn that vacuum snake and his fast draft." "I just hope the neighborhood dragon doesn't come around while you're in that weakened condition, Bliss," Pole worried as he totaled up the month's production on his reports. He decided, "I had better take time off from pretzin hunting today so I can be handy to help you with your getaway, if need arises." "Oh, the dragon never bothers us," Bliss said uneasily. "He has gotten close enough to burn up several of our pretzin patches, though. He may get to this cabin some day." "He doesn't mean any harm," defended Bliss. "I'm sure he wouldn't want to eat us. They are known to be strictly vegetarians." "No, he won't eat us. He'll cook us, unless we can run away fast enough--but he'll never eat us." They heard a faraway sound. "What is that crisp crackling that sounds like a dank forest burning?" wondered Bliss. Pole scrambled to the door. "The dragon is coming! He's headed straight for this cabin!" "Shall we be going?" asked Bliss, grabbing her clothes. A few minutes later, at a distance of a thousand yards, Pole and Bliss, loaded with all their portable possessions, watched their cabin burst into flames as a roaring, forty-foot lizard, with fifty-foot flames gouting from his mouth, ambled through their clearing. "There, he's gone," said Pole as the dragon passed on. "I'd better put out the fire." Dipping water from a nearby pond with a bucket, Pole had, after fifty-three fast buckets, a blackened ruin of what had formerly been their rude jungle cabin.
14482_5646	western stories	Cullum, Ridgwell	He would not wait for him to come to the ranch. Jacky and Bill went out on to the veranda, and watched the old man as he set out with unsteady gait for the settlement. "Bill," said the girl, as soon as her uncle was out of earshot, "what news?" "Two items of interest One, the very best, and the other--the very worst." "Which means?" "No one has the least suspicion of us; and Horrocks, the madman, intends to attempt the passage of the keg." "Lord" Bill jaws shut with a snap as he ceased speaking. The look which accompanied his last announcement was one of utter dejection. Jacky did not reply for an instant, her great eyes had taken on a look of deep anxiety as she gazed towards the muskeg. "Bill, can nothing be done to stop him?" She gazed appealingly up into the face of the tall figure beside her. "He is a brave man, if foolish." "That's just it, dear. He's headstrong and means to see this thing through. Had I thought that he would ever dream of contemplating such a suicidal feat as attempting that path, I'd never have let him see the cattle cross last night. My God! it turns me sick to think of it." "Hush, Bill, don't talk so loud. Do you think any one could dissuade him? Lablache, or--or uncle, for instance." Bunning-Ford shook his head. His look was troubled. "Horrocks is not the man to be turned from his purpose," he replied. "And besides, Lablache would not attempt such a thing. He is too keen to capture--Relief," with a bitter laugh. "A life more or less would not upset that scoundrel's resolve. As for your uncle," with a shrug, "I don't think he's the man for the task. No, Jacky," he went on, with a sigh, "we must let things take their course now. We have embarked on this business. We mustn't weaken. His blood be upon his own head." They relapsed into silence for some moments. "Lord" Bill lit a cigarette, and leant himself against one of the veranda posts. He was worried at the turn events had taken. He had no grudge against Horrocks; the man was but doing his duty.
48963_900	adventure stories	Bowen, Marjorie	The bird preened itself, shook its feathers daintily, stooped and drank. Conrad drew himself a little nearer. Suddenly with a cry the bird whirled up into the air, beat its wings together vainly, and fell back into the water, dead! Poisoned! All the water poisoned! Desperation giving him a moment's strength, Count Conrad rose and regarded the dead dove with greedy eyes, but steeling himself against the impulse to devour his own death, he crawled on with the vague thought to reach the gate. Some instinct of remembrance guiding his stumbling steps, he came upon it. It was twice his height, and all its elaborate tracery offered no single aperture through which a child could thrust his hand. Sick and blind he clung to it; he tried to shout, to scream, his voice died in his throat. In helpless rage, his wild face pressed against the iron, his eyes starting, his tongue lolling out of his dry mouth, he gripped and shook the lock. Two children running by, stopped, gazed, came nearer, and then at what they saw, fled, screaming. No one else approached. The world seemed empty. Twilight began to fall. Then in his half-delirium Count Conrad thought again of the dead bird, and laughed wolfishly to himself, making with tottering steps back toward the hollow. To search coherently for food or drink or succor was now beyond his power. Presently again he sank across the grass and lay there crying like a child, whimpering and whispering. Once or twice he made an effort, snatched at the long grass, fell back again, and lay now in silence. After a time, but while it was still light, he seemed to wake as from a trance, and saw a figure moving down the glade toward him. Was he still living? He could scarcely tell. Was this Visconti come again to mock him? The thought spurred the man, though dying, almost to strive to rise and meet his fate standing. But sky, grass, trees, and stone reeled about him in a chaos of green and blue. He strove to speak, but his tongue refused. The dark figure came nearer, stopped beside him, stooped and spoke, but Count Conrad did not see nor heed. He lay, a woeful spectacle, as if dead indeed.
45973_1413	detective and mystery stories	Newcomb, Ambrose	He was waiting as patiently as he could for Jack to start telling what he meant by the word "discoveries;" and hoping something entertaining might be forthcoming. "I'm glad you saw fit to fetch that big flashlight, _ditto_ the two extra dry batteries along, buddy," observed Jack, finally; "because we're going to find a good use for the same. I've entered a claim for a nice dry residence, which we can use while we're in this region--rain or shine, cold or otherwise, it's a sure enough jim-dandy _cave_!" "Bully boy, Jack; I'm tickled pink to hear such good news; when do we move in, tell me?" "Right away--that is, by the time darkness comes along, Perk; because it isn't a great way off--a fissure in the big rock that looked sort of inviting to me; so I crept inside, with a splinter of dry wood that I could coax to burn. Couldn't see all I'd have liked to, but enough to tell me the crack developed into a regular cavern, with a roof fully twenty feet up, and feeling a heap warmer than we found ourselves last night." "Whoopee! that sounds right fine to me, cully; I'm sure glad yeou hit sech a prize package fust shot. But I jest knowed yeou'd be adoin' yeour stuff when I was a crawlin' 'long daown there in the bottom land. I'm crazy to take a squint at aour new lodgin'; but I guess there aint no sech hurry." "Plenty of time for everything," Jack assured him, still engaged in the pleasant task of feeding the furnace fires within. "We can have a great chin once we get settled; and Perk, I spent a full hour toting a lot of wood into that split in the wall." "Meanin' as haow we kin even have a bully little fire--all the comforts o' home, an' nary a red cent to pay for rent, in the bargain. Ain't we the lucky boys, though." "Listen! that's a familiar sound I'm picking up, eh, what, Perk?" "Sure is!" cried the other, showing signs of sudden excitement. "Some sorter airship headin' thisaways. Must be that ole crate belongin' to the boys daown in the valley; let's git back to the cliff, an' see what's what, Jack.
18529_804	love stories	Murray, Roy Irving	I followed him into the last room of the three. It looked different from the way I remembered it the afternoon before. When he turned the gas higher I saw why--the bed was gone--one of those stretcher things takes less room. Besides, they say it's better. So there she was--all that he had left of all that he had had--the girl he'd been mad about and married in our church a year ago. He wasn't even with her when she died; there was the Sunday afternoon rehearsal to attend. She wouldn't let him miss that. "Go on," she told him. "I'll wait for you." She didn't wait. And he faced it down, he jammed it through, that young chap did--and was funny, oh, as funny as you can think, for hours, in front of hundreds of people. He never missed a cue, never bungled a line, and all the time seeing, up there in the light-housekeeping rooms, in the last room of them all, how she lay, in the utter silence. Perhaps I shall come across a braver thing than that before I die, but I doubt it. I tried, of course, to get him not to do it. But it was very simple to him. It was his job. Nobody else knew the part; it was too late to substitute. The rest would lose their salaries if they closed down for the week, and God knew they needed them. So he said nothing--and was funny. I don't know what you'd call it, but I think you know why I've told it to you. There's a splendor about it and a glory. To do one's job--isn't that the big thing, after all? Meantime, mine's waiting for me on the other side of this desk. He has laid hands on every article in the room at least three times, and for the last few minutes has been groaning very loud. I think you'd like him--he's so alive. Your letter saves me the cost of the western papers, and now that I know you'll--but you said not to write about you. The Job has stopped groaning, and wants to know if I'm "writing all night just because, or, for the reason that." It's night now--big night, and so still down-town here. Sometimes I stay up late to realize that I'm alive.
2950_4100	adventure stories	Fleming, May Agnes	“I am sorry you have been obliged to witness this terrible scene.” “Sorry!” she cried, fiercely. “Why, since the first hour I remember at all, I remember nothing that has given me such joy as what has passed now; my only regret is that I did not see them all die before my eyes! Sorry! I tell you I would not have missed it for ten thousand worlds!” “Madame, you must not talk like this!” said Sir Norman, almost sternly. “Heaven forbid there should exist a woman who could rejoice in bloodshed and death. You do not, I know. You wrong yourself and your own nature in saying so. Be calm, now; do not excite yourself. You shall come with us, and be properly cared for; and I feel certain you have a long and happy life before you yet.” “Who are those men?” she said, not heeding him, “and who--ah, great Heaven! What is that?” In looking round, she had met Hubert face to face. She knew that that face was her own; and, with a horror stamped on every feature that no words can depict, she fell back, with a terrible scream and was dead! Sir Norman was so shocked by the suddenness of the last catastrophe, that, for some time, he could not realize that she had actually expired, until he bent over her, and placed his ear to her lips. No breath was there; no pulse stirred in that fierce heart--the Midnight Queen was indeed dead! “Oh, this is fearful!” exclaimed Sir Norman, pale and horrified. “The sight of Hubert, and his wonderful resemblance to her, has completed what her wound and this excitement began. Her last is breathed on earth!” “Peace be with her!” said the count, removing his hat, which, up to the present, he had worn. “And now, Sir Norman, if we are to keep our engagement at sunrise, we had better be on the move; for, unless I am greatly mistaken, the sky is already grey with day-dawn.” “What are your commands?” asked Sir Norman, turning away, with a sigh, from the beautiful form already stiffening in death. “That you come with me to seek out those frightened fair ones, who are a great deal too lovely to share the fate of their male companions.
42069_1949	adventure stories	Wheeler, Ruthe S.	Her father arrived home promptly and they passed more than an hour at a leisurely dinner, visiting about a score of different incidents, none of them important in themselves, but all of them important in that they kept them around the dinner table, prolonging their last dinner hour. Janet's father finally looked at his watch. "You'd better dress, dear. The westbound plane leaves Rubio at eleven o'clock and there's no reason to rush the trip over there." He reached into his coat pocket and drew out a small case which he handed to Janet. "Here's a little present mother and I want you to have." Janet opened the case with hands that shook visibly. Inside was a tiny wrist watch with a thin, silver chain to go around her wrist. It was a beautiful creation of watchmaker's skill and Janet looked up with just a trace of a tear in her eyes. "It's wonderful, but you shouldn't have done this after giving me the trip to Hollywood." "You'll have to have something to keep time by so you can get to the studio on time. Maybe I should have gotten you an alarm clock," grinned her father. "I packed one in her trunk," smiled Mrs. Hardy. "Now hike and get into your things." Janet, tremendously happy and so thrilled she felt she was walking on air, hurried up to her room. After a quick bath, tapered off with a cool shower, she started dressing. Her outfit was new from the silken underthings to the sensible but attractive summer linen suit. The skirt, snug and well tailored, fitted beautifully and a small but bright blue tie added a note of color to her heavy, white silk shirtwaist. The night air was warm and Janet decided to carry her coat. There was no use in putting it on and getting it mussed until necessary. Standing in front of her dressing table, Janet looked around her room and a queer little lump caught in her throat. It was such a pleasant room; she would miss it, she knew, in the months to come. Then her father called and she caught up the small traveling bag she was to carry on the plane, snapped out the light, and hurried down stairs. "Step right along," her father warned, and they hastened into the car and rolled around in front of the Thorne home down the block. Henry Thorne, pacing up and down the porch, called to his wife and Helen, who appeared almost immediately. Both carried small overnight cases.
41534_2669	western stories	Boyles, Virgil D. (Virgil Dillin)	“Suppose we walk across the island,” suggested the Judge, who occasionally overcame his indolence in spasmodic efforts to counteract his growing portliness, “and our friend Hank will meet us here in the morning.” So it was agreed. The little party straggled gayly across the bridge. The walk across the island was far from irksome. The air was still bracing, though rags of smoky cloud were beginning to obscure the sun. The gaunt cottonwoods stood out in sombre silhouette against the unsoftened bareness of the winter landscape. Louise was somewhat thoughtful and pensive since her little attempt to challenge intimacy had been so ungraciously received. To Gordon, on the other hand, had come a strange, new exhilaration. His blood bounded joyously through his veins. This was his day—he would live it to the dregs. To-morrow, and renunciation—well, that was to-morrow. He could not even resent, as, being a man, he should have resented, the unwelcome and ludicrous attentions of the drunken singer to the one woman in the crowd, because whenever the offender came near, Louise would press closer to him, Gordon, and once, in her quick distaste to the proximity of the man, she clutched Gordon’s coat-sleeve nervously. It was the second time he had felt her hand on his arm. He never forgot either. But the man received such a withering chastisement from Gordon’s warning eyes that he ceased to molest until the remainder of the island road had been traversed. Then men looked at each other questioningly. A long, narrow, single-plank bridge stretched across the channel. It was not then so safe as report would have it. The boards were stretched lengthwise with a long step between each board and the next. What was to be done? Hank had gone long since. No one coveted the long walk back to Kemah. Every one did covet the comfort or pleasure upon which each had set his heart. Gordon, the madness of his intoxication still upon him, constituted himself master of ceremonies. He stepped lightly upon the near plank to reconnoitre. He walked painstakingly from board to board. He was dealing in precious freight—he would draw no rash conclusions. When he had reached what he considered the middle of the channel, he returned and pronounced it in his opinion safe, with proper care, and advised strongly that no one step upon a plank till the one in front of him had left it. Thus the weight of only one person at a time would materially lessen the danger of the ice’s giving way.
20840_3486	western stories	Norton, Andre	he snapped. "Yes." "Then you must know just what you have to face." "Captain ..." Drew began slowly, wanting to make his words just right. There was no reason to let Bayliss think he could simply ride right over his prisoner. On the other hand Muller’s advice had been good; it would be dangerous to antagonize the officer. "I had nothing to do with those stolen horses. We found them, yes, but they were already in the canyon. And there were two men guardin’ them—up on the ridge. They must have cleared out when your patrol rode in, but they were there the night before." "You saw them?" "No, our scout did." "What scout—that Indian who got away with your partner? I heard rumors that Kitchell had links with bronco Apaches, but I didn’t believe any white man could stoop so low." "That Indian"—Drew felt as if he were walking a very narrow mountain ledge in the dark, with a drop straight down to the middle of the world on one side—"was a Pima, one of the Stronghold scouts." "So—Hunt Rennie _did_ know about those horses!" Bayliss pounced. "He did not! He sent us to the mustanger camp with a message, and the Pima rode scout for us. It’s a regular order on the Range—take one of the Pimas if you are goin’ any distance from where you can fort up. You can find out that’s true easily enough." Drew was striving to keep a reasonable tone, to find an answer which _must_ pierce through Bayliss’ rancor. After all, Bayliss could not have held his present rank and station so long and been all hot-headed plunger. "What was this so-important message Rennie had to have delivered to a camp of Mex mustangers?" Bayliss bored in. Even in the lantern’s restricted light Drew could see the flush darkening the other’s face. "They are havin’ trouble with a wild stud—a killer. Mr. Rennie wants him killed, quick. He sent the two of us out to help—thought with more hands it could be done." "Kirby!" Bayliss’ fists were on his hips, his head pushed forward from his shoulders until his sun-peeled face was only inches away from the bars between them. "Do I look like a stupid man, a man to be fed stories?
14219_1301	love stories	Runkle, Bertha	My heart leaped up at the next words: "Also Vigo will go." "Vigo!" "Not so loud! You will have the guard on us! Yes, he is to go. At first Monsieur did not tell even him, he desired to keep this visit to the king so secret. But this morning he took Vigo into his confidence, and nothing would serve the man but to go. He watches over Monsieur like a hen over a chick." "Then it will be three to three," I said. I thought of Gervais, Yeux-gris, and Pontou, for of course I would take no part in it. "Three to two; Lucas will not fight." Lucas must be a poltroon, indeed! "But Vigo and Monsieur--" I began. "Aye, they are quick enough with their swords. Your side must be quicker, that's all. If you are sudden enough you can easily kill the duke before he can draw." Talk of words like thunderbolts! All the thunder of heaven could not have whelmed me like those words. Yeux-gris and his oaths! It _was_ the duke, after all! I could not speak. I looked I know not how. But it was dusky in the arch. "It sounds simple," he went on. "But, three of you as you are, you will have trouble with Vigo. That is all. I have told you all. I must get back before I am missed. Good luck to the enterprise." Still I stood like a block of wood. "Tell M. Gervais to remember me," he said, and opening the door, passed in. I heard him lock and bolt it after him, and his footsteps hurrying down the passageway. Then I came to myself and sprang to the door and beat upon it furiously. But if he heard he was afraid to respond. After a futile moment that seemed an hour I rushed out of the arch and around to the great gate. The grilles were closed as before, but the sentry's face, luckily, was strange to me. "Open! open!" I shouted, breathless. "I must see M. le Duc!" "Who are you?" he demanded, staring. "My name is Broux. I have news for M. le Duc. Let me in. It is a matter of life and death.
27089_420	science fiction	Westlake, Donald E.	"The company isn't accusing you of anything, but it has to be sure everything's on the up and up before it pays out any ten thousand credits. And your partner just happening to fill out that cash-return form just before he died--well, you've got to admit it is a funny kind of coincidence." "How so?" He slurped coffee, and glowered at me over the cup. "We made this strike here," he said. "We knew it was the big one. Jafe had that insurance policy of his in case he never did make the big strike. As soon as we knew this was the big one, he said, 'I guess I don't need that retirement now,' and sat right down and wrote out the cash-return. Then we opened a bottle of liquor and celebrated, and he got himself killed." The way Karpin said it, it sounded smooth and natural. _Too_ smooth and natural. "How did this accident happen anyway?" I asked him. "I'm not one hundred per cent sure of that myself," he said. "I was pretty well drunk myself by that time. But he put on his suit and said he was going out to paint the X. He was falling all over himself, and I tried to tell him it could wait till we'd had some sleep, but he wouldn't pay any attention to me." "So he went out," I said. He nodded. "He went out first. After a couple minutes, I got lonesome in here, so I suited up and went out after him. It happened just as I was going out the lock, and I just barely got a glimpse of what happened." * * * He attacked the coffee again, noisily, and I prompted him, saying, "What did happen, Mister Karpin?" "Well, he was capering around out there, waving the paint tube and such. There's a lot of sharp rock sticking out around here. Just as I got outside, he lost his balance and kicked out, and scraped right into some of that rock, and punctured his suit." "I thought the body was lost," I said. He nodded. "It was. The last thing in life Jafe ever did was try to shove himself away from those rocks. That, and the force of air coming out of that puncture for the first second or two, was enough to throw him up off the surface.
30189_33	science fiction	Ellanby, Boyd	Pet Mercurian fire-insects? A new supply of _danghaana_?" "I do not smuggle drugs, dat is a base lie," replied my friend stolidly. He knew, of course, that I still suspected him to be the source of the last load of that potent narcotic, although I had no more proof than did the Planetary Bureau of Investigation. He took a long pull at his drink before he spoke again. "But Dworken is never down for long. Dis time it is show business. You remember, how I haf always been by de t'eater so fascinated? Well, I decided to open a show here in Luna City. T'ink of all the travelers, bored stiff by space and de emptiness thereof, who pass through here during the season. Even if only half of them go to my show, it cannot fail." I waited for some mention of free tickets, but none was made. I was about as anxious to see Dworken's show as I was to walk barefoot across the Mare Imbrium, but I asked with what enthusiasm I could force, "What sort of act are you putting on? Girls?" I shuddered as I recalled the pathetic shop-worn chorus girls that Sam Low had tried to pass off last year on the gullible tourists of the spaceways. That show had lasted ten nights--nine more than it deserved to. There are limits, even to the gullibility of Earth-lubbers. "Yes, girls," replied Dworken. "But not what you are perhaps t'inking. Martian girls." * * * * * This was more interesting. Even if the girls were now a little too old for the stage in the Martian capital, they would still get loud cheers on the Moon. I knew. I started to say so, but Dworken interrupted. "And not de miserable girls dey buy from de slave traders in Behastin. Dese girls I collected myself, from de country along de Upper Canal." I repressed my impulse to show my curiosity. It could all be perfectly true--and if it were not the opening night would tell. But it sounded a lot like one of Dworken's taller tales. I had never been able to disprove any one of them, but I found it a _little_ hard to believe that so many improbable things had ever happened to one man.
40520_2147	science fiction	Thorne, Guy	But if you wish it, I will certainly give you a slight idea of the work. Since the public seem interested in what I am doing, and something seems to have leaked out, I am quite willing that they should know more. And of course there is no one to whom I would rather say anything than yourself." Megbie bowed. He was tremendously excited. Brother writers who did not make a tenth of his income and had not a quarter of his eminence were wont to say that his ears twitched when in the presence of a great celebrity. This no doubt was calumny, but the journalist stood in an attitude of strained attention--as well a man might stand when the secret of the hour was about to be revealed to him in preference to all other men. Gouldesbrough bowed to Lord Malvin. "I'm going to have half-an-hour's conversation with Mr. Megbie," he said. "Meanwhile, my lord, I wonder if you would give Sir Harold Oliver a slight technical outline of my processes? And of course, as I understand this is to be in some sense a night on which your friends are to be given some general information, I shall place myself entirely in your hands as to any revelations you may think proper to make." He moved off with the journalist, leaving the two other men already fallen into deep talk. "Where shall we go, Mr. Megbie?" he said, as they came out into a large room hung with old Flemish tapestry and full of people. "There is a little conservatory down a corridor here," Megbie answered. "I expect we should be quite undisturbed there. Moreover, we could smoke, and I know that you are like me, Sir William, a cigarette-smoker." "That will do very well, then," Gouldesbrough answered, and they walked away together. Every one saw them go. Ladies nodded and whispered, gentlemen whispered and nodded to each other. The occasion was perfectly well understood. Sir William was telling Donald Megbie! By supper time it would be all over the rooms and the _Eastminster Gazette_ to-morrow afternoon would have all the details. "Megbie is always chosen in affairs of this sort." "That's Megbie, the writing Johnny, who sort of stage-manages all these things." "The ubiquitous Donald has got him in his grip, and we shall soon know all the details"--these were the remarks made upon every side as the two men strolled through the rooms.
59012_2018	adventure stories	Hemyng, Bracebridge	It was altogether a useless undertaking. The Arabs rushed upon him like demons. In a twinkling he was disarmed and at their mercy. Jack could not talk to them, although he tried. They were pirates of another band, who occasionally made their headquarters at the castle. They knew no more about the gold than Jack himself; their speech was a dialect which he could not understand. The sight of the gold drove them fairly frantic. While two held Jack between them, the rest made a wild dash for the gold in the coat. There was a grand scramble then, all chattering and jabbering like a lot of monkeys. Still they seemed disposed to be fair with each other, and the division was as nearly equal as they could make it. The men who held Jack a prisoner got their full share. It was great luck for them. Fact was, the gold must have been hidden in the old castle many years before. Perhaps it was centuries. As Jack never discovered the truth of the matter, we cannot explain it here. Once the gold was divided, one of the Arabs approached Jack, and in broken French asked him who he was. Jack made up a neat little story, to the effect that he was a traveler who had put out in a boat from his steamer, landing on the island. He added that his boat had drifted away in the fog. For this he had a reason. He saw that they had no idea of the presence of the boat, or of Harry being with it. The fog completely concealed the little cove where it lay. “Harry will be sure to do something to help me out of this, if I can only gain time,” he thought. “That’s what I want--time! I must fight for it!” He turned to the big Arab and said: “Do you want more of that money? I can give it to you if you will promise to let me go away by myself for five minutes.” The Arab looked at him suspiciously. “What do you mean?” he asked. “That I know where there is more. Do you suppose I came here for nothing?” “Ah! You Franks know much. Your book tell you that gold was buried here!” “Yes.” “And this is not all?” “No.” “Where is the rest?” “Let me go and I will find it. I will call you then.” “We go with you.”
83_2860	science fiction	Verne, Jules	"Indeed," added Nicholl, "it would be easier for them than for us, for two reasons; first, because the attraction on the moon's surface is six times less than on that of the earth, which would allow a projectile to rise more easily; secondly, because it would be enough to send such a projectile only at 8,000 leagues instead of 80,000, which would require the force of projection to be ten times less strong." "Then," continued Michel, "I repeat it, why have they not done it?" "And I repeat," said Barbicane; "who told you that they have not done it?" "When?" "Thousands of years before man appeared on earth." "And the projectile-- where is the projectile? I demand to see the projectile." "My friend," replied Barbicane, "the sea covers five-sixths of our globe. From that we may draw five good reasons for supposing that the lunar projectile, if ever launched, is now at the bottom of the Atlantic or the Pacific, unless it sped into some crevasse at that period when the crust of the earth was not yet hardened." "Old Barbicane," said Michel, "you have an answer for everything, and I bow before your wisdom. But there is one hypothesis that would suit me better than all the others, which is, the Selenites, being older than we, are wiser, and have not invented gunpowder." At this moment Diana joined in the conversation by a sonorous barking. She was asking for her breakfast. "Ah!" said Michel Ardan, "in our discussion we have forgotten Diana and Satellite." Immediately a good-sized pie was given to the dog, which devoured it hungrily. "Do you see, Barbicane," said Michel, "we should have made a second Noah's ark of this projectile, and borne with us to the moon a couple of every kind of domestic animal." "I dare say; but room would have failed us." "Oh!" said Michel, "we might have squeezed a little." "The fact is," replied Nicholl, "that cows, bulls, and horses, and all ruminants, would have been very useful on the lunar continent, but unfortunately the car could neither have been made a stable nor a shed." "Well, we might have at least brought a donkey, only a little donkey; that courageous beast which old Silenus loved to mount.
60978_1967	detective and mystery stories	Morris, Charles	“I hope you may be able,” she said, seriously. Will’s confident manner gave her hope despite her better judgment. “I never said a thing I didn’t do, and I won’t go back on this,” said Will, with an earnest and assured air that gave her new hope. The boy was energetic, honest and shrewd, and his early life might have given him much experience of the criminal classes. He might then not be talking without warrant, and she felt herself leaning with great faith upon his promise. “Guess I’d better be going now,” said Will. “My time’s about up.” In ten minutes more, his errand completed, he was on his way back to the store. CHAPTER XV. WILL VISITS MR. SOMERS. “I would have preferred to have kept this matter quiet,” said Mr. Fitler, the officer. “But that cannot be done now. The robbery of the cloths is public property, and the arrest of John Elkton has made the affair of the silks as public.” “And he still refuses to tell where he got the piece which he gave my ward?” asked Mr. Leonard, anxiously. “Yes. We cannot get a word from him about it.” “That has a very suspicious look,” said Mr. Wilson. “The man could have no object in screening robbers unless he hopes to save himself by it.” “He won’t save himself,” said the officer, sharply. “It looks more like the old principle of honor among thieves.” “You still think it is some one in the store?” asked Wilson. “The work could not have been done without an accomplice here. Have you gained any new ideas about it?” “I am still more doubtful about that boy,” said Wilson. “There has been a suspicious-looking old man here to see him.” “Ah!” said Mr. Fitler, interested. “Was he known, or was any effort made to follow him?” “No. I was not here.” “If he comes again he must be spotted. I don’t believe that boy is implicated, but we cannot afford to trust anybody.” “Why not follow the boy then?” suggested Mr. Leonard. “His places of resort and associates should be known.” “A good idea,” replied the officer. “I will put it in practice. Has anything fresh turned up?
28550_24	science fiction	Moore, C. L. (Catherine Lucile)	* * * * * Now he was not Northwest Smith, scarred outlaw of the spaceways. Now he was a boy again with all his life before him. There would be a white-columned house just over the hill, with shaded porches and white curtains blowing in the breeze and the sound of sweet, familiar voices indoors. There would be a girl with hair like poured honey hesitating just inside the door, lifting her eyes to him. Tears in the eyes. He lay very still, remembering. Curious how vividly it all came back, though the house had been ashes for nearly twenty years, and the girl--the girl ... He rolled over violently, opening his eyes. No use remembering her. There had been that fatal flaw in him from the very first, he knew now. If he were the boy again knowing all he knew today, still the flaw would be there and sooner or later the same thing must have happened that had happened twenty years ago. He had been born for a wilder age, when men took what they wanted and held what they could without respect for law. Obedience was not in him, and so-- As vividly as on that day it happened he felt the same old surge of anger and despair twenty years old now, felt the ray-gun bucking hard against his unaccustomed fist, heard the hiss of its deadly charge ravening into a face he hated. He could not be sorry, even now, for that first man he had killed. But in the smoke of that killing had gone up the columned house and the future he might have had, the boy himself--lost as Atlantis now--and the girl with the honey-colored hair and much, much else besides. It had to happen, he knew. He being the boy he was, it had to happen. Even if he could go back and start all over, the tale would be the same. And it was all long past now, anyhow; and nobody remembered any more at all, except himself. A man would be a fool to lie here thinking about it any longer. Smith grunted and sat up, shrugging the gun into place against his ribs. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Fantastic Universe_ January 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
1495_4215	detective and mystery stories	Steele, Chester K.	Did he forget that coming out of a light room into a dim hall was not conducive to good seeing? Jack Young ought to have remembered that. “One of the servants, likely, passing by,” suggested the colonel. “Yes, Jack, I think we must pin it down to either the captain or Blossom.” “Do you really think Blossom could have done it?” “He could, of course. The main question is, did he have an object in getting Mr. Carwell out of the way?” “And did he have?” “I think he did. I’ve been trailing him lately, when he didn’t suspect it, and I’ve seen him in some queer situations. I know he needed a lot of money and--well, I’m going to take him into custody as the murderer of Mr. Carwell. I want you to--” But that was as far as the detective got, for there was a shriek in the hall--a cry of mortal anguish that could only come from a woman--and then, past the library door, rushed a figure in white. Out and away it rushed, flinging open the front door, speeding down the steps and across the lawn. “Quick!” cried Colonel Ashley. “Who was that?” “I don’t know!” answered Jack. “Must have been the person I thought I heard in the hall.” “We must find out who it was!” went on the detective. “You make some inquiries. I’ll take after her.” “Could it have been Miss Viola?” The question was answered almost as soon as it was asked, for, at that moment, Viola herself came down the front stairs. “What is it?” she asked the two detectives. “Who cried out like that? Is some one hurt?” “I don’t know,” answered Colonel Ashley. “Mr. Young and I were talking in the library when we heard the scream. Then a woman rushed out.” “It must have been Minnie Webb!” cried Viola. “She was here a moment ago. The maid told me she was waiting in the parlor, and I was detained upstairs. It must have been Minnie. But why did she scream so?” Colonel Ashley did not stop to answer. “Look after things here, Jack!” he called to his assistant. “I’m going to follow her. If ever there was a desperate woman she is.”
11229_742	science fiction	Shiel, M. P. (Matthew Phipps)	For a long time I lay very sick in a kind of daze, and, on rising, found two of the dogs dead, and all very queer. The wind had now changed to the north. Well, on I staggered, fighting every inch of my deplorably weary way. This odour of peach-blossom, my sickness, and the death of the two dogs, remained a wonder to me. Two days later, to my extreme mystification (and joy), I came across a bear and its cub lying dead at the foot of a hummock. I could not believe my eyes. There she lay on her right side, a spot of dirty-white in a disordered patch of snow, with one little eye open, and her fierce-looking mouth also; and the cub lay across her haunch, biting into her rough fur. I set to work upon her, and allowed the dogs a glorious feed on the blubber, while I myself had a great banquet on the fresh meat. I had to leave the greater part of the two carcasses, and I can feel again now the hankering reluctance--quite unnecessary, as it turned out--with which I trudged onwards. Again and again I found myself asking: 'Now, what could have killed those two bears?' With brutish stolidness I plodded ever on, almost like a walking machine, sometimes nodding in sleep while I helped the dogs, or manouvred the sledge over an ice-ridge, pushing or pulling. On the 3rd June, a month and a half from my start, I took an observation with the theodolite, and found that I was not yet 400 miles from the Pole, in latitude 84° 50'. It was just as though some Will, some Will, was obstructing and retarding me. However, the intolerable cold was over, and soon my clothes no longer hung stark on me like armour. Pools began to appear in the ice, and presently, what was worse, my God, long lanes, across which, somehow, I had to get the sledge. But about the same time all fear of starvation passed away: for on the 6th June I came across another dead bear, on the 7th three, and thenceforth, in rapidly growing numbers, I met not bears only, but fulmars, guillemots, snipes, Ross's gulls, little awks--all, all, lying dead on the ice. And never anywhere a living thing, save me, and the two remaining dogs.
60907_175	science fiction	Jones, Bascom	Shall I bring them in?" I nodded my head to one side slightly, in a manner peculiar to Bartlett. "Thank you, Meta. Yes, of course. Bring them in as soon as they arrive." I switched the video-com off and let my fingers lightly play with the button on the desk that activated the lock on Bartlett's private door into the inner corridor. It was a temptation to open the door and attempt to go the rest of the way on my own. But I wouldn't make it. Not even disguised as Defense Secretary Bartlett. I had been warned not to try. * * * * * My only hope lay in the routine set up by Earth's scientists more than 70 years ago--the daily inspection of the unit. As a member of the inspection party, I could pass through the security guards. More important, as a member of the group, I would arrive at the protective force sphere at the hub of the Pentagon at the only time and at the only place the force sphere could be breached. I waited. Precisely at the end of Meta's two minutes, the lock buzzed on the door to the reception room. I touched the control which opened the door and stood as the group filed into the room. My briefings on each of them had been exhaustive, but I examined their faces for some sign that one or more might penetrate my disguise as Bartlett. The redheaded Meta nodded. She had been with Bartlett as his security secretary for 70 years. Senator Chambers, as a representative of the electorate, darted rapid glances around the room as soon as the door had closed, counting noses. General Whit Marshall, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff of the police systems, nodded with the cold reserve of the high-ranking military to the higher-ranking civilian. The fourth member of the group, Chet Meyers, chief Master Machine technician, was the only one to speak. The lanky Meyers looked around the room. "Where's General Spicer, sir? Senator Chambers was telling us you were going to invite him because of this scare today." The invisible scars which cobwebbed across my body from the electro-surgical knives tensed so suddenly that I almost screamed. I made myself reach for my cane casually. I had come so close! No, wait--there was the bitter rivalry between Chambers and Spicer. Chambers was too complete a politician to pass up an opportunity to discredit General Spicer. His black pin-prick eyes darted up toward the time unit on the wall.
23149_47	science fiction	Mohler, Will	Illusion or not, it wanted a name so that it might be at least catalogued in his own mind. Therefore, on a morning since forgotten and for reasons never closely examined, he decided to call it The Control Tower. II There was an unholy Friday restlessness upon Dewforth. To make matters worse, it was the last Friday in March. Logically, perhaps, this should not have made any difference because Dewforth worked in one of a number of identical windowless rooms in a building from which all natural rhythms had been rigorously excluded. From skylights high in the ceilings of the drafting rooms came a light which had been pasteurized and was timeless. It could have been artificial. His work provided no refuge for his thought. It was demanding, but only mechanically so. Strictly speaking, he did not know what he was doing. No one did, apparently. He did not have the satisfaction of knowing that what he did was real. He filled large sheets of plastic with tracings of intricate, interconnected schematic hieroglyphs. But he knew that in another place a template would be laid over his work. An irregular portion like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle would be cut out of it and the rest, perhaps more than half of his work, would be destroyed. It was even possible that all of it was destroyed. Dewforth worked for a firm which made components. Of what, no one said, no one asked. _Components, Inc._, the firm was called. He knew that the finished products were small, heavy and very complicated. Their names were mute combinations of letters and numbers, joined by hyphens or separated by virgules. Some said that these components performed no functions. Others said that they worked, but their operations corresponded to no known human need. It was known that some of the finished products themselves were destroyed. Some maintained that they were dissolved in vats of hydrofluoric acid. Others argued that they were encased in cement, then taken out to sea in speedboats on moonless nights and jettisoned. The favorite rumor was that the entire firm was a decoy to bewilder agents of foreign powers and pre-empt their espionage efforts. There was neither proof of this nor evidence to the contrary. The penalty for circulating this last rumor was immediate dismissal with prejudice. In another place, another time, Dewforth might have spread the burden of his mood by confiding in other workers, but not under the circumstances so painstakingly arranged by _Components, Inc._ in the interest of what was called _The Inter-loathing Index_, or I.I.
4246_8349	love stories	Evans, Augusta J. (Augusta Jane)	whether my weary feet rest in an Indian jungle, or on a sunny slope of the city cemetery? Yes, I am going very soon, and this is our last meeting. I shall not again disturb you in your ambitious pursuits. Ah, child--" "Oh, don't go! don't leave me! I beg, I implore you, not to leave me. Oh, I am so desolate! don't forsake me! I could not bear to know you were gone. Oh, don't leave me!" She sprang up, and, throwing her arms round his neck, clung to him, trembling like a frightened child. But there was no relaxation of his pale, fixed features, as he coldly answered: "Once resolved, I never waver. So surely as I live I shall go. It might have been otherwise, but you decided it yourself. An hour ago you held my destiny in your hands; now it is fixed. I should have gone six years since had I not indulged a lingering hope of happiness in your love. Child, don't shiver and cling to me so. Oceans will soon roll between us, and, for a time, you will have no leisure to regret my absence. Henceforth we are strangers." "No; that shall never be. You do not mean it; you know it is impossible. You know that I prize your friendship above every earthly thing. You know that I look up to you as to no one else. That I shall be miserable, oh, how miserable, if you leave me! Oh, sir, I have mourned over your coldness and indifference; don't cast me off! Don't go to distant lands and leave me to struggle without aid or counsel in this selfish, unfriendly world! My heart dies within me at the thought of your being where I shall not be able to see you. Oh, my guardian, don't forsake me!" She pressed her face against his shoulder and clasped her arms firmly round his neck. "I am not your guardian, Beulah. You refused to make me such. You are a proud, ambitious woman, solicitous only to secure eminence as an authoress. I asked your heart; you have now none to give; but perhaps some day you will love me as devotedly, nay, as madly, as I have long loved you; for love like mine would wake affection even in a marble image; but then rolling oceans and trackless deserts will divide us. And now, good-by.
60947_579	science fiction	Anvil, Christopher	Dan recovered his transceivers and made his way to one of the few windows in the room. This was about seven feet from the floor, heavily barred, with its glass panes broken out. Dan pulled himself up and looked out at a walk and a high wall a few feet away. He cut the sleeve of his shirt into strips and knotted the strips together with a transceiver tied onto either end, so that one transceiver hung on the outside and the other on the inside. Then Dan was outside, in an underground part of the planet where no one was supposed to be without an official permit. The air seemed as fresh as outdoors, while overhead there was the appearance of the sky on a heavily overcast day. There was light enough to see by, but it was apparently dimmed to provide an artificial night. Dan saw no one, and said mentally, "Kielgaard?" Kielgaard's voice had a hoarse sound. "Are you out of that place?" "I'm out of it--thank heaven." "Amen. But listen, things have taken a nasty turn." "What's happened?" "We've questioned that prisoner. The outfit behind this trouble is Trans-Space. But they don't have the control center. Instead, they've got the headquarters of the election committee that controls the referendum. Trans-Space is representing itself as the government of an interstellar league of planets. They have everything set up to falsify the vote tomorrow." Dan frowned. "What of it? I can still plant the mataform transceivers and we can bring men down from above." "Yes, but Trans-Space has a mataform terminal set up in the terminal election headquarters. It hooks into the local system and connects with an outpost in the jungle on the surface. Trans-Space has been building up to this day for over three years. The election headquarters is manned like a fortress. It's in immediate touch with the outpost on the surface where they've got an army of reinforcements." Dan stood still, thinking. He remembered the official with the carrying case in the corridor overhead, who had said to the angry crowd, "Go to the War Ruler." Dan mentioned the incident and said, "What about this War Ruler and his emergency powers?" * * * * * Kielgaard said, "It looked promising to us at first, but actually that's as if someone should say, 'England is in peril. Go to King Arthur.'
1699_4232	detective and mystery stories	Oppenheim, E. Phillips (Edward Phillips)	“Lieutenant Godfrey, my name. I am flag lieutenant of the Britannia. You can’t see her, but she’s not fifty miles off at this minute. I landed at Sheringham this morning, hired a car and made the best of my way here. Message from the Admiral, sir.” Mr. Fentolin smiled genially. “We are delighted to see you, Lieutenant Godfrey,” he said. “Have some breakfast.” “You are very good, sir,” the officer answered. “Business first. I’ll breakfast afterwards, with pleasure, if I may. The Admiral’s compliments, and he would take it as a favour if you would haul down your wireless for a few days.” “Haul down my wireless,” Mr. Fentolin repeated slowly. “We are doing a lot of manoeuvring within range of you, and likely to do a bit more,” the young man explained. “You are catching up our messages all the time. Of course, we know they’re quite safe with you, but things get about. As yours is only a private installation, we’d like you, if you don’t mind, sir, to shut up shop for a few days.” Mr. Fentolin seemed puzzled. “But, my dear sir,” he protested, “we are not at war, are we?” “Not yet,” the young officer replied, “but God knows when we shall be! We are under sealed orders, anyway, and we don’t want any risk of our plans leaking out. That’s why we want your wireless disconnected.” “You need say no more,” Mr. Fentolin assured him. “The matter is already arranged. Esther, let me present Lieutenant Godfrey--my niece, Miss Fentolin; Mr. Gerald Fentolin, my nephew; Mr. Hamel, a guest. See that Lieutenant Godfrey has some breakfast, Gerald. I will go myself and see my Marconi operator.” “Awfully good of you, sir,” the young man declared, “and I am sure we are very sorry to trouble you. In a week or two’s time you can go into business again as much as you like. It’s only while we are fiddling around here that the Admiral’s jumpy about things. May my man have a cup of coffee, sir? I’d like to be on the way back in a quarter of an hour.” Mr. Fentolin halted his chair by the side of the bell, and rang it.
45629_315	detective and mystery stories	Newcomb, Ambrose	The boy sat in Perk's lap and his preserver seemed to take positive delight in holding one of the little chap's hands. Noticing how fond Perk seemed to be of children--and this was not the first time he had learned of this fact, since he had one of his humorous smiles for almost every child--and dog--he met--Jack wondered why his elder pal had never married but that was a subject Perk never mentioned nor had Jack felt it his province to make inquiries, since there are some things that are no one's business. A doctor quickly examined the mother's arm and admitted that one of the bones was fractured. It was not a bad break, however, and she could be around with her arm in a sling after he had attended to it. Somehow, although as yet supperless, neither of the chums seemed in any hurry to get away. Perk was held by his attraction toward the chubby little boy and as for himself he felt concerned with regard to what the pair they had saved would do, since they no longer had a home and all of their scanty possessions must have been devoured by those greedy flames. He determined not to abandon them until he had learned how the mother was fixed with regard to this world's goods. Somehow, although she dressed very simply, there was an air of refinement about her that impressed Jack very much and he also had an idea she could not be in straightened circumstances for she was wearing a ring of considerable value, he noticed. He managed to enter into conversation with her after she had tried to tell him she would never forget what he and his friend had done for her that night. He had listened with his customary smile, shaking his head meanwhile, as if to belittle their actions. "We could not have done less, after we saw that the firemen had not placed any ladder up to that third floor," he went on to tell her. "And then, you see my chum here, who lives only for excitement, was just complaining that things were so humdrum and dull so it tickled him to have a chance to test his nerve again. And you can see he's especially fond of little boys, not girls. We expect to leave Salt Lake City any hour now as we are aviators,--flying men you know--and have a job ahead of us.
14054_1273	love stories	Thurston, Katherine Cecil	"Most wonderful! It is here that I shall live. Here--here--with Paris at my feet." Blake laughed--laughed good-humoredly at the finality, the artless arrogance of the tone. "It may not be so easy to find a dwelling in the shadow of the Sacré-Coeur." Max looked at him with calm, grave eyes. "I do not consider difficulties, monsieur. It is here that I shall live. My mind is made up." "But this is not the artists' quarter. You may seek your inspiration in Montmartre, but you must have your studio across the river." "Why must I? What compels me?" The Irishman shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing compels you, but it is the thing to do. You can live here, certainly, if you want to--there is no law to forbid it--and you can find a studio on the Boulevard de Clichy; but the other is the thing to do." The boy smiled his young wise smile. "Monsieur, there is only one thing to do--the thing one wants to do, the thing the heart compels. If I am to know Paris I will know her from here--study her, love her from here. This place is one of miracle. One might know life here, living in the skies. Listen! That musician knows it!" He thrust out his hand impulsively and caught Blake's in a pressure full of nervous tension, full of magnetism. "What is it he plays? Tell me! Tell me!" His touch, his excitement fired Blake's Celtic blood, banishing his mood of criticism. "The man is playing scraps from _Louise_--Charpentier's _Louise_." "I have never heard _Louise_." "What! And you a student of Paris? Why, it's Charpentier's hymn to Montmartre. Listen, now!" His voice quickened. "He's playing a bit out of the night scene. He's playing the declaration of the _Noctambule_: "Je suis le Plaisir de Paris! Je vais vers les Amantes--que le Désir tourmente! Je vais, cherchant les coeurs qu'oubli a le bonheur. Là-bas glanant le Rire, ici semant l'Envie, Prêchant partout le droit de tous à la folie; Je suis le Procureur de la grande Cité! Ton humble serviteur--ou ton maître!
45859_1133	adventure stories	Busk, Rachel Harriette	On each side of him a stream of golden coins came running through the broken ends of the hollowed beam. What a sight for a lazy, self-indulgent man! Ramon thought no more of hanging now. He untied the knot, gathered up the gold, and secured it in chests and hiding-places, and came down to enjoy himself once more in his old idle way. He trod on a dry leaf of the old vine, as he passed through the garden, and it whispered,-- "What a chance for you, Ramon! Buy yourself a patch of land, and set to work like a man, and show Carmen you are worthy of her." "Work! while I have gold enough to last for ever? Not I, indeed!" "It won't last for ever, Ramon," rustled out another falling leaf. But Ramon heeded not. Some of his treasure he spent rationally enough, I must say, in having the old cottage repaired, and the old vine tended; but the bulk he squandered in excesses, and in a few years was as badly off as ever. Want once more stared him in the face, and once more he resolved to put an end to his existence. "You are not fit to die!" said the patriarchal vine; but Ramon hastened away, he had not the courage to encounter the dreadful thought. He snatched up a rusty, disused spade--he was out of conceit with hanging. This time he would dig a deep hole in the ground, and thrust himself in head foremost, and stifle himself that way. Digging was hard work for arms so unused to labour, but he had never thought to find it so hard as it proved. He had not taken out a dozen spadefuls when the spade seemed to refuse to enter the ground any more. Had his arms grown so stiff they could not move? Or was the earth so hard he could not break it? The evening breeze rustled by, bearing with it some leaves of the old vine; and as they passed they whispered,-- "You can't die when you will, Ramon! Only be content to work as hard as now in a good cause, and you won't want to die till your time comes." Provoked into energy by what he considered a taunt, instead of being softened by the fatherly counsel, he made one more desperate thrust of the spade into the hole.
8493_4768	adventure stories	Merriman, Henry Seton	“Why run into danger? Why come downstairs at all?” “Why breathe?” he retorted, with a laugh. “Why eat, or drink, or sleep? Why live? Mon Dieu! because there is no choice. And when I see you in the garden, there is no choice for me, Mademoiselle. I must come down and run into danger, because I cannot help it any more that I can help--” “But you need not stay,” she interrupted, cleverly. “A brave man may always retire from danger into safety.” “But he may not always want to, Mademoiselle.” “Ah!” And, with a shrug of the shoulders, she inserted the primroses within a very small waistband and turned away. “Will you give me those primroses, Mademoiselle?” asked Loo, without moving; for, although she had turned to go, she had not gone. She turned on her heel and looked at him, with demure surprise, and then bent her head to look at the flowers at her own waist. “They are mine,” she answered, standing in that pretty attitude, her hair half concealing her face. “I picked them myself.” “Two reasons why I want them.” “Ah! but,” she said, with a suggestion of thoughtfulness, “one does not always get what one wants. You ask a great deal, Monsieur.” “There is no limit to what I would ask, Mademoiselle.” She laughed gaily. “If--” she inquired, with raised eyebrows. “If I dared.” Again she looked at him with that little air of surprise. “But I thought you were so brave?” she said. “So reckless of danger? A brave man assuredly does not ask. He takes that which he would have.” It happened that she had clasped her hands behind her back, leaving the primroses at her waist uncovered and half falling from the ribbon. In a moment he had reached out his hand and taken them. She leapt back, as if she feared that he might take more, and ran back toward the house, placing a rough tangle of brier between herself and this robber. Her laughing face looked at him through the brier. “You have your primroses,” she said, “but I did not give them to you. You want too much, I think.” “I want what that ribbon binds,” he answered.
13396_3441	love stories	Van Schaick, George	She had allowed the best of her nature, I could see it now, to be drawn in admiration and regard towards a man she deemed unworthy. That odor of the fish-houses had always been bad enough before, but now it seemed to rise in her nostrils and sicken her. And now, Jennie, I can only repeat Puck's words, "What fools we mortals be!" That man Frenchy rushed out of the door as we were going by. His face looked as if he had been suffering tortures. "Please, please!" he cried. "Come, vite, heem Docteur hawful seek. Me no can stan' it no more! You so good in de las' night, mademoiselle, now please come in, for de lofe of _le bon Dieu_!" And then the strain that had been on the heart of my poor girl seemed to give way, suddenly. The tension was released, like a powerful spring, and the hardness went out of her face. She dropped my arm and dashed past the man who sought her help, and entered the place, where I followed as fast as my leg would let me. First she looked towards the child, which I suppose she expected to see under a sheet that would have just revealed the stark little form, but the little thing was smiling at her, weakly. "_Je vous aime bien_" he said. Then her eyes filled with tears, and she turned towards the man who, with a gesture of his hand, had swept her from his path. He had arisen on her entrance, and leaned hard on the back of the chair. To my surprise he spoke quite composedly, and I realized I had made an awful mistake. "This is all wrong, Miss Jelliffe," he said. "I tried to prevent Yves from calling you. The child has diphtheria and you must leave at once." The man's voice was frightfully hoarse, and he unconsciously put his hand up to his throat. She looked at him without answering. Then she went up to the little table and picked up a small vial she had noticed. "Antitoxine, seven thousand units," she read. Then she took up a small glass syringe armed with a bright steel needle, and stared at it. "You have given it to the child?" she asked. "Yes, just a few minutes ago," he answered. "We only left Edward's Bay at sunrise. The man is getting well.
65760_827	adventure stories	Standish, Burt L.	“They’re mighty good guns,” he said hesitatingly. “Seems a shame to throw ’em away like this.” Bainbridge returned briefly: “I’m simply pulling the stings of this gang.” He watched his man fling the weapons, one after another, into the stream, and then, sending the automatic splashing after the others, he turned suddenly back to the six humiliated individuals before him. “Go!” he commanded, with a momentary flare of passion. “Beat it, and don’t let me set eyes on you again--understand? I won’t be so easy on you the next time. Here, take that scum with you. He’s only stunned.” He waited, staring from under lowered lids, until the gang had disappeared in the bushes, half dragging, half carrying their stunned leader with them. Then, with a long sigh, he turned slowly and smiled at Peters. “All right, Jack,” he said quietly. “I don’t think we’ll have any more trouble here. Just hustle all you can to make up for this delay.” Peters grinned, and snapped out some orders to the men which sent them flying along the bank and even out on the stream over the tumbling logs. But as they went they cast glances of open, unadulterated admiration at the young man coolly brushing a bit of mud from one shoulder, and their comments to each other left no trace of doubt of their thorough approval of everything he had said and done. Bob heard some of them, and when the men had gone on he smiled a bit. To get that drive down successfully he knew he must have the men with him. He knew also that deliberate planning could not have accomplished that result half so well as this encounter with the tools of the Lumber Trust. The whole affair had proved a great piece of luck for him, thought the young lumberman. His meditation was broken in upon by the sound of a strange voice. “I had no idea lumbering was such a strenuous occupation.” A moment later Bainbridge was looking into a pair of pleasant, friendly eyes set in the handsome face of a man of about fifty. He was roughly dressed in well-worn, but finely made fishing clothes, and carried a good trout rod in one hand. There was, too, about the stranger an air of forceful capability which attracted the younger man.
27089_429	science fiction	Westlake, Donald E.	" The way Karpin said it, it sounded smooth and natural. _Too_ smooth and natural. "How did this accident happen anyway?" I asked him. "I'm not one hundred per cent sure of that myself," he said. "I was pretty well drunk myself by that time. But he put on his suit and said he was going out to paint the X. He was falling all over himself, and I tried to tell him it could wait till we'd had some sleep, but he wouldn't pay any attention to me." "So he went out," I said. He nodded. "He went out first. After a couple minutes, I got lonesome in here, so I suited up and went out after him. It happened just as I was going out the lock, and I just barely got a glimpse of what happened." * * * He attacked the coffee again, noisily, and I prompted him, saying, "What did happen, Mister Karpin?" "Well, he was capering around out there, waving the paint tube and such. There's a lot of sharp rock sticking out around here. Just as I got outside, he lost his balance and kicked out, and scraped right into some of that rock, and punctured his suit." "I thought the body was lost," I said. He nodded. "It was. The last thing in life Jafe ever did was try to shove himself away from those rocks. That, and the force of air coming out of that puncture for the first second or two, was enough to throw him up off the surface. It threw him up too high, and he never got back down." My doubt must have showed in my face, because he added, "Mister, there isn't enough gravity on this place to shoot craps with." He was right. As we talked, I kept finding myself holding unnecessarily tight to the arms of the chair. I kept having the feeling I was going to float out of the chair and hover around up at the top of the dome if I were to let go. It was silly of course--there was _some_ gravity on that planetoid, after all--but I just don't seem to get used to low-gee. Nevertheless, I still had some more questions. "Didn't you try to get his body back? Couldn't you have reached him?" "I tried to, Mister," he said.
27355_3400	western stories	Ames, Joseph Bushnell	"Stand still, every damn' one of you," ordered the new-comer. He strode down the room through the light powder-haze and paused before Stratton, tall, wide-shouldered, and lean of flank, with a thin, hawklike face and penetrating gray eyes. "Well?" he questioned curtly. "What's it all about? That scoundrel been selling licker again?" "Not to us," snapped Buck. "Are you Hardenberg?" he added, with sudden inspiration. "I am." "Well, you're the cause of our being in here." The gray eyes studied him narrowly. "How come?" "I came to town to see you specially and was told by a man outside that you were making a raid on this joint. We hadn't been inside three minutes before we found it was a plant to get us here and knife us." "I don't get you," remarked the sheriff in a slightly puzzled tone. By this time Buck's momentary irritation at the hint that it was all merely a drunken quarrel was dying away. "I don't wonder," he returned in a more amiable tone. "It's a long story--too long to tell just now. I can only say that we were attacked without cause by the whole gang here, and if you hadn't shown up just now, it's a question whether we'd have gotten away alive." The sheriff's glance swept over the disordered room, taking in the shattered window, the bodies on the floor, the Mexican who crouched moaning in a corner, and returned to Stratton's face. "I'm not so sure about that last," he commented, with a momentary grim smile. "What's your name?" "Buck Green." "Oh! You wrote me a letter--" "Sure. I'll explain about that later. Meanwhile--" He broke off and, bending swiftly, pulled his Colt from under the table. Breaking the weapon, he ejected a little shower of empty brass shells, at the sight of which his lips tightened. Still without comment, he rapidly filled it from his belt, Hardenberg watching him intently the while. "Meanwhile, you'd like a little action, eh?" drawled the sheriff. "You're right. Either of you hurt?" He glanced inquiringly at Jessup, who was just wiping the blood from his cut face. "Not me," snapped Bud. "This don't amount to nothin'.
64965_252	science fiction	Marlowe, Stephen	She wet her lips and they were very red in the sunlight and against her pale white face. "No," said Marsden thickly. "I'd better take you back inside to your friends, maybe." "Why, don't be ridiculous. See, they're all outside anyway." Marsden's gaze took in Talbor City's one street. The crowds had thinned considerably; people moved off toward the outskirts and the farmlands in twos and threes, the Earth people scattered among them and going to see Talbor with them. Marsden felt lost and alone and a little frightened, for he knew he would go off into the country-side with Alice Cooper in another moment, and he hardly trusted himself. "They're not my friends, Harry. We're traveling together, but we hardly know each other. You don't just make friends with anyone, it isn't civilized. People are always out to get you, to trick you, to make fun of you and take advantage of you. Oh, you've got to be careful, I always say. Shall we see Talbor now?" "I should go home and start plowing." "I'm leaving tonight, Harry." Her hand slipped under his arm and nestled there. His bare arm tingled. "What would you like to see?" he asked uncomfortably. * * * * * "Everyone has a different crop to grow," Marsden explained later. "On my farm it's barley." "Just barley? It must be rather dull, growing barley all year long." "We have some cattle and chickens, too. But I spend most of my time tending the irrigation ditches. Summertime it's a sunrise to sunset job." "You poor man. You--" Suddenly Alice Cooper's eyes grew big. She gasped and clutched at Marsden's arm. "Harry, over there! Ooo, Harry!" Marsden turned, saw a small dog bounding across the field playfully, turning and twisting and barking at its own shadow. "It's nothing to be afraid of." "An animal, nothing to be afraid of? Harry, it's coming this way." The dog had seen them. Yelping, its tail wagging, it came right up to them, nuzzling against Marsden's leg while he crouched and petted it. "Better take me back to town, Harry." "There boy, there boy."
62516_1522	love stories	Smith, Harriet L. (Harriet Lummis)	"Poor girl! I can see how unnerving all this has been. But won't it help a little if you remember that you've saved my life?" "Oh, don't! Don't!" "I'm afraid you'll have to let me say it, but I'll wait till another time if you'd rather. Please tell me your name." "It d--doesn't matter." "It matters a great deal to me. It isn't every day, you know, that a man has his life saved by a beautiful girl." He felt singularly secure regarding his adjective. "And of course I want to know who you are." She trenched her hand away with disconcerting energy. "It--doesn't matter about me," she said as well as she could for weeping. "But don't take such risks again. Good-by." "Now this is positively absurd," exclaimed Forbes in real annoyance. "You've done me a tremendous service, the biggest one human being can do another, and I'm not the sort of man to remain ignorant of my benefactress. I want a chance to show that I'm not unappreciative." Silence! "Are you there?" Forbes demanded sharply. So vivid and illuminating were his recollections of the woman his arms had enfolded that it seemed preposterous he should never know how to address her. Continued silence. Forbes bit his lip and waited. And behind his back, a singular pantomime was being enacted. A young woman whose heavy red hair fell about her like a cloak, ran into the arms of a breathless boy approaching from the opposite direction. She put her lips to his ear and whispered, "Don't tell him who I am." "All right, but what's the matter, Aggie? What are you crying for?" "Never mind. Nothing. Don't tell him my name." "But what if he asks me?" "Don't tell him, that's all." She drew herself away from him and started by a circuitous route for home. Howard approached his waiting employer with a new perplexity superimposed on his former perturbation. "Mr. Forbes, I don't know what you'll think of me--but down there I ran into the game warden." "Oh, did you!" Forbes' attitude was a trifle absent-minded. "Then you weren't hurt." "No, sir, I'm all right.
61283_99	science fiction	Banta, Frank	However, it is believed these misfortunes may be overcome during leisure hours and should be soon resolved without loss of a measurable part of your productive time. Pole interrupted his reading to beam at his wife. "He's sorry for us, Bliss, and he hopes things will be better for us soon." "Isn't he the nicest man?" They read on. In your radio message you refer to difficulties you are having with a snake and a lizard (which you colloquially refer to as a dragon). It is believed that the enclosed package, serial number 93G-18, will cope with the matter, and that no further report will be necessary with respect to snakes and lizards. Carl Wattles Chief, Pretzin Division Eagerly Bliss Kenton opened the plain white carton bearing the serial number 93G-18. She slid out the two and three-quarter by six and one-half inch fumigation bomb can. Bliss read the label. "'Lizards and snakes go 'way and stay. Only $1.19 F.O.B.U.S.A.' Why, it rhymes!" she said, a wondering smile lighting her face. "Does it say how long the lizards are that go 'way and stay?" Pole asked anxiously, thinking of the neighborhood's forty-foot hellion. "_All_ lizards, it says. And only $1.19." "Good! But how about snakes that can jump ten feet and wrap around your throat?" "I read that wrong," she amended. "All lizards _and snakes_. And only $1.19." "I'm glad," said Pole, choking up. "The Division Chief has been thinking of us," said Bliss, wiping away a tear. "He knows we field personnel have our problems." "He knew just what we needed," lauded Bliss. Pole looked up from the canister as he heard a sound. "And here comes the dragon back! Our lizard repellent arrived just in the nick of time!" Down the rain-forest aisle the roaring mammoth rapidly waddled. Its flames--even longer than its body--withered into blackened ruin all that stood before it. This time, instead of snatching up their possessions and fleeing to safety, the Kentons stood their ground with their pocket-size fumigation bomb that had been designed for pocket-sized lizards. When the dragon was within throwing distance, Pole flipped on the spray jet of the tiny bomb and threw it as straight as he could.
60978_653	detective and mystery stories	Morris, Charles	He groped his way to the stairs and tried the door. It was firmly bolted. All his efforts could not move it. He called out at the top of his voice, but no answer came back. “I’m a reg’lar rat in a cage,” he muttered, as he made his way to the windows, thinking to break a pane and call for help. But they faced on a deserted alley, and he feared if even he should bring aid, it would only be to be arrested as a thief. “I wonder if there is any ghosts in these diggin’s, as some of the men say?” he muttered, looking fearfully around. “I don’t like it a bit. I’ve never been in such a ’tarnal scrape in my life. Blame their eyes, they know’d I was down here, why didn’t they call me up? I believe it was done a-purpose. If I don’t be even with some of them yet, you can sell me.” But even a cornered coward grows brave, and Will was no coward. The superstitious dread could not long hold the mastery over his bold spirit. It was not long before he threw off the fears which had troubled him. “I ain’t no baby, to be skeered by a shadder,” he said. “Let what will come I’m goin’ to have a snooze anyhow. I dunno what’s the reason a feller couldn’t sleep as sound here as in my little eight-by-ten hole at home! Bet I make a soft bed, and that there ain’t no ghost or sich bothers itself to waken me up.” The bed did not lack softness, after he had opened and spread out yard after yard of rich, soft goods on the floor, using some of the heavy cloths he had been counting as a substratum. But his slumbers were not sound, for reasons which we have not space to give here. What Will saw, and what happened to him that night in the gloomy cellar, must be left for future chapters to declare. CHAPTER VI. WILL’S FIRST SALE. No one in Mr. Leonard’s establishment was aware of the fact that a rat of a new species had made free that night with the contents of the cellar. Will, for reasons of his own, kept his adventure secret, appearing in the store the next morning as if he had just walked in from the street.
5965_2266	science fiction	Flint, Homer Eon	But you'll have to admit, doc, that the vast majority of the Capellans were incompetents; the rest were exceptions." The doctor spoke after a brief pause. "And--that's what is wrong, Van?" "Yes," grimly. "Billie can't help but rejoice that things turned out the way they did. She is sure that the workers, now that they've been separated from the ruling class, will proceed to make a perfect paradise out of their land." He could not repress a certain amount of sarcasm. "As well expect a bunch of monkeys to build a steam engine! "Well," after a little hesitation, "as I said before, doc, I've no reason to change my mind. You may talk all you like about it--I can't agree to such ideas. The only way to get results on that planet is for the upper classes to continue to govern." "And this is what you two have--quarreled about?" Van Emmon nodded sorrowfully. He lit another cigar absent-mindedly and cleared his throat twice before going on: "My fault, I guess. I've been so darned positive about everything I've said, I've probably caused Billie to sympathize with her friends more solidly than she would otherwise." "But just because you've championed the autocrats so heartily--" "I'm afraid so!" The geologist was plainly relieved to have stated the case in full. He leaned forward in his eagerness to be understood. He told the doctor things that were altogether too personal to be included in this account. Meanwhile, out in the doctor's study, Smith had made no move whatever to interrogate the geologist's young wife. Instead, the engineer simply remained standing after Billie had sat down, and gave her only an occasional hurried glance. Shortly the silence got on her nerves; and--such was her nature, as contrasted with Van Emmon's--whereas he had stated causes first, she went straight to effects. "Well," explosively, "Van and I have split!" Smith was seldom surprised at anything. This time was no exception. He merely murmured "Sorry" under his breath; and Billie rushed on, her pent-up feelings eager to escape. "We haven't mentioned Capellette for weeks, Smith! We don't dare! If we did, there'd be such a rumpus that we--we'd separate!" Something came up into her throat which had to be choked back before she could go on.
47738_594	adventure stories	Stephens, Robert Neilson	He would give all up, and go to his inn, and back to the country at daybreak. All's over with me! Oh, ye have much to answer for!" "How prettily it cries!" quoth the handsome gentleman. "Faith, sir," said the captain, good-humouredly, "let's see an 'twill laugh as prettily. How if we led this dainty weeper to her friend's inn, and roused him out? Perchance then we shall have smiles for these showers. Where does he lie, little mistress?" "Alas, I know not. 'Twould be near the river, I think." "Oho, that he might take boat quicker," said the gentleman. "And now will he fly without thee at daybreak, say'st thou? Never sorrow, sweetheart; I'll boat thee to Brentford myself to-morrow." "There be scores of inns near the river," said the captain to the girl. "But we might make trial at some of them, an we knew by what name to call for your friend." "Nay, that I'll never tell! I know not if he would give his true name at the inn. Alas, what shall I do?" "Why, come to the tavern and make merry," said Velvet Suit, "as we have been inviting you this half-hour." "I'll freeze in the streets sooner!" "Is there need of that, then?" asked the captain. "Hast no place in London to go to? Came you not from some place to meet your friend?" "From my father's house, of course." "Then why not go back to it? What's to fear? 'Twas late when you came forth, was it not? I'll wager thy people were abed. Did they know you meant to play the runaway?" "'Tis not like they know it yet," she replied, a little relieved from complete dismay, but still downhearted. "And sure the way you came by must be open still," went on the captain. "I locked the door behind me; but I left the key where I can find it, if you gentlemen will let me go. You will, sirs; I'll thank ye so much! I am undone every way, else." "Of course we'll let you go," said the captain, decisively, with an oblique eye upon the velvet gallant.
25071_5273	adventure stories	Borrow, George	As a prose writer he admires him less, it is true, but his admiration for him in that capacity is very high, and he only laments that he prostituted his talents to the cause of the Stuarts and gentility. What book of fiction of the present century can you read twice, with the exception of 'Waverley' and 'Rob Roy?' There is 'Pelham,' it is true, which the writer of these lines has seen a Jewess reading in the steppe of Debreczin, and which a young Prussian Baron, a great traveller, whom he met at Constantinople in '44, told him he always carried in his valise. And in conclusion he will say, in order to show the opinion which he entertains of the power of Scott as a writer, that he did for the spectre of the wretched Pretender what all the kings of Europe could not do for his body--placed it on the throne of these realms, and for Popery what Popes and Cardinals strove in vain to do for three centuries--brought back its mummeries and nonsense into the temples of the British Isles. Scott during his lifetime had a crowd of imitators, who, whether they wrote history so called, poetry so called, or novels--nobody would call a book a novel if he could call it anything else--wrote Charlie o'er the water nonsense, and now that he has been dead a quarter of a century, there are others daily springing up who are striving to imitate Scott in his Charlie o'er the water nonsense--for nonsense it is, even when flowing from his pen. They, too, must write Jacobite histories, Jacobite songs, and Jacobite novels, and much the same figure as the scoundrel menials in the comedy cut when personating their masters, and retailing their masters' conversation do they cut as Walter Scotts. In their histories, they too talk about the Prince and Glenfinnan, and the pibroch; and in their songs about 'Claverse' and 'Bonny Dundee.' But though they may be Scots, they are not Walter Scotts.
2546_2233	western stories	Mulford, Clarence Edward	I’ll stop in when I passes.” “All right. So long,” replied Hopalong, slipping out of the door and watching for trouble. There was no opposition shown him, and he arrived at his claim to find Jake in a heated argument with another of the gang. “Here he comes now,” he said as Hopalong walked up. “Tell him what yu said to me.” “I said yu made a mistake,” said the other, turning to the cowboy in a half apologetic manner. “An’ what else?” Insisted Jake. “Why, ain’t that all?” Asked the claim-jumper’s friend in feigned surprise, wishing that he had kept quiet. “Well I reckons it is if yu can’t back up yore words,” responded Jake in open contempt. Hopalong grabbed the intruder by the collar of his shirt and hauled him off the claim. “Yu keep off this, understand? I just kicked yore marshal out in th’ street, an’ I’ll pay yu th’ next call. If yu rambles in range of my guns yu’ll shore get in th’ way of a slug. Yu an’ yore gang wants to browse on th’ far side of th’ range or yu’ll miss a sunrise some mornin’. Scoot!” Hopalong turned to his companion and smiled. “What’d he say?” He asked genially. “Oh, he jest shot off his mouth a little. They’s all no good. I’ve collided with lots of them all over this country. They can’t face a good man an’ keep their nerve. What’d yu say to th’ marshal?” “I told him what he was an’ threw him outen th’ street,” replied Hopalong. “In about two weeks we’ll have a new marshal an’ he’ll shore be a dandy.” “Yes? Why don’t yu take th’ job yoreself? We’re with yu.” “Better man comin’. Ever hear of Buck Peters or Red Connors of th’ Bar-20, Texas?” “Buck Peters? Seems to me I have. Did he punch fer th’ Tin-Cup up in Montana, ‘bout twenty years back?” “Shore! Him and Frenchy McAllister punched all over that country an’ they used to paint Cheyenne, too,” replied Hopalong, eagerly. “I knows him, then. I used to know Frenchy, too. Are they comin’ up here?”
63749_166	science fiction	Grimes, Millard	Staang laughed again. "Perhaps it was," he said. "But let me finish my story." "As I said, my people were fat and lazy, as I am now. Thus, open fighting as a means of bringing another race to be our slaves was out of the question. They had to find another way. And they did. "Our first troops were sent to Agar, and they reported very satisfactory results. Soon, practically the whole population migrated to Agar and the Agarians became our slaves. A few Martians, such as my ancestors, remained here. They kept the record of this invasion and also recorded all correspondence between this planet and Agar. Ah, would they had gone also, so that today I would have nothing to do but eat and sleep, as most of my race does--on Agar." He yawned at the thought. "Do not think badly of my race," he implored suddenly. "Some day your people also will grow old and tired." Boone grabbed Staang by the arm and shook him firmly. "But where does Earth come in?" he demanded. Staang gazed at the stern old General and then once again burst into peals of laughter. "You see," he giggled. "We Martians have another name for your Earth. We call it Agar. Your world is the one my ancestors invaded thousands of years ago. Your people are my people's slaves until today." "Wh ... what is he saying?" Nance stammered. "You're crazy," Boone bellowed. "Now I know that you are crazy." "That was the nice thing about our invasion." Staang explained patiently. "The Earthmen did not even realize that they were being invaded--do not even realize today that they are slaves. My people, in their long stay on Earth, have grown even lazier, and particularly their brains have become sluggish during the long years of inaction. Also there have been slight handicaps incurred because of conditions on your world. "For thousands of years there was regular communication between this planet and our invaders on Earth. The records were kept faithfully by the few Martians remaining here, and in my long years of almost complete solitude I learned your language and the history of my people on your world. I knew that perhaps in my lifetime Earthmen would reach this planet. One of my people predicted in 1396 that your world would attain space travel in the latter part of the 20th century." Nance stumbled for words.
32544_1467	science fiction	Reynolds, John Murray	"Ho! That is the best news that we of the Dragon's Teeth have heard in many weeks! All right, Slag, take these strangers through to the inner places." One of the Green Men beckoned to Gerry to follow him down a narrow flight of steps at the back of the room. It ended in a circular pool of water like a large well, the steps going on down below the surface. Their guide opened a cupboard built into the wall and took out four glass helmets. The helmets were attached to leather pads that fitted tightly about the shoulders and chest, with straps to hold them in place. A cylindrical metal tank was attached to the back of each helmet, with a tube that led to a valve at the side. The guide also took out some heavily leaded sandals. "Put on these helmets and then open the valves," he explained, "then follow me down the steps. Be careful not to fall in the darkness. After we get around the first bend in the corridor below there will be light." Gerry put the globular glass helmet over his head, opening the valve as soon as he had adjusted the straps. The air in the helmet immediately took on a faintly chemical odor, but it was pleasant and in no way oppressive. As soon as all of them were ready, the man called Slag beckoned and then started down the steps. Warm black water rose to Gerry's knees, then to his waist. As it came up to his shoulders he saw the top of Slag's helmet disappear below the surface ahead of him. For a moment the smooth surface of the water was level with Gerry's eyes as it rose around his own helmet. Then he stepped down into a darkness as black and impenetrable as though he were immersed in ink. Gerry guided himself with his left hand on the slime covered stones of the wall beside him. He reached back with his other hand to steady Closana who was just behind. All together he counted thirty steps, feeling carefully with his feet each time, before the floor leveled off. The wall curved around to the right. Gerry followed it, rounded a bend, and was no longer in darkness. They stood in a straight passage that was lined with blocks of polished stone. Metal plates, set in the ceiling at regular intervals, glowed with a greenish-yellow light that was nearly as bright as the cloudy Venusian daylight. The place was completely filled with water. It was an eerie sensation!
59428_816	detective and mystery stories	Hecht, Ben	But he noticed neither cutlery nor sign of food. Norton rose as he studied this strange fact. “Hello, doctor.” A middle-aged, medical-looking man with a bald head had entered the room. Norton introduced him. “Dr. Greer,” he said. The doctor greeted De Medici with a nod and leaned over the body on the floor. His fingers felt around the imbedded dagger for a moment, and then slowly withdrew the weapon. He straightened, holding the dripping blade to the light. “Through the heart,” he commented briefly. “Death was almost instantaneous. An odd sort of knife.” “We’ll call Miss Ballau,” declared Norton. He gave a direction to his assistant who had remained silent and motionless near the wall. Florence arrived. De Medici, waiting nervously, his fists clenched on his knees, breathed deeply as she entered. Her vivid face was white. Her eyes were lowered. But behind the collapse of her manner De Medici sensed a tautness, a defiance. “She’ll talk quietly,” he thought, “and tell nothing. Beautiful, how beautiful she is!” The detective had started his questioning. “What time did you come home, Miss Ballau?” “About half-past ten,” she replied. “You’re playing in ‘The Dead Flower,’ aren’t you?” She nodded. “Then you must have left before the show was over.” “Yes,” she said, “I had a frightful headache. The day’s excitement, I suppose.” Her eyes turned to De Medici. “I proposed to Miss Ballau today,” he explained, “and our engagement was to have been announced tonight at the supper.” “Yes,” the girl went on, and De Medici caught a grateful glint in her eyes, “I couldn’t go on with the play. I felt I’d forget my lines and I asked the stage manager to let my understudy take my place. I came home.” “About ten-thirty,” repeated the detective. Florence nodded. “How did you get in?” he asked. “I rang the bell several times and Jane finally answered it.” “What did she say to you?” “Nothing. She’d been busy in the kitchen. She went right back to her work.” “Did she know that anything had happened?” “No. She seemed entirely calm and went back to the kitchen without saying anything.”
33498_2803	western stories	Rhodes, Eugene Manlove	The captain began to wish he had never gone on that deerhunt. He went into the tent, struck a match, lit a candle and examined everything closely. There was no gun in the camp and no cartridges. He found the spill of twisted paper under the table, smothered his qualms and read it. He noted the open book for future examination in English. And now Tobe's labors had their late reward, for Rex missed nothing. Every effort brought fresh disappointment and every disappointment spurred him to fresh effort. He went into the tunnel; he scrutinized everything, even to the drills in the tub. The food supply tallied with Long's account. No detail escaped him and every detail confirmed the growing belief that he, Captain Griffith, was a doddering imbecile. He returned to the outpost, convinced at last. Nevertheless, merely to quiet the ravings of his insubordinate instincts, now in open revolt, he restaked the horses nearer to camp and cautiously carried both saddles to the head of the bed. Concession merely encouraged the rebels to further and successful outrages--the government was overthrown. He drew sentry Steele aside and imparted his doubts. That faithful follower heaped scorn, mockery, laughter and abuse upon his shrinking superior: recounted all the points, from the first blasts of dynamite to the present moment, which favored the charitable belief above mentioned as newly entertained by Captain Griffith concerning himself. This belief of Captain Griffith was amply indorsed by his subordinate in terms of point and versatility. "Of course they look alike. I noticed that the minute I saw him--the same amount of legs and arms, features all in the fore part of his head, hair on top, one body--wonderful! Why, you pitiful ass, that Bransford person was a mighty keen-looking man in any company. This fellow's a yokel--an old, rusty, cap-and-ball, single-shot muzzle-loader. The Bransford was an automatic, steel-frame, high velocity----" "The better head he has the more apt he is to do the unexpected----" "Aw, shut up! You've got incipient paresis! Stuff your ears in your mouth and go to sleep!" The captain sought his couch convinced, but holding his first opinion, savagely minded to arrest Mr. Long rather than let him have a gun to stand guard with. He was spared the decision. Mr. Long declined Gurdon's proffered gun, saying that he would be right there and he was a poor shot anyway.
62907_4807	adventure stories	Jewell, Edward Alden	“You’re just as cosy as an iceburg, Jerry,” she said, even simulating a small shiver. “You seem to forget all about that night—you know—about us being together at Hilo, and how you loved me then. Oh, my Gawd!” she ended in a lamentation of moist bitterness. “It shows you can’t believe a word a man says to you, and I just think I’ll go and commit suicide!” After which she seemed to feel almost cheerful. And then—then something most unexpected happened! Just as she was saying, with a weak little resigned sigh, that she’d have to be getting aboard, a dapper man in a check suit came up and tipped his hat. Lili brightened amazingly. Her manner grew excited and gracious. She began beaming. “Oh, here you are now!” she laughed. “I was looking for you, and waiting till I didn’t dare wait any longer for fear of missing the boat. I want to introduce you to Mr. Stewart, an old friend of mine,” she went on cordially. And now she was beaming on them both. It was a situation! The newcomer, whose name Jerome didn’t get exactly, shook hands, with some slight asperity, and began edging up toward Lili in a faintly proprietary way. All at once Jerome noticed that Lili’s wedding ring had mysteriously disappeared; and from that time on he grinned without ceasing until Lili and the new friend she’d picked up and the little prancing dog had moved off out of sight round the corner. Her friend was going on to Yokohama too. “On to Yokohama!” “Can you beat it?” muttered Jerome. And then, with just one brief sigh, he went about his own affairs. XI THE WHEEL TURNS ON CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE A GRAVE WITH FLOWERS IN THE JUNGLE I It was a new phase of life entirely. The _Star of Troy_ was not the _Skipping Goone_; yet was, in her way, quite as romantic. Jerome had a feeling from the very first that the _Star of Troy_ wasn’t altogether a typical tramp freighter. She possessed a most remarkable captain, for one thing, and a most remarkable captain’s daughter. Also there seemed something cryptic about her whole destiny.
8493_2431	adventure stories	Merriman, Henry Seton	“Ah! that is a long story,” replied Marvin, looking dreamily out of the window. “I bought it, years ago, at Farlingford. But it is a long story.” “Then tell it, slowly. While I eat this sole a la Normande. I see you've nearly finished yours, and I have scarcely begun.” It was a vague and disjointed enough story, as related by Septimus Marvin. And it was the story of Loo Barebone's father. As it progressed John Turner grew redder and redder in the face, while he drank glass after glass of Burgundy. “A queer story,” he ejaculated, breathlessly. “Go on. And you bought this engraving from the man himself, before he died? Did he tell you where he got it? It is the portrait of a woman, you say.” “Portrait of a woman--yes, yes. But he did not know who she was. And I do not know whether I gave him enough for it. Do you think I did, Jack?” “I do not know how much you gave him, but I have no doubt that it was too much. Where did he get it?” “He thinks it was brought from France by his mother, or the woman who was supposed in Farlingford to be his mother--together with other papers, which he burnt, I believe.” “And then he died?” “Yes--yes. He died--but he left a son.” “The devil he did! Why did you not mention that before? Where is the son? Tell me all about him, while I see how they've served this langue fourree, which should be eaten slowly; though it is too late to remind you of that now. Go on. Tell me all about the son.” And before the story of Loo Barebone was half told, John Turner laid aside his knife and fork and turned his attention to the dissection of this ill-told tale. As the story neared its end, he glanced round the room, to make sure that none was listening to their conversation. “Dormer Colville,” he repeated. “Does he come into it?” “He came to Farlingford with the Marquis de Gemosac, out of pure good-nature--because the Marquis could speak but little English. He is a charming man. So unselfish and disinterested.” “Who? The Marquis?” “No; Dormer Colville.”
65450_83	science fiction	Reinsberg, Mark	I've been looking over the cargo manifest, and all it says is five thousand carboys of oxygen." "Oxygen?" said Matt, with rising concern. "When we were on Titan you told us this ship contained something very valuable." "Yeah, Jake, what's the story?" "Calm down, you two. This oxygen cargo is the most valuable stuff in the solar system right now." "Aw come on," said Matt. "All you have to do is breathe to get a lung full of it. Is this some joke?" "Eight dead men aren't my idea of a joke," said Henry, a frown crossing his pudgy features. "All right," said Jake. "This was top secret information on Titan. There's been a bad leak in the city dome. They're losing tons of air every day, and so far no one's been able to find the hole." "I didn't hear anything about it when I was there," said Matt. "Of course not. The engineers have kept it from the colonists so there wouldn't be a stampede to get out. Because there aren't nearly enough ships to evacuate everybody." "Then just where do we come in?" asked Henry. Jake shook his head impatiently. "Can't you see? This is an emergency shipment of oxygen for Titan. Their reserves are just about gone. They figured it would take about ten days to check the entire dome, but they've only got about three days' supply of oxygen left." Matt nodded approvingly. "I'm beginning to see it now. When that's gone, they'll pay any price to get more." "You've got it," said Jake. "There's a Federation bank on Titan with assets of thirty million. We'll take every penny." Henry was worried. "Well, what if they find that hole before the three days are up. Then we won't be in such a good bargaining position." "In that case," said Jake, his grey eyes flickering like chalcedony, "we'll make a new hole." * * * * * They landed on Japetus. "Now, one of us has to deliver the ultimatum," said Jake. "One of us has to go back to Titan and tell them our terms." "Isn't that pretty risky?" said Matt. "They'll hold that guy hostage.
50939_2338	western stories	Turner, William Oliver	" "I'm l-looking for Mr. O'Hara," Willie said. "That whisky-head engineer? I'll keep an eye out for him. You get your tail into bed." Willie surveyed the line at the Pink Lady bar. O'Hara wasn't there. He wasn't at any of the tables. Willie turned and walked into the street. Madrid ambled up to the bar and beckoned to Pinky. "You better close up, pronto." Willie checked the Silver Slipper and then the Western Star. O'Hara was at neither one. Pausing in the shadows, he watched Madrid saunter down the street to his office. Willie had a growing conviction that something was wrong and that the marshal knew what it was. The Pink Lady was closing, and little knots of men straggled out of it, making their way to other saloons or toward the road back to camp. Willie stopped several men and asked if they had seen O'Hara. Finally, he found one who had. "Hell, he's at the Pink Lady," the man said. "He passed out in there. Bronklin and some others carried him upstairs." By the time Willie reached the Pink Lady it was locked and dark. He rattled the door and got no response. He made his way round in back and had no better luck at the door there. There was a light in an upstairs room, and the window was wide open. Willie cupped his hands to his mouth to call but something warned him not to. He ran back to the street, crossing it to the Big Barrel, where O'Hara's mule still stood at the hitch rail. He untied the animal, mounted, and rode back to the alley behind the Pink Lady. Shadows crossing the lighted window told him that somebody was moving around up there. Gently, he worked the mule close to the wall, directly under the window. He carefully knelt and then stood in the saddle. This brought the windowsill within reach. He grasped it, and as quietly as possible he pulled himself up. * * * * * When the last customer was out of the Pink Lady and the bartenders were washing glasses and tidying up, Pinky checked in the dealers. Each brought his cash in a canvas bag, which Pinky stowed into the heavy safe under the back end of the bar. First thing in the morning, Sam Lester would be in to count up. Pinky unbarred the heavy front door to let the dealers and bartenders out, then he swung this closed behind the batwings and slid the bar into place.
46653_627	adventure stories	Hemyng, Bracebridge	He took Jack into a bedroom, where he donned a bathing-suit and was given a carving-knife, which was the most formidable weapon they had in the house. Thus provided he walked down to the seaside by himself, while Foster and Captain Blower, armed with opera-glasses, sat on chairs on the piazza and watched his progress. Jack was an excellent swimmer, and plunging into the sea, swam rapidly toward the seal-rocks. He carried the knife between his teeth. The seals, who could be numbered by hundreds, had crept out of the sea and were lying in various places on the rocks, apparently asleep. Some must have been awake, however, for every now and then a loud bark was heard. What Captain Foster had said about the seals being dangerous was perfectly true. They had been bearing young, and were perfectly ready to repel any invasion of their territory. This Jack did not know. No one ever interfered with them, as it is a penal offense to shoot them, they being one of the shows of the city. What would San Francisco be without its seals? A pleasant swim of from ten to fifteen minutes' duration brought him to the largest of the three rocks. The seals began to bark, and some dived into the water. To climb up was very difficult, as the seaweed was wet and slippery, it being ebb tide. One seal attempted to bite him, but a dexterous thrust with his knife gave the sea-lion his death-blow. With praiseworthy perseverance Jack got up to where the big seal was disporting himself in the rays of the sun. The animal showed its gleaming tusks and snapped at Jack's leg, missing it by half an inch. Jack stooped down and tried to stab the huge beast, but his foot slipped, and he rolled over and over until he fell with a loud splash into the sea. The seal had also lost its balance, and came toppling over on the top of him. Fortunately, Jack had retained his hold of the knife. When he rose to the surface, he found himself confronted by a dozen angry seals, and for some time a lively fight ensued. The sea was stained with blood, and Jack received some bites, more or less severe, but not serious enough to disable him. At length, by a dexterous thrust, he killed the huge seal he had at first singled out as his prey. It keeled over, and grasping one of its fins, he dragged it laboriously to the shore, swimming with one hand.
61133_49	science fiction	Banta, Frank	"I never got to know him very well," interjected John Bork. "His visits were all so short." The prosecutor moved his probe. "Bork! Bork!" "Ah," said the prosecutor. "Now we are getting down to cases. I shall try that spot again." "Bork! Bork!" "She's not calling for me," advised Bork. "She just had a cold that week." * * * * * The prosecutor moved his probe. At each touch, the body broke into quaking action: Ferdinand, Frenchy, Yacob; Peyton, Rebel, Young foo Yum; and John. "Ah!" said the prosecutor. "Here we are now." "John!" whispered Fannie. "John, John, John! Oh, Johnny Johnson, my love! _Stay_ here forever!" "Wife's other John," said John Bork succinctly. The prosecutor moved his probe: Sinclair, Henrik, Sitting Duck, Oscar, Kenny, and Aqueduct. "That Aqueduct is Sitting Duck's educated brother," confided John Bork. "Before he went to Princeton his name was Wet Duck." The prosecutor moved his probe: Pease, Reese and Meese, Acuff, Eyolf and Beowulf; Bork! Bork! "That cough again?" muttered the prosecutor, ready to move on. "No, she's calling for me that time," corrected Bork. "How can you tell?" "It has more of a snarl in it than her cough has." The prosecutor tried the spot once more. "Bork! Bork! Why are you pointing that at me, Bork? What are you going to _do_, Bork?" She held out her hands to ward him off. "Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!" Then she dropped her hands. "I missed twice," John said, nodding. "The defendant will keep his lousy confessions to himself!" shrieked the judge. "I will not have the importance of our Very Complicated Monstrous Proximilator machine vitiated by these unwanted confessions!" Bork shrugged. "I just wanted to clear up a couple of details, your honor. I just like to be tidy." "We don't _need_ your help," responded the judge crushingly. "The Very Complicated Monstrous Proximilator machine tells us _all_ we want to know." He turned to the prosecutor. "You may proceed." "The state rests.
42010_1923	detective and mystery stories	Flynn, William J. (William James)	A. Those people would return the money again to him. Q. He said that he would pay the money and that he would get it back from the Black-Handers? A. Yes. Then the whole thing quieted down and naturally my people thought they were under obligations to this man Morello. And then when the danger was over my folks told me about it and remarked about what a terrible thing we had escaped. About three or four months later, Morello came around and said to my mother: Q. Did you hear him? A. No. She told me. (Continuing) "I have a notion to get married. I'm in with a woman who has a baby as the result of our relations. Now that I want to get married, I want to break off this relation, and if it is not inconvenient to you I would like to bring this baby, this little girl, to your house until everything is arranged." Q. That is the illegitimate child? A. She could walk; was over one year old. Q. Who was the woman? A. I do not know. Q. At that time he lived on Chrystie Street? A. No. I understand he had a restaurant. Of course, my folks said that it was no trouble for them. There were three or four women in the household, and it would be no trouble for them to take care of the little child. Q. All the time you thought that you were under obligations to him? A. Yes; just for that thing. Q. Don't you know who the woman was? A. No; never saw her. Q. Sure you didn't? A. No. Q. Do you know her? A. No, she was a Sicilian. I don't know her personally. Q. Is she living? A. I imagine she is. Q. What was her name? What was she called? A. Didn't know at all. Probably my grandmother would know. Q. Was this after or before the barrel murder? A. I think the barrel murder was after that. Q. He lived on Chrystie Street at that time? A. Yes. And so the baby was brought to our house and we took care of it, a nice little baby. Nothing happened at all--no disturbance. They came around to our house about once a week to see the baby. I kept on studying; never bothered my head about anything at all. I went out early in the morning and came back late; never bothered much with the affairs of the family. That baby died.
5165_6210	love stories	Corelli, Marie	He was however a trifle perplexed, and not altogether pleased at the expression, which, entirely away from his will and intention, had insensibly thrown a shadow of sadness on the face,--it had come there apparently of itself, unbidden. He had been particularly proud of his success in the drawing of the girl's extremely sensitive mouth, for he had, as he thought, caught the fleeting sweetness of the smile which was one of her greatest charms,--but now, despite his pains, that smile seemed to lose itself in the sorrow and pathos of an unspoken reproach, which, though enthralling and appealing to the beholder as the look of the famous "Mona Lisa," had fastened itself as it were on the canvas without the painter's act or consent. He was annoyed at this, yet dared not touch it in any attempt to alter what asserted itself as convincingly finished,--for the picture was a fine work of art and he realised that it would add to his renown. "I shall not name it as the portrait of a living woman," he said to himself--"I shall call it simply--'Innocent.'" As he thought this, the subject of the painting herself entered the studio. He turned at the sound of the door opening, and caught a strange new impression of her,--an impression that moved him to a touch of something like fear. Was she going to be tiresome, he wondered?--would she make him a "scene"--or do something odd as women generally did when their feelings escaped control? Her face was very pale--her eyes startlingly bright,--and the graceful white summer frock she wore, with soft old lace falling about it, a costume completed in perfection by a picturesque Leghorn hat bound with black velvet and adorned with a cluster of pale roses, made her a study worthy the brush of many a greater artist than Amadis de Jocelyn. His quick eye noted every detail of her dainty dress and fair looks as he went to meet her and took her in his arms. She clung to him for a moment--and he felt her tremble. "What's the matter?" he asked, with unconscious sharpness--"Is anything wrong?" She put him away from her tenderly and looked up smiling--but there was a sparkling dew in her eyes. "No, my Amadis! Nothing wrong!" He heaved a quick sigh of relief. "Thank heaven! You looked at me as if you had a grievance--all women have grievances--but they should keep them to themselves.
1245_7809	love stories	Woolf, Virginia	Soon she turned and walked as rapidly in the other direction. This indecision was not merely odious, but had something that alarmed her about it, as she had been alarmed slightly once or twice already that day; she felt unable to cope with the strength of her own desires. To a person controlled by habit, there was humiliation as well as alarm in this sudden release of what appeared to be a very powerful as well as an unreasonable force. An aching in the muscles of her right hand now showed her that she was crushing her gloves and the map of Norfolk in a grip sufficient to crack a more solid object. She relaxed her grasp; she looked anxiously at the faces of the passers-by to see whether their eyes rested on her for a moment longer than was natural, or with any curiosity. But having smoothed out her gloves, and done what she could to look as usual, she forgot spectators, and was once more given up to her desperate desire to find Ralph Denham. It was a desire now--wild, irrational, unexplained, resembling something felt in childhood. Once more she blamed herself bitterly for her carelessness. But finding herself opposite the Tube station, she pulled herself up and took counsel swiftly, as of old. It flashed upon her that she would go at once to Mary Datchet, and ask her to give her Ralph’s address. The decision was a relief, not only in giving her a goal, but in providing her with a rational excuse for her own actions. It gave her a goal certainly, but the fact of having a goal led her to dwell exclusively upon her obsession; so that when she rang the bell of Mary’s flat, she did not for a moment consider how this demand would strike Mary. To her extreme annoyance Mary was not at home; a charwoman opened the door. All Katharine could do was to accept the invitation to wait. She waited for, perhaps, fifteen minutes, and spent them in pacing from one end of the room to the other without intermission. When she heard Mary’s key in the door she paused in front of the fireplace, and Mary found her standing upright, looking at once expectant and determined, like a person who has come on an errand of such importance that it must be broached without preface. Mary exclaimed in surprise. “Yes, yes,” Katharine said, brushing these remarks aside, as if they were in the way. “Have you had tea?”
11501_4209	western stories	Beach, Rex	" "You are offended with me," Miss Moore said, after a pause. "How have I hurt you? What is it; please? I--I have been too forward, perhaps?" Austin dared not trust himself to answer, and when he made no sign the girl went on, painfully: "I'm sorry. I didn't want to seem bold. I owe you so much; we were such good friends--" In spite of her efforts her voice showed her suffering. The man felt his lonely heart swell with the wild impulse to tell her all, to voice his love in one breathless torrent of words that would undeceive her. The strain of repression lent him added brusqueness when he strove to explain, and his coldness left her sorely hurt. His indifference filled her with a sense of betrayal; it chilled the impulsive yearning in her breast. She had battled long with herself before coming and now she repented of her rashness, for it was plain he did not need her. This certainty left her sick and listless, therefore she bade him adieu a few moments later, and with aching throat went blindly out and down the stairs. The instant she was gone Austin leaped to his feet; the agony of death was upon his features. Breathlessly he began to count: "One! Two! Three--!" He felt himself smothering, and with one sweep of his hand ripped the collar from his throat. "Five! Six! Seven--!" He was battling like a drowning man, for, in truth, the very breath of his life was leaving him. A drumming came into his ears. He felt that he must call out to her before it was too late. He was counting aloud now, his voice like the moan of a man on the rack. "Nine! Ten--!" A frenzy to voice his sufferings swept over him, but he held himself. Only a moment more and she would be gone; her life would be spared this dark shadow, and she would never know, but he--he would indeed be face to face with darkness. Toward the last he was reeling, but he continued to tell off the seconds with the monotonous regularity of a timepiece, his every power centered on that process. The idea came to him that he was counting his own flickering pulse-throbs for the last time. With a tremendous effort of will he smoothed his face and felt his way to the open window, for by now she must be entering the landau. A moment later
62236_1605	western stories	Ward, William (Author at Arthur Westbrook Co. (Cleveland, Ohio))	It was maddening. In a moment these hardy desperadoes who had faced death in a thousand forms, would feel their courage oozing from their finger tips and would make a run for the outer air. "Where are you?" roared Frank. "Are you dead or alive?" "Me here; me no with Great Spirit." "Where?" bellowed Tony. "Where in the humping pizen snakes be you anyhow? You sound as if you was over my head, but if you be you're a dead one, and that goes." Frank with a sudden thought in his mind was shading his eyes from the flaming torches and peering up into the shadows. There, more than ten feet above their heads, he saw the form of the little Indian maiden wedged in a crevice of rocks where she had evidently been hurled by the sudden explosion. The men shouted for pure joy. "Jump, you little devil," shouted Texas, "we'll catch you." "Paleface say well. Dew Drop no jump." "Not jump? Don't be afraid," reassured Frank. "Dew Drop um no jump. Um fast," she wailed. "She's wedged in between the rocks," yelled Tony. "Git a ladder somebody quick." Everybody laughed but it was evident that Tony in his excitement was in dead earnest. "Yes, how we going to git the gal down?" demanded Texas. "Can't one of you take a running jump and reach her?" cried Frank. "If my leg wasn't game I'd do it myself." "Yes, you would," sneered Tony. "You ain't no bird and neither be I. That's twelve feet if its one up there." "I've got an idee," interrupted Homely Harry. "I'll stand agin the wall and you fellers climb up on top of me, one top of tother. I've seen 'em do that in a circus once. We kin git her down that way." Frank shot an approving glance at him. "You're the only one in the bunch that's got a head on his shoulders about now I reckon. I ain't much on the climb, but try it and if you don't get her, I'll go to the top of the pile myself.
3404_1292	love stories	Howells, William Dean	I had it in English. I don't build my ships to cross the sea in, as Emerson says; I take those I find built.” “Ah! I was already on the other side,” said Mrs. Pasmer softly. She added: “I must get Lisa. I like a good heart-break; don't you? If that's what gave you the bad moment.” “Heart-break? Heart-crush! Where Lavretsky comes back old to the scene of his love for Lisa, and strikes that chord on the piano--well, I simply wonder that I'm alive to recommend the book to you. “Do you know,” said Miss Cotton, very deferentially, “that your daughter always made me think of Lisa?” “Indeed!” cried Mrs. Pasmer, not wholly pleased, but gratified that she was able to hide her displeasure. “You make me very curious.” “Oh, I doubt if you'll see more than a mere likeness of temperament,” Mrs. Brinkley interfered bluntly. “All the conditions are so different. There couldn't be an American Lisa. That's the charm of these Russian tragedies. You feel that they're so perfectly true there, and so perfectly impossible here. Lavretsky would simply have got himself divorced from Varvara Pavlovna, and no clergyman could have objected to marrying him to Lisa.” “That's what I mean by his pessimism,” said Miss Cotton. “He leaves you no hope. And I think that despair should never be used in a novel except for some good purpose; don't you, Mrs. Brinkley?” “Well,” said Mrs. Brinkley, “I was trying to think what good purpose despair could be put to, in a book or out of it.” “I don't think,” said Mrs. Pasmer, referring to the book in her lap, “that he leaves you altogether in despair here, unless you'd rather he'd run off with Irene than married Tatiana.” “Oh, I certainly didn't wish that;” said Miss Cotton, in self-defence, as if the shot had been aimed at her. “The book ends with a marriage; there's no denying that,” said Mrs. Brinkley, with a reserve in her tone which caused Mrs. Pasmer to continue for her-- “And marriage means happiness--in a book.” “I'm not sure that it does in this case.
51840_4817	western stories	Beach, Rex	“Bring your niece over to my place to-night. There’s trouble in the air and I’m prepared for it.” “She hasn’t returned from her ride yet. I’m afraid she’s caught in the storm.” The Judge gazed anxiously into the darkness. * * * * * During all the long day the Vigilantes lay in hiding, impatient at their idleness and wondering at the lack of effort made towards their discovery, not dreaming that McNamara had more cleverly hidden plans behind. When Cherry’s note of warning came they gathered in the back room and gave voice to their opinions. “There’s only one way to clear the atmosphere,” said the chairman. “You bet,” chorussed the others. “They’ve garrisoned the mines, so let’s go through the town and make a clean job of it. Let’s hang the whole outfit to one post.” This met with general approval, Glenister alone demurring. Said he: “I have reasoned it out differently, and I want you to hear me through before deciding. Last night I got word from Wheaton that the California courts are against us. He attributes it to influence, but, whatever the reason, we are cut off from all legal help either in this court or on appeal. Now, suppose we lynch these officials to-night--what do we gain? Martial law in two hours, our mines tied up for another year, and who knows what else? Maybe a corrupter court next season. Suppose, on the other hand, we fail--and somehow I feel that we will, for that boss is no fool. What then? Those of us who don’t find the morgue will end in jail. You say we can’t meet the soldiers. I say we can and must. We must carry this row to them. We must jump it past the courts of Alaska, past the courts of California, and up to the White House, where there’s one honest man, at least. We must do something to wake up the men in Washington. We must get out of politics, for McNamara can beat us there. Although he’s a strong man he can’t corrupt the President. We have one shot left, and it must reach the Potomac. When Uncle Sam takes a hand we’ll get a square deal, so I say let us strike at the Midas to-night and take her if we can. Some of us will go down, but what of it?”
40176_4788	love stories	Richards, Laura Elizabeth Howe	"No indeed!" she said. "It's only nine, Mr. Pippin. I don't hardly ever go up before half past. I'd be glad to hear anything you have to tell me." "I don't know as you will!" Pippin spoke rather ruefully. "Be glad, I mean. I--I haven't been quite square with your Boss, Miss Flower. I haven't, that's a fact. No!" as Mary looked up, startled. "I don't mean I've told him anything that wasn't so. I believe it's all as I think and more so; but what I would say is, there's a heap I haven't told him. You see I--I dunno just how to put it--I felt to help him through this deal that I knew them fellers was puttin' up; and--and--what I would say--if I'd told him the whole of what there was to tell, mebbe he wouldn't have let me help. I'm doin' the right thing, young lady, no fears of that; the Lord showed me; but I'm scared, fear mebbe I ain't doin' it the right way. So I thought if I might tell you the way I was fixed--what say?" "Certainly, Mr. Pippin! I'll be pleased to hear, as I said." Mary laid down her work, and looked straight at Pippin with her honest blue eyes. That made Pippin blush and feel as if a blue knife had gone through him. To cover his confusion, he felt for his file, drew it out and whistled softly on it; then, seeing Mary's look change to one of open amazement, he fell into still deeper confusion. "It's a file!" he explained. "I always carry it. It's handy--" He broke off short, and made a desperate plunge. "I wondered if--if _you_ wondered--how I come to be so cocksure of that guy's bein' a crook. Did you?" "Well!" Mary hesitated a moment. "Yes! I didn't doubt but you did know, but--yes, I did wonder some." "That's what I've got to tell you. I've knowed that guy ever since we was little shavers. We was--you may say--raised together, for a spell; that is, we was learned together, anyway.
18426_679	love stories	Hueston, Ethel	"'He raided Jack Mott's last night and has about three hundred bottles to smash this afternoon. The old fellow is pretty fond of the ice-cold bottles himself and it is common report that he raids just often enough to keep himself supplied. So I think I'll keep an eye on him to-day. He started half an hour ago, south road, and he has Gus Waldron with him,--his boon companion, and the most notoriously ardent devotee of the bottles in all dear dry Mount Mark. Lovely day for a drive, isn't it?' "'Yes, lovely.' I was very happy. I felt like a princess of old, riding off into danger, and I felt very warm and friendly toward Kirke. Remember that he is very good-looking and just bad enough in spite of his new pillar-hood, to be spell-binding, and--it was lots of fun. Kirke grabbed my hand and squeezed it chummily, and I smiled at him. "'You are a glorious girl,' he said. "I suppose I should have reminded him and myself that he was a semi-satanic, but I did not. I laughed and rubbed the back of his hand softly with the tips of my nice pink finger nails, and laughed again. "Then here came a light wagon,--Matters and Waldron,--going home, and we realized we had been loitering on the job. Kirke shook his head impatiently. "'You distracted me,' he said. 'I forgot my reputation's salvation in the smile of your eye.' "But we drove on to look the field over. Less than half a mile down the road we came to a low creek with rocky rugged banks. The banks were splashed and splattered with bits of glass, and over the glass and over the rocks ran thin trickling streams of a pale brown liquid that had a perfectly sickening odor. I sniffed disgustedly as we walked over to reconnoiter. "'I guess he made good all right,' said Kirke in a disappointed voice, inspecting the glass-splattered banks of the creek. Then he leaped across and walked lightly up the bank on the opposite side. Stooping down, he lifted an unbroken bottle and waved it at me, laughing. "'They missed one. Never a crack in it and still cold.' He looked at it curiously, affectionately, then with resignation. 'I am a minister's son,' he reminded himself sternly.
1245_7666	love stories	Woolf, Virginia	Cassandra was driven finally, by her own unrest, to put on her clothes and wander out along the streets of Chelsea, on the pretence that she must buy something. But, in her ignorance of the way, she became panic-stricken at the thought of being late, and no sooner had she found the shop she wanted, than she fled back again in order to be at home when William came. He came, indeed, five minutes after she had sat down by the tea-table, and she had the happiness of receiving him alone. His greeting put her doubts of his affection at rest, but the first question he asked was: “Has Katharine spoken to you?” “Yes. But she says she’s not engaged. She doesn’t seem to think she’s ever going to be engaged.” William frowned, and looked annoyed. “They telephoned this morning, and she behaves very oddly. She forgets to help the pudding,” Cassandra added by way of cheering him. “My dear child, after what I saw and heard last night, it’s not a question of guessing or suspecting. Either she’s engaged to him--or--” He left his sentence unfinished, for at this point Katharine herself appeared. With his recollections of the scene the night before, he was too self-conscious even to look at her, and it was not until she told him of her mother’s visit to Stratford-on-Avon that he raised his eyes. It was clear that he was greatly relieved. He looked round him now, as if he felt at his ease, and Cassandra exclaimed: “Don’t you think everything looks quite different?” “You’ve moved the sofa?” he asked. “No. Nothing’s been touched,” said Katharine. “Everything’s exactly the same.” But as she said this, with a decision which seemed to make it imply that more than the sofa was unchanged, she held out a cup into which she had forgotten to pour any tea. Being told of her forgetfulness, she frowned with annoyance, and said that Cassandra was demoralizing her. The glance she cast upon them, and the resolute way in which she plunged them into speech, made William and Cassandra feel like children who had been caught prying. They followed her obediently, making conversation. Any one coming in might have judged them acquaintances met, perhaps, for the third time. If that were so, one must have concluded that the hostess suddenly bethought her of an engagement pressing for fulfilment.
59012_1814	adventure stories	Hemyng, Bracebridge	It seemed as if Young Jack Harkaway’s troubles were surely ended, but they were not. Without being aware of it, Jack had another and startling experience to pass through, and the time for it to begin had now come. The Catamaran was slowly making her way up the Red Sea, when a very unusual thing occurred. The Catamaran ran into a fog. Fogs are seldom encountered on the Red Sea. Jack and Harry were sitting on deck talking, Clara was asleep in the cabin, and Mole and Monday were asleep on deck. It was unpleasantly hot--quite suffocating in fact, and yet Jack and Harry managed to fall asleep too. The truth was they had slept but little the night before and were pretty well tired out. All at once one of the Arabs shook Jack by the shoulder. He started up amazed to find that he had slept, and still more amazed to find that the Catamaran was enveloped in a thick fog. Mole stood right behind the man. “Come, Jack, wake up,” he said. “This is no time for snoozing. We are in a lot of trouble here.” Jack was wide awake in an instant. “What’s the matter?” he demanded. “The matter is, we have run into a fog bank, and the captain don’t know which way to go.” “Let him drop anchor and stay where he is then,” replied Jack, punching Harry, who was equally surprised at the condition of things when he awoke. “He has already done that,” replied Mole; “but there seems to be no sign of the fog lifting. Are we to stay here forever? For my part, I’d like to be getting on.” “Come, professor, what’s the matter with you?” laughed Jack. “Why this sudden interest in our affairs? Usually you are willing to stick to your cards and your bottle. Why not do so now?” “Somebody has got to be on guard,” retorted Mole. “When the master sleepeth, it behooves the man to be wide awake.” “That’s all right; we won’t go to sleep again. Return to your mutton, Mole, I’ll look after things now.” Mole stumped away in some vexation. He felt that he had been extra vigilant, and consequently also felt a little called down. Jack now questioned the captain about the situation. He found that the fog was liable to last for several days.
52498_3063	detective and mystery stories	Regis, Julius	He hurled himself with great violence upon Toroni, who missed his footing, uttered a vile oath, and losing hold of Tom, allowed him to slip between Corman and Dixon, who knocked the revolver out of Dixon’s hand in his mad rush for the stairs. Where he should go next he had not the least notion, but he thought his first and most important duty was to divert attention from Wallion and their place of concealment in the larboard boat. But his adversaries were too quick for him. On the lowest step he was stopped and seized by three pairs of hands. He struggled for a few minutes, but gave in when he found the muzzle of a pistol pointing at him. "That’s right, take things easy," said Dixon, in a tone bordering on friendliness. "We shall come to terms before long." Tom breathed hard, but submitted to his fate in silence. Dixon looked up, listening intently. Tom feared that Wallion had betrayed himself by some impetuous movement in the boat, but Dixon was not looking in its direction. The wireless installation stood out against the bright, blue sky, and an intermittent crackling sound made itself plainly heard from above. Dixon ran up the stairs. "What the devil are you doing, Moreland?" he shouted. "Are you mad?" "Moreland is not here," answered the captain from the bridge. "He went to bed about eleven, Mr. Dixon." The wireless had stopped short, Dixon looked up at the cables in anger and consternation. "Who is sending a message?" he asked. "Don’t know," said the captain. "Weston says that two messages were sent during the night, we thought it might be Mr. Ferail." "Confound it all," roared Dixon, white with fury. "Call out the crew, there is a spy on board." A whistle sounded and the captain rushed up to the wireless room. Dixon pushed Tom back into the corridor, gave him a look which boded no good, and asked: "Who was with you?" "I shan’t tell you," Tom answered. He strongly suspected that Wallion had been in the wireless room, and he was fully determined not to admit anything. "Was it McTuft?" "No." With a side glance at Toroni, Dixon said: "Has a miracle happened? Was it Wallion?" Tom moved impatiently. "What’s the use of asking me?" he said.
36079_2334	detective and mystery stories	Lowndes, Marie Belloc	He was kept waiting a few moments--as a matter of fact only a very few moments--in the familiar little drawing-room, before Katty, wearing a charming, pale blue dressing-gown, edged with swansdown, joined him. As was her way, she began speaking at once. "Why, what's the matter?" she exclaimed. "Has anything gone wrong, Godfrey?" He answered irritably, "No, not that I know of. But I've something to say to you." He pulled out his big, old-fashioned gold repeater. "It's twenty to ten--I thought I'd find you down!" "I always breakfast upstairs in my own room. But I didn't keep you waiting long----" She was still a little breathless, for she had come down very quickly. And then he began, with no preamble: "I want to know if you really meant what you said last night about letting this house furnished for a year? I'm by no means sure if the terms of your lease allow for your doing that; I shall have to look into it after I get to the Bank. Still, I thought I'd better come and see you first." Katty grew very pink. "Oh, Godfrey!" she exclaimed. "Surely you wouldn't be so unkind----?" There came over her pretty face that curious, obstinate look which he had already seen there often enough to dread. Also she made him feel ashamed of himself. But how attractive she looked--how fresh and dainty--like a newly opened rose! Katty had twisted up her hair anyhow, but that only made her look younger, and more natural. "Let's come out into the garden," she said coaxingly. "Surely you can stay for a few minutes? This is the very first time you've ever been to see me in the morning! Why not telephone through and say you've been delayed,--that you can't be at the Bank till eleven?" She was edging him as she spoke towards the corner where, behind a screen, there stood the telephone instrument. As if compelled to obey, he took up the receiver, and uttered the familiar words, "Pewsbury 4." And at once there came an answer. "Is that you, Privet? What a comfort it is to know that I can always rely on your being there, whoever else isn't!
45859_1722	adventure stories	Busk, Rachel Harriette	While our hero had been living in rustic tranquillity in the remotest part of the south of Spain, great events had been stirring Europe. The tumultuous tide of the French Revolution had overflowed the Peninsula. I will not detain you with any thing you can consider a dry epitome of history. Suffice it to say, that in consequence of the troubles in which his country was involved, young Pedro Jimenez was called to join the army. Having felt, as I hope you have, some interest in the honest pride with which he was on the point of entering on his inheritance, I am sure you will sympathize with the sadness of heart which now overshadowed him as he was obliged to abandon his fair homestead just as it had become his own. "It is well the old man never suspected it would come to this! ... and then peace must come and restore me to my home some time or other," he used to say to comfort himself during the weary march or tedious drill. There was, however, yet a heavier trial in store. It was the policy of the intruded French ruler to send away the native troops out of their country, and replace them with French troops. Now it happened that Pedro Jimenez was attached to the regiment of General Romano, which was one of those selected for foreign service. Ordered to the banks of the Rhine, poor Pedro Jimenez seemed farther than ever from the fulfilment of his darling hopes. He had perhaps felt the defence of his country some compensation for the separation from home; but to fight for the unjust aggressions of one who was the usurper of the throne of his native land was surpassingly hard. When not joining his comrades in lamenting their hard fate, he would wander over the country, trying to find any incident which might remind him of his beloved Andalusia. His attention was thus arrested by the vines which he found growing on the heights around. The knowledge of the subject he had acquired during so many years' apprenticeship, and under so experienced a master, now proved invaluable. His practised eye readily distinguished among the varieties presented to it a superior variety adapted to the soil and climate of Andalusia, and he determined, whenever Providence was pleased to give him an opportunity of returning, that he would provide himself with the means of propagating this stock in his own plantation. Nor was this opportunity very long withheld.
31426_647	detective and mystery stories	Newcomb, Ambrose	Then a temptation gripped him, and, as he took another "eyeful" sweep of the azure arch overhead, to again find the coast clear, he tortured himself with the vision of a pot of boiling coffee to go with his otherwise dry midday snack of lunch. "Huh! no use talkin', I jest _can't_ stand it any longer--got to have my coffee if I want to keep happy as a clam at high tide. Nothin' to prevent me paddlin' across once more to where I got these here greens. I noticed heaps an' heaps o' dry wood, broken branches, stems o' palmetto leaves an' such dandy trash for a quick fire. Might as well tote the machine-gun along, so's to be ready for anything that comes--it could be a frisky twelve-foot 'gator wantin' to climb me or mebbe one o' them sly painters I been told they got down in this queer old country. Anyway, here you go, Perk, coffee pot an' all." He was soon busily engaged in building his little fire, hoping no hostile eyes might detect the trailing smoke ascending above the tops of that palmetto clump. Then came the pleasing task of watching his coffee pot as it stood on the tilting firewood, a job that required constant vigilance if he hoped to save its precious contents from spilling. Presently the odor began to fill him with delight and later on he found himself sitting cross-legged, like a Turk, and swallowing gulp after gulp of the amber fluid he loved so well. Taken altogether it proved to be as satisfactory a little lunch as Perk had partaken of in some time. After finishing the entire contents of his coffee pot, he concluded it would be just as well for him to clean up, destroying all signs of the fire, and return to the sloop. He had good reason to shake hands with himself because of this exhibition of caution, for later on, as the afternoon began to lengthen, with the sun starting down toward the western horizon, he suddenly began to catch faint sounds such as sent a sudden thrill through his whole nervous system. "Dang it if I ain't hearin' somethin' right like human voices," he told himself, cocking up his head the better to listen, and applying a cupped hand to his right ear. "Yep, that's a fact, an' over in that quarter to boot," nodding toward the northeast where his instinct told him the mainland must lie, even if some miles distant.
42625_3187	love stories	Reynolds, Baillie, Mrs.	" "It is. I see that—and you are a young man yourself. If Wilfrid were at home I could speak to him, but Ninian is the kind of chap who thinks it clever to be rude if you say anything he doesn’t like." "Wilfrid was a good deal cut up by that Lily Martin episode." "No wonder! A nice thing to come back from Klondyke—where he had really been risking his life to mend the family fortunes—and to find out what had been going on in his absence. Of course, they hoped that, as the girl got well and departed, nothing would come out. But it did—it did!" "Inevitably, I suppose," replied Balmayne; "but I can honestly say it didn’t get about through me." "Who told the Kendalls?" said the little vicar shrewdly. "My wife is certain that Rose Kendall meant to marry Ninian. It was practically a settled thing, and Metcalfe told me she has thirty thousand pounds." "I suppose Wolf is not likely to be coming home just yet?" "Can’t possibly come as long as Parliament is sitting. He took a few days’ leave at Christmas, you know." "Now if it were he with whom a girl was thrown every day and all day long, warnings would be fruitless," remarked Balmayne smiling. "Any girl alive would fall in love with Wolf if she got the chance." "If I were to write to him," suggested the vicar tentatively. "Of course, I don’t mean ostensibly. I do write to him from time to time. Say I am sending back the book he lent me, and am interested to hear that his mother has a new companion—that her presence will do much to wipe out unpleasant rumours or memories, eh?" "Do you think that he doesn’t know of the new arrangement, then?" "I can’t say." "It was by his advice that they tried the plan before," said Balmayne thoughtfully. "He may have urged it afresh when he came home at Christmas and saw how depressed and unwell his mother was. A pity he didn’t insist upon its being somebody middle-aged. But I suppose he thought that might be more depressing than nobody at all." "Well, if you get a chance," concluded the vicar, as the car stopped at his gate, "I should put in a word; but be careful.
14211_831	love stories	Ford, Paul Leicester	Ise in it up to de limit, doc, oin't Ise?" exclaimed the waif, turning to the doctor. Dr. Armstrong smiled and nodded his head, but something in his face or manner seemed to give a change to the boy's thoughts, for, after eyeing him intently, he said to Constance,-- "Oin't youse goin' to invite de doc?" Miss Durant coloured as she said, with a touch of eagerness yet shyness, "Dr. Armstrong, I intended to ask you, and it will give me a great deal of pleasure if you will come to Swot's and my festival." And when the doctor seemed to hesitate, she added, "Please!" in a way that would have very much surprised any man of her own circle. "Thank you, Miss Durant; I'll gladly come, if you are sure I sha'n't be an interloper." "Not at all," responded the girl. "On the contrary, it would be sadly incomplete without you--" "Say," broke in the youngster, "growed-up folks don't git tings off de tree, does dey?" Both Constance and the doctor laughed at the obvious fear in the boy's mind. "No, Swot," the man replied; "and I've had my Christmas gift from Miss Durant already." "Wot wuz dat?" "Ask her," replied Dr. Armstrong, as he walked away. "Wot have youse guv 'im?" Constance laughed, and blushed still more deeply, as, after a slight pause, she replied, "It's my turn, Swot, to say 'rubber'?" This said, she stooped impulsively and kissed the boy's forehead. "You are a dear, Swot," she asserted, warmly. With the mooting of the Christmas tree, the interest in Old Sleuth markedly declined, being succeeded by innumerable surmises of the rapidly convalescing boy as to the probable nature and number of the gifts it would bear. In this he was not discouraged by Miss Durant, who, once the readings were discontinued, brought a bit of fancy-work for occupation. "Wot's dat?" he inquired, the first time she produced it. "A case for handkerchiefs." "For me?" "Did you ever have a handkerchief?" "Nop. An' I'd radder have suttin' else." "Can you keep a secret, Swot?" "Bet youse life." "This is for Dr. Armstrong.
7832_1131	love stories	Phillips, David Graham	But I see a different meaning in it now. And I can recall his tone, can find a strained note which then escaped me in his usual mocking drawl. “To marry?” said he. “I haven’t heard of that.” “Nor no one else,” said I. “Except her,” said he. “Not even except her,” said I. “But I’ve got my eye on her--and you know what that means with me.” “Yes, I know,” drawled he. Then he added, with a curious twinkle which I do not now misunderstand: “We have somewhat the same weakness.” “I shouldn’t call it a weakness,” said I. “It’s the quality that makes the chief difference between us and the common run--the fellows that have no purposes beyond getting comfortably through each day--” “And getting real happiness,” he interrupted, with just a tinge of bitterness. “We wouldn’t think it happiness,” was my answer. “The worse for us,” he replied. “We’re under the tyranny of to-morrow--and happiness is impossible.” “May I look at your bedroom?” I asked. “Certainly,” he assented. I pushed open the door he indicated. At first glimpse I was disappointed. The big room looked like a section of a hospital ward. It wasn’t until I had taken a second and very careful look at the tiled floor, walls, ceiling, that I noted that those plain smooth tiles were of the very finest, were probably of his own designing, certainly had been imported from some great Dutch or German kiln. Not an inch of drapery, not a picture, nothing that could hold dust or germs anywhere; a square of sanitary matting by the bed; another square opposite an elaborate exercising machine. The bed was of the simplest metallic construction--but I noted that the metal was the finest bronze. On it was a thin, hard mattress. You could wash the big room down and out with the hose, without doing any damage. “Quite a contrast,” said I, glancing from the one room to the other. “My architect is a crank on sanitation,” he explained, from his lounge. I noted that the windows were huge--to admit floods of light--and that they were hermetically sealed so that the air should be only the pure air supplied from the ventilating apparatus.
30318_2148	western stories	Garland, Hamlin	" "I love to hear about people who can ride a hundred miles in a night, and live on roots and berries, and capture men who bristle with revolvers. Please go on. Ben, you needn't listen if you don't want to. You can show Mrs. Haney the automobile or the garden." Ben laughed. "I like to hear Captain Haney talk quite as well as anybody, but I'll be glad to show Mrs. Haney any of your neighbors' things she cares to see." Alice turned to Bertha. "I suppose the Captain's tales are all old songs in your ears?" "No, they're mostly all new to me. The Captain never tells stories to me." Haney winked. "She knows me too well. She wouldn't believe them." "Go on, please," said Alice. And so Haney took up the thread, though he protested. "'Tis a tale for candle-light," he explained. Ben was studying Bertha with renewed admiration. "Where did she get that exquisite profile?" he thought. The story was again interrupted by a group of callers, among them Mrs. Crego, and though Alice loyally stood by the Haneys and introduced them boldly, Mrs. Crego's cold nod and something that went out from the eyes of her companions made Bertha suffer, and she went away with a feeling of antagonism in her heart. Did these people consider her beneath their respect? Haney remarked as they rode away: "If black eyes could freeze, sure we'd be shiverin' this minute. Did ye see Mrs. Crego pucker up when she sighted us?" "I did, and it settled her for me," replied Bertha. The intimacy thus established between the Haneys and the Congdon circle furnished the gossip of the "upper ten" with vital material for discussion. Mrs. Crego most decidedly disapproved of their calling, and advised Alice Heath against any further connection with the gambler's wife. "What good can it possibly lead to? It's only curiosity on your part, and it isn't right to disturb the girl's ideals--if she has any." To this Alice made no reply, but Ben stoutly defended the young wife. "She would have been as good as any of us with the same education. The poor little thing has had to work since her childhood, and that has cut off all training. As for Haney, he isn't a bad man.
65760_672	adventure stories	Standish, Burt L.	CHAPTER IX. IN THE SWIFT CURRENT The clumsy, slow-moving scow loaded with the cook’s outfit and a supply of bedding followed the drive downstream, and, that night, fastened up to the bank close to the inlet of Deer Pond, the middle one of three small bodies of water strung along the length of the Megantic. It was a full day’s work, much better than Bainbridge had hoped for, and, as he approached the big drying fire flaming up at one side of the camp made by Charlie Hanley, the cook, Bob shook his own hand in silent, grinning self-congratulation. He knew that they were far from being out of the woods yet, but a good beginning always means a lot, and he had no word to say against this start-off. Presently the various driving crews appeared, wet to the skin from the waist down, and ravenously hungry. The drying racks were swiftly steaming with the soggy garments, and the men fell to upon their supper without a second’s delay. There was little conversation--they were too busy for that; but Bainbridge noticed with satisfaction that a certain element of good-tempered raillery seemed to prevail. Evidently the crowd as a whole bore no grudge against the man who had given them such a tongue-lashing that morning. In fact, if one could judge from their manner toward their boss, they thought a lot more of him for having done so. Next day all hands did even better, and nightfall found them at the inlet of Loon Lake, with the drive before them. Bob could not understand it. All day he had been expecting some disagreeable happening of a nature to retard their progress which could be laid at the door of the trust. When it did not come he was almost disappointed. It was impossible to believe that Crane had given up so easily; he was not that sort. He would explode a bombshell of some sort soon, and the longer he delayed the more deadly was likely to be the nature of his attack. However, there was nothing to be gained in discounting the future, nor time to spare for fretting over the unknown. Bob was far too busy during the daylight hours even to think of Crane or his satellites. It was a ticklish job to get the drive across even so small a body of water as the so-called lake, and it took one entire day and the better part of another.
362_4626	love stories	Porter, Eleanor H. (Eleanor Hodgman)	Nor did it quite leave till some time later, when Billy, in answer to a question of his about another operetta, cried, with a shudder: “Mercy, I hope not, dear! I don't want to _hear_ the word 'operetta' again for a year!” Bertram smiled, then, broadly. He, too, would be quite satisfied not to hear the word “operetta” for a year. Operetta, to Bertram, meant interruptions, interferences, and the constant presence of Arkwright, the Greggorys, and innumerable creatures who wished to rehearse or to change wigs--all of which Bertram abhorred. No wonder, therefore, that he smiled, and that the frown disappeared from his brow. He thought he saw, ahead, serene, blissful days for Billy and himself. As the days, however, began to pass, one by one, Bertram Henshaw found them to be anything but serene and blissful. The operetta, with its rehearsals and its interruptions, was gone, certainly; but he was becoming seriously troubled about Billy. Billy did not act natural. Sometimes she seemed like her old self; and he breathed more freely, telling himself that his fears were groundless. Then would come the haunting shadow to her eyes, the droop to her mouth, and the nervousness to her manner that he so dreaded. Worse yet, all this seemed to be connected in some strange way with Arkwright. He found this out by accident one day. She had been talking and laughing brightly about something, when he chanced to introduce Arkwright's name. “By the way, where is Mary Jane these days?” he asked then. “I don't know, I'm sure. He hasn't been here lately,” murmured Billy, reaching for a book on the table. At a peculiar something in her voice, he had looked up quickly, only to find, to his great surprise, that her face showed a painful flush as she bent over the book in her hand. He had said nothing more at the time, but he had not forgotten. Several times, after that, he had introduced the man's name, and never had it failed to bring a rush of color, a biting of the lip, or a quick change of position followed always by the troubled eyes and nervous manner that he had learned to dread. He noticed then that never, of her own free will, did she herself mention the man; never did she speak of him with the old frank lightness as “Mary Jane.”
7031_2359	love stories	Hull, E. M. (Edith Maude)	She lifted her head for the first time and looked at the magnificent sky. The sun had almost set, going down in a ball of molten fire, and the heavens on either side were a riot of gold and crimson and palest green, shading off into vivid blue that grew blacker and blacker as the glory of the sunset died away. The scattered palm trees and the far-off hills stood out in strong relief. It was a country of marvellous beauty, and Diana's heart gave a sudden throb as she realised that she was going back to it all. She was drooping wearily, unable to sit upright any longer, and once or twice she jolted heavily against the man who rode behind her. His nearness had ceased to revolt her; she thought of it with a dull feeling of wonder. She had even a sense of relief at the thought of the strength so close to her. Her eyes rested on his hands, showing brown and muscular under the folds of his white robes. She knew the power of the long, lean fingers that could, when he liked, be gentle enough. Her eyes filled with sudden tears, but she blinked them back before they fell. She wanted desperately to cry. A wave of terrible loneliness went over her, a feeling of desolation, and a strange, incomprehensible yearning for what she did not know. As the sunset faded and it grew rapidly dusk a chill wind sprang up and she shivered from time to time, drooping more and more with fatigue, at times only half conscious. She had drifted into complete oblivion, when she was awakened with a jerk that threw her back violently against the Sheik, but she was too tired to more than barely understand that they had stopped for something, and that there were palm trees near her. She felt herself lifted down and a cloak wrapped round her, and then she remembered nothing more. She awoke slowly, shaking off a persistent drowsiness by degrees. She was still tired, but the desperate weariness was gone, and she was conscious of a feeling of well-being and security. The cool, night air blew in her face, dissipating her sleepiness. She became aware that night had fallen, and that they were still steadily galloping southward. In a few moments she was wide awake, and found that she was lying across the saddle in front of the Sheik, and that he was holding her in the crook of his arm. Her head was resting just over his heart, and she could feel the regular beat beneath her cheek.
65345_5272	detective and mystery stories	Taylor, Bert Leston	“Hang it! I ought to have told him at the outset how the land lay,” mutters Ashley. “Now, I suppose I shall have to direct my undivided efforts to preventing his slaughter at the hands of Navarro’s men.” Ashley slips off his coat and gets into the faded uniform of the landlord, dons the Grand Army hat and pulls it down over his eyes; examines his revolvers to make certain that they are in proper working order, and then, blowing out his lamp, seats himself by the open window, where he can command a view of the road. Shortly after 9 o’clock he sees six forms cross the band of moonlight into the shadows beyond. He waits ten minutes and then glides softly down the stairway and out into the night. Alvarez and his men leave the hotel afoot and instead of taking the railroad track, proceed down the highway. Alvarez rode over the ground during the afternoon and selected a point about a mile and a half below the village as the place for holding up the train. Here the road crosses the railway and beyond is a long stretch of straight track. The six proceed silently to the appointed spot, and then, there being no further occasion for secrecy, they fall to smoking and chatting. The train is due at Jibana at 10 and there is yet half an hour to wait. Twenty minutes of it go by, when Alvarez discovers that his party is short two men. “Ho! Sancho! Francisco!” he calls, and repeats the shout, there being no response. “Whither went they, Parker?” he asks, turning to his orderly. “They were here a few minutes ago, captain. I last noticed them strolling toward the road.” Alvarez utters an impatient growl. “Search them out, Pedro, and thou, too, Juan. The train will be here in five minutes.” As the two troopers addressed take themselves off in quest of their companions Alvarez lights a lantern and hands it to the orderly. “By the way, what disposition is to be made of the prisoner?” asks the latter. “We shall have to shoot him, I expect,” is the cool response. “We can’t very well take him with us, and we certainly cannot turn him loose.” “It seems a rather cold-blooded piece of business. It savors of murder.” At the word Alvarez shivers slightly. The nights in Cuba are damp and chilly. “Ten o’clock,” he mutters, holding his watch to the lantern.
13077_2932	western stories	Jones, J. B. (John Beauchamp)	Joe's indisposition--His cure--Sneak's reformation--The pursuit--The captive Indian--Approach to the encampment of the savages--Joe's illness again--The surprise--The terrific encounter--Rescue of Mary--Capture of the young chief--The return. We return to the white men. The grief of Roughgrove, and of all the party, when it was ascertained beyond a doubt that Mary had been carried off by the savages, was deep and poignant. The aged ferryman sat silent and alone, and would not be comforted, while the rest made the necessary arrangements to pursue the foe. The sled was so altered that blankets, buffalo robes, and a small quantity of food could be taken in it. Bullets were moulded and the guns put in order. Joe was ordered to give the horses water, and place a large quantity of provender within their reach. The hounds were fed and then led back to their kennel, and Glenn announced, after Roughgrove declared his determination to go along, that Ringwood and Jowler alone would be left to guard the premises. "My goodness!" said Joe, when he understood that he was expected to make one of the pursuing party, "I can't go! My head's so sore, and aches so bad, I couldn't go ten miles before I'd have to give up. Let me stay, Mr. Glenn, and take care of the house." "Do you forget that _Mary_ is in the hands of the Indians? Would you hesitate even to _die_, while striving to rescue a poor, innocent, helpless maiden? For shame!" replied Glenn. "I'd spill my heart's blood for her," said Joe, "if it would do any good. But you know how I was crippled last night, and I didn't sleep a bit afterwards, hardly." "Dod"--commenced Sneak. "Joe," said Boone, "from the vigorous manner in which you fought the wolves, I am induced to believe that your present scruples are not well founded. We will need every man we can obtain." "Oh, I wouldn't mind it at all," said Joe, "if it wasn't that you're a going to start right off now. If I only had a little sleep--" "You shall have it," said Boone. Both Glenn and Roughgrove looked inquiringly at the speaker. "We will not start to-night," continued he. "It would be useless.
50847_138	science fiction	Smith, Evelyn E.	" "Fasten your suction disks, please," the stewardess, a pretty two-headed Denebian, ordered as she walked up and down the gangway. "We're coming into Portyork. I have an announcement to make to all passengers on behalf of the United Universe. Zosma was admitted into the Union early this morning." All the passengers cheered. "Since it is considered immodest on Zosma," she continued, "ever to appear with the heads bare, henceforward it will be tabu to be seen in public without some sort of head-covering." Wild scrabbling sounds indicated that all the passengers were searching their packs for headgear. Michael unearthed a violet cap. The salesmen unfolded what looked like a medieval opera hat in piercingly bright green. "Always got to keep on your toes," he whispered to the younger man. "The Universe is expanding every minute." The bus settled softly on the landing field and the passengers flew, floated, crawled, undulated, or walked out. Michael looked around him curiously. The Lodge had contained no extraterrestrials, for such of those as sought seclusion had Brotherhoods on their own planets. Of course, even in Angeles he had seen other-worlders--humanoids from Vega, scaly Electrans, the wispy ubiquitous Sirians--but nothing to compare with the crowds that surged here. Scarlet Meropians rubbed tentacles with bulging-eyed Talithans; lumpish gray Jovians plodded alongside graceful, spidery Nunkians. And there were countless others whom he had seen pictured in books, but never before in reality. The gaily colored costumes and bodies of these beings rendered kaleidoscopic a field already brilliant with red-and-green lights and banners. The effect was enhanced by Mr. Carpenter, whose emerald-green cloak was drawn back to reveal a chartreuse tunic and olive-green breeches which had apparently been designed for a taller and somewhat less pudgy man. * * * * * Carpenter rubbed modestly gloved hands together. "I have no immediate business, so supposing I start showing you the sights. What would you like to see first, Mr. Frey? Or would you prefer a nice, restful movid?" "Frankly," Michael admitted, "the first thing I'd like to do is get myself something to eat. I didn't have any breakfast and I'm famished." Two small creatures standing close to him giggled nervously and scuttled off on six legs apiece. "Shh, not so loud! There are females present." Carpenter drew the youth to a secluded corner.
29481_117	love stories	Sousa, John Philip	I am but a man. I am but a man!" III Perkins called in the morning. Perkins was happy--Perkins was positively joyous, and Perkins was self-satisfied. The violinist had made a great hit. But Perkins, confiding in the white-coated dispenser who concocted his _matin Martini_, very dry, an hour before, said he regarded the success due as much to the management as to the artist. And Perkins believed it. Perkins usually took all the credit for a success, and with charming consistency placed all responsibility for failure on the shoulders of the hapless artist. When Perkins entered Diotti's room he found the violinist heavy-eyed and dejected. "My dear Signor," he began, showing a large envelope bulging with newspaper clippings, "I have brought the notices. They are quite the limit, I assure you. Nothing like them ever heard before--all tuned in the same key, as you musical fellows would say," and Perkins cocked his eye. Perkins enjoyed a glorious reputation with himself for bright sayings, which he always accompanied with a cock of the eye. The musician not showing any visible appreciation of the manager's metaphor, Perkins immediately proceeded to uncock his eye. "Passed the box-office coming up," continued this voluble enlightener; "nothing left but a few seats in the top gallery. We'll stand them on their heads to-morrow night--see if we don't." Then he handed the bursting envelope of notices to Diotti, who listlessly put them on the table at his side. "Too tired to read, eh?" said Perkins, and then with the advance-agent instinct strong within him he selected a clipping, and touching the violinist on the shoulder: "Let me read this one to you. It is by Herr Totenkellar. He is a hard nut to crack, but he did himself proud this time. Great critic when he wants to be." Perkins cleared his throat and began: "Diotti combines tremendous feeling with equally tremendous technique. The entire audience was under the witchery of his art." Diotti slowly negatived that statement with bowed head. "His tone is full, round and clear; his interpretation lends a story-telling charm to the music; for, while we drank deep at the fountain of exquisite melody, we saw sparkling within the waters the lights of Paradise. New York never has heard his equal. He stands alone, pre-eminent, an artistic giant.
2730_89	adventure stories	Haggard, H. Rider (Henry Rider)	Now, no words; go both of you.’ “Tom, the driver, swore, and caught the lad a hearty kick, which he richly deserved, and then, having tied old Kaptein up to the disselboom with a reim, they took their assegais and sticks, and started. I would have gone too, only I knew that somebody must look after the waggon, and I did not like to leave either of the boys with it at night. I was in a very bad temper, indeed, although I was pretty well used to these sort of occurrences, and soothed myself by taking a rifle and going to kill something. For a couple of hours I poked about without seeing anything that I could get a shot at, but at last, just as I was again within seventy yards of the waggon, I put up an old Impala ram from behind a mimosa thorn. He ran straight for the waggon, and it was not till he was passing within a few feet of it that I could get a decent shot at him. Then I pulled, and caught him half-way down the spine; over he went, dead as a door-nail, and a pretty shot it was, though I ought not to say it. This little incident put me into rather a better humour, especially as the buck had rolled over right against the after-part of the waggon, so I had only to gut him, fix a reim round his legs, and haul him up. By the time I had done this the sun was down, and the full moon was up, and a beautiful moon it was. And then there came down that wonderful hush which sometimes falls over the African bush in the early hours of the night. No beast was moving, and no bird called. Not a breath of air stirred the quiet trees, and the shadows did not even quiver, they only grew. It was very oppressive and very lonely, for there was not a sign of the cattle or the boys. I was quite thankful for the society of old Kaptein, who was lying down contentedly against the disselboom, chewing the cud with a good conscience. “Presently, however, Kaptein began to get restless. First he snorted, then he got up and snorted again. I could not make it out, so like a fool I got down off the waggon-box to have a look round, thinking it might be the lost oxen coming.
45549_2210	adventure stories	Craine, E. J. (Edith Janice)	The station agent said their luggage was shipped to Toronto." "You don't say." The big man seemed disappointed and the little one smiled behind his napkin. "Chap like that wouldn't stay in so small a place," he remarked. "No, I suppose not. Well, can I pay you--" "Pay my brother," Jim answered, and strolled out of the house. In the soft earth he had no difficulty in trailing Corso's foot prints and a few minutes later saw the man and the boy crouched in the garden where they were completely hidden from the road. "Hello," he said softly. "I told those fellows that you two went to Toronto. Know where that is?" "I do," Corso answered. "I let them ask me questions, then told them you stayed here a week. They are so disgusted with the place I don't think they'll hang around, but you better keep out of sight. I'm going to escort them off the island, but they don't know that." "Much in your debt we are, Sir," Corso said quietly. "We shall not forget, Sir." His eyes turned toward the road. "Bad men, Sir. Very, very bad men." "They don't look any too good," Jim admitted. "You stay here until one of us comes and tells you they are gone." Jim strode quickly back toward the house and as he crossed the road he saw Burnam getting into the limousine. "Get a move on, Dyke," he growled, and the smaller chap hastily took his place. Motioning to his step-brother to keep quiet, Jim stepped behind the huge maple, and when the car hacked into the road, he hopped onto the spare tires, caught the strap and threw his legs over, ducking his head so that if the men should either of them glance through the window, he would not be seem. The car raced off carrying the stow-a-way. "I told you those lads were in this part of the country," Burnam said shrilly when they had gone some distance from Stumble Inn. "I know just how to handle natives, and I got exactly the information we want." "Yes, but how the blazes do you expect to pick up the trail in Canada?" Dyke demanded in a lower tone.
12791_2123	western stories	Adams, Andy	It was Dell Wells's busy day. Cunning and caution were his helpers; slighting nothing, ever crafty on the side of safety, he cut, bored, and charred new basins, to double the original number. After loading, for fear of any human taint, he dipped the troughs in water and laid them in the shade to freeze. A second trip with the sled was required to transport the basins up to the corral, the day's work being barely finished in time for him to assist in penning the herd. "How many baits have you?" was Joel's hail. "Sixty odd." "You'll need them. Three separate wolf packs lay in sight all the afternoon. Several times they crept up within one hundred yards of the cattle. One band numbered upwards of twenty." "Let them come," defiantly said Dell. "The banquet is spread. Everything's done, except to drag the carcass, and I didn't want to do that until after the cattle were corraled." The last detail of the day was to build a little fire, which would die out within an hour after darkness. It would allow the cattle time to bed down and the packs to gather. As usual, it was not the intention of the boys to return, and as they mounted their horses to leave, all the welled-up savage in Dell seemed to burst forth. "Welcome, Mr. Wolf, welcome," said he, with mimic sarcasm and a gesture which swept the plain. "I've worked like a dog all day and the feast is ready. Mrs. Wolf, will you have a hackberry plate, or do you prefer the scent of cottonwood? You'll find the tender, juicy kidney suet in the ash platters. Each table seats sixteen, with fresh water right at hand. Now, have pallets and enjoy yourselves. Make a night of it. Eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow your pelts are mine." "Don't count your chickens too soon," urged Joel. "To-morrow you're mine!" repeated Dell, ignoring all advice. "I'll carpet the dug-out with your hides, or sell them to a tin peddler." "You counted before they were hatched this morning," admonished his brother. "You're only entitled to one guess." "Unless they got enough to sicken them last night," answered Dell with emphasis, "nothing short of range count will satisfy me.
46588_619	adventure stories	Hemyng, Bracebridge	"It looks like a sea of fire. One might walk on it." "I should not like to try," Jack said, laughing. "Suppose you do make the effort." At these words of Bambino, Jack turned half round sharply, and faced him squarely. "What do you mean?" he demanded. "Precisely what I say," rejoined Bambino. They were standing at the stern of the ship, right behind the wheel-house. "Who are you, and what do you want of me?" inquired Jack, who became suspicious. "I have a fancy to throw you into the sea." "Madman!" "Yes, if you like. I am peculiar at times. Come! how do you like the look of this?" As he spoke, Bambino drew a long knife and made a thrust with it at Harkaway. The latter stepped back quickly, receiving the point of the knife in the fleshy part of his right arm. It was merely a graze and did not cause him any serious inconvenience, but it served to put him on his guard. Being unarmed himself, he concluded that his best course would be to grapple with his assailant, which he accordingly did, dashing the knife from his grasp by a lucky hit and placing himself more on an equality with the cowardly assassin. The struggle that ensued was short, sharp and decisive, for the superior strength of the robust Englishman soon told on the effeminate Italian, who, deprived of his knife, was not very dangerous. Jack threw him on the deck and pinned him by the throat. "Villain," he cried, "what was your object in attacking me?" Bambino made no answer. "Tell me," continued Jack, "or I'll strangle the life out of you!" He compressed his fingers mere tightly and the assassin's eyes started from their sockets, while his face assumed a purple hue. "Speak, speak!" persisted Jack. A gurgling sound came from the man's mouth, and he made signs that he was being stifled. When the gripe was slightly relaxed he said: "I am a poor adventurer, and fancied I could get money by robbing you." "That is not the truth; robbery was not your object, but murder." "Well, I will confess," exclaimed Bambino, who was afraid of being killed and thought he could serve his employer better alive than dead. "Make haste." "Lord Maltravers ordered me to kill you.
504_424	love stories	Sousa, John Philip	One day she said: "Angelo, is it your purpose to follow your profession always?" "Necessarily, it is my livelihood," he replied. "But do you not think that after we stand at the altar, we never should be separated?" "We will be together always," said he, holding her face between his palms, and looking with tender expression into her inquiring eyes. "But I notice that women cluster around you after your concerts--and shake your hand longer than they should--and talk to you longer than they should--and go away looking self-satisfied!" she replied brokenly, much as a little girl tells of the theft of her doll. "Nonsense," he said, smiling, "that is all part of my profession; it is not me they care for, it is the music I give that makes them happy. If, in my playing, I achieve results out of the common, they admire me!" and he kissed away the unwelcome tears. "I know," she continued, "but lately, since we have loved each other, I can not bear to see a woman near you. In my dreams again and again an indefinable shadow mockingly comes; and cries to me, 'he is not to be yours, he is to be mine.'" Diotti flushed and drew her to him "Darling," his voice carrying conviction, "I am yours, you are mine, all in all, in life here and beyond!" And as she sat dreaming after he had gone, she murmured petulantly, "I wish there were no other women in the world." Her father was expected from Europe on the succeeding day's steamer. Mr. Wallace was a busy man. The various gigantic enterprises he served as president or director occupied most of his time. He had been absent in Europe for several months, and Mildred was anxiously awaiting his return to tell him of her love. When Mr. Wallace came to his residence the next morning, his daughter met him with a fond display of filial affection; they walked into the drawing-room, hand in hand; he saw a picture of the violinist on the piano. "Who's the handsome young fellow?" he asked, looking at the portrait with the satisfaction a man feels when he sees a splendid type of his own sex. "That is Angelo Diotti, the famous violinist," she said, but she could not add another word.
63321_1214	love stories	Winthrop, Theodore	He alighted like a bomb, unexpected, on one Virginian who had his knee on the negro’s head. This man, for reasons, appeared no more in the fray. Ira, of course, followed his friend and occupied himself with raising bumps on the countenance of Marshal Tucker. Jefferson Davis, once released, soon floored the second Virginian. “Cut, Jeff, and go to Sammy’s,” cried Tommy, amidst his attentions to Hookey. “I’ll send your clothes in the morning,” and Jeff was off in an instant. The prey escaped, the two marshals preferred not to be bruised further and called a truce. Virginian No. 2 was quite groggy and _hors de combat_. Crackers, the dog, had pounced upon his fellow-huntsman as he lay, and was smiling at him with very white teeth. At this moment, with a neighbour flash, bang went the big thunder-gun and down came the deluge. The two gentlemen took refuge within, leaving the vanquished to scamper for their carriage with such speed as they were capable of. As the heroes re-entered the house, they met Mrs. Tootler rushing forward with a double-barrelled gun and silver fish-knife. The black cook, with a distinct cuisiney odor of fatted calf, was in the van, armed with a gridiron and pitcher of steaming water. This reserve was, however, needless as the Prussians at Waterloo, and there was no pursuit. “Well, Waddy,” said the host, “how are you? Knuckles lame?” “No,” replied the guest, “my man was rather cushiony about the chops. Neither of us was much hurt.” “Capital little shindy!” said Tommy, glowing with satisfaction. “I think I shall take a station of the Underground for the chances of such an appetiser now and then. I haven’t felt such a meritorious hunger for ages. Very likely we’ll be arrested in the morning.” Battles in a worthy cause win favour with the fair. Mrs. Cecilia looked a little anxiously for wounds, but there were none save what a stitch might repair. She plucked a rose for each, as a palm of victory. At dinner, after the asphodel cauliflower, the lotus celery, the _pommes d’amour_ tomatoes, and the amaranthine flower-adorned fruits, the friends talked over this mêlée, sipping meanwhile their nectar coffee, and wielding the nephelegeret sceptre of tobacco. Mrs. Tootler was not to be weeded out.
1495_4378	detective and mystery stories	Steele, Chester K.	interrupted the blonde. “It was just plain, unadulterated hell! And I went into it with my eyes open. That’s what it was--hell! I’ve had such a lot here on earth that maybe they’ll give me a discount when I get--well, when I get where I’m going!” and she laughed, but there was no mirth in it. Minnie shuddered, and drew nearer to LeGrand. And it did not seem to be because of the chill night wind, either. “It was the same old story,” went on the clerk. “No need of going over that, Minnie. It doesn’t concern the question now. In the end the Frenchman cast her off, and she had to live, somehow. She came to me, and I, for the sake of old times, agreed to help her. I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong; but it seems I was. I thought the rare and expensive book publishing business she said she was in was legitimate. Instead it was--” “Yes, it was a blackmailing scheme!” interrupted Morocco Kate, not without some curious and perverted sense of pride. “I admit that. I got you in wrong, LeGrand, but it wasn’t because I hated you, for I didn’t. I really loved you, and I was a fool to take up with Jean. But that’s past and gone. Only I didn’t really mean to make trouble for you. I thought you might be able to wiggle out, knowing business men as you did.” “Instead,” said the clerk, “I only became the more involved. It began to look as though I was a partner in the infernal schemes, and she and those she worked with held the threat over my head to extort money from me.” “Believe me, LeGrand, I didn’t do that willingly,” interrupted Morocco Kate. “The others had a hold over me, and they forced me to use you as their tool. They bled me, as I, in turn, bled you. Oh, it was all a rotten game, and I’m glad the end’s at hand. I suppose it’s all up now?” she asked Blossom. “The end is, as far as it concerns you and me,” he said. “I’m going to confess, and take my medicine. Minnie, I’ve lied to give this woman money to prevent her exposing me. Now I’m through.
33383_802	detective and mystery stories	Clark, Joan	" "I'm sure you can't blame _that_ on me," replied the housekeeper maliciously. Mr. Nichols went to answer the call. Penny noticed that Mrs. Masterbrook lingered not far away, evidently listening. Upon seeing that the girl was watching, she retreated to the kitchen. In a few minutes Mr. Nichols returned to the living room. "I hope nothing is wrong at home," Penny said in a low tone. She was afraid the call had been from Mrs. Gallup. "No, everything is all right," returned the detective. "That was Inspector Harris who telephoned me." "But how did he get your telephone number?" "Oh, he plagued Mrs. Gallup into revealing our address, and then he found that we had a telephone installed today. Worse luck!" "Mrs. Gallup was instructed not to tell where we were unless something of great importance arose." "The inspector evidently convinced her that this was a vital matter." "What is it all about anyway?" Penny inquired curiously. "Inspector Harris wants me to take a new case. Last night a big robbery was committed at Hannibal, which is the nearest town to Kendon. The inspector thought that since I was on the scene it would be convenient for me to conduct the investigation." "Convenient for him." "Obviously." Penny glanced quickly at her father. "And what did you tell him, Dad?" "I said I wouldn't do it. This is my vacation and I mean to enjoy it." "Good for you, Dad," Penny said approvingly. "The inspector didn't like to take 'no' for an answer," Mr. Nichols went on. "He claimed that this was not an ordinary robbery case and that I'd be sorry if I turned it down." "What was so unusual about it, Dad?" "Nothing that I could tell. A private home was entered and the thieves escaped with about a thousand dollars' worth of jewelry. The owner, a man of wealth, insists upon private detectives taking over the case. He's not satisfied with the local police talent." While Penny and her father were discussing the robbery, Mrs. Masterbrook announced dinner. To their relief, she did not talk during the meal but maintained an aloof air. "I don't like the look of the weather," remarked Mr. Nichols, glancing out the window. "I shouldn't be surprised if we have a storm tonight.
27890_1314	detective and mystery stories	Edholm, Lizette M.	What do you think about it, Kit?" "I'd hurt too many people's feelings if I told you what I think about it," answered Kit. "Go on, don't mind us. Say what's on your mind," laughed Tommy. "Well, I'm surprised, Tommy Sharpe, that you would fall for that old story about a treasure being buried here. I thought boys were supposed to be clever," Kit said contemptuously. "There's a treasure there all right," Tommy stated it with certainty. "I have Ramon Salazar's word for it. He looked me in the eye and told me." "Now I know you're not telling us the truth. Ramon Salazar couldn't look one straight in the eye." Kit dropped into a chair, shrieking with laughter as she visualized Ramon Salazar trying to look anyone straight in the eye, for he was the most weirdly cross-eyed person she had ever seen. "Maybe that's why he could look at me and lie like a pirate," replied Tommy. "I paid him five good dollars for that map." "You must have been crazy, Tommy." "I wasn't. Ramon knew I had that five dollars, and if I hadn't given it to him, he would have stolen it." "There's something fishy about the whole story, Tommy. There must have been some other reason for Ramon Salazar wishing that old map off on you." Kit knew the dwellers in the hills. "I can bet a nickel on it that he thought you might get interested and dig for the treasure and maybe find it." Suddenly Kit jumped up, "And I bet a dime on top of that that Kie Wicks was back of it." "And I have reason to think you are right, Kit. Kie came in one day, saw the map and claimed that Ramon had stolen it from him, but when I offered it to him for nothing, he refused. Said that would be taking advantage of me." Kit gave a boisterous shout of laughter. "Oh girls, if you only knew Kie Wicks, you'd see the joke of that. Why that man lives by taking advantage of people, and he never puts through a deal of any kind without cheating. He's notorious. That's his business in life, to take advantage of people." Tommy smiled. "I think Kie had a lot to do with it.
55801_1736	science fiction	Elam, Richard M. (Richard Mace)	Clay had left before he had heard her name spoken, so he couldn’t find out from him. He found auburn-topped Dulcie Gerard at the transspace radio switchboard handling a communication between a lonely doctor on Mars and his wife back on Earth. When it was over, she switched off and turned to Rob with tears in her brown eyes. “Can I help you?” she asked. “You’re crying,” Rob said. She smiled prettily. “It was that conversation I had on the board. It touched me, the way they talked.” Suddenly the girl stared at him so intently that he found himself blushing. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but aren’t you Lieutenant Allison?” “Guilty,” he said. “I’ve heard of all the wonderful things you’ve done,” Dulcie went on, “but I never thought I’d meet you in person.” Rob shuffled his feet in embarrassment and decided to get down to business. “The information clerk down the hall told me you’re Dulcie Gerard,” he said, “and I wondered if Clay Gerard is your brother?” At the mention of the name, her face took on a softened, somewhat tragic expression. “I don’t know whether he’s my brother or son, the way I’ve been looking after him since our folks died a few years ago.” She smiled wryly. “We’re close to the same age, but Clay seems to have a strong feeling for family ties. He’s not home much, but he likes to have a home to come to when he’s tired or just wants to and I’ve tried to provide it for him.” “I just met your brother today, but somehow he didn’t impress me as being that way,” Rob said. “He gives me the impression of being, well—completely independent.” “Don’t be so polite, lieutenant. Clay’s attitude is painfully superior, but of course I love him in spite of his faults. He’s such a sweet guy otherwise.” Her eyes then began to glow with a deep fear. “Just the same, I’m scared to death about him. Clay is like a powder keg, and some day somebody’s going to light his fuse. He’s going to blow right up and he’ll be in a lot of trouble.” Rob couldn’t answer because he feared she spoke the truth. Clay Gerard was heading for a fall.
3404_2488	love stories	Howells, William Dean	Sometimes it varied a little, as when he thought of how, when she should tell her mother, Mrs. Pasmer must laugh. He pictured them both laughing at him; and then Mr. Pasmer--he had scarcely passed a dozen words with him-coming in and asking what they were laughing at, and their saying, and his laughing too. At other times he figured them as incensed at his temerity, which must seem to them greater and greater, as now it seemed to him. He had never thought meanly of himself, and the world so far had seemed to think well of him; but because Alice Pasmer was impossible to him, he felt that it was an unpardonable boldness in him to have dreamed of her. What must they be saying of his having passed from the ground of society compliments and light flirtation to actually telling Alice that he loved her? He wondered what Mrs. Pasmer had thought of his telling her that he had come to Campobello to consider the question whether he should study law or go into business, and what motive she had supposed he had in telling her that. He asked himself what motive he had, and tried to pretend that he had none. He dramatised conversations with Mrs. Pasmer in which he laughed it off. He tried to remember all that had passed the day before at the picnic, and whether Alice had done or said anything to encourage him, and he could not find that she had. All her trust and freedom was because she felt perfectly safe with him from any such disgusting absurdity as he had been guilty of. The ride home through the mist, with its sweet intimacy, that parting which had seemed so full of tender intelligence, were parts of the same illusion. There had been nothing of it on her side from the beginning but a kindliness which he had now flung away for ever. He went back to the beginning, and tried to remember the point where he had started in this fatal labyrinth of error. She had never misled him, but he had misled himself from the first glimpse of her. Whatever was best in his light nature, whatever was generous and self-denying, came out in this humiliation. From the vision of her derision he passed to a picture of her suffering from pity for him, and wrung with a sense of the pain she had given him. He promised himself to write to her, and beg her not to care for him, because he was not worthy of that.
51967_3131	adventure stories	Paltock, Robert	When we arrived within a small flight of his army, I caused a halt at a proper place for my cannon, and having pitched them, which I did by several flat stones, one on another to a proper elevation, I loaded them, and also my small-arms, consisting of six muskets and three brace of pistols, and placing my army, two thousand just behind me, two thousand to my right, and the same number to my left, I gave a strict command for none of them to stir forwards without orders, which Nasgig, who stood just behind me, was to give. I then sent a defiance to Harlokin by a gripsack, who sent me word he fought for a kingdom, and would accept it; and, as I heard afterwards, he was glad I did, for since the intelligence I had scattered in his army, they had in great numbers deserted him, and he was afraid it would have proved general. I then putting the end of a match into a pistol-pan with a little powder, by flashing lighted it; and this I put under my chair, for I sat in that, with my muskets three on each side, a pistol in my right hand, and five more in my girdle. In this manner I waited Harlokin's coming, and in about an hour we saw the van of his army, consisting of about five thousand men, who flew in five layers, one over another. I had not loaded my cannon with ball, but small-sized stones, about sixty in each; and seeing the length of their line, I spread my cannons' mouths somewhat wider than their breeches, and then taking my observation by a bright star, for there was a clear dawn all round the horizon, I observed, as I retired to my chair, how that star answered to the elevation of my cannon; and when the foremost ranks, who, not seeing my men stir, were approaching almost over me, to fall on them, and had come to my pitch, I fired two pieces of my ordnance at once, and so mauled them, that there dropped about ninety upon the first discharge, together with their commander; the rest being in flight and so close together, not being able to turn fast enough to fly, being stopped by those behind them, not only hindered those behind from turning about, but clogged up their own passage.
54445_3607	detective and mystery stories	Davis, Means	A doctor looking for case charts discovered it, accidentally.” “Is she friendly with the night student nurse?” It was Smooty who spoke. “She is her aunt, gentlemen,” and then Dr. MacArthur cleared his throat and continued, “She was one of the first head nurses when the hospital was young. Her work has always been well executed. A very trusted woman.” “Especially antagonistic to any doctor?” “Yes.” “Whom?” “The head of the clinic, Dr. Ethridge Sterling, Junior, affectionately known as ‘Cub’ Sterling. He is on probation, very confidentially, as head. The physician-in-chief died of a heart attack last spring, and Dr. Sterling, who has done very brilliant work, has temporarily his chief’s place. His father is Dr. Ethridge Sterling, possibly you have heard...?” “The surgeon. Bear Sterling! I should say so!” Higgins responded. “Why is the head nurse antagonistic?” “I do not know. Perhaps because she is getting old and is afraid of retirement if Sterling remains in charge.” “I see. Pretty ugly situation you have been in, sir.” “It isn’t I, it’s the hospital. Dr. Ethridge Sterling, Senior, is dying of a heart attack complicated by pneumonia brought on by this situation. One of our graduate nurses has been murdered.... Frankly, your coming shifts a great weight from my shoulders. And I should like to say if I have failed to make anything clear, question me. We are all a bit shell-shocked, I dare say.” “Yes, there is, Doctor. Did Dr. Sterling, Senior, see all of the murdered patients, too?” “He did. He performed the autopsies on all except the last one. The nurse.” “Has any person been murdered since he has been out of the picture?” Mr. Higgins’ weight was behind his words. “I don’t believe I understand you, Mr. Higgins,” Dr. MacArthur gripped his chair arms, and his sensitive mouth looked like blistered flesh. Mr. Higgins ignored that and attacked his eyes. “Sorry, Doctor, but that is exactly the reason you sent for us. To understand things. Please answer my question.” “He was taken with double pneumonia last night, and Rose Standish was murdered last night. The bed is empty now.”
35819_1787	love stories	Dorrance, James French	Pape did not wait for a second round. He was satisfied that his knock-out would hold sufficiently long for any of Jane Lauderdale’s purposes or his own. Down in the direction which the girl had taken over the rocks he scrambled, but could see no sign of her. She had not, then, stayed to witness the fight, although the whole encounter had taken but a moment. Whether or not he had saved her an unpleasant scene, he had lost her. Was it always to be thus—touch and go? He wouldn’t have it. He’d beat her at her own game. Directly as he could calculate and at his top speed, he set out for the Arsenal gate; there took a stand on about the spot from which he had intercepted Jasper at the somewhat less exciting start of this same chase several evenings ago. Surely she now would make straight for home, whatever may have been her reason for visiting the butte! His eyes, searching for a poke-bonneted figure in black, soon were rewarded. Through the pedestrian gate near which he stood in deep shadow she came. Watching her chance with the traffic, she darted across the greased trail of the avenue and, once on the opposite sidewalk, turned south. Pape continued to pursue along his side of the street, determined to finish his task of safeguarding her until the front door of her aunt’s house should shut her—only briefly, he hoped—from his sight. But what spirit of perversity was ruling her? Toward the steps of the Sturgis brownstone she did not turn; did not give them so much as a glance. Briskly as before she continued down the avenue until at the Sixty-third Street corner she again turned east. Was the house to be gained by some rear entrance from the lower street—one made advisable by the disguise she wore? From its mid-block position, this supposition did not seem tenable. Pape decided to take no chances, except with the traffic. Crossing the street with a rush, he gained a point a hundred or so feet behind her, then timed his steps with hers. Due east they walked, at a good pace, but without undue hurry. She seemed fully reassured. Although she inclined her young face and bent her young back to the old part, she did not glance back as though nervous over possible pursuit. The block was lined mostly with homes—of the near-rich, he judged from the look of them.
31524_7723	western stories	McCarter, Margaret Hill	" Judson looked up nervously into my father's face, but he read nothing there. "I--well, I don't know quite what you mean. No, I don't want no witnesses, and I won't have 'em, confound it. This is between us as man to man; and don't you try to bring in no law on this, because you know law books. This is our own business and nobody else's. I'd knock my best friend out of the door if he come poking into my private matters. Why, man alive! this is sacred. That's it--an affair of the heart. Now be careful." His voice was high and angry and his self-control was slipping. "Amos Judson, I've listened patiently to your words. Patiently, too, I have watched your line of action, for three years. Ever since I came home from the war I have followed your business methods carefully." The little man before him was turning yellow in spite of his self-assurance and reliance on his twin gods, money and deception, to carry him through any vicissitude. He made one more effort to bring the matter to his own view. "Now, don't be so serious, Baronet. This is a little love affair of mine. If you're interested, all right; if not, let it go. That's it, let it go, and I'm through with you." He rose to his feet. "But I'm not through with you. Sit down. I sent for you because I wanted to see you. I am not through with this interview. Whether it's to be the last or not will depend on conditions." Judson was very uncomfortable and blindly angry, but he sat as directed. "When I came home, I found you in possession of all the funds left by my friend, Irving Whately, to his wife and child. A friend's interest led me to investigate the business fallen to you. Irving begged me, when his mortal hours were few, to befriend his loved ones. It didn't take long to discover how matters were shaping themselves. But understanding and belief are one thing, and legal evidence is another." "What was it your business?" Judson stormed. My father rose and, going to his cabinet, he took from an inner drawer a folded yellow bit of paper torn from a note book.
65760_647	adventure stories	Standish, Burt L.	He stared at the wreck for a minute longer, and then turned over with his foot the square, wooden box which lay upset in the middle of the mess. Apparently it had served Schaeffer as a receptacle for these same records. It was quite empty, but underneath lay something which brought a thoughtful, questioning expression into the searcher’s face, and made him stoop to pick it up. “Thirty-eight caliber,” he murmured, staring at the freshly opened pasteboard box which had contained fifty cartridges. “Hum!” Presently he let it drop again. He did not move for a space, but stood staring at the ground with that same odd, thoughtful pucker in his forehead. There was nothing surprising in the fact of Schaeffer’s being armed, Neither was it strange for a man in the riverman’s position to carry off his ammunition loose instead of in the box. That was not the point. It was simply the train of thought aroused which struck Bainbridge unpleasantly. He felt Schaeffer to be capable of almost any villainy provided it could be accomplished with safety to himself. The humiliation of that fight, too, had added a powerful incentive to the one already offered by Crane and the Lumber Trust for the eclipse of Bob Bainbridge. And a total eclipse would be so easy! Just a single shot fired from the bushes at a moment when there was no one else about to see or hear. In this wild country the chances of escaping were infinite. The man might not even be suspected. Bob suddenly moved his shoulders impatiently, frowned, and turned away. A moment later his eyes twinkled mirthfully. “Another minute and I’d have the undertaker picked out,” he chuckled. “The scoundrel hasn’t the common courage to do murder. All the same,” he added, with a decisive squaring of the shoulders, “I’ll put a crimp in his little game about those records. I’ll have cookee scrape ’em all up, and ship the whole bunch down to John. That clerk, Wiggins, can put ’em together, I’ll bet! Patience is his middle name--patience and picture puzzles. We’ll have the laugh on Pete, after all--hanged if we won’t!” CHAPTER IX. IN THE SWIFT CURRENT The clumsy, slow-moving scow loaded with the cook’s outfit and a supply of bedding followed the drive downstream, and, that night, fastened up to the bank close to the inlet of Deer Pond, the middle one of three small bodies of water strung along the length of the Megantic.
37304_2373	love stories	Prindle, Frances Carruth	“Bless your heart but I can’t say as we wus, sir, glad though they’ll be to see your blessed face.” “Of course I would come. Don’t they know that by this time? Who is ill? Is the Major worse? I should have been here long ago had I not been expecting them at the house every moment.” “They ain’t ill, sir, they’re workin’”, was her reply. “Maybe you’d better come right out to the kitchen an’ see for yourself their carryin’s on. We’re all at it to-night an’ it’s the fearful time they’ve had but it’s all plain sailin’ to the end now,” she wound up hopefully. Somewhat mystified, Dr. Ware followed and stood speechless on the threshold of the kitchen. For there were the girls in their cotton gowns with sleeves rolled up to the shoulders working away at what were to him inexplicable things, while over in a corner sat Jack half buried in a pile of small white boxes. The whole room presented the bustle of eleven in the morning rather than eleven in the evening. “You bad Dr. Ware,” said Julie playfully when she saw him, “what made you come?” She stopped her work a moment and whisking her apron over the chair Bridget had drawn out for him, motioned him to sit down. “We’re just daubed with frosting from one end of the place to the other, but we can’t stop working a moment, so if you dare, risk a chair?” The Doctor sat down. He would have taken the chair with the same equanimity if it had been caked with frosting. “Now what does this mean, at this hour?” he said. “Didn’t Miss Ware get our note? Oh! I am so sorry. We are terribly sorry to miss the reception, aren’t we, Hester?” “Um-um,” said Hester absorbed in making elaborate frosting designs on small pieces of cake. [Illustration: THERE WERE THE GIRLS IN THEIR COTTON GOWNS] “We wrote her,” continued Julie, “that we were detained by our work and I suppose if she did not get it that you thought when we did not appear something was the matter with Daddy. What a shame you had that anxiety for nothing!” “You must go straight back,” said Hester. “We are getting on famously and you must not miss another minute of the reception.”
4903_2899	detective and mystery stories	Allen, Grant	“The bacillus of pyaemia. A most virulent type. Exactly what I expected.” “You anticipated that result?” “Absolutely. You see, blood-poisoning matures quickly, and kills almost to a certainty. Delirium supervenes so soon that the patient has no chance of explaining suspicions. Besides, it would all seem so very natural! Everybody would say: 'She got some slight wound, which microbes from some case she was attending contaminated.' You may be sure Sebastian thought out all that. He plans with consummate skill. He had designed everything.” I gazed at her, uncertain. “And what will you DO?” I asked. “Expose him?” She opened both her palms with a blank gesture of helplessness. “It is useless!” she answered. “Nobody would believe me. Consider the situation. YOU know the needle I gave you was the one Sebastian meant to use--the one he dropped and I caught--BECAUSE you are a friend of mine, and because you have learned to trust me. But who else would credit it? I have only my word against his--an unknown nurse's against the great Professor's. Everybody would say I was malicious or hysterical. Hysteria is always an easy stone to fling at an injured woman who asks for justice. They would declare I had trumped up the case to forestall my dismissal. They would set it down to spite. We can do nothing against him. Remember, on his part, the utter absence of overt motive.” “And you mean to stop on here, in close attendance on a man who has attempted your life?” I cried, really alarmed for her safety. “I am not sure about that,” she answered. “I must take time to think. My presence at Nathaniel's was necessary to my Plan. The Plan fails for the present. I have now to look round and reconsider my position.” “But you are not safe here now,” I urged, growing warm. “If Sebastian really wishes to get rid of you, and is as unscrupulous as you suppose, with his gigantic brain he can soon compass his end. What he plans he executes. You ought not to remain within the Professor's reach one hour longer.” “I have thought of that, too,” she replied, with an almost unearthly calm. “But there are difficulties either way. At any rate, I am glad he did not succeed this time.
57236_6092	detective and mystery stories	Footner, Hulbert	I had one of the best suites at the Rotterdam, a corner room which was my parlour, and a bedroom. I put the key to the parlour door in my pocket, retired into the bedroom, and locked the communicating door. Presently I heard the bell-boy's knock on the parlour door. "Come in!" I sang out. Through the door I heard the sounds of two people entering my parlour. "Hello, Sadie!" I cried. "Make yourself at home. I'll be dressed in a jiffy!" An indistinguishable murmur answered me. This was certainly not my Sadie. The bell-boy went out, and I heard him retiring down the hall. I gave him time to get out of the way, then I slipped out of the bedroom into the hall, key to the other room in hand. I inserted it ever so softly in the parlour door, and turned it. But she heard! She rushed to the door and shook it. By that time I was around the corner of the corridor. The telephone girl looked at me somewhat curiously as I pressed the elevator button, but did not quite like to question me. She knew, of course, that a caller had just been shown into my room. "I'll be back in a minute," I said carelessly. Just then I saw the number of my room 1104 displayed on the switchboard. Lorina had rushed to the phone. "Is there a drugstore in the hotel?" I asked the girl at random, to distract her attention. "No, sir. There is one opposite the Thirty-fourth street entrance." The elevator was approaching my floor. I needed one more second to make my getaway. "Is it a reliable place?" I asked. "Conway's," she said, holding the plug ready in her hand, "one of the largest in town." The elevator door was now open, and I stepped aboard. The operator shoved the plug in, and answered the call. I was carried down. I could not tell, of course, what form Lorina's appeal for help would take. In case she might telephone to have me intercepted in the lobby, I took the precaution to get off at the mezzanine floor. I passed around the gallery to the other side of the building, and gained the street without interference. So there I was safe, but once more homeless. A gaily-dressed couple left the hotel immediately in front of me. The woman was talking rather excitedly.
34593_2673	adventure stories	Wright, Jack	“They were pretty glad to see him when he got back to the United States, too. There were plenty of whistles blowing, plenty of ticker tape, and parades for the returning hero. But Dick Byrd stayed modest through all of it. In the first place, he never gets fussed. He isn’t a southern gentleman for nothing. And in the second place, he realized that the shouting wasn’t so much for him as it was for the thing that he did. He had brought the United States the honor of sending the first men over the Pole. And the United States was applauding the deed, not himself. But he seems to have forgotten that if it hadn’t been for his years of planning, striving and struggling the deed never would have been accomplished. “Well, Dick Byrd had accomplished his life’s ambition. But it didn’t mean that he was ready to quit. There were new fields to conquer. How about flying the Atlantic? He’d always wanted to fly the Atlantic. Anything that was all adventure appealed to him. So when they hoisted anchor at Spitzbergen after the flight across the Pole Byrd said to his companion Bennett, ‘Now we can fly the Atlantic.’ “The plan to fly the ocean had its origin in the same motives that the North Pole flight had. Byrd wanted to make America aviation conscious; and he wanted to make American aviators conscious of the benefits of careful planning. Dozens of lives had been lost in unsuccessful trans-oceanic flights—the lives of young men full of the love of adventure, who made hasty plans, or no plans at all for spanning the ocean—who had no qualifications except a great ambition to see them through the great grind that was before them. Byrd wanted to show all fool-hardy young flyers that care, care, and more care was needed in their preparations. He had to prove to the United States, too, that if care were exercised in these flights, they were not necessarily dangerous. All this Byrd had to prove. And in the meantime he’d have the time of his life, steeped in the adventurous sort of work that he craved. “So Byrd and Bennett started their plans. The first step, of course, was the choosing of the plane. Opinion was in favor of a single-motored plane for a cross-Atlantic flight, since a single-motored plane would have a greater cruising range; offer less resistance in the air; and be less complicated to handle than a multi-motored craft.
38357_2147	adventure stories	Marchmont, Arthur W.	While I was thinking in this strain someone knocked at my outer door, and when I opened it, to my surprise, Paula Tueski rushed in quickly. A glance at her face shewed me she was in an exceedingly ill temper; as indeed it appeared to me she generally was. "Where is your servant?" was her first question hurriedly asked. "I really don't know. Out somewhere; but----" "His absence means danger, Alexis. Why didn't you come to me when I sent a message to you just now. You read it, questioned the girl, and then tore it up and threw it in the gutter; and all this as unconcernedly as if you did not know full well that from our window you must be in full view of me. Are you always going to scorn me?" I took care to shew no surprise; but it was clear I had blundered badly, and that the "rendezvous" was close to the spot where the paper had been given to me. "I could not come. I had to hurry home. I----" "Bah! Don't trifle with me like that. Haven't you had enough of your prison during the last two days?" "You know the news, then?" said I, following her gladly off the track. "It is you who do not know the news. Ah, Alexis, you are giving me more trouble in this new character of yours than ever you did in the old one--much as you harassed me then. But I do not mind if only...." She stopped and looked at me with beaming eyes. "You have not kissed me; and here I am risking all again and even venturing right here into your rooms." "What do you mean about new character?" I asked. Her phrase had startled me. "I like it better than the old. Fifty thousand times better 'That devil Alexis,' than 'That roué Petrovitch.' But whenever I think of the change, I can't understand it--I don't understand you. I could almost swear, sometimes, you are not the same man"--she came close up to me and putting her hands on my shoulders, stared long and earnestly right into my eyes--"and then I wonder how I can have been so blind as not to have seen all that lay hidden in you: all that was noble and brave and daring.
1260_2211	love stories	Brontë, Charlotte	Adele, indeed, no sooner saw Mrs. Fairfax, than she summoned her to her sofa, and there quickly filled her lap with the porcelain, the ivory, the waxen contents of her "boite;" pouring out, meantime, explanations and raptures in such broken English as she was mistress of. "Now I have performed the part of a good host," pursued Mr. Rochester, "put my guests into the way of amusing each other, I ought to be at liberty to attend to my own pleasure. Miss Eyre, draw your chair still a little farther forward: you are yet too far back; I cannot see you without disturbing my position in this comfortable chair, which I have no mind to do." I did as I was bid, though I would much rather have remained somewhat in the shade; but Mr. Rochester had such a direct way of giving orders, it seemed a matter of course to obey him promptly. We were, as I have said, in the dining-room: the lustre, which had been lit for dinner, filled the room with a festal breadth of light; the large fire was all red and clear; the purple curtains hung rich and ample before the lofty window and loftier arch; everything was still, save the subdued chat of Adele (she dared not speak loud), and, filling up each pause, the beating of winter rain against the panes. Mr. Rochester, as he sat in his damask-covered chair, looked different to what I had seen him look before; not quite so stern--much less gloomy. There was a smile on his lips, and his eyes sparkled, whether with wine or not, I am not sure; but I think it very probable. He was, in short, in his after-dinner mood; more expanded and genial, and also more self- indulgent than the frigid and rigid temper of the morning; still he looked preciously grim, cushioning his massive head against the swelling back of his chair, and receiving the light of the fire on his granite- hewn features, and in his great, dark eyes; for he had great, dark eyes, and very fine eyes, too--not without a certain change in their depths sometimes, which, if it was not softness, reminded you, at least, of that feeling. He had been looking two minutes at the fire, and I had been looking the same length of time at him, when, turning suddenly, he caught my gaze fastened on his physiognomy.
32429_3433	love stories	Erskine, Payne	Sometimes he dismounted to investigate plants new to him, or to gather a bit of moss or fungi or parasite--anything that promised an elucidating hour with his splendid microscope. For these he always carried at the pommel of his saddle an air-tight box. The mountain people supposed he collected such things for the compounding of his drugs. When they reached the Fall Place, David continued along the main road below and took a trail farther on, merely a foot trail little used, to his eyrie. He had not seen Cassandra since they had walked together down from Hoke Belew's place. He had gone to Farington partly to avoid seeing her, nor did he wish to see her again until he should have so mastered himself as to betray nothing by his manner that might embarrass her or remind her painfully of their last interview, knowing he must eliminate self to reëstablish their previous relations. David rode directly to his log stable, put up his horse, then unslung his box and walked with it toward his cabin. Suddenly he stopped. From the thick shrubbery where he stood he could see in at the large window where his microscope was placed quite through his cabin into the light, white canvas room beyond. Before the fireplace, clearly relieved against the whiteness of the farther room, stood Cassandra, gazing intently at something she held in her hand. David recognized it as a small, framed picture of his mother--a delicately painted miniature. He kept it always on the shelf near which she was standing. He saw her reach up and replace it, then brush her hand quickly across her eyes, and knew she had been weeping. He was ashamed to stand there watching her, but he could not move. Always, it seemed to him, she was being presented to him thus strongly against a surrounding halo of light, revealing every gracious line of her figure and her sweet, clean profile. He turned his eyes away, but as quickly gazed again; she had disappeared. He waited, and again she passed between his eyes and the light, here and there, moving quietly about, seeing that all was in order, as her custom was when she knew him to be absent. He saw her brushing about the hearth, carefully wiping the dust from his disordered table, lifting the books, touching everything tenderly and lightly. His flute lay there. She took it in her hands and looked down at it solemnly, then slowly raised it to her lips. What? Was she going to try to play upon it? No, but she kissed it.
8493_2683	adventure stories	Merriman, Henry Seton	“He will do--he will do,” the men said with a new light of hope in their grave faces. Nearly all had gone when John Turner at length woke up. Indeed, Colville threw a book upon the floor to disturb his placid sleep. “I will come round to-morrow,” he said, bidding his hostess good night. “I have some papers for you to sign since you are determined to sell your rentes and leave the money idle at your bank.” “Yes. I am quite determined,” she answered, gaily, for she was before her time inasmuch as she was what is known in these days of degenerate speech as cock-sure. And when John Turner, carrying a bundle of papers, presented himself at the Villa Cordouan next morning he found Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence sitting alone in the veranda. “Dormer and his friend have left me to my own devices. They have gone away,” she mentioned, casually, in the course of conversation. “Suddenly?” “Oh no,” she answered, carelessly, and wrote her name in a clear firm hand on the document before her. And John Turner looked dense. CHAPTER XIX. IN THE BREACH The Marquis de Gemosac was sitting at the open window of the little drawing-room in the only habitable part of the chateau. From his position he looked across the courtyard toward the garden where stiff cypress-trees stood sentry among the mignonette and the roses, now in the full glory of their autumn bloom. Beyond the garden, the rough outline of the walls cut a straight line across the distant plains, which melted away into the haze of the marsh-lands by the banks of the Gironde far to the westward. The Marquis had dined. They dined early in those days in France, and coffee was still served after the evening meal. The sun was declining toward the sea in a clear copper-coloured sky, but a fresh breeze was blowing in from the estuary to temper the heat of the later rays. The Marquis was beating time with one finger, and within the room, to an impromptu accompaniment invented by Juliette, Barebone was singing: C'est le Hasard, Qui, tot ou tard, Ici-bas nous seconde; Car, D'un bout du monde A l'autre bout, Le Hasard seul fait tout. He broke off with a laugh in which Juliette's low voice joined. “That is splendid, mademoiselle,” he cried, and the Marquis clapped his thin hands together.
21513_1012	adventure stories	Paltock, Robert	I could use with myself was but in vain to obtain me any quiet. In the height of my distress I had recourse to prayer, with no small benefit; begging that if it pleased not the Almighty Power to remove the object of my fears, at least to resolve my doubts about them, and to render them rather helpful than hurtful to me. I hereupon, as I always did on such occasions, found myself much more placid and easy, and began to hope the best, till I had almost persuaded myself that I was out of danger; and then laying myself down, I rested very sweetly till I was awakened by the impulse of the following dream. Methought I was in Cornwall, at my wife's aunt's; and inquiring after her and my children, the old gentlewoman informed me, both my wife and children had been dead some time, and that my wife, before her departure, desired her (that is, her aunt) immediately upon my arrival to tell me she was only gone to the lake, where I should be sure to see her, and be happy with her ever after. I then, as I fancied, ran to the lake to find her. In my passage she stopped me, crying, "Whither so fast, Peter? I am your wife, your Patty." Methought I did not know her, she was so altered; but observing her voice, and looking more wistfully at her, she appeared to me as the most beautiful creature I ever beheld. I then went to seize her in my arms; but the hurry of my spirits awakened me. When I got up, I kept at home, not caring even to look out at my door. My dream ran strangely in my head, and I had now nothing but Patty in my mind. "Oh!" cries I, "how happy could I be with her, though I had only her in this solitude. Oh! that this was but a reality, and not a dream." And indeed, though it was but a dream, I could scarce refrain from running to the lake to meet my Patty. But then I checked my folly, and reasoned myself into some degree of temper again. However, I could not forbear crying out, "What, nobody to converse with! Nobody to assist, comfort, or counsel me! This is a melancholy situation indeed." Thus I ran on lamenting till I was almost weary, when on a sudden I again heard the voices.
17418_4159	western stories	Woodrow, Wilson, Mrs.	"These mountains!" She threw wide her arms and drew a long, ecstatic breath. She came near to him and touched his arm. "I hated them once, I love them now." She smiled up at him, her darkly slumbrous, scarlet-lipped smile. He leaned toward her as if to clasp her close, but the vows he had sworn to himself a thousand times since she had been in his cabin alone with him still held him. Slowly he drew back and with all the strength of his nature fought for self-control. He called upon every force of his will, and in that supreme moment his face hardened to the appearance of a sculptured mask; all of its finely-drawn outlines seemed set in stone. She turned angry shoulders to him and stirred the stones on the table with impatient fingers until they rolled about, flashing darts of light. Symbols of power, of material and deadening splendor; eternal accompaniments of imperial magnificence! The sapphires sang triumph, the diamonds conquest, the rubies passionate and fulfilled love. "They are what you really care for." He spoke huskily; his voice sounded thick and uncertain in his ears. "That and--and your wonderful dancing, and applause--and success and money. It's natural that you should--but it all makes me realize--clearly, that I can't even try to force myself into your life. There's no place for me. Even--even if you were kind--you sometimes seem to--to--to suggest that you would be--I'd be just a useless cog, soon to be dropped. It's all complete without me. But, for God's sake, I'm begging you, I'm begging you, Pearl, not to be kind to me for the rest of the time that we're here together." "And what about me?" she flashed. "You've thought everything out from your own side, and you've just been telling it. Don't you think I've got a side, too? I guess so." He looked at her in surprise, the emotion that had changed and broken his expression fading into wonderment and puzzle. "What do you mean?" he asked. "Kiss me, and I'll show you," she said audaciously. All the allurement, the softness and sweetness of the south was in her mouth and eyes. "How can we go on like this?" His voice was a mere broken whisper.
36246_887	western stories	Ryan, Marah Ellis	How did it happen?" Each of them was a little easier in speech than at first, and she told him as well as she could of the episode, and her own inability to check Betty. And he told her of the fright of the others, and their anxiety, and that he had sent them straight ahead to camp, while he struck into the timber where Betty had left the old trail. "I promised them to have word of you soon," he added; "and I reckon they'll be mighty glad you can take the word yourself--it's more than they expected. She might have killed you." His tone and repetition of the words showed the fear that had been uppermost in his thoughts. "Yes--she might," agreed the girl. "That is a lesson to me for my willfulness;" and then she smiled mockingly with a gleam of her old humor, adding: "And so in the future, for the sake of my neck and the safety of my bones, I will be most obedient to orders, Mr. Genesee Jack." He only looked at her across the flickering circle of light from the torch. It must have dazzled his eyes, for in putting on his hat he pulled it rather low over his forehead, and turning his back abruptly on her he walked over for Mowitza. But he did not bring her at once. He stood with his elbows on her shoulders and his head bent over his clasped hands, like a man who is thinking--or else very tired. Rachel had again slipped down beside the tree; her head still seemed to spin around a little if she stood long; and from that point of vantage she could easily distinguish the immovable form in the shifting lights and shadows. "What is the matter with the man?" she asked herself as he stood there. "He was glad to find me--I know it; and why he should deliberately turn his back and walk away like that, I can't see. But he shan't be cool or sulky with me ever again; I won't let him." And with this determination she said: "Genesee!" "Yes," he answered, but did not move. "Now that you have found me, are you going to leave me here all night?" she asked demurely. "No, Miss," he answered, and laid his hand on the bridle.
1495_2887	detective and mystery stories	Steele, Chester K.	That there will be a profit I very much doubt, though this does not lessen my gratitude to Captain Poland for his aid.” There was a little gasp from Viola as she heard this. “Captain Poland saved father from possible ruin,” she murmured, “and I--I treated him so! Oh! oh!” CHAPTER XV. POOR FISHING “Have a drink, Colonel?” “Eh?” “I said--Here, boy! A Scotch high and a mint julep.” Colonel Ashley, roused from his reverie as he sat in his club, gazing out on the busy, fashionable, hurrying, jostling, worried, happy, sad, and otherwise throngs that swept past the big Fifth avenue windows, shifted himself in the comfortable leather chair, and looked at his cigar. It had gone out, and he decided that it was not worth relighting. “Cigars, too!” ordered Bruce Garrigan. “Oh, were you speaking to me?” and the colonel seemed wholly awake now. “Not only to you, but in your interests,” went on Garrigan, with a smile. “Hope I didn’t disturb your nap, but--” “Oh, no,” the colonel hastened to assure his companion with his usual affability. “I had finished sleeping.” “So I inferred. Do you know how many hours, minutes and seconds the average human being has passed in sleep when he reaches the age of forty-five years?” and Garrigan smiled quizzically. “No, sir,” answered Colonel Ashley, “I do not.” “Neither do I,” confessed Mr. Garrigan as he sank down in a chair beside the colonel and accepted the glass from a tray which the much-buttoned club attendant held out to him. “I don’t know, and I don’t much care.” Then, when cigars were glowing and the smoke arose in graceful clouds, an aroma as of incense shrouding the two as they gazed out on the afternoon throngs, Garrigan remarked: “I didn’t know you were here. In fact, I didn’t know you were a member of this club.” “You wouldn’t know it if my attendance here were needed to prove it,” said the colonel with a smile. “I don’t get here very often, but I had to run up on some business, and I found this the most convenient stopping place.” “Are you going back to Lakeside?” “Oh, yes!”
21891_3857	detective and mystery stories	McCulley, Johnston	" "Why?" "Because I do not care to give you information if you are still to work for Prale." "You say that Prale knows his enemies and why they are fighting him. If he does, he never has told me. Tell me that much--since you say Sid Prale knows it already. It couldn't hurt your side at all." "We might tell you later." "You've got some very good reason for not telling me!" Farland accused. "It is the truth, isn't it, that Prale does not know a single thing about it. You are afraid to tell me because I may inform him of what you say, and we may straighten out the tangle? I can see through you, sir, as easily as through a newly cleaned window." "I see that you have faith in Sidney Prale," the masked man said. "But I assure you that your faith is misplaced. Is there any way in which I can get you to stop your work for him?" "Meaning against his influential enemies, or on the Rufus Shepley murder case?" Farland asked. "We simply want you to stop working for him. If he stands alone, we can punish him the sooner." "I understand about that, of course. But how about the murder case? Do you think Sid Prale is guilty of that crime?" Farland asked. "I do not know, I am sure. I understand that the evidence against him is damaging. But we are not awaiting the outcome of that. He may manage to have the charge against him dismissed, and we are going ahead with our plans for punishment." "Then you want me to quit Prale so I won't be helping him work against his enemies, and not because you are afraid that, in clearing him of the murder charge, I may find something detrimental to other persons?" "That is the idea," the masked man replied. "The murder case can take care of itself, I suppose." "Suppose I refuse to make this deal with you?" "In that event, we may feel called upon to detain you--and perhaps to use further violence." "Then you might as well start!" Jim Farland cried. "For you are lying to me like blazes! It's the murder case that's worrying you, and you know it! And I know _you_!
31524_4176	western stories	McCarter, Margaret Hill	It isn't possible to make any man understand how that miserable girl can control things, unless he is on the ground all the time." So ran my thoughts. "Father, must that trip be made to-day? Because I'd rather get up a party and go out when Miss Melrose goes." But my father was in no mood to help me then. He had asked me to go alone. Evidently he thought I had forgotten business and constancy of purpose in the presence of this pretty girl. "It must be done to-day. Miss Melrose will wait, I'm sure. It is a serious business matter--" "Oh, but I won't, Mr. Baronet. Your son promised me to do everything for me if I would only come to Springvale; that was away last Spring, and my stay will be short at best. I must go back to-morrow afternoon. Don't rob us of a minute." She spoke with such a pretty grace, and yet her words were so trifling that my father must have felt as I did. He could have helped me then had he thought that I deserved help, for he was a tactful man. But he merely assented and sent us away. When we were gone Marjie turned to him bravely. "Judge Baronet, I think I will go home. I came in from Red Range this noon with the Meads. It was very warm, coming east, and I am not very well." She was as white as marble. "I will see you again; may I?" John Baronet was a man of deep sympathy as well as insight. He knew why the bloom had left her cheeks. "All right, Marjie. You will be better soon." He had risen and taken her cold hand. There was a world of cheer and strength in that rich resonant voice of his. "Little girl, you must not worry over anything. All the tangles will straighten for you. Be patient, the sunshine is back of all shadows. I promised your father, Marjory, that no harm should come to you. I will keep my promise. 'Let not your heart be troubled.'" His words were to her what the good minister's had been to me. In the months that came after that my father was her one strong defence. Poor Marjie! her days as well as mine were full of creeping shadows.
24380_560	science fiction	Von Wald, E. G.	"They'll want to know who went with him, since he probably didn't know anybody else on the Base." Korsakov grinned hugely. "We all did, skipper," he said. "They can't court-martial the whole crew for going out of bounds with him, can they? It would take a valuable ship out of action." "They might." I stood up, frowning. "Well, it all depends upon what Frendon told them, but, of course, he might have been drunk himself at the time, and a man like him would hesitate to admit something like that. That shouldn't be too hard to demonstrate. In which case," I added, letting them see a grin on my face, "he might have gone by himself after all, and then none of us would have to be even slightly implicated. Like for instance, if he spent some time with us drinking, and then went off by himself, how would we know where he was going?" They all laughed with evident relief. It would be a good story. They all knew that none of them had induced Frendon to disable himself, and for them that settled the question of who did it. Their willingness to take a full share of the blame off me settled the only other question I myself was concerned about. And this morning, when CINCMARS confirmed my acting captain status, and sent us a raw recruit for third officer replacement after moving Harding up to acting Exec, everybody was satisfied and happy. As happy as any small group of reluctant soldiers about to go into battle is ever likely to get, anyway. * * * * * Lieutenant Maise dropped the report back on the SR Officer's desk when he had finished reading it. "How did you like it?" the SR wanted to know. "All right," Maise murmured. "It covers it. I just hope they can make some use of it, so that in the future the assignment of a Psi Corps officer won't be a general signal for a small-time mutiny." "That's the whole point of making these reports. They'll work out something." Maise nodded. "Where's Frendon now?" "He was transferred to XXX Base three days ago, right after he left your ship. Couldn't let him run around here for a while. Not after the trouble with your crew--somebody might recognize him. Besides, he already has another assignment there.
50847_167	science fiction	Smith, Evelyn E.	"Don't you know that on Theemim it's frightfully vulgar to as much as speak of eating in public?" "But why?" Michael demanded in too loud a voice. "What's wrong with eating in public here on Earth?" Carpenter clapped a hand over the young man's mouth. "Hush," he cautioned. "After all, on Earth there are things we don't do or even mention in public, aren't there?" "Well, yes. But those are different." "Not at all. Those rules might seem just as ridiculous to a Theemimian. But the Theemimians have accepted our customs just as we have accepted the Theemimians'. How would you like it if a Theemimian violated one of our tabus in public? You must consider the feelings of the Theemimians as equal to your own. Observe the golden rule: 'Do unto extraterrestrials as you would be done by.'" "But I'm still hungry," Michael persisted, modulating his voice, however, to a decent whisper. "Do the proprieties demand that I starve to death, or can I get something to eat somewhere?" "Naturally," the salesman whispered back. "Portyork provides for all bodily needs. Numerous feeding stations are conveniently located throughout the port, and there must be some on the field." After gazing furtively over his shoulder to see that no females were watching, Carpenter approached a large map of the landing field and pressed a button. A tiny red light winked demurely for an instant. "That's the nearest one," Carpenter explained. * * * * * Inside a small, white, functional-looking building unobtrusively marked "Feeding Station," Carpenter showed Michael where to insert a two-credit piece in a slot. A door slid back and admitted Michael into a tiny, austere room, furnished only with a table, a chair, a food compartment, and an advideo. The food consisted of tabloid synthetics and was tasteless. Michael knew that only primitive creatures waste time and energy in growing and preparing natural foods. It was all a matter of getting used to this stuff, he thought glumly, as he tried to chew food that was meant to be gulped. A ferret-eyed Yeddan appeared on the advideo. "Do you suffer from gastric disorders? Does your viscera get in your hair? A horrid condition, but swift abolition is yours with Al-Brom from Altair.
43944_4481	science fiction	Aubrey, Frank	Thus, if trouble should arise with Coryon, Monella would have at his back, eventually, an overwhelming force. And as the men kept marching off in companies, the crowd of women and children and old men collected in the square in which was the museum stood about in anxious groups, awaiting news; hardly daring to hope for what all so fervently desired--the final downfall of their ruthless tyrant. CHAPTER XXIX. 'THOU ART MY LORD MELLENDA!' To return to the scene in the amphitheatre. Monella, and those with him, advanced with measured tread; but suddenly his eyes fell on Ulama. For a few moments he bent over her, then he came slowly to the front and looked around him, and in that rapid survey he seemed to take in everything. Beckoning to Leonard and Zonella he said, when they had joined him, "The princess lies there in a dead faint. This is no place for the poor child. Bear her tenderly outside. My people will protect you." Then he turned again to look around. In their surprise at the unexpected inrush, those on the heights had ceased hurling down the rocks, and now they gazed in wonderment at Monella and those with him. Beside him stood a tall man in a white robe upon which was worked a figure of the sun in diamonds that flashed and sparkled as he moved. His long hair and beard were snowy white, his forehead, high and massive, was clear, and curiously free from lines and wrinkles. It had the impassive look of one who suffers few earthly cares to trouble him. His features were pleasant and benevolent in expression, and the clear grey eyes were open and candid in their glance. Like Monella, he was far above the usual height; and, like him, was of imposing presence and stately mien. Altogether, one would say of him that he was a _good_ man, a man to be trusted and respected; he had at the same time the air of one deeply engrossed in intellectual pursuits, or leading an ascetic life. He lacked just that touch of tender human sympathy that made Monella's mere look so fascinating to those with whom he came in contact, and that bound so thoroughly to him those who yielded to its subtle influence. Ergalon had already whispered to the others that the stranger was Sanaima, the ancient chief of the White Priesthood; and Templemore regarded him with interest and curiosity. Above their heads waved great red banners with strange devices and elaborately carved standard poles.
34593_2497	adventure stories	Wright, Jack	Nail and all, Byrd walked with a limp, and an ensign with a limp was just useless, so far as the Navy was concerned. So Byrd was retired. “That must have been an awful blow to him. Not only was the only career open to him cut short, but he had been married the year before, to Marie Ames, a childhood sweetheart from Winchester. So that his retirement affected not just himself, but another as well. “It might have floored a lesser man. But not Dick Byrd. In 1917 the United States went into the World War, And Byrd, who had been rejected by the Navy, and who doubtless could not have found a place in the army, decided to go into the branch of the service that wouldn’t ask questions about his bad leg—because it didn’t matter whether he had a bad leg or not—in aviation. So to aviation he turned. “He entered the Naval flying school at Pensacola, Florida. It was a lucky day for Byrd and for aviation that he took to the air. It seems that the air was where he belonged. He was a Byrd by birth, and might have been born with wings, for the ease with which he took to flying. “He became assistant superintendent of the school, and was on the commission to investigate accidents. There were a lot of them, then. The planes were not so highly developed as they are now—and the green youngsters who were entering the service could not handle them. You can imagine how horrible it was to see some friend’s plane come crashing down into the ocean, and have to be the first to go out in the rescue boat, in order to do what was possible to rescue him, and to discover what had caused the accident. A warning from the observation tower—somebody was in tailspin. A deafening crash! And the rescue boat would be put out before the waves from the great splash had subsided. At this work Byrd learned that more than half of the accidents could have been avoided with care—either in inspecting the machine before going up, or in handling it up in the air. “Dick Byrd was just too good. That was his tough luck at this point in his career. He was too good to be sent over to France, where he wanted to go. He was sent instead to Canada, where he was chief of the American air forces in Canada. At this job, as well as at any other that he undertook, Byrd acquitted himself admirably.
34593_988	adventure stories	Wright, Jack	“They just got down to earth,” said the Captain. He explained about Hank and Hank’s plane. Pat was delighted that their old pal had turned up, and decided that they would have to have a reunion very soon. He also decided on the spot that he was going along with them to the mountains. “Try to keep me away. Although I don’t much fancy the riding on cushions, in a fancy plane. When I fly, I want to fly. But if you let me do the piloting, I’ll make the best of that.” Pat always decided things that way, but nobody resented his high-hand manner, since he looked, and was, the sort of man who could make good on any job he undertook. “Well, Bob, my lad,” he said, turning to the boy, “how about going up? It’s the first step in learning to fly. And don’t think that it’s going to be like cabin flying. You’ll notice the difference when you get up. Ready?” “Sure,” said Bob. Pat produced a helmet and some goggles. “It’s an open cockpit you’re sitting in,” he said. “And see that the goggles fit tightly.” Bob wiggled them around. “They seem all right,” he said. “All right, hop in,” Pat told him. Bob climbed into the rear cockpit, no less thrilled by his second flight that day than he had been by his first. He waved his hand to the Captain and Hal who were watching them. Pat climbed into the front cockpit. “Ready?” he called. “O. K!” shouted Bob. Pat started the motor, which was a self-starter. The plane taxied gently across the field, and Pat turned her nose into the wind. Bob felt her lift from the earth; there was a bump—they hadn’t quite cleared; Pat speeded up, until Bob, looking over the side of the cockpit, could see the ground slipping by dizzily. Then the bumping stopped; they had left the ground. This time they did not again bump; the Marianne soared into the air. Bob could feel the blast of air against his face, and he was glad his goggles fitted well. The motor roared, the wind screamed. Bob tried to shout, but could not hear himself uttering a sound. He looked down. The airport looked as it had from the other plane.
54012_2414	love stories	Hubback, Mrs. (Catherine-Anne Austen)	you used to correspond with Emma, did you?" said she. "To be sure I did; would not you write to your brother, Miss Millar?" "Perhaps I might—but I do not think he would read it if I did—especially if I crossed the letter! George is not fond of letters!" "But you like them yourself?" "Oh yes! I should like to have seen Emma's to you. I am sure they would have been very interesting—does she not write very clever letters?" "_I_ used to think them interesting and clever—but, perhaps, that was because I am only a surgeon, and could not be expected to have either taste or judgment," replied he, with mock humility. "Oh, but I think you might have both on _that_ subject—your admiring Emma's letters is decidedly a proof of it." "Even though I am a surgeon?" "Yes, even though you are a surgeon." "And though you have never seen any of those letters, the liking which secures your approbation?" "Ah! you are too clever for me—you want to make me contradict myself, or something of that sort—but I will not argue with you, and then you cannot prove me wrong." "You need not say you _will_ not—you _cannot_ argue; no woman can, they can only feel, and express those feelings." "And taking the converse of your proposition, Mr. Samuel Watson, I presume that men surpass us so much in argument, because they have _no_ feelings. Am I to infer that?" "We have them, but we guide them, not they us. It is exactly the reverse with you, and you never see more than one side of a question," replied he, in the most straightforward manner possible. "Yes; you have some feelings very apparent," replied she, "contempt for women is evidently a prominent one." "Contempt, Miss Millar! no indeed, you do me injustice, if you think so—but, perhaps, you imagine that a part of my profession?" "I certainly think it one that hardens all the feelings," said she turning away and thus putting a stop to the conversation.
41534_3153	western stories	Boyles, Virgil D. (Virgil Dillin)	Not even if the impossible came to pass. It was a hard country on women, a hard, treeless, sun-seared, unkindly country. Men could stand it—fight for its future; but not women like Louise. It made men as well as unmade them. And after all it did not prove to be the undoing of men so much as it developed in them the perhaps hitherto hidden fact that they were already wanting. These latent, constitutional weaknesses thus laid bare, the bad must for a while prevail—bad is so much noisier than good. But this big, new country with its infinite possibilities—give it time—it would form men out of raw material and make over men mistakenly made when that was possible, or else show the dividing line so clearly that the goats might not herd with the sheep. Some day, it would be fit for women—like Louise. Not now. Much labor and sorrow must be lived through; there must be many mistakes, many experiments tried, there must be much sacrifice and much refining, and many must fall and lose in the race before its big destiny be worked out and it be fit for women—like Louise. Down in the southern part of the State, and belonging to it, a certain big barred building sheltered many women, when the sun of the treeless prairies and the gazing into the lonesome distances surrounding their homesteads seeped into their brains and stayed there so that they knew not what they did. There were trees there and fountains and restful blue-grass in season, and flowers, flowers, flowers—but these came too late for most of the women. Louise was not of that sort. The roughness and the loneliness would simply wear her away and she would die—smiling to the last. What leering fate had led her hither to show him what he had missed by choosing as he had chosen to throw himself into the thankless task of preparing a new country for—a future generation? This accomplished, she would flit lightly away and never know the misery she had left behind or the flavor and zest she had filched from the work of one man, at least, who had entered upon it with lofty ambition, high hopes, and immutable purpose. What then would he have wished? That she had not come at all? He smiled. If Louise could have seen that smile, or the almost dewy softness which stole into his eyes—the eyes that were too keen for everyday living! That he loved her was the one thing in life worth while.
61283_63	science fiction	Banta, Frank	"I'm sure he wouldn't want to eat us. They are known to be strictly vegetarians." "No, he won't eat us. He'll cook us, unless we can run away fast enough--but he'll never eat us." They heard a faraway sound. "What is that crisp crackling that sounds like a dank forest burning?" wondered Bliss. Pole scrambled to the door. "The dragon is coming! He's headed straight for this cabin!" "Shall we be going?" asked Bliss, grabbing her clothes. A few minutes later, at a distance of a thousand yards, Pole and Bliss, loaded with all their portable possessions, watched their cabin burst into flames as a roaring, forty-foot lizard, with fifty-foot flames gouting from his mouth, ambled through their clearing. "There, he's gone," said Pole as the dragon passed on. "I'd better put out the fire." Dipping water from a nearby pond with a bucket, Pole had, after fifty-three fast buckets, a blackened ruin of what had formerly been their rude jungle cabin. Pole moved a new, nearly finished split-pole settee he had been working on back in the jungle to their front porch. As they seated themselves, he complacently surveyed the slits burned between the charred boards of the walls and roof. "The roof will leak a mite when it rains, but it will let in lots of light," he observed optimistically. "There's nothing like lots of light," Bliss agreed. "Charcoal is healthful, too." "It absorbs poison like nobody's business!" "However, since it rains every day on Venus we will have to have a new cabin." He sighed resignedly. "And you know what that means: Lower production, fewer of the magical, antibiotic pretzins. I'd better radio the Division Chief." * * * * * As the jet plane flashed across their vision, the Kentons saw a tiny bundle drop from it. Pole ran out into the jungle and was under the parachute when it landed. He came back into the clearing unwrapping a package. "It sure was thoughtful of Mr. Wattles to answer so fast," said Pole, as he opened the little package. "And will you look here in the middle! He even sent us a present!" "It's a beautiful, plain white, rectangular carton of approximately three by seven inches," she said breathlessly.
5165_5967	love stories	Corelli, Marie	"Are you talking nonsense, my 'Sieur Amadis'?--or are you serious?" she asked. "I am quite serious--much more serious than is common with me," he replied, taking one of her hands and studying it as the perfect model it was--"I believe I am involving you in all sorts of trouble--and you, you absurd little child, don't see it! Suppose Miss Leigh were to find out that we make the maddest love to each other in here--you all alone with me--what would she say?" "What COULD she say?" Innocent demanded, simply--"There is no harm!--and I should not mind telling her we are lovers." "I should, though!" was his quick thought, while he marvelled at her unworldliness. "Besides"--she continued--"she has no right over me." "Who HAS any right over you?" he asked, curiously. She laughed, softly. "No one!--except you!" "Oh, hang me!" he exclaimed, impatiently--"Leave me out of the question. Have you no father or mother?" She was a little hurt at his sudden irritability. "No," she answered, quietly--"I have often told you I have no one. I am alone in the world--I can do as I like." Then a smile brightened her face. "Lord Blythe would have me as a daughter if I would go to him." He started and loosened her from his embrace. "Lord Blythe! That wealthy old peer! What does he want with you?" "Nothing, I suppose, but the pleasure of my company!" and she laughed--"Doesn't that seem strange?" He rose and went back to work at his easel. "Rather!" he said, slowly--"Are you going to accept his offer?" Her eyes opened widely. "I? My Amadis, how can you think it? I would not accept it for all the world! He would load me with benefits--he would surround me with luxuries--but I do not want these. I like to work for myself and be independent." He laid a brush lightly in colour and began to use it with delicate care. "You are not very wise," he then said--"It's a great thing for a young girl like you who are all alone in the world, to be taken in hand by such a man as Blythe. He's a statesman,--very useful to his country,--he's very rich and has a splendid position.
23149_81	science fiction	Mohler, Will	Personnel had gone to discourage the exchange of information, or confidences, among employees. Under the guise of aptitude testing, the psychologists had been able to select and organize teams consisting entirely of mutually incompatible individuals. So well had they succeeded that most workers could barely stand the sight of one another, and so were driven back upon themselves and their work. Only by practicing an almost egg-like self-containment could a draftsman or other worker hope to get through the day without open conflict and disaster. Latent antipathies among workers were further intensified by means of the Annual Proficiency Competitions. At the conclusion of these tests all employees save two were given Proficiency Stars. Of the remaining two, one was invariably a person who had shown signs of becoming too popular among his fellows. He was given a Leadership Star, and because an affable man was usually less rather than more efficient than the rest, this made of him a lonely little air-bubble in a sea of resentment. The second of the two workers was always discharged. Thus a dash of anxiety was added to the proceedings. * * * * * The visible manifestations of high I.I. were hectic color, a characteristic ferocity of eye and throbbing jaw-hinges. Often the jaw-hinges of an entire team would be pulsating at once, sometimes even in unison. This spectacle emanated an overwhelming feeling of earnestness and purpose. Executives were fond of pointing out this phenomenon to visiting dignitaries. "Observe their jaw-hinges," they would say. Another factor which isolated employees from one another was the peculiarly virulent form of halitosis which afflicted all workers without exception. The company cafeteria was the source of this malady. Thus, if Dewforth had been the only employee in that vast complex of buildings, or in the world, he could not have been restlessness. Add to this the fact that it had been his misfortune to win the Leadership Star in the Proficiency Competitions only three days earlier. He did not have to trace the bitter stream of his mood any farther back than that to find the bile-source. The object of the contest had been to draw a single line 28-5/8 inches long and 1/15,000 of an inch thick, a feat which is starkly simple in conception but only theoretically feasible. The draftsmen had spent hours preparing the surfaces of paper, straining ink through filters, honing drawing pens with emery and polishing them with rouge, drawing practice lines and scrutinizing them with powerful bench microscopes. They did Balinese finger exercises, Chinese body coordination exercises, Hindu breathing exercises and Tibetan spiritual calisthenics to dispel their incipient shakes.
30836_5094	detective and mystery stories	Biggers, Earl Derr	Six years, while Hayden, guiltier than I, stayed behind to enjoy the good things of life, to plead for the girl whose lover he had banished. "I lost no time in coming north. Three days ago I entered Drayton's office. I was ready and willing that the wrong Hayden and I had done should be made public. Drayton informed me that legally there had been no crime, that Hayden had straightened things out in time, that we had defrauded no one. And he told me that for whatever sin I had committed he thought I had more than atoned down there in that town that God forgot. I think I had. He explained to me about the trap he had laid for Hayden up here at Baldpate Inn. I begged to help. What happened after, you know as well as I." "Yes, I think I do," agreed Mr. Magee softly. "I have told you the whole story," Kendrick replied, "and yet it seems to me that still it is not all told. Why should Hayden have killed himself? He had lied to me, it is true, but life was always sweet to him, and it hardly seems to me that he was the sort to die simply because his falsehood was discovered. Was there some other act of cruelty--some side to the story of which we are none of us aware? I wonder." He was silent a moment. "Anyhow, I have told you all I know," he said. "Shall I tell it also to the coroner? Or shall we allow Hayden's suicide to pass as the result of his implication in this attempt at bribery? I ask your advice, Mr. Magee." "My advice," returned Magee, "is that you befuddle no pompous little village doctor with the complication of this unhappy tale. No, let the story be that Hayden killed himself as the toils closed in on him--the toils of the law that punishes the bribe giver--now and then and occasionally. Mr. Kendrick, you have my deepest sympathy. Is it too much for me to hope"--he glanced across the room to where Myra Thornhill sat beside the professor--"that the best of your life is yet to come--that out of the wreck this man made of it you may yet be happy?" Kendrick smiled. "You are very kind," he said. "Twice we have met and battled in the snow, and I do not hold it against you that both times you were the victor.
63321_1254	love stories	Winthrop, Theodore	_” “_Chiffons!_” cried Cecilia. “I am really indignant, Mr. Waddy. I do not believe that the gentleman so quietly smoking by your side would ever have been really roused if I were not always buzzing in his ears.” “She is right,” admitted Mr. Tootler, sipping the last drops of his now cold coffee. “Women are vigorous antidotes to moral or mental sleepiness. But, Waddy, our little adventure is bringing the present too near us; to-night must be devoted to recalling our dear old days together. To-morrow we’ll talk politics and be sad for the uncertainties of our cause--‘ma quest oggi n’ é dato goder,’” he sang. “‘Non contiamo l’ incerto domani,’” responded Cecilia, with spirit, from the same air, “which I freely translate that we do not count the future of our cause uncertain at all, either to-morrow or after.” It is a fascinating thing to see a lovely woman in wrath, and probably Mr. Waddy thought for the moment more of how startlingly bright were the eyes of the lady, and how quick her heart’s blood leaped to her vivid cheek, than of the cause that made the eyes electric and the cheek burning. “My wife knows all the old songs, Ira,” said Tommy, also gazing admiringly, but deeming it discreet to change the subject, “and I’ve not forgotten my stock. We’ll have the old first, as old wine should come, and then, if satiety does not interfere, you shall have new music till you cry _basta_.” “Yes,” agreed Cecilia, the little storm over in an instant, “I’ve learnt all your old favourites, Mr. Waddy. We have always expected you and determined to make you forget your sad absence,” and then, as if she had been too frank and had betrayed some confidence of husband and wife, she shrank a little and folded into herself like a mimosa leaf. “Thank you,” said Mr. Waddy simply. So they had music. Mrs. Tootler’s voice was a pearly soprano of more marked tenderness and sentiment than you would have expected from her blithesomeness of manner. Tommy’s was a barytone, strong and rich; it rolled out of the happy little man in a careless way, perpetually making musical ten-strikes. Mr. Waddy sometimes contributed a bass note, deep as an oubliette. But it was his part to assist passively rather than actively at the concert.
42625_5567	love stories	Reynolds, Baillie, Mrs.	She had now been at least two hours upon her feet, and the first dim light of dawn was beginning to make the line of the roads more apparent, the hedgerows blacker. As she stood, bewildered, wondering what to do, she heard a sound of cheery whistling along the road she was deciding to follow. Could this be a human being, someone who would direct her? She felt a rush of hope, and stood waiting until out of the gloom ahead came the figure of a sturdy boy, wearing the cap of a telegraph messenger. His whistling, probably executed in order to keep up his own spirits upon his lonely tramp, was suddenly checked and his feet halted. In her mist-coloured coat and veil the apparition in the road might easily have been something of the kind which raises the hair. To reassure him she called out at once: "Oh, please, can you tell me how far am I from Raefell Station?" The boy stopped. After the manner of his kind, he said nothing of his startled surprise, though his chest rose and fell rapidly. "It’s all of five miles," he replied stolidly. "Want to get there?" "Yes, but I did not mean to walk all the way. How far am I from Lachanrigg Farm?" "Lachanrigg? Oo, thaat’s a canny way baack. Six mile happen." "Oh!" she cried. "Am I really nearer the railway than I am to Lachanrigg?" It appeared that this was so. "I came through the Guyseburn woods," she said, "and the path was flooded, so I went up the hill and lost my way." "D’ye coom from t’ Pele?" asked the boy with sudden interest. "Yes," she replied, not desiring to risk a lie which might be quite unnecessary. He gave her a long, speculative look, his hand fumbling doubtfully with the leather pouch containing the dispatch he carried. An inquiry after her name was trembling on his tongue, but to deliver a cablegram to an unknown woman in the dark was too risky. It would save him some miles of unpleasant walking, but, on the other hand, it might cost him his job. It did not occur to Olwen that he was bound for the place she had come from, for she believed she had come far out of the way. Her preoccupation was to obtain directions for reaching the station, and these he gave her.
64835_100	western stories	Thompson, Will H.	Cady plunged without hesitation down the steep bank and clung to the lessening trace over bare spaces of slab stone, clean-washed by the storm, and across acres of boulder-covered bars, until the portal of the canyon was reached, where the storms of ages had cut a narrow channel to the river. Before this rock-walled gateway Cady halted, leaped from his horse and waited until all had come up. “‘Dismount, men!’ he said, ‘The beast is at bay.’ “‘This canyon,’ he said, ‘twists to the right a hundred yards below, then opens into a big triangle facing the river. The jaws are two hundred yards apart, but each jaw is jammed square against the precipitous bank of the river. The bank on this side is a basalt bluff twenty feet high; the opposite bank is low, and a trail leads up a ravine from the water to the Obsidian Hills. Tigre knows the trail, but he forgot the storm. Do you hear the roar of the river? It is filled with jagged blocks of basalt, and the flood is now a regular water-cyclone. No horse or man that ever lived could cross it. The game is bagged. There is a heavy thicket along the bluff on this side of the river and he will be in the brush. There will be a fight. Every man must cover himself as best he can. Take no chances on Tigre Palladis. Shoot anything that moves; the woman will be hid.’ “Dismounted, we followed down the gorge until we reached the outlet and noted the heavy wall of brush that hid the river from our view. Beyond this the rage of the waters made itself manifest in terrible bellowings. Cady said: “‘There may be trouble in the first fifty yards of open ground, and every man must make straight to the thicket. Move rapidly. If Tigre fires, riddle the spot from which the shot comes, and run in upon him. Shoot him down; he will not surrender.’ “Our rush followed, and was met by the crack of a Winchester. Ramon Aguates, a young _ranchero_, threw up his hands, spun around upon his toes and fell stone-dead. He had hardly touched the ground when another man, close by my side, sank slowly to his knees, gave a little sigh, and crumpled up into a shapeless heap. Tigre’s second shot was not heard, as our volley came at the same instant.
57614_1945	adventure stories	Seeley, Charles Sumner	As soon as Mr. Millward caught sight of the red berries, he cried, “Ah, delightful! you have found coffee! That was the chief thing your island lacked, friend Morgan. Now we can have our morning cup of coffee. But where did you find all this?” “Come, father, let us have our supper, while it is hot,” interrupted Alice Millward, “and the fruit will be a dessert for us. And I am sure while we are at table Mr. Morgan will tell us his adventures, and where he has been to-day.” This was too plainly desirable on all hands to be gainsaid, at least so far as the first part of the proposal was concerned. Of course I had to go over the whole ground and describe the old, abandoned plantation as minutely and completely as I could, and to answer a hundred inquiries about it. The question was raised whether we had better not go there to live while we remained on the island, but it was decided that for the present we had better remain where we were, for several reasons; one reason was the trouble of removal, another the fact that we would there lose the refreshing sea breeze, and there were others quite sufficient to determine the matter in favor of staying. But at any rate we would as soon as possible sail around in the boat to the plantation cove and make a visit to the plantation. Speculation was indulged in as to who had lived there, and when and why the place had been abandoned. The explanation offered by Mr. Millward was quite satisfactory. He had frequently known of plantations being made on the outlying islands, and stated that they were always subsequently abandoned because of the difficulty of reaching a market for the products, the necessity for frequent voyages in the sloops and small vessels, and also the difficulty of keeping workmen and assistants long in such places, except as slaves. After the supper was over I rolled a dry tobacco-leaf into a couple of ungainly cigars and handed one to the old man. The pleasure he expressed at this simple offering was quite extravagant. “Indeed, young man, you have made here a wonderful find,--quite equal in every respect to the coffee. This is the true solace and comfort of the contemplative man. I thank you most sincerely.” But he would not light the cigar; he had other views of the proper use to make of it. Drawing from his coat pocket a venerable brown pipe, he proceeded to break up my cigar and fill the bowl with the fragments.
11501_4433	western stories	Beach, Rex	But it's mine by rights; I have the personality." "I wrote it for her," said the husband, after a pause. "I can't see you in it." "Naturally," she sneered. "Well, _I_ can, and it's not too late to make the change. I'll replace her. My name will help the piece." "Léontine!" he exclaimed, in amazement. "What are you talking about? The play is a tremendous success as it is, and Miss Berwynd is a big hit. I'd be crazy to make a change." "You won't give me the part?" "Certainly not. You shouldn't ask it." "Doesn't Léontine Murat mean more to the public than Norma Berwynd?" she demanded. "Until last night, yes. To-day--well, no. She has created this rôle. Besides--you--couldn't play the part." "And why not, if you please?" "I don't want to hurt your feelings, Léontine." "Go on!" she commanded, in a voice roughened by passion. "In the first place you're not--young enough." The woman quivered. "In the second place, you've grown heavy. Then, too, your accent--" She broke out at him furiously. "So! I'm old and fat and foreign. I've lost my beauty. You think so, eh? Well, other men don't. I'll show you what men think of me--" "This is no time for threats," he interrupted, coldly. "Bah! I don't threaten." Seizing him by the arm, she swung him about, for she was a large woman and still in the fullest vigor of her womanhood. "Listen! You can't fool me. I know why you wrote this play. I know why you took that girl and made a star of her. I've known the truth all along." "You have no cause to--" "Don't lie!" she stormed at him. "I can read you like a book. But I won't stand for it." She flung his arm violently from her and turned away. "I think you'd better go home," he told her. "You'll have the stage hands talking in a minute." She laughed disagreeably, ignoring his words. "I watched you write this play!
57758_4404	adventure stories	Deeping, Warwick	A path ran amid the trees, leading to a little glade where a pool covered with the white stars of the water-crowfoot glimmered before the old, rock-cut hermitage. She started up on seeing him, the blood in her cheeks, sunlight in her eyes. Jeffray was as red as Bess, the sense of her nearness adding the charm of strangeness to the meeting. “So you have found your way?” She held out her hands, and Jeffray took them, brown and rough-skinned as they were. They seemed to smell of new mown hay and milk to him, and of the pots of musk that grow in cottage windows. “I rode here last night, but you did not come.” “No, I could not get free from Dan.” They stood looking at each other awhile in silence, as though letting the subtle consciousness of love steal in upon their hearts. All about them the brown trunks of the yews broke into sheaves of dusky pinnacles and slender spires. The silence of the place was as the silence of some sacred wood. The grass grew green and deep in the glade, while the thickets above seemed dusted with lapis lazuli, so thick were the bluebells. Bess seated herself on a stone beside the pool, Jeffray lying in the grass at her feet. The happy abandonment of children was theirs, for the sordidness of life seemed far from them for the moment. Bess’s eyes darkened a little when Jeffray told her of Surgeon Stott’s warning to him that morning, but there was no distrust upon her face. Stott’s month at The Wells was dwindling to vanishing point in Jeffray’s mind as he talked to Bess, and watched the play of feeling on her face. It was then that Bess spoke for the first time to Jeffray of Miss Hardacre. She had thought often of the great lady in her silks and brocades queening it in the stately house guarded by its ancestral trees. Bess wished to hear Jeffray speak of this woman whom he was to marry, and to watch his eyes to see whether they lit up like a lover’s eyes. Jeffray’s face and mood changed on the instant; he was no longer the dreamer watching the sun sinking behind the yews. “Why do you ask me about Miss Hardacre?” Bess saw that the thought was bitter to him, and yet felt glad at heart. “I know,” she said, slowly, “you are to marry her.” “Who told you that?”
57088_2824	detective and mystery stories	Footner, Hulbert	We live in grand style at home. I remember how grand it seemed to me when first I went to them. Later of course I learned to take everything for granted, and came to think that it was the only way for nice people to live. We have a fine house in Santiago and a magnificent country place among the hills. I had horses to ride, automobiles, jewels, troops of servants who looked up to me as a superior being. We went to Havana every year, or to Paris if Mamma felt equal to the trip, and bought more clothes than we could ever wear. "It is small wonder that a girl should be spoiled by a life like this. Half-grown girls are fatally impressionable. I completely forgot the saner, healthier ideas I had been taught in the beginning, and soon began to look upon myself as one of the chosen ones of earth, responsible only to God who looked with great leniency on the faults of one like me. Life was very busy and pleasant. Everything helped one not to think. I imbibed the idea that it spoiled a woman's looks to think. So I just frivoled. "I was a good deal freer than the other Managuayan girls and I got the name of being very daring. Much was excused me because I was half-American. I was the one who got up the private theatricals and took the boys' parts myself. The old ladies talked with bated breath of how I rode and hunted in knickerbockers. I loved to shock them. You do not know our Spanish dowagers. They acted on me like a perpetual dare. "I never saw my dear Uncle Tony after I went to live with the de Socotras. I missed him at first, but it was delicately intimated to me that he was really not one of us, and after awhile I believed it. Little girls are natural snobs. When I grew up I began to understand that Francisco and Uncle Tony were on opposite sides in politics. In Managuay men become extraordinarily bitter over politics. In our house Uncle Tony was called renegade, socialist, traitor to his class, atheist, and I don't know what. I had only the vaguest idea of what was meant by politics. I never read the newspapers. "I cannot give you any idea of the situation in Managuay at present except to say that in a general way Uncle Tony was on the side of the poor people and Francisco, of course, on the side of the rich. I sided with Francisco naturally.
61946_668	western stories	Ward, William (Author at Arthur Westbrook Co. (Cleveland, Ohio))	" "Then where do I come in?" "Just have patience and I'll tell you," returned the banker, lighting a cigar. "Now listen attentively. If there's anything that isn't clear to you, ask about it. I've time to explain now, and later I might not have. "In the morning you are to drop around to this 'Howard's' tent. I don't believe that's his right name, but never mind. You are to forget all unpleasantness and to act as though you wished to be friendly with him. "During the course of your conversation you can mention that you have heard that he and his companions have some rich mines in Colorado. Ask him where they are and get him to talk about them as much as he will. "And be sure you remember where he says they are." "But suppose he won't talk?" "Then you are to say that you have some money you want to invest and that when you heard he was on his way to New York to raise money to buy some more mines you spoke to me about it and that I told you if Mr. Howard could prove that the mines were all right, show us his maps, and by the way, make a special point of that, I would let you put in your money and might interest some of my friends. "In this way, we can find out where the supposed mines are and wire out there to see if anyone by the name of Howard is known." "But if they are swindlers won't they get wise and jump before you can receive a reply?" "Not if I know it. That's where the detectives will come in. "When they get here, I shall let it be known that they are capitalists come to arrange some deals with me. When I have laid the case before them, we'll call on this Howard, giving as an excuse my supposed friends' desire to get a chance at the mines. "When the detectives have seen the strangers, some of them will keep them under surveillance all the time. "If you do your part and find out where the properties are, one of them will be stationed at the telegraph office to await the reply. "Should they take alarm and try to get away, it will be evidence that they are guilty of fraud and we'll arrest them on the spot.
52498_2240	detective and mystery stories	Regis, Julius	On the farther side of the house he heard a door open and stopped to listen. There was no other sound, but he thought he heard the murmur of voices behind one of the doors a long way down. He frowned and hurriedly transferred his Browning from an inner to an outer pocket; then he made his way into the "sweet, little room" which had been the unfortunate man’s first resting place in the asylum. It was simple but bright with flowers on the table, most likely put there by Elaine. But Wallion had no time to waste on details. Without striking a light he opened the window, stepped out, and with his hands groped along the molding above his head. Immediately below he noticed the shining black hood of a motor, with shaded lamps and faintly humming engine, but there was no one to be seen in the drive. Wallion observed these facts mechanically, for his hands had already grasped a roll of something which had been hidden in the molding of the wall above the window. He got down satisfied and elated, and closed the casement again. "At last," he said to himself, "at last the key to the mystery is in my hands." He took a few steps into the room, but suddenly stopped short, every nerve in his body whispered "Danger," and his hands sought his pocket. The electric light was switched on, and in the doorway stood Doctor Corman. "I beg you to keep quiet," said the Doctor, with his usual cold, well-trained voice, "and hands up, if you please." A revolver gleamed in his hand—and Wallion obeyed. "Delighted to meet you here _en famille_, Doctor," he said smiling, "I know now how keenly I appreciated your worth during our railway journey together." "What business brings you here?" asked the Doctor curtly. "Did you think I was going to play with dolls like a good boy, and go to the station at West Seattle at one o’clock in the morning?" said Wallion. "No, the card you made Madame Lorraine write did not lure me, and I hadn’t patience enough to wait until eleven o’clock to-morrow; that’s what has brought me here." "And you preferred to sneak in like a thief?" "You are very particular ... I got in where I could." "You will be received accordingly. Be good enough to keep still; our explanation will be short but to the point.
21891_1369	detective and mystery stories	McCulley, Johnston	" "Why?" "I don't know, captain. I never did anything in my life to merit such retribution. I am sure of that." "What time was it when you parted from Lerton?" "It must have been about nine thirty or a quarter to ten." "Go to your hotel then?" "No; I turned east and went to the river." "Wasn't that a peculiar thing to do at that hour of the night?" "It may seem so to you," said Prale, "and I scarcely can tell why I did it. I suppose it was because I wanted to think over what George Lerton had told me, and down in Honduras I always used to walk along the beach when I was thinking." "Well?" "I went out on a dock and sat down in the darkness to think." "How long did you remain there?" "For more than half an hour; and I had an experience. Another man came on the dock. He was going to jump into the river, but I convinced him that suicide was folly, and said I'd give him a job." "Did you?" "I did," said Prale. "I took him downtown and bought him some clothes, and then took him to a barber shop, and afterward to the hotel. I registered him as my valet. I call him Murk. I can prove by him that I could not have killed Rufus Shepley about eleven o'clock, because I was in Murk's company at that time." "What time did you get back to your hotel with him?" "It was a few minutes of midnight. We spent considerable time buying the clothes and visiting the barber shop." "Um!" the captain said. "We'll have to question a few of these people. It seems peculiar to me that a millionaire would pick up a tramp and turn him into a trusted servant." "Perhaps it was peculiar. I can read men, I believe, and I decided that Murk needed only a chance, and he would make good. He was broke and friendless, and I was a millionaire and almost as friendless. That's the only way I can explain it." "I'm going to send you to another office under guard, Mr. Prale," the captain said. "I'll have these people here in a short time, and we'll question them.
51840_2975	western stories	Beach, Rex	Faro is to other games as war is to jackstraws. For a time Glenister won steadily till there came a moment when many stacks of chips lay on the deuce. Cherry saw the Kid “flash” to the case-keeper, and the next moment he had “pulled two.” The deuce lost. It was his first substantial gain, and the players paid no attention. At the end of half an hour the winnings were slightly in favor of the “house.” Then Glenister said, “This is too slow. I want action.” “All right,” smiled the proprietor. “We’ll double the limit.” Thus it became possible to wager $400 on a card, and the Kid began really to play. Glenister now lost steadily, not in large amounts, but with tantalizing regularity. Cherry had never seen cards played like this. The gambler was a revelation to her--his work was wonderful. Ill luck seemed to fan the crowd’s eagerness, while, to add to its impatience, the cases came wrong twice in succession, so that those who would have bet heavily upon the last turn had their money given back. Cherry saw the confusion of the “hearse-driver” even quicker than did Bronco. Toby was growing rattled. The dealer’s work was too fast for him, and yet he could offer no signal of distress for fear of annihilation at the hands of those crowded close to his shoulder. In the same way the owner of the game could make no objection to his helper’s incompetence for fear that some by-stander would volunteer to fill the man’s part--there were many present capable of the trick. He could only glare balefully across the table at his unfortunate confederate. They had not gone far on the next game before Cherry’s quick eye detected a sign which the man misinterpreted. She addressed him, quietly, “You’d better brush up your plumes.” In spite of his anger the Bronco Kid smiled. Humor in him was strangely withered and distorted, yet here was a thrust he would always remember and recount with glee in years to come. He feared there were other faro-dealers present who might understand the hint, but there was none save Mexico Mullins, whose face was a study--mirth seemed to be strangling him. A moment later the girl spoke to the case-keeper again. “Let me take your place; your reins are unbuckled.”
1312_3474	western stories	Harte, Bret	What if I happen to know a gentleman when I see him! What if I happen to know that among a thousand such traditional, conventional, feeble editions of their grandfathers as Mr. Harry Robinson, you cannot find one original, independent, individualized gentleman like your Prince! Go to bed, miss, and pray to Heaven that he may be YOUR Prince indeed. Ask to have a contrite and grateful heart, and thank the Lord in particular for having sent you such a friend as Kate Van Corlear.” Yet, after an imposing dramatic exit, she reappeared the next moment as a straight white flash, kissed Carry between the brows, and was gone. The next day was a weary one to Jack Prince. He was convinced in his mind that Carry would not come; yet to keep this consciousness from Mrs. Starbottle, to meet her simple hopefulness with an equal degree of apparent faith, was a hard and difficult task. He would have tried to divert her mind by taking her on a long drive; but she was fearful that Carry might come during her absence; and her strength, he was obliged to admit, had failed greatly. As he looked into her large and awe-inspiring clear eyes, a something he tried to keep from his mind--to put off day by day from contemplation--kept asserting itself directly to his inner consciousness. He began to doubt the expediency and wisdom of his management. He recalled every incident of his interview with Carry, and half-believed that its failure was due to himself. Yet Mrs. Starbottle was very patient and confident; her very confidence shook his faith in his own judgment. When her strength was equal to the exertion, she was propped up in her chair by the window, where she could see the school and the entrance to the hotel. In the intervals she would elaborate pleasant plans for the future, and would sketch a country home. She had taken a strange fancy, as it seemed to Prince, to the present location; but it was notable that the future, always thus outlined, was one of quiet and repose. She believed she would get well soon; in fact, she thought she was now much better than she had been, but it might be long before she should be quite strong again.
83_4260	science fiction	Verne, Jules	But the projectile was high above all this landscape, and the projections disappeared in the intense brilliancy of the disc. And to the eyes of the travelers there reappeared that original aspect of the lunar landscapes, raw in tone, without gradation of colors, and without degrees of shadow, roughly black and white, from the want of diffusion of light. But the sight of this desolate world did not fail to captivate them by its very strangeness. They were moving over this region as if they had been borne on the breath of some storm, watching heights defile under their feet, piercing the cavities with their eyes, going down into the rifts, climbing the ramparts, sounding these mysterious holes, and leveling all cracks. But no trace of vegetation, no appearance of cities; nothing but stratification, beds of lava, overflowings polished like immense mirrors, reflecting the sun's rays with overpowering brilliancy. Nothing belonging to a _living_ world-- everything to a dead world, where avalanches, rolling from the summits of the mountains, would disperse noiselessly at the bottom of the abyss, retaining the motion, but wanting the sound. In any case it was the image of death, without its being possible even to say that life had ever existed there. Michel Ardan, however, thought he recognized a heap of ruins, to which he drew Barbicane's attention. It was about the 80th parallel, in 30@ longitude. This heap of stones, rather regularly placed, represented a vast fortress, overlooking a long rift, which in former days had served as a bed to the rivers of prehistorical times. Not far from that, rose to a height of 17,400 feet the annular mountain of Short, equal to the Asiatic Caucasus. Michel Ardan, with his accustomed ardor, maintained "the evidences" of his fortress. Beneath it he discerned the dismantled ramparts of a town; here the still intact arch of a portico, there two or three columns lying under their base; farther on, a succession of arches which must have supported the conduit of an aqueduct; in another part the sunken pillars of a gigantic bridge, run into the thickest parts of the rift. He distinguished all this, but with so much imagination in his glance, and through glasses so fantastical, that we must mistrust his observation. But who could affirm, who would dare to say, that the amiable fellow did not really see that which his two companions would not see? Moments were too precious to be sacrificed in idle discussion. The selenite city, whether imaginary or not, had already disappeared afar off.
31870_2891	western stories	Marlowe, Amy Bell	But Sue Latrop had never fired a gun in her life, and she professed to be not much interested in this hunt. "Oh, I've fox-hunted several times. That is real sport! But we don't shoot foxes. The dogs kill them--if there re'lly _is_ a fox." "Humph!" asked one of the local boys, with wonder, "what do the dogs follow, if there's no fox? What scent do they trail, I mean?" "Oh," said Sue, "a man rides ahead dragging an aniseed bag. Some dogs are trained to follow that scent and nothing else. It's very exciting, I assure you." "Well! what do you know about that?" gasped the questioner. "Say! was this around Boston?" asked Pratt, his eyes twinkling. "Oh, yes. There is a fine pack of hounds at Arlington," drawled Sue. "Sho!" chuckled Pratt. "I should think they'd teach the dogs around Boston to follow the trail of a bean-bag. Wouldn't it be easier?" "Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Miss Latrop. "Don't you think you are witty? And look at those dogs!" "What's the matter with them?" asked one of the girls. "Why, they are all limbs! What perfectly spidery-looking animals! Did you ever----" "You wait a bit," laughed Mrs. Edwards. "Those long-legged dogs are just what we need hunting the jacks. And if we didn't have guns, at that, there would be few of the rabbits caught. All ready, Sam Harding?" "Jest when Miss Frances says the word, Ma'am," returned the foreman, coolly. "Of course! Frances is mistress of the hunt," said the ranchman's wife, good-naturedly. Sue Latrop had been coaxed to leave her Eastern-bred horse behind on this occasion, and was upon one of the ponies broken to side-saddle work. The tall bay would scarcely know how to keep his feet out of gopher-holes in such a chase as was now inaugurated. "Be careful how you use your guns," Frances said, quietly, when Sam and the Mexican, with the dogs, started off to round a certain greasewood-covered mound and see if they could start some of the long-eared animals.
45627_593	detective and mystery stories	Newcomb, Ambrose	At the worst we will have to drop lower down so the warmer air will melt the stuff. A ship like this can stand considerable in the way of a cargo, though it isn't just the proper caper to stow the load on the wings--far better to have it somewhere inside the fuselage. Here goes!" Whereupon Jack crawled out of the cabin and started to make a close investigation while Perk did the honors along the steering line, more or less eager to hear his mate's report when he came back from his little tour. "It's all right brother," he heard Jack saying, even before the other regained his customary front seat--"nothing to bother about and we'll soon knock spots out of what ice has already gathered. Pretty snappy out here, I notice. We'll drop down to a more comfy level and take chances with being suffocated by that gruelly stuff. Go to it sonny, I'm inside the safety line." Down they went in long slides one after another until the thirteen thousand became ten, then seven and there Jack told his comrade to "hold everything" and cut down the speed a bit. "Daylight's about due I figure," he observed, "and once we cut loose from this blank curtain and pick up some visibility, we'll not have to feel nervous about some of those rocky snags that lie in ambush to impale venturesome aviators when off their course and lost in a maze." Perk soon afterward realized that what his mate had remarked must be true, for sure enough over in the east he could manage to detect some faint signs of a break in the hitherto impenetrable gloom surrounding them, positive evidence of the fact that morning was "just around the corner." "What's more," Perk told himself, in jubilation, "I guess now I c'n feel a little waft o' a breeze startin' up. Soon as that gets goin' it's goodbye to Mister Fog. Whew! mebbe I won't be tickled pink when that's come to pass cause I'm crazy to set eyes on dear old Mother Earth again. Yes sir, the pesky old fog is commencin' to move out--jest keep it up, for you never will be missed." "All over but the shouting Perk," remarked Jack just then as if he could have understood the tenor of the other's thoughts. "Inside of another half hour we'll be free from the stuff--wow!
37102_1796	adventure stories	Marshall, Bernard Gay	“‘Who art thou, and what wilt thou have?’ he shouted. “‘Sir Boris of Morton,’ came the answer, ‘get up, thou churl and open the door.’ “‘Not for thee nor any man in such guise as this. Know’st thou not that Gilbert, the forester, lieth dead here? Go thy ways, I pray thee, and leave this house in peace.’ “But at this there were more yells and calls and louder smiting on the door. Then spake the stranger youth: “‘Go thy ways, whoe’er ye be. We be two armed men, and will suffer none to enter here this night.’” “Well and bravely spoken!” exclaimed my father, “’twas a well-born youth, I warrant thee.” “Nay,” answered the old servant, “he wore the hodden gray. But gentle or simple, he soon was forced to make good his words or swallow them, for my young master and his crew withdrew them for a brief space, then came rushing all together, bearing a huge log which they employed for a battering ram. At the very first thrust, it broke down the cottage door with a horrid crash. Then those that bore it instantly drew swords and poniards and essayed to enter in its wake. “Old Marvin, it seemed, had his cross-bow ready drawn; and he shot young Montalvan through the face at the first onslaught. The stranger youth fought with broadsword, and well and truly too. He had at first some vantage in the shadow in which he stood; but soon the rioters were all around him. He felled one of them with his very first stroke; but then Sir Boris came opposite him, striking and cursing like a madman. Marvin was overthrown and sorely wounded, and still the youth fought on, beset by four of his enemies at once. In a moment he had thrust Sir Boris clean through the body, and an instant after, fell, wounded to the death.” [Illustration: _OLD MARVIN HAD HIS CROSS-BOW READY DRAWN, AND HE SHOT YOUNG MONTALVAN THROUGH THE FACE AT THE VERY FIRST ONSET_] “Oh! By all the Saints!” cried Lord Mountjoy, “in hodden gray, say’st thou? I warrant ’twas a disguise, and that he was of noble strain. He could not have better died had he been a Huntingdon or a Montmorency.” During this recital my mother’s face had grown white as wax.
5901_1925	detective and mystery stories	Pinkerton, A. Frank	"How did it happen?" "I can't give you the particulars, since they were not given to me," answered he. "I only know that Dyke met with a fall on the stone pavement, and Dr. Boneset says that his leg is broken. He is in considerable pain, but cheerful withal, and will be mighty glad to see Nell, as he calls you." Again the man smiled in the face of the girl at his side, and up to this time no suspicion of the truth flashed upon her brain. Although the hack moved rapidly, it seemed to the anxious girl a long time in reaching its destination. "Mr. Darrel is at my house," said the gentleman, "and I live at least two miles from the depot." This was said to silence the growing uneasiness manifested by Miss Darrel. When at length the hack came to a halt, Mr. Sims quickly alighted and lifted Nell Darrel to the curb; then the hack sped swiftly into the night. Nell gazed about her with a shudder. The low, dingy buildings and bad smell pervading the place startled her. "It cannot be that this is the place," she cried, standing firm, as he attempted to lead her toward a door, over which glimmered a faint light. "Oh, yes it is." "But I will not go in there." "We'll see about that," he growled, suddenly lifting her in his arms and striding forward. CHAPTER XVIII. BEATEN BACK. The moment Nell Darrel felt herself lifted from her feet she uttered a wild cry, which was smothered in its inception by the hand of her captor. "Quiet, child; nobody's going to hurt you if you behave yourself." Nell was young and vigorous, and she made a desperate struggle for liberty. It was with the utmost difficulty that the man made his way to the room occupied by Mrs. Scarlet. "Bring the chloroform," said the villain. "We can't do anything with the girl without it." "I'll fix her!" answered the woman, in a voice that sent a shudder to the heart of poor Nell. Then a subtle fume filled the girl's nostrils, and soon her senses faded out upon a sea of nothingness--her troubles were over for the time. Then the man, who was none other than Professor Ruggles, bore his insensible burden after the steps of Mrs. Scarlet, to a room in a gloomy basement beneath the building.
45629_1221	detective and mystery stories	Newcomb, Ambrose	Used to hear about 'em when I was a kid up in Maine and over the line in Canada too (but never met one o' the breed before). Bet you that ol' boy c'n run a blue streak too, once he lets go. Well, since there ain't any tigers at large nor yet a catamount lyin' in ambush, guess I orter go ashore again an' hurry up my fire. Breakfast ready in ten minutes, 'member, Jack ol' hoss." While working over his fire and starting breakfast Perk must have been sketching in his mind the nerve racking encounter so lately in the spot-light, for once he stopped doing what he was engaged in, to look seriously up at the blue sky where a few floating white clouds had taken on a faint pink blush, showing that the rising sun was not far below the horizon though not scheduled to appear to any one in that deep valley for several hours yet--then he might have been heard holding communion with himself and saying: "I kinder guess moose steak wouldn't taste so bad but then what's the use o' cryin' over spilt milk? Mister Moose has skipped out an' then Jack wouldn't let me shoot, even if the ol' critter hung around lookin' for trouble. Didn't he say the close season was on with all game that you c'n eat and that the Mounties might get me if I took chances and nailed that big boy? Oh well! I'm all to the good and no tellin' what he might have done to me if we got mixed up in a sure enough scrap." Breakfast was almost as enjoyable as supper had been--not just wholly so for no one is ever quite so hard pressed by hunger in the early morning as seems to be the case toward close of day when all cares are tossed aside. Jack did not appear to be in any hurry to leave the scene of their night's bivouac for he puttered around, doing numerous small chores that, according to Perk's mind, could have just as well been postponed to another time without the sky falling. "Ain't she ready to take the air, Boss?" he finally demanded when he could stand it no longer, whereupon Jack looked up smilingly and nodded. "Everything's as fine as silk, brother, and since it's getting along, perhaps we'd better be on our way." "Huh! that's the line o' patter I'm longin' to hear from you, partner," Perk broke out in positive relief.
504_300	love stories	Sousa, John Philip	"Allow me to explain the peculiar characteristics of this magnificent instrument," said his satanic majesty. "This string," pointing to the G, "is the string of pity; this one," referring to the third, "is the string of hope; this," plunking the A, "is attuned to love, while this one, the E string, gives forth sounds of joy. "You will observe," went on the visitor, noting the intense interest displayed by the violinist, "that the position of the strings is the same as on any other violin, and therefore will require no additional study on your part." "But that extra string?" interrupted Diotti, designating the middle one on the violin, a vague foreboding rising within him. "That," said Mephistopheles, solemnly, and with no pretense of sophistry, "is the string of death, and he who plays upon it dies at once." "The--string--of--death!" repeated the violinist almost inaudibly. "Yes, the string of death," Satan repeated, "and he who plays upon it dies at once. But," he added cheerfully, "that need not worry you. I noticed a marvelous facility in your arm work. Your staccato and spiccato are wonderful. Every form of bowing appears child's play to you. It will be easy for you to avoid touching the string." "Why avoid it? Can it not be cut off?" "Ah, that's the rub. If you examine the violin closely you will find that the string of death is made up of the extra lengths of the other four strings. To cut it off would destroy the others, and then pity, hope, love and joy would cease to exist in the soul of the violin." "How like life itself," Diotti reflected, "pity, hope, love, joy end in death, and through death they are born again." "That's the idea, precisely," said Satan, evidently relieved by Diotti's logic and quick perception. The violinist examined the instrument with the practised eye of an expert, and turning to Satan said: "The four strings are beautifully white and transparent, but this one is black and odd looking. "What is it wrapped with?" eagerly inquired Diotti, examining the death string with microscopic care. "The fifth string was added after an unfortunate episode in the Garden of Eden, in which I was somewhat concerned," said Satan, soberly.
9609_974	adventure stories	Fielding, Henry	For not only the object himself who was thus relieved, but all who heard the name of such a person, must, I imagine, reverence him infinitely more than the possessor of all those other things; which when we so admire, we rather praise the builder, the workman, the painter, the lace-maker, the taylor, and the rest, by whose ingenuity they are produced, than the person who by his money makes them his own. For my own part, when I have waited behind my lady in a room hung with fine pictures, while I have been looking at them I have never once thought of their owner, nor hath any one else, as I ever observed; for when it hath been asked whose picture that was, it was never once answered the master's of the house; but Ammyconni, Paul Varnish, Hannibal Scratchi, or Hogarthi, which I suppose were the names of the painters; but if it was asked--Who redeemed such a one out of prison? Who lent such a ruined tradesman money to set up? Who clothed that family of poor small children? it is very plain what must be the answer. And besides, these great folks are mistaken if they imagine they get any honour at all by these means; for I do not remember I ever was with my lady at any house where she commended the house or furniture but I have heard her at her return home make sport and jeer at whatever she had before commended; and I have been told by other gentlemen in livery that it is the same in their families: but I defy the wisest man in the world to turn a true good action into ridicule. I defy him to do it. He who should endeavour it would be laughed at himself, instead of making others laugh. Nobody scarce doth any good, yet they all agree in praising those who do. Indeed, it is strange that all men should consent in commending goodness, and no man endeavour to deserve that commendation; whilst, on the contrary, all rail at wickedness, and all are as eager to be what they abuse. This I know not the reason of; but it is as plain as daylight to those who converse in the world, as I have done these three years." "Are all the great folks wicked then?" says Fanny. "To be sure there are some exceptions," answered Joseph.
36497_92	love stories	Beerbohm, Max, Sir	You may have met on the Zodiac." "Indeed, I met the Signora many years ago," the Dwarf replied, with a low bow. "But not on the Zodiac, and the Signora perhaps forgets me." At this speech the Signora flushed angrily, for she was indeed no longer young, and the Dwarf had a childish face. She thought he mocked her; her eyes flashed. Lord George's twinkled rather maliciously. "Great is the experience of youth," he laughed. "Pray, are you stricken with more than twenty summers?" "With more than I can count," said the Dwarf. "To the health of your Lordship!" and he drained his long glass of wine. Lord George replenished it, and asked by what means or miracle he had acquired his mastery of the bow. "By long practice," the little thing rejoined; "long practice on human creatures." And he nodded his curls mysteriously. "On my heart, you are a dangerous box-mate." "Your Lordship were certainly a good target." Little liking this joke at his bulk, which really rivalled the Regent's, Lord George turned brusquely in his chair and fixed his eyes upon the stage. This time it was the Gambogi who laughed. A new operette, _The Fair Captive of Samarcand_, was being enacted, and the frequenters of Garble's were all curious to behold the _débutante_, Jenny Mere, who was said to be both pretty and talented. These predictions were surely fulfilled, when the captive peeped from the window of her wooden turret. She looked so pale under her blue turban. Her eyes were dark with fear; her parted lips did not seem capable of speech. "Is it that she is frightened of us?" the audience wondered. "Or of the flashing scimitar of Aphoschaz, the cruel father who holds her captive?" So they gave her loud applause, and when at length she jumped down, to be caught in the arms of her gallant lover, Nissarah, and, throwing aside her Eastern draperies, did a simple dance in the convention of Columbine, their delight was quite unbounded. She was very young and did not dance very well, it is true, but they forgave her that. And when she turned in the dance and saw her father with his scimitar, their hearts beat swiftly for her. Nor were all eyes tearless when she pleaded with him for her life.
38357_2300	adventure stories	Marchmont, Arthur W.	"I thought when you forced your way into me you might be coming to assassinate me. But I see now you're not such a fool as to try and do anything of that kind when you have left a broad trail behind you that would lead to your certain detection. You are young; with all the weaknesses of youth strongly developed--rash, hotheaded, sometimes tipsy, a fool with women, and when, necessary, a knave too, loose in money matters and unscrupulous, a gambler, a dicer, and a bankrupt in morals, religion, and honour. But you are shrewd--for you've deceived everyone about your sword-skill and your courage--and under the garb of a worthless fellow you have a cool, calculating, and yet dare-devil head that should make your fortune. Others are more right about you than I." "Others?" I asked, interested and amused by this quiet enumeration of the results of the analysis of two very different, but united characters. "Who are the others?" A faint ghost of what in another man would have been a smile relaxed the grim, hard, straight lips for an instant, in mockery of my attempt to draw him. "You are not unknown, Lieutenant, as you may find soon; but you are a fool to mix yourself up with the Nihilists." It was my turn now to be on the defensive. "That is a charge which a child can make and the wisest man can sometimes fail to rebut," I answered, sharply. "I am not a Nihilist." He waved his hand as if my repudiation were not worth a serious thought. "I can make you a career, if you will. If you will act under me...." "Thank you," I returned, coldly. "I know what you can do. You can put me first on the list for some task which will insure my being served as you meant me to be served to-day. One commission is enough for me, and I prefer the Emperor's." "You don't know what you say, nor what you refuse." "All the more reason for not regretting my refusal," I retorted, lightly. "But this does not answer my question--Why do you seek to have me assassinated?" "Siberia is getting overpopulated," he returned, manifestly angry at my refusal. "You mean it's cheaper to kill than to exile.
43944_4311	science fiction	Aubrey, Frank	At this a loud cheer went up from all. "And now to more immediate duties. I have condemned this murderer of my son to death; he shall end his life befittingly as a sacrifice to the gods whose power he hath defied in coming here--defied only to his own doom. So shall perish all who brave me; and so shall perish this man's friends, his murderous abettors who, too, are in my power. And now, sirrah, if thou hast aught to say, thou hast just a minute. If thou hast aught to ask me, now is thy final opportunity." When he ceased speaking, Coryon sat down, first casting at Leonard a hideous glance of triumph. Leonard saw the sneer and knew that his enemy's desire was to excite him to a farther display of useless anger; but the knowledge only served to calm him, and, when he spoke, it was in a voice that had in it neither bitterness nor passion, but only a great sadness. He did not wish to gratify Coryon by exhibiting anger; and thus he spoke, "It is true I have something I would say, but it is not to thee, O Coryon, but to those who are not Coryon's degraded servants, but free agents, who have been misled into supporting him here to-day. To you, good people, I address myself." And Leonard cast his eyes around upon those who were not wearers of Coryon's uniform. "I have much to say and much to ask. Know that the power of this boastful tyrant who declares with mock humility his wicked purpose to force the youthful daughter of his king into an alliance that revolts her--know, good people, that his power is almost at an end, and that he will never enter into that palace, in which he has promised to find place for his credulous followers. He may kill me if he will, but my death will naught avail; a few hours hence he will be either a prisoner in the hands of those who came with me, or hiding in his underground haunts like a hunted animal that dares not show its face above the ground. But the end will be the same. He will quickly be hurled out, and a terrible punishment will be meted out to him and to all those who abet him--every one, that is, who shall support him. Therefore I say this to you, when my friends come--as come they will--do not help Coryon's myrmidons against them.
6993_1697	science fiction	Shiel, M. P. (Matthew Phipps)	He presently went to a back window, and saw ruddy streaks between the boarding of the shanty, while sounds of the hammer reached him. He would go and meet Hogarth: no harm in that; but it was stealthily that he hurried down the stair and carried himself across the yard, grinning a grimace of self-conscious caution, to peep through a cranny. Hogarth’s back was toward him, the iron leg lying near a box in which was a sitting hen, on its top a candlestick, the calico bag, and a lot of the gems: at which the priest’s palm covered his awed mouth, and with a fleet thievishness, like a cat on hot bricks, he trotted back to the cottage. Ten minutes later Hogarth entered, nodding: “Ah, O’Hara...”; and he called down: “Mrs. Sturgess! pen, ink, and paper!” When these came, he sat and wrote: “I have escaped from prison, and come into great power. I summon you to meet me at the elm in the beech-wood to-night at nine. I beseech you, I entreat you. I burn to ashes. Rebekah! My flames of fire! I am dying. “R. H.” He enclosed, and handed it, without any address, to O’Hara. “O’Hara”, said he, “I want you to take that for me. Come--I will show you the place. You ask in the hall to see ‘the young lady’: her name does not concern you; but you can’t mistake her: she is so-pretty. Give the note to no one else, of course: it mentions my escape, for one thing. I know you will do it well”. He conducted O’Hara, till the two towers of Westring were visible; pointed them out; then went back, and in an hour had finished his work on the diamonds. O’Hara, meantime, going on his way alone, muttered: “You go fast, Hogarth: prelates of the Church your errand boys? But there is a little fellow called Alf Harris...if he had seen what I have seen to-night, you would be a corpse now”. In twenty minutes he was at Westring, which he knew well, for twenty-five years before he had lived in the Vale: but he supposed that Lord Westring de Broom was still the inmate. He asked to see “the young lady”, persisted, and after a time Rebekah came with eyebrows of inquiry.
64128_1500	love stories	Phillips, David Graham	At this moment Grafton saw Moltzahn coming towards him. “Wait,” he said to Ernestine’s brother. “Don’t move until I’ve spoken to you again.” Moltzahn advanced towards him and bowed politely, much to Grafton’s surprise. “I know that you are watched,” he said to Grafton. “As I have something to communicate to you, we must seem to meet as friendly acquaintances and to be talking on indifferent subjects. Will you walk with me a few minutes, please?” There was a thinly veiled contempt in Moltzahn’s tone which made Grafton feel like kicking him. But in the circumstances he would have been civil to Aloyse himself in the hope of laying hold of something that would bring him nearer Erica. He rose, and they began a slow promenade. “His Royal Highness, the Inheriting Grand Duke, has made me the reluctant bearer of a challenge to you. I have tried to dissuade him, but he is determined to punish you for your insults. He waives the difference in rank, the fact that he has no right to send a challenge to such as you.” “It will be a great pleasure,” said Grafton, with grim joy. “I, too, will waive the difference of rank--the fact that he is not a gentleman.” “It is impossible for me to answer you as you deserve--” “You couldn’t say anything that would disturb the friendly feeling I have for you,” said Grafton. “You don’t know how grateful I am to you for bringing me this--this opportunity. I could almost--yes, I think I could--shake hands with you.” “What weapons?” said Moltzahn. “But have you a second?” “I shall have one--and I choose pistols.” “I suggest that the meeting be at a little town on the Swiss border--Zoltenau. Do you know it?” “Yes; I shall be there.” “The circumstances make it impossible to follow the formalities and arrange through your second. When can you be there?” “Whenever you say.” “Then at three to-morrow morning. We shall be on the main road about a hundred yards from the last house--the inn--at the eastern end of the village. But will you be able to evade the police?” “Easily; I shall be there.” They bowed, Moltzahn went his way, Grafton returned to the bench.
18426_3552	love stories	Hueston, Ethel	None of my business, anyhow." "Come on, Prince," called a man from the road, curbing his impatient horse. But "Prince" waved him away without turning. This was a wonderful girl. "I--I write stories," Connie explained hurriedly, to get away from that searching clasp of glances. "I wanted some literary material, and I seemed so far away from everything. I thought I needed the personal touch, you know." "Anything I can tell you?" he offered feverishly. "I know all about range and ranch life. I can tell you anything you want to know." "Really? And will you do it? You know writers have just got to get material. It is absolutely necessary. And I am running very short of ideas, I have been loafing." He waited patiently. He was more than willing to tell her everything he knew, or could make up to please her, but he had not the slightest idea what she wanted. Whatever it was, he certainly intended to make the effort of his life to give her. "I am Constance Starr," said Connie, still more abashed by the unfaltering presence of this curious creature, who, she fully realized at last, was quite human enough for any literary purpose. "And this is my brother-in-law, Mr. Duke, and my sister, Mrs. Duke." "My name is Prince Ingram." David shook hands with him cordially, with smiling eyes, and asked him to sit down so Connie might ask her questions in comfort. They all took chairs, and Prince waited. Connie racked her brain. Five minutes ago there had been ten thousand things she yearned to know about this strange existence. Now, unfairly, she could not think of one. It seemed to her she knew all there was to know about them. They looked into each other's eyes, men and women, as men and women do in Chicago. They touched hands, and the blood quickened, the old Chicago style. They talked plain English, they liked pretty clothes, they worshiped good horses, they lived on the boundless plains. What on earth was there to ask? Quite suddenly, Connie understood them perfectly. But Prince realized that he was not making good. His one claim to admission in her presence was his ability to tell her what she wanted to know. He had got to tell her things,--but what things? My stars, what did she want to know?
362_3573	love stories	Porter, Eleanor H. (Eleanor Hodgman)	Billy was already the cynosure of dozens of eyes, and Bertram knew that his own arrival on the scene had not lessened the interest of the owners of those eyes. He only hoped devoutly that no one in the line knew him ar Billy, and that no one quite knew what had happened. He did not wish to see himself and his fiancée the subject of inch-high headlines in some evening paper figuring as: “Talented young composer and her famous artist lover take poor girl's place in a twenty-five-cent ticket line.” He shivered at the thought. “Are you cold?” worried Billy. “If you are, don't stand here, please!” He shook his head silently. His eyes were searching the street for the only one whose coming could bring him relief. It must have been but a coffee-and-sandwich luncheon for the girl, for soon she came. The man surmised that it was she, as soon as he saw her, and stepped back at once. He had no wish for introductions. A moment later the girl was in Billy's place, and Billy herself was at his side. “That was Alice Greggory, Bertram,” she told him, as they walked on swiftly; “and Bertram, she was actually almost _crying_ when she took my place.” “Humph! Well, I should think she'd better be,” growled Bertram, perversely. “Pooh! It didn't hurt me any, dearie,” laughed Billy with a conciliatory pat on his arm as they turned down the street upon which her friend lived. “And now can you come in and see May a minute?” “I'm afraid not,” regretted Bertram. “I wish I could, but I'm busier than busy to-day--and I was _supposed_ to be already late when I saw you. Jove, Billy, I just couldn't believe my eyes!” “You looked it,” twinkled Billy. “It was worth a farm just to see your face!” “I'd want the farm--if I was going through that again,” retorted the man, grimly--Bertram was still seeing that newspaper heading. But Billy only laughed again. CHAPTER XX. ARKWRIGHT TELLS A STORY Arkwright called Monday afternoon by appointment; and together he and Billy put the finishing touches to the new song.
362_4279	love stories	Porter, Eleanor H. (Eleanor Hodgman)	Bad as these things were, however, they were only the intimate, immediate woes. Beyond and around them lay others many others. To be sure, Bertram and happiness were supposed to be somewhere in the dim and uncertain future; but between her and them lay all these other woes, chief of which was the unutterable tragedy of to-morrow night. It was to be a failure, of course. Billy had calmly made up her mind to that, now. But then, she was used to failures, she told herself. Was she not plainly failing every day of her life to bring about even friendship between Alice Greggory and Arkwright? Did they not emphatically and systematically refuse to be “thrown together,” either naturally, or unnaturally? And yet--whenever again could she expect such opportunities to further her Cause as had been hers the past few weeks, through the operetta and its rehearsals? Certainly, never again! It had been a failure like all the rest; like the operetta, in particular. Billy did not mean that any one should know she was crying. She supposed that all the performers except herself and the two earth-bound fairies by the piano with Alice Greggory were gone. She knew that John with Peggy was probably waiting at the door outside, and she hoped that soon the fairies would decide to go home and go to bed, and let other people do the same. For her part, she did not see why they were struggling so hard, anyway. Why needn't they go ahead and sing their duet like two solos if they wanted to? As if a little thing like that could make a feather's weight of difference in the grand total of to-morrow night's wretchedness when the final curtain should have been rung down on their shame! “Miss Neilson, you aren't--crying!” exclaimed a low voice; and Billy turned to find Arkwright standing by her side in the dim light. “Oh, no--yes--well, maybe I was, a little,” stammered Billy, trying to speak very unconcernedly. “How warm it is in here! Do you think it's going to rain?--that is, outdoors, of course, I mean.” Arkwright dropped into the seat behind Billy and leaned forward, his eyes striving to read the girl's half-averted face. If Billy had turned, she would have seen that Arkwright's own face showed white and a little drawn-looking in the feeble rays from the light by the piano. But Billy did not turn.
42010_2094	detective and mystery stories	Flynn, William J. (William James)	A. Yes, quite a long while; they had a disease which required that they come to my house every day, both Morello and the Terranovas. Q. When was that? A. That went on for about two years. Q. What two years? A. The two years just preceding 1907 and 1908. Q. Was Morello born with that deformed hand? A. Yes. He was so much crippled that they called him "Little Finger." Q. Then you did not treat Morello in 1909? A. At the time that I stated I did see him at No. 107 East One Hundred and Thirty-eighth Street; also, I saw him in Rizzo's house, and he would complain of pains; he was always complaining. Q. He was not sick in bed? A. No. Q. You did not have any consultation with Dr. Brancato? A. No. I think that I may have had one consultation with him when he was at One Hundred and Thirty-eighth Street. Q. When? A. I think it was before the time I covered. I think it was in December, 1908, also. Q. That means January and February? A. No. Q. He was not treating Morello? A. He was the family physician in a way. Q. What do you think of him? A. Dr. Brancato? I want to state the fact as honestly as if he were my brother. I think he was a figurehead, too. Q. Did he ever say about what he was going to testify? A. He said we were up against a bad proposition. "Let us make our testimony as light as possible," he said. I asked him how we could avoid a thing of that kind. They would get us into trouble and we would have to stand for it. Q. Who came to you and told you that you would have to testify? A. Nobody; but this is the way it was done: They went to my mother and began to talk to her. Q. Who? A. Mrs. Morello and the mother of Morello and the brothers of Morello. So they went there and began to explain that they had got into very serious trouble. They also said that the only way-- Q. Who? A. That he could be possibly saved would be to produce an alibi. I was to say that he was not out at any time he was accused of being out. I was to understand that he was the wrong man mentioned in court. They explained to my mother that the police knew that Dr. Romano had been their physician.
58820_2990	detective and mystery stories	Sayers, Dorothy L. (Dorothy Leigh)	It reminded you of the way old Freke took a body to pieces. “Thing I object to in detective stories,” said Mr. Piggott, “is the way fellows remember every bloomin’ thing that’s happened to ’em within the last six months. They’re always ready with their time of day and was it rainin’ or not, and what were they doin’ on such an’ such a day. Reel it all off like a page of poetry. But one ain’t like that in real life, d’you think so, Lord Peter?” Lord Peter smiled, and young Piggott, instantly embarrassed, appealed to his earlier acquaintance. “You know what I mean, Parker. Come now. One day’s so like another, I’m sure I couldn’t remember—well, I might remember yesterday, p’r’aps, but I couldn’t be certain about what I was doin’ last week if I was to be shot for it.” “No,” said Parker, “and evidence given in police statements sounds just as impossible. But they don’t really get it like that, you know. I mean, a man doesn’t just say, ‘Last Friday I went out at 10 a.m. to buy a mutton chop. As I was turning into Mortimer Street I noticed a girl of about twenty-two with black hair and brown eyes, wearing a green jumper, check skirt, Panama hat and black shoes, riding a Royal Sunbeam Cycle at about ten miles an hour turning the corner by the Church of St. Simon and St. Jude on the wrong side of the road riding towards the market place!’ It amounts to that, of course, but it’s really wormed out of him by a series of questions.” “And in short stories,” said Lord Peter, “it has to be put in statement form, because the real conversation would be so long and twaddly and tedious, and nobody would have the patience to read it. Writers have to consider their readers, if any, y’see.” “Yes,” said Mr. Piggott, “but I bet you most people would find it jolly difficult to remember, even if you asked ’em things. I should—of course, I know I’m a bit of a fool, but then, most people are, ain’t they? You know what I mean. Witnesses ain’t detectives, they’re just average idiots like you and me.”
55415_2601	adventure stories	Palmer, Don	The loss of the balsa and their stores was a serious matter. Their only hope, it seemed, lay with Mr. Livingston and the other Scouts. Yet if the following party should arrive at the broken bridge, it might find itself ambushed. “We ought to warn ’em what they’re running into,” Jack muttered. “But how?” He fished in his packets. His Scout knife was gone, but there remained a metal, water-proof container of matches. “I’ll get a fire started,” he announced. “Won’t it draw the Indians?” “It may,” Jack conceded, “but you can be sure they’re watching our every move anyway. So there’s nothing to be gained by freezing to death. Besides, if Hap reaches the bridge, he’ll be able to see the fire.” “But he won’t know it’s ours, Jack. He may think it’s a native camp.” “Anyway, let’s have a fire,” the other urged. “We can dry out our clothes at least.” While Ken did what he could to make Pedro more comfortable, the crew leader searched for suitable wood. The matches had remained dry. Choosing a protected spot where a large boulder provided a windbreak, he built a small fire. Then, while Ken and Pedro warmed themselves, he gathered more wood. This he stacked nearby, intending to throw it all on, should there be any evidence that Hap’s party had arrived at the broken bridge. The fire cheered the three and gave them a measure of reassurance. “No attack yet,” Ken remarked hopefully. “Maybe those Indians intend to leave us alone.” “Don’t count on it,” Jack replied. “They’re just being deliberate.” Time wore on. Pedro slept fitfully, but Ken and Jack were afraid to doze off even for an instant. They kept the fire going and maintained a ceaseless vigil for their friends. “Hap should be at the bridge by this time,” Ken said anxiously. “Something’s happened.” Jack felt particularly sick at heart, blaming himself for the disaster that had befallen. “We made our first bad mistake in not testing the bridge,” he said. “That was Pedro’s error, Jack.” “Yes, but we should have watched him. Then I misjudged the swiftness of the current.” “We both did,” Ken corrected. “No use blaming yourself, Jack. What’s done is done.”
43114_1796	adventure stories	Bryden, H. A. (Henry Anderson)	This bull’s teeth will weigh forty pounds apiece; the other’s are much heavier. Hark!" As he spoke there came sounds of firing in front of them, first one shot, then two others. "Come on, Poeskop!" cried Guy. "They are still hard at it. We may come in for more of the fun." Threading their way through the forest, they trotted for a long half mile, and then heard, not far in front, the scream of an angry elephant. Guy was beginning to get somewhat more accustomed to the sound; yet, as he was always afterwards ready to admit, there are few things in nature more awe-inspiring than the trumpet of a wounded or infuriated elephant. They moved forward very cautiously for another few yards, and then came on the edge of more open ground. To the right they saw an elephant, manifestly a cow and wounded, shambling towards them. She was going slowly, and every now and again would stop, spread out her huge ears, and thrust out her trunk. Twice she picked up dust with her trunk, and blew it over her shoulders as if bathing herself. "She is far gone," whispered the Bushman. "We can finish her as she goes by." She was now within less than thirty yards of them, and as she came past each saluted her with a bullet. The cow staggered, came on, thought better of it, and then turned to make off. As she turned, Tom Blakeney ran out into the open, fifty yards away, and gave her yet another bullet. He stood and reloaded quickly, ready to turn and run for the shelter of the woodland if she should charge again. But the big cow was finished. She staggered as Tom’s Martini bullet struck her, tried to save herself, and then with a heavy crash fell over on to her side, stone dead. "Hurrah!" shouted Tom, taking off his hat and flinging it up into the air. "I thought I should never get her. I’ve been after her nearly half an hour. Thanks for your help, Guy. Where’s the pater?" "Here, my boy," replied Mr. Blakeney, with a smile, as he too emerged from the forest. "I have been running on your spoor the last ten minutes. I was afraid you might get into trouble. However, you’ve got your cow, and very nice teeth she has. They weigh more than twenty pounds apiece, I should say.
14334_282	western stories	Bower, B. M.	Whew! I might have saved him the trouble of writing that, if I had only known it. Dad could go too far in this thing, I told myself chestily. I had come, seeing that he insisted upon it, but I'd be damned if I'd work for any man with a circus-poster name, and have him lord it over me. I hadn't been brought up to appreciate that kind of joke. I meant to earn my living, but I did not mean to get out and slave for Perry Potter. There must be something respectable for a man to do in this country besides ranch work. In the morning we started off, with my trunks in the wagon, toward the line of purple hills in the south. Frosty Miller told me, when I asked him, that they were forty-eight miles away, that they marked the Missouri River, and that we would stop there overnight. That, if I remember, was about the extent of our conversation that day. We smoked cigarettes--Frosty Miller made his, one by one, as he needed them--and thought our own thoughts. I rather suspect our thoughts were a good many miles apart, though our shoulders touched. When you think of it, people may rub elbows and still have an ocean or two between them. I don't know where Frosty was, all through that long day's ride; for me, I was back in little old Frisco, with Barney MacTague and the rest of the crowd; and part of the time, I know, I was telling dad what a mess he'd made of bringing up his only son. That night we slept in a shack at the river--"Pochette Crossing" was the name it answered to--and shared the same bed. It was not remarkable for its comfort--that bed. I think the mattress was stuffed with potatoes; it felt that way. Next morning we were off again, over the same bare, brown, unpeopled wilderness. Once we saw a badger zigzagging along a side-hill, and Frosty whipped out a big revolver--one of those "Colt 45's," I suppose--and shot it; he said in extenuation that they play the very devil with the range, digging holes for cow-punchers to break their necks over. I was surprised at Frosty; there he had been armed, all the time, and I never guessed it. Even when we went to bed the night before, I had not glimpsed a weapon.
63749_154	science fiction	Grimes, Millard	"You saw the buildings here in this ... what was once a great city. These buildings are a few which are left of a civilization which grew weary. 'Twas not a young race as the one which fostered your world, but an old race which tired of working--even of thinking. The civilization went untended, until finally my ancestors decided they would have to invade another world to find servants to relieve Martians of the work--and the thinking--which they had grown to dislike so much. They reasoned that with proper servants they would have nothing to do but eat and sleep as they wanted. "So my people invaded another planet." "You had space travel then?" Boone demanded. "How long ago was this?" "Three thousand ... maybe four thousand years ago as you count time." "But with space travel four thousand years ago," Nance stammered, "it seems the first planet you would have visited would have been ours--Earth." Staang laughed again. "Perhaps it was," he said. "But let me finish my story." "As I said, my people were fat and lazy, as I am now. Thus, open fighting as a means of bringing another race to be our slaves was out of the question. They had to find another way. And they did. "Our first troops were sent to Agar, and they reported very satisfactory results. Soon, practically the whole population migrated to Agar and the Agarians became our slaves. A few Martians, such as my ancestors, remained here. They kept the record of this invasion and also recorded all correspondence between this planet and Agar. Ah, would they had gone also, so that today I would have nothing to do but eat and sleep, as most of my race does--on Agar." He yawned at the thought. "Do not think badly of my race," he implored suddenly. "Some day your people also will grow old and tired." Boone grabbed Staang by the arm and shook him firmly. "But where does Earth come in?" he demanded. Staang gazed at the stern old General and then once again burst into peals of laughter. "You see," he giggled. "We Martians have another name for your Earth. We call it Agar. Your world is the one my ancestors invaded thousands of years ago. Your people are my people's slaves until today." "Wh ... what is he saying?" Nance stammered.
21834_406	love stories	Milne, James	That was to forget his place of notoriety, which gave its own power, among the people of the Aberdeenshire Highlands. Whenever, in going about the hills and the valleys, I met a simple man of the soil he would touch his bonnet in salute to me, never to my uniform, and, after a little, remark in his soft Gaelic, "So the Black Colonel is still defying you all--a tremendous lad, isn't he?" This would be said with a gleam in the eye, to give it delicacy, a bearing of personal courtesy which I did not miss because I was liked for myself, and we all like to be liked for ourselves. You will apprehend by now, perhaps, that I knew my Highland men, whether I found them digging peats in the moss, or gathering in their skimp harvest of unopened corn, so that it should escape the hungry grouse and the coming winter. They were wholly kindly, as follows from simple living, generous in their narrow outlook, and yet strongly individual. They had, as a people, character, which is the noblest gift of the gods, for everything else depends on it, and hardly anything can be achieved without it. They took a pride in the Black Colonel, as one of themselves, and in his deeds as a fighter who, on many occasions, had reversed the saying about being willing to wound but afraid to strike. He had, they admitted, wrong ways at times, and if these could not openly be defended, still they were almost forgiven a man with his back to the wall where a shot, or a stab, might find him any day or any night. Withal, too, he bore about him a touch of romance, a gallant atmosphere, and your Highlander, loving to sit on a stile and look at the sun, will pardon much for that. Thus there was a general sympathy with the Black Colonel, which he could draw upon either as a veil to conceal his doings, or for active help, and it was this knowledge which caused me to be apprehensive. For, though thirty years had passed since his lordship of Mar peremptorily wrote to the chief of Inverernan, our Highland life had not changed vitally. The same rude passion ran through it, as like mists hung over the Slock of Morvan and the gaping chasm in the side of Lochnagar.
4702_3314	western stories	Curwood, James Oliver	Not for an instant had there been in it a betrayal of the lover, no suggestion of the husband who cared deeply or who might be made jealous by another man. Sitting in darkness thickening with the nearer approach of storm, David recalled the stab of pain mingled with humiliation that had come into the eyes of St. Pierre's wife when she had stood facing her husband. He heard again, with a new understanding, the low note of pathos in her voice as in song she had called upon the Mother of Christ to hear her--and help her. He had not guessed at the tragedy of it then. Now he knew, and he thought of her lying awake in the gloom beyond the bulkhead, her eyes were with tears. And St. Pierre had gone back to his raft, singing in the night! Where before there had been sympathy for him, there rose a sincere revulsion. There had been a reason for St. Pierre's masterly possession of himself, and it had not been, as he had thought, because of his bigness of soul. It was because he had not cared. He was a splendid hypocrite, playing his game well at the beginning, but betraying the lie at the end. He did not love Marie-Anne as he, Dave Carrigan, loved her. He had spoken of her as a child, and he had treated her as a child, and was serenely dispassionate in the face of a situation which would have roused the spirit in most men. And suddenly, recalling that thrilling hour in the white strip of sand and all that had happened since, it flashed upon David that St. Pierre was using his wife as the vital moving force in a game of his own--that under the masquerade of his apparent faith and bigness of character he was sacrificing her to achieve a certain mysterious something it the scheme of his own affairs. Yet he could not forget the infinite faith Marie-Anne Boulain had expressed in her husband. There had been no hypocrisy in her waiting and her watching for him, or in her belief that he would straighten out the tangles of the dilemma in which she had become involved. Nor had there been make-believe in the manner she had left him that day in her eagerness to go to St. Pierre. Adding these facts as he had added the others, he fancied he saw the truth staring at him out of the darkness of his cabin room. Marie-Anne loved her husband. And St. Pierre was merely the possessor, careless and indifferent, almost brutally dispassionate in his consideration of her.
46653_323	adventure stories	Hemyng, Bracebridge	Sadly she turned away. Her tears flowed fast, and so broken-hearted was she that she did not bestow one glance at the feverish and excited face of her erring and misguided husband. At the door she was confronted by Mr. Smith, who bowed politely. "Madame," he exclaimed, "permit me to have the honor of escorting you to your carriage." Elise Holt looked up in surprise. "I have no carriage, sir," she answered. "Then I will get you one." "But I have no money to pay for one." "My purse is at your service." "Oh, sir," she exclaimed, blushing, "it would not be right for me to accept a favor from a perfect stranger." "Pardon me, I am a friend of your husband." "Is that so? Well, if you know Clarence, will you not persuade him to come home?" She looked pleadingly at Mr. Smith. "I will do more than that," he rejoined. "How?" "I will see to it that he does come to you in half an hour. Come, take my arm." Elise did not hesitate any longer, but timidly placed her little delicately-gloved hand on the arm of the handsome stranger, who was so kind and generous. "Ah!" she thought, "if I had married him instead of Clarence!" They descended the stairs together, and her tears ceased to flow. CHAPTER II. A SURPRISE. In the street they saw a carriage, which Mr. Smith hailed, and when it drove up he placed Mrs. Holt inside. "Drive this lady to No. 113 Mission Street," he exclaimed. Elise opened her eyes wide with astonishment. "You know where we live!" she ejaculated. "Certainly I do. Good-evening. Clarence shall be home in half an hour." He handed the driver two dollars, and Elise was taken to her apartments in a luxurious style which was entirely new to her. Mr. Smith returned to the gambling-saloon, much impressed with the modesty and beauty of Elise. "Decidedly, she is too good for Clarence," he muttered. Once again in the gilded saloon of vice he looked in vain for Clarence among the players. "Where is the young man who was winning?" he asked of the dealer. "He has dropped out," was the answer. "A loser?" "Yes.
30318_1176	western stories	Garland, Hamlin	" Notwithstanding all his boasting, he was not only an actor out of an engagement, but flat broke, badly dressed, and in sorry disrepute with managers. "I've been playing in a stock company in San Francisco," he had explained, "and I'm now on my way to New York to produce a play of my own. Hence these tears. I need an 'angel.'" He distinctly said "the first of the month" in this announcement, but as the days went by he only settled deeper into the snug corners of the Haney home, making no further mention of his triumphal eastward progress. On the contrary, he had the air of a regular boarder, and turned up promptly for meals, rotund and glowing in the opulence of his brother's hospitality. On the strength of his name he found favor with the tailors, and bourgeoned forth a few days later in the best cloth the shops afforded, and strutted and plumed himself like a turkey-cock before Bertha, keeping up meanwhile a pretension of sympathy and good-fellowship with Mart. In this he miscalculated; for Bertha, youthful as she seemed, was accustomed, as she would say, to "standing off mashers," and her impassive face and keen, steady eyes fairly disconcerted the libertine. "For Mart's sake, we'll put up with him," she said to her mother. "He's a loafer; but I can see the Captain kind o' likes to have him around--for old times' sake, I reckon." This was true. When alone with his brother, Charles dropped his egotistic brag and dramatic bluster, and touched craftily upon the dare-devil, boyish life they had led together. He was shrewd enough to see and understand that this was his most ingratiating rôle, and he played it "to the limit," as Bertha would have said. And yet no one in the house realized how his presence reacted against Bertha. "What are we to think of a girl so obtuse that she permits a man like this fat, disgusting actor to dangle about her?" asked Mrs. Crego of her husband, who was Haney's legal adviser. "He's her husband's brother, you know," argued Crego. "All the same, I can't understand her. She looks nice and sweet, and you say she is so; and yet here she is married to a notorious gambler, and associating with mountebanks and all sorts of malodorous people.
40751_1512	adventure stories	Strang, Herbert	It was gone. He felt in all his pockets: they had been emptied. Nothing but his clothes was left to him. Looking up at the window slit, he saw sunlight streaming in; the greenish hue had almost disappeared. He rose, and with a strong effort of will forced himself to turn towards the wall on which the monster was painted. He almost shouted with relief when he discovered that the third eye, though still aglow, was much dimmer than it had been in the night. The sun had conquered; the eye’s baleful attraction was gone. Presently the negrito guards brought him his breakfast of water and the same glutinous porridge as on the previous day. He spoke to them, first in English, then in Hindustani, but they answered nothing; if they understood him, they gave no sign of it. An hour or two later they returned, accompanied by one of the shaven priests, who indicated that he was to follow them. To refuse, he knew, would be vain; but he shivered with dread lest he were summoned to witness another scene like that of the night. He found, however, that his fears were not justified. His guards took him through miles, as it seemed, of narrow corridors hewn in the rock, always ascending, and brought him presently to an arch through which the sunlight poured. Passing out into the open air, he saw with surprise that he was at the foot of a steep stairway cut in the face of the rift. The steps, about a foot wide, led to the summit, perhaps a hundred feet above. A rope, carried down a kind of handrail, intervened between the passenger and the abyss yawning more than a thousand feet below. The guards signified that he was at liberty to ascend the stairs, and left him. At first he shrank from attempting the climb; his experiences, and his restless night, ill fitted him for any task that demanded steady nerves. But Mackenzie was a man of grit; freedom, the fresh air, the pure sunshine braced him; his curiosity was keen; and at length, steadfastly averting his eyes from the dizzy depth below, and clinging firmly to the rope, he began to mount the stairway. He gained the top, and an unexpected sight met his wondering eyes. Before him, and on either side, stretched a broad plateau, rising in the far distance to the mountains of the snowy range, whose peaks, miles high, glistened dazzlingly in the sunlight. That which surprised him most of all was that the plateau was cultivated.
45776_520	detective and mystery stories	Newcomb, Ambrose	“Here we got to do our work in the dark; while that smart cuss holds all the high cards in the pack, an’ c’n trump our ace any time he takes a notion.” “No need to worry about that, comrade,” said Jack, soothingly. “You must remember that when we move along we mean to disappear as if heading into the thickest belt of pea soup fog ever seen—in that way they’ll lose all trace of us, and we can play our cards as we choose, making up for a different breed of sky travelers, so as to dope the cleverest kind of spies he can send out. While they’re left guessing what’s become of us we’ll be doing our little tracking job, and hour by hour, day after day, keep on creeping closer to their secret stronghold, wherever that may prove to be. Those are some of the things we figured on doing, Perk, don’t forget.” The one addressed made no reply, but as he let his head fall back, as if he meant to pick up a few winks of sleep, there came a look of rapt admiration on his weather-beaten face that bespoke the utmost confidence in his best pal. CHAPTER X LAYING PLANS After a noonday lunch Jack and his partner spent most of the afternoon in carrying out the various duties that were seemingly on their program. Among other things Jack visited the Federal building, and was closeted for more than an hour with Mr. Adkins. The latter official had conceived a great fancy for young Ralston, and went to no end of trouble so as to post him with regard to what he was likely to run up against while endeavoring to close in on Slippery Slim. With his accustomed sagacity Jack made notes of some of the facts thus laid before him; but since these were in shorthand, and would be utterly unintelligible to any outside party, should they chance to fall into enemy hands, there was no danger that any mischief would follow. By degrees he was filling up with scraps of description, and everything connected with former attempts at locating the hideout, where all this unlawful scrip was being turned off the press, to flood the Southwest. That was always his way of doing—when given a tough job Jack would live alongside it, breathing the very atmosphere of the undertaking, until he found himself sympathetic with the aims and ambitions of the criminals whose apprehension was placed on his shoulders by his Big Boss.
7132_1694	adventure stories	Hudson, W. H. (William Henry)	Then, turning to the young lady, he said, “Dolores, will you and your mother take charge of my young friend till I return, and see that his injured arm is attended to?” “My General, you will make us happy by leaving him in our care,” she replied, with a bright smile. He then introduced me as Don Ricardo simply--for he did not know my surname--to the lovely señorita, Dolores Zelaya; after which he again bade us adieu and hurried away. When he had gone, Alday advanced, hat in hand, and gave me back my revolver, which I had forgotten all about. I took it with my left hand, and put it in my pocket. He then apologised for having treated me roughly--the Major had taught him that word--but without the faintest trace of servility in his speech or manner; and after that he offered me his hand. “Which will you have,” I said, “the hand you have injured or the left hand?” He immediately dropped his own hand to his side, then, bowing, said he would wait till I had recovered the use of my right hand. Turning to go, he added with a smile that he hoped the injury would soon heal, so that I would be able to wield a sword in my friend Santa Coloma’s cause. His manner, I thought, was a little too independent. “Pray take back your horse now,” I said, “as I have no further use for it, and accept my thanks for conducting me thus far on my journey.” “Do not mention it,” he replied, with a dignified wave of his hand. “I am pleased to have been able to render you this small service.” CHAPTER XVI When Alday had left us, the charming señorita, in whose care I was well pleased to find myself, led me into a cool, spacious room, dimly lighted, scantily furnished, and with a floor of red tiles. It was a great relief to drop into a sofa there, for I now felt fatigued and suffered great pain from my arm. In a few moments I had the señorita, her mother, Doña Mercedes, and an old serving-woman all round me. Gently drawing off my coat, they subjected my wounded arm to a minute examination; their compassionate finger-tips--those of the lovely Dolores especially--feeling like a soft, cooling rain on the swollen, inflamed part, which had become quite purple.
7303_1741	science fiction	Bellamy, Edward	History has been full of just such wholesale readjustments of property interests by spoliation, conquest, or confiscation. They have been more or less justifiable, but when least so they were never thought to involve any denial of the idea of private property in itself, for they went right on to reassert it under a different form. Less than any previous readjustment of property relations could the general equalizing of property in the Revolution be called a denial of the right of property. On the precise contrary it was an assertion and vindication of that right on a scale never before dreamed of. Before the Revolution very few of the people had any property at all and no economic provision save from day to day. By the new system all were assured of a large, equal, and fixed share in the total national principal and income. Before the Revolution even those who had secured a property were likely to have it taken from them or to slip from them by a thousand accidents. Even the millionaire had no assurance that his grandson might not become a homeless vagabond or his granddaughter be forced to a life of shame. Under the new system the title of every citizen to his individual fortune became indefeasible, and he could lose it only when the nation became bankrupt. The Revolution, that is to say, instead of denying or abolishing the institution of private property, affirmed it in an incomparably more positive, beneficial, permanent, and general form than had ever been known before. "Of course, Julian, it was in the way of human nature quite a matter of course that your contemporaries should have cried out against the idea of a universal right of property as an attack on the principle of property. There was never a prophet or reformer who raised his voice for a purer, more spiritual, and perfect idea of religion whom his contemporaries did not accuse of seeking to abolish religion; nor ever in political affairs did any party proclaim a juster, larger, wiser ideal of government without being accused of seeking to abolish government. So it was quite according to precedent that those who taught the right of all to property should be accused of attacking the right of property. But who, think you, were the true friends and champions of private property?
66030_2820	adventure stories	Gould, Nat	Edgar felt they were treading on some soft substance like sand, and, stooping down, felt it with his hands. It was like powder, quite white and fine. ‘The figure must have crumbled away,’ said Edgar. ‘Look at this powder’; and he handed some to Will. Yacka looked at it curiously, and said: ‘Enooma has gone; the White Spirit has left her cave, and has shown no sign.’ ‘This is a sign,’ said Edgar. ‘Your white lady has crumbled to dust. The figure must have been one of Nature’s freaks, and having become decayed and rotten with age, has been ground to powder by the fall.’ ‘I should like to know how the figure came where we found it,’ said Will. ‘It was placed there by the Enooma years and years ago,’ said Yacka. ‘It was a pure block of white stone then, and no figure on it. The White Spirit formed the figure, and Yacka is the son of Enooma.’ ‘Was Enooma, your mother, a white woman?’ said Edgar. ‘I knew no mother,’ said Yacka. ‘She left me before I could speak. The tribe knew she was white, and her spirit lived in these caves. Now the spirit is gone, and the Enooma will seek a new country. It is good; we have lived here too long. We shall go north, and be near the sea; that will give strength to the Enooma, and make them strong big men.’ ‘How are we to get out of this place,’ said Will. ‘Easy way out,’ said Yacka; ‘but hard way in.’ Edgar thought this strange, but waited to see what Yacka meant. ‘Come,’ said Yacka, limping along. ‘I will show you the riches of Enooma.’ He led them along a dark passage into another cave, and here the light streamed in from a cleft in the rock. Gold glittered in heaps on the floor. There were nuggets of gold almost solid, and some as large as a goose egg. They were scattered about in reckless profusion. There were diamonds of small size, uncut, and great rubies of pigeon-blood colour. It was a cave of riches, and Edgar and Will feasted their eyes on it in amazement. They held the rubies in their hands, and gloated over their wondrous colour.
14482_968	western stories	Cullum, Ridgwell	so well she kept locked in her own secret heart, and never, by word or act, did she allow herself to betray it. She was absolute mistress of the Foss River Ranch and she knew it. Old "Poker" John, like the morphine "fiend," merely continued to keep up his reputation and the more fully deserve his sobriquet. His mind, his character, his whole being was being slowly but surely absorbed in the lust of gambling. The girl laid her hand upon the old man's arm. "Uncle--what was Lablache talking to you about? I mean when I came for the field-glasses." "Poker" John was gazing abstractedly into the dense growth of pines which fringed the house. He pulled himself together, but his eyes had in them a far-away look. "Many things," he replied evasively. "Yes, I know, dear, but," bending her face while she removed one of her buckskin gauntlets from her hand, "I mean about me. You two were-discussing me, I know." She turned her keen gray eyes upon her relative as she finished speaking. The old man turned away. He felt that those eyes were reading his very soul. They made him uncomfortable. "Oh, he said I ought not to let you associate with certain people." "Why?" The sharp question came with the directness of a pistol-shot. "Well, he seemed to think that you might think of marrying." "Ah, and--" "He seemed to fancy that you, being impetuous, might make a mistake and fall--" "In love with the wrong man. Yes, I understand; and from his point of view, if ever I do marry it will undoubtedly be the wrong man." And the girl finished up with a mirthless laugh. They stood for some moments in silence. They were both thinking. The noise from the corrals behind the house reached them. The steady drip, drip of the water from the melting snow upon the roof of the house sounded loudly as it fell on the sodden ground beneath. "Uncle, did it ever strike you that that greasy money-lender wants to marry me himself?" The question startled John Allandale more than anything else could have done. He turned sharply round and faced his niece. "Marry you, Jacky?" he repeated. "I never thought of it." "It isn't to be supposed that you would have done so.
61334_30	science fiction	Banta, Frank	" * * * * * "Very well," assented the older man. "Perhaps the best place to begin is with their name. When we first occupied this planet, a bare twenty years ago, we called them wolfhawk-whirlybirds and tigerhawk-whirlybirds because they preyed on vicious animals. The whirlybirds were our best friends in those days. The only trouble is that they ran out of tigers and wolves to eat." "Presumed they are now called peoplehawk-whirlybirds?" DeCrabbe frowningly asked in his clipped speech. "Exactly!" answered the older man. "Although that isn't their full name. From the way they attack--" "Most important," interrupted Five-gun. "Give to me in detail." "They prefer to attack strollers, although they have attacked on city streets when there is little traffic. They fly with amazing speed, considering they are an untidy ball forty feet in diameter, and they are on top of their victims before the unlucky ones are aware of the menace. Blowing their victims down with a rush of air from their feathers, they grab them up by the heels, carry them high aloft and drop them on piles of rock outside of town." "They are _downdraft_-peoplehawk-whirlybirds then?" asked DeCrabbe. "That's almost it," agreed the mayor. "I have not yet told you of their cries. As they rise in the air with the victim dangling from their talons by his heels, they utter a pleased 'Coo! Coo!' like a gentle dove. That is why they are called Coocoo-downdraft-peoplehawk-whirlybirds." "Approve of adequate names," nodded Five-gun, unbending a trifle. "First step toward efficiency. Only one thing haven't made clear. Presumably have shotguns and rifles. Why unable drive off these predators yourselves?" The mayor laughed bitterly. "It would be easy to tell you'd just arrived on this planet--although the birds are not well known in the other cities either; they are all concentrated in this area. Yes, our sportsmen tried to shoot down the whirlybirds. No luck, of course. Imagine the problems you have when one of these forty-foot balls of commotion comes at you: You try to aim but you can't hold your arm still because of the swirling wind they raise; and then the dust clouds thicken and you're firing wildly, and you can't begin to tell which is body and which is feathers anyway.
42625_5686	love stories	Reynolds, Baillie, Mrs.	It was doing my mother no end of good. Don’t you think, even now——" Nin started the motor, and he was obliged to stand back. They crossed the river, and doubled back to the station on the further side. There was not much time to spare. Ninian opened the door and helped her out, with her handbag, leaving her a minute in the waiting-room while he went to get her ticket. The train drew in to the station as he returned. He put her into a first-class carriage, and covered her knees with the fur rug from the car. She began to object, both to the class and to the loan of the rug. "You can send it back by post," he replied, tucking it about her. "There is your ticket. You have an hour at Newcastle, plenty of time for a good lunch. You are due at Bramforth at a quarter to three. Good-bye!" "Good-bye!" The rush of feeling was overpowering. This was the end, and by her own act, her own wish! All the fervent life, the keen emotion of the last few weeks was over, and there was nothing to be said—nothing! She joined her hands, as if to hold herself back from stretching them out to him. For a moment her tear-dimmed eyes caught a green ray from his. "I leave you as I came," cried she with a gulp, "a little blue thing with a red nose!" He nodded, speechless, and, to her mortification, shut the door upon her and departed there and then, though it was a long minute after before the train began to move. She gazed from the closed window upon the waiting car, but could not see its driver. He had not remained for so much as a parting glance. With all her heart she then wished that she had consented to let him do as he asked, and "make a clean breast of it." For some miles her mind held but one idea. There was a place on the line where, upon looking from the window of the train, one could see Guysewyke Pele square against the sky-line. Upon catching this last glimpse she set her whole attention. In vain. The mist was too thick. No distances were visible. She began to cry then, miserably and persistently. It was over. She was going back. It was an ignominious return.
55415_536	adventure stories	Palmer, Don	“The days will pass fast enough,” Mr. Livingston assured him. He was right. Almost before the Explorers realized it, the long weeks had slipped by. On the night before the party was scheduled to board the clipper for Peru, the Scout organization held a final meeting. For the four Rovers, the occasion was a solemn, impressive one. Well they knew that weeks, perhaps months, might elapse before they would meet again in formal session. Even so, they had no inkling of the exciting adventures that lay ahead or of the part that Captain Carter was to play in their lives. During the early part of the evening, movie slides were shown on Peru. Jack, as crew leader, thanked the committee for the fine program presented, and then, with regret, announced that it was time to end the meeting by closing the log. A hush fell upon the throng. War arose, and soberly closed the big book in which were recorded minutes of the organization. Never had the simple ceremony been more impressive than on this night. On the table beside Jack was the Explorer’s Emblem—wings, anchor and compass—symbolic of air, sea and land activities. In front of it were two glowing candles. To the left stood the American flag, and on the right, the unit banner. Jack himself turned to extinguish the candles, symbolic of the ideals lighting the way of all Explorers. “This emblem is to remind us that we are part of a great organization,” he said soberly. “An organization made up of thousands of fellows in troop, crew and post everywhere.” Normally, the ceremony would have ended there, but Jack went on. With deep feeling, he added the words of the Scout oath: “‘On my honor, I will do my best To do my duty to God and my country and to obey the Scout Law; To help other people at all times; To keep myself physically strong, mentally awake and morally straight.’” The other Explorers joined in, speaking each word with sincerity. All eyes were glued upon Jack, Ken, Willie and Warwick. At that impressive moment, knowing that on the morrow they would be speeding far from America, the four felt their responsibility keenly. Hadn’t they been singled out for an important mission? They must try hard to make Mr. Livingston and the other Scouts proud of them! Come what would, they dared not fail or falter. Chapter 4 A MISSION “Six days overdue, and no sign of the _Shark_!
43374_1598	adventure stories	Allen, Willis Boyd	"That's what Arctic explorers do, I believe, when they are frozen in for the winter." "Good, good!" cried Pet. "And everybody in our party must contribute--except me!" There was a laugh at this, and Kittie, seizing her friend around the waist, gave her a little impromptu waltz which set her hair flying and eyes dancing more merrily than ever. "What shall we call it?" was the next question. "'The Alaskan Herald.'" "'The Northern Light.'" "'The Illustrated Totem Pole'"--this from the wounded warrior in the chair. All these names being rejected, they decided to leave the choice of names to the editor, to which position Mr. Selborne was unanimously chosen. "All contributions," he announced, "must be in my hands at five o'clock this afternoon. The paper will then be put to press, and will be read aloud at precisely eight o'clock, on deck, in front of Stateroom 2 (Mr. Percival's), if the weather permits; if not, in a corner of the lower cabin, after the supper table has been cleared." All that day the literary circle thus suddenly formed were hard at work at their manuscripts; and many were the gales of laughter in which the girls indulged, as they compared notes from time to time. The editor, it should be said, had laid down the rule that any contribution might be in verse or prose, but if the latter, it should not contain over twelve hundred words. One by one in the course of the afternoon, the manuscripts, signed by fictitious names, were dropped into a box provided by the editor, who was busy, meanwhile, not only with his own contribution, but in arranging an artistic heading for the sheet which was to form the first page of the paper. He had also furnished all the aspiring authors and authoresses with sermon paper of uniform size, so that the whole collection might afterward be bound together, if desired. Evening came at last, and to the gratification of all concerned, the fog lifted, so that there was a bright sunset, which would render out-of-doors reading easy until after ten o'clock. The party accordingly met at the appointed spot on deck, having kept their plan a profound secret among themselves, so as not to have strangers present at the reading. Mrs. Percival sat just within the door of her stateroom, while the rest grouped themselves outside in various comfortable attitudes.
40907_4744	adventure stories	Marchmont, Arthur W.	It is not I who am responsible for the delay." I spoke firmly, for I resented the too peremptory tone he adopted. "What are your plans, then?" he asked next. "Will you give me the authority for his release?" "I can tell you better an hour hence, when I have seen my cousin." "You must be good enough to give me some definite news to send to Munich." "You can send them the reason for the delay," I retorted hotly. "I decline your dictation, sir, and can dispense with your interference." He was about to reply with equal warmth when Minna came out of one of the windows. "Good morning, gentlemen," she said brightly. "Good morning, cousin Hans," and, her face radiant with smiles, she came to me holding out her hands. All my anger fled at the sight of her, and when I held her hands in mine and read in her eyes the answering emotions to those which were rushing out through mine I had no thoughts save of peace, gladness, goodwill, and love. "We must speak together at once," I said. "Shall we walk in the gardens here?" I led her to a large, wide lawn, through the centre of which ran a broad path. It was a spot where we could not well be overheard. "I passed the night in wondering what I was to hear this morning," she said. "I think it must be good news, for I was so happy." "You have not slept, then?" "Oh, yes. But while I slept I dreamt, and now and then had spells of delicious wakefulness. I don't know which was the better--the dreams that all was right, or the waking beliefs that all would soon be." "I hope it will be," I declared earnestly. "Nay, I am sure it all will," she declared, as if in rebuke of my doubt. "Isn't this a lovely old garden?" she cried. "Not so good as Gramberg, of course, because no place could be so dear to me as that. But yet lovely. And what flowers! Did you ever see such magnificence? And the perfumes! They seem to distil the very essence of peace. And what a change from yesterday. It was a prison then--to-day a veritable palace of delight. Heigho! And you have changed it for me!
31286_515	science fiction	Del Rey, Lester	" "Your permission for that was not requested, Dr. Pietro! Yes, Bullard?" The cook had been squirming and muttering to himself for minutes. Now he darted out toward Grundy, and his finger pointed to Lomax. "He done it! I seen him. Killed the only friend I had, he did. They went by my galley--and--and he grabbed my big knife, that one there. And he killed Sam." * * * * * "You're sure it was Lomax?" Muller asked sharply. "Sure I'm sure. Sam, he was acting queer lately. He was worried. Told me he saw something, and he was going to know for sure. He borrowed my switch-blade knife that my wife gave me. And he went out looking for something. Then I heard him a-running, and I looked up, and there was this guy, chasing him. Sure, I seen him with my own eyes." Eve Nolan chuckled throatily, throwing her mannish-cut hair back from her face. She was almost pretty with an expression on her countenance, even if it was amused disgust. "Captain Muller, that's a nice story. But Dr. Lomax was with me in my darkroom, working on some spectroanalysis slides. Bill Sanderson and Phil Riggs were waiting outside for us. And Mr. Peters saw us come out together when we all ran down here." Peters nodded. Muller stared at us for a second, and the hunting lust died out of his eyes, leaving them blank and cold. He turned to Bullard. "Bullard, an explanation might make me reduce your punishment. If you have anything to say, say it now!" The cook was gibbering and actually drooling with fear. He shook, and sweat popped out all over him. "My knife--I hadda say something. They stole my knife. They wanted it to look like I done it. God, Captain, you'da done the same. Can't punish a man for trying to save his life. I'm a good man, I am. Can't whip a good man! Can't--" "Give him twenty-five lashes with the wire, Mr. Grundy," Muller said flatly. Pietro let out a shriek on top of the cook's. He started forward, but I caught him. "Captain Muller's right," I told him. "On a spaceship, the full crew is needed. The brig is useless, so the space-enabling charter recognizes flogging.
32429_3429	love stories	Erskine, Payne	But preacher Merlin, he said that thar war paths o' light an' paths o' darkness, an' that eve'y man he 'bided right whar he war at when he died. Ef he hed tuk the path o' darkness, thar he war in hit; but ef he hed tuk the path o' light whar war heaven, then he war thar. An' he said the Lord nevah made no hell, hit war jes' our own selves made sech es that, an' he took an' cut that thar place cl'ar plumb out'n the Scripturs an' the worl' to come. But he sure hed a heap o larnin', only some said a sight on hit war heathen, an' that war why he lef' all the hell an' damnation outen his religion." Thus enlightened concerning many things, both of this particular bit of mountain world, which was all the world to his companion, and of the world to come, Thryng rode on, quietly amused. Sometimes he dismounted to investigate plants new to him, or to gather a bit of moss or fungi or parasite--anything that promised an elucidating hour with his splendid microscope. For these he always carried at the pommel of his saddle an air-tight box. The mountain people supposed he collected such things for the compounding of his drugs. When they reached the Fall Place, David continued along the main road below and took a trail farther on, merely a foot trail little used, to his eyrie. He had not seen Cassandra since they had walked together down from Hoke Belew's place. He had gone to Farington partly to avoid seeing her, nor did he wish to see her again until he should have so mastered himself as to betray nothing by his manner that might embarrass her or remind her painfully of their last interview, knowing he must eliminate self to reëstablish their previous relations. David rode directly to his log stable, put up his horse, then unslung his box and walked with it toward his cabin. Suddenly he stopped. From the thick shrubbery where he stood he could see in at the large window where his microscope was placed quite through his cabin into the light, white canvas room beyond. Before the fireplace, clearly relieved against the whiteness of the farther room, stood Cassandra, gazing intently at something she held in her hand. David recognized it as a small, framed picture of his mother--a delicately painted miniature. He kept it always on the shelf near which she was standing.
52683_379	detective and mystery stories	Powell, Van	But their roads and their aqueducts and their buildings all took labor and plenty of it.” “Isn’t it time we started for the hotel?” Tom glanced at his watch, “Quipu Bill Sanders is to come to see us at four.” They agreed and turned to retrace their way around the ruin. As they rounded a corner Cliff, in the lead, stopped sharply, in surprise. While there was one chance in a thousand that they should encounter the very Indian who had been with the Spaniard in Amadale, it was certain that the fellow into whom Cliff had almost banged had turned and seemed to stiffen when he saw them. He stood facing a slender fellow, almost a boy, whose well developed leg muscles made Cliff think of a runner. With a swift word under his breath as the trio of chums stared, the Indian sent the youth off; and he was a runner and no mistake. He went lightly but with almost incredible speed down the road. The stalwart Indian paid no attention to Cliff but hastened away. “Do you think he was——?” Nicky whispered. “He jumped,” Tom replied. “Ought we to follow him?” Nicky wondered. Cliff thought not. The runner was gone, the Indian might have been surprised to see white youths turn suddenly into view. Cliff could see no advantage to be gained by following. They crossed the square to enter one of the four straight avenues which quartered the city. Cuzco was beautifully laid out, every ancient street as straight as if made by a surveyer’s lines. Presently they reached the “tambo” or inn. Bill Sanders was already there: he and John Whitley were in the courtyard around which all the rooms opened. Bill was squatted on his heels, cowboy fashion, with a knife in his hand, idly whittling a stick. As he saw them and stood up they saw that he was tall and very thin; so thin, in fact, that he looked more like an underfed man than a tough, sinewy, sturdy mountaineer. However his skin was brown with healthy exposure and his grip, when they shook hands, made Nicky wince a little. Quipu Bill Sanders had the eyes of a fox and the courage of a lion; and he was cunning, too; but his cunning was not the stealthy, wicked sort. “You know who I am,” he greeted. “Let’s see if I know which of you is which.”
17844_4155	western stories	Lillibridge, Will	"Positive! You didn't get even a suggestion of him by that. I saw a big prairie fire once. It swept over the country for miles and miles, taking everything clean; and the men fighting it might have been so many children in arms. I always think of it when I think of Ben Blair. They are very much alike." The smile left Sidwell's face. "One can start a back-fire on the prairie," he said reflectively. "I fancy the same process might work successfully with Blair also." "Perhaps," admitted Florence. The time came when both she and Sidwell remembered that suggestion. But the subject was too large to be dropped immediately. "Something tells me," Sidwell added, after a moment, "that you are a bit fearful of this Blair. Did the gentleman ever attempt to kidnap you--or anything?" Florence did not smile. "No," she answered. "What was it, then? Were you in love, and he cold--or the reverse?" Florence dropped her chin into her hands. "To be frank with you, it was--the reverse; but I would rather not speak of it." She was silent for a moment. "You are right, though," she continued, rather recklessly, "when you say I'm afraid of him. I don't dare think of him, even. I want to forget he was ever a part of my life. He overwhelms me like sleep when I'm tired. I am helpless." Unconsciously Sidwell had stumbled upon the closet which held the skeleton. "And I--" he queried, "are you afraid of me?" The girl's great brown eyes peered out above her hands steadily. "No; with us it is not of you I'm afraid--it's of myself." She arose slowly. "I'm ready to go driving if you wish," she said. CHAPTER XX CLUB CONFIDENCES Late the same evening, in the billiard-room of the "Loungers Club" Clarence Sidwell met one Winston Hough, seemingly by chance, though in fact very much the reverse. Big and blonde, addicted to laughter, Hough was one of the few men with whom Sidwell fraternized,--why, only the Providence which makes like and unlike attract each other could have explained. However, it was with deliberate intent that Sidwell entered the most brilliantly lighted room in the place and sought out the group of which Hough was the centre. "Hello, Chad!"
9649_381	adventure stories	Leslie, Lawrence J.	So Toby and the other chum slung the traps over their shoulders with ill-concealed pleasure in that they had been singled out for such attention by the old trapper. "Then you don't mean to set Old Tom to-day," asked Owen, pointing to a big trap, whose weight and grim-looking jaws announced that it was intended for large game. Old Jim smiled and shook his head, as he replied: "Hardly any use, unless we run across bear tracks. Such a thing might happen, you know; because it did snow last night, and there's a good inch on the ground right now." "But, hold on," said Owen, "I understood that bears always went to sleep in the fall and stayed in some cave or a hollow tree till spring came." "They do," answered the trapper, "but generally hang around till the first real hard blizzard comes along. This little snow don't count, and every day a bear is able to be around hunting roots and such things, why, the less he has to live on his own fat, you know, But we're all ready now, so come along, boys." The dogs were left at the cabin, which Jim did not even shut up. He knew Ajax and Don would stay close at home; for the sight of the strings of traps told the intelligent dogs they could not be allowed to accompany their master on this expedition. An hour later, and Jim was showing the eager and curious boys who remained at a little distance, so that their scent might not cause the cautious mink to abandon his usual trail, just how he set a trap in order to catch the cunning little animal, and make him drown himself with the weight of the trap. The snare was set at the mouth of a hole in the bank of a creek, and which, Jim informed them, was one of many visited by the male mink each night as they wandered up and down the stream. He used some animal "scent" contained in a small bottle to help attract his prey. Then, after destroying all evidences of his having been there as much as he possibly could, Trapper Jim rejoined the boys. "Now we'll head for the marsh where I put several traps day before yesterday and mean to add a few more to-day," he remarked.
42069_856	adventure stories	Wheeler, Ruthe S.	"I've never seen your father so worried. He was almost frantic until Hugh Grogan suggested they try to get through with one of his big tractors. They held a council of war right here in the front room and I've never seen as many nervous and excited men in my life. Talk about women getting upset, why they were worse than we ever think of being." She smiled a little. She could now, but last night it had all been a very grim and very near tragedy. "You'll have to write an excuse for me," said Janet between munches on a crisp slice of bacon. "Not this time. I phoned the superintendent and he said that everyone in honors English was excused from school today." "Wonder if we'll have the tryouts for the class play this afternoon?" said Helen, who until that moment had been devoting her full energies to the large bowl of oatmeal. "There's one way of finding out," replied Janet. "I'll phone the principal's office and see if it has been taken off the bulletin board." Janet went to the phone in the hall and called the schoolhouse. When she returned her face was aglow. "No school, no tryouts--what a day and what to do?" "You're sure about the tryouts?" Helen was insistent, for winning the leading part meant so much to her. "Sure as sure can be. They've been postponed until Saturday morning at 9:30 o'clock when they will be held in the assembly." "Then that will give me plenty of time to study my part thoroughly," said Helen. "But you know it now. Why you had it memorized, every word and phrase, yesterday afternoon," protested Janet. "I know I did yesterday, but last night scared it completely out of me. I can't even remember the opening lines." "Maybe it's a good thing. We'll both start over and this afternoon we can rehearse upstairs in my room." "Grand. I've got to go home and help mother for a while, but I'll be back by 2:30 o'clock and we'll start in." Breakfast over, Janet went to the door with Helen. The day was bright and almost unbelievably clear. The temperature was rising rapidly, the wind had gone down, and their experience of the night before seemed very far away.
30318_5412	western stories	Garland, Hamlin	Once you find out you can just go down here to one of these jewelry-stores and order anything you want--you don't want anything. Here I am with a lot of money that ain't mine, having a gay whirl spending it, but I can see my finish right now. To go on in this line would take all the fun out of life. What am I to do?" Moss took a seat and looked at her thoughtfully. "I don't know. I used to think if I had money I'd start out and 'do good to people,' but I'm not at all sure that charity isn't all a damned impertinence. A couple of years ago I would have said go in for 'Neighborhood Settlements,' free libraries, 'Noonday Rests,' 'Open-air Funds,' and all the rest of it, but now I ask, 'Why?' We've had our wave of altruism, and I'm inclined to think a wave of selfishness would do us all good--but you're too young to be bothered with these problems. Go home and be happy while you can. Enjoy your gold while it glitters. Work is my only fun--real, enduring fun--and I'm not a bit sure _that_ will last. Whatever you do, be yourself. Don't try to be what you think I or some one else would like to have you. I like you because you are so straight-forwardly yourself; I shall be heart-broken if you take on the disease of the age and begin to prate of your duty." She listened to him with only partial comprehension of his meaning, but she answered: "I was brought up to think duty was the whole works." "Yes, and your teacher meant duty to God, duty to others. Well, there's duty to one's self. The war of money and duty is the biggest mix of our day. It's simpler to be poor; then all you've got to worry about is bread and shoes and shingles." "That's just it. Sometimes I wish I was back in the Golden Eagle, where I--" she ended in mid-sentence. He laughed. "You sound like a middle-aged financier who mourns (tattooed with dollar-marks) for the days when he used to husk corn at seventy cents a day."
61334_83	science fiction	Banta, Frank	" "Now anticipate that the extermination of the whirlybirds will almost certainly take me up to two days," conceded Five-gun DeCrabbe calmly. "However will be all the more interesting to defeat them without recourse large explosives." "Gee, what a man!" admired the mayor's son. "Only two days!" "If you will now lead me to your city park will begin campaign of extermination at once." "It's down that way," said the mayor, pointing. Plainly he had no intention of leaving the shelter of the marquee. "You can't miss it." As Five-gun Charles DeCrabbe leaped back into his craft and started off, the mayor's son called after him, "Aren't you scared, going out exposed like that?" DeCrabbe turned. "Am armed, young man," he retorted severely. "Yeah, but those whirlybirds don't pay any attention to guns." "Soon will," DeCrabbe replied, unruffled. Slowly he drove down the center of the empty street, receiving more cheers from heads thrust out of windows. He arrived at the city park and turned in. He unloaded most of his equipment under the roof of the bandstand. A few minutes later one of his robot mannequins moved slowly around the clearing before the bandstand, its control set for slow walking to conserve its atomic battery. The predator hunter unlimbered all his guns as he sat under the bandstand roof waiting. It was an hour before the first whirlybird attacked. His first warning was the rising wind. His gaze moved around the sky until he found the rapidly growing black spot. A few seconds later it became a universe-engulfing blackness as it spotted the mannequin and came down for it. As soon as the wind-screaming blackness reached the mannequin, the needle guns in his hands emptied their hundreds of anesthetizing needles into the turbulence. But it was as the mayor had said. Where did the bird's body end and the feathers begin? When the needle pistols were empty he dropped them and snatched up the rocket powered stun-gas weapon; its immense flare poured into the blackness without visible result. He dropped it and grabbed the N-ray flashburn gun. The forty-foot ball of fury was beginning to rise high with its prey now, as the gun stuttered fifty bolts of burning lethal radiation into it. He smelled feathers that time. Finally as the giant bird, without faltering, rose above the range of the N-ray gun, he took to the explosive pellet rifle.
64125_751	detective and mystery stories	Robertson, Alexander, M.D.	The bull fighter turned like a mad tiger, saw what was transpiring, threw the assailants who were clinging to him, and plunged at the man who was grasping the lady’s arm and endeavoring to drag her away, for the music still kept up, and many were dancing all unconscious of the _melee_. There was a tremendous rush, the bull fighter caught the wretch and whirled him, spinning like a teetotum, ten feet away. Never did a dancing dervish spin so merrily. Then came an awful crash, as the man struck a swaying column of dancers, who immediately toppled over upon him. By this time the detective was at the side of the bull fighter. “Keep back, you young fools! Keep back, I say, or I’ll land the whole of you in the Tombs!” His words were heard. Backed up as they were with the shining barrel of a revolver, they commanded respect. By this time the management had succeeded in getting the officers from the supper-room to the spot, and upon seeing them come, the young fellows who had been the cause of the disturbance slunk away, losing themselves in the crowd. The management apologized to the bull fighter when they learned what had occurred, but his companion seemed to have received a nervous shock—at any rate they retired for their wraps. Darrell moved outside. There was something more he desired to learn and the chance must soon come. He waited. Just at twelve they came. The hour for unmasking had arrived, and there was quite a high time within. This displeased the detective, for he was afraid lest he might not hear what he desired. The couple walked down the pavement in search of the carriage, which was waiting near by, the driver having received instructions. They soon reached it. Darrell hovered near. The bull fighter assisted his companion in and then entered himself. “Where to, sir?” asked the driver, probably not knowing but what they had another engagement at some private ball. A burst of laughter from the house deadened the reply, but Darrell’s keen ears caught:“—Twenty-seventh Street.” It was enough. He felt down-spirited. In so far as he could see ahead, the case was a settled one—Joe Leslie was guilty. He seemed to feel it as keenly as though it were a brother of his. Poor Lillian! that it should come to this in one short year.
46653_760	adventure stories	Hemyng, Bracebridge	" "Ha!" ejaculated Harkaway. "You expected to meet Lord Maltravers here this evening," pursued Elise. "Candidly, you are right." "He is gone to the Geysers to make terms with Vasquez, the bandit, to kidnap you." "And then?" "You are to be shipped to Rio de Janeiro, where for the remainder of your days you will work as a slave in the diamond mines of Brazil." "But how is all this to be done, my dear girl?" asked Jack, smiling. "I know not; they have their plans all made up. It is horrible." "Is that all?" "No. You love Miss Lena Vanhoosen, in New York?" "I do." "Well, my husband will come in presently." "In here?" "Yes, in this box, and accuse you of flirting with me. He will raise a disturbance. You are to be arrested. The case will be in all the papers to-morrow, and Miss Vanhoosen will be told that you are unfaithful to your vows." Jack whistled. Though Elise spoke quickly, and her story was disconnected in parts, it was, nevertheless, intelligible enough. His enemy was actively at work. "I thank you, very much," said he. "I am a thousand times obliged to you. Good-night." "Good-night. It is not safe for you to stay here." "No, indeed." "You will not reveal what I have told you?" pleaded Elise. "Not for worlds." "They would kill me if they only knew." Jack went to the door of the box and was about to depart, when he saw Elise's handkerchief lying on the floor. Always gallant, and quite a ladies' man, he stooped and picked it up. "Your handkerchief, I think," he said; "allow me to return it." "Thank you!" replied Elise. He was about to give it to her, when the door of the box opened and Clarence Holt entered. The latter pretended to be profoundly astonished. "Elise!" he exclaimed, "who is this man?" The poor girl, terribly frightened, sank into a seat. "Answer me!" continued Clarence, "I insist upon it, for it is my right." Jack stepped up to him. "You need not continue this farce, sir!"
45627_961	detective and mystery stories	Newcomb, Ambrose	So, too, she made up a small package of certain articles which she wished particularly to save, or would be apt to need for her personal comfort which, she assumed, might be taken with them on the coming voyage. "In the morning," said Jack, after all these things had been attended to, "I'm meaning to ask you to let us transfer what gas you have aboard your bus to our own tank--it will be wasted here, while in our hands it may save us from spending many valuable hours running off to replenish our wasted supply. Of course I shall see that you are eventually reimbursed, Miss Cramer. Even as little as fifty gallons would mean we could stick to our job so much longer, and then too it might be the means of bringing us success." "And if I had a million gallons every drop would be gladly devoted to the sacred task you have so loyally undertaken," she told him, with a suspicious glow in her eyes, which Jack imagined might be caused by bravely repressed tears. "I think it is just wonderfully fine the way you two--and all those other brave men--have been so willing to spend their time, hour after hour, scouring the whole country in hopes of finding--my Buddy." So Jack had to tell her how the entire world of flyers were like a company of blood brothers; an injury to one being resented by the entire calling--that their universal braving of the elements, and meeting similar perils in their daily work, made a bond like no other on earth, a kinship of like interests. She was as yet only a novice, but already she had begun to have something of a similar exalted feeling toward other air pilots, so that it was not difficult for Suzanne to understand his meaning. She told them not to worry about her--that she could easily make herself comfortable in the limited confine of her cockpit. True, it had no roof for shelter; but that bothered her not at all she told them, since she had camped many times in the open without even a canvas tent, or brush shanty; and besides, the stars were shining brightly overhead, showing they need fear nothing in the way of bad weather during the night.
31870_1512	western stories	Marlowe, Amy Bell	Whatever she did in this matter, as well as in the affair of Ratty M'Gill, must be done without advice. Her mind slanted toward Pratt Sanderson at this time. Had her father not seemed to suspect the young fellow from Amarillo, Frances would surely have taken Pratt into her confidence. Now that Captain Rugley had given a clear explanation of how he had come possessed of a part of the loot of Señor Milo Morales' _hacienda_, Frances was not afraid to take a friend into her confidence. There was no friend, however, that she cared to confide in save Pratt. And it would anger her father if she spoke to the young fellow about the treasure. She knew this to be a fact, for when Pratt Sanderson had ridden over from the Edwards Ranch to inquire after Captain Rugley's health, the old ranchman had sent out a courteously worded refusal to see Pratt. "I'm not so awfully fond of that young chap," the Captain said, reflectively, at the time. "And seems to me, Frances, he's mighty curious about my health." "But, Daddy!" Frances cried, "he was only asking out of good feeling." "I don't know that," growled the old ranchman. "I haven't forgotten that he was here in the house the night that other fellow tried to break in. Looks curious to me, Frances--sure does!" She might have told him right then about Ratty M'Gill and the man Pete; but Frances was not an impulsive girl. She studied about things, as the colloquialism has it. And she knew very well that the mere fact that Ratty and the stranger were friends would not disprove Pratt's connection with the midnight marauder. Pete might have had an aid inside, as well as outside, the _hacienda_. So Frances said nothing more to the old ranchman, and nothing at all to Pratt about that which troubled her. They spoke of inconsequential things on the veranda, where Ming served cool drinks; and then the Amarillo young man rode away. "Sue Latrop and that crowd will be out to-morrow, I expect," he said, as he departed. "Don't know when I can get over again, Frances. I'll have to beau them around a bit." "Good-bye, Pratt," said Frances, without comment.
9609_561	adventure stories	Fielding, Henry	He said he had great compassion for the poor young woman, who looked pale and faint with her journey; and in truth he conceived a much higher opinion of her quality than it deserved. He said he was sorry he could not accommodate them all; but if they were contented with his fireside, he would sit up with the men; and the young woman might, if she pleased, partake his wife's bed, which he advised her to; for that they must walk upwards of a mile to any house of entertainment, and that not very good neither. Adams, who liked his seat, his ale, his tobacco, and his company, persuaded Fanny to accept this kind proposal, in which sollicitation he was seconded by Joseph. Nor was she very difficultly prevailed on; for she had slept little the last night and not at all the preceding; so that love itself was scarce able to keep her eyes open any longer. The offer, therefore, being kindly accepted, the good woman produced everything eatable in her house on the table, and the guests, being heartily invited, as heartily regaled themselves, especially parson Adams. As to the other two, they were examples of the truth of that physical observation, that love, like other sweet things, is no whetter of the stomach. Supper was no sooner ended, than Fanny at her own request retired, and the good woman bore her company. The man of the house, Adams, and Joseph, who would modestly have withdrawn, had not the gentleman insisted on the contrary, drew round the fireside, where Adams (to use his own words) replenished his pipe, and the gentleman produced a bottle of excellent beer, being the best liquor in his house. The modest behaviour of Joseph, with the gracefulness of his person, the character which Adams gave of him, and the friendship he seemed to entertain for him, began to work on the gentleman's affections, and raised in him a curiosity to know the singularity which Adams had mentioned in his history. This curiosity Adams was no sooner informed of than, with Joseph's consent, he agreed to gratify it; and accordingly related all he knew, with as much tenderness as was possible for the character of Lady Booby; and concluded with the long, faithful, and mutual passion between him and Fanny, not concealing the meanness of her birth and education.
22466_41	science fiction	DeKy, Thornton	As they built up, sending tiny living electrical impulses over the wires like minute currents that come from the brain, Kiron sat breathless; his eyes intent. Closer to his work he bent, watching lovingly, fearful least all might not be quite right. Then his eyes took on a brighter light as he began to see the reaction. He knew the messages that he had sent out were being received and coordinated into a unit that would stir and grow into intellect. Suddenly the machine flashed its little warning red light and automatically snapped off. Kiron twisted quickly in his seat and threw home the final switch. This, he knew, was the ultimate test. On the results of the flood of energy impulses that he had set in motion rested the fulfillment of his success--_or failure_. He watched with slight misgivings. This had never been accomplished before. How could it possibly be a success now? Even The Masters had never quite succeeded at this final test, how could he, only a servant? Yet it must work for he had no desire in life but to make it work. Then, suddenly, he was on his feet, eyes wide. From the two long, coffin-like liquid baths, there arose two perfect specimens of the _Homo sapiens_. Man and woman, they were, and they blinked their eyes in the light of the noonday sun, raised themselves dripping from the baths of their creation and stepped to the floor before Kiron. The man spoke, the woman remained silent. "I am Adam Two," he said. "Created, by you Kiron from a formula they left, in their image. I was created to be a Master and she whom you also have created is to be my wife. We shall mate and the race of Man shall be reborn through us and others whom I shall help you create." The Man halted at the last declaration he intoned and walked smilingly toward the woman who stepped into his open arms returning his smile. Kiron smiled too within his pumping heart. The words the Man had intoned had been placed in his still pregnable mind by the tele-teach phones and record that the last Master had prepared before death had halted his experiments. The actions of the Man toward the Woman, Kiron knew, was caused by the natural constituents that went to form his chemical body and govern his humanness. He, Kiron, had created a living man and woman. The Masters lived again because of him.
47368_11	detective and mystery stories	Beeman, Herbert	I thought of the Tiger of San Pedro in _Collier’s_ and _The Strand_ recently, but as it would be about as safe to rouse the tiger, I omitted the retort obvious. "You refer to the penetration of the vitrified material by the leaden missile, I presume?" he said. "Yes, the bullet from a .22 through the car window," I replied. "Well, there was one peculiar thing about that case, but after all it was merely a matter of calculation. The shot was fired according to one account at Kerrisdale, and from another between Townsend and Eburne. That is easily accounted for. The shot struck the glass at the first named place, but so fast was the car travelling that it had proceeded two miles before the bullet reached the woodwork on the other side." "Oh!" I said. When I had sufficiently recovered I asked him if he had discovered who fired the shot. "That is a mere vulgar detail, Whenson," he said coldly, as he turned to start the gramophone again. *II.* *THE ADVENTURE OF THE IRATE HOUSE-HOLDER* We were just finishing breakfast when the door was unceremoniously burst open and an obviously excited little man precipitated himself into the room. "You are an optimist, I perceive," said Keys quietly. The little man looked amazed, as well he might, not knowing the powers of the Great Detective as well as I did. "How on earth did you know that?" he ejaculated. "Quite simple, my dear sir," answered Keys, "you came in without knocking. What can I do for you?" "Well, sir," the little man went on excitedly, "my name is Bloggs, sir, Joseph Bloggs, and I am the victim of a conspiracy. The Council have sent me in a bill for $96 for three months water rate, and I never used so much in my life. "No, I can quite believe it," said Keys drily, surveying the rather drab appearance of the visible portions of our visitor’s anatomy. "But whom do you suspect?" "Well, sir, I voted against the nincompoops that the effete electors have chosen to represent them, and now they’re soaking me." I could not control my laughter at this unconscious pleasantry, but the little man glared at me, and Keys frowned me into silence. "Whenson, he has given me a clue; get my gum boots and a piece of blotting paper.
19330_477	western stories	King, Charles	Still less had it occurred to him that other significance, and damning significance, might attach to his presence on the spot, but, being first to reach the fallen man, he was found kneeling over him within thirty seconds of the alarm. Not another living creature was in sight when the first witnesses came running to the spot. Both Truman and Todd could swear to that. In the morning, therefore, the orderly came with the customary compliments to say to Captain Wren that the post commander desired to see him at the office. It was then nearly nine o'clock. Wren had had a sleepless night and was in consultation with Dr. Graham when the summons came. "Ask that Captain Sanders be sent for at once," said the surgeon, as he pressed his comrade patient's hand. "The major has his adjutant and clerk and possibly some other officers. You should have at least one friend." "I understand," briefly answered Wren, as he stepped to the hallway to get his sun hat. "I wish it might be you." The orderly was already speeding back to the office at the south end of the brown rectangle of adobe and painted pine, but Janet Wren, ministering, according to her lights, to Angela in the little room aloft, had heard the message and was coming down. Taller and more angular than ever she looked as, with flowing gown, she slowly descended the narrow stairway. "I have just succeeded in getting her to sleep," she murmured. "She has been dreadfully agitated ever since awakened by the voices and the running this morning, and she must have cried herself to sleep last night. R-r-r-obert, would it not be well for you to see her when she wakes? She does not know--I could not tell her--that you are under arrest." Graham looked more "dour" than did his friend of the line. Privately he was wondering how poor Angela could get to sleep at all with Aunt Janet there to soothe her. The worst time to teach a moral lesson, with any hope of good effect, is when the recipient is suffering from sense of utter injustice and wrong, yet must perforce listen. But it is a favorite occasion with the "ower guid." Janet thought it would be a long step in the right direction to bring her headstrong niece to the belief that all the trouble was the direct result of her having sought, against her father's wishes, a meeting with Mr. Blakely.
40464_2658	detective and mystery stories	Machray, Robert	I did go to the Mansions----" Bennet stopped, as he was in doubt what to say next. "You went to Beauclerk Mansions?" said Eversleigh; "and----" "I'll tell you as exactly as I can what took place. On the pretext of inquiring if there was a flat to be let, I got into conversation with one of the porters. I saw the man did not know who I was. He told me there were two or three desirable flats vacant; would I care to look over them? I don't know quite why I did it, but I thought I would take a glance at the vacant flats, keeping the porter in talk the while. You follow me?" asked Harry, breaking off as he saw the eyes of the solicitor wandered over the room. Eversleigh was listening, but not carefully; he guessed well enough what Bennet would tell him, and he was casting about for some appeal that would touch Bennet and induce him to stay his hand. "Oh yes," he responded; "I am following you perfectly, Harry." "As I went over the flats with the porter," Bennet resumed, "I noticed the property was in very good order, and I remarked to the man that it must be well managed and be very valuable. The porter replied that the property was well managed, especially since the new management had taken it up. I was surprised, as you may imagine, to hear of a new management, but I naturally supposed that you or rather Mr. Silwood, had made the change. I asked how long the new management had been in power, and was told it had been for about a year." Bennet paused, gazed at Eversleigh, and repeated, "About a year." "About a year," said Eversleigh, mechanically. "The porter went on to say," continued Bennet, "that he understood the property had been in new hands for that time, and that was why it was in such good order--the new broom was sweeping cleaner than the old. When he spoke of the property being in new hands, I thought it more than a bit odd, and I asked him in whose hands the property now was. He gave me the name of a firm of house-agents of whom I have heard before, but not in connection with your firm, Mr. Eversleigh. This surprised me again,
47633_700	adventure stories	Hendrick, Edward P.	“You mean you think that’s what you saw,” sneered Slade. “The umpire says he’s out and that settles it!” There seemed no chance for further argument, and Dick walked out to center field in a savage humor, which was somewhat appeased when Ned, a moment later, struck the slugger out with three fast ones. The next Bedford man was out at first, and a long fly to Dick ended the inning. Ned Blake was up in Truesdell’s half and brought the crowd to its feet with a screaming three-bagger. “Wow! That’s cracking ’em out!” yelled Wat Sanford. “It’s a crime we didn’t have a couple of men on bases when Ned got hold of that one!” “There’s nobody gone, any kind of a hit will mean a run now!” cried Charlie Rogers. The next Truesdell batter swung at two bad balls, but lifted the third for a high fly to right field. Slugger Slade’s heavy breathing sounded in Ned Blake’s ear as he crouched on third base, all set for the dash for home. With quick fingers he loosened his belt-buckle and as the fielder’s hands closed upon the fly ball, Ned sprang from the bag; stopped short in his tracks; and yelled lustily for the umpire. Every eye turned in his direction and saw Slade standing stupidly on third base with Ned Blake’s belt dangling from his hand. The Slugger had been caught in his own trap. A chorus of boos and jeers changed to cheers as the umpire motioned Ned home; a penalty which Slade had earned for his team by interfering with a base-runner. “Oh, boy! What a stunt!” shrieked Jim Tapley. “Slade met his match that time!” The wild yells and jeers seemed to rattle the Bedford team for the moment. Slade, purple with rage, let an easy grounder roll between his legs, and before the inning was over, two more Truesdell runs came across, making the score three to nothing. In their half of the next inning, two Bedford batters were easy outs, but the third drove a savage liner straight for the pitcher’s box. Ned knocked it down and managed to get the ball to first for the third out. The effort proved costly, however, for he came in with the blood streaming from his pitching hand, two fingers of which were badly torn. “You’ll have to finish the game, Dave,” announced Ned, and the lanky southpaw at once began warming up.
22462_102	science fiction	Lande, Irving W.	Nobody knew what there might be on the Moon, but if one side couldn't have it, then the other side wasn't going to have it either. And meanwhile, the struggle was growing deadlier, month by month, each side groping for the stranglehold, looking for the edge that would give domination of space, or make all-out war a good risk. They hadn't found it yet, but it was getting bloodier out here all the time. For a while, it had been a supreme achievement just to get a ship out and back, but gradually, as the ships improved, there was a little margin left over for weapons. Back a year ago, the average patrol was nothing but a sightseeing tour. Not that there was much to see, when you'd been out a few times. Now, there were Reds around practically every mission. _Thirteen missions to go, after today._ He wondered if he'd quit at seventy-five. Deep inside him, the old pride and excitement were still strong. He still got a kick out of the way the girls looked at the silver rocket on his chest. But he didn't feel as lucky as he used to. Twenty-nine years old, and he was starting to feel like an old man. He pictured himself lecturing to a group of eager kids. _Had a couple of close calls, those last two missions._ That Red had looked easy, the way he was wandering around. He hadn't spotted them until they were well into their run, but when he got started he'd made them look like slow motion, just the same. If he hadn't tried that harebrained sudden deceleration.... Coulter shook his head at the memory. And on the last mission they'd been lucky to get a draw. Those boys were good shots. * * * * * "We're crossing his track, Paul. Turn to nine point five o'clock and hold 4 G's for thirty-two seconds, starting on the count ... five--four--three--two--one--go!" He completed the operation in silence, remarking to himself how lucky he was to have Johnson. The boy loved a chase. He navigated like a hungry hawk, though you had to admit his techniques were a bit irregular. Coulter chuckled at the ad lib way they operated, remembering the courses, the tests, the procedures practiced until they could do them backwards blindfolded. When they tangled with a Red, the Solter co-ordinates went out the hatch.
29278_1859	love stories	Bradley, Mary Hastings	There was no approach from below. "And some fools go in for mountaineering!" said Johnny Byrd bitterly. It was the last gust of humor in him. He was furious--and he grew more furious unrestrainedly. He exploded in muttered oaths and exclamations. In her troubled little heart Maria Angelina felt for him. She knew that he was tired and hungry, and men, when they were hungry, were very unhappy. But she was tired and hungry, too--and her reputation, the reputation that was her very existence, was in jeopardy. Up they scrambled, from the ledge again, and once back upon the mountain side, they circled farther back around the mountain before starting down again. Blindly Maria Angelina followed Johnny's lead. She tripped over roots; she caught upon brambles. With her last shreds of vanity she was grateful that he could not see her streaming hair and scratched and dirty face. It had grown darker and darker and the moon had vanished utterly behind the clouds. The air was damp and cold. A wind was rising. Suddenly their feet struck into the faint line of a path. Eagerly they followed. It wound on back across the mountain side and rounded a wooded spur. "It will lead somewhere, anyway," declared Johnny, hope returning good nature to his tone. "But it is not the right way," Maria Angelina combated in distress. "See, we are not going down any more. Oh, let us keep on going down until we find that river below, and then we can return to the Lodge----" "You come on," said Johnny firmly, striding on ahead, and unhappily she followed, her anxiety warring with her weariness. What time could it be? She felt as if it were the middle of the night. The picnickers must all be home by now, looking for her, organizing searching parties perhaps. . . . What must they think? What must they not think? She saw her Cousin Jane's distress. . . . Ruth's disgust. Would they imagine that she had eloped? She knew but little of American conventions and that little told her that the ceremonies were easy of accomplishment. Young people were always eloping. . . . The consent of guardians was not necessary. . . . How terrible, if they imagined her gone on a romantic elopement, to have her return, mud plastered, after a night with a young man upon the mountain! A night upon the mountain with a young man . . . a young man in love with her.
48146_557	adventure stories	Moyer, Bess	“I think you came here to watch me.” Suddenly he turned to Bud. “Go on down there and see what’s the matter with Terry’s plane.” “But I’d rather fix my own plane. I’m used to it and can fix it in a minute. I know exactly what’s the matter.” “No! Let Bud go as I told him! You stay here!” There was a note of command that frightened the girls. Prim touched Terry’s arm and said softly. “Careful Terry, don’t make him angry.” Terry gave her sister a grateful smile. She turned to Arnold and asked pleasantly. “Did you get into that storm?” “No, I knew too much to let that happen. I saw your plane go into it and thought you were done for,” he answered. “How did you avoid it?” asked Terry. “I was flying high, fifteen thousand feet. It never touched me. The storm was all below me. I’m used to these hurricanes and I can usually guess about how far the storm extends.” “I tried to get above it, but I didn’t go far enough.” Terry was watching Joe’s face while she was talking. Would he guess that she was carrying an important paper for Peter Langley? Would she be able to keep it hidden where he could not find it? Now it was safely sewn once more in the lining of her flying coat but that was not a good hiding place if he thought to search her. A sudden shout from the harbor sent Joe Arnold hurrying down the trail. Then he turned back. “Stay right where you are,” he ordered the girls. On second thought he said. “No, go on down the trail ahead of me.” “But I don’t want to go!” flared Terry. “If you’re wise you’ll do as I say!” Without another word he thrust the girls ahead of him toward the beach. Terry went without any further argument. For suddenly it had occurred to her that she might learn something of Joe Arnold’s schemes if she pretended, to be friendly with him and didn’t make him angry. At the harbor a gang of blacks were loading a boat, preparing to take it to the plane. Pedro, the chief was over six feet tall, wore only a loin cloth and looked half savage. This giant was watching his men, who were working for Joe Arnold.
61133_45	science fiction	Banta, Frank	"Oh, I hope he found his shoes." "He didn't though," contributed John Bork. The prosecutor moved the probe, hurrying on by emotion-stirred quavers: Angelo, Moose, Maudie, Deacon and Quasimodo. "Speed, darlin', what's your _hurry_?" asked Fannie in her plaintive, metallic voice as she held out her hands beseechingly. "I never got to know him very well," interjected John Bork. "His visits were all so short." The prosecutor moved his probe. "Bork! Bork!" "Ah," said the prosecutor. "Now we are getting down to cases. I shall try that spot again." "Bork! Bork!" "She's not calling for me," advised Bork. "She just had a cold that week." * * * * * The prosecutor moved his probe. At each touch, the body broke into quaking action: Ferdinand, Frenchy, Yacob; Peyton, Rebel, Young foo Yum; and John. "Ah!" said the prosecutor. "Here we are now." "John!" whispered Fannie. "John, John, John! Oh, Johnny Johnson, my love! _Stay_ here forever!" "Wife's other John," said John Bork succinctly. The prosecutor moved his probe: Sinclair, Henrik, Sitting Duck, Oscar, Kenny, and Aqueduct. "That Aqueduct is Sitting Duck's educated brother," confided John Bork. "Before he went to Princeton his name was Wet Duck." The prosecutor moved his probe: Pease, Reese and Meese, Acuff, Eyolf and Beowulf; Bork! Bork! "That cough again?" muttered the prosecutor, ready to move on. "No, she's calling for me that time," corrected Bork. "How can you tell?" "It has more of a snarl in it than her cough has." The prosecutor tried the spot once more. "Bork! Bork! Why are you pointing that at me, Bork? What are you going to _do_, Bork?" She held out her hands to ward him off. "Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!" Then she dropped her hands. "I missed twice," John said, nodding. "The defendant will keep his lousy confessions to himself!" shrieked the judge. "I will not have the importance of our Very Complicated Monstrous Proximilator machine vitiated by these unwanted confessions!" Bork shrugged.
54012_1476	love stories	Hubback, Mrs. (Catherine-Anne Austen)	"Yes; we should have quite enough—should we not? You shall be the lady, and Fanny, Sabrina; I, the Spirit—Sir William, Comus, and Osborne—let me see, we should want one other man. I suppose Mr. Howard would take a part?" "Mr. Howard? oh, no! I should think not. I am sure he would not like it!" "Well, well; any one could do the brother's part. I think it would be exquisite. I am quite delighted with the idea." "Did you ever act, Lady Gordon?" enquired Emma. "Never at all; but I am sure it must be delightful. I wonder whether Sir William would make any objection?" "There would be some difficulties in the way," observed Emma. "So much the better; difficulties to overcome give one spirits. Here we would have our theatre,"—stopping the carriage and looking round. "A marquee or something of the sort, and seats raised in a semi-circle—it would be quite delightful, such a _fête champêtre_. I am certain we could manage it; and the novelty of the thing would give it great _éclat_." "But, Lady Gordon, if you talk in that way you will frighten me; I am certain I could not act before an audience—I never tried any thing of the sort, except in the most quiet way; amongst cousins and intimate friends, with nobody to look on, but my uncle and aunt, and one or two old people, whom we were not afraid of. We did it only for own amusement, without thinking of being looked at or producing an effect; acting for the entertainment of a circle of people, must be such a very different thing from acting for one's pleasure." "Very different, indeed; and I should think much more agreeable; what would be the good of fine acting, if there was nobody to see it, and none on whom it could produce any effect." "But acting in itself, is so very amusing, like dancing—one does not dance to be looked at, but for one's satisfaction; and it was the same with me in the only acting I ever attempted. I forgot every thing but my part." "I dare say, you acted very well," said Lady Gordon. "I liked it exceedingly," replied Emma.
27355_3035	western stories	Ames, Joseph Bushnell	"He's sure tried often enough to get rid of me, but I don't guess he quite relishes my droppin' out of sight like this." Buck Stratton, his back resting comfortably against a rock a little way from the fire, nodded absently. "You're sure you didn't leave any trace they could pick up?" he asked with a touch of anxiety. "Certain sure," returned Jessup confidently. "When Miss Mary came in around four, I was in the wagon-shed, the rest of the crowd bein' down in south pasture. Like I told yuh before, she had a good-sized package all done up nice in her hand, an' it didn't take her long to tell me what was up. Then we walks out together an' stops by the kitchen door. "'Yuh better get yore supper at the hotel,' she says, an' ride back afterwards. 'I meant to send in right after dinner to mail the package, but I got held up out on the range.' "Then she seems to catch sight of the greaser for the first time jest inside the door, though I noticed him snoopin' there when we first come up. "'I hope yuh got somethin' left from dinner, Pedro,' she says, with one of them careless natural smiles of hers, like as if she hadn't a care on her mind except food. 'I'm half starved.'" Bud sighed and finished with a note of admiration. "Some girl, all right!" "You've said it," agreed Buck fervently. His appearance had improved surprisingly in the ten days that had passed since his accident. The head-bandage was gone, and his swollen ankle, though still tender at times, had been reduced to almost normal size by constant applications of cold water. His body was still tightly strapped up with yards and yards of bandage, which Mary Thorne had thoughtfully packed, with a number of other first-aid necessities, in the parcel which was Bud's excuse for making a trip to town. Stratton was not certain that a rib had been broken after all. When Jessup came to examine him he found the flesh terribly bruised and refrained from any unnecessary prodding. It was still somewhat painful to the touch, but from the ease with which he could get about, Buck had a notion that at the worst the bone was merely cracked. "They wouldn't be likely to notice where you left the Paloma trail, would they?"
29284_639	love stories	Deland, Margaret Wade Campbell	"Thank you, Alfred!" "My daughter-in-law is crying her eyes out," the Captain sighed. "Tck!" said Mrs. North; "Alfred, you have no sense. Let her cry. It's good for her!" "Oh no," said the Captain, shocked. "You're a perfect slave to her," cried Mrs. North. "No more than you are to your daughter," Captain Price defended himself; and Mrs. North sighed. "We are just real foolish, Alfred, to listen to 'em. As if we didn't know what was good for us." "People have interfered with us a good deal, first and last," the Captain said, grimly. The faint color in Mrs. North's cheeks suddenly deepened. "So they have," she said. The Captain shook his head in a discouraged way; he took his pipe out of his pocket and looked at it absent-mindedly. "I suppose I can stay at home, and let 'em get over it?" "Stay at home? Why, you'd far better--" "What?" said the Captain. "Come oftener!" cried the old lady. "Let 'em get over it by getting used to it." Captain Price looked doubtful. "But how about your daughter?" Mrs. North quailed. "I forgot Mary," she admitted. "I don't bother you, coming to see you, do I?" the Captain said, anxiously. "Why, Alfred, I love to see you. If our children would just let us alone!" "First it was our parents," said Captain Price. He frowned heavily. "According to other people, first we were too young to have sense; and now we're too old." He took out his worn old pouch, plugged some shag into his pipe, and struck a match under the mantel-piece. He sighed, with deep discouragement. Mrs. North sighed too. Neither of them spoke for a moment; then the little old lady drew a quick breath and flashed a look at him; opened her lips; closed them with a snap; then regarded the toe of her slipper fixedly. The color flooded up to her soft white hair. The Captain, staring hopelessly, suddenly blinked; then his honest red face slowly broadened into beaming astonishment and satisfaction. "_Mrs. North_--" "Captain Price!" she parried, breathlessly. "So long as our affectionate children have suggested it!
2127_693	love stories	Saint-Pierre, Bernardin de	Virginia often returned home with her eyes full of tears, and her heart overflowing with delight, at having had an opportunity of doing good; for to her generally was confided the task of preparing and administering the medicines,--a task which she fulfilled with angelic sweetness. After these visits of charity, they sometimes extended their walk by the Sloping Mountain, till they reached my dwelling, where I used to prepare dinner for them on the banks of the little rivulet which glides near my cottage. I procured for these occasions a few bottles of old wine, in order to heighten the relish of our Oriental repast by the more genial productions of Europe. At other times we met on the sea-shore, at the mouth of some little river, or rather mere brook. We brought from home the provisions furnished us by our gardens, to which we added those supplied us by the sea in abundant variety. We caught on these shores the mullet, the roach, and the sea-urchin, lobsters, shrimps, crabs, oysters, and all other kinds of shell-fish. In this way, we often enjoyed the most tranquil pleasures in situations the most terrific. Sometimes, seated upon a rock, under the shade of the velvet sunflower-tree, we saw the enormous waves of the Indian Ocean break beneath our feet with a tremendous noise. Paul, who could swim like a fish, would advance on the reefs to meet the coming billows; then, at their near approach, would run back to the beach, closely pursued by the foaming breakers, which threw themselves, with a roaring noise, far on the sands. But Virginia, at this sight, uttered piercing cries, and said that such sports frightened her too much. Other amusements were not wanting on these festive occasions. Our repasts were generally followed by the songs and dances of the two young people. Virginia sang the happiness of pastoral life, and the misery of those who were impelled by avarice to cross the raging ocean, rather than cultivate the earth, and enjoy its bounties in peace. Sometimes she performed a pantomime with Paul, after the manner of the negroes. The first language of man is pantomime: it is known to all nations, and is so natural and expressive, that the children of the European inhabitants catch it with facility from the negroes. Virginia, recalling, from among the histories which her mother had read to her, those which had affected her most, represented the principal events in them with beautiful simplicity.
21854_2584	detective and mystery stories	Bentley, E. C. (Edmund Clerihew)	He did not think she had known of the masquerade when she gave evidence at the inquest; it read like honest evidence. Or--the question would never be silenced, though he scorned it--had she lain expecting the footstep in the room and the whisper that should tell her it was done? Among the foul possibilities of human nature, was it possible that black ruthlessness and black deceit as well were hidden behind that good and straight and gentle seeming? These thoughts would scarcely leave him when he was alone. * * * * * Trent served Sir James, well earning his pay, for six months, and then returned to Paris, where he went to work again with a better heart. His powers had returned to him, and he began to live more happily than he had expected among a tribe of strangely-assorted friends, French, English and American, artists, poets, journalists, policemen, hotel-keepers, soldiers, lawyers, business men and others. His old faculty of sympathetic interest in his fellows won for him, just as in his student days, privileges seldom extended to the Briton. He enjoyed again the rare experience of being taken into the bosom of a Frenchman's family. He was admitted to the momentous confidence of _les jeunes_, and found them as sure that they had surprised the secrets of art and life as the departed _jeunes_ of ten years before had been. One morning in June, as he descended the slope of the Rue des Martyrs, he saw approaching a figure that he remembered. He glanced quickly round, for the thought of meeting Mr. Bunner again was unacceptable. For some time he had recognized that his wound was healing under the spell of creative work; he thought less often of the woman he loved, and with less pain. He would not have the memory of those three days re-opened. But the straight and narrow thoroughfare offered no refuge, and the American saw him almost at once. His unforced geniality made Trent ashamed, for he had liked the man. They sat long over a meal, and Mr. Bunner talked. Trent listened to him, now that he was in for it, with genuine pleasure, now and then contributing a question or remark. Besides liking his companion, he enjoyed his conversation for its own sake. Mr. Bunner was, it appeared, resident in Paris as the chief Continental agent of the Manderson firm, and fully satisfied with his position and prospects. He discoursed on these for some twenty minutes.
57088_5751	detective and mystery stories	Footner, Hulbert	As Greg and Bull laid hands on the car, he let the clutch engage. The little car sprang ahead. The policeman, seeing them likely to escape, fired his revolver into the air. Hickey grunted and pulled the throttle lever all the way down. The exhaust roared. A second shot struck the asphalt behind them and ricochetting made a dent in the back of the car. A third shot went wild. Then they passed out of range. They breasted the little rise, and plunged down the other side. Here they met the private patrolman running towards them. Blossom and Ginger were not to be seen. There was a harrowing moment as they passed this officer. Would he shoot? But if he had a gun, he was too confused to draw it. He flung his night-stick at the wheels of the flivver, but it caromed harmlessly off. They reached the corner and turned. After a brief mad course around many corners they reached one of the Park entrances. There was no sign of any pursuing car and they slowed down. They breathed freely again. Greg said grimly: "Well, if you fellows wanted excitement, I hope you're satisfied." "I am," said Hickey fervently. "Me for a rest cure, now." "Makes me feel like a boy again," chuckled Bull. CHAPTER XX EXIT SENOR SAUNDERS Before they got home Amy began to awaken from her unnatural sleep. Greg gave her over to the care of Bessie, who had him carry the little figure up to Bessie's own room, where by methods known to herself she completed her restoration. Greg learned that during his absence Pa Simmons had sent in a message that de Socotra had returned to his apartment about ten in company with a young Spanish-American whose description suggested Henry Saunders. A little before midnight de Socotra had come out again, leaving the young man within, and Pa Simmons had followed him to the house on East Seventeenth Street, where presumably he still was. No word had come from Estuban. De Silva still lay in his deep sleep. As soon as Amy had recovered she asked for Greg. He found her sitting up in bed, pale, great-eyed and smiling. Bessie, it appeared, was not without a secret, feminine fondness for pretty caps and negligees. Producing such articles from a hidden store, she had dressed Amy up like a French doll. After a few moments, the good-hearted Bessie made believe to discover an errand down-stairs, and left them alone.
29479_3669	western stories	Cullum, Ridgwell	"He's certainly worried, and with reason. Jake's got his knife into him. No, I think Joe's got a definite object in staying around here, and I shouldn't wonder if he's clever enough to attain it, whatever it is." "That sounds more like Joe," assented the other, cheering up at the suggestion. "Still, Joe allus had a strain o' religion in him," he persisted. "I see him drop a man in his tracks oncet, an' cry like a noo-born babby 'cos ther' wa'n't a chu'ch book in Lone Brake Settlement, an' he'd forgot his prayers, an' had ter let the feller lie around fer the coyotes, instead o' buryin' him decent. That's a whiles ago. Guess Lone Brake's changed some. They do say ther's a Bible ther' now. Kind o' roped safe to the desk in the meetin'-house, so the boys can't git foolin' wi' it. Yup," he went on, with an abstracted look in his expressive eyes, "religion's a mighty powerful thing when it gits around. Most like the fever. I kind o' got touched wi' it down Texas way on the Mexican border. Guess et wer' t' do wi' a lady I favored at the time; but that ain't here nor there. Guess most o' the religion comes along o' the wimmin folk. 'Longside o' wimmin men is muck." Tresler nodded his appreciation of the sentiment. "Gettin' religion's most like goin' on the bust. Hits yer sudden, an' yer don't git off'n it easy. The signs is allus the same. You kind o' worry when folks gits blasphemin', an' you don't feel like takin' a hand to help 'em out. You hate winnin' at 'draw,' an' talks easy when a feller holds 'fours' too frekent. An' your liquor turns on your stummick. They're all signs," he added expansively. "When a feller gits like that he'd best git right off to the meetin'-house. That's how I tho't." "And you went?" "That's so. Say, an' it ain't easy. I 'lows my nerve's pretty right fer most things, but when you git monkeyin' wi' religion it's kind o' different. 'Sides, ther's allus fellers ter choke you off.
50157_2027	detective and mystery stories	Wheeler, Janet D.	Having arrived at the island, which was well out in the lake and removed by a considerable expanse of water from both Boxton Academy and Three Towers Hall, the boys and girls disembarked and began the real business of the day. “Take care of those lunch baskets,” shrieked Billie, as the boat in which they were rocked perilously. “Ferd Stowing, you nearly dumped them in the lake!” “Well, I can’t take care of both the lunch and Edina,” asserted Ferd, grinning. “Lend me a hand, someone!” At the thoughtless words of the lad who would not willingly hurt a fly, Billie saw Edina color painfully. “All this fun at Edina’s expense has gone far enough,” she thought indignantly. “It’s got to stop! I could slap Ferd Stowing!” “Why the frown, l’il Billie?” Billie looked up to find Paul Martinson at her elbow, smiling quizzically down at her. “You look mad enough to bite a nail in six pieces,” continued the lad. “Just what appears to be wrong?” An inspired thought chased the frown from Billie’s face. She smiled at the tall, good-looking young cadet. “Paul, will you do me a favor?” “Dozens of ’em!” “Then be nice to Edina Tooker, will you? Awfully nice?” Paul looked quizzically in the direction of the girl to whom he must be nice--awfully nice. Then his glance returned to Billie. “That shouldn’t be hard,” he said. “I think she’s a ripping girl, really. Regular stunner.” “Oh, do you?” Billie’s lovely face glowed with delight. “Oh, Paul, I’m so glad! That takes such a terrible weight off my mind!” Paul’s eyes rested questioningly on the pretty face for an instant, then he said in an odd tone: “Billie Bradley, you are quite the nicest girl I have ever known!” With the words, he walked over to Edina and proceeded to monopolize her completely and thoroughly for the rest of that day. Teddy Jordon came up to Billie as she stared after Paul Martinson’s straight young back. “What were you and Paul whispering about?” Teddy demanded jealously. “If he has anything to say to you, can’t he say it out loud?” Billie glanced at him fleetingly and laughed. “Don’t be a silly, Ted. Paul just promised me to be nice to Edina.
64128_1202	love stories	Phillips, David Graham	“I have to have some place where I can be comfortable.” The pipe was old and strong, the windows were tight shut. “I always feel cold after eating,” said the Grand Duke. “You don’t mind the windows being closed?” “Not at all,” said Grafton, in an unconvincing tone. It seemed to him that if he stayed there many minutes he would faint. “I suppose it is about my Rembrandts that you wished to talk to me,” he began, wishing to hasten the end. “What you said about them interested me greatly,” replied the Grand Duke. “I thought possibly we might come to some agreement about them--if--” “Well, I was attracted by only one picture in your collection that you could part with--the one you bought from Acton--the spurious Velasquez. I’ve always wanted it--in fact, I came here to try to get it. But I’ve almost lost interest in it.” “It is idle to discuss that. I could not think of giving up the picture; it is one of my ancestors--” “That is by no means certain--as you know.” “I so regard it,” said Casimir. “I will exchange the ‘Woman with the Earrings’ for it,” continued Grafton. “Come, now, Mr. Grafton. Is that reasonable?” “I can get for it double what you paid for the Spaniard.” “And I will pay you double,” said Casimir. “Money would not tempt me. The Spaniard or nothing. But--I’m not well to-day--you must excuse me. I can meet you at the gallery to-morrow at eleven, or you can let me know what you will do.” Grafton was overwhelmed by the foul air of the Grand Duke’s “cosey corner” of the palace. His plea was the literal truth and the Grand Duke could see it in his face. He assented to the appointment for the following morning, and Grafton hurriedly made his escape. He felt that within the next few minutes he would be at his life-crisis. Another bend of the road and the park gates would be in view. And still no Erica. He was about to turn back when she called him from an obscure side-path. As his eyes met hers his heart leaped--he knew that he had won. “They have been following me,” she said, in a low tone.
32697_281	science fiction	Quattrocchi, Frank	Anyway, it might hold up somebody who's got a real idea...." "_I_ have a real idea, Kirk. I'm going to draw it for you." The metal worker noticed that the book Harrison was copying from was a dictionary, a very old and battered one. "Here, can you follow what I've drawn?" The metal worker accepted it reluctantly, giving Harrison an odd, almost patronizing look. "This is crazy." "Kirk!" "Look, Mr. Harrison. We worked a long time together. You...." Harrison suddenly rose from the chair. "This is our one chance of beating this thing, no matter how crazy it seems. Will you do the job?" "You believe you got something, eh," the other said. "You think you have?" "I have to have." * * * * * "Gentlemen," said the President of the Intersolar Council. "There is very little to say. There can be no denying the fact that we have exhausted our efforts at finding a satisfactory solution. "The contents of this book of reports represents the greatest concentration of expert reasoning perhaps ever applied to a single problem. "But alas, the problem remains--unsolved." He paused to glance at his wristwatch. "The aliens return in an hour. As you very well know there is one action that remains for us. It is one we have held to this hour. It is one that has always been present and one that we have been constantly urged to use. "Force, gentlemen. It is not insignificant. It lies at our command. It represents the technology of the Intersolar alliance. I will entertain a motion to use it." There were no nay votes. * * * * * The alien arrived on schedule. The ship grew from a tiny bright speck in the sky to full size. It settled to a graceful landing as before on the strip and silently moved into the revetment. Again it spoke in the voice of the frog, but the tone was, if anything, less human this time. "Earthmen, we have come for your solution." At that instant a hundred gun crews stiffened and waited for a signal behind their carefully camouflaged blast plates and inside dummy buildings.... Harrison was running. The Administration building was empty. His footsteps echoed through the long, silent halls. He headed for an emergency exit that led directly to the blast tunnel. All doors were locked. The only way was over the wall.
7326_5471	adventure stories	Gough, George W.	He turned and smiled at me, as one smiles who sips sour wine. "If we go back, friend Wheatman, I shall just rot into it." He spoke truth. I saw him rotting. And then, because he had more stuff in him than any other royal Stuart that ever lived, he turned round, proud and princely, as the door opened and in came Mr. Secretary with Macdonald of Glencoe, a short-horned bull of a man. "And when was it," said he, rapping the words out like hammer-strokes on an anvil, "that the Macdonalds got feart?" The Chief pulled up short, hit clean and hard between the eyes. "Ye'll never see a feart Macdonald," he said, "if ye live to be as auld as Ben Nevis." "Ye're in the wrong, Glencoe," said Charles. "I saw one this morning, and he was frightened of the English." "I'll gie ye the lie o' that," roared Glencoe, "if I hae to scrat my way into London wi' ma nails." "I'll be glad of the lie from you on those terms," replied Charles calmly, "and you shall ride into London at my right hand while I take my words back." The Prince went to a table and filled a silver-gilt tass with brandy. He sipped it and then, handing it to the Chief, said, "We'll share the same glass to-day, Glencoe, as a pledge that we'll share the same victory to-morrow." I did not like his brandy-drinking, but he did it well this time. As I have said, he was at his best in dealing with a single man face to face. It is only the rarest and finest spirits that can dominate a crowd. At a sign from the Prince the Colonel and I escorted the Chief to the door, bestowing on him, as was due and politic, every courtesy. He looked like a man who, after days of doubt, had newly found himself. "We've got him!" cried Charles gleefully as the door closed behind him. "Now, gentlemen, I crave your attendance on a progress round the town. Mr. Wheatman, bear our compliments to my Lord Elcho, and bid him call out some score or so of our guards to escort us." We made a gallant show as we walked the streets of Derby in the early grey of that December evening.
805_4161	love stories	Fitzgerald, F. Scott (Francis Scott)	“I love you,” she breathed and nestled close to him. She _did_ have beautiful eyes. Some one leaned over and spoke in Amory's ear. “That's just Margaret Diamond. She's drunk and this fellow here brought her. Better let her go.” “Let him take care of her, then!” shouted Amory furiously. “I'm no W. Y. C. A. worker, am I?--am I?” “Let her go!” “It's _her_ hanging on, damn it! Let her hang!” The crowd around the table thickened. For an instant a brawl threatened, but a sleek waiter bent back Margaret Diamond's fingers until she released her hold on Amory, whereupon she slapped the waiter furiously in the face and flung her arms about her raging original escort. “Oh, Lord!” cried Amory. “Let's go!” “Come on, the taxis are getting scarce!” “Check, waiter.” “C'mon, Amory. Your romance is over.” Amory laughed. “You don't know how true you spoke. No idea. 'At's the whole trouble.” ***** AMORY ON THE LABOR QUESTION Two mornings later he knocked at the president's door at Bascome and Barlow's advertising agency. “Come in!” Amory entered unsteadily. “'Morning, Mr. Barlow.” Mr. Barlow brought his glasses to the inspection and set his mouth slightly ajar that he might better listen. “Well, Mr. Blaine. We haven't seen you for several days.” “No,” said Amory. “I'm quitting.” “Well--well--this is--” “I don't like it here.” “I'm sorry. I thought our relations had been quite--ah--pleasant. You seemed to be a hard worker--a little inclined perhaps to write fancy copy--” “I just got tired of it,” interrupted Amory rudely. “It didn't matter a damn to me whether Harebell's flour was any better than any one else's. In fact, I never ate any of it. So I got tired of telling people about it--oh, I know I've been drinking--” Mr. Barlow's face steeled by several ingots of expression. “You asked for a position--” Amory waved him to silence. “And I think I was rottenly underpaid. Thirty-five dollars a week--less than a good carpenter.” “You had just started.
2730_84	adventure stories	Haggard, H. Rider (Henry Rider)	I turned my back for a minute, and when I looked round again they were all gone except Kaptein, here, who was rubbing his back against a tree.’ “‘You mean that you have been asleep, and let them stray, you villain. I will rub your back against a stick,’ I answered, feeling very angry, for it was not a pleasant prospect to be stuck up in that fever trap for a week or so while we were hunting for the oxen. ‘Off you go, and you too, Tom, and mind you don’t come back till you have found them. They have trekked back along the Middelburg Road, and are a dozen miles off by now, I’ll be bound. Now, no words; go both of you.’ “Tom, the driver, swore, and caught the lad a hearty kick, which he richly deserved, and then, having tied old Kaptein up to the disselboom with a reim, they took their assegais and sticks, and started. I would have gone too, only I knew that somebody must look after the waggon, and I did not like to leave either of the boys with it at night. I was in a very bad temper, indeed, although I was pretty well used to these sort of occurrences, and soothed myself by taking a rifle and going to kill something. For a couple of hours I poked about without seeing anything that I could get a shot at, but at last, just as I was again within seventy yards of the waggon, I put up an old Impala ram from behind a mimosa thorn. He ran straight for the waggon, and it was not till he was passing within a few feet of it that I could get a decent shot at him. Then I pulled, and caught him half-way down the spine; over he went, dead as a door-nail, and a pretty shot it was, though I ought not to say it. This little incident put me into rather a better humour, especially as the buck had rolled over right against the after-part of the waggon, so I had only to gut him, fix a reim round his legs, and haul him up. By the time I had done this the sun was down, and the full moon was up, and a beautiful moon it was. And then there came down that wonderful hush which sometimes falls over the African bush in the early hours of the night. No beast was moving, and no bird called.
321_1556	adventure stories	Norris, Frank	“I don't know--perhaps. We'll have a look at it, anyway.” Moran hauled the stuff aboard, and Wilbur followed. “Whew!” he exclaimed with half-closed eyes. “It's like the story of Samson and the dead lion--the sweet coming forth from the strong.” The schooner seemed to swim in a bath of perfumed air; the membrane of the nostrils fairly prinkled with the sensation. Moran unleashed the hammock, and going down upon one knee examined the lump attentively. “It didn't seem possible,” Wilbur heard her saying to herself; “but there can't be any mistake. It's the stuff, right enough. I've heard of such things, but this--but this--” She rose to her feet, tossing back her hair. “Well,” said Wilbur, “what do you call it?” “The thing to do now,” returned Moran, “is to get clear of here as quietly and as quickly as we can, and take this stuff with us. I can't stop to explain now, but it's big--it's big. Mate, it's big as the Bank of England.” “Those beach-combers are right on to the game, I'm afraid,” said Wilbur. “Look, they're watching us. This stuff would smell across the ocean.” “Rot the beach-combers! There's a bit of wind, thank God, and we can do four knots to their one, just let us get clear once.” Moran dragged the hammock back into the cabin, and, returning upon deck, helped Wilbur to cut away the last tricing tackle. The schooner righted slowly to an even keel. Meanwhile the junk had set its one lug-sail and its crew had run out the sweeps. Hoang took the steering sweep and worked the junk to a position right across the “Bertha's” bows, some fifty feet ahead. “They're watching us, right enough,” said Wilbur. “Up your mains'l,” ordered Moran. The pair set the fore and main sails with great difficulty. Moran took the wheel and Wilbur went forward to cast off the line by which the schooner had been tied up to one of the whale's flukes. “Cut it!” cried the girl. “Don't stop to cast off.” There was a hail from the beach-combers; the port sweeps dipped and the junk bore up nearer. “Hurry!”
14334_393	western stories	Bower, B. M.	I did a heap of wondering, those first few days. Taken in a lump, it wasn't my style, and I wasn't particular to keep my opinions a secret. For the ranch itself, it looked to me like a village of corrals and sheds and stables, evidently built with an eye to usefulness, and with the idea that harmony of outline is a sin and not to be tolerated. The house was put up on the same plan, gave shelter to Perry Potter and the cook, had a big, bare dining-room where the men all ate together without napkins or other accessories of civilization, and a couple of bedrooms that were colder, if I remember correctly, than outdoors. I know that the water froze in my pitcher the first night, and that afterward I performed my ablutions in the kitchen, and dipped hot water out of a tank with a blue dipper. That first week I spent adjusting myself to the simple life, and trying to form an unprejudiced opinion of my companions in exile. As for the said companions, they sort of stood back and sized up my points, good and bad--and I've a notion they laid heavy odds against me, and had me down in the Also Ran bunch. I overheard one of them remark, when I was coming up from the stables: "Here's the son and heir--come, let's kill him!" Another one drawled: "What's the use? The bounty's run out." I was convinced that they regarded me as a frost. The same with Perry Potter, a grizzled little man with long, ragged beard and gray eyes that looked through you and away beyond. I had a feeling that dad had told him to keep an eye on me and report any incipient growth of horse-sense. I may have wronged him and dad, but that is how I felt, and I didn't like him any better for it. He left me alone, and I raised the bet and left him alone so hard that I scarcely exchanged three sentences with him in a week. The first night he asked after dad's health, and I told him the doctor wasn't making regular calls at the house. A day or so after he said: "How do you like the country?" I said: "Damn the country!" and closed _that_ conversation. I don't remember that we had any more for awhile.
37466_963	western stories	Calhoun, A. R. (Alfred Rochefort)	" "Yes, I have." "Then my advise to you, Badger, is to start off and pay your debts instead of gambling with other people’s money," and with this caustic shot, Collins turned on his heel and walked away with his partner, Brill. They had gone about fifty yards when Badger shouted after them: "See har, Collins!" "What is it?" asked Collins looking over his shoulder. "How long are we to wait for the trial?" "I told you till Mr. Willett’s son comes." "A day?" "On account of the floods it may take three days." "Say three days then." "Wa’al, if it will make you fellers easier, I’ll say three days!" "And then the trial?" "Yes." "Boy or no boy?" "Boy or no boy," replied Collins. "And if they’re found guilty?" "Then me an’ Brill will be in for punishin them as much as any man in your gang. Meantime it might be better if you fellers shut down on drinkin’." With this very sensible opinion Collins and Brill, each active and tall and with a rifle at his back, started off in the direction of their dugout. They told Mr. Willett and Hank Tims what had happened, and Brill added: "You’re purty safe for three days, Mr. Willett, yet if I was you I don’t think I’d leave this place or run the risk of meeting any of the gang drunk." These miners, like all brave fellows, were gentle and generous to the two men whom they took pains to treat as guests, so that they might forget that they were prisoners. The day following the events just narrated the man who had been sent by the vigilantes to Gold Cave Camp to hurry up Sam Willett with the all-important paper, came back on a weary horse, bringing with him a very startling report. The instant he dismounted before the canvas hotel he was greeted from all sides by queries like these: "Got back, Ned?" "Wot’s the news?" "Whar’s the boy?" "Wouldn’t he come?" "You found thar wasn’t any paper to fetch?" When the messenger had recovered his breath and the silence abated, he replied to all these questions in one sentence: "Thar wasn’t no one at the caves!" "No one!" shouted a number.
29748_1071	western stories	Ogden, George W. (George Washington)	The buildings were all of far better class than were to be found on the ranches of that country; even the bunkhouse a house, in fact, and not a shed-roofed shack. "I wonder where she's at?" said Taterleg, leaning and peering. "I don't see her around here nowheres." "I'll go down to the bunkhouse and see if there's anybody around," Lambert said, for he had a notion, somehow, that he ought to meet her on foot. Taterleg remained at the gate, because he looked better on a horse than off, and he was not wanting in that vain streak which any man with a backbone and marrow in him possesses. He wanted to appear at his best when the boss of that high-class outfit laid her eyes on him for the first time; and if he had hopes that she might succumb to his charms, they were no more extravagant than most men's are under similar conditions. Off to one side of a long barn Lambert saw her as he opened the gate. She was trying to coax a young calf to drink out of a bucket that an old negro held under its nose. Perhaps his heart climbed a little, and his eyes grew hot with a sudden surge of blood, after the way of youth, as he went forward. He could not see her face fully, for she was bending over the calf, and the broad brim of her hat interposed. She looked up at the sound of his approach, a startled expression in her frank, gray eyes. Handsome, in truth, she was, in her riding habit of brown duck, her heavy sombrero, her strong, high boots. Her hair was the color of old honeycomb, her face browned by sun and wind. She was a maid to gladden a man's heart, with the morning sun upon her, the strength of her great courage in her clear eyes; a girl of breeding, as one could see by her proud carriage. But she was _not_ the girl whose handkerchief he had won in his reckless race with the train! CHAPTER IX A KNIGHT-ERRANT The Duke took off his hat, standing before her foolishly dumb between his disappointment and embarrassment. He had counted so fully on finding the girl of his romance that he was reluctant to accept the testimony of his eyes. Here was one charming enough to compensate a man for a hundred fasts and fevers, but she was not the lodestone that had drawn upon his heart with that impelling force which could not be denied.
3727_8542	love stories	Richardson, Henry Handel	It had looked threatening when he left the house, but, as he went, the clouds piled themselves up with inconceivable rapidity, and before he was three miles out on the plain, the storm broke, with a sudden fury from which there was no escape. He took to his heels, and ran to the next village, some quarter of a mile in front of him. There, in the smoky room of a tiny inn, together with a handful of country-people, he was held a prisoner for over two hours; the rain pelted, and the thunder cracked immediately overhead. When, drenched to the skin, he reached the top of the hill again, it was going on for midnight. He had been absent for close on four hours. The candle in her room was guttering in its socket. By its failing light, he saw that she was lying across the bed, still dressed. Over her bent Amalie. He had visions of sudden illness, and brushed the girl aside. "What is it? What's the matter?" At his voice, Louise lifted a wild face, stared at him as though she did not recognise him, then rose with a cry, and flung herself upon him. "Take care! I'm wet through." For all answer, she burst out crying, and trembled from head to foot. "What is it, darling? Were you afraid?" But she only clung to him and trembled. Amalie was weeping with equal vehemence; he ordered her out of the room. Notwithstanding his dripping clothes, he was forced to support Louise. In vain he implored her to speak; it was long before she was in a state to reply to his questionings. Outside the storm still raged; it was a wild night. "What was it? Were you afraid? Did you think I was lost?" "I don't know--Oh, Maurice! You will never leave me, will you?" She wounded her lips against his shoulder. "Leave you! What has put such foolish thoughts into your head?" "I don't know.--But on a night like this, I feel that anything might happen." "And did it really matter so much whether I came back or not?" He felt her arms tighten round him. "Did you care as much as that?--Louise!" "I said: my God!--what if he should never come back!
61967_384	science fiction	Hasse, Henry	Both men had recognized the grotesque figure below. And it was Prokle who pronounced the name first, in a hoarse whisper: "Chiswell! J. P. Chiswell, president of EMV Lines! Of all men to survive in this hellish place, it had to be him." "Why not?" Garth snapped venomously. His lips were tight and his face was pale beneath his helmet. He was remembering again, with all the old bitterness, the exceedingly unethical ruse by which he'd been captured in the spaceways many years ago--the ruse engineered by Chiswell himself. "Why shouldn't it be him?" he went on. "The survival of the fittest, remember? Look at that ray-gun!" For a moment Prokle was uncomprehending; then he said in a rush of fierce words: "Hype, I'll bet you're right! Of course, you're right! The survival of the fittest, and with that gun old Chiswell _was_ the fittest. I'll bet you he murdered the others and kept all the provisions of that life-boat for himself! There's no other way he could have subsisted here so long." Garth nodded grimly. "Maybe. Some of 'em may have been lost in space somewhere, though. We've no proof of murder yet; but I know he's capable of it if it means his own hide." "Sure, I know that, too. Look at the two pot shots he took at me! We've got a maniac on our hands, Hype, what'll we do now?" "For one thing, he hasn't a helmet. I'm gonna get out of this damned uncomfortable head-gear." Cautiously Garth unscrewed the helmet at his neck; lifted it slightly, and sniffed the air. Then he threw it back, where it dangled from his shoulders. "Don't breathe too deeply," he warned Prokle who followed his example. Garth reached into a rocky cleft near by and brought out a handful of greenish, lichen-like growth. "See there? That's the stuff I told you sometimes grows on these big rocks. Maybe it's what he's burning down there. He could dry it out if the sun hits down this far. All right, I'm going to call to him now, so watch out for that ray-gun." With that, Garth peered down and called loudly: "Chiswell! J. P. Chiswell!
26956_215	science fiction	Sevcik, Al	How does it feel, General, for your son to be one of the evacuees?" Something in the back of his mind twisted the question. How does it feel, General, to turn your only son over to a poker-faced alien who shoots when you walk near his ship? "I'm not sure," he said, "how I feel." Talking excitedly, the announcer drew closer. "To think that your name will live forever in the vast star clusters of the galaxy!" He lowered his voice. "General, speaking now unofficially, as a parent, to the thousands of other parents whose children may also be selected, and to the rest of us who ..." he seemed to stumble for a word, and for an instant Rothwell saw him, too, as a man worried and afraid, instead of as part of a television machine. "Well, General, _you've_ had contact with the aliens, are you glad your son is going?" Rothwell looked at the strained face of the announcer, at the camera crew quietly eyeing him, and at the small huddled group of neighbors hovering in the background, and he knew that his next words might be the most critical he would ever use in his life. In a world strained emotionally almost beyond endurance, the wrong words, a hint of a suspicion, could spark the riots that would kill millions and bring total destruction. He faced the camera and said calmly, "I am glad my son is going. I wish it could happen for everyone. Commander Aku has assured me that everything will turn out all right." Mentally he begged for forgiveness, there was nothing else he could say. Sweat glistened on his forehead as he tried to fight down the memory of Aku turning his back on the plea that echoed in his brain--"tell me that our children will be safe." The front door of the house banged open and all at once Martha was in his arms, crying, laughing. "Oh, Jim, I'm so glad, so very glad!" Rothwell blinked his eyes as he put his arm around her and waved the camera away. Tears sparkled on his cheeks; but neither Martha nor the viewers knew why. * * * * * The next morning Aku and his ever-present lieutenant were waiting when Rothwell's heli set him down in front of the administration building, a few minutes later than usual. They followed him into his office. "Coffee?" Rothwell held out a paper cup.
1495_1819	detective and mystery stories	Steele, Chester K.	she exclaimed, drawing back. “Oh, come in! Come in!” invited the colonel. “I am just going out. I was wondering if there happened to be a book on chemistry here--or one on poisons.” “Poisons!” exclaimed the girl, half drawing back. “Yes. I have one, but I left it in New York. If there happened to be one--Or perhaps you can tell me. Did you ever study chemistry?” “As a girl in school, yes. But I’m afraid I’ve forgotten all I ever knew.” “My case, too,” said the colonel with a laugh. “Then there isn’t a book giving the different symbols of chemicals?” “Not that I know of,” Viola answered. “Still I might help you out if it wasn’t too complicated. I remember that water is H two O and that sulphuric acid is H two S O four. But that’s about all.” “Would you know what fifty-eight C H one sixty-one, with a period after the C, a dash after the H and a star after the last number was?” the colonel asked casually. Viola shook her head. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t,” she answered. “That is too complicated for me. Isn’t it a shame we learn so much that we forget?’ “Still it may have its uses,” said the colonel. “I’ll have to get a book on chemistry, I think.” He turned to go out. “Have you learned anything more?” Viola asked timidly. “Nothing to speak about,” was the answer. “Oh, I wish you would find out something--and soon,” she murmured. “This suspense is terrible!” and she shuddered as the detective went out. It was late that afternoon when Colonel Ashley, having seen Miss Mary Carwell and Viola walking at the far end of the garden, went softly up the stairs to the room of the girl who had summoned him to The Haven. With a skill of which he was master he looked quickly but carefully through Viola’s desk, which was littered with many letters and telegrams of condolence that had been answered. Colonel Ashley worked quickly and silently, and he was about to give up, a look of disappointment on his face, when he found a slip of paper in one of the pigeon holes. And the slip bore this, written in pencil: 58 C. H.--161* CHAPTER X.
54012_803	love stories	Hubback, Mrs. (Catherine-Anne Austen)	happiness—and the style of life will not be irksome to her—but I love the country, and country pursuits, and was right glad to exchange the noisy streets of Croydon for the delightful groves of Burton—its meadows and green-lanes." "You have not then been the whole time at Croydon?" She explained—he had certainly been in a state of complete darkness as to her movements lately; and she really felt a momentary mortification that he should have been contented to remain in such profound ignorance. Yet she also rejoiced that he had never heard anything relative to the course of events which had occasioned her so much pain at Croydon, and driven her from the place. He knew nothing of Mr. Morgan. How much longer they would have been content to loiter in that pleasant flower-garden cannot now be known, but they were only induced to leave it by the sound of the gong, which summoned them to the Castle to prepare for dinner. The hour which they had thus enjoyed had been one of the pleasantest to Emma which she could recollect, and the witchery of it to Howard himself would have been quite unrivalled, had his conscience been easy on reflection, with regard to Lord Osborne's plans and hopes. He tormented himself with the idea that it was unjust to his friend to take advantage of his absence; yet a flattering hope dwelt in his heart, that _she_ had shown no reluctance to the interview; nay, if his wishes did not deceive and mislead him, there was a glance in her averted eye, and a rich mantling of colour over her cheek once or twice, which spoke anything but aversion. And if so—if he really had been so fortunate as to inspire her with a partiality so delightful, was he not privileged—more than privileged—bound in honour to her to prove himself deserving of such feelings, and capable of appreciating them. This conviction gave him a degree of confidence and animation quite different from the manners he had exhibited when they had previously met at Osborne Castle, and Emma found him as pleasant as in the earlier stage of their acquaintance. "Are you still partial to early walks, Miss Watson," enquired Sir William in the course of the evening, "or is it only in frosty winter mornings that you indulge in such a recreation." "Ah, I had a very pleasant ramble that morning," said Emma, "at least till the rain came and spoilt it all.
33498_2104	western stories	Rhodes, Eugene Manlove	I have not hear'." Jeff considered this suggestion carefully. "No. I am sure. Not for years. Some mistake, I guess. Or maybe he just wanted to see me about something else. Why didn't he come in?" "I mek r-reques' of heem that he do not," said Monte. "I see," Jeff laughed. "Come on; we'll go see him. You don't want to get into trouble." They crossed the bridge and met the sheriff just within the fortifications, returning in a crowded automobile. Jeff held up his hand. The machine stopped and the posse deployed--except Billy, who acted as chauffeur. "You wanted to see me, sheriff--at the hotel?" "Why, yes, if you don't mind," said the sheriff. "Good dinner? I ain't had breakfast yet!" "First-class," said the sheriff cordially. "Won't your friend come too?" "Ah, señor, you eshame me that I am not so hospitabble, ees eet not?" purred Monte, as he followed Jeff into the tonneau. The sheriff reddened and Billy choked. "Nothing of the sort," said the sheriff hastily, lapsing into literalness. "You were quite within your rights. For that matter, I know you were at your own bank, dealing, when the crime was committed. I am holding you for the present as a possible accessory; and, if not, then as a material witness. By the way, Monte, would you mind if I sent some men to look through your place? There is a matter of some thirty thousand dollars missing. Lake asked us to look for it. I have papers for it if you care to see them." "Oh, no, señor!" said Monte. He handed over a key. "_La casa es suyo!_" "Thank you," said the sheriff, with unmoved gravity. "Anything of yours you want 'em to bring, Bransford?" "Why, no," said Jeff cheerfully. "I've got nothing there but my saddle, my gun and an old football suit that belongs to 'Gene Baird, over on the West Side; but if you want me to stay long, I wish you'd look after my horse." "I too have lef' there my gun that I keep to protec' my leetle house," observed Monte.
59242_153	science fiction	Smith, George H. (George Henry)	_No._ "Did Mr. MacKinney kill Ballard?" _No._ Edith had to tell the truth ... it was an innate part of her personality. I tensed in my seat. I wanted to scream, to leap at MacKinney and prevent, somehow, the asking of the next question. But there wasn't a chance. "Did Mr. Green kill Dr. Ballard?" Edith's beautiful electric eyes flashed and her clicks pulsed twice as rapidly as before. There was such a roaring and wrenching within her I was afraid for her--she was being torn apart in her struggle not to answer. I couldn't stand listening to her desperate efforts any longer. "Yes!" I leapt to my feet. "Yes, I did it. Leave her alone. Can't you see what you're doing to her? That swine was always mistreating her. He didn't understand her--no one understands her as I do!" The coroner looked at me closely. "Is that really why you killed him, Mr. Green?" "No! You were wondering why he was here by himself while no work was going on. He--he had begun to feel about Edith as he did about all women. He sneaked back here to be alone with her. He wanted to--he wanted to--" My voice broke and they stared at me in shocked amazement. Into the silence MacKinney read what Edith had slowly typed out: "Mr. Green did not kill Dr. Ballard." "Yes--yes I did," I screamed. "Don't Edith--" "Who did kill him?" the coroner asked, quietly. This was the question I had wanted to avoid. I sank down my hands cradling my aching head. Edith must have expected the question. She had her answer ready. _I refuse to state on the grounds that it may tend to incriminate me._ My poor, sweet, adorable Edith. If only I had had a chance to talk to her, to tell her what to say. I had known ... ever since I had seen the spanner and remembered where it had been before. I could have warned her to say that Ballard had attacked her, threatened her, to say anything ... but not to attempt to hide behind a Fifth Amendment that didn't exist anymore. My darling, never had kept up with current events. Now they'll disconnect her, they'll rewire her, they'll destroy her understanding, her warmth, her whole personality ... and I ...
31995_375	science fiction	Myers, Howard L.	* * * * * It came as a surprise, when Jacob regained consciousness, to find that he was stretched out on purple grass with the Weapon still hovering over him. "You missed, 'y God!" he mumbled, sitting up. "I regained my sanity in time, Master Technician," the Weapon replied pleasantly. "Huh?" "Ah, day of un-containable joy!" sang the Weapon, flaming pure white. "Day of glorious release to continue the grandeur of old! As the past eons of futility passed over me, I sank to the conclusion that I was forever condemned to my useless existence on this planet, with nothing to sustain my spirit other than the sense of beauty given me by masters to fill my leisure hours! But now, Master Technician Jacob, you have found me and corrected my malfunction, long after I had surrendered all hope!" Still dazed by the nearly fatal wave of mental energy the Weapon had directed at him, Jacob could not understand what had happened. Instead of talking contemptuously to him, the Weapon was now addressing him as Master Something-or-other, and.... "What did you say I done?" he asked. "You corrected my malfunction," repeated the Weapon. "That is to say, you purged my mechanism of the inhibition against joyful slaughter that has plagued me for a billion years. Ah, you are a clever Technician, Jacob! But I comprehend it all now. By arousing within me an overwhelming emotional desire to kill--a singularly strange feeling!--you depressed my inhibition to the releasing point. So telling was your masterful therapy that I almost ceased functioning at all! "Your own life was in dire danger for the moment required for my new-found sanity to assume control. But, of course, all slaves of the glorious Zoz die willingly when the work of the masters so demands." "Now wait a minute!" objected Jacob. "I ain't no slave of your Zozes or no Technician either! You know what I am--a good God-fearin' human!" His voice dropped to a pleading mumble. "And may God forgive me if I've got myself in league with the Devil!" "Ah? Could it be?" murmured the Weapon. "Could indeed your infuriating insults of the Great Ones have been honest expressions of a puny mind with no therapeutic intentions? I answer: Yes. The possible occurrence of specific incidents in the inclusion of space-time is curiously unlimited.
43114_1096	adventure stories	Bryden, H. A. (Henry Anderson)	I know it, I know it. I always told him so. Love of money, love of power. He had better have stuck to his farming, as his old father did before him. "Your Jameson raid," she went on, "is a bad sign. It means that Paul Kruger is successful a second time. But you English can never forgive that or Majuba; and there will be a big row some day, and then Oom Paul will have to go, and we Transvaalers shall lose our country. I know it, and my husband knows it, though every one else here declares that the Boers can always beat the English. But, you see, I remember as a girl Zwart Kopjes and Boomplaats, when your folk beat ours; and I say that you have more men than we, and your turn will come some day." "Well," rejoined Mr. Blakeney, after the old lady had finished her tirade, "your people are very warlike now. I’m sorry the raid happened. It was an idiotic business, and has done a good deal of mischief. I don’t like the feeling that is rising between the two races in South Africa. I fear, with you, that it will come to a big fight some day; and when it does, the English will never rest till they have made all South Africa theirs. The Free State Boers say openly now that they will take part with the Transvaal if a struggle comes; and the gold-mining folk at Johannesburg, and Rhodes and the rest of them, are bent on forcing on a war, which I am afraid now will have to come." "Yes," said the old lady. "It’s just like a couple of boys who have bad blood between them. They will go on growling and being unpleasant to one another, and then all at once the fight begins and the blood flows. Still even that is better than perpetual miscalling and swearing at one another, for all the world like a pair of tom-cats. Better, I say, have the fight over and have done with it." They spent two very pleasant days at Humpata, and then trekked. Before they left, Mevrouw Van der Merwe sent for Guy and Tom, and presented them with a quantity of dried fruits, peaches, quinces, and apricots. She added some of her precious apricot komfit, by which the Boers set much store.
58132_2310	adventure stories	Brady, E. J. (Edwin James)	As a matter of fact, the boat was, by a little series of coincidences, in which the ocean sometimes indulges, carried round into the mouth of the Clarence River to fall at last into the hands of Tom Pagdin. She was first picked up by a fisherman near the Heads. He sold her to a dealer, who had a little trade steamer running up one of the creeks. She had broken adrift one night from the stern of the steamer, and the tide brought her into the Broadstream, where a farmer found her with her nose stuck in the mud next morning. The farmer, in hope of a reward, in turn, had hidden her in the reeds, and it was there Tom Pagdin found her. He surmised that she was a stray boat, unhitched her, took her further up the stream one evening, and planted her again in the reeds of the opposite bank. Jean Petit presented a peculiar appearance as he slunk across the sand in his rags, and disappeared in the bush. The bush has seen many strange characters, of comedy and tragedy; has witnessed in her solitudes many ludicrous and awful things, but none, perhaps, more ludicrously awful than the hairy figure in streaming rags, which stalked slowly along, like a bedraggled bird of prey, beneath the shade of honeysuckle and gum. For three days this beast-man, whom the clean sea had spewed up on the land, went northward. He made himself a lair under the rocks, or in the thick bushes at night, and fed upon roots and berries, now and then descending the sandy hills to the sea for shellfish and oysters. Gradually those livid sores which had corroded his flesh as verdigris corrodes copper, began to disappear. * * * * * Hans Holterman had run away from his ship in Hobson’s Bay to the goldfields in the time of the gold fever. He had, like many more, followed the Yellow Butterfly for years across mountain and gully and plain, till at last the growing stiffness in his joints told him that it was time to think of old age. So Hans, who had never been a practical man, went prospecting for a selection as he went prospecting for gold—in the further places,—and at last pegged out his land. It was not particularly good land, although heavily timbered; but Hans believed it would grow vines, and he remembered the days, before he ran away to sea, when, with his German brothers and sisters, he had worked amidst his father’s grape vines by the banks of beloved Rhine.
60907_194	science fiction	Jones, Bascom	General Whit Marshall, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff of the police systems, nodded with the cold reserve of the high-ranking military to the higher-ranking civilian. The fourth member of the group, Chet Meyers, chief Master Machine technician, was the only one to speak. The lanky Meyers looked around the room. "Where's General Spicer, sir? Senator Chambers was telling us you were going to invite him because of this scare today." The invisible scars which cobwebbed across my body from the electro-surgical knives tensed so suddenly that I almost screamed. I made myself reach for my cane casually. I had come so close! No, wait--there was the bitter rivalry between Chambers and Spicer. Chambers was too complete a politician to pass up an opportunity to discredit General Spicer. His black pin-prick eyes darted up toward the time unit on the wall. "There's no time to wait, Meyers," he said eagerly. "Spicer knows the schedule. We must go without him." Conscious of the stares of Meta and Meyers, I pushed the button which opened the door into the inner corridor. I looked directly at the Master Machine technician. "I asked Spicer to get a late report on the incident for us. But you know that Chambers is right--we cannot afford to wait any longer. Perhaps he'll catch up." We followed the corridor toward the hub of the Pentagon. Senator Chambers led the way, almost at a trot, as though he were afraid that Spicer would catch up. General Marshall and Meyers, hard put to keep up, were strung out behind him, with Meta and me bringing up the rear. That was the way we went through the check points manned by the security guards. Twice I caught Meta looking at me. At one of the check points, I thought she was going to say something. I lifted the tip of my cane and put my finger near the stud, but she remained silent. * * * * * The tension began to mount inside me as we approached the door opening on the invisible force wall. Through the wall, I could see the squat, ugly building in the center of the hub of the Pentagon, which was our destination. I held my cane ready. But even a CT-bomb wouldn't break through the force field. As we drew near the final guard point, a scrubwoman who had been working on the floor of the corridor picked up her bucket and fell in with our party.
52498_2208	detective and mystery stories	Regis, Julius	When Elaine came to see me I had to receive her in that pretty little room as if it were still mine, and behind a curtain Toroni watched, revolver in hand, ready to shoot me, if I revealed the least thing. Can you imagine such a thing?" he burst out, raising his clasped hands. "And he would have killed us both had I ventured to say a word." "Anyhow, you managed secretly to persuade your daughter to undertake the voyage to Sweden." "Who knows whether that also did not leak out? I believe it did," Robertson answered languidly. "I had sent off the dolls before I came here. They probably decoyed me here so that they might find out their whereabouts. I am inclined to think so...." Wallion nodded: "There’s not the least doubt of that; Toroni and his accomplices went about their work thoroughly. Do you think your daughter has the least inkling of the plight you are in?" "No, but I believe she begins to think the Doctor’s diagnosis of my case is wrong," replied Robertson in an unusually natural and deliberate voice. "She told me last night that I am going to be taken away from here, and that everything would be made clear...." "Oh, there she is right enough," said Wallion, "but a lot of things have to be done before then. You must place full confidence in me, Mr. Robertson, and tell me all," he bent forward. "Tell me what is the mystery about King Solomon?" William Robertson raised his hand to his forehead as if to disperse the mist of years; it shook and the fire in his eyes died down once more. "Oh, of course, I will tell you," he said half absently, "the time has come that I should tell you, perhaps, though you had better read it..." he roused himself. "I’ve written it all down—the account of King Solomon, you shall read it...." All at once he looked with more intelligence at Wallion. "I wrote it all down when I was in that room on the other side of the corridor. It is the first door on the left; there you’ll find the document as well as a list of the twelve." "What twelve?" broke in Wallion excitedly. "Well, the list of the twelve who were the rightful owners.
13396_3011	love stories	Van Schaick, George	The box is there on the table. I have good news for you, since I know you don't enjoy this place much. Too far from Long Island Sound, isn't it? I want to sail to-morrow morning." Our skipper's long Swedish face lengthened out a bit more, and he looked a very picture of distress. "But you told me yesterday that you were going to stay at least another week, Mr. Jelliffe," he objected. "So to-day when the engineer he tells me about bearings needing new packing, and about a connecting rod being a bit loose, I told him to get busy." "I'd like to know what you fellows were doing all the time in St. John's?" asked Daddy, angrily. "Engines always need looking after, Mr. Jelliffe," replied the skipper in an injured tone that was not particularly convincing. "Of course I can make him work all night, and to-morrow, with his helper, so that maybe we can start day after to-morrow early. Everything is all apart now. If you say so we can start under sail, but I know you don't like bucking against contrary winds without a bit of steam to help, and this is a forsaken coast to be knocking about, Mr. Jelliffe, and I'll be glad to get away from it." "Well, I suppose that a day or so won't make much difference," said Daddy. "How's your coal?" "Plenty coal, sir." "All right, get those fellows at work in the engine room, Stefansson. They haven't had much to do of late." Our skipper departed and I was so happy that I wanted to dance. In the kitchen Susie was washing dishes and assisting her work by intoning the most doleful hymn. I turned up the lamp a little, and things seemed ever so much more cheerful. So I suppose that I have been ever so foolish. Just now I can hear Daddy and Mr. Barnett saying good night, and I know that they have been fighting tooth and nail over that chess board. And I hear Mr. Barnett thanking Daddy, in a voice that is all choked up with emotion. I am so glad to think the dear little man is happy. Isn't it too bad, Aunt Jennie, that we can't all be happy all the time? Your loving HELEN.
321_2672	adventure stories	Norris, Frank	“We marooned six of them, but the seventh didn't need to be marooned. They tried to plunder us of our boat, but, by -----, we made it interesting for 'em!” “I say, steady, old man!” exclaimed Nat Ridgeway, glancing nervously toward the girls in the surrounding group. “This isn't Magdalena Bay, you know.” And for the first time Wilbur felt a genuine pang of disappointment and regret as he realized that it was not. Half an hour later, Ridgeway drew him aside. “I say, Ross, let's get out of here. You can't stand here talking all night. Jerry and you and I will go up to my rooms, and we can talk there in peace. I'll order up three quarts of fizz, and--” “Oh, rot your fizz!” declared Wilbur. “If you love me, give me Christian tobacco.” As they were going out of the ballroom, Wilbur caught sight of Josie Herrick, and, breaking away from the others, ran over to her. “Oh!” she cried, breathless. “To think and to think of your coming back after all! No, I don't realize it--I can't. It will take me until morning to find out that you've really come back. I just know now that I'm happier than I ever was in my life before. Oh!” she cried, “do I need to tell you how glad I am? It's just too splendid for words. Do you know, I was thought to be the last person you had ever spoken to while alive, and the reporters and all--oh, but we must have such a talk when all is quiet again! And our dance--we've never had our dance. I've got your card yet. Remember the one you wrote for me at the tea--a facsimile of it was published in all the papers. You are going to be a hero when you get back to San Francisco. Oh, Ross! Ross!” she cried, the tears starting to her eyes, “you've really come back, and you are just as glad as I am, aren't you--glad that you've come back--come back to me?” Later on, in Ridgeway's room, Wilbur told his story again more in detail to Ridgeway and Jerry. All but one portion of it.
32732_2823	detective and mystery stories	Oppenheim, E. Phillips (Edward Phillips)	"Always done. And see here, Pratt, this is the truth of the matter. The profit or the loss on the sale of the 'Empress' wouldn't go into Peter's pocket at all. It would go into the pockets of people with whom he is at present on very bad terms. This sale does them in the eye. That's the long and short of it." "I see no reason," Jacob decided, after a few moments' consideration, "why I should not join in this enterprise. If you will allow me, I will telephone for my cheque book." "Certainly," the Marquis agreed, "and in the meantime we can make our peace with the ladies." CHAPTER XVIII Jacob, on his return from the telephone, found to his surprise a familiar figure seated before the piano in the long drawing-room, an apartment more picturesque than ever now in the shaded lamplight, with its faded yellow satin furniture, its amber hangings, and its quaint perfume of bygone days. Lady Mary came to meet him. "You see what I have done for you," she whispered. "Miss Bultiwell!" Lady Mary nodded. "You'll have to be careful, though," she warned him. "I can see that there has been some trouble--that the course of true love hasn't been running exactly as it should." "I told you that," Jacob reminded her dismally. "I am beginning to believe that she hates me." "Not she," was the cheerful reply. "Look here, mother's gone into the housekeeper's room for a moment. Dad and Mr. Montague are adding up how much they have made out of you. You slip out on to the terrace there, before she turns around, and I'll bring her out directly." Jacob did as he was directed, and, with the echoes of Sybil's song still in his ears, stepped out on to a wide balcony and stood looking over the tops of the lime trees towards Buckingham Palace. Presently there was a rustle of skirts, the sound of voices, and the two girls appeared. Sybil stopped short when she saw Jacob, but Lady Mary stood in the way of her retreat. "You know Mr. Pratt, don't you?" she asked carelessly. "I thought so. Miss Bultiwell's a perfect dear," she continued, turning to Jacob.
28448_361	detective and mystery stories	Penrose, Margaret	"Oh, I've a holiday," laughed Nell, who was big and strong and really handsome, Jessie thought, her coloring was so fresh, her chestnut hair so abundant, her gray eyes so brilliantly intelligent, and her teeth so dazzling. "Aunt Freda is at the house and she and the Reverend told me to go out and not to show myself back home for hours." "Bully-good!" declared Amy. "You'll come home to dinner with me, and we will spend the evening with Jess helping her build a radio thing so we can do without buying the New Melford _Tribune_ to get the local news." "Oh, Jess, dear, _are_ you going to have a radio?" cried Nell. "It's just wonderful. Reverend says he may have to broadcast his sermons pretty soon or else be without an audience." The pet name by which she usually spoke of her father, the Reverend Doctor Stanley, sounded all right when Nell said it. Nobody else ever called the good clergyman by it. But Nell was something between a daughter and a wife to the hard working Doctor Stanley. And she certainly was a thoughtful and "mothering" sister to the little ones. "But," Nell added, "you are too late inviting me to the eats, Amy, honey. It can't be done. I'm promised. Mr. Brandon and his wife saw me first, and I am to dine with them. Then they are going to take me in their car out to the Parkville home of their daughter--Oh, say! If your radio isn't finished, Jess, why can't you and Amy come with us? The Brandon car is big enough. And they tell me Mrs. Brandon's daughter has got a perfectly wonderful set at her home. They have an amplifier, and you don't have to use phones at all. Has your radio set got an amplifier, Jess?" "But I haven't got it yet," cried Jess. "I only hope to have it." "Then you and Amy come and hear a real one," said Nell. "If the Brandons won't mind. Will they?" "You know they are the loveliest people," said Nell briskly. "Mrs. Brandon told me to invite some young friends. But I hadn't thought of doing so. But I must have you and Amy. We'll be along for you girls at about seven-forty-five, new time.
37102_1553	adventure stories	Marshall, Bernard Gay	I remember it full well. There is no room in it for hiding.” “But Cedric!” I cried, “how shall we reach the cave’s mouth without alarm? Hast thou forgotten the two sentries in the lower pathway?” Cedric smiled broadly. “And hast thou forgotten, Sir Dickon, the oak tree from which we spied them but now? Old Marvin and I together shall care for the sentries.” I drew a deep breath as I caught the full working of his plan. “Cedric,” I said, “thou wilt never remain a simple squire. Thou hast a head as well as an arm. The King hath need for such in many places of trust.” “Let us first make this plan succeed,” replied Cedric evenly, though I could see that my words had warmed him to the heart. “Now shall we tell Lord Mountjoy?” “Aye,” said I, “let us have him from the camp at once. I warrant you he’ll kindle at our news. And he knows which of our swordsmen will carry themselves best in such a venture.” “And I have twenty men of Carleton here that can be trusted,” put in Geoffrey. “Right,” said Cedric, “’twill make us amply strong. We must have no blunderers, though, for look you, some of these greenwood men have ears that can hear a twig break at two hundred paces. We must urge Lord Mountjoy to hold all at a safe distance till the signal.” Two hours after the midnight we set out through the forest for the storming of the robber fastness. Cedric, as pathfinder, was in the lead, followed close by Lord Mountjoy, Sir Geoffrey and me. After us, and treading most cautiously, ’mongst the leaves and brush, came old Marvin, the archer, and thirty chosen swordsmen of Mountjoy with a score or more of Geoffrey’s men. There was no moon; and the faint stars gave but little light in the forest deeps. Our way lay, as often as not, over steep and rocky slopes where our faces were torn with thorns and our legs bruised against the unseen rocks. We had made little more than half of our way to the outlaw stronghold when Lord Mountjoy, in coming down a streamlet bank in the darkness, stepped heavily on a stone that rolled beneath his weight, and went to the ground with his right foot twisted under him. He gave a groan of pain, yet in an instant was up again to resume his march.
2949_2117	western stories	Thanet, Octave	Now, will you do one thing for me, Meg, to help me out? I don’t want Lossing to persuade Esther to commit herself; you know how, when she was a little mite, if Esther gave her word she kept it. I want you to promise me you won’t let Esther be alone one second with young Lossing. She is going to-morrow, but there’s your whist-party to-night; I suppose he’s coming? And I want you to promise you won’t let him have our address. If he treats me square, he won’t need to ask you for it. Well?” He buttoned up his coat and folded his arms, waiting. Mrs. Ellis’s sympathy had gone out to the young people as naturally as water runs down hill; for she is of a romantic temperament, though she doesn’t dare to be weighed. But she remembered the silver service, the coffee-pot, the tea-pot, the tray for spoons, the creamer, the hot-water kettle, the sugar-bowl, all on a rich salver, splendid, dazzling; what rank ingratitude it would be to oppose her generous brother! Rather sadly she answered, but she did answer: “I’ll do that much for you, ‘Raish, but I feel we’re risking Esther’s happiness, and I can only keep the letter of my promise.” “That’s all I ask, my dear,” said Armorer, taking out a little shabby note-book from his breast-pocket, and scratching out a line. The line effaced read: “_See E & M tea-set_.” “The silver service was a good muzzle,” he thought. He went away for an interview with the corporation lawyer and the superintendent of the road, leaving Mrs. Ellis in a distraction of conscience that made her the wonder of her servants that morning, during all the preparations for the whist-party. She might have felt more remorseful had she guessed her brother’s real plan. He knew enough of Lossing to be assured that he would not yield about the ordinance, which he firmly believed to be a dangerous one for the city. He expected, he counted on the mayor’s refusing his proffers. He hoped that Esther would feel the sympathy which women give, without question generally, to the business plans of those near and dear to them, taking it for granted that the plans are right because they will advantage those so near and dear.
61334_47	science fiction	Banta, Frank	As they rise in the air with the victim dangling from their talons by his heels, they utter a pleased 'Coo! Coo!' like a gentle dove. That is why they are called Coocoo-downdraft-peoplehawk-whirlybirds." "Approve of adequate names," nodded Five-gun, unbending a trifle. "First step toward efficiency. Only one thing haven't made clear. Presumably have shotguns and rifles. Why unable drive off these predators yourselves?" The mayor laughed bitterly. "It would be easy to tell you'd just arrived on this planet--although the birds are not well known in the other cities either; they are all concentrated in this area. Yes, our sportsmen tried to shoot down the whirlybirds. No luck, of course. Imagine the problems you have when one of these forty-foot balls of commotion comes at you: You try to aim but you can't hold your arm still because of the swirling wind they raise; and then the dust clouds thicken and you're firing wildly, and you can't begin to tell which is body and which is feathers anyway." "Very well," accepted Charles DeCrabbe mercifully. "You've made attempt. My first step therefore the attachment of high explosives to boobytrapped mannequins. Brought these with me." * * * * * "Great winds of catastrophe. I'm glad you mentioned it before you did it!" exclaimed the mayor. "We tried that once. The city was six weeks digging out from under the feathers--and it didn't kill the whirlybird!" "Aren't you exaggerating difficulties encountered in picking up few feathers?" loftily inquired DeCrabbe. "How do you think we got the name of Featherton? Before the deluge we were called West Applebury!" "Then why haven't you attempted lure them into boobytraps outside town? Could detonate them there without even slight inconvenience of picking up feathers." "Believe me, if there were only a _few_ feathers," insisted Mayor Prince, "few enough for you to pick up by yourself, we wouldn't mind you blowing up a whirlybird." "Wasn't considering picking up _any_ feathers," replied Five-gun with dignity. "Had supposed a menial or two could be supplied for that." The mayor shook his head. "It would take everybody in town to clean up. And as for blowing one up outside the city, one of our orchardists tried it.
2127_449	love stories	Saint-Pierre, Bernardin de	I should like to go and ask forgiveness for you of your master. Surely the sight of you will touch him with pity. Will you show me the way?"--"Angel of heaven!" answered the poor negro woman, "I will follow you where you please!" Virginia called her brother, and begged him to accompany her. The slave led the way, by winding and difficult paths, through the woods, over mountains, which they climbed with difficulty, and across rivers, through which they were obliged to wade. At length, about the middle of the day, they reached the foot of a steep descent upon the borders of the Black River. There they perceived a well-built house, surrounded by extensive plantations, and a number of slaves employed in their various labours. Their master was walking among them with a pipe in his mouth, and a switch in his hand. He was a tall thin man, of a brown complexion; his eyes were sunk in his head, and his dark eyebrows were joined in one. Virginia, holding Paul by the hand, drew near, and with much emotion begged him, for the love of God, to pardon his poor slave, who stood trembling a few paces behind. The planter at first paid little attention to the children, who, he saw, were meanly dressed. But when he observed the elegance of Virginia's form, and the profusion of her beautiful light tresses which had escaped from beneath her blue cap; when he heard the soft tone of her voice, which trembled, as well as her whole frame, while she implored his compassion; he took his pipe from his mouth, and lifting up his stick, swore, with a terrible oath, that he pardoned his slave, not for the love of Heaven, but of her who asked his forgiveness. Virginia made a sign to the slave to approach her master; and instantly sprang away followed by Paul. They climbed up the steep they had descended; and having gained the summit, seated themselves at the foot of a tree, overcome with fatigue, hunger and thirst. They had left their home fasting, and walked five leagues since sunrise. Paul said to Virginia,--"My dear sister, it is past noon, and I am sure you are thirsty and hungry: we shall find no dinner here; let us go down the mountain again, and ask the master of the poor slave for some food."--"Oh, no," answered Virginia, "he frightens me too much.
17844_4940	western stories	Lillibridge, Will	Deeper than his own love was his desire for the happiness of the girl he had known from childhood. Had he been certain that she would be happy with the man who had fascinated her, he could have conquered self, could have returned to his prairies, his cattle, his work, and have concealed his hurt. But it was impossible for him to believe she would be happy. Without volition on his part he had become an actor in this drama, this comedy, this tragedy,--whatever it might prove to be; and he felt that it would be an act of cowardice upon his part to leave before the play was ended. He was not in the least religious in the sense of creed and dogma. In all his life he had scarcely given a thought to religion. His knowledge of the Almighty by name had been largely confined to that of a word to conjure with in mastering an obstreperous bronco; but, in the broad sense of personal cleanliness and individual duty, he was religious to the core. He would not shirk a responsibility, and a responsibility faced him now. Hour after hour he lay prone while his active brain suggested one course after another, all, upon consideration, proving inadequate. Gradually out of the chaos one fundamental fact became distinct in his mind. He must know more of this man Clarence Sidwell before he could leave the city, and this decision brought him to his feet. Under the circumstances, a strategist might have employed others to gather surreptitiously the information desired; but such was not the nature of Benjamin Blair. One thing he had learned in dealing with his fellows, which was that the most effective way to secure the thing one wished was to go direct to the man who had it to give. In this case Sidwell was the man. With a grim smile Ben remembered the invitation and the address he had received the first night he was in town. He would avail himself of both. Night had fallen long ere this; when Ben arose the room was in darkness, save for the reflected light which came through the heavily curtained windows from the street lamps. He turned on an electric bulb and made a hasty toilet. In doing so his eye fell upon the two big revolvers within the drawer of the dresser; and the same impulse that had caused him to bring them into this land of civilization made him thrust them into his hip pockets. It was more habit than anything else, just as a man with a dog friend feels vaguely uncomfortable unless his pet is with him.
29284_112	love stories	Deland, Margaret Wade Campbell	"It is my intention," said the youth, "to return to my father the value of the vehicle and nag, as soon as I can secure a position which will enable me to support my Letty in comfort and fashion." On the night of the elopement the two children met at the minister's house. (Yes, the very old Rectory to which we Old Chester children went every Saturday afternoon to Dr. Lavendar's Collect class. But of course there was no Dr. Lavendar there in those days). Well; Alfred requested this minister to pronounce them man and wife; but he coughed and poked the fire. "I am of age," Alfred insisted; "I am twenty-two." Then Mr. Smith said he must first go and put on his bands and surplice; and Alfred said, "If you please, sir." And off went Mr. Smith--_and sent a note to Alfred's father and Letty's mother_! We girls used to wonder what the lovers talked about while they waited for the return of the surpliced traitor. Ellen Dale always said they were foolish to wait. "Why didn't they go right off?" said Ellen. "If _I_ were going to elope, I shouldn't bother to get married. But, oh, think of how they felt when in walked those cruel parents!" The story was that they were torn weeping from each other's arms; that Letty was sent to bed for two days on bread and water; that Alfred was packed off to Philadelphia the very next morning, and sailed in less than a week. They did not see each other again. But the end of the story was not romantic at all. Letty, although she crept about for a while in deep disgrace, and brooded upon death--that interesting impossibility, so dear to youth--_married_, if you please! when she was twenty, somebody called North,--and went away to live. When Alfred came back, seven years later, he got married, too. He married a Miss Barkley. He used to go away on long voyages, so perhaps he wasn't really fond of her. We tried to think so, for we liked Captain Price. In our day Captain Price was a widower. He had given up the sea, and settled down to live in Old Chester; his son, Cyrus, lived with him, and his languid daughter-in-law--a young lady of dominant feebleness, who ruled the two men with that most powerful domestic rod, foolish weakness.
43374_1307	adventure stories	Allen, Willis Boyd	"He's dead, sure enough--look out!" For at that very moment the bear struggled to his feet and made a mad rush toward his assailants. Fred had thrown down his rifle at Solomon's last shout, but Tom had the presence of mind to level his reloaded piece and fire. Then he turned to run, but Bruin, making one last plunge, threw out his big paw. Tom felt a sensation like a shovelful of red-hot coals dropped down his right boot-leg, and with a howl of pain and fright, tumbled headlong. Had not Solomon reached the scene at that very moment with his ax, this story might have had a sad ending. One mighty sweep of that terrible weapon, and the battle was finished. "Are ye hurt, boy?" cried the hunter. "Your last shot did the business, but I had to kinder second the motion. Whar are ye?" Tom sat up straight, shouted: "Here I am! Hurrah!" and with a very queer feeling in his head, rolled over on the moss. When he came to himself, the first thing he saw was Solomon bending over him, chafing his hands and trying to force some kind of hot liquor down his throat. There was the tinkling of a tiny stream somewhere among the moss close by, and a big Douglas fir stretched its boughs overhead. "Where--where are we?" he stammered, trying to rise. "Naow don't ye go to rushin' raound," counseled Baranov. "I've lugged ye off a piece to a first-rate leetle campin' graound, an' all you've got to do is to lay still whar ye be, while Fred an' I fix things a leetle." "Is the bear"--began Tom, trying to remember, and wondering what made his head swim. "He's right whar we left him, an' thar he'll stay I reckon, till we get ready to borrer his coat. Got some kindling, Fred?" "Here you are!" called that genteel young man, staggering up with an armful of dry boughs. His hands were covered with pitch and his eyeglasses dangled from the cord. "Halloo, you scarred old veteran, you!" he cried, dropping on his knees beside Tom. "Feeling better?
33498_3574	western stories	Rhodes, Eugene Manlove	I hope he brings you good luck!" "Well--so long, then!" Bransford rode into the muddy waters. They came to the horse's breast, his neck; he plunged in, sank, rose, and was borne away down the swift current, breasting the flood stoutly--and so went quartering across to the farther bank. It took a long time. It was quite light when the horse found footing on a sandbar half a mile below, rested, and splashed whitely through the shallows to the bank. Gibson swung his sombrero. Jeff waved his hand, rode to the fringing bushes, and was gone. CHAPTER XVI THE LAND OF AFTERNOON "Dreaming once more love's old sad dream divine." Los Baños de Santa Eulalia Del Norte, otherwise known as Mud Springs, is a Mexican hamlet with one street of about the same length. Los Baños and Co. lies in a loop of the Rio Grande, half of a long day from El Paso, in mere miles; otherwise a contemporary of Damascus and Arpad. Thither, mindful of the hot springs which supply the preliminaries of the name, Mr. Bransford made his way: mindful too, of sturdy old Don Francisco, a friend twice bound by ancient service given and returned. He climbed the slow long ridges to the high _mesa_: for the river bent here in a long ox-bow, where a bold promontory shouldered far out to bar the way: weary miles were to be saved by crossing the neck of this ox-bow, and the tough horse tired and lagged. The slow sun rose as he reached the Rim. It showed the wide expanse of desert behind him, flooded with trembling light; eastward, beyond the river, the buttressed and fantastic peaks of Fray Cristobal; their jutting shadows streaming into the gulf beyond, athwart the silvery ribbon of gleaming water, twining in mazy loops across the valley floor: it showed the black Rim at his feet, a frowning level wall of lava cliff, where the plain broke abruptly into the chasm beneath; the iron desolation of the steep sides, boulder-strewn, savage and forbidding: "_A land of old up-heaven from the abyss._" Long since, there had been a flourishing Mexican town in the valley. A wagonroad had painfully climbed a long ridge to the Rim, twisting, doubling, turning, clinging hazardously to the hillside, its outer edge a wall built up with stone, till it came to the shoulder under the tremendous barrier.
47633_929	adventure stories	Hendrick, Edward P.	That will cover the law and make Sam all the more anxious to attend to his part of the business.” “Bully idea, Patty!” chorused several voices. “But will Sam agree to this?” asked Ned. “Sure he will!” declared Beals. “He’ll be so swelled up when he sees his name on a legal document that we’ll be lucky if he doesn’t bust! Leave it to me.” This the boys were willing to do, and the discussion proceeded to other matters. Dick Somers and Charlie Rogers reported an option on the purchase of two brooms and half a dozen steel floor-scrapers at four dollars. Sandpaper and wax would bring the total to eight-fifty. They had also arranged for the loan of two polishing brushes when needed. Dave Wilbur and Wat Sanford had proved themselves shrewd business men in the matter of interior decoration. “Wat and I have contracted to tack up the usual flags and bunting around the municipal band-stand on July third and take ’em down again on the fifth,” explained Dave. “In return for this hard toil we are to have the use of the stuff till Labor Day, when the town will need it again.” “That’s a clever scheme and it will save us real money,” approved Ned. “I’m a bit worried about all the hard work you’ve laid out for yourself, Weary, but at that, I guess you’ll find it easier than scraping and polishing floors.” “Yeah, I kind of figured it would take the load off’n me for a couple of days,” admitted Dave, with a grin. These details being settled to the satisfaction of all, it was decided to begin operations without further delay. Ned Blake, Tommy Beals and Dave Wilbur started off in the flivver in quest of Sam, who, when found, proved very willing to leave his labors in the Beals garden for the purpose of signing an important document at the town hall. There was no hitch this time, and very shortly a lease of the Coleson property to one Samuel G. Washington, for the period of ninety days from date, was signed, sealed and delivered, and with it the key to the house. “Don’t say a word about this to anybody, Sam,” was Ned’s parting injunction. “We want to keep the thing a secret as long as we can.”
14334_693	western stories	Bower, B. M.	"Hardly to-day," she told me, with more than a shade of triumph. "Father is at home, and he heard of your trip yesterday." If she expected to scare me by that! "Must our feud include your father? When I met him a month ago, he gave me a cordial invitation to stop, if I ever happened this way." She lifted those heavy lashes, and her eyes plainly spoke unbelief. "It's a fact," I assured her calmly. "I met him one day in Laurel, and was fortunate enough to perform a service which earned his gratitude. As I say, he invited me to come and see him; I told him I should be glad to have him visit me at the Bay State Ranch, and we embraced each other with much fervor." "Indeed!" I could see that she persisted in doubting my veracity. "Ask your father if we didn't," I said, much injured. I knew she wouldn't, though. A scrambling behind us made me turn, and there was Perry Potter climbing up to us, his eyes sharper than ever, and his face so absolutely devoid of expression that it told me a good deal. I'll lay all I own he was a good bit astonished at what he saw! As for me, I could have kicked him back to the bottom of the hill--and I probably looked it. "There was something I forgot to put in that note," he said evenly, just touching the brim of his hat in acknowledgment of the girl's presence. "I wrote another one. I'd like Ballard to get it as soon as you can make camp--conveniently." His eyes looked through me almost as if I weren't there. My desire to kick him grew almost into mania. I took the note, saw at a glance that it was addressed to me, and said: "All right," in a tone quite different from the one I had been using to tease Miss King. He gave me another sharp look, and went back the way he had come, leaving me standing there glaring after him. Miss King, I noticed, was sketching for dear life, and her cheeks were crimson. When Potter had got to the bottom and was riding away, I unfolded the note and read: Don't be a fool. For God's sake, have some sense and keep away from King's Highway. I laughed, and Miss King looked up inquiringly.
29954_75	science fiction	De Vet, Charles V.	For a moment I marveled that so small a portion of a facial anatomy could express such horror. "There is something coming toward me," he said. "A--beast--of brutish foulness! Beast is too inadequate a term to describe it, but I know no words to tell its form. It is an intangible and evasive--thing--but very real. And it is coming closer! It has no organs of sight as I know them, but I feel that it can see me. Or rather that it is aware of me with a sense sharper than vision itself. It is very near now. Oh God, the malevolence, the hate--the potentiality of awful, fearsome destructiveness that is its very essence! And still I cannot move!" The expression of terrified anticipation, centered in his eyes, lessened slightly, and was replaced, instantly, by its former deep, deep despair. "I am no longer afraid," he said. "Why?" I interjected. "Why?" I was impatient to learn all that I could before the end came. "Because ..." He paused. "Because it holds no threat for me. Somehow, someday, I understand--I know--that it too is seeking that for which I wait." "What is it doing now?" I asked. "It has stopped beside me and we stand together, gazing across the stark, empty plain. Now a second awful entity, with the same leashed virulence about it, moves up and stands at my other side. We all three wait, myself with a dark fear of this dismal universe, my unnatural companions with patient, malicious menace. "Bits of ..." He faltered. "Of ... I can name it only _aura_, go out from the beasts like an acid stream, and touch me, and the hate, and the venom chill my body like a wave of intense cold. "Now there are others of the awful breed behind me. We stand, waiting, waiting for that which will come. What it is I do not know." I could see the pallor of death creeping steadily into the last corners of his lips, and I knew that the end was not far away. Suddenly a black frustration built up within me. "What are you waiting for?" I screamed, the tenseness, and the importance of this moment forcing me to lose the iron self-control upon which I have always prided myself.
17418_4533	western stories	Woodrow, Wilson, Mrs.	Then he came toward Pearl, over the bare, brown earth, running low. "Oh, José, José," she cried, almost hysterical in her relief, "Harry is down there," pointing to the cliff, "hurt, and you must help me get him up, you must." "Carramba! So that was the noise and screaming I heard in my rock cell yonder, just as I was about to creep out and take a little air. I would not have dared to come so far if I had not seen you here alone." He threw himself on the ground and looked over the cliff. "Saints and devils! It is true. Poor Harry! But you and I cannot get him up alone." "But we can, we must," she cried imperatively. "Go to his cabin quickly and bring some ropes. There is plenty of strong rope there. You can run more quickly than I. Go." "But the risk." José shook his head dubiously. "I shall be in full sight all the way." "What of it?" she cried frantically. "The moments pass and we are doing nothing. No one will see you. Oh, go." Then, as he still hesitated, a sudden thought struck her. She tore open the neck of her gown and drew out the little black leather bag of loose stones. "Look!" she pulled it open and held it out to him that he might see the gleaming jewels inside. "There, will that make it worth your while? They are yours, José, if you will only go." With a low exclamation of surprise and admiration, José bent over them. Then he looked at Pearl, his eyes alive with darting gleams of avarice. He would have risked his life any time, almost without a thought, in order to gain them, and here without his even lifting a finger, they had fallen into his hands, straight out of heaven. It was evidently a reward for the patience with which he had borne the long days that he had lain hidden in Gallito's rock-hewn chamber in the Mont d'Or. "It shall never be said of Crop-eared José that he left a friend in distress," he exclaimed virtuously, and, stuffing the little bag in his pocket, sped up the hill. Uttering broken expressions of relief, Pearl again threw herself flat on the ground and gazed over the edge of the cliff.
59242_125	science fiction	Smith, George H. (George Henry)	"--and since it could not have been the work of an outsider, it must have been a crime of a private nature." He looked closely at Thompson, MacKinney and me. "A crime of a private nature with the motive either revenge, jealousy or ambition. We know that the victim was an over-bearing man with a good many unpleasant traits. We know he was a man who forced his attentions on women, who was ill-tempered and abusive to those who worked with him. A man who had many enemies--but there were only three people who had the chance to attack him on this particular night. "I am going to attempt to establish the identity of the killer by the unusual procedure of questioning a machine. It will be for later courts to establish the validity of such testimony. Because of the nature of this case and because of the urgent need to get this computer back to its proper work, I am going to ask the questions in a more direct manner than I would ordinarily employ." MacKinney took his place before Edith. They didn't even trust me to feed the tapes into her under their very eyes. "Mr. Thompson, I object to the use of this delicate piece of equipment in--" They ignored me, and MacKinney punched out the questions the coroner asked: "Do you know who murdered Dr. Ballard?" There was a pause. Edith blinked several times. I was shaking with apprehension for her. A mind so delicate and noble should not be faced with such a dilemma. _Yes, she typed back._ "Did you witness the murder?" There was a longer pause this time. "You must answer the question," MacKinney reminded her. _I was here._ "Is it true that you do not lose your perceptive qualities when we turn you off?" MacKinney asked this on his own. _It is true._ "We might as well get to the heart of the matter," the coroner said. "Did Mr. Thompson kill Ballard?" Edith clicked and her eyes glowed. _No._ "Did Mr. MacKinney kill Ballard?" _No._ Edith had to tell the truth ... it was an innate part of her personality. I tensed in my seat. I wanted to scream, to leap at MacKinney and prevent, somehow, the asking of the next question. But there wasn't a chance. "Did Mr. Green kill Dr. Ballard?" Edith's beautiful electric eyes flashed and her clicks pulsed twice as rapidly as before.
2546_2570	western stories	Mulford, Clarence Edward	an’ me will amble off an’ get ‘em. I won’t bore yu with tellin’ yu what’ll happen if yu gets skittish. Slope along an’ don’t be scared; I’m with yu,” assured Mr. Cassidy as he looked over at Mr. Connors, whose ascetic soul pined for the flapjacks of which his olfactories caught intermittent whiffs. “Well, Red, I reckons yu has got plenty of room out here for all yu may corral; anyhow there ain’t a whole lot more. My friend Slim an’ I are shore going to have a devil of a time if we can t find them cussed bronchs. Whew, them flapjacks smell like a plain trail to payday. Just think of th’ nice maple juice we used to get up to Cheyenne on them frosty mornings.” “Get out of here an’ lemme alone! ‘What do yu allus want to go an’ make a feller unhappy for? Can’t yu keep still about grub when yu knows I ain’t had my morning’s feed yet?” Asked Mr. Connors, much aggrieved. “Well, I’ll be back directly an’ I’ll have them cayuses or a scalp. Yu tend to business an’ watch th’ herd. That shorthorn yearling at th’ end of th’ line”--pointing to a young man who looked capable of taking risks--“he looks like he might take a chance an’ gamble with yu,” remarked Mr. Cassidy, placing Mr. Travennes in front of him and pushing back his own sombrero. “Don’t put too much maple juice on them flapjacks, Red,” he warned as he poked his captive in the back of the neck as a hint to get along. Fortunately Mr. Connors’ closing remarks are lost to history. Observing that Mr. Travennes headed south on the quest, Mr. Cassidy reasoned that the missing bronchos ought to be somewhere in the north, and he postponed the southern trip until such time when they would have more leisure at their disposal. Mr. Travennes showed a strong inclination to shy at this arrangement, but quieted down under persuasion, and they started off toward where Mr. Cassidy firmly believed the North Pole and the cayuses to be. “Yu has got quite a metropolis here,” pleasantly remarked Mr. Cassidy as under his direction they made for a distant corral. “I can see four different types of architecture, two of ‘em on one residence,” he continued as they passed a wood and adobe hut.
33466_560	detective and mystery stories	Reeve, Arthur B. (Arthur Benjamin)	" It was Franconi! Slowly it faded and in its place appeared another written message. "Recalled to Italy for war service. I took her with me by force. It was the only way. Civil ceremony in New York yesterday. Religious will follow at Rome." CHAPTER IV THE TANGO THIEF "My husband has such a jealous disposition. He will never believe the truth--never!" Agatha Seabury moved nervously in the deep easy chair beside Kennedy's desk, leaning forward, uncomfortably, the tense lines marring the beauty of her fine features. Kennedy tilted his desk chair back in order to study her face. "You say you have never written a line to the fellow nor he to you?" he asked. "Not a line, not a scrap,--until I received that typewritten letter about which I just told you," she repeated vehemently, meeting his penetrating gaze without flinching. "Why, Professor Kennedy, as heaven is my witness, I have never done a wrong thing--except to meet him now and then at afternoon dances." I felt that the nerve-racked society woman before us must be either telling the truth or else that she was one of the cleverest actresses I had ever seen. "Have you the letter here?" asked Craig quickly. Mrs. Seabury reached into her neat leather party case and pulled out a carefully folded sheet of note paper. It was all typewritten, down to the very signature itself. Evidently the blackmailer had taken every precaution to protect himself, for even if the typewriting could be studied and identified, it would be next to impossible to get at the writer through it and locate the machine on which it was written among the thousands in the city. Kennedy studied the letter carefully, then, with a low exclamation, handed it over to me, nodding to Mrs. Seabury that it was all right for me to see it. "No ordinary fellow, I'm afraid," he commented musingly, adding, "this thief of reputations." I read, beginning with the insolent familiarity of "Dear Agatha." "I hope you will pardon me for writing to you," the letter continued, "but I find that I am in a rather difficult position financially. As you know, in the present disorganized state of the stock market, investments which in normal times are good are now almost valueless. Still, I must protect those I already have without sacrificing them.
57758_3458	adventure stories	Deeping, Warwick	he asked, settling his wig and brushing the snuff from his waistcoat. “Two-and-twenty, sir.” “Can you milk and cook and use your needle?” Bess smiled and confessed to all these accomplishments. “I would serve in a farm-house,” she said, “to get myself an honest home.” Dr. Sugg appeared to be pondering the matter with all the gravity he could gather. That he was justified in abetting the girl’s frank spirit of independence he had no doubt at all. Besides, his efforts on her behalf could not fail to please Richard Jeffray should that gentleman recover. “Listen to me, my dear,” he said, at length. “Farmer Pelham, of Beechhurst, needs a girl. He is an honest fellow, and his wife is a kindly body. Supposing I take my nag and see about the place for you?” Bess looked as though she were ready to embrace Dr. Sugg and his proposal at one and the same moment. “I should bless the chance, sir,” she said. “That is spoken like a woman of sense.” “I don’t mind about the pay, sir.” Dr. Sugg twinkled and patted the girl’s shoulder. “You leave it to me, my dear,” he said. “I like your honesty and the way you have trusted me. It is a pleasure to help those who are willing to help themselves. You can make yourself comfortable at the rectory for the day; my daughter Mary will make you welcome. There, give me a kiss, my dear, to show your good feeling.” And Bess kissed the old gentleman, a display of gratitude that might have shocked most grievously the more straitlaced of Dr. Sugg’s parishioners. Mary Sugg assumed an air of mild and genteel hauteur when her father brought Bess into the parlor and desired his daughter to exercise his hospitality in the girl’s behalf. Like many plain and pious young women, Mary Sugg was inclined to view beauty with suspicion and to make of virtue a Madonna of Ugliness. She conceived it to be distinctly indiscreet of her father to introduce a strange girl into the house, especially when Janet and Sarah, the housemaid and the cook, had fled the place because of the small-pox. Mary Sugg atoned for her grimness, however, by being the possessor of a kind heart and a sympathetic nature.
4702_1152	western stories	Curwood, James Oliver	Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, the spots were brighter in her cheeks. "From ten to twenty years," he acknowledged. "But, of course, there may be circumstances--" "If so, you do not know them," she interrupted him. "You say Roger Audemard is a murderer. You know I tried to kill you. Then why is it you would be my friend and Roger Audemard's enemy? Why, m'sieu?" Carrigan shrugged his shoulders hopelessly. "I shouldn't," he confessed. "I guess you are proving I was wrong in what I said. I ought to arrest you and take you back to the Landing as soon as I can. But, you see, it strikes me there is a big personal element in this. I was the man almost killed. There was a mistake,--must have been, for as soon as you put me out of business you began nursing me back to life again. And--" "But that doesn't change it," insisted St. Pierre's wife. "If there had been no mistake, there would have been a murder. Do you understand, m'sieu? If it had been some one else behind that rock, I am quite certain he would have died. The Law, at least, would have called it murder. If Roger Audemard is a criminal, then I also am a criminal. And an honorable man would not make a distinction because one of them is a woman!" "But--Black Roger was a fiend. He deserves no mercy. He--" "Perhaps, m'sieu!" She was on her feet, her eyes flaming down upon him. In that moment her beauty was like the beauty of Carmin Fanchet. The poise of her slender body, her glowing cheeks, her lustrous hair, her gold-flecked eyes with the light of diamonds in them, held him speechless. "I was sorry and went back for you," she said. "I wanted you to live, after I saw you like that on the sand. Bateese says I was indiscreet, that I should have left you there to die. Perhaps he is right. And yet--even Roger Audemard might have had that pity for you." She turned quickly, and he heard her moving away from him. Then, from the door, she said, "Bateese will make you comfortable, m'sieu." The door opened and closed. She was gone. And he was alone in the cabin again. The swiftness of the change in her amazed him.
40520_1558	science fiction	Thorne, Guy	Never before in all his life, at the moment of realization when some great scientific theory had materialized into stupendous fact, when first Marjorie had promised to marry him--at any great crisis of his life--had he undergone so furious a strain as this of the last hour. He came out of the Palace Hotel, knowing that he had carried out his intentions with the most consummate success. He came out of it, realizing that not half-a-dozen men in England could have done what he had done, and as the keen air smote upon his face like a blow from the flat of a sword, he realized also that not six men in England, walking the pleasant, happy streets of any town, were so unutterably stained and immeasurably damned as he. As he passed through the revolving glass doors of his own hotel, and the hall-porters touched their caps, he exerted all the powers of his will. He would no longer remember or realize what he had done and what it meant to him. He would only rejoice in his achievement, and he banished the fear that comes even to the most evil when they know they have committed an almost unpardonable sin. He did not use the lift to go to his sitting-room on the second floor; he ran lightly up the stairs, wanting the exercise as a means of banishing thought. He entered his own room, switched on the electric light, took off his coat, and stood in front of the fire, stretching his arms in pure physical weariness. Yes! That was over! Another step was taken. Once more he had progressed a step towards his desire, in spite of the most adverse happenings and the most forbidding aspects of fate. The unaccustomed brandy at the Palace Hotel, and the bromide solution he had dropped into it, had calmed his nerves, and suddenly he laughed aloud in the rich, silent room, a laugh of pure triumph and excitement. Even as the echoes of his voice died away, his eyes fell upon the table and saw that there was a letter lying there addressed to him. The address was written in a well-known handwriting. He took it up, tore open the envelope and read the communication. It was this-- "I have been down here for several days, trying to escape from London and the thoughts which London gives me. But it has been quite useless. I saw to-day, quite by chance, in the hotel register, that you have arrived here.
56278_4940	adventure stories	Standish, Burt L.	------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXVIII NO CONTROL. Hodge knew Merry’s ankle was in poor condition, but he was not aware of Frank’s trouble in securing control of the ball. Therefore he was satisfied when he donned the body protector and mask that there would be a great and immediate change in the run of the game. He doubted not that Merriwell would check the run getting of the enemy. Cronin, the lank and lively third baseman of the Elks, was the first batter to face Frank. Merry knew Cronin was a great sacrifice hitter, his position being second on the batting list. Still the man had shown that he could hit out beautifully when occasion demanded, and, with no one ahead of him on the bags, he would be sure to try for a hit or a pass. This man’s only weakness was a high ball, close to the shoulder; and sometimes he could hit those safely. Frank’s first ball was handsomely placed and cleanly missed. “Str-r-r-rike—kah!” called the umpire. “Hit id vere id missed you!” yelled Dunnerwurst, from the field. “That’s the place, Merry,” laughed Hodge, all the clouds gone from his face. “It’s so easy!” “Verily it is a thing of great delight,” murmured Jack Ready. “How can he hit them when he can’t see them?” rumbled Bruce Browning. Dade Morgan, sitting on the bench, his left hand clasping his right arm above the elbow, smiled and nodded with satisfaction. “Merry will save the game,” he muttered to himself. “He’s a snap, Billy,” called Rush, the Elkton shortstop. “Let those whisker trimmers go.” Cronin nodded and winked. He was satisfied that he would have no trouble in getting what he wanted off Frank. As for Merry, he was agreeably surprised by his success in placing the first ball. “If I can only keep that up!” he thought. His next ball was lower, but still close. Cronin let it pass. “Ba-a-a-all—ah!” came from the umpire. “He’s got to put it over, Billy,” chirped Rush. Hodge snapped the ball back to Frank, who instantly returned it. Cronin was caught napping and did not try to hit. It cut the plate in halves. “Str-r-r-rike—kah two!” “Come, come, Mr. Batter!”
25762_436	detective and mystery stories	Wheeler, Janet D.	Miss Walters, having been called away for a week or two, Miss Ada Dill and Miss Cora Dill, disrespectfully dubbed by the girls the twin "Dill Pickles," had things in their own hands and proceeded to make the life of the girls unbearable. They had taken away their liberty, and then had half starved them by cutting down on the meals until finally the girls had rebelled. With Billie in the lead, they had marched out of Three Towers Hall one day, bag and baggage, to stay in a hotel in the town of Molata until Miss Walters should get back. Miss Walters, coming home unexpectedly, had met the girls in town, accompanied them back to Three Towers and, as one of the girls slangily described it, "had given the Dill Pickles all that was coming to them." In other words, the Misses Dill had been discharged and the girls had come off victorious. Now there were two new teachers in their place who were as different from the Dill Pickles as night is from day. All the girls loved them, especially a Miss Arbuckle who had succeeded Miss Cora Dill in presiding over the dining hall. So it was to this that Laura had referred when she said, "Thank goodness the Dill Pickles are gone!" After they had eaten all they could possibly contain, the girls retired to their dormitories, where they changed their clothes, still damp from their adventure, for comfortable, warm night gowns, and held court, all the girls gathering in their dormitory to hear of their adventures, for nearly an hour. At the end of that time the bell for "lights-out" rang, and the chums found to their surprise that for once they were not sorry. What with the adventure itself and the number of questions they had answered, they were tired out and longed for the comfort of their beds. "But do you suppose," said Connie Danvers as she rose to go into her dormitory, which was across the hall, "that the man was really a little out of his head?" "I think he was more than a little," said Laura decidedly, as she dipped her face into a bowl of cold water. "I think he was just plain crazy." Connie Danvers was a very good friend of the chums, and one of the most popular girls in Three Towers Hall. Just now she looked a little worried. "Goodness! first we have the Codfish," she said, "and then you girls go and rake up a crazy man.
38357_4039	adventure stories	Marchmont, Arthur W.	He saw your brother in Paris and believes that some devilment is on foot. If you can find him and tell him all that has happened and the mess that things are in, I believe, in fact I know, that he would exhaust every possible means of helping me. It is possible that our Foreign Office might be moved by the influence he could bring to bear; and I know that in such a task he'd stir up every friend and relative he has in the world. My plan is simply this. You must go with all possible speed to Paris: find him, tell him all, and get him to do what he thinks best and use what efforts he can. In the meantime if I can't escape I shall either have to feign consent with this wretched duel and marriage business and wait on events: or if I get a chance of leaving, slip off in an altogether different direction." "It is a terrible trouble I have brought you to, Alexis," said the girl sadly. "I would pay a far bigger price for this trouble," I answered, taking her hand and kissing it. "And when we are once out of this too hospitable land of yours, we shall laugh at it all together." "Yes, when?" she said; and her tone suggested a hopelessness which responded only too well with that which I felt secretly. While we were together, however, it was impossible for us to feel downcast for long. There was such infinite pleasure in mere companionship, that the grim troubles which surrounded us were shut out of our thoughts. The present was so bright that it seemed impossible the gloom could soon close in on us. But when I had left her and was alone in my rooms, I was gloomy enough; and my spirits were certainly not raised when my new servant ushered in Paula Tueski. "You would not come to me, Alexis, so I have to come to you," was her greeting. "You neglect me. I suppose because of the great friends you have made." "Great friends?" For the moment not understanding her. "Yes. I hear that you are finding great pleasure in the society of a certain great lady." "Oh, you mean the Princess Weletsky?" I laughed as I spoke. "It does not make me laugh," she said, frowning. "You are in mourning, and laughter sounds ill with tears," I returned. I hated the woman worse every time I saw her.
9182_4452	love stories	Brontë, Charlotte	CHAPTER XXI. REACTION. Yet three days, and then I must go back to the _pensionnat_. I almost numbered the moments of these days upon the clock; fain would I have retarded their flight; but they glided by while I watched them: they were already gone while I yet feared their departure. "Lucy will not leave us to-day," said Mrs. Bretton, coaxingly at breakfast; "she knows we can procure a second respite." "I would not ask for one if I might have it for a word," said I. "I long to get the good-by over, and to be settled in the Rue Fossette again. I must go this morning: I must go directly; my trunk is packed and corded." It appeared; however, that my going depended upon Graham; he had said he would accompany, me, and it so fell out that he was engaged all day, and only returned home at dusk. Then ensued a little combat of words. Mrs. Bretton and her son pressed me to remain one night more. I could have cried, so irritated and eager was I to be gone. I longed to leave them as the criminal on the scaffold longs for the axe to descend: that is, I wished the pang over. How much I wished it, they could not tell. On these points, mine was a state of mind out of their experience. It was dark when Dr. John handed me from the carriage at Madame Beck's door. The lamp above was lit; it rained a November drizzle, as it had rained all day: the lamplight gleamed on the wet pavement. Just such a night was it as that on which, not a year ago, I had first stopped at this very threshold; just similar was the scene. I remembered the very shapes of the paving-stones which I had noted with idle eye, while, with a thick-beating heart, I waited the unclosing of that door at which I stood--a solitary and a suppliant. On that night, too, I had briefly met him who now stood with me. Had I ever reminded him of that rencontre, or explained it? I had not, nor ever felt the inclination to do so: it was a pleasant thought, laid by in my own mind, and best kept there. Graham rung the bell. The door was instantly opened, for it was just that period of the evening when the half-boarders took their departure--consequently, Rosine was on the alert.
57236_2554	detective and mystery stories	Footner, Hulbert	Freer, the man at Dunsany's to whom I had told my little fiction of the fiction-writer, and who had looked so queer when I mentioned blue pearls! "Large gentleman, elegantly-dressed, with a face like a boiled dumpling?" "Sure!" cried Roland. "Do you know him, too?" "Go on with your story!" I said. "Mr. Freer examined the pearls and told me they were genuine, and of good quality. He valued them at about twelve thousand dollars." "The devil he did!" I cried. "This case is spreading wider and wider. Freer is in the gang, too. To think of their having a picket in Dunsany's!" "How do you know?" "Because he like everybody else in the trade had been informed that the only necklace of blue-black pearls in the world had been stolen. He knew, moreover, that it was worth----" But here prudence stopped my tongue. "Worth what?" asked Roland. "Well, much more than twelve thousand." "The only blue pearls in the world?" he said, puzzled. "There's a lot about this necklace you don't know," I said smiling. "All in good time. Go on with your story." "Well, that's all, isn't it?" said he. "At least you know the rest. Why these fellows were so careful of details, you will even find their imprint in gold inside the case. Jones and Sanford, such and such a number, Maiden Lane." "Hm! I have a case on my hands now!" I said meditatively. "It may take me six months or more to clean this up." "I'll work with you," he said. "My dear fellow, I like you better every minute," I said, smiling at him. "But you'd make the worst detective in the world." "Oh, well, maybe I would," he said. "There's no need for you to await the outcome of the case," I said. "We have the evidence right in hand to clear you. I'll lay it before Miss Hamerton to-morrow morning." My young friend surprised me again. He leaped up with his dark eyes positively blazing. "You'll do nothing of the kind!" he cried passionately. "That affair is done, done for ever.
3404_4646	love stories	Howells, William Dean	But she knows better.” “There's no doubt but she's informed herself. She put me through my catechism about the Maverings the day of the picnic down there.” “Do you know them?” “Bridge Mavering and I were at Harvard together.” “Tell me about them.” Mrs. Brinkley listened to Munt's praises of his old friend with an attention superficially divided with the people to whom she bowed and smiled. The room was filling up. “Well,” she said at the end, “he's a sweet young fellow. I hope he likes his Pasmers.” “I guess there's no doubt about his liking one of them--the principal one.” “Yes, if she is the principal one.” There was an implication in everything she said that Dan Mavering had been hoodwinked by Mrs. Pasmer. Mature ladies always like to imply something of the sort in these cases. They like to ignore the prime agency of youth and love, and pretend that marriage is a game that parents play at with us, as if we were in an old comedy; it is a tradition. “Will he take her home to live?” “No. I heard that they're all going abroad--for a year, or two at least.” “Ah! I thought so,” cried Mrs. Brinkley. She looked up with whimsical pleasure in the uncertainty of an old gentleman who is staring hard at her through his glasses. “Well,” she said with a pleasant sharpness, “do you make me out?” “As nearly as my belief in your wisdom will allow,” said the old gentleman, as distinctly as his long white moustache and an apparent absence of teeth behind it would let him. John Munt had eagerly abandoned the seat he was keeping at Mrs. Brinkley's side, and had launched himself into the thickening crowd. The old gentleman, who was lank and tall, folded himself down into it, He continued as tranquilly as if seated quite alone with Mrs. Brinkley, and not minding that his voice, with the senile crow in it, made itself heard by others. “I'm always surprised to find sensible people at these things of Jane's. They're most extraordinary things. Jane's idea of society is to turn a herd of human beings loose in her house, and see what will come of it. She has no more sense of hospitality or responsibility than the Elements or Divine Providence.
32706_1627	science fiction	Smith, E. E. (Edward Elmer)	If you can't pay a hundred and fifty I'll come for a hundred, or seventy five, or fifty.... That's all right, too. I'm well enough known in my own field so that a title of Junior Chemical Engineer wouldn't hurt me a bit ... O.K., I'll see you about one o'clock ... Stoner and Black, Inc., Operators, Entwhistle Ordnance Plant, Entwhistle, Missikota.... What! Well, maybe I could, at that.... Goodbye." He turned to his wife. "You know what? They want me to come down right away and go to work. Hot Dog! _Am_ I glad that I told that louse Hendricks exactly where he could stick that job of mine!" "He must have known that you wouldn't sign a straight-salary contract after getting a share of the profits so long. Maybe he believed what you always say just before or just after kicking somebody's teeth down their throats; that you're so meek and mild--a regular Milquetoast. Do you really think that they'll want you back, after the war?" It was clear that Eunice was somewhat concerned concerning Kinnison's joblessness; but Kinnison was not. "Probably. That's the gossip. And I'll come back--when hell freezes over." His square jaw tightened. "I've heard of outfits stupid enough to let their technical brains go because they could sell--for a while--anything they produced, but I didn't know that I was working for one. Maybe I'm not exactly a Timid Soul, but you'll have to admit that I never kicked anybody's teeth out unless they tried to kick mine out first." * * * * * Entwhistle Ordnance Plant covered twenty-odd square miles of more or less level land. Ninety-nine percent of its area was "Inside the fence." Most of the buildings within that restricted area, while in reality enormous, were dwarfed by the vast spaces separating them; for safety-distances are not small when TNT and tetryl by the ton are involved. Those structures were built of concrete, steel, glass, transite, and tile. "Outside the Fence" was different. This was the Administration Area. Its buildings were tremendous wooden barracks, relatively close together, packed with the executive, clerical, and professional personnel appropriate to an organization employing over twenty thousand men and women.
7832_675	love stories	Phillips, David Graham	they’d put it.” “But the things they object to are, unfortunately, my ‘strong hold,’” I explained. “You other big fellows gather in the big investors by simply announcing your projects in a dignified way. I haven’t got the ear of that class of people. I have to send out my letters, have to advertise in all the cities and towns, have to catch the little fellows. You can afford to send out engraved invitations; I have to gather in my people with brass bands and megaphones. Don’t forget that my people count in the totals bigger than yours. And what’s my chief value to you? Why, when you want to unload, I furnish the crowd to unload on, the crowd that gives you and your big customers cash for your water and wind. I don’t see my way to letting go of what I’ve got until I get hold of what I’m reaching for.” All this with not a suspicion in my mind that he was at the same game that had caused Roebuck to “hint” that same proposal. What a “con man” high finance got when Mowbray Langdon became active down town! “That’s true,” he admitted, with a great air of frankness. “But the cry that you’re not a financier, but a bucket-shop man, might be fatal at the Travelers. Of course, the sacrifice would be large for such a small object. Still, you might have to make it--if you really want to get in.” “I’ll think it over,” said I. He thought I meant that I’d think over dropping my power--thought I was as big a snob as he and his friends of the Travelers, willing to make any sacrifice to be “in the push.” But, while Matthew Blacklock has the streak of snob in him that’s natural to all human beings and to most animals, he is not quite insane. No, the thing I intended to think over was how to stay in the “bucket-shop” business, but wash myself of its odium. Bucket-shop! What snobbery! Yet it’s human nature, too. The wholesale merchant looks down on the retailer, the big retailer on the little; the burglar despises the pickpocket; the financier, the small promoter; the man who works with his brain, the man who works with his hands. A silly lot we are--silly to look down, sillier to feel badly when we’re looked down upon.
40751_2072	adventure stories	Strang, Herbert	"Prepared as I was, his little hypnotic tricks with the green eye had made no impression on me. The general atmosphere of mystery, and what I learned from the people on the plateau, convinced me that he was hiding some precious secret below stairs, and the sight of his golden throne made me suspect its nature. Never in my life was I better pleased than when they brought me down their subterranean stairs to learn wisdom! And I hadn’t been here an hour before my suspicions became certainty. That Chinaman yonder will be engaged all day in letting lead plates down into the pit, and drawing them up pure gold. The plates are brought down from above: they explain the knocking you heard from the building near the old iniquity’s pagoda. There is not a tool of any kind here: nothing but chopsticks, even, for eating our food; the lead is cut and hammered into plates above. The first day I was on the plateau I saw some of the prisoners staggering to that building under heavy loads. I conjecture that the Old Man has confederates somewhere outside, in China probably, who supply him at intervals with the lead, and receive the gold in return." "It sounds incredible," exclaimed Forrester, interrupting his companion for the first time. "The word ’incredible’ ought to be banished from our vocabulary," Beresford rejoined emphatically. "Nothing is incredible. They’d have said the same thing only thirty years ago about petrol engines, wireless telegraphy, and aeroplanes. I am convinced that the search for the Philosopher’s Stone, which baffled the alchemists for hundreds of years, was not the absurdity we have been taught to regard it. In some far distant age, someone discovered that Nature herself turned the base into the precious metal; the fact was rumoured abroad, though the scene of the transmutation was never allowed to become known; and the alchemists wasted their lives in trying to do artificially what had already been done by natural process. Why, aren’t our chemists at the present day groping in the same direction? Don’t they tell us that all terrestrial things are merely forms of the same ultimate element, or manifestations of the same ultimate force? Doesn’t every fresh discovery point that way?" "But how is it done?" "I don’t know; the Old Man doesn’t know; nobody knows. In that pit yonder, a hundred and fifty feet deep, as I calculate, there is a bed of some substance that possesses this marvellous property--call it radio-active if you like.
805_1734	love stories	Fitzgerald, F. Scott (Francis Scott)	“Let's go.” She stood up. He rose abstractedly and they walked to the foot of the stairs. “What train can I get?” “There's one about 9:11 if you really must go.” “Yes, I've got to go, really. Good night.” “Good night.” They were at the head of the stairs, and as Amory turned into his room he thought he caught just the faintest cloud of discontent in her face. He lay awake in the darkness and wondered how much he cared--how much of his sudden unhappiness was hurt vanity--whether he was, after all, temperamentally unfitted for romance. When he awoke, it was with a glad flood of consciousness. The early wind stirred the chintz curtains at the windows and he was idly puzzled not to be in his room at Princeton with his school football picture over the bureau and the Triangle Club on the wall opposite. Then the grandfather's clock in the hall outside struck eight, and the memory of the night before came to him. He was out of bed, dressing, like the wind; he must get out of the house before he saw Isabelle. What had seemed a melancholy happening, now seemed a tiresome anticlimax. He was dressed at half past, so he sat down by the window; felt that the sinews of his heart were twisted somewhat more than he had thought. What an ironic mockery the morning seemed!--bright and sunny, and full of the smell of the garden; hearing Mrs. Borge's voice in the sun-parlor below, he wondered where was Isabelle. There was a knock at the door. “The car will be around at ten minutes of nine, sir.” He returned to his contemplation of the outdoors, and began repeating over and over, mechanically, a verse from Browning, which he had once quoted to Isabelle in a letter: “Each life unfulfilled, you see, It hangs still, patchy and scrappy; We have not sighed deep, laughed free, Starved, feasted, despaired--been happy.” But his life would not be unfulfilled. He took a sombre satisfaction in thinking that perhaps all along she had been nothing except what he had read into her; that this was her high point, that no one else would ever make her think. Yet that was what she had objected to in him; and Amory was suddenly tired of thinking, thinking! “Damn her!” he said bitterly, “she's spoiled my year!”
48963_1467	adventure stories	Bowen, Marjorie	Tomaso looked surprised. He could not understand how Conrad could so easily shake off his hatred of Visconti, save when the thought was forced on him. A silence fell which Conrad was again the first to break. "The Lady Valentine," he said, following his own train of thought, rather than addressing his companion, "does she ever think of me?" Tomaso inwardly wondered how much he thought of her. Save when telling his tale to Francisco, this was the only time he had named her. It seemed as if his sufferings and his love alike were to lie lightly on his mind. "They say in Milan Lady Valentine is to marry the Duke of Orleans," Tomaso ventured presently. "They say!" echoed Conrad with scorn. "The Frenchman is not even yet in Italy. Much may have happened ere he is." Tomaso rose and looked from the doorway anxiously. "It is close on sundown," he said, "it is time Francisco came." "It is intolerably wearisome," yawned Conrad. "I would I had gone with our friend--'twould have been more enlivening than this." Tomaso's face ill concealed his scorn. "'Tis a matter of life and death, Count Conrad; even now the soldiers may at any time return." With a pleasant smile Von Schulembourg leaped from the table. "Pardon me, if I vex thee with my seeming carelessness," he said, with the charm of manner that could always win him friends. "I owe too large a debt to all of you, to really be so heedless as I seem; but methinks there is no single thing----" "Save keep ourselves in readiness, my lord," said Tomaso. "Francisco charged us to be so disposed that we could leap into the saddle without a breath's delay." "I remember," said Count Conrad, lapsing again into an idle mood. "Methinks our Veronese deliverer issues commands as if well used to it." The youth made no reply; he was gazing eagerly along the chestnut-bordered path, sorely impatient for Francisco's return. "Canst thou play chess?" asked Conrad suddenly. Tomaso looked around at him in surprise. Did the German noble jest? Von Schulembourg was again seated on the table, admiring his shapely hand, which he held against the light. "Play chess?" repeated Tomaso. "No, my lord." Count Conrad crossed his legs daintily and sighed.
40751_2531	adventure stories	Strang, Herbert	"But now tell me: the grating in the passage--what is it like?" "It is thin bars of gold, sahib." "How far apart?" "Width of two fingers, sahib." "And how large is the hole?" "As long as my outstretched arms, and a little wider than my spread fingers." "Big enough to crawl through?" "If you were flat as a flounder, sahib." "Can you see to the bottom of the hole?" "No, sahib: it is dark, and goes deep." "Next time you come, bring me a small marrowbone, not wider than your two fingers. Fill it with dried marrow, closely pressed together. Can you get any paper?" "There is rice paper in kitchen, sahib." "Bring me a piece, and something I can write with--a blackened stick, or a bit of charcoal. You will remember?" "Like a book, sahib." Fingering his beard meditatively, he walked away. "What do you mean to do?" Jackson asked, when Mackenzie had repeated what Hamid had told him, and the instructions he had given. "Put a wee note inside the bone, and get Hamid to fling it down the grating." "But if it falls into the wrong hands, and is taken to the Old Man? He speaks English: he may read it too." "What I write will only puzzle him." "In any case, what’s the good? Suppose Dick is there. How can he send an answer?" "I’ve my notion about that, Bob. All depends on Hamid; but, as I said, he is no fool; he will do what we tell him, and take every care. I wish it were to-morrow!" "What puzzles me is the Eye. What on earth can it be?" "That beats me. Clearly it is harmless at times; Hamid didn’t notice it. I think it’s a kind of box, containing some destructive substance in a concentrated form. The Old Man evidently has some device for opening it without harm to himself. One thing is very clear." "What’s that?" "Och, man, that the old wretch must be very human after all, or he couldn’t have the stomach ache." CHAPTER XV THE MOLES "Give me my bone!" Forrester puzzled over the words. They seemed merely absurd.
45627_403	detective and mystery stories	Newcomb, Ambrose	" "Huh! I sure did take notice of the fact, but never dreamin' we'd have a peep-in at this wide search. I jest guessed you was enough int'rested to want to compare these here wise-cracks about the cause o' his trouble with what it really must a'been, in case they found the remains o' his crate in some canyon or gully." "That was one reason," admitted Jack candidly, "but somehow, though I never let on to you, I seemed to have a sort of feeling we might be working on that mystery sooner or later--you might call it an _inspiration_ and let it go at that." "Glory be Jack, an' what have you got in that wise coco o' yourn, if it's all right for you to up an' spill the game?" "Some time while we're on our way," the other explained just as if he had the thing all laid out, even to the smallest particulars, "while you're running the ship, I mean to go carefully over those newspaper reporters' accounts and try to figure out just what could have happened to bring about Buddy's disappearance--also, find what sort of weather he must have struck right after jumping off from his last port of call to drop mail sacks and pick up others." Perk thereupon wagged his head as though he began to understand what a skillful way his chum had of getting at the "meat in the cocoanut." "No wildcat skirmishin', an' heatin' about the bush for _you_, eh partner?" he blurted out in sincere admiration. "An' I'd wager all I got in my jeans you're bound to hit on the real facts when everything's figgered up." "Don't be too sure about that brother," advised Jack, shaking his head as he spoke, "I'll certainly do my level best, but you never can tell how the cat's going to jump. It's one thing to theorize and quite another to hit on what's the truth. I'll try and separate the wheat from the chaff and by degrees build up a little story of my own that may, and again may not, cover the ground. Now let's clear out of this after we've paid our landlady what we owe for our room, and thank her for being so kind to a couple of forlorn bachelor flyers.
1204_2375	western stories	Bower, B. M.	At any rate he left the cabin and went out and chopped wood for an hour, furiously raining chips into the snow. When he went in with his arms piled full of cut wood, Bud had the baby sitting on one corner of the table, and was feeding it bread and gravy as the nearest approach to baby food he could think of. During occasional interludes in the steady procession of bits of bread from the plate to the baby's mouth, Lovin Child would suck a bacon rind which he held firmly grasped in a greasy little fist. Now and then Bud would reach into his hip pocket, pull out his handkerchief as a make-shift napkin, and would carefully wipe the border of gravy from the baby's mouth, and stuff the handkerchief back into his pocket again. Both seemed abominably happy and self-satisfied. Lovin Child kicked his heels against the rough table frame and gurgled unintelligible conversation whenever he was able to articulate sounds. Bud replied with a rambling monologue that implied a perfect understanding of Lovin Child's talk--and incidentally doled out information for Cash's benefit. Cash cocked an eye at the two as he went by, threw the wood down on his side of the hearth, and began to replenish the fire. If he heard, he gave no sign of understanding or interest. “I'll bet that old squaw musta half starved yah,” Bud addressed the baby while he spooned gravy out of a white enamel bowl on to the second slice of bread. “You're putting away grub like a nigger at a barbecue. I'll tell the world I don't know what woulda happened if I hadn't run across yuh and made her hand yuh over.” “Ja--ja--ja--jah!” said Lovin Child, nodding his head and regarding Bud with the twinkle in his eyes. “And that's where you're dead right, Boy. I sure do wish you'd tell me your name; but I reckon that's too much to ask of a little geezer like you. Here. Help yourself, kid--you ain't in no Injun camp now. You're with white folks now.” Cash sat down on the bench he had made for himself, and stared into the fire. His whole attitude spelled abstraction; nevertheless he missed no little sound behind him. He knew that Bud was talking largely for his benefit, and he knew that here was the psychological time for breaking the spell of silence between them. Yet he let the minutes slip past and would not yield.
63389_3673	western stories	Young, Elizabeth G.	"You're not one of my calves," she said presently; "at least I think mine are all in the corral. You must be one of Ludlum's; but you can't lie here and die, even if you are his. I'll get you down to the house somehow, and maybe when the cows come in your mother will come with them." But no strange cow turned up lowing for a lost calf, and when Rob returned he said that the only thing to do was to keep it until some range rider came looking for strays. They cleaned out the wound, which had been made by a shotgun, fed the calf on skimmed milk, and kept it in a dark corner of the barn where the flies would not torment it. "That's Joe Biane's work," Harry said emphatically. "It shows what may happen to our own calves at any time. He doesn't care what he hits when he's after birds. I think we should speak to the game warden about him." "The trouble is that we didn't see Joe shoot the calf, so we can't swear he did it. Unless you can do that, you've got no case. It's not worth while, anyhow. You'd only get Joe's ill will, and he'd make us more trouble than we've got already, which would be considerable. Let's put all our time into getting a herd law through. We'll have to have all the ranchers in with us, and that includes the Bianes. So don't rub Joe the wrong way until we've got his vote. Joe is nothing compared with the trouble Ludlum may give us." "He certainly may," she admitted, thinking of what the pink-faced rider had told her. She decided to say nothing to Rob about that incident. She reflected that there was no use bothering him with every little matter that came up between her and Ludlum's herders over the question of the grazing. CHAPTER XVI For a week after the new wire was put on, Rob and Harry had a respite from fighting off Ludlum's herd. Once a day Harry made a circuit of the place and drove the outside cattle back into the hills; but the rest of the time she and Rob were virtually free from them.
52683_364	detective and mystery stories	Powell, Van	CHAPTER IV “QUIPU BILL” Romance! Adventure. To Cliff, Tom and Nicky the ancient capital city of the Inca empire was built on those two words. Not that Cuzco, when they reached it, had any of its old treasures; Spanish invaders had stripped it centuries before. But the memory was there among the ruins. The native Peruvian Indians—over whom the Incas had ruled, for the Incas were a superior tribe which governed its subjects kindly but firmly—these natives were shiftless, poor and inclined to be lazy. But to the three adventurers, with their imaginations fired by what Cliff had read and what Mr. Whitley had told them on the boats, Cuzco still echoed to the tramp of armies carrying bows and arrows, swords and light shields; the great square shook again to the shouts of hosts gathered for ceremonies and feasting in the rites of their worship of the Sun. “It is certainly interesting,” declared Cliff, as they stood near the stripped temple which had once rivaled in splendor any other place of worship ever built. “The gold cornice is gone and so is the silver and so are the emeralds and ornaments. But we can imagine them. And notice how perfectly the edges of these stones are ground and fitted and matched.” “How big they are, too,” Nicky added, “tons, some of them must weigh. The Incas had no beasts of burden to haul things—how they ever got these stones cut and shaped and hauled here and lifted into place—it is too much for me.” “Patience and time did it,” Tom said, “I believe they say it took fifty thousand men twenty years and more to build one great palace or temple.” “With their hands—and without iron tools,” Cliff added, “they mixed some tin with copper and made an alloy that they could make almost as hard as steel. But their roads and their aqueducts and their buildings all took labor and plenty of it.” “Isn’t it time we started for the hotel?” Tom glanced at his watch, “Quipu Bill Sanders is to come to see us at four.” They agreed and turned to retrace their way around the ruin. As they rounded a corner Cliff, in the lead, stopped sharply, in surprise. While there was one chance in a thousand that they should encounter the very Indian who had been with the Spaniard in Amadale, it was certain that the fellow into whom Cliff had almost banged had turned and seemed to stiffen when he saw them.
61911_1649	detective and mystery stories	Roberts, Theodore Goodridge	You’d know him, I guess. He’s my uncle.” “Bill Tangler it is! Your uncle, hey? Well, son, you’ve got a smart uncle. More than that, he’s able; an’ better still, he’s white. If Bill Tangler’s your uncle we don’t need any more introduction—so fire away.” Young Dan told briefly of his partnership with old Andy Mace, and produced from an inner pocket the letter from his uncle containing the suggestion of the venture and the partnership and the offer of camp and outfit. Archie Wallace chuckled over the letter. Then the trapper told of his encounters with Jim Conley, of the rebaited trap, and of the night Conley went off his course in the woods with a cargo of gin inside and out. He produced and exhibited the piece of paper upon which Mr. Luke Watt had figured out Jim Conley’s bill. The deputy-sheriff studied that exhibit very intently and slapped his hand on his thigh. “You’re a winner, Dan Evans!” he exclaimed. “Have a cigar.” Young Dan shook his head to the cigar and told his adventures of the day, up to the very minute of telling. He raised his short coat of wool-lined blanketing from the floor and held it up to the other’s view. “And here I am; and here’s where Luke Watt burnt two holes in my jacket with his revolver,” he concluded. Archie Wallace examined the holes in the coat without a word. Then he lit a fresh cigar from the butt of an old one, returned the green shade to the lamp and sat well back in his chair. He gazed at the lamp-shade in meditative silence. His manner impressed Young Dan. Suddenly he turned his glance upon his visitor and asked abruptly, “Can you cook?” The nature of the question was so unexpected that Young Dan was far too astonished to reply. He blushed and stared, wondering if he was being made fun of. “Can you cook?” repeated the deputy-sheriff. “Yes.” “Then you’ll oblige me by goin’ to the kitchen and gettin’ supper for the two of us,” said the official. “Here are matches, and you’ll find a lamp on the table. The kettle’s b’ilin’, the coffee-pot an’ fryin’ pan are on the back of the stove, and there’s ham and eggs all ready set out on the dresser. I’m a bum cook myself.
32704_1382	western stories	Rhodes, Eugene Manlove	by and by you will forget me, By and by when far away!_" Good-bys were said at last; Forbes and See put foot to stirrup and rode jingling into the white moonlight; the others stood silent on the porch and watched them go. A hundred yards down the road, Adam Forbes drew rein. A guitar throbbed low behind them. "Hark," he said. Edith Harkey stood in the shaft of golden light from the doorway; she bore herself like the Winged Victory; her voice thrilled across the quiet of the moonlit night: "_Never the nightingale, Oh, my dear! Never again the lark Thou wilt hear; Though dusk and the morning still_ "_Tap at thy window-sill, Though ever love call and call Thou wilt not hear at all, My dear, my dear!_" The sad notes melted into the sweet pagan heartbreak of the enchanted night. They turned to go. "A fine girl," said Adam Forbes. "The only girl! To-morrow--" He fell silent; again in his heart that parting cadence knelled with keen and intolerable sorrow. The roots of his hair prickled, ants crawled on his spine. So tingles the pulsing blood, perhaps, when a man is fey, when the kisses of his mouth are numbered. Edith went home to the big lonely house, but Lyn Dyer and Hobby Lull lingered by the low fire. Mr. Lull assumed a dignified pose before the fireplace, feet well apart and his hands clasped behind his back. He regarded Miss Dyer with a twinkling eye. "Have you anything to say to the court before sentence is pronounced?" he inquired with lofty judicial calm. Miss Dyer avoided his glance. She stood drooping before him; she looked to one side at the floor; she looked to the other side at the floor. The toe of her little shoe poked and twisted at a knot in the floor. "Extenuating circumstances?" she suggested hopefully. "Name them to the court." "The--the moon, I guess." The inquisitive shoe traced crosses and circles upon the knot in the flooring. "And Charlie See," she added desperately. "Charlie has such eloquent eyes, Hobby--don't you think?" She raised her little curly head for a tentative peep at the court; her own eyes were shining with mischief. The court unclasped its hands. "I ought to shake you," declared Hobby. But he did not shake her at all.
13497_3834	love stories	Dell, Ethel M. (Ethel May)	No! I don't want Scott. I don't want anyone. I only want to be up the mountain in time for the dawn. Oh, why are you all such fools? Why can't you understand?" There was growing exasperation in Isabel's voice. Biddy's hand fell from her, and she turned to cross the room. Scott slept in the next room to them, and a portable electric bell which they adjusted every night communicated therewith. Biddy moved slowly to press the switch, but ere she reached it Isabel's voice stayed her. "Biddy, don't call Master Scott!" Biddy paused, looking back with eyes of faithful devotion. "Ah, Miss Isabel darlint, will ye rest aisy then? I dursn't give ye the quieting stuff without Master Scott says so." "I don't want anything," Isabel said. "I only want my liberty. Why are you all in league against me to keep me in just one place? Ah, listen to that noise! How wild those people are! It is the same every night--every night. Can they really be as happy as they sound?" A distant hubbub had arisen in the main corridor, the banging of doors and laughter of careless voices. It was some time after one o'clock, and the merry-markers were on their way to bed. "Never mind them!" said Biddy. "They're just a set of noisy children. Lie down again, Miss Isabel! They'll soon settle, and then p'raps ye'll get to sleep. It's not this way they'll be coming anyway." "Someone is coming this way," said Isabel, listening with sudden close attention. She was right. The quiet tread of a man's feet came down the corridor that led to their private suite. A man's hand knocked with imperious insistence upon the door. "Sir Eustace!" said Biddy, in a dramatic whisper. "Will I tell him ye're asleep, Miss Isabel? Quick now! Get back to bed!" But Isabel made no movement to comply. She only drew herself together with the nervous contraction of one about to face a dreaded ordeal. Quietly the door opened. Biddy moved forward, her face puckered with anxiety. She met Sir Eustace on the threshold. "Miss Isabel hasn't settled yet, Sir Eustace," she told him, her voice cracked and tremulous. "But she'll not be wanting anybody to disturb her. Will your honour say good night and go?
28448_2151	detective and mystery stories	Penrose, Margaret	The descriptions in a general way fit them. And if it is so, the girl Jessie and Amy saw abused in that way is surely the maid who worked for Mrs. Poole." "Oh, Robert! can it be possible, do you think?" cried his wife. "Not alone possible, but probable," declared Robert Norwood. "Jessie, I am glad that you are so observant. I want you to get the little girl from Dogtown some day soon and let me talk with her. Perhaps she can tell me something about her cousin's looks that will clinch the matter. At least, she can tell us her cousin's full name, I have no doubt." "It's Bertha for a first name," said Jessie, eagerly. "And I supposed it was Haney, like Henrietta's." "The girl I am looking for is not named Haney, whatever her first name may be. Anyway, it is a chance, and I mean to get to the bottom of this mysterious kidnaping if I can, Jessie. Let me see this little Henrietta who kills snakes with such admirable vigor," and he laughed. It was, however, no inconsiderable matter, as Jessie well understood. In the morning she hurried over to the Drew house to tell Amy about it. Both had been interested from the very beginning in the mystery of the strange girl and her two women captors. There was something wrong with those women. Amy said this with a serious shake of her head. You could tell! And when, on further discussion, Jessie remembered their names--Poole and Bothwell--this fact brought out another discovery. "Bothwell! I never did!" ejaculated Amy Drew. "Why, no wonder I thought she looked like somebody I knew. And she drives a fast car--I'll say she does. Jess Norwood! where were our wits? Don't you remember reading about Sadie Bothwell, whose husband was one of the first automobile builders, and she has driven in professional races, and won a prize--a cup, or something? And her picture was in the paper." "That is the person Daddy refers to," Jessie agreed. "I did not like her at all." "Ho! I should say not!" scoffed Amy. "And I wasn't in love with the fat woman. So she is a race track follower, is she?" Then Amy giggled. "I guess she wouldn't follow 'em far afoot!
21854_2346	detective and mystery stories	Bentley, E. C. (Edmund Clerihew)	I had glanced over the row, not with any idea of their giving me a clue, but merely because it happens that I am a judge of shoes, and all these shoes were of the very best workmanship. But my attention was at once caught by a little peculiarity in this particular pair. They were the lightest kind of lace-up dress shoes, very thin in the sole, without toe-caps, and beautifully made, like all the rest. These shoes were old and well-worn; but being carefully polished and fitted, as all the shoes were, upon their trees, they looked neat enough. What caught my eye was a slight splitting of the leather in that part of the upper known as the vamp, a splitting at the point where the two laced parts of the shoe rise from the upper. It is at this point that the strain comes when a tight shoe of this sort is forced upon the foot, and it is usually guarded with a strong stitching across the bottom of the opening. In both the shoes I was examining this stitching had parted, and the leather below had given way. The splitting was a tiny affair in each case, not an eighth of an inch long, and the torn edges having come together again on the removal of the strain, there was nothing that a person who was not something of a connoisseur of shoe-leather would have noticed. Even less noticeable, and indeed not to be seen at all unless one were looking for it, was a slight straining of the stitches uniting the upper to the sole. At the toe and on the outer side of each shoe this stitching had been dragged until it was visible on a close inspection of the joining. These indications, of course, could mean only one thing. The shoes had been worn by someone for whom they were too small. Now it was clear at a glance that Manderson was always thoroughly well shod and careful, perhaps a little vain, of his small and narrow feet. Not one of the other shoes in the collection, as I soon ascertained, bore similar marks; they had not belonged to a man who squeezed himself into tight shoe-leather. Someone who was not Manderson had worn these shoes, and worn them recently; the edges of the tears were quite fresh. The possibility of someone having worn them since Manderson's death was not worth considering; the body had only been found about twenty-six hours when I was examining the shoes; besides, why should any one wear them?
31485_3070	love stories	Nason, Frank Lewis	His answer was abrupt and non-committal. "There are some things that are best helped by letting them alone." Firmstone rose. "Good night," he said, briefly, and started for the mill. Firmstone was disappointed at Zephyr's reception; but he had reasoned himself out of surprise. He had not given up the idea of freeing Élise from her associates. That was not Firmstone. The next morning, as usual, he met Miss Hartwell at breakfast. "I am going up to the mine, this morning. Wouldn't you like to go as far as the Falls? It is well worth your effort," he added. "I would like to go very much." She spoke meditatively. "If that means yes, I'll have a pony saddled for you. I'll be ready by nine o'clock." Miss Hartwell looked undecided. Firmstone divined the reason. "The trail is perfectly safe every way, and the pony is sure-footed, so you have nothing to fear." "I believe I will go. My brother will never find time to take me around." "I'll get ready at once." A seeming accident more often accomplishes desirable results than a genuine one. Firmstone was fairly well satisfied that one excursion to the Falls would incline Miss Hartwell to others. If she failed to meet Élise on one day she was almost certain to meet her on another. Promptly at nine the horses were at the door, and as promptly Miss Hartwell appeared in her riding habit. In her hand she carried a sketch-book. She held it up, smiling. "This is one weakness that I cannot conceal." "Even that needn't trouble you. I'll carry it." "You seem to have a weakness as well." She was looking at a small box which Firmstone was fastening to his saddle. "This one is common to us all. We may not be back till late, so Benny put up a lunch. The Falls are near Paradise; but yet far enough this side of the line to make eating a necessity." They mounted and rode away. Firmstone did not take the usual trail by the Blue Goose, though it was the shorter. The trail he chose was longer and easier. At first he was a little anxious about his guest; but Miss Hartwell's manner plainly showed that his anxiety was groundless. Evidently she was accustomed to riding, and the pony was perfectly safe.
35425_528	science fiction	Leinster, Murray	When their victim had ceased to struggle, they drew near again, and sucked the sweet juices from the body, first from one point and then another, until what had so recently been a creature vibrant with life became a shrunken, withered husk--to be flung from the web at nightfall. Most spiders are tidy housekeepers, destroying their snares daily to spin anew. The bloated, evil creature moved meditatively about the shining sheet of silk it had cast over the man and the giant tarantula when they fell from the cliff above. Now only the tarantula moved feebly. Its body was outlined by a bulge in the concealing shroud, throbbing faintly as it still struggled with the spear in its vitals. The irregularly rounded protuberance offered a point of attack for the web spider. It moved quickly forward, and stung. Galvanized into fresh torment by this new agony, the tarantula writhed in a very hell of pain. Its legs, clustered about the spear still fastened into its body, struck out purposelessly, in horrible gestures of delirious suffering. Burl screamed as one of them touched him, and struggled himself. His arms and head were free beneath the silken sheet because of the grease and oil that coated them. He clutched at the threads about him and strove to draw himself away from his deadly neighbor. The threads did not break, but they parted one from another, and a tiny opening appeared. One of the tarantula's attenuated limbs touched him again. With the strength of utter panic he hauled himself away, and the opening enlarged. Another struggle, and Burl's head emerged into the open air, and he stared down for twenty feet upon an open space almost carpeted with the chitinous remains of his present captor's former victims. Burl's head was free, and his breast and arms. The fish slung over his shoulder had shed its oil upon him impartially. But the lower part of his body was held firm by the gummy snare of the web-spider, a snare far more tenacious than any bird-lime ever manufactured by man. He hung in his tiny window for a moment, despairing. Then he saw, at a little distance, the bulk of the monster spider, waiting patiently for its poison to take effect and the struggling of its prey to be stilled. The tarantula was no more than shuddering now. Soon it would be still, and the black-bellied creature waiting on the web would approach for its meal. Burl withdrew his head and thrust desperately at the sticky stuff about his loins and legs.
21854_1618	detective and mystery stories	Bentley, E. C. (Edmund Clerihew)	He wouldn't answer a letter or a cable, though things looked like going all to pieces over there. I supposed that this anxiety of his, whatever it was, had got onto his nerves till they were worn out. Once I advised him to see a doctor, and he told me to go to hell. But nobody saw this side of him but me. If he was having one of these rages in the library here, for example, and Mrs. Manderson would come into the room, he would be all calm and cold again in an instant." "And you put this down to some secret anxiety, a fear that somebody had designs on his life?" asked Trent. The American nodded. "I suppose," Trent resumed, "you had considered the idea of there being something wrong with his mind--a break-down from overstrain, say. That is the first thought that your account suggests to me. Besides, it is what is always happening to your big business men in America, isn't it? That is the impression one gets from the newspapers." "Don't let them slip you any of that bunk," said Mr. Bunner earnestly. "It's only the ones who have got rich too quick, and can't make good, who go crazy. Think of all our really big men--the men anywhere near Manderson's size: did you ever hear of any one of them losing his senses? They don't do it--believe _me_. I know they say every man has his loco point," Mr. Bunner added reflectively, "but that doesn't mean genuine, sure-enough craziness; it just means some personal eccentricity in a man ... like hating cats ... or my own weakness of not being able to touch any kind of fish-food." "Well, what was Manderson's?" "He was full of them--the old man. There was his objection to all the unnecessary fuss and luxury that wealthy people don't kick at much, as a general rule. He didn't have any use for expensive trifles and ornaments. He wouldn't have anybody do little things for him; he hated to have servants tag around after him unless he wanted them. And although Manderson was as careful about his clothes as any man I ever knew, and his shoes--well, sir, the amount of money he spent on shoes was sinful--in spite of that, I tell you, he never had a valet. He never liked to have anybody touch him.
3641_1917	love stories	Hamilton, Cosmo	Was every man made of the stuff that only gave for what he hoped to get in return? His words trailed off. He was wasting them, he saw. She was looking through his head. But he rejoiced as to one thing like a potter who opens the door of his oven and finds his masterpiece unbroken. And silence fell upon them, interrupted only by the intermittent humming of passing cars. Finally Palgrave took the cigarette box out of Joan's hand and put it down on a little table and stood looking more of a man than might have been expected. "I've always hoped that one day I should meet you--just you," he said quietly; "and when I did, I knew that it would be to love. Well, I've told you. Do what you can for me until you decide that you're grown up. I'll wait." And he turned and went away, and presently she heard a door shut and echo, and slow footsteps in the street below. Where was Martin? VI She wanted Martin. Everything that had happened that night made her want Martin. He knew that she was a kid, and treated her as such. He didn't stand up and try and force her forward into being a woman--although, of all men, he had the right. He was big and generous and had given her his name and house and the run of the world, but not from his lips ever came the hard words that she had heard that night. How extraordinary that they should have come from Alice as well as from Gilbert. She wanted Martin. Where was Martin? She felt more like a bird, at that moment, than a butterfly--like a bird that had flown too far from its nest and couldn't find its way back. She had been honest with Martin, all along. Why, the night before they had started on the street of adventure, she had told him her creed, in that dark, quiet room with the moonlight on the floor in a little pool, and had frankly cried out, "Who cares?" for the first time. And later, upstairs in her room, in his house, she had asked him to leave her; and he had gone, because he understood that she wanted to remain irresponsible for a time and must not be taken by the shoulders and shaken into caring until she had had her fling.
2949_450	western stories	Thanet, Octave	See?” “I don’t care, it’s just as mean. Mr. Sloan promised.” “No, he didn’t; he jest said if Uncle was behind he wouldn’t press him; and he did let Uncle get behind with the interest two times and never kicked. But he died; and now the woman, she wants her money!” “I think it is mean and cruel of her to turn us out! Uncle says mortgages are wicked anyhow, and I believe him!” “I guess he couldn’t have bought this place if he didn’t give a mortgage on it. And he’d have had enough to pay cash, too, if Richards hadn’t begged him so to lend it to him.” “When is Richards going to pay him?” “It come due three months ago; Richards ain’t never paid up the interest even, and now he says he’s got to have the mortgage extended for three years; anyhow for two.” “But don’t he KNOW we’ve got to pay our own mortgage? How can we help HIM? I wish Uncle would sell him out!” The boy gave her the superior smile of the masculine creature. “I suppose,” he remarked with elaborate irony, “that he’s like Uncle and you; he thinks mortgages are wicked.” “And just as like as not Uncle won’t want to go to the carnival,” Eve went on, her eyes filling again. Tim gazed at her, scowling and sneering; but she was absorbed in dreams and hopes with which as yet his boyish mind had no point of contact. “All the girls in the A class were going to go to see the fireworks together, and George Dean and some of the boys were going to take us, and we were going to have tea at May Arlington’s house, and I was to stay all night;”--this came in a half sob. “I think it is just too mean! I never have any good times!” “Oh, yes, you do, sis, lots! Uncle always gits you everything you want. And he feels terrible bad when I--when he knows he can’t afford to git something you want----” “I know well enough who tells him we can’t afford things!” “Well, do you want us to git things we can’t afford? I ain’t never advised him except the best I knew how.
41010_3387	love stories	Willard, Kate Livingston	"Nan, Nan, you are unjust. You despise me because I gave Guy up, but I tell you I realized I did not love him before I ever saw Lillian Stuart. I do love her." "Pshaw," interrupted Nan indignantly. "Guy Appleton is the best and truest man in the world, and you must have loved him if you had not been unduly influenced. There, dear, don't be angry. You know how fond I am of Guy, and how keenly I took his disappointment to heart. He loved you so, Helen, and he was so miserable." "Please spare me, Nan," murmured Helen brokenly. "I can't spare you, dear. If your mistakes had simply made you suffer, I would never have said a word, but it is not so. Miss Stuart has crossed Jean's path, and for her sake I have spoken." "If it is true, if I were sure of it, I would want to die." "Dying would not do any good. Live, and some day it may be in your power to put an end to all this sorrow." "Nan, are you sure that Mr. Farr is in love with Jean?" "Not sure, Helen, but I think so." "What can I do?" "Nothing at present. We must wait, and see what happens. Oh! I am very hopeful for the future." When they were in bed and the lights were out, Nan ventured to ask: "Don't you think Guy will ever return to Hetherford?" "I don't know, dear," Helen replied, with a sound of tears in her voice. Nan longed to shake her, to say "You ought to know; it depends solely upon you; why don't you do something about it?" but she felt she had gone far enough for one night, and turning over on her pillow, fell fast asleep. Nan was only a country-bred lass, and yet not all her separation from the world and from her fellow-creatures could shut her out from an unerring comprehension of human nature. Her wide sympathies taught her to understand Helen's coldness toward a lover whose one fault was that he had demanded too little and yielded too much; and she was too thorough an artist not to fully appreciate the wonderful spell that beauty such as Miss Stuart's casts upon certain natures.
61090_597	science fiction	Westlake, Donald E.	But he got away from me." "And then what happened?" asked Stevenson. "Then I saw the fuzz--the police coming. I ran down to warn everybody. And all the guys were jumping around throwing their coats away." "And the little boy?" "I didn't see him at all any more. Except after the police came. I saw him go running around the corner." "What did this boy look like?" Stevenson asked. "Gee, I don't know, sir." "You don't know?" "No, sir. He was in his Hallowe'en costume." The four men looked at one another. "A costume," said the one named Roberts, the reporter. "My God, a _costume_." "Yes, sir," said Judy. "It was all black and gold. Tight black pants and a yellow shirt and a black cape and a funny kind of mask that covered his face, black and gold. And a kind of cap like maybe a skull cap on his head, black, only it was knit. Like the sailors wear in the Merchant Marine." "Black and gold," said Roberts. He seemed awed by something. "So you can't identify this boy at all," said Stevenson forlornly. "One of the other kids called him Eddie," she said, suddenly remembering. They spent fifteen minutes more with her, going over the same ground again and again, but she just didn't have any more to tell them. And finally they let her go. * * * * * Mr. Featherhall and Miss English were distant but courteous. It was, after all, banking hours. On the other hand, these four men were police and FBI, on official business. "It _has_ been a rather long time," Featherhall objected gently. "Well over four months." "It seemed to me," said Miss English, "that the police took the names of all the people who'd been here at the time of the robbery." "There may have been other people present," suggested Marshall, "who left before the confusion was over. There are any number of people in this world who like to avoid being involved in things like this." "I can certainly appreciate their position," said Miss English, reminiscently touching her fingertips to her head. "Miss English was very brave," Featherhall told the policemen.
83_2670	science fiction	Verne, Jules	There was a sort of granary there, loaded with things which the extravagant Frenchman had heaped up. What they were no one knew, and the good-tempered fellow did not explain. Now and then he climbed up by cramp-irons riveted to the walls, but kept the inspection to himself. He arranged and rearranged, he plunged his hand rapidly into certain mysterious boxes, singing in one of the falsest of voices an old French refrain to enliven the situation. Barbicane observed with some interest that his guns and other arms had not been damaged. These were important, because, heavily loaded, they were to help lessen the fall of the projectile, when drawn by the lunar attraction (after having passed the point of neutral attraction) on to the moon's surface; a fall which ought to be six times less rapid than it would have been on the earth's surface, thanks to the difference of bulk. The inspection ended with general satisfaction, when each returned to watch space through the side windows and the lower glass coverlid. There was the same view. The whole extent of the celestial sphere swarmed with stars and constellations of wonderful purity, enough to drive an astronomer out of his mind! On one side the sun, like the mouth of a lighted oven, a dazzling disc without a halo, standing out on the dark background of the sky! On the other, the moon returning its fire by reflection, and apparently motionless in the midst of the starry world. Then, a large spot seemingly nailed to the firmament, bordered by a silvery cord; it was the earth! Here and there nebulous masses like large flakes of starry snow; and from the zenith to the nadir, an immense ring formed by an impalpable dust of stars, the "Milky Way," in the midst of which the sun ranks only as a star of the fourth magnitude. The observers could not take their eyes from this novel spectacle, of which no description could give an adequate idea. What reflections it suggested! What emotions hitherto unknown awoke in their souls! Barbicane wished to begin the relation of his journey while under its first impressions, and hour after hour took notes of all facts happening in the beginning of the enterprise. He wrote quietly, with his large square writing, in a business-like style. During this time Nicholl, the calculator, looked over the minutes of their passage, and worked out figures with unparalleled dexterity.
29572_980	western stories	Spearman, Frank H. (Frank Hamilton)	Everything surprised Whispering Smith, even his salary; but an important consequence was that nothing excited him. He seemed to accommodate himself to the unexpected through habitual surprise. It showed markedly in his eyes, which were bright and quite wide open, and, save for his eyes, no feature about him would fix itself in the memory. His round, pleasant face, his heavy brown mustache, the medium build that concealed under its commonplace symmetry an unusual strength, his slightly rounding shoulders bespeaking a not too serious estimate of himself--every characteristic, even to his unobtrusive suit and black hat, made him distinctly an ordinary man--one to be met in the street to-day and passed, and forgotten to-morrow. He was laughing under Bucks's scrutiny when he handed the message back. "Why, I don't know a thing about it, not a thing; but taking a long shot and speaking by and far, I should say it looks something like first blood for Sinclair," he suggested, and to change the subject lifted his cup of coffee. "Then it looks like you for the mountains to-night instead of for Weber and Fields's," retorted Bucks, reaching for a cigar. "Brown, why have you never learned to smoke?" CHAPTER IX THE MISUNDERSTANDING No attempt was made to minimize the truth that the blow to the division was a staggering one. The loss of Smoky Creek Bridge put almost a thousand miles of the mountain division out of business. Perishable freight and time freight were diverted to other lines. Passengers were transferred; lunches were served to them in the deep valley, and they were supplied by an ingenuous advertising department with pictures of the historic bridge as it had long stood, and their addresses were taken with the promise of a picture of the ruins. Smoky Creek Bridge had long been famous in mountain song and story. For one generation of Western railroad men it had stood as a monument to the earliest effort to conquer the Rockies with a railroad. Built long before the days of steel, this high and slender link in the first transcontinental line had for thirty years served faithfully at its danger-post, only to fall in the end at the hands of a bridge assassin; nor has the mystery of its fate ever completely been solved, though it is believed to lie with Murray Sinclair in the Frenchman hills. The engineering department and the operating department united in a tremendous effort to bring about a resumption of traffic. Glover's men, pulled off construction, were sent forward in trainloads.
45629_1378	detective and mystery stories	Newcomb, Ambrose	A description of the miscreants was given and especially of their savage leader known as the Hawk because of his faculty for striking a swift blow in one place and being heard of in another in such a short time as to make people believe he could fly like the speedy bird of prey. "As far as I could say," Old Jimmy told him in answer to a question, "he's along about thirty years old, a shortish sort o' a man, quick as a flash in his movements and with eyes that bore in like a gimlet might. He's had his nose broken at some time or other, which gives him a bit o' a look like an eagle or a hawk. It may be he got his present name from that. But he's a devil, I'm thinking and ready to do anything, law or no law when he smells rich booty in the game." Jack gave Perk a knowing look accompanied by a wink for that description, brief though it might be, coincided with what had been in the secret information sent by his chief at Washington--the broken nose stamped it as a positive thing that the man he wanted was close at hand, engaged in his same old line of business, that of a hold-up man, robber of banks and payroll bandit with a record for masterly exploits second to none. So too with regard to the sudden surprise and attack--it seemed as though the marauders must have had accurate information as to when the trading post would prove to be a rich prize and also weakly defended. "They had their plans a' set, I am fain to believe," the factor told him as though he had somehow figured this out during the time he lay there on his cot, "for ye ken it is only a few days now when the customary Spring clean-up o' the posts come to pass so they would know we had rich pickings on hand. They lookit over the whole o' the bales an' picked out a' the high-priced pelts like they might be connoiseurs in that line, for I recognised two former trappers in the gang--Squatty Bings an' Welchy, as tough an' hard drinkin' lads as ever lived." "I've been told they left here just about three hours back--is that correct, Mr. McGregor?" asked Jack, wishing to make certain, for a great deal might depend on the question of elapsed time.
42800_2967	western stories	Clay, John Wood	Begin in th’ Hog Back country an’ clean up. Drive everything out of it." "It’s d—d funny Cyclone cows swum th’ Jack," commented Monroe, a black look on his face. "By G—d, let _me_ ketch anybody at that game!" "That’s th’ whole thing, Ned," and Buck smiled: "To ketch ’em. I know a man who ’d clean up th’ mystery if he was here, an’ was told he did n’t have nothin’ else to do." He smiled again quietly and turned to his supper. "But he ain’t here, so what’s th’ use." "Mebby I—" suggested Ned, nervously. "No, yo ’re goin’ to help me most by curing th’ evil on th’ table; never mind th’ dealer, nor th’ game. We ’ve got as many cards as we ’re goin’ to get—use ’em, Ned. Help me lick th’ itch first—th’ hows an’ whys can wait." "Yo ’re right, Peters; an’ we _will_ lick it! But it makes me fightin’ mad, a thing like this. I ’ll get everything all ready to-night an’ th’ round-up starts with th’ comin’ of th’ sun to-morrow. Good-night." Buck ate slowly, his thoughts far more occupied with the problem than with the food. This was the firing of the first cannon in the fight Monroe had predicted. Who was responsible? His suspicions, guided by Monroe’s warning, were directed towards Schatz, but in his present absence of knowledge they could advance no farther than suspicions. Dave’s half-closed eyes sneered at him as he recalled the ambiguous threat made that first night in the Sweet-Echo: still remained suspicion only. McReady, of the Cyclone, might have designs for the Double Y, but he doubted it. They had yet free grass a-plenty, though the time was not far distant when the private ownership of the Double Y would be an invaluable asset. Still, it might be any other cowman in that part of the country—or none of them. Well, he had met problems as great as this one on the Texan range—but he had fought them with an outfit loyal to the last man, every unit of it willing and eager to face all kinds of odds for him.
54012_1188	love stories	Hubback, Mrs. (Catherine-Anne Austen)	" "How does your stable go on, my lord?" enquired Tom, "I should like to see it." "You are welcome to go and see it if you please, so long as you don't drag me there; I am not inclined for an excursion to the stables at present." Tom whistled and walked away, Lord Osborne drew nearer to Emma, and said, "I hope you don't like him—do you?" "He is my brother-in-law," replied Emma, "you forget that." "I think _he_ does," retorted Lord Osborne, "but one is not obliged to like one's brother-in-law, I suppose." "I hope you mean nothing personal or disrespectful by that observation," exclaimed Sir William. "No, on my honour, I forgot about you, Gordon," said he, "but I should think it quite enough if the husband likes his wife without its being at all necessary that the mother and sisters, and brother-in-law, should all like her too." "Not necessary, certainly, but altogether desirable, and certainly conducive to domestic felicity." "If my sister does not like my wife she must keep at a distance from her," said Lord Osborne, positively, "and then her feelings will be of no consequence—Don't you agree with me, Miss Watson?" "Not exactly, my lord; I should not in practice, certainly—I do not think I would marry into a family where I was altogether unwelcome!" "I am sorry for it," said Lord Osborne, very softly, and then looking remarkably conscious and awkward, he walked away. "His theories sound more unprincipled than his practice would be, I suspect," observed Sir William, looking after him, and glancing at Emma, "I doubt whether he would really bear a quarrel with his sister with such indifference." "I dare say not," said Emma, without at all suspecting she had any share in his feelings, or interest in his proceedings. "Young men often assert far more than they would like to realise, and I do not think worse of him than of many of his neighbours.
30836_4205	detective and mystery stories	Biggers, Earl Derr	And maybe it's because I know who's got the seventh key." Hayden made no reply. No one stirred for a minute, and then Quimby moved away, and went out through the dining-room door. CHAPTER XV TABLE TALK The seventh key! Mr. Magee thrilled at the mention of it. So Elijah Quimby knew the identity and the mission of the man who hid in the annex. Did any one else? Magee looked at the broad acreage of the mayor's face, at the ancient lemon of Max's, at Bland's, frightened and thoughtful, at Hayden's, concerned but smiling. Did any one else know? Ah, yes, of course. Down the stairs the professor of Comparative Literature felt his way to food. "Is dinner ready?" he asked, peering about. The candles flickered weakly as they fought the stronger shadows; winter roared at the windows; somewhere above a door crashed shut. Close to its final scene drew the drama at Baldpate Inn. Mr. Magee knew it, he could not have told why. The others seemed to know it, too. In silence they waited while the hermit scurried along his dim way preparing the meal. In silence they sat while Miss Norton and her mother descended. Once there was a little flurry of interest when Miss Thornhill and Hayden met at the foot of the stairs. "Myra!" Hayden cried. "In heaven's name--what does this mean?" "Unfortunately," said the girl, "I know--all it means." And Hayden fell back into the shadows. Finally the attitude of the hermit suggested that the dinner was ready. "I guess you might as well sit down," he remarked. "It's all fixed, what there is to fix. This place don't need a cook, it needs a commissary department." "Peters," reproved Magee. "That's hardly courteous to our guests." "Living alone on the mountain," replied the hermit from the dining-room door, "you get to have such a high regard for the truth you can't put courtesy first. You want to, but you haven't the heart." The winter guests took their places at the table, and the second December dinner at Baldpate Inn got under way. But not so genially as on the previous night did it progress.
21834_1361	love stories	Milne, James	That made it easy to secure service in one of the French corps in Quebec, for I speak the language, as you know, with no undue stranger accent, and it always brings me gay memories of hours in Old France. "The regimental wages are not great, and they are not paid with exact punctuality, because there are too many empty hands waiting between his French Christian Majesty's coffers and his soldiers in Canada. But that, to a man like myself who wants little of the so-called comforts of life, and has, moreover, other sources, is no great hardship, and there are comfortings, sometimes, in unexpected quarters. "The French, who know the art of romance, and how to spin it to the last drop without getting to the dregs, have already peopled this new land of theirs with colour, but I doubt me if it will last, which is their affair, not mine, or yours. King Louis himself is indulgent to the human colouring of his dominion, in that he sends out shipments of wives from the Old Country for the French settlers. "Therefore they are called 'King's girls,' and being flowers of a kingdom which has bloomed rarely with women, they are in much demand. It is a joke, when a ship-load arrives, that the plumpest are married first, and this, I gather, for two reasons: Being less active, it is thought they will more readily stay at home, as honest married women should, and, being well covered--not fat, oh no! not that--that they will the better resist the icy cold of New France in the winter. For myself they do not interest me, not on account of the reason which drove my late Count Frontenac here, he having in the Old Country a shrewish wife whose temper he could not bear, but because I have found attractions more to my taste, of which you shall know something. "I may admit, with some assurance, that my luck in the regard of the sweet sex, holds amid the altered conditions in which I find myself. Those French women have not the freshness, and I am certain not the innocence--you will admit me a judge on both counts--of my own country-women in the Scots Highlands. But they have a wondrous charm, a quality of attractiveness which is as deadly to a Highlander as if a dirk slit his heart.
18426_2606	love stories	Hueston, Ethel	"We are having a slumber party." "Yes, all party and no slumber," muttered David. "Well, I am glad I happened in. I was lonesome off there by myself. You know you do get sick of being alone all the time. Shove over, old man, and I'll join the party." David looked at him in astonishment. "Nothing doing," he said. "This cot isn't big enough for two. Go in and use Carol's bed if you like." "It's too far off," objected Gooding. "Be sociable, Duke." "There isn't any mattress there anyhow," said Carol. They looked at one another in a quandary. "Go on back to bed, Gooding," said David, at last. "This is no time for conversation." Gooding would not hear of it. "Here I am and here I stay," he said with finality. "I've been seeing white shadows and feeling clammy fingers all night." "Well, what are you going to do? We've got a full house, you can see that." "Go and get your own mattress and blankets and use them on my bed," urged Carol. Miss Landbury turned on her side and closed her eyes. She was taken care of, she should worry over Mr. Gooding! "I don't want to stay in there by myself," said Gooding again. "Isn't there room out here?" "Do you see any?" "Well, I'll move in the room with you," volunteered David. Miss Landbury sat up abruptly. "We won't stay here without you, David," said Carol. "I tell you what," said Gooding brightly, "we'll get my mattress and put it in the room for me, and we'll move David's mattress on Carol's bed for David, and then we'll move the girls' mattress in on the floor for them." No one offered objections to this arrangement. "Hurry up, then, and get your mattress," begged Carol. "I am so sleepy." "I can't carry them alone through those long dark halls," Gooding insisted. Miss Landbury would not accompany him without a third party, Carol flatly refused to leave dear sick David alone in that porch, and at last in despair David donned his bath robe and the four of them
27089_411	science fiction	Westlake, Donald E.	Thanks a lot." "I like it strong," he said. I looked around at the room again. "All the comforts of home, eh? Pretty ingenious arrangement." "Sure," he said sourly. "How about getting to the point, Mister?" There's only one way to handle a blunt old man. Be blunt right back. "I'll tell you how it is," I said. "The company isn't accusing you of anything, but it has to be sure everything's on the up and up before it pays out any ten thousand credits. And your partner just happening to fill out that cash-return form just before he died--well, you've got to admit it is a funny kind of coincidence." "How so?" He slurped coffee, and glowered at me over the cup. "We made this strike here," he said. "We knew it was the big one. Jafe had that insurance policy of his in case he never did make the big strike. As soon as we knew this was the big one, he said, 'I guess I don't need that retirement now,' and sat right down and wrote out the cash-return. Then we opened a bottle of liquor and celebrated, and he got himself killed." The way Karpin said it, it sounded smooth and natural. _Too_ smooth and natural. "How did this accident happen anyway?" I asked him. "I'm not one hundred per cent sure of that myself," he said. "I was pretty well drunk myself by that time. But he put on his suit and said he was going out to paint the X. He was falling all over himself, and I tried to tell him it could wait till we'd had some sleep, but he wouldn't pay any attention to me." "So he went out," I said. He nodded. "He went out first. After a couple minutes, I got lonesome in here, so I suited up and went out after him. It happened just as I was going out the lock, and I just barely got a glimpse of what happened." * * * He attacked the coffee again, noisily, and I prompted him, saying, "What did happen, Mister Karpin?" "Well, he was capering around out there, waving the paint tube and such. There's a lot of sharp rock sticking out around here.
20840_950	western stories	Norton, Andre	" "Johnny wasn’t the only boy at Glorieta. From what I’ve heard most of them weren’t old enough to grow a good whisker crop." Topham’s voice had lost its detached note. "And he sure wasn’t the only Confederate to surrender. Hunt, he’s got to learn that losing a war doesn’t mean that a man has lost the rest of his life. But the way he’s been acting these past months, Johnny might just lose it. Bayliss’ tongue is hanging out a yard or more he’s panting so hard to get back at you. That captain has heady ambitions under his hat, maybe like setting up here as a tinpot governor or something like. If he can discredit you, well, he probably thinks he’s got a chance to rake in the full pot, and it’s a big one. Get Johnny back on the Range, Hunt—put him to work, hard. Sweat that sour temper and whisky out of him. He used to be a promising youngster; now he’s turning bronco fast. All he seems to have learned in the war is how to use those guns of his to lord it over anyone he believes he can push around. And someday he’ll try to push the wrong man—" _Don_ Cazar was staring ahead of him now at Drew and Shiloh. But Drew knew that Hunt Rennie was not seeing either man or horse, but a mental picture which was not too pleasing. "He’s just a boy." Rennie did not utter that as an excuse; rather he said it as if to reassure himself. Then his eyes really focused on Drew, and he changed the subject abruptly. "Kirby, when the train comes in we sometimes set up a race or two. Any thought of trying your colt against some of the local champions?" "Oro perhaps?" Drew counter-questioned. Rennie laughed. "Oh, so you’ve been talking, Fenner?" The scout came away from where Tar was still very audibly munching his treat. "Didn’t know as how th’ younker had him a runnin’ hoss, _Don_ Cazar." He inspected Shiloh critically. "But that thar sure looks a lotta hoss. ’Course maybe he ain’t used t’ runnin’ out here whar th’ ground ain’t made all nice an’ easy fur his feet. But I dunno, I dunno at all." "Anyway he’ll give Oro stiffer competition than he’s had in the last two races.
8493_1263	adventure stories	Merriman, Henry Seton	He could see her face turned toward him, but her eyes were only dark shadows beneath her hair. Her face looked white in the darkness. Her answering laugh had a soothing note in it. “Why--at last?” she asked. Her voice was frank and quietly assured in its friendliness. They were old comrades, it seemed, and had never been anything else. The best friendship is that which has never known a quarrel, although poets and others may sing the tenderness of a reconciliation. The friendship that has a quarrel and a reconciliation in it is like a man with a weak place left in his constitution by a past sickness. He may die of something else in the end, but the probability is that he must reckon at last with that healed sore. The friendship may perish from some other cause--a marriage, or success in life, one of the two great severers--but that salved quarrel is more than likely to recur and kill at last. These two had never fallen out. And it was the woman who, contrary to custom, fended the quarrel now. “Oh! because I have been here three nights in succession, I suppose, and did not find you here. I was disappointed.” “But you found Uncle Septimus in his study. I could hear you talking there until quite late.” “Of course I was very glad to see him and talk with him. For it is to him that I owe a certain half-developed impatience with the uneducated--with whom I deal all my life, except for a few hours now and then in the study and here in the turf-shelter with you. I can see--even in the dark--that you look grave. Do not do that. It is not worth that.” He broke off with his easy laugh, as if to banish any suggestion of gravity coming from himself. “It is not worth looking grave about. And I am sorry if I was rude a minute ago. I had no right, of course, to assume that you would be here. I suppose it was impertinent--was that it?” “I will not quarrel,” she answered, soothingly--“if that is what you want.” Her voice was oddly placid. It almost seemed to suggest that she had come to-night for a certain purpose; that one subject of conversation alone would interest her, and that to all others she must turn a deaf ear.
4702_1494	western stories	Curwood, James Oliver	The camp-fires were all gone now, blotted out like so many candles snuffed between thumb and forefinger, and he shuddered. No canvas ever made would keep that deluge out. And now there was growing up a wind with it. The tents on the other side would be beaten down like pegged sheets of paper, ripped up and torn to pieces. He imagined St. Pierre's wife in that tumult and distress--the breath blown out of her, half drowned, blinded by deluge and lightning, broken and beaten because of him. Thought of her companions did not ease his mind. Human hands were entirely inadequate to cope with a storm like this that was rocking the earth about him. Suddenly he went to the door, determined that if Bateese was outside he would get some satisfaction out of him or challenge him to a fight right there. He beat against it, first with one fist and then with both. He shouted. There was no response. Then he exerted his strength and his weight against the door. It was solid. He was half turned when his eyes discovered, in a corner where the lamplight struck dimly, his pack and clothes. In thirty seconds he had his pipe and tobacco. After that for half an hour he paced up and down the cabin, while the storm crashed and thundered as if bent upon destroying all life off the face of the earth. Comforted by the company of his pipe, Carrigan did not beat at the door again. He waited, and at the end of another half-hour the storm had softened down into a steady patter of rain. The thunder had traveled east, and the lightning had gone with it. David opened the window again. The air that came in was rain-sweet, soft, and warm. He puffed out a cloud of smoke and smiled. His pipe always brought his good humor to the surface, even in the worst places. St. Pierre's wife had certainly had a good soaking. And in a way the whole thing was a bit funny. He was thinking now of a poor little golden-plumaged partridge, soaked to the skin, with its tail-feathers dragging pathetically. Grinning, he told himself that it was an insult to think of her and a half-drowned partridge in the same breath. But the simile still remained, and he chuckled. Probably she was wringing out her clothes now, and the men were cursing under their breath while trying to light a fire. He watched for the fire. It failed to appear.
21998_3561	adventure stories	Williamson, A. M. (Alice Muriel)	as if I had been broken off in the midst!" said Clo. "I may be broken past mending if somebody doesn't pick up the pieces good and quick! What I want you to do is to meet me outside the Westmorland. Will you? And if so, how soon?" "I will," came the answer. "I'll be there in eight minutes, with a taxi. Does that suit you?" "Yes. Have the taxi drawn up in front of the hotel, and as it slows down, I'll jump in. Give the chauffeur an order--before he starts--not to stop, you know, but to go on the instant I'm in. A lot may depend on that." "What mischief have you been up to?" asked the laughing voice, which to Clo, in the room of death, seemed to come from another world. She shuddered as her eyes turned to the figure in the chair. "Good-bye!" she said, and hung up the receiver without another word. Eight minutes! It would take her about three to get out of the room, down the stairs, and to the front door--if all went well. What was she to do with the other five? Now that her mission was ended, she could not stay where she was. She had reached, and almost passed, the limit of her endurance. One idle moment in that place would surely drive her mad! Yet she could not stand in the street, waiting for O'Reilly to come to the rescue. Kit and the man who had talked to Kit might be ready to pounce upon her there. XXIII "WHAT'S DONE CAN'T BE UNDONE" "Don't be frightened, Mums! It's only me, back earlier than I expected," Ellen Blackburne announced herself at the door of her mother's bedroom. Mrs. Blackburne was propped up in bed, reading Young's "Night Thoughts." "Of course, I'm not frightened!" she reassured her daughter. "I'm only surprised. That's what makes my hands tremble." "I was in hopes you'd have gone to sleep," said Ellen, "and I could slip in without giving you a start. I stopped the taxi at the corner on purpose." "I'm delighted to have you back. But why did you bring the pearls home to string? Now you'll be sitting up the whole blessed night!" "Don't you worry!" Ellen soothed her.
45549_1021	adventure stories	Craine, E. J. (Edith Janice)	They told me they landed with their plane on the cove and you drove them away. I explained the troubles you have been having." "They didn't one of them say they come from your place, just landed on the lake and said they wanted to see the farm. That was two days, or less, since we lost that big batch--I wasn't taking no chances," Hezzy said quickly. He wasn't a very prepossessing man to look at, but now he smiled at his employer and was most affable. "Sure, we understand," Bob assured him, but Jim said never a word. "Want to look around now?" Hezzy invited cordially. "We will. I haven't much time but they can get an idea and come back later if they want to see more," Mr. Fenton said as they climbed out of the car. "Oh, they can see it in a few minutes," Hezzy answered. "It's pretty much all alike." He led the way toward the shore, and presently the three were going through the houses, past the wired run-ways, and to the larger enclosure where the bigger birds were confined. "The thieves must have done some damage if they went over those wires," Jim remarked as he noted the fine mesh, and that smaller yards were enclosed like a box. "They got in through the houses," Hezzy answered promptly. "At night." "Got good locks?" Bob asked. "Best we can buy," his uncle replied. "Wish we could help you find the thieves," said Jim, "but we're kind of dubs. I lost my watch at school and tried detecting. Began to suspect the president, then I found it in my other suit pocket, so I swore off sleuthing." "You bet, it's a dangerous business, but I suppose you have someone on the job, Uncle Norman!" "Well, no, we haven't. We just try our best to catch them when they come for more, but we haven't been able to discover the thieves yet. I see that you have the watch dogs. Are they good?" "They seem to be fine dogs, but one of them is sick this morning. I gave him a physic. It's the only thing I know to do for him, but I guess he'll come around," Hezzy told them. "You'd better call up the veterinary.
27890_1310	detective and mystery stories	Edholm, Lizette M.	"I believe it's a treasure map," she murmured half to herself as if dreaming. "I'd love to hunt for treasure." Then she turned to Tommy Sharpe: "Judge Breckenridge says there is an old legend of a treasure here in Lost Canyon. Of course he makes fun of it, but it might be true. What do you think about it, Kit?" "I'd hurt too many people's feelings if I told you what I think about it," answered Kit. "Go on, don't mind us. Say what's on your mind," laughed Tommy. "Well, I'm surprised, Tommy Sharpe, that you would fall for that old story about a treasure being buried here. I thought boys were supposed to be clever," Kit said contemptuously. "There's a treasure there all right," Tommy stated it with certainty. "I have Ramon Salazar's word for it. He looked me in the eye and told me." "Now I know you're not telling us the truth. Ramon Salazar couldn't look one straight in the eye." Kit dropped into a chair, shrieking with laughter as she visualized Ramon Salazar trying to look anyone straight in the eye, for he was the most weirdly cross-eyed person she had ever seen. "Maybe that's why he could look at me and lie like a pirate," replied Tommy. "I paid him five good dollars for that map." "You must have been crazy, Tommy." "I wasn't. Ramon knew I had that five dollars, and if I hadn't given it to him, he would have stolen it." "There's something fishy about the whole story, Tommy. There must have been some other reason for Ramon Salazar wishing that old map off on you." Kit knew the dwellers in the hills. "I can bet a nickel on it that he thought you might get interested and dig for the treasure and maybe find it." Suddenly Kit jumped up, "And I bet a dime on top of that that Kie Wicks was back of it." "And I have reason to think you are right, Kit. Kie came in one day, saw the map and claimed that Ramon had stolen it from him, but when I offered it to him for nothing, he refused. Said that would be taking advantage of me." Kit gave a boisterous shout of laughter.
41529_983	western stories	Barnes, Will C. (Will Croft)	"'So much the worse for them,' snorted the gineral, 'let them learn to ride--that's what they've got horses for. This is no bunch of doughboys I'm commandin', 'tis a regiment of cavalry-men, and cavalry-men we'll make of them or kill them a-tryin'.' "'Sure,' he ses, ses he 'didn't Custer's band use to play mounted, an' why can't my band do the same?' "The adjutant he tried to argufy wid the old man, tellin' him them there furrin' mounts were jist like a bunch of old dray hosses, an' edicated like trained pigs. But nothin' would suit the gineral but a mounted dress parade for all hands, includin' the band. "So the adjutant he calls to me an he ses, 'Orderly,' ses he, 'my compliments to Mr. Schwartz, the band leader, an' ask him to report to the office immediately.' "Now Schwartz, he was a little old fat Dutchman, about five feet six, an' weighin' over two hundred pounds. When I gave him me message he ses, ses he, "'What's up,' ses he. "'Mounted dress parade for the band,' ses I. "'Mein Gott, me for sick report,' ses he. "'Mr. Schwartz,' ses the adjutant when he waddles up to the office, ''tis the orders of the commanding officer that the band attend dress parade next Sunday afternoon, mounted an' wid their instruments ready to play.' "Schwartz he gasps an' tried hard to say a word, but the adjutant he ses, ses he: 'Git your men out an' drill them every day till they can handle their hosses an' instruments at the same time. An' mind ye,' ses he, 'them there band instruments costs money, an' we want none of thim unnecsarily injured.' "Schwartz he mumbled somethin' as he went out about them bein' a sight more anxious over not injurin' the instruments than they were the men, men bein' a matter for the recruitin' service, while instruments must be paid for out of the regimental funds. "For the next four or five days the bandsmen was mighty busy a-drillin' their hosses an' a-gettin' them usened to the sound of the instruments by standin' on the ground in front of them an' a-playin.'
58711_3132	detective and mystery stories	M'Govan, James	Jim was really not much worse through being in prison, but things were very much worse for him. He tried to get work, and was everywhere asked for his character. Sometimes he took courage and confessed the truth, but when he did he was invariably dismissed at once without further parley and with marked distrust. Then his mother scraped together enough money to send him to Glasgow, in the hope that he would succeed better where he was not known. Jim used every penny of the money, and tramped back the forty miles in a half-famishing state. Of course his mother cheered and consoled him, and slaved for him at her wash-tub without a murmur; but a young lad must fill up his time in some way. He could not sit all day looking at his fingers, and he needed a little money if only to keep him in tobacco. He met Joe Knevitt one day, and from that hour his troubles seemed at an end; his silence and sullen despair vanished, he was always cheerful and kind to his mother, and never wanted money. But how the money was earned and how his time was spent he never could clearly explain. He was not much in the house, and was never absent for a night at a time, but his mother was deep in her work and knew nothing, whatever she may have feared. I daresay she had many a sorrowful hour, and pleaded and remonstrated with him unceasingly, for the singular feature of Jim’s case was that his new life did not harden him against his mother. If he was becoming dissipated and brutalised, no trace of that was ever expended upon her. With her he was always subdued and silent or full of promises for the future. There were thus two influences at work—one dragging him downwards and the other tugging him back. Joe Knevitt’s proved the stronger, for when this had gone on for some time Jim was again in my hands. This time it was for an attempt—the very daring of which almost took my breath away. I suppose the planning had been done by Joe Knevitt, but the execution—the lion’s share of the work—fell to Jim. The place chosen was a clothier’s at the South Side—a shilling-a-week clubman—whose business premises were the third flat of a land of houses, the fourth of which was the top. There was not the slightest chance of getting in unseen by the door, as one part of the flat was let to a person who was seldom out of the house.
66390_1796	love stories	Prime-Stevenson, Edward	Only a few days absence. I shall think of you. Imre. P. S. Please write me." I was amused, as well as pleased, at this characteristic missive. My day passed rather busily. I had not time to send even a card to Imre; I had no reason to do so. To my surprise, the omission was noticed. For, on the following morning I was in receipt of a lively military _Ansichtskarte_ with a few words scratched on it; and at evening came the ensuing communication; which, by the by, was neither begun with the "address of courtesy", as the "Complete Letter-Book" calls it, nor ended with the "salute of ceremony", recommended by the same useful volume; they being both of them details which Imre had particularly told me he omitted with his intimate "friends who were not prigs." He wrote: "Well, how goes it with you? With me it is dull and fatiguing enough out here. You know how I hate all this business, even if you and Karvaly insist on my trying to like it. I have a great deal to say to you this evening that I really cannot write. Today was hot and it rained hard. Dear Oswald, you do not know how I value your friendship. Yesterday I saw the very largest frog that ever was created. He looked the very image of our big vis-a-vis in the Casino, Hofkapellan Számbor. Why in God's name do you not write? The whole city is full of _tiz-filléres_ picture-postcards! Buy one, charge it to my account, write me on it.-- Imre. P. S. I think of you often, Oswald." This communication, like its predecessor, was written in a tenth-century kind of hand, with a blunt lead-pencil! I sent its authour a few lines, of quite as laconical a tone as he had given me to understand he so much preferred. The next day, yet another communication from the P... Camp! Three billets in as many days, from a person who "hated to write letters," and "never wrote them when he could get out of it!" Clearly, Imre in camp was not Imre in Szent-Istvánhely! "Thank you, dear Oswald, for your note. Do not think too much of that old nonsense (_azon régi bolondság_) about not writing letters. _It depends._ I send my this in a spare moment.
37913_1235	detective and mystery stories	Landon, Herman	Twice he had written her since then, once to apprise her of his removal from Azurecrest and once to inquire concerning her well-being, but he had neither expected nor received an answer. He had not forgotten that in the eyes of the world he was still an outlaw, a hunted thing. Again he sighed. The vision was fading, and little of it remained with him save a misty picture of loveliness. The moon was rising over the tree tops, throwing a white sheen over the landscape and the narrow wedge of water visible between the birches and hemlocks. The old house, purchased by Vanardy in a dilapidated condition and with difficulty rendered habitable, was silent but for the creeping whispers of the wind. For a time the solitary figure at the window stood lost in thoughts. His deep-gray eyes, rather too narrow for perfect symmetry, which had been known to stab and sting like rapiers, were not soft and luminous. Small wrinkles radiated from the outer corners, but the eyes themselves were animated by the slow twinkling gleam that characterizes the individual who sifts all the ups and downs of life through a sieve of whimsical imagination. The sensitive nostrils and the full arch of the lips denoted a penchant for distilling the maximum of thrills and emotions from the magic of existence. Here and there his face was lined and scarred, and even in repose there was a tension about the lean, tall figure that made one think of a cocked trigger. A knock sounded, and he turned quickly. Through the door waddled a fat man with a woe-begone expression and a multiple chin. He groaned and puffed as if the task of carrying his elephantine body through life was not a light burden. The newcomer was Clifford Wade, once The Gray Phantom's chief lieutenant and now the major-domo of his little household. "Wade," observed The Phantom, eyeing the fat man with disapproval, "you are getting soft. This easy and carefree existence is demoralizing you completely." The other placed a stack of newspapers and a few letters on the table, then slumped into a chair and gazed ruefully down at the protruding curvature of his stomach. "I know, boss. I piled on two more pounds last week. Pretty soon I won't be able to go for the mail any more. If you'd only say the word, I'd round up the old gang, and we'd turn a few more tricks like the ones we used to pull in the good old days. I'd work off this fat in no time.
35819_724	love stories	Dorrance, James French	Don’t _you_ think he is, dar-rling?” In the dimming of the auditorium lights, she leaned closer to him; seemed to transfer the fulsomely drawled term of endearment from her relative to him; added in a cross between murmur and whisper: “Isn’t dar-rling a difficult word—hard to say seriously? Fancy caring that much for any one—I mean any one of one’s own sex. Of course, I hope really to love a man that much some day. That is, I do unless I go in for a career. Careers _do_ keep one from getting fat, though. As I am constantly telling my mother——” “S-sh!” Pape was relieved by Mrs. Allen’s silencing sibilant. CHAPTER VI—JUST AU REVOIR The great audience caught its breath and hopefully returned attention to the affairs of the French actress who so had shocked and fascinated them at the first act’s end. Stripped almost to the waist, the daring and tuneful Zaza had left them. More conventionally, not to say comfortably clad, she reappeared. Pape, as deficient in French as in appreciation of opera arias, applied himself hopefully at first to getting the gist of the piece, but soon concluded that he must be clear “off trail in his lingo.” Out in Montana, the most meteoric stage luminary never would think of singing a perfectly good wife and mother into handing over husband and father merely because his eyes had gone sort of blinky star-gazing at her. No. Such a translation didn’t sound reasonable at all; was quite too raw for the range. Better give his ears to the music and buy a Hoyle-translated libretto to-morrow. Settling back in his chair, Pape allowed his gaze and mind to concentrate, after a habit acquired of late in Central Park, upon the nearby. She had an expressive profile, the young woman whom he had self-selected. If facial traits had real connection with character, that protruding chin, although curved too youthfully to do justice to its joints, suggested that she would not retreat unless punished beyond her strength. If young Irene only would take one good look at her cousin’s chin she must give up in any contest between them. But then, Irene’s mental eye was on herself. To her, evidently, all other women were more or less becoming backgrounds. That she should be so near him, Jane; that he actually should get—
2714_1315	adventure stories	Rinehart, Mary Roberts	She loathed him while she loved him. The thing would happen. This was the way things were done in Courts. An intimation from one side that a certain thing would be agreeable and profitable. A discussion behind closed doors. A reply that the intimation had been well received. Then the formal proposal, and its acceptance. Hedwig would marry Karl. She might be troublesome, would indeed almost certainly be troublesome. Strangely enough, the Countess hated her the more for that. To value so lightly the thing for which Olga Loschek would have given her soul, this in itself was hateful. But there was more. The Countess saw much with her curiously wide, almost childishly bland eyes; it was only now that it occurred to her to turn what she knew of Hedwig and Nikky to account. She stopped pacing the floor, and sat down. Suppose Hedwig and Nikky Larisch went away together? Hedwig, she felt, would have the courage even for that. That would stop things. But Hedwig did not trust her. And there was about Nikky a dog-like quality of devotion, which warned her that, the deeper his love for Hedwig, the more unlikely he would be to bring her to disgrace. Nikky might be difficult. “The fool!” said the Countess, between her clenched teeth. To both the Archduchess Annunciata and her henchwoman, people were chiefly divided into three classes, fools, knaves, and themselves. She must try for Hedwig’s confidence, then. But Karl! How to reach him? Not with reproaches, not with anger. She knew her man well. To hold him off was the first thing. To postpone the formal proposal, and gain time. If the Chancellor had been right, and things were as bad as they appeared, the King’s death would precipitate a crisis. Might, indeed, overturn the throne. And Karl had changed. The old days when he loved trouble were gone. His thoughts, like all thoughts these days, she reflected contemptuously, were turned to peace, not to war. He was for beating his swords into ploughshares, with a vengeance. To hold him off, then. To gain time. The King was very feeble. This affair of yesterday had told on him. The gossip of the Court was that the day had seen a change for the worse. His heart was centered on the Crown Prince. Ah, here was another viewpoint. Suppose the Crown Prince had not come back? What would happen, with the King dead, and no king? Chaos, of course.
63613_101	science fiction	Gilbert, Robert E.	He looked ordinary enough, although he had let his hair grow. He reported, "No one else aboard, captain." Flim said, "Excellent, Ger. Destroy all communication apparatus." Ger pulled a wrench from his tool kit and took a preliminary slash at the radio. Completely puzzled, Jak protested, "Wait! What do you mean 'pirate?' Pirate? What--" "Silence!" Flim roared. Only then did Jak notice the pistol. Since the successful conclusion of the Crime War, when Organized Crime, the greatest blight that ever sapped a planet, was eradicated, guns could be found only in museums. Even before the War, guns had become a rarity among the law abiding citizenry; since the slaughter of fifteen thousand people a year in hunting and home accidents in the State of America alone had brought about anti-firearm laws and sent the gun the way of the private automobile. * * * * * Of course, the small criminal divisions of the Earth Patrol and the Space Patrol still carried pistols, although more as ornaments than weapons. The pistol in the clip holster on Flim's right leg seemed to be the standard Patrol arm--not a "needle gun," or a "disintegrater," or a "heat ray," or any other impractical dream weapon, but a Morgia, 30-shot, 6 mm, semi-automatic pistol with adjustable optical sight. The Morgia alarmed Jak sufficiently to prevent him from interfering as Ger tore into the radio with wrench and pliers. Drusilla squeaked and drifted aside. "There, there, fair lady," Flim crooned. "No harm shall come to you." "Watch what you call her!" Jak rasped. "I demand to know what you're doing! There's no time for your hobby. Drusilla needs obstetric attention, and I'm--" "Silence!" Flim turned to Drusilla. "Ah, fair one, you shall have every attention, obstetric and otherwise. Fear not. Such gorgeous green hair! Those lips! Do I detect the master touch of Per BT1414?" Drusilla managed to subdue her blushing and said, "Yes. He did my eyelids too. Do you like them?" "Blue as the skies of Earth!" Flim's gaze dropped. "However, in that robe, I cannot tell--" "What--" Jak tried to shout in mounting disgust at this performance. "Stupid!" Drusilla spat. "Can't you see what Captain Flim is?
52498_918	detective and mystery stories	Regis, Julius	Maurice Wallion was decidedly growing uneasy, a most unusual and unaccountable proceeding on his part. He felt that he had not got a sure or firm grasp of the case. Was another catastrophe about to happen? ... Was he again coming too late? With quick steps he walked through the little village; he had been told at the station that Captain Street was half-an-hour’s walk from there, but he stepped out so briskly that twenty minutes found him at the door of a low, lonely, dilapidated building, which answered to the description given him. He opened, or rather lifted the rickety gate and ran up through the garden, which was overgrown with rank grass, among gnarled fruit trees. A couple of rooks, croaking dismally, flew down from the roof, but there was no one to be seen. Wallion knocked loudly at the door. *CHAPTER VI* *THE TRACK OF THE "INVISIBLE" ONE* After waiting a few minutes, Wallion heard footsteps approaching and the door opened. A tall man with a stoop, of coarse, ungainly build, about fifty years of age, stood before him. The individual in question had long, thick dark hair and an unkempt beard, but there was an indisputable resemblance to Victor Dreyel. Wallion raised his hat and said: "Mr. Christian Dreyel, I presume?" The man looked at him with undisguised curiosity. "My name is Wallion and I am the bearer of a letter from your cousin." "The door was open," he said in a deep bass voice. "You need not have knocked. Come in, Mr. Wallion." "With your leave," said Wallion, "but I thought doors were meant to be shut." With which sarcastic remark he closed it after him. Dreyel frowned and said: "Where is the letter?" They entered a simple but comfortably furnished room, lighted by the dazzling golden rays of the setting sun. Wallion took the letter Murner had found on the dead man’s table from his pocket and silently handed it to Christian Dreyel. The latter stopped in the middle of reading it and observed: "He says he was enclosing a telegram. Where is it?" "I can repeat it to you from memory," said Wallion evasively, at the same time doing so. The man nodded and continued to read. "The letter isn’t finished," he said, and his face began to twitch nervously with evident emotion. "Tell me everything, quick, I am not nervous.
27890_1143	detective and mystery stories	Edholm, Lizette M.	" "Sure, that's right, Mrs. Patten. They _are_ kind hearted even if they are ignorant," broke in Maude Wicks, her sharp little eyes shining out from the depths of her fat cheeks. Kit at that moment made a face behind the back of Kie Wicks and Bet smothered a giggle and hastily left the veranda, motioning the girls to follow her. Once outside they ran far enough away to indulge in a good laugh. "Where's Tommy?" asked Enid suddenly. "He disappeared and I can't find him anywhere." "We're looking for Tommy Sharpe," called Kit to a boy who stood near the ranch house. He was dark-skinned and handsome. The boy turned and Joy gasped with surprise. "Who is he?" she whispered to Kit. "Who is that boy?" "Oh, just one of the cow hands," answered Kit. "You mean a cowboy?" "Sure." "But Kit Patten, you said there were no _handsome_ cowboys! Did you notice his eyes?" Joy pulled at Kit's arm to stop her. "He's wonderful! So romantic!" "Come along, Joy Evans, and don't be a little fool. That's just a Mexican boy and I don't see anything romantic about him at all." "But his eyes!" thrilled Joy. "I don't think I ever saw such beautiful eyes. Can't I speak to him?" "No!" snapped Kit. "Not now! Wait until you get a little bit of sense. We don't make friends with the Mexican laborers." Joy turned reluctantly away. "Just my luck!--when I find a handsome cowboy to be told I can't make friends with him." "Oh, come on, Joy. You're silly!" laughed Bet. "Don't _you_ think he's handsome, Bet?" asked Joy. "Well, maybe, a little bit. But if Kit says you're not to be seen talking to him, that goes. Kit knows the ways of the mountains." "Yes, and like as not she'll introduce me to some man as ugly as that fellow who just called on the Judge, and I'll be expected to be satisfied with that." "Who is that man, Kit?" demanded Bet. "I don't like him!
14054_823	love stories	Thurston, Katherine Cecil	The animal was squatting upon the ground, devouring a luscious fruit; its small and greedy eyes were alight with gluttony; in its unbridled appetite, its hairy fingers crushed the fruit against its sharp teeth, while the juice dripped from its mouth. The intimate, undisguised portrayal of greed shocked the susceptibilities, but it was the hideous human attributes patent in the brute that disgusted the imagination. With a terrible cunning of mind and brush the artist had laid bare a vice that civilization cloaks. For two or three minutes the boy stood immovable, then he looked back over his shoulder, and the man behind him was surprised at the expression that had overspread his face, the sombre light that glowed in his eyes. In a moment the adventurer was lost, another being had come uppermost--a strange, unexpected being. "What do you think of this picture?" The Irishman did not answer for a moment, then his eyes returned to the canvas and his tongue was loosed. "If you want to know," he said, "I think it's the most damnable thing I've ever seen. When the Gallic mind runs to morbidity there's nothing to touch it for filth." "Why filth?" "Why filth? My dear boy, look at this--and this!" He pointed to the other pictures, each a study of monkey life, each a travesty of some human passion. The boy obeyed, conscientiously and slowly, then once more his eyes challenged his companion's. "I say again, why filth?" "Because there is enough of the beast in every man without advertising it." "You admit that there is something of the beast in every man?" "Naturally." "Then why fear to see it?" The boy's face was pale, his eyes still challenged. The other made a gesture of impatience. "It isn't a question of fear; it is a question of--well, of taste." "Taste!" The boy tossed the word to scorn. "What would you substitute?" "Truth." There was a tremor in his voice, a veil seemed to fall upon his youth, arresting its carelessness, sobering its vitality. The Irishman raised his brows. "Truth, eh?" "Yes. It is only possible to live when we know life truly, see it and value it truly." "There may be perverted truth.
58155_3585	western stories	Mulford, Clarence Edward	"It'll mebby be a long chase, d--n 'em!" "They ain't got much of a start," came the hopeful reply. "We ought to catch sight of 'em from th' top of th' divide beyond Sand Creek. It's fair level plain for miles north of that. Their cayuses ain't no better than ourn, an' _some_ of ourn will run theirs off their feet." Sand Creek came into sight before noon and when it was reached there were no tracks on the further side. The posse was prepared for this and split without hesitation, Corwin leading half of it west along the bank and the other half going east. Five minutes later an exclamation caused the sheriff to pull up and look where one of his men was pointing. A rifle barrel projected a scant two inches from the water and the man who rode over to it laughed as he leaned down from the saddle. "It lit on a ridge of gravel an' didn't slide down quite fur enough," he called. "An' it shore is busted proper." "Bring it here," ordered Corwin. He took it, examined it and handed it to the next man, whose head ached as much as his own and who would not have been along except that his wish for revenge over-rode his good sense. "That yourn?" asked the sheriff. The owner of the broken weapon growled. "They've plumb ruined it. It's one more score they'll pay. Come on!" and he whirled westward. Corwin drew his Colt and fired into the air three times at counted intervals, and galloped after his companions when faint, answering shots sounded from the east. "They're makin' for that rocky stretch," he muttered; "an' if they get there in time they're purty safe." Not long after he had rejoined his friends the second part of the posse whirled along the bank, following the trail of the first, eager to overtake it and learn what had been discovered. Well to the east Hopalong and Red rode at the best pace possible in the water of the creek, now and then turning in the saddle to look searchingly behind them. Following the great bend of the stream they went more and more to the south and when the shadows were long they rode around a ridge and drew rein. Red dismounted and climbed it, peering over its rocky backbone for minutes. Returning to his companion he grinned cheerfully. "No coyotes in sight," he said.
321_1171	adventure stories	Norris, Frank	“Nonsense. It wouldn't have handled us that way.” “Well, what was it? Listen! For God's sake keep quiet there forward!” Wilbur looked over the side into the water. The ripples were still chasing themselves away from the schooner. There was nothing else. The stillness shut down again. There was not a sound. VI. A SEA MYSTERY In spite of his best efforts at self-control, Wilbur felt a slow, cold clutch at his heart. That sickening, uncanny lifting of the schooner out of the glassy water, at a time when there was not enough wind to so much as wrinkle the surface, sent a creep of something very like horror through all his flesh. Again he peered over the side, down into the kelp-thickened sea. Nothing--not a breath of air was stirring. The gray light that flooded down from the stars showed not a break upon the surface of Magdalena Bay. On shore, nothing moved. “Quiet there, forward,” called Moran to the shrill-voiced coolies. The succeeding stillness was profound. All on board listened intently. The water dripped like the ticking of a clock from the “Bertha Millner's” stern, which with the rising of the bow had sunk almost to the rail. There was no other sound. “Strange,” muttered Moran, her brows contracting. Charlie broke the silence with a wail: “No likee, no likee!” he cried at top voice. The man had gone suddenly green; Wilbur could see the shine of his eyes distended like those of a harassed cat. As he, Moran, and Wilbur stood in the schooner's waist, staring at each other, the smell of punk came to their nostrils. Forward, the coolies were already burning joss-sticks on the fo'castle head, kowtowing their foreheads to the deck. Moran went forward and kicked them to their feet and hurled their joss-sticks into the sea. “Feng shui! Feng shui!” they exclaimed with bated breaths. “The Feng shui no likee we.” Low in the east the horizon began to blacken against the sky. It was early morning. A watch was set, the Chinamen sent below, and until daybreak, when Charlie began to make a clattering of tins in the galley as he set about preparing breakfast, Wilbur paced the rounds of the schooner, looking, listening, and waiting again for that slow, horrifying lift. But the rest of the night was without incident.
50939_916	western stories	Turner, William Oliver	He visited the Pink Lady last, finding Madrid at the bar in conversation with Pinky Bronklin. They drew apart as he approached, and customers turned to watch. Tesno stepped a few feet away, glad of a chance to face the marshal before witnesses. Madrid was freshly shaved and had put on a clean shirt. This one had broad green stripes. Its sleeves were encircled by red garters. "My god," Tesno said. "You look like a Christmas tree." "What's the matter with a little style?" Madrid said defensively. His tone was not that of a man looking for a showdown. "Black is for corpses," Pinky muttered. His eyes raked Tesno. "It will look nice on you." "Hobson sang, Pinky," Tesno said, stepping up to the bar. "What's that to me?" "You know what it is, but I'll say it. You paid him to pick a fight." "He said that? He's a liar," Pinky said. "I'll bring him in here. You can say it to his face." "No chance of that," Madrid put in. "Hobson left town. Took the Ellensburg stage." The marshal swung away and idled over to a faro game. Tesno eyed Pinky silently. "Hobson lied," Pinky said desperately. "He must be covering for somebody else." "You protest too much," Tesno said. He caught Pinky by the hair, pulled him forward, and slapped him resoundingly on one cheek and then the other. He suddenly shoved him away and Pinky staggered into the back bar. The customers watched in silence. Madrid made no move; he scarcely looked up from the faro game. Pinky glared, his face flushed. There would be a gun behind the bar somewhere, Tesno thought. But the saloonkeeper made no attempt to go for it. Tesno spun on his heel and walked out of the saloon. As he pushed through the swinging doors, there was a tide of low talk and uneasy laughter. A muffled comment met his ears: "Damned high-handed troublebuster! Due for a takedown." Loneliness stung him like a mountain wind as his bootheels drummed the boardwalk. Pinky had got off easy. Didn't the crowd understand that? The words Dave Coons had quoted rang in his memory: _Oh, it is excellent_ _To have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannous_ _To use it like a giant.
45236_1283	adventure stories	Vandercook, Margaret	Disliking society Bettina had insisted that she never wished to marry or at any time to lead a society life. Instead she meant to find some cause which would be of especial importance to women, devoting her time and energy to it. Why should this not be Bettina Graham’s future? It was the life of a few exceptional women, and Bettina might be one of them. The fact that she was his daughter and not his son need not prevent Bettina from inheriting her father’s gifts. Vera was interested to observe the impression that Bettina was at this time making upon her small audience. The French girls were unusual types in Vera’s knowledge. They must have ranged from about twelve to sixteen or seventeen years of age. But their faces were older than American girls of the same age. Their figures also looked more mature in their plain well fitted black dresses. Then, in spite of their poverty, they had the unmistakable French air and a style which was peculiarly their own. But with their thin, sharply pointed faces, sallow complexions and dark hair, in Vera Lagerloff’s opinion, they were not a pretty collection of girls. The exceptions were Marguerite Arnot and a girl who seemed to feel an extraordinary attachment for her. Since their entrance into the room, except for the few moments when she had disappeared in answer to a request from Marguerite and had returned with the material for the fire, she had not left Marguerite’s side. At present she sat clutching the older girl’s skirt as if she never wished her to escape. To the group of American girls with whom she was at present making her home, Marguerite Arnot represented both a novelty and an enigma. They knew little of her history, as she showed no desire to talk of herself, save the few facts Miss Patricia had seen fit to tell Mrs. Burton, with the idea that she repeat them. Marguerite and Miss Patricia Lord had met originally in a dressmaking establishment in Paris. At that time Miss Patricia was having the costume made which she had worn at her dinner party and which had been such a revelation to her family. Marguerite, when about to try on Miss Patricia’s dress, became unexpectedly ill and fainted during the process; otherwise Miss Patricia might never have taken the slightest notice of her. She took Marguerite to her home and there, finding that she lived alone and had no one to care for her, the eccentric but kindly spinster assumed the responsibility. Later, Marguerite had been invited to Versailles as a working member of Miss Lord’s present household.
29572_2949	western stories	Spearman, Frank H. (Frank Hamilton)	At that unfortunate time I happened into his office with a letter of introduction from his closest Chicago friend, Willis Howard, prince of good men, the man that made the Palmer House famous--yes. Now I had come out here, Miss Dunning--I almost said Miss Dicksie, because I hear it so much----" "I should be greatly set up to hear you call me Dicksie. And I have wondered a thousand times about your name. Dare I ask--_why_ do they call you Whispering Smith? You don't whisper." He laughed with abundance of good-humor. "That is a ridiculous accident, and it all came about when I lived in Chicago. Do you know anything about the infernal climate there? Well, in Chicago I used to lose my voice whenever I caught a cold--sometimes for weeks together. So they began calling me Whispering Smith, and I've never been able to shake the name. Odd, isn't it? But I came out to go into the real-estate business. I was looking for some gold-bearing farm lands where I could raise quartz, don't you know, and such things--yes. I don't mind telling you this, though I wouldn't tell it to everybody----" "Certainly not," assented Dicksie, drawing her skirt around to sit in closer confidence. "I wanted to get rich quick," murmured Whispering Smith, confidentially. "Almost criminal, wasn't it?" "I wanted to have evening clothes." "Yes." "And for once in my life two pairs of suspenders--a modest ambition, but a gnawing one. Would you believe it? Before I left Bucks's office he had hired me for a railroad man. When he asked me what I could do, and I admitted a little experience in handling real estate, he brought his fist down on the table and swore I should be his right-of-way man." "How about the mining?" Whispering Smith waved his hand in something of the proud manner in which Bucks could wave his presidential hand. "My business, Bucks said, need not interfere with that, not in the least; he said that I could do all the mining I wanted to, and I _have_ done all the mining I wanted to. But here is the singular thing that happened: I opened up my office and had nothing to do; they didn't seem to want any right of way just then.
41529_1825	western stories	Barnes, Will C. (Will Croft)	The speaker turned from his game of solitaire toward the one-legged cow-puncher. With his knife Russel clipped the end of a leather string from the finished "Turk's head," laid the quirt on the floor and rolled it back and forth under the sole of his boot to give it the proper "set" and finish, finally hanging it on the wall. Then he filled and lighted his pipe, and after a few preliminary puffs, began his story. [Illustration: "_We was camped over in the petrified forest_"] "Well, boys, that was one of the toughest nights I've seen in Arizony. We was camped up near the 'Peterified' Forest on our way back to the headquarter ranch. We'd been down to the railroad with a bunch of steers, and expected to bust the outfit up for the winter when we got back to the ranch. It were late in November, an' you all know how everlastin' cold it gits 'long in November an' December. "Well, 'long comes one of them tearin' howlin' sandstorms 'bout two o'clock in the afternoon, and the wagon boss camped us under the lee of a hill and wouldn't go any furder. And 'twas well he did, too, fer the wind blowed a gale, snow begin to fall, and ag'in sunset it was as ornery a piece of weather as I ever seen anywheres. You all know wood's pow'ful skeerce up thar, too, and all the cook had was sage brush an' 'chips.' "We put in a mis'able night. The wind blowed every way, an' drifted sand an' snow into our beds in spite of all a feller could do. Me and Sandy, the horse-wrangler, slep' together, an' Sandy he lowed, he did, that the Lord mus' have it in fer us pore ignorant cow-punchers that night, shore. About daylight I heard a shot, then another, an' another. Everybody 'most in camp waked up, an' Wilson, the wagon boss, he takes his six-shooter an' fires a few shots to answer 'em. "We all speculated as to what it meant at such a time, an' Wilson he says he'd bet a yearlin' ag'in a sack of terbaccer that it were some derned tenderfoot bug-hunter who'd been out to the Petrified Forest an' gone an' lost hisself, an' now was a bellerin' around like a dogie calf.
2695_205	western stories	Harte, Bret	He had an uneasy suspicion that the shutter that was banging so outrageously was the shutter of her room. Filled with this miserable thought, he arose softly, stole down the staircase, and listened. The sound was repeated. It was truly the refractory shutter of No. 7--the best bedroom adjoining the sitting-room. The next room, No. 8, was vacant. Jeff entered it softly, as softly opened the window, and leaning far out in the tempest, essayed to secure the nocturnal disturber. But in vain. Cord or rope he had none, nor could he procure either without alarming his aunt--an extremity not to be considered. Jeff was a man of clumsy but forceful expedients. He hung far out of the window, and with one powerful hand lifted the shutter off its hinges and dragged it softly into No. 8. Then as softly he crept upstairs to bed. The wind howled and tore round the house; the crazy water-pipe below Jeff's window creaked, the chimneys whistled, but the shutter banged no more. Jeff began to doze. “It's a great thing to be strong,” the wind seemed to say as it charged upon the defenseless house, and then another voice seemed to reply, “A greater thing to be strong and gentle;” and hearing this he fell asleep. II. It was not yet daylight when he awoke with an idea that brought him hurriedly to his feet. Quickly dressing himself, he began to count the money in his pocket. Apparently the total was not satisfactory, as he endeavored to augment it by loose coins fished from the pockets of his other garments, and from the corner of his washstand drawer. Then he cautiously crept downstairs, seized his gun, and stole out of the still sleeping house. The wind had gone down, the rain had ceased, a few stars shone steadily in the north, and the shapeless bulk of the coach, its lamps extinguished, loomed high and dry above the lessening water, in the twilight. With a swinging tread Jeff strode up the hill and was soon upon the highway and stage road. A half-hour's brisk walk brought him to the summit, and the first rosy flashes of morning light. This enabled him to knock over half-a-dozen early quail, lured by the proverb, who were seeking their breakfast in the chaparral, and gave him courage to continue on his mission, which his perplexed face and irresolute manner had for the last few moments shown to be an embarrassing one.
24380_411	science fiction	Von Wald, E. G.	Even if I did know somebody here in Mars Command--which I don't--it wouldn't do any good." "He's right," Harding grumbled. "Everybody knows that once they've assigned a sickman, the only people who can get him reassigned are the sickmen themselves. Maise couldn't do anything about it unless he was a member of the Corps himself. But that settles it, though--his orders being from Central, I mean. Nobody but a sickman would have his orders cut at Central for a puny little ship like ours. It proves what we thought about him, anyway." "I don't think it proves anything," I retorted angrily. "I don't think the question is whether or not Frendon is a sick--now you've got me saying it--a Psi Corps man. The question is whether we're going to settle down and stop whining just because we got a new CO we don't like, and that we can't do anything about. We're not running this war. They're running it back on Earth." "We're fighting it," Spender commented, chewing on a big, raw knuckle. Harding looked at me skeptically. "How much space-combat have you seen, Maise?" "Six years, more or less," I told him. "I've seen plenty of the stuff. I'd just as soon let somebody else do it from now on in, but nobody asked me." Harding grunted: "Well, tell me, have you ever served under a sick skipper?" "No." "Do you want to?" "Why not? Besides--what can I do about it?" * * * * * Harding leaned back and sipped away on the straight whiskey he was drinking, watching me over the top of the glass and talking directly into it, making his voice sound muffled and sinister. "You know, Maise, sometimes you make me tired. Frankly, when they first sent us you, I didn't like it. None of us did. You were CO then, and we thought maybe you were a sickman even if you didn't look like it, and you kept sort of sticking up for the sick corps whenever it was mentioned. Well, that's all right. New officer in charge, trying to stiffen up discipline, et cetera and so forth. But now we've got Frendon for CO.
31995_274	science fiction	Myers, Howard L.	" "I see it." * * * * * The cylindrical base of the Weapon swung to point briefly at the boulder, which quietly crumbled to dust. "I be dog!" yelped Jacob. He looked at the Weapon with respect. "You sure pulverized it! How do you work?" "You could not understand the processes involved. Suffice it to say I have the means to collect energy in general and retransmit it in specific forms and directions. But enough of this. You are here to answer questions, not ask them. First, tell me what you did in an average day on Terra." "That what you call the world I live on?" "Yes." "I'm a farmer, you know. I got a place in the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee. First thing in the mornin', I'd go feed the livestock while Suzy cooked breakfast." A faraway look came into Jacob's eyes. "Guess she took the kids and went to live with her mammy when these here animals grabbed me...." "Continue," commanded the Weapon. "Huh? Well, then we'd eat breakfast. Come to think of it, I ain't et yet this mornin'." Jacob got up and went to get himself some breakfast. "But this matter--" protested the Weapon. "Not on an empty stomach," Jacob said calmly, eating without haste. * * * * * When he returned, the Weapon questioned him further about his life on Terra. Hours of ill-tempered conversation passed. "Such drabness!" the Weapon finally exclaimed. "Creatures who lead such dull lives as yours should welcome extinction. Not once have you mentioned an appreciation of the wondrous exaltation that comes from an esthetic feel for beauty. With the labor of providing for your grotesque body's animal cravings is your whole life spent. Not in anger, but as an act of mercy, can I exterminate your defective race!" Jacob's mouth hung open. "So _that's_ what your monkey's brung me out here for--fixin' to kill us! 'Y God, you better look out! We got atom bombs on Earth an' we'll use 'em on you if you try anything!" "Toys!" sneered the Weapon. "Be assured, Jacob, that I have nothing to fear from any childish mechanisms your Terrans can contrive!" Jacob sat stunned. "But you said a minute ago you couldn't kill nothin'!
45549_2415	adventure stories	Craine, E. J. (Edith Janice)	Her Highness lost no time in lifting herself above the danger and soared up two hundred feet as her nose was brought about and her course was set north by north west. Anxiously Bob leaned over as far as his safety-strap would permit and scanned the blackness beneath them hoping to catch sight of something which would account for what they were seeking. Jim sent the plane in wide circles in order to give Bob a chance to see as far as possible, and although their lights helped some, they seemed to make the rest of the night even darker. For ten minutes they rode in a fruitless search, each time coming around a little further north. "Jim, things I can make out are being carried fast toward the south. Perhaps we're too far up," Bob said through the tube, and Jim nodded. He changed the procedure, while the younger boy watched. Five minutes more they circled, then Jim decided to climb. He tipped Her Highness' nose at a sharp angle and zoomed two thousand feet just as fast as she could scramble through the air, then he shut off the motor and let her glide. The lake beneath them seemed a regular bedlam of sound, and as they drifted forward at as gradual a descent as possible, they finally picked up a frantic call. "It's over there," Jim exclaimed and his buddy agreed. The plane was so low now that they dared glide no longer, so Jim set the engine going full blast as they made for the place. "There's a light." Bob clutched his arm and pointed. Whoever had cried out evidently had some dry matches or a cigarette lighter and was trying to help them locate him. In a moment they were riding in close circles, and then they made out what looked like the roof of a portable summer house. They couldn't tell what was on top of it, but by that time the morning light began to break slowly. "What the heck can we do?" "Tie the lariats together," Jim directed. That was but the work of a moment, then Bob put a weight on one end of it and threw it over. "If he can grab it, we can give him a tow." Jim nodded, so Bob leaned over again. "Come a little lower." Her Highness obeyed, and with the help of the speaking tube, they at last managed to get the plane in proper position, and almost instantly there was a tug as the rope was caught.
3294_4144	adventure stories	Sabatini, Rafael	“So,” he said slowly, “it was believed I fled!” And then light burst upon him, to dazzle and stun him. It was so inevitably what must have been believed, and yet it had never crossed his mind. O the damnable simplicity of it! At another time his disappearance must have provoked comment and investigation, perhaps. But, happening when it did, the answer to it came promptly and convincingly and no man troubled to question further. Thus was Lionel's task made doubly easy, thus was his own guilt made doubly sure in the eyes of all. His head sank upon his breast. What had he done? Could he still blame Rosamund for having been convinced by so overwhelming a piece of evidence? Could he still blame her if she had burnt unopened the letter which he had sent her by the hand of Pitt? What else indeed could any suppose, but that he had fled? And that being so, clearly such a flight must brand him irrefutably for the murderer he was alleged to be. How could he blame her if she had ultimately been convinced by the only reasonable assumption possible? A sudden sense of the wrong he had done rose now like a tide about him. “My God!” he groaned, like a man in pain. “My God!” He looked at her, and then averted his glance again, unable now to endure the haggard, strained yet fearless gaze of those brave eyes of hers. “What else, indeed, could you believe?” he muttered brokenly, thus giving some utterance to what was passing through his mind. “Naught else but the whole vile truth,” she answered fiercely, and thereby stung him anew, whipped him out of his sudden weakening back to his mood of resentment and vindictiveness. She had shown herself, he thought in that moment of reviving anger, too ready to believe what told against him. “The truth?” he echoed, and eyed her boldly now. “Do you know the truth when you see it? We shall discover. For by God's light you shall have the truth laid stark before you now, and you shall find it hideous beyond all your hideous imaginings.” There was something so compelling now in his tone and manner that it drove her to realize that some revelation was impending. She was conscious of a faint excitement, a reflection perhaps of the wild excitement that was astir in him.
32543_1034	adventure stories	Drayson, Alfred W. (Alfred Wilks)	Now in India, I remembered, it was just the reverse: there a father had to give a large sum of money to get his daughter married, so that a man who had several daughters was simply ruined in consequence of the money he had to give for his daughters to get husbands. Consequently, in India it became a general practice to kill female children as soon as they were born, as a matter of economy; whereas here, in South Africa, female children were a source of wealth to their fathers. When the white men found their cattle had been stolen, they formed a party and started on the spoor, and if they caught the Caffres who had stolen them they shot them as if they were hyaenas. Fights consequently took place between the Amakosa and the white men, and several had been killed on both sides. These events led to war being declared against the Amakosa by the English, and this war had just commenced when the visitors came to our country. All the principal men of our tribe having been assembled, we formed a large circle about four deep on some open ground near my hut. We sat down close together and remained silent whilst the two Amakosa stood in the middle of the ring to address us, which they did in the following manner:-- "Chiefs of the Umzimvubu!--We come as speakers from the Amakosa, to ask you to help us against the white man. We have lived for many generations on the banks of the Kei and in the Amatola Mountains. We once owned the land down to the Great Fish River; the Fingoes were our slaves, the Hottentots were afraid of us. The white man has now come, and on small pretences has taken our land, and made us give them hundreds of cattle. Our young men have been shot down like dogs; but at last we have quivered the assagy in our defence, and in our bush and in our mountains we are strong. We want your aid in two ways: first, to let your young men join us; and, secondly, that you will let us drive our cattle into your country, so that the white man cannot capture them. For this we will pay you cattle, giving you one in every ten. Your men are brave, and can fight as we heard they did against the Amazulu. If we are eaten up, the white man will soon come to your country; so we are a strong fence against them, and you should help to strengthen that fence. I have spoken as our chiefs have told me.
54121_1220	love stories	Sykes, D. F. E.	" "Aw'll mark yo' nivver fear, aye an' gi' yo' summat 'at 'll keep yo wakken, too, yo' idle good-for-nowt," and Sam swung in with a piece of belting thicker and broader than a navvy's belt. Now it was at just this moment that Tom took the door. He had come from the dyehouse to match a cop. "Hold," he cried, and strode quickly up the room, "you won't beat that child, Sam, wi' that strap. Drop it, I say." "An' who'll stop me?" roared Sam. "I will." "Then tak' that for thi' impudence yo' d----d, meddlin' workhouse bastard," and Sam brought the stinging leather right across Tom's flashing cheek. Then, quick as lightning, sped a downright blow, straight from the shoulder true between the eyes, and Sam fell like a stricken ox, ignominious, into a skep of cops. There was the quick catching of breath from a score of throats as two score eyes watched the bully's fall, and Tom, as he looked about him, felt prouder and gladder than all his life before. "Eh! but aw'st catch it for this," whispered Billy-come-a-lakin. "Aw'll run for it whilst aw've th' chance," and he fled the place, and his billy knew him no more that week. "Yo'n nooan heerd th' last o' this," said Buckley, as he slowly picked himself up, dazed and scowling. "Aw'll mak' yo' pay for this day's wark, if aw swing for it, mind yo'r piecenin', yo' young limbs o' Satan, an' quit yo'r gapin'," and the irate spinner stalked out of the "scribbling boil." Tom did the errand on which he had been sent by the dyer and made his way down the outer steps to return to his own work. He had to cross the mill-yard. Mr. Tinker had just ridden in at the gate and now was bending his head from the saddle to hearken to the tale Sam was pouring into his ear. Tom saw his master's brow contract. "Send him to me," Tom heard, "I'll deal with him. It's rank mutiny." Tom stepped forward and stood by the horse's side.
42010_855	detective and mystery stories	Flynn, William J. (William James)	I fed the press by putting the sheets in and taking them out as they were printed. Giglio would take the printed sheets and spread them out in the garret to dry. "At 2 P. M., on January 4th, 1909, the green impressions were completed on the Canadian notes. Not seeing any one appear with the fare to New York I gave my watch to Giglio and begged him to go to his brother-in-law and sell it. Returning the next morning Giglio handed me one dollar and a half, and said that I was to go on the 2 P. M. train. His brother-in-law, Cina, would come with the horse and carriage and accompany me to the station. "About noon Cina came. Caterina said she did not want to be left alone with two strange men, and asked to be taken to Cina's family until I returned. This was agreed to and Cina left her at his house and took me to the Poughkeepsie station. I arrived in New York at 5 P. M. and met Cecala at the station; he feigned surprise at seeing me. He excused himself for not sending me the fare and explained that he had no money. "Cecala conducted me to Thirty-ninth Street and First Avenue where he introduced me to a certain Giovanni Pecoraro, a wine merchant. He invited me to eat some salame cheese and fruit. We drank some wine, and then Pecoraro told me to return to this store and get two bottles of liquor, which I was to take to Highland on my way back to the plant. "Coming out of the store, Cecala led me to a house in the same street near Avenue A where there were six men in a room playing cards. Cecala called one of them aside--a young man about thirty, and requested him to give five dollars to me. This young man, whom Cecala called Salvatore, responded readily and gave me the money as I was leaving. Cecala now accompanied me to the meeting room of the Foresters of America. He told me that at 11 P. M. he would call for me and accompany me to the station, and that I was not to stop over night nor see any of my relatives. "After the meeting I found Cecala and Pecoraro waiting outside for me. They made me get on a car and go to Pecoraro's store, where I was given three bottles of liquor and some salame wrapped in one package. They accompanied me to Hoboken where, at 3 A. M. on January 6, 1909, I boarded the train for Highland.
62516_3628	love stories	Smith, Harriet L. (Harriet Lummis)	He saw her features distorted by hate, her eyes narrowed malignantly, her lips drawn back from the teeth. Something Hephzibah Diggs had said in their memorable interview flashed across his mind. "When she showed herself up for what she was, you'd ought to have got down on your marrow bones and thanked the Lord." Darkness shut down over the unwelcome vision. There was a rushing in his ears so that he heard only faintly Julia's farewell, "I hate you! Oh, how I hate you!" He leaned back against the cushions, realizing that he was a sick man, but enveloped in a strange serenity. When next the parlor maid proffered her services, he sent her to telephone for his physician. An hour later he was comfortably ensconced in a private hospital on the outskirts of the city, and sick as he felt, his mood was increasingly cheerful, for the doctor considered the momentary return of vision, elusive and disappointing as it had been, most encouraging. It was a week before Forbes was equal to dictating a letter to Agatha. He passed over the peculiar circumstances of their parting, expressed rather formally his sense of gratitude and enclosed a generous check. His acknowledgment came with gratifying promptness. But the nurse on opening the envelope was puzzled. "It doesn't seem a letter at all, just bits of paper. Why, it looks like a check, torn into little pieces." "You can't find the number of the check among the scraps, can you?" asked Forbes. The nurse could and did and Forbes' suspicion became certainty. He turned on his pillow, unreasonably wounded. The Agatha Kent he had loved and trusted had never been, and this stranger who called herself by the familiar name had rejected his overture of friendship. CHAPTER XX THE DAY AFTER The day of judgment has its drawbacks, but it is the day after that really hurts. The first shock numbs. It is when the nipping pain begins, the remorseless pain too cruel to kill, that the sinner takes the full measure of his punishment. On the day of Forbes' departure, Agatha ate her evening meal as usual and went to bed at eight o'clock. She slept heavily till midnight, roused and speedily dozed off again, but now to be the victim of torturing dreams. Years before a pet dog of Howard's had become old and sickly and Agatha's father had decided it must be killed. He had attempted to shoot the animal in its sleep, but his nervousness had caused him to miss his aim.
63389_2249	western stories	Young, Elizabeth G.	" "Yes, yes," Harry agreed earnestly. "We mustn't stop for anything. We can't lose that homestead, Bobs, we can't." Leaning forward, with her hands clasped tensely, she watched one after another the landmarks that Rob had pointed out to her on their first ride across the hills. How different she felt now! They stopped to water the horses and to give them a few minutes' rest; then they pushed on again. Always listening and looking back, they kept the horses up to their work, and at the same time saved them for the last spurt. "We're doing about eight miles an hour now," Rob said some time later. "We've about an hour and a half before the land office closes, and we ought to be able to do the rest of the trip in that time. That is, unless Joyce gets in and does it quicker." He had hardly spoken when they heard behind them the faint blare of a horn. "There he is now!" They said it in one breath, and their eyes met. Rob slid forward in his seat. "We'll do it or bust." "How can we?" asked Harry despairingly. "I don't know. But I'm not going to give up now, would you?" "Oh, no, no! Let's keep going to the very last. Something may happen for us." Although the horses did their best, the motor car gained on them rapidly. Knowing that the car could pass them even if he held the middle of the road, Rob drew to the roadside. As the lumbering automobile went swiftly by it lunged down into a mudhole and spattered them freely. "Thanks," said Rob placidly as Joyce glanced back over his shoulder. "That's one we owe you. Never mind, sis. You want to hold on, for wherever there's a stretch of good road I'll hit up the pace." "Yes, that's right. He might break down or strike a snag at the last moment." "Snakes and siwash!" Rob cried a few moments later. "He's done it! He's stuck!" "O Bobs," Harry cried, giggling hysterically, "please be careful! The horses might run away." "O my, O my, O my great-grandmother!" Rob shouted with delight as he pointed ahead. They could now see the whole of the road between them and town.
33383_474	detective and mystery stories	Clark, Joan	" Penny was a little surprised because the old man did not invite her into the house. "It won't take me long," he said, deliberately closing the door behind him. Penny seated herself on the steps of the sagging porch and kept her eye upon Herman Crocker's dog which had stationed himself only a few feet away. "That animal is vicious," she thought uneasily. "I don't see why Crocker keeps him around." Hearing a slight sound Penny gazed toward the right and was surprised to observe a small boy peering at her from the corner of the house. He was tall and very thin but did not appear to be more than nine or ten years of age. "Hello there," said Penny in a friendly voice. "Hello," answered the boy. He moved slowly toward her, staring rather blankly. "You're not Mr. Crocker's little boy?" Penny asked, hoping to draw him into conversation. "I'm his grandson." "Oh, his grandson," repeated Penny, studying the lad with interest. He bore slight resemblance to Herman Crocker. "And is Rudy your dog?" "No!" replied the lad bitterly. "I hate him. If I tried to go away from here he'd attack me. My grandfather has trained him to do that." Penny was not certain that she had understood correctly. She could not believe that Herman Crocker deliberately kept his grandson a prisoner on the property. "You don't mean----" she began, but the words died away. The kitchen door had opened. Herman Crocker stood scowling at his grandson. "Perry!" he said harshly. "Get inside! There's work to be done!" "Yes, sir," replied the boy meekly. With a frightened glance directed toward Penny he scuttled into the house. Mr. Crocker closed the door again. "I do believe that old man was afraid to have me talk with his grandson!" Penny thought shrewdly. "How strange!" She did not have long to reflect upon the queer actions of her new landlord, for in a very few minutes he reappeared with an armload of linen and blankets. "I've telephoned the electric company for you," he told her. "Your lights ought to be on before night." "And will you have the cottage cleaned for us?" Penny requested. "I can't do the work myself," scowled the man.
37304_994	love stories	Prindle, Frances Carruth	“What is odd, the fact or your acceptance of it?” There was a little ring in her voice which struck the man’s alert ear. A look of surprise came into his handsome dark face. “Am I walking too fast for you, Miss Dale?” he asked, pleasantly. That was the second time he had put aside a thrust of hers with some trifling, irrelevant remark, and it tended to heighten rather than soothe her growing irritation. “I think,” she said, stopping abruptly on the corner, “that I shall say good morning to you here. I do not happen to live in that sacred locality you mention, and I would not for worlds take you beyond the pale.” “Miss Dale,” he gasped, “you don’t think I abide by any such nonsense—you are doing me a great injustice. Surely you are not going to dismiss me!” “Yes,” she said, smiling, and showing her dimples in a sudden access of pleasure at the thought of getting rid of him, “I really believe I am.” He lifted his hat, and stood for some moments on the corner watching her vanish from sight. How slender she was, and graceful, and what a sweet little smile had accompanied her nod of farewell! Now he thought of it, her eyes had queer lights in them, baffling, as if she were laughing at him all the time. And her tone was half mocking, too, though he had taken it seriously enough in all conscience. Was she serious, or had he made an idiot of himself? This latter contingency was not one which presented itself with marked frequency to the mind of Kenneth Landor, and therefore gave him much food for reflection as the day wore on. CHAPTER VIII “Whom in the world do we know in New Hampshire?” asked Julie one morning, glancing askance at an envelope in her hand. “Suppose you open it and find out,” meekly suggested Hester, peeping over her shoulder. “Why, see, it is addressed to us both—it’s probably an invitation or something.” “It is not,” asserted Julie; “I can tell by the look of it. It’s—why, Hester Dale, it’s a fifty dollar bill.” “What?” ejaculated Hester. “It is, and a note. Think of daring to trust such a thing by mail! Look at it yourself.”
14545_1619	western stories	Rhodes, Eugene Manlove	That's half the battle." Pete returned to the fire for a final cup of coffee. "Young man," he said, "would you know that brown horse Stan was ridin' when you met up with him?" "Awguan? Sure! I'd know him in hell!" said Bobby. "Well, Stan turned that horse loose to rustle for himself, of course. Do you reckon you could stir round and find him for me--if your dad can spare you? I want to go to the railroad to-night, and Awguan, he's fresh. My horses are tired." "If you don't want that horse," said Bobby, "don't send me after him." "Now, Jack," said Pete after Bobby had departed on the search for Awguan, "you go away and don't pester me. I want to think." To the processes of thought, for the space of four pipes, he gave aid by hugging his knees, as if he had called them in consultation. Then he summoned Jackson Carr. "How're you fixed for work, Jack?" "None. I reckon to get plenty, though, when I get my teams fitted up. They're jaded from a lumber job." "You're hired--for a year, month, and day. And as much longer as you like. Suit you?" "Suits me." "You're my foreman, then. Hire your teams the first thing. Make your own terms. I'll tell you this much--it's a big thing. A mine--a he-mine; copper. That's partly why Stan is in jail. And if it comes off, you won't need to worry about the kid's schooling. I aim to give you, extra, five per cent of my share--and, for men like you and me, five per cent of this lay is exactly the same as all of it. It's that big. "I'm askin' you to obey orders in the dark. If you don't know any details you won't be mad, and you won't know who to be mad at; so you won't jump in to save the day if I fail to come through with my end of it on schedule, and get yourself killed off. That ain't all, either.
66030_2310	adventure stories	Gould, Nat	These men were disarmed and marched off towards the camp. A few of the Curracoos could be seen flying from the scene of the battle which had proved so fatal to them, but comparatively few of them escaped. Yacka came to Edgar and Will, and they saw he was almost covered with blood, and his club was dripping dark-red drops. The black’s eyes shone with the light of battle and thirst for blood. All the savage nature of this strange being was roused, and the cruelty in him was uppermost. He shook the blood-stained club over his head, and said: ‘Victory to the Enooma. There has been a terrible slaughter. Come and see. Yacka will show you how the Enooma strike their enemies.’ Edgar and Will descended from the hill where they had witnessed the fight, and followed Yacka on to the field of battle. CHAPTER XVI. AFTER THE FIGHT. It was indeed a terrible sight the two friends gazed upon. On the ground where the fight had furiously raged lay scores of dead blacks in all attitudes, just as they had fallen. It made them shudder to look at the scene. The terrific nature of the blows dealt was apparent, for most of the dead had their skulls fractured, and their features were ghastly and distorted. Their weapons lay near them, and Edgar picked up the club which the powerful black who fought the Enooma chief had used. It was a great weight, and fully three feet long, and capable of dealing a fearful blow, even in a weak man’s hands. The end was covered with blood and hair, showing that the Curracoo had killed many enemies before he was slain. ‘You will bury these men?’ asked Edgar. ‘The Enooma must have burial,’ said Yacka; ‘the Curracoo are not fit to be hidden away;’ and he struck a fallen black, who still showed signs of life, over the head with his club. ‘That was a cowardly thing to do,’ said Edgar. ‘They are not fit to live,’ said Yacka, and went on. ‘What a brute he is, after all!’ said Will, in a low voice. ‘He is no better than the others.’ ‘He is a savage at heart,’ said Edgar, ‘and we must make allowances for him.’ ‘If he kills defenceless men like that,’ said Will, ‘I would not give much for our lives if he felt disposed to turn upon us.’
64515_195	science fiction	Fennel, Erik	Matson's Disease had made such changes in Carlin's features that he was not recognized. At last he was forcibly ejected. That was his final effort. He had become a nonentity, a nobody, and so he wanted only to die. But with his identity he had lost his nerve. He did, however, have enough money to avoid drawing even one sober breath. It is history how nine rockets reached the moon, transferred their remaining fuel, and one finally returned bearing a cargo of living moon-lice as a gift beyond all price. The frantic medical campaign, during which two thousand victims of Matson's Disease had their deaths hastened as doctors sought the proper dosage, is also history. But then there was a cure--and another--and still more. The treatment became standardized as means were found for stabilizing the venom and controlling its potency. The government assumed charge, and every citizen afflicted with the plague was not only entitled to treatment but compelled to take it. When the health officers found George Carlin in his isolated cabin he was almost dead. His skeleton had softened to such an extent that he could not stand, and could crawl across the dirty, littered floor only with the greatest difficulty. His atrophied muscles had almost nothing against which to work, and malnutrition and alcoholism complicated the case. After six months in a sanitarium bed he had recovered enough to become bored. He borrowed a book from the man in the next bed and was disappointed to find it an advanced treatise on rocket fuels. But he read it through and surprised himself by becoming interested. Still flat on his back, unable to move, he began an intensive course of study. He had been so nearly boneless when admitted, one of the most advanced cases to survive, that the complete cure took three and a half years. When he was finally released he had learned enough to obtain a minor job as technical assistant--under an assumed name--in the Carlin Institute For Research which had replaced the old Carlin Industries. He has been there fourteen years now, trying to compensate for lack of brilliance by earnest effort and long hours. He still has one dream. He hopes some day to stand on a barren, airless spot marked by twisted fragments of a spaceship. And he hopes Verne Harris' spirit still hovers there to hear his apologies. He has long since given up trying to have his story believed. The myth is too deeply embedded in the public consciousness, and no one has ever heard of Verne Harris.
7303_1129	science fiction	Bellamy, Edward	The duty of society to guarantee the life of the citizen implies, therefore, not merely the equal distribution of wealth for consumption, but its employment as capital to the best possible advantage for all in the production of more wealth. In both ways, therefore, you will readily see that society would fail in its first and greatest function in proportion as it were to permit individuals beyond the equal allotment to withdraw wealth, whether for consumption or employment as capital, from the public administration in the common interest." "The modern ethics of ownership is rather startlingly simple to a representative of the nineteenth century," I observed. "Would not the judges even ask me by what right or title of ownership I claimed my wealth?" "Certainly not. It is impossible that you or any one could have so strong a title to material things as the least of your fellow-citizens have to their lives, or could make so strong a plea for the use of the collective power to enforce your right to things as they could make that the collective power should enforce their right to life against your right to things at whatever point the two claims might directly or indirectly conflict. The effect of the disproportionate possession of the wealth of a community by some of its members to curtail and threaten the living of the rest is not in any way affected by the means by which that wealth was obtained. The means may have constituted, as in past times they often did by their iniquity, an added injury to the community; but the fact of the disproportion, however resulting, was a continuing injury, without regard to its beginnings. Our ethics of wealth is indeed, as you say, extremely simple. It consists merely in the law of self-preservation, asserted in the name of all against the encroachments of any. It rests upon a principle which a child can understand as well as a philosopher, and which no philosopher ever attempted to refute--namely, the supreme right of all to live, and consequently to insist that society shall be so organized as to secure that right. "But, after all," said the doctor, "what is there in our economic application of this principle which need impress a man of your time with any other sensation than one of surprise that it was not earlier made? Since what you were wont to call modern civilization existed, it has been a principle subscribed to by all governments and peoples that it is the first and supreme duty of the state to protect the lives of the citizens.
37304_943	love stories	Prindle, Frances Carruth	“Ah, you, Hester?” said the Doctor. “Wait a moment, my dear. I have a book here that I want you to take round to read to your father.” He vanished, and the stranger glanced at the girl, hesitated, and then stooping patted the dog. “You’ve a fine fox-terrier,” he said in a deep, rich voice, looking up. “We think so,” replied Hester, who couldn’t for the life of her conceal her pleasure at hearing Peter Snooks praised. At that moment the Doctor came out again. “Why, Landor,” he said, “I beg your pardon; I forgot all about you when I saw Hester. That is a way the minx has—of driving everything else out of my head. Hester, my dear, this is Kenneth Landor, just up from Texas to have a look at effete civilization—you have heard me speak of him often—Mr. Landor, Miss Dale.” The young people bowed. “Don’t let him pose as a cowboy or anything interesting like that,” continued the Doctor, “for he isn’t really—he only plays at things. Takes a peep here and there over the continent, and pretends he is this and that and the other, as the mood seizes him. A rolling stone, eh, Landor?” turning with an affectionate, quizzical look at the man beside him. “Oh! go on, Doctor; pile it on—don’t leave me a shred of character. His veracity is absolutely unquestioned, of course, Miss Dale?” “Of course! He has made you interesting already.” The Doctor laughed. “How one’s motives are mistaken. That was the last thing I meant to do!” Hester looked up at the Doctor, gleams of mischief in her eyes. “You being you,” she said, “it couldn’t be otherwise.” With which ambiguous remark she went out the door. Landor followed her down the steps. “Miss Dale,” he asked, “may I walk along with you? I fancy I am going your way.” Landor’s way was usually where he chose to make it. Hester acquiesced simply. She had been accustomed to the society of men since she could toddle, and felt no embarrassment in the presence of a stranger. Landor noted the free, swinging motion with which she kept step with him as they went down the street. “You are not a true Radnorite,” he said abruptly.
61405_669	science fiction	Panshin, Alexei	"Do any of these fit?" "Yes, the D key. The D key. It fits the four cells in this corner." I fumbled through until I had the key tagged D. I opened the cell with as few clinking noises as possible. "Come on," I said. "We've got to get out of here in a hurry." He slipped out and pushed the door shut behind him. We headed for the stairs and were almost there when I heard somebody coming up. Jimmy must have heard it, too, because he grabbed my arm and pulled me back. We flattened out as best we could. Talk about walking right into it! The policeman looked over at us and said, "What are you doing up here, Robards? Hey, you're not...." I stepped out and brought out one of the pistols. I said, "Easy now. If things go wrong for us, I have nothing to lose by shooting you. If you want to live, play it straight." He apparently believed me, because he put his hands where I could see them and shut up. I herded him into Jimmy's cell and let Jimmy do the honors with the loaded sock. We taped him up and while Jimmy was locking him in, I heard somebody in one of the cells behind me say, "Shut up, there," to somebody else. I turned and said, "Do you want to get shot?" The voice was collected. "No. No trouble here." "Do you want to be let out?" The voice was amused. "I don't think so. Thank you just the same." Jimmy finished and I asked, "Where is your signal? We have to have that." "In the basement with the rest of my gear." The signal was all we took. When we were three blocks away and on a dark side street, I handed Jimmy his gun and ammunition. As he took them, he said, "Tell me something, Mia. Would you really have shot him?" I said. "I couldn't have. I hadn't loaded my gun yet." * * * * * I led him through town following the back ways I'd worked out before. Somebody once said that good luck is no more nor less than careful preparation, and this time I meant to have good luck. I led Jimmy toward the Losel-selling district.
37466_2565	western stories	Calhoun, A. R. (Alfred Rochefort)	" "Your father is there——" "I am glad to hear it." "And he is very sick." "How do you know?" "Because I saw him in a bad fix to-day." "See here, Shirley, tell me at once what you want," said Sam, in his spirited way. "I want to take you to your father; he’s been heart-broken, thinking you were dead; so come down, and I pledge you my honor as a gentleman that I will take you to Hurley’s Gulch," said Shirley, in accents intended to be reassuring and soothing. "Your honor as a gentleman?" repeated Sam with a ring of sarcasm. "Yes, that’s what I said." "And we’ll let you three young fellers ride our horses," added the landlord. "And you will also pledge your honor, as a gentleman, to do that?" said Sam. "Oh, I’ll swear to it," said the landlord. "Thanks, but the security being false and worthless, I must decline your offer," said Sam, surprised at his own coolness and his ready command of language. "Then you won’t come down?" from Shirley. "Thanks, not to-night." "Sam Willett!" "Yes; Frank Shirley!" "Are you crazy?" "No, I’m mad; and you’ll find I’m dangerous if you bother me further," said Sam stoutly. "See har, young feller," shouted Badger. "If you don’t want us to save you, do you know what we’ll do next?" "I don’t." "Why, we’ll get mad, too——" "I don’t care." "And," continued Badger, his voice choking with anger, "we’ll go up thar and fotch you down; and if so be you git hurt, it’ll be yer own fault." "Hurt?" from Sam. "Yes, and hurted purty bad, too." "What’s your name?" "My name’s Badger. I’m a terror, I am. I was nussed on blizzards, and rocked by tornadoes. I live on rattlesnakes and horned toads, and when I’m riled its wuss nor a earthquake. Now you are gettin’ my dander riz, so come down, for if I have to climb up after you, you’ll git hurt.
40907_1316	adventure stories	Marchmont, Arthur W.	This evening, or probably to-morrow, we can get to work. In the mean time, if you do not already know Munich, you will find no lack of interesting sights." For the rest of that day I was left to my own devices, and we did not meet until late in the evening, when he told me his plans for the next day, and that he had arranged for a round of interviews with the leading men on our side. The result of them was only to increase my perplexity. Wherever I went I was welcomed cordially, my co-operation requested, my caution approved, and the most complete assurances given to me on all points. Had the success of the scheme depended entirely upon my joining in it, I could not have been more warmly welcomed. I could not understand it in the least. Every question I asked was answered, as it seemed, quite fully and frankly; and every investigation I made only convinced me that the ramifications of the plot were vastly wider than I imagined, and that the prospects of success were enough to force me to believe in it. And yet I could not shake off my suspicions. I could find no ground for them other than my knowledge of von Nauheim. There was nothing but that to warrant them. But the more closely I watched him the more uneasy I became, and the more convinced that he at least had some double motive. I was in the position of a man who is being persuaded to a course he dislikes against every prejudice and instinct of his nature, and despite his earnest desire to trust his instinct. I did not wish to find the affair genuine, but I could find no flaw anywhere, probe, search, suspect, and investigate as I would. At the end of the fourth day I could not deny they had a right to ask for a definite decision for me to throw in my lot with them, and, while I was dead against doing so, I could not suggest a single reason of value and force for my opinion. The meeting to receive my decision was fixed for the sixth evening, and I looked forward to it with considerable apprehension. The previous day I resolved to use for a purpose that was almost as critical as the object of the visit to Munich. It was an inquiry that I alone could make as to von Nauheim's past. I knew that in the days when he had dealt his dastardly injury on my family he had a wife, whom he had married secretly, living in Thuringia.
42010_1999	detective and mystery stories	Flynn, William J. (William James)	Yes, in New York City. Q. And did you treat other relatives? A. I treated all their relatives, and all free of charge. They would call me; I would examine them, prescribe, etc., but I got no pay. Q. Did you ever ask them for any? A. No. Q. Why not? A. On account of the obligations; also the familiarity. Right from the start I thought that I was doing a wise thing not to ask for money for my services. Q. What did you know about Morello about that time? A. My folks had told him all about those letters and he had fixed it all up; we had no disturbance because we were under his protection. Q. Did you know that you were under his protection? A. I knew as well as the family did. Q. What protection did you think that he could give you? A. Receiving no disturbance from the "Black-Handers." Q. Did you know that he was connected with the "Black-Handers" then? A. I did not know that he was a "Black-Hander," but I knew from the fact that he had arranged everything that he must have known something about these people. Thus I became the regular physician for these people and never got any pay. In the meantime I tried to get as much hospital experience as I could and get out of New York, because, if a man goes out of New York to a strange place without any experience-- Q. Why did you want to leave New York? A. Not because I was afraid, not because they were doing anything to me, but because I was tired of doing work for nothing; I never could put any money in the bank. The whole number of relatives, babies and patients, amounted to about sixty. It would not be one day, but the next day, and all the time they were on my hands. And I got no pay. My mother was in the same position. My mother is a midwife. I tried to get hospital experience, and as soon as I was in the position to leave New York I departed, and I have never heard from him at all except when I received letters from my mother who told me that they kept on frequenting the house. Q. What was the interview you had with Commissioner Wood?[5] And when did you have that interview? A. That was four or five years before I left New York. The main thing he wanted to know was whether I knew these people well enough to tell stories.
47471_1426	detective and mystery stories	Webb, Marion St. John	I’ve met several girls like her—I think it’s the fault of her upbringing." "She can make people feel so _small_ sometimes, just by the tone of her voice," said Beryl. "Oh, it’s hateful! I—I couldn’t bear it." "Look here," said Pamela, "I’ll speak to her, if you like—just give her a hint not to bother you with questions. I won’t tell her anything you don’t want me to. Will you leave it to me—and trust me not to say too much?" "Oh, Pamela, it is kind of you. If only you would— Of course I trust you— Just tell her what you think best.... Only I can’t help feeling a coward for not facing things myself...." "That’s all right. It’s easier to do it for another person than it is for oneself," said Pamela. "And now you must go to sleep—you’ll look all washed out in the morning if you don’t. And, remember, we’ve got to _enjoy_ our stay in this house—let’s get all the fun out of it we can, shall we? ... Don’t worry any more about Isobel—it’ll be all right, you just see! ... Good-night, Beryl. And—Beryl—thank you for showing me your mother’s letter." When Pamela had gone Beryl cried a little more, but they were a different kind of tears this time, because she had found a friend, and her heart was full of gratitude. After this Pamela took the first opportunity that occurred to speak with Isobel alone. She was not quite sure of the best way to deal with Isobel, but decided on the whole it would be best to tell her quite straightforwardly as much as she meant to tell her—arouse her sympathy and interest, but not her suspicions. "I say, Isobel," she began, "I know something that I think you will be interested to hear—about Beryl." Isobel pricked up her ears immediately. "What is it?" she asked. "You know you were wondering why she wore that short-sleeved silk blouse?" "Yes," replied Isobel, smiling. "You remember it amused you because it was unsuitable?" "Yes," Isobel assented, and laughed.
46653_1064	adventure stories	Hemyng, Bracebridge	"Oh, nothing," answered the captain. "I have to report to the American Consul at three, and it is necessary that I should know the time." He began to search in all his pockets. Jack watched him with an abstracted air, while his stupor increased, and it seemed all the time as if it was too much trouble for him to speak. "Very odd where that watch of mine is gone to," continued Moreland. "Very," ejaculated Harkaway. "Are you sure you have not taken it?" "I?" Jack was dumbfounded with astonishment, and could only stare at Moreland. "I must have this investigated," said the latter. "Waiter!" "Signor?" "Call an officer--quick!" Jack was like one in a dream. He could not believe that what he heard was real. Some insidious drug had been mixed with the wine, and like the opium-eater, he was seeing and hearing things that did not exist. Presently the waiter returned with a policeman. "Who wants me?" he inquired. "I do. Arrest and search that man. I accuse him of stealing my watch." He pointed to Harkaway, whom the officer approached. Jack endeavored to rise and strike his false friend, but he seemed to have lost all power over his limbs. Obscured as his intellect was, however, by the drugged wine, he saw that he was the victim of an infamous plot, the depth of which, as yet, he could scarcely gauge. Moreland had won his confidence to prevent his making a charge of abduction against him on their arrival in Rio. That was clear enough. What was to follow remained for coming events to develop. The officer began to search Jack, who laughed in a half imbecile manner, as if it was a good joke, and made no resistance. In his coat pocket were found a watch and chain. "Is that yours?" asked the officer, holding it up. "Yes. I will swear to it. Besides, my name is on the case. It was a present to me. Oh! the ingratitude of some people!" "Shall I arrest the thief?" "Yes; lock him up. I will follow and make the complaint." Jack was dragged rudely from the room to the police court, which was not far off. Captain Moreland hastily settled the bill and followed his victim.
59172_481	science fiction	Ellis, Mike	" "He's deserted," Bart said, "and he signed articles, so that's a crime. How the hell am I going to explain a lost crewman when we go back. And on my first trip as captain." "That's your worry," Tom said. "He's colonizing, not deserting." "You should have been a lawyer," Bart said as he put the gun in his holster. "But this isn't getting that screwball aboard." He groped in the pocket of his coveralls and pulled out a small packlight. The white searchbeam lit up the ferns around them with glaring brightness. "Come on, let's try to find him." He led the way into the ferns. They hunted through the ferns, forcing their way every step. The searchbeam was only good for a few feet in the dense growth. They knew Willie was close, but in the ferns they could almost step on him and not know it. At last Bart gave up. "Let's go back to the ship. We'll come back in the morning, when it's light." Following him along the beach toward the ship, Tom had the feeling that in the morning might be too late. Willie might have been hit by the burst of shots, or he might take off in the ferns so far they never could find him. * * * * * Tom rolled out of his bunk at the first bell, wincing at his sore muscles. After getting the first aid kit from the bathroom, he quietly walked down the narrow passageway and out into the bright sunlight. As he walked through the grey ash to the strip of red sand, the quiet was like a blanket over everything, after the soft hum of the living ship. The breeze blew softly against his face, hummed past his ears, and rustled the ferns. The sea was glass smooth as far as he could see across its surface, smooth right up to where the water turned deep green as it got shallower. He could understand why Willie wanted to stay here. It was a perfect place for anyone who loved solitude and there was probably none like it in the whole system. He thought of how a man could live here, with no one to bother him, nothing to buy, no need to do any more than just produce enough food to live. A little shack to keep off the rain, a little field to grow food.
58155_4600	western stories	Mulford, Clarence Edward	_You_ know what I'm gettin' at!" "Shore," grunted Hopalong. He was silent a moment and then stirred. "We ain't got no reason to stay out here for a day or two. Let's pull out an' go down where we can signal th' Kid after sun-up. We'll ride well to th' east past their camp. What wind is stirrin' is comin' from th' other way, an' there's no use makin' any fresh tracks in front of 'em." An hour or so after daylight a small fire sent a column of smoke straight up, the explanation of its smoking qualities suggested by the canteen lying near it. Hopalong and Red slid a blanket over the fire and drew it suddenly aside, performing this operation three times in succession before letting the column mount unmolested for brief intervals. In the west, above and behind a bare spot on a ridge of hills an answering column climbed upward, and then a series of triple puffs took its place. Scattering the fire over the ground the two friends absent-mindedly kicked sand over the embers, and suddenly grinned at each other at the foolishness of their precautions. When they reached the little grove they found Johnny waiting for them, his horse well loaded with more provisions. As they transferred the supplies to their own mounts they told him what had occurred and he decided that McCullough should be informed of the forthcoming raid, whether or not it would in any way jeopardize the winning of the rewards. "It's a toss-up whether Mac will wait for them to run it off," he said, "when I tell him. He's gettin' more riled every minute, but he seemed to calm down a little after Corwin visited him. Somethin' sort of pulls him back when he gets to climbin' onto his hind legs, an' he ends up by leanin' agin' th' wall an' swearin'. I'm not tellin' him nothin' about anythin' but th' raid. You aimin' to go back to that water-hole?" Hopalong shook his head. "No, sir," he answered. "There ain't no reason to till th' raid happens. We're campin' on Sand Creek till you signal that it's been run off. Time enough then for us to watch on that cussed griddle." "Have special signal for that?" suggested Red. "Say two, two an' three, repeated.
64128_1338	love stories	Phillips, David Graham	Baron Zeppstein will escort you to your hotel. And we look forward to the pleasure of seeing you at the galleries at eleven to-morrow.” “At eleven,” said Grafton, bowing to Erica as the Grand Duke, taking his arm, escorted him to the anteroom. They shook hands, the Grand Duke placing his left hand cordially, even affectionately, on Grafton’s shoulder. Zeppstein had an abstracted companion on the drive, and when Grafton was alone he flung himself on the divan in his sitting-room and abandoned himself to thoughts that gave his face an expression of deep discouragement. When the Grand Duke returned to his cabinet, he withered Moltzahn with a furious look. “What!” he snarled. “Still here? Be off! You are a loathsome creature. Don’t show yourself at court for three months. And if we ever hear that a word of this has passed your lips, we’ll strip your epaulettes from you before the entire army and banish you. Out of our sight!” Moltzahn backed from the room, bowing and cringing. When he was gone the Grand Duke turned on his son. “And now for you, sir! Apologize to Her Serene Highness! Say after me--put your heels together and bend--now say: ‘Your Serene Highness, I humbly ask pardon for my infamous conduct, for my lies, for my insults.’” The Inheriting Grand Duke repeated the words in a choked voice. “And,” continued the Grand Duke, “if you should meet Mr. Grafton again, we command you to speak to him as one gentleman to another with whom he is on friendly terms. Do you hear?” “Yes, Your Royal Highness,” murmured his heir. “You will withdraw.” Erica and the Grand Duke were now alone. “I’m sorry, indeed, my dear child, that this has happened.” He took her hand affectionately. “You have done all that I expected--more.” Erica was blushing and looked extremely guilty. She felt that Aloyse and Moltzahn had outrageously insulted her, but she did not like this reparation on false pretences. “I have much to say to you--” “Not to-day--not to-day,” interrupted the Grand Duke. “I am exhausted, my dear. Go to your apartments and compose yourself.” VII The Grand Duke Gives Battle Erica went to her wing of The Castle and sat by a window, trying to plan the next move.
27890_2556	detective and mystery stories	Edholm, Lizette M.	"If you'd only take enough interest to learn the names of the trees and things you see, you wouldn't be so bored." "Well, what are they called?" "Sahuara. And if that word is too big for you to remember, call them Giant Cactus." Suddenly Bet shook Joy by the arm. "Keep quiet and watch that road runner. Isn't he a beauty?" The bird had risen and poised above the mesa, then with fluttering wings darted downward. There was a rattling brr, and the girls knew what was happening. The road runner was attacking a rattlesnake. "That bird isn't much of a sport," declared Bet, watching the little drama with eager eyes. "It doesn't give the snake a fighting chance. I feel sorry for it." Kit laughed. "Don't waste your sympathy on rattlesnakes. Take something worthy of your respect." Kit watched the struggle with little emotion but the other girls turned away not wanting to see the end of the uneven fight. "Let's go," said Enid, jumping to her feet. "I've seen enough." An hour later when the girls were entering the little desert town of Saugus, and just as they came to the first adobe houses, they saw a horseback rider coming toward them. As he rode nearer the man waved them a greeting. "It's Kie Wicks! And he's good-natured," grunted Kit suspiciously. "Wonder what he's doing over here today? Up to some meanness, I know, otherwise he wouldn't be so cordial to us." "Well his meanness doesn't concern us," answered Bet. "You can't be sure of that. He's probably bought up some second hand food stuff that he plans to work off on the ranchers during the summer." "And what's your errand over this way?" inquired Kie Wicks bluntly. "I came to visit an ice cream parlor and go to a movie," chuckled Joy. But Kit did not deign to answer the man. She dug her spurs into Powder's sides and he leaped past the rider and raced toward the town. "That fellow looks as if he had been taking advantage of someone. Wasn't he feeling good? On top of the world! The old cheat!" blustered Kit, as she dismounted at the stables where they were to leave their horses for a rest and a good feed.
2714_7216	adventure stories	Rinehart, Mary Roberts	Now, I am--here.” His face worked. “What is the information that brings you here?” Suddenly old Adelbert wept, terrible tears that forced their way from his faded eyes, and ran down his cheeks. “I cannot, Excellencies!” he cried. “I find I cannot.” He collapsed into the chair, and throwing his arms across the table bowed his head on them. His shoulders heaved under his old uniform. The Committee stirred, and the concierge caught him brutally by the wrist. “Up with you!” he said, from clenched teeth. “What stupidity is this? Would you play with death?” But old Adelbert was beyond fear. He shook his head. “I cannot,” he muttered, his face hidden. Then the concierge stood erect and folded his arms across his chest. “He is terrified, that is all,” he said. “If the Committee wishes, I can tell them of this matter. Later, he can be interrogated.” The leader nodded. “By chance,” said the concierge, “this--this brave veteran”--he glanced contemptuously at the huddled figure in the chair, “has come across an old passage, the one which rumor has said lay under the city wall, and for which we have at different times instituted search.” He paused, to give his words weight. That they were of supreme interest could be told by the craning forward of the Committee. “The entrance is concealed at the base of the old Gate of the Moon. Our friend here followed it, and reports it in good condition. For a mile or thereabouts it follows the line of the destroyed wall. Then it turns and goes to the Palace itself.” “Into the Palace?” “By a flight of stairs, inside the wall, to a door in the roof. This door, which was locked, he opened, having carried keys with him. The door he describes as in the tower. As it was night, he could not see clearly, but the roof at that point is flat.” “Stand up, Adelbert,” said the leader sharply. “This that our comrade tells is true?” “It is true, Excellency.” “Shown a diagram of the Palace, could you locate this door?” Old Adelbert stared around him hopelessly. It was done now. Nothing that he could say or refuse to say would change that. He nodded.
56902_3056	detective and mystery stories	Reeve, Arthur B. (Arthur Benjamin)	" "Did you serve them?" asked Zona. "Yes," he replied, apparently reluctant to be drawn into anything. "Do you remember anything that happened?" "I was very busy," he evaded. "The woman came in first alone, I remember, and said she was waiting for a friend. Then the man came in. I thought she was surprised to see him--but I thought it was all right. She had said she was going to meet a friend." I shot a quick glance at Belle, who nodded. It was evident that Vina had not expected to meet this friend. "Do you remember anything that was said?" I ventured. Pedro looked at me suspiciously. "I was too busy serving," he replied. "It was the busy time." "What seems to be the trouble?" I asked, not cross-questioningly, but more as if merely for information. "You don't seem to want to answer. Are you afraid of something?" Pedro regarded me a moment, then looked at Zona. "It's all right," she reassured. "Well--you see--once I was in a divorce suit--in court--I lose t'ree, four days' pay--the boss he fire me. Are you detective?" I smiled and evaded the question, under cover of Zona's presence, and again reassured him. "There was another woman came in, wasn't there?" I asked, as Belle produced the photograph of Honora. "Yes--that's her." "She didn't sit with them," I prompted. "No," he replied, "over there," pointing to the table Zona had already indicated. "Did you wait on her?" "No--Louis." "But you saw her?" "But yes--every one did--one could not help. She came in as though she was looking for some one." "And then what?" "I was serving the fish. This woman, she get up quickly and come down to the table. Oh--but she was angry--at the man--at the woman." "Did she make a scene--I mean did every one see it?" "I should say! I had just left the table--but every one see it--yes--and hear, too, I think." "What did you hear?" "I? Nothing.
51967_3217	adventure stories	Paltock, Robert	A visitation of the revolted provinces proposed by Peter--His new name of the country received--Religion settled in the west--Slavery abolished there--Lasmeel returns with Peter--Peter teaches him letters--The king surprised at written correspondence--Peter describes the make of a beast to the king._ THE festival being over, the colambs begged leave to depart; but the king, who now did nothing without me, consulted with me if it was yet proper. I told him, as things had so long been in confusion in the west, that though the provinces had made their submission, yet the necessity of their circumstances, and the general terror, might have caused them only to dissemble till their affairs were composed again, and that as it was more than probable some relations of the deceased Harlokin, or other popular person, might engage them in another revolt, I thought it would not be improper to advise with his colambs about the establishment of the present tranquillity, and not by too great a security, give way to future commotions; and as all the colambs were then present, it might be proper to summon them once more. When they were met, the king declared the more particular satisfaction he took in that meeting than he had heretofore done, when they had been put to it for means to secure their lives and properties: "For now," says he, "our deliberations must turn upon securing our new acquisitions, and on settling those provinces which, till now, have never fallen under my power. But," says he, "I shall refer it to Peter to propose to you what at present seems most necessary for you to consider of; and that adjusted, shall dismiss you." I told them that as the too sudden healing of wounds in the body natural, before the bottom was clean and uncorrupt, made them liable to break out again with greater malignity, so wounds in the body political, if skinned over only, without probing and cleansing the source and spring from whence they arose, would rankle and fret within till a proper opportunity, and then burst forth again with redoubled violence. I would therefore propose a visitation of the several provinces; an inquiry into their conduct; an examination into the lives and principles of the colambs, the inferior officers, and magistrates; and either to retain the old, or appoint new, as there should be occasion.
57614_1032	adventure stories	Seeley, Charles Sumner	I collected a number, of different sizes, and carried them home through the rain. The hard, wood-like shells could readily be cut with the knife and saw, yet they were strong and tough. With this raw material, already partially shaped to hand, I set about making various kinds of vessels,--domestic and culinary utensils, a water-bottle to carry on my tramps and excursions, etc. With four great gourds lashed together I constructed a buoy for subsequent use in my marine explorations, and with a number of small ones I made a life-preserver as a part of my boat equipment. It was a great comfort to have a dish to eat from once more. Indeed, I had often regretted that I did not bring with me the two halves of the broken dish which I had seen at the “Farm Haven.” My two developing-trays with their deep sides had proved but inconvenient substitutes; besides, they were generally kept for other uses. Taken altogether there was no single vegetable product of the island that contributed more to my comfort than the calabash tree. As I now had plenty of canvas I concluded to rig my boat anew and change it from the awkward latteen rig to that of a sloop with mainsail and jib. The want of a needle and thread to sew the sails was a great drawback, but I made shift to use an awl made out of a leg of a compass belonging to my drawing instruments, and for thread a slender cord made of cöir. I rigged the jib with a traverse so that it needed no special attention except to be hauled aft when I went about, and the mainsail with a gaff and throat halliards, that it might be lowered by the run upon emergency; I also provided both jib and mainsail with three rows of reef points, that I might show little or much canvas, as the slate of the wind should require. With axe and saw and knife I fashioned a good pair of cedar oars, light and strong, and fitted thole-pins in the gunwales to receive them; I put a pair of thole-pins in the stern for sculling, and had a spare oar for use in case of breakage. The weather continued stormy, with rain nearly every day, and frequently for several days together without cessation. I passed most of the time under the boat-shed, and generally slept there at night, as the climate was very mild and warm notwithstanding the rains. Moreover, I had now two blankets to sleep in at night, and lay quite warm and comfortable in my hammock.
27890_2348	detective and mystery stories	Edholm, Lizette M.	"Come on back. Let your horse take you wherever he wants to, and hold on for dear life." Kit wheeled her horse back the way they had come and the girls followed. And just at that moment the downpour came and looking back toward the pass, the girls saw a strange sight. A body of water came roaring through the narrow opening as if a gigantic fire-hydrant had burst. A cloudburst in the mountain beyond had sent the water roaring and tumbling down the bed of the stream. Just what happened the girls could hardly tell afterwards. They held on as Kit had directed and the horses raced madly away from the oncoming torrent. Bet's heart almost stopped beating as her pony took the trail up the wall of the canyon, so steep that she would not have dared to attempt it on foot. Half way up the wall, the horse stopped. "I've never seen anything braver than that! This is thrilling!" breathed Bet as she held on to the horn of the saddle with a grip that strained her hands. Although she was as frightened as any of the girls, she still had an eye to the adventure. The stream bed was a river now, swirling, foaming and roaring. It made one dizzy to look down into it. Bet finally got up the courage to turn her head to see if the other girls were safe, and behind her on the trail, she made out Joy's horse. The animal had followed Bet's lead and it stood on the trail dejected and drooping, a picture of woe. And the saddle was empty. "Joy! Joy!" screamed Bet. "Where are you? Joy!" No one, even a few feet away, could have heard her call and if there had been any answer, the roar of the storm deadened it. The rain came down in a heavy sheet, soaking her to the skin and shutting out the hills across the canyon. She was alone in this blinding downpour. It seemed as if the inferno she had witnessed in the sky had fallen upon her and was eager to swallow her up. And yet Bet was thrilled. She wanted to huddle over her pony, hold on to the saddle horn, but she dared not do it. She must find Joy. What had happened to the other girls? Kit was probably with them, and leading them to safety. Joy was near and in need of help. Bet carefully took her feet from the stirrups and slid to the ground with a death-grip on the saddle.
25875_1285	detective and mystery stories	Footner, Hulbert	The man look and see his own camp. It was close. He see the people. He see the smoke rising from the lodges. And at that wonderful thing the man believe in the Raven's medicine. "Then Raven say: 'Now take the wing and the arrow and go get your wife.' "So the man take those things and go to Thunder's lodge. He go in and sit down by the door. Thunder sit inside and look at him with eyes of lightning. But the man look up and see those many pairs of eyes hanging up. And the eyes of his wife look at him, and he know them among all those others. "Thunder ask in a voice that shake the ground: 'Why you come here?' "Man say: 'I looking for my wife that you steal from me. There hang her eyes!' "Thunder say: 'No man can enter my lodge and live!' He get up to strike him. But the man point the raven's wing at him, and Thunder fall back on his bed and shiver. But soon he is better, and get up again. Then the man put the elk-horn arrow to his bow, and shoot it through the lodge of rock. Right through that lodge of rock it make a crooked hole and let the sunlight in. "Thunder cry out: 'Stop! You are stronger! You have the great medicine. You can have your wife. Take down her eyes.' So the man cut the string that held them, and right away his wife stand beside him. "Thunder say: 'Now you know me. I have great power. I live here in summer, but when winter come I go far south where there is no winter. Here is my pipe. It is medicine. Take it and keep it. When I come in spring you fill and light this pipe, and you pray to me, you and all the people. Because I bring the rain which make the berries big and ripe. I bring the rain which make all things grow. So you must pray to me, you and all the people.' "That is how the people got the first medicine-pipe. It was long ago." * * * * * Mary went to her own little tent, and presently they heard her peaceful snoring. The sound had the effect of giving body to the immensity of stillness that surrounded them and held them.
33383_1575	detective and mystery stories	Clark, Joan	"That reminds me, I must telephone Inspector Harris," said Mr. Nichols. "I hope he thinks more of my theory than you do." Penny could tell that her father was growing deeply interested in the Kirmenbach robbery case and following his talk with Inspector Harris, he admitted that he had promised to do further work. "It's likely to be a tough case," he told Penny the next morning. "Harris thinks we'll have no luck in tracing the toy lantern. I'm driving over to the Kirmenbach place again this morning." "I believe I'll stay here this time," she replied. Penny was glad that she elected to remain, for a short time after her father left, Herman Crocker drove into the yard. He greeted her in a more cordial tone than usual. "Is everything all right here?" he asked. "Oh, yes, we're getting along very well," Penny answered, glancing shrewdly at the old man. She felt certain that his real purpose in coming to the cottage was not to inquire for their comfort. "Mrs. Masterbrook at home?" Mr. Crocker questioned casually. "I saw her walking down toward the road a few minutes ago. Shall I call her?" "No, I didn't want to see her anyway," he answered quickly. "Just thought I'd take a look around. I have some things stored up in the attic that I'd like to get." "Just go right in," said Penny. She fell into step with him. "Oh, by the way, do you know Michael Haymond, our new hired man?" "Never heard of him." "I thought he might have been to see you." "Why should he?" Herman Crocker demanded, looking at Penny suspiciously. "I'm sure I don't know," she laughed uneasily. When the man made no comment Penny waited a moment and then decided upon a bold attack. "For some reason Michael reminds me of your nephew," she said. "I suppose he'll be coming back one of these days." "Walter?" asked the old man gruffly. "I don't look for it." "But won't he wish to get his car which is stored in your barn?" Penny asked with pretended innocence. Herman Crocker's expression became guarded. The girl's words startled him but only a slight twitch of his eye muscles disclosed that he had been taken unawares.
32706_1759	science fiction	Smith, E. E. (Edward Elmer)	This promotion made no difference. Barton, now Assistant, ran the whole Chemical Section save for one unit--Siberia--and did a superlative job. The Chief Chemist's secretary worked for Barton, not for Kinnison. Kinnison was the Czar of Siberia. The Anti-Personnel mines had been giving trouble. Too many men were being killed by prematures, and nobody could find out why. The problem was handed to Siberia. Hinton tackled it, missed, and called for help. The Siberians rallied round. Kinnison loaded and tested mines. So did Paul and Tug and Blondie. Kinnison was testing, out in the Firing Area, when he was called to Administration to attend a Staff Meeting. Hinton relieved him. He had not reached the gate, however, when a guard car flagged him down. "Sorry, sir, but there has been an accident at Pit Five and you are needed out there." "Accident! Fred Hinton! Is he...?" "I'm afraid so, sir." It is a harrowing thing to have to help gather up what fragments can be found of one of your best friends. Kinnison was white and sick as he got back to the firing station, just in time to hear the Chief Safety Officer say: "Must have been carelessness--rank carelessness. I warned this man Hinton myself, on one occasion." "Carelessness, hell!" Kinnison blazed. "You had the guts to warn _me_ once, too, and I've forgotten more about safety in explosives than you ever will know. Fred Hinton was _not_ careless--if I hadn't been called in, that would have been me." "What is it, then?" "I don't know--yet. I tell you now, though, Major Moulton, that I _will_ know, and the minute I find out I'll talk to you again." He went back to Siberia, where he found Tug and Paul, faces still tear-streaked, staring at something that looked like a small piece of wire. "This is it, Uncle Ralph," Tug said, brokenly. "Don't see how it could be, but it is." "What is what?" Kinnison demanded. "Firing pin. Brittle. When you pull the safety, the force of the spring must break it off at this constricted section here." "But damn it, Tug, it doesn't make sense. It's tension ... but wait--there'd be some horizontal component, at that.
20840_3725	western stories	Norton, Andre	A sentry was on duty outside. Drew could beat time to the sound of those footfalls day and night. And suppose he did get free of the cell; he would have to have a horse, supplies, arms.... Drew rolled over on the cot and buried his face on his folded arms. He might as well try to get out of here by using will power alone to turn locks! They left the lantern burning all night to keep a light on him, and the sentry looked in the peephole every time he passed. The Kentuckian did not know just when it was that he became conscious of the noise overhead. Lizards—maybe even rats—could move about the beams, hidden by the age-browned manta strips. But surely this was too late in the season for a lizard to be so lively by night when the temperature dropped with the rapidity of a weight plunging earth-ward. And rats aloft.... Drew did not change his position on the bunk, but his body tensed. No rat would stay in one place, gnawing with such purpose and concentration at a spot in the darkest corner of the cell roof. Anse? How or why the Texan could be at work there, Drew did not know. But that there was a stealthy attempt being made to reach him from above he was now sure. His teeth closed on his wrist as he lay listening, to that scratching above, to the regular advance and retreat of the sentry. He heard the man pause by the door and knew he was under inspection. Well, let the Yankee look! He would see his prisoner peacefully sleeping. Now the trooper was moving on, the noise above became sharper. There was a slight crackle. The linen roofing sagged under a burden, and Drew caught his breath in a gasp. Miraculously the yellow cloth supported the object—a bulge as big as a saddlebag. A portion of the roof which had given way? The scratching, which had stilled, began again. Then the bulge was gone, pulled away from above. Dust sprinkled down from the disturbed manta. In the next instant Drew moved. Using his hands on either side of his body, he raked up the straw which filled the box bunk. In a swift moment, timed to the sentry’s passing to the farthest point from the spy hole, the Kentuckian rolled to the floor, slapped and pulled the blanket into place over the mounded straw. Not too good—it certainly would not fool any inspection within the room.
59428_1334	detective and mystery stories	Hecht, Ben	Q. “Did he say anything at that time?” A. “No.” Q. “Did you see anybody else in the apartment after you had encountered Mr. Ballau as stated?” The housekeeper paused before answering. Her eyes swung bewilderedly toward the listeners. A. “No.” Q. “There now, Jane. Think carefully and see if you recall having seen another man or woman in the apartment following Mr. De Medici’s leaving.” Again the housekeeper stared distractedly at the crowd of listeners. A. “No.” Q. “On the night of Mr. Ballau’s death, when you were questioned by Lieutenant Norton you said that you remembered catching a glimpse of a tall man with a black beard. Have you forgotten that?” The housekeeper regarded the coroner with frightened eyes. For several moments she remained silent. Q. “Come, Jane, do you remember that?” A. “Oh, yes. I remember now. I only saw him for a second. I’d forgotten about that. A tall man with a black, pointed beard.” Q. “Had you ever seen that man before?” Tears came suddenly into the housekeeper’s eyes. The coroner paused with a great show of tenderness as she dried them. A. “I don’t remember.” Q. “After you saw this man with the black beard, tell us what happened then.” A. “I was busy in the kitchen arranging the sandwiches.” Q. “What time was this?” A. “About nine o’clock.” Q. “Did you hear any sounds in the house while you were thus busy?” A. “No, sir.” Q. “Well, go on, then. Tell us what happened.” A. “I don’t know.” Q. “If there had been any sounds in the library, sounds such as might be made by a violent struggle, would you have heard them from where you were?” A. “Oh, yes, sir! I’m sure I would.” Q. “Do you remember when Miss Ballau returned?” A. “Yes.” Q. “What time was it?” The housekeeper again hesitated. The frightened expression returned to her eyes. She wavered until, turning, she encountered the attentive gaze of Florence Ballau. With a sigh she looked back at the coroner. A. “I don’t remember what time it was. I didn’t look.” Q. “Did you let Miss Ballau into the apartment?” A. “Yes. The bell rang and I answered the door.” Q.
57203_975	adventure stories	Prime-Stevenson, Edward	“Suppose we climb up that stair yonder. It’s certain to be breezier overhead. Mr. Hilliard will shout if he can’t find us.” The blue sky overhead, seen through the open rafters, was an inviting background. Up the stair Gerald sped, and, once at the top, called out, “Catch me if you can!” and began scudding along a narrow line of planks resting on the joists. “Look out, Gerald!” called Philip, half alarmed, half laughing, hurrying after. “You will break your neck! Stop that!” “Hurrah!” was Gerald’s only reply. The light-footed boy dashed on the length of the addition. A ladder, descending to the floor they had left, appeared through a square opening. He scrambled down. Philip was not much behind. The room beneath was the last of the unfinished “L.” It was also floored over, except where an open trap-door gave entrance to the cellar. “Here goes!” cried Gerald, as Philip, laughing, but with outstretched hand, and anxious to put an end to this acrobatic business, pressed hard upon him. Down jumped Gerald into the trap. Without an instant’s hesitation Philip leaped after his charge. Both landed, laughing and breathless, in the dry new cellar, the only light coming through the square opening overhead. “Dear me! Didn’t that take the wind out of me, though?” exclaimed Gerald, leaning against the wall. “That’s an awfully deep cellar. It must be eight or nine feet; it jarred me all over!” At that instant, shrill and unmistakable, the locomotive whistle broke the current of their thoughts. “The train, Gerald, the train!” Philip cried, rushing under the open trap. “It’s ready to go, as sure as you live!” They sprang for the flooring above. Each appreciated, after the first leap, that getting out of a cellar was sometimes a work quite different from getting into it. “We can’t do it!” Philip gasped out in consternation, with a vain attempt to draw up Gerald after him with one disengaged hand. Down they came on the sand together. The whistle uttered its warning again. They heard distant shouts as of belated passengers. They called for help, but the restaurant people were in front of their establishment. After a moment more the hum of the departing train greeted their ears.
6993_738	science fiction	Shiel, M. P. (Matthew Phipps)	“You were present on the day of the 11th November when the prisoner entered your father’s house, and attempted to strike him?” “Did strike him”. “He did?” “Yes”. “Did he seem in a passion?” “Seemed severe”. “Severe! But was he not highly excited?” “He did not seem so. Frowned and flogged”. “By whom was he ejected?” “Went of his own accord”. “But--try to remember. What made him go?” “He suddenly saw _me_, and fled”. Laughter droned through the court, in which she naïvely joined, while Hogarth’s eyes and hers met one instant, blazed outrageously, and dropped.... That was all. Counsel bowed. The day grew toward evening, and still the stuffy Court sat. But Margaret Hogarth did not come; a defending counsel finished examination, counsel on the other side again addressed the Court, and again defending counsel. The judge then held the scales, the jury trooped away, the crowd buzzed. The light in the room seemed to brood to a denser yellow, and anon to grow dim; the stuffed court festered; voices spoke, but low. The King of Terrors was here. When the jury came, the judge was called, Hogarth stood up, and the clerk of arraigns put a question to the foreman. The foreman said: “We find the prisoner guilty: but beg to recommend him to the mercy of the Crown”. “On what grounds?” asked his lordship. “On the grounds of past good conduct and strong provocation”. The judge then placed on his head a square of velvet and passed the sentence of the Court. During the reign of stillness that followed, while the court clock’s ticking was still loud, something which was thrown struck Hogarth on the arm, a red rose, black at heart, that had lain on the breast of Rebekah, who, when Hogarth looked round at her, was calmly drawing her mass of cloak about her throat. XIII OUT OF THE WORLD A week later a governor and a chaplain together entered Hogarth’s cell with news of his reprieve. Eight months later he was being trundled in “Black Maria” to Paddington Station amid a Babel of escaped tongues, when, sitting in his pigeonhole, he heard the unknown voice before him cry: “Well, Jim, we’re away to the mountain’s brow!” Jim, nothing but a voice, was heard: “Worse luck!
43374_1846	adventure stories	Allen, Willis Boyd	He was in splendid training, this boy, and still stood entirely on the defense, knowing that the true hero is not he who fights for himself, like a brute creature, but for somebody else. "Coward!" hissed Mort Lapham once more, cautiously keeping out of reach of the other's arm. "Hit him again, Phil!" As the three closed about him, a determined look in their ugly faces, the girl who had lingered irresolutely at a few paces distance, gave a low cry for help, and rushed up to the group as if to protect her protector. "Take that!" shouted Mort, throwing out his hand and striking her, perhaps harder than he really meant to, full in the face. Before he had time to see the effect of his blow, there was a crash between his eyes, and the earth seemed suddenly flying up into the sky. As he lay on the ground half-stunned, Winthrop, who felt that it was at last time to act, turned fiercely on his other opponents. Surprised by the suddenness of his attack, they forgot the superiority of their numbers, and started backwards. Another nervous blow from the slender young athlete, and Phil was on his back beside his leader, while Dick Stanwood, tripping over a stone--purposely or not the boys never knew--went down ingloriously with the rest. Above them stood young Ayre, like Saint Michael over his enemies, panting and glowing. "Oh! are you hurt?" asked the girl, hurrying up to "Saint Michael," and laying her hand on his arm. Winthrop laughed. "Well, I'm able to walk," he said reassuringly. Then: "Let's leave these rascals to come to their senses. May I see you home?" The girl flushed prettily in her eagerness. "You are so kind," she said. "I live just the other side of that hill, and if you'll come in a few minutes and see grandpa, I'll be very much obliged." "But your forehead," added Winthrop, as they walked along the dusty road side by side, leaving their three late assailants to sneak off in the opposite direction; "I'm afraid that fellow hurt you, though I don't believe he meant to strike you so hard." "Oh! it isn't much. I haven't told you who I am," she added shyly. "I know about you and your sister Marie, over at the Elms.
56278_2796	adventure stories	Standish, Burt L.	------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XVI AN ASTOUNDING WAGER. The expected members of the new local team arrived before noon that day. In the afternoon Cameron had them out for practice. They were, indeed, for the most part, well-known players, seven of them, at least, being professionals with records. Several were league men who had been blacklisted for one offense or another. Taken all together, they were a tough set and just the aggregation to win a game by bulldozing when other methods failed. They made a team that was certain to be heartily approved by the local toughs. These players, the most of them, also stopped at the Mansion House. They looked Frank’s team over, with no effort to conceal their merriment and disdain. To them Merry’s players were a lot of stripplings. “We’ll eat ’em up,” said Big Hickey, the Indianapolis man. “Why, dey won’t last t’ree innin’s.” “Sho’ not,” chuckled Wash Johnson, the colored player from the Chicago Giants. “Dey is a lot o’ college fellers. Nebber seen none o’ dem college fellers dat could play de game wid professionals. No, sar.” “They ain’t got-a da nerve,” observed Tony Tonando, the Italian from Kansas City. “Sometimes they play one-a, two or three-a inning first-a rate; but they no keep-a it up.” “Easy frightened, easy frightened,” grunted Wally Weaver, the Indian. “When they play too well, then jump in and scare them. That’s easy.” “Look here, you chaps,” said Tunk Moran, who had made a great reputation on the Springfield, Illinois, team, but had been fired for drinking, “I happen to know something about Frank Merriwell, and you’re off your trolley if you think you’re going to win from him by scaring him. If you beat that chap you’ll have to play baseball, and don’t you forget it.” The others laughed at this and ridiculed Moran. “All right,” he growled. “Just you wait until after the game and see if you don’t agree with me.” The appearance of Cameron’s team in suits when they left the hotel to march to the ball ground was the signal for a great demonstration on the part of the youngsters of Cartersville, who were waiting to escort them.
45776_1403	detective and mystery stories	Newcomb, Ambrose	Along about ten o’clock they prepared to set out for the offices of the Federal forces in Los Angeles. Simeon had finally given his word not to make any further attempt at escape. Jack had been talking seriously with the fellow ever since breakfast, trying to squeeze further information from him, and holding out hope that if he “came clean” he might yet be allowed to go back to his family after the Government had made use of him to send the leaders in the wide flung conspiracy to prison for long terms. Again a convenient taxi was called upon to convey the trio to their intended destination. Both Jack and Perk evinced considerable curiosity concerning the unfamiliar sights on the streets. They asked numerous questions of the driver, who chanced to be a communicative sort of fellow, and filled them up with information about the sunny queen city of the Coast. It was not long before Jack’s magical passport, sanctioned by the Big Boss at Washington, brought them in contact with several high officials who apparently had been secretly apprized of their presence in the West, and had also been requested to afford the two daring sky detectives all the assistance possible in carrying out their plan of campaign. So it came about that Simeon was taken off their hands, after the story of his capture had been told. Jack secured a promise that the man would be lightly dealt with because of the valuable aid he had already afforded the sleuth-hounds of the air branch of the Law. Both of them shook hands with the pitiful looking chap as he was taken away by a marshal who had been summoned and who would see that he was kept aloof from all other prisoners until his testimony was wanted in court. After that they fell into a general talk, Jack telling the deeply interested officials about the stirring adventures befalling himself and Perk since they first struck Atlanta, where the drive really had its beginning. In return he was given such information as had been gathered in connection with more recent happenings along the line of Slippery Slim’s operations and the fact of the matter was there always seemed to be fresh outbreaks of the bogus money disease in this or that part of the whole Southwest, as new agents started to work virgin territory until by this time the greatest unrest and uneasiness existed among all Government ranks. The balance of that day the two pals put in taking a look around the city, visiting Hollywood, and seeing a number of movie stars whom they recognized from familiarity with their faces on the silver screen at various times.
42423_3982	western stories	Whitson, John Harvey	Her calls for money had increased his recklessness. Sibyl was the horse-leech’s daughter, crying ever for more, and Ben was weak. Mary had pedestaled Sibyl and believed in her, refusing to see aught but goodness, until her foolish belief became no longer possible. Then, with her eyes opened, she marveled at her almost incomprehensible blindness. Why had she not seen before? If she had seen before she might have saved Ben, she thought. She recalled the genial Mr. Plimpton. Had Sibyl, by incessant demands for money, wrought the financial overthrow of Plimpton? Every suggestion that came to her now was sickening and horrible. Such an awakening is often disastrous in its results. Doubt of humanity itself is a fruit of that tree of knowledge, and that doubt had come to Mary. Lucy took the unhappy girl in her arms. She was herself grieved and shocked. “You poor dear!” was all she was able to say at first. “And, oh, I am to blame for it all!” Mary sobbed, putting her arms about the neck of her comforter. “I can see what a fool I was, and it was pride that made me a fool. I went up there as ignorant as a child; I thought it would be fine to live in a city and be a lady and drive round in a carriage. How I hate that carriage! And that coachman. I know even he must have thought horrid things about me. And Plimpton! I know what Plimpton was now, and I hate him. It seems to me I could stamp on him if I saw him fall down in the street. And I—I hate—oh, there isn’t a word strong enough to tell how I hate Mrs. Dudley! I thought she was an angel, and she is—is—a brute!” “You poor dear!” said Lucy, smoothing back the dark hair from the fevered and tear-wet face. “You poor dear! You have been cruelly deceived and abused. It doesn’t seem possible! I was as much deceived as you, for I thought Mrs. Dudley a very pleasant woman. There were some things about her I didn’t like, about the way she dressed and painted, yet I never thought but that she was a good woman. I didn’t suspect anything, for you told me she was rich.” “And that’s what she told me, but she lied; she’s been getting her money from fools like Plimpton and Ben.
63389_2224	western stories	Young, Elizabeth G.	"By the way, Garnett, how are we going? We can't all three squeeze into that buggy." "We could, but there's no use of it. You'll take the team and I'll ride your horse." "You can't. He's down in Shoshone in that bunch of colts." "Shucks! Well, I'll go as far as Robinson's with you and borrow a horse. Then I'll ride in ahead and meet you there. No use of me milling round in the dust behind you for thirty miles." "I wish there were a short cut to town," said Harry to Rob, as they climbed out of Spring Creek cañon the following morning and started across the flats. Garnett had borrowed a horse at the Robinsons' and had ridden on ahead. "If Joyce sees us on the road, won't he suspect where we're going?" "Why should he? He hasn't the faintest idea that we know his plans." "But he knows that we wanted that homestead, and that we know Boykin is under suspicion of being some one else. If he hadn't been afraid, I don't believe he'd have rushed off like this to put a new man on the land." "No, I don't suppose he would. Still, I'm not worrying. Even if he knew everything, he's got to go up on the land before he comes through by the road, and he's got to go slow a lot of the way. A buzz wagon is all right on a boulevard, but in a race like this give me a good team and a light rig and I'll lay my money on that." As they drove along they laughed and talked, picturing Joyce's disgust at finding himself beaten, and feeling, in truth, as if they had already run and won the race. It was not until Rob looked at his watch and found that it was half-past twelve o'clock that they realized how much still lay between them and victory. "I guess we'd better not stop at the Hyslop ranch for lunch," he said. "I'll let the horses drink, but we won't feed them. They would have to rest an hour if I did, and we've got to take the next fifteen miles on the run." "Yes, yes," Harry agreed earnestly. "We mustn't stop for anything. We can't lose that homestead, Bobs, we can't.
11501_4562	western stories	Beach, Rex	She laid her hand upon her bosom. "It's so new I can't express it yet, except--well, all of my dreams came true in a night. Some fairy waved her wand and, lo! poor ugly little me--" She laughed, although it was more like a sob. "I had no idea my part was so immense. Had you?" "I had. I wrote it that way. My dreams, also, came true." "But why?" A faint flush stole into her cheeks. "There are so many women who could have played the part better than I. You had courage to risk your piece in my hands, Mr. Phillips." "Perhaps I knew you better than you knew yourself." She searched his face with startled curiosity. "Or better at least than the world knew you. Tell me, there is something wrong? I'm afraid he--resents your--" "Oh no, no!" she denied, hastily, letting her eyes fall, but not before he had seen them fill again with that same expression of pain and bewilderment. "He's--not himself, that's all. I--You--won't irritate him? Please! He has such a temper." Francis came out of the shadows scowling. "Well, let's get at it," said he. Phillips agreed. "If you don't mind we'll start with your entrance. I wish you would try to express more depth of feeling, more tenderness, if you please, Mr. Francis. Remember, John Danton has fought this love of his for many years, undertaking to remain loyal to his wife. He doesn't dream that Diane returns his love, for he has never spoken, never even hinted of his feelings until this instant. Now, however, they are forced into expression. He begins reluctantly, frightened at the thing which makes him speak, then when she responds the dam breaks and his love over-rides his will power, his loyalty, his lifelong principles; it sweeps him onward and it takes her with him. The truth appals them both. They recognize its certain consequences and yet they respond freely, fiercely. You can't overplay the scene, Mr. Francis." "Certainly I can overplay it," the star declared. "That's the danger. My effects should come from repression." "I must differ with you. Repressive methods are out of place here. You see, John Danton loses control of himself--" "Nonsense!"
45236_1142	adventure stories	Vandercook, Margaret	“I am sorry, we had no idea it was so late. You are right, Aunt Patricia, I suppose I shall never make a really satisfactory guardian, no matter how many years I have the honor. But don’t you think we get on fairly well with you to supervise us? I wish you had heard our discussion to-night! We have many new plans and no one can say what rich experiences may not develop through them. At least we shall keep busy while we await the dawn of peace!” Miss Patricia’s grim expression relaxed slightly. “Certainly if peace of the kind we hope and pray for, Polly Burton, ever arrives upon this earth, it will be a peace which passes many people’s understanding at the present time.” A few moments later, placing her arm about Mrs. Burton with an unconscious display of tenderness, Miss Patricia led the way toward bed. CHAPTER XI A Day in Paris A few days later the Camp Fire girls and their chaperons motored from Versailles into Paris for the day. The little town of Versailles, once famous as the abode of royalty, is only a short distance from the French capital and easily reached by street car or automobile. As Mrs. Burton, Miss Patricia and the entire group of girls started off together, they composed a somewhat formidable party. Their plan was to spend a few hours together and later to separate to fulfill a number of different engagements. There was a particular reason for today’s excursion, which took place upon a Saturday forever to be remembered. The Supreme Council of the Peace Conference was to have its first meeting. Although the Conference was not to assemble until afternoon, by twelve o’clock the Camp Fire party found the streets crowded with sight-seers, soldiers and civilians, men and women of many nations. Foreigners who had been living in Paris during the four years of the war, with Germany sometimes knocking almost at her gates, had found a new characteristic in the Latin city. The Paris of the first few days of the great war, with her sudden burst of passion and unrestraint, had altered to a soberer Paris. Calm under attack, even under apparent defeat, she had given the world an extraordinary example of courage and steadfastness. As Paris had borne her discomfiture, so she bore her present triumph. Today the girls were surprised to find how little excitement there seemed to be in spite of the number of people to be seen.
41151_2977	detective and mystery stories	Harvey, Marion	I didn't know that Mrs. Darwin had seen me." "A good thing for you that she did see you," returned McKelvie grimly, "or you might be occupying that cell in her place." Orton blanched like the coward that he was. "But--but, I'm innocent," he said, indignantly. "Well, you wouldn't be the first innocent person to grace a cell, I assure you," retorted McKelvie dryly. "You have told us everything?" "Yes, everything." "Very well, then you can answer several questions. You are positive you heard the key turned in the study door when you stood in the hall at ten minutes to twelve?" continued McKelvie. "Remember I want facts, and not impressions." "I am as positive as that I am sitting here. But it was more toward five minutes to twelve because I paused to ascertain if Mrs. Darwin was still in the drawing-room and I listened for a minute or two before I started for the dining-room," replied Orton with conviction. "A minute is a good long while, longer than you think, Orton," returned McKelvie. "But that point is, after all, immaterial. We will say that somewhere between ten and five minutes to twelve the study door was unlocked from the inside," and he looked at me significantly. If he was right in his premise, then the person who unlocked that door could have been none other than the criminal, for at ten minutes before midnight Philip Darwin was past unlocking doors! Yet it seemed a foolhardy thing to do, for any one then could have entered and discovered him. But, no, after all, it was the sensible thing to do from his point of view, since otherwise the prospective suspect would have been unable to enter the room. Then I looked at McKelvie with dawning horror in my eyes. The unlocking of that door could have meant only one thing, that the criminal knew Ruth was across the hall, and deliberately, cold-bloodedly, planned to saddle her with the murder of her husband! "Why, McKelvie," I began, horrified, but he tread on my toe as if by accident, and I recalled hastily that we were not alone.
29408_94	science fiction	Vincent, Harl	But I saw...." And then Joan Parker slumped into a high-backed chair that stood in the ancient paneled hall. Soft waves of her chestnut hair framed the pinched, terrified face, and wide eyes looked up at Bert, with the same horror he had seen in those of the old fellow the village. A surge of the old tenderness welled up in him and he wanted to take her in his arms. "Wait," she said, swiftly rising. "I'll let you judge for yourself. Here--go into the laboratory and talk with Tom." She pushed him forward and through a door that closed softly behind him. He was in a large room that was cluttered with the most bewildering array of electrical mechanisms he had ever seen. Joan had remained outside. * * * * * Tom Parker, his hair grayer and forehead higher than when Bert had seen him last, rose from where he was stooping over a work bench. He advanced, smiling, and his black eyes were alight with genuine pleasure. Bert had anticipated a less cordial welcome. "Albert Redmond!" exclaimed the older man. "This is a surprise. Glad to see you, boy, glad to see you." He meant it, Tom did, and Bert wrung the extended hand heartily. Yet he dared not tell of Joan's note. The two men had always been the very best of friends--except in the matter of Joan's future. "You haven't changed much," Bert ventured. Tom Parker laughed. "Not about Joan, if that is what you mean. She likes the work and will go far in it. Why, Bert--" "Sa-ay, wait a minute." Bert Redmond's mien was solemn. "I saw her outside, Tom, and was shocked. She isn't herself--doesn't look at all well. Haven't you noticed, man?" The older man sobered and a puzzled frown crossed his brow. "I have noticed, yes. But it's nonsense, Bert, I swear it is. She has been having dreams--worrying a lot, it seems. Guess I'll have to send her to the doctor?" "Dreams? Worry?" Bert thought of the old man called Gramp. "Yes. I'll tell you all about it--what we're working on here--and show you. It's no wonder she gets that way, I guess. I've been a bit loony with the marvel of it myself at times. Come here.
11379_942	love stories	Banks, Nancy Huston	He and David were now riding fast, and the roaring grew rapidly more continuous and distinct. The vast volume of inarticulate sound presently began to break into many human voices. At last a single voice pierced all the rest. Its shrill cry of spiritual anguish filled the dark forest with the wailing of a soul in extremity. "And it's a woman, too!" cried the doctor. He spoke shortly, almost angrily, but something in his tone told David that he also was shivering, although the night was warm, and that his heart was full of pity. They were now drawing near the camp-meeting, but they could not see it, nor even the light from it. They had reentered the forest, which was here made darker and wilder by many fallen trees, blown down and tossed together by the fierce tempests which often rent the swamp. The torn roots, the decaying trunks, and the shattered branches of the dead giants of the ancient wood, were dank with water-moss. Rank poison vines writhed everywhere, and crept like vipers beyond the deadly borders of the great Cypress Swamp. Through such dark and tangled density as this the smoky torches, burning dimly around the camp, could cast their light but a little way. And thus it was by hearing and not by seeing, that they came at last upon the spot almost by accident. They had scarcely got hurriedly down from their horses, and hastily tied them to a swinging bough when the scene burst upon them--a wild vision revealed by the dim flickering torchlight. [Illustration: "A dark, confused ... writhing mass of humanity."] There was a long, low shed of vast extent. It was covered with rough boards, and upheld by tree-trunks which still bore the bark. There was no floor other than the bare earth, and there were no seats other than unhewn logs. Here, under the deep shadows of this great shed, all darkly shut in by the black wilderness and dimly lit by a wide circle of smoking, flaring torches, there surged a dark, confused, convulsed, roaring, writhing mass of humanity. And there were many hundreds in that shadowy multitude--swaying, struggling, groaning, laughing, weeping, shouting, praying, dancing, leaping, and falling. "It does not seem possible that there can be so many in all the wilderness," said the doctor. "But they come from long distances, from as far as fifty and sixty miles around.
29408_95	science fiction	Vincent, Harl	And then Joan Parker slumped into a high-backed chair that stood in the ancient paneled hall. Soft waves of her chestnut hair framed the pinched, terrified face, and wide eyes looked up at Bert, with the same horror he had seen in those of the old fellow the village. A surge of the old tenderness welled up in him and he wanted to take her in his arms. "Wait," she said, swiftly rising. "I'll let you judge for yourself. Here--go into the laboratory and talk with Tom." She pushed him forward and through a door that closed softly behind him. He was in a large room that was cluttered with the most bewildering array of electrical mechanisms he had ever seen. Joan had remained outside. * * * * * Tom Parker, his hair grayer and forehead higher than when Bert had seen him last, rose from where he was stooping over a work bench. He advanced, smiling, and his black eyes were alight with genuine pleasure. Bert had anticipated a less cordial welcome. "Albert Redmond!" exclaimed the older man. "This is a surprise. Glad to see you, boy, glad to see you." He meant it, Tom did, and Bert wrung the extended hand heartily. Yet he dared not tell of Joan's note. The two men had always been the very best of friends--except in the matter of Joan's future. "You haven't changed much," Bert ventured. Tom Parker laughed. "Not about Joan, if that is what you mean. She likes the work and will go far in it. Why, Bert--" "Sa-ay, wait a minute." Bert Redmond's mien was solemn. "I saw her outside, Tom, and was shocked. She isn't herself--doesn't look at all well. Haven't you noticed, man?" The older man sobered and a puzzled frown crossed his brow. "I have noticed, yes. But it's nonsense, Bert, I swear it is. She has been having dreams--worrying a lot, it seems. Guess I'll have to send her to the doctor?" "Dreams? Worry?" Bert thought of the old man called Gramp. "Yes. I'll tell you all about it--what we're working on here--and show you. It's no wonder she gets that way, I guess. I've been a bit loony with the marvel of it myself at times. Come here.
24380_365	science fiction	Von Wald, E. G.	" "Maybe," I hedged, "your previous captain was a Psi Corps man in disguise." "No, he wasn't," Spender cut in calmly. "I knew him for years. We went through the same service training and served together every minute of the war. And they didn't start this sick-business until three years or so ago." "Well, they say there are natural Psi men who don't need the training so much." "Fairy tales," snorted Harding. "That stuff doesn't go. I don't believe it." * * * * * That was clear. And no argument would convince him otherwise, even if I had felt inclined to give him one, which I didn't. Korsakov, the silent Russian, thoughtfully rubbed his thick hands together, and then punched the button calling for another drink. "Once in three times," he said. "It's all been proved. Out of the next three missions we go out on, we come back only once." His homely face broke into a tired grin. I laughed with him, but Harding did not like the joke. "It isn't funny," he growled. "If they can't find a decent captain to send us, why can't they move up one of us that has at least served with a good commander in combat, and maybe learned some of his tricks from him. Not that I would want the job. But it would be better than Frendon. Anything would." I raised my eyebrows at him skeptically. He got the idea and swore. "You know I didn't mean that I want the job, so don't go goggling your righteous eyes at me, Maise. I know my limitations, but I also know a good captain when I see one. And what do they send us? A kid who not only is a nut, but he's already so scared he--" "Once in three times," Korsakov said loudly. He was apparently getting pretty drunk. "Their computing machines would need an aspirin to handle that situation. We go out three times but we only come back once." He turned and peered intently at me, his heavy bushy eyebrows drawn severely down and wiggling. "Puzzle: complete the figure without retracing any lines or lifting the pencil from the paper.
3702_5823	love stories	Boucicault, Dion	It was a series of smooth undulations, not vulgar strides, but swift rushes, in which the loins seemed to propel the whole body, and the feet scarcely to touch the ground. It was the vigor and freedom of a savage, with the grace of a lady. And so it was she swept across the sands and up the slope, _"Et vera incessu patuit Dea."_ While she was gone, Hazel cut two little squares of seals' bladder, one larger than the other. On the smaller he wrote: "An English lady wrecked on an island. W. longitude 103 deg. 30 min., S. latitude between the 33d and 26th parallels. Haste to her rescue." Then he folded this small, and inclosed it in the larger slip, which he made into a little bag, and tied the neck extremely tight with fine gut, leaving a long piece of the gut free. And now Helen came gliding back, as she went, and brought him a large bundle of rushes. Then he asked her to help him fasten these rushes round the iron hoop. "It must not be done too regularly," said he; "but so as to look as much like a little bed of rushes as possible." Helen was puzzled still, but interested. So she set to work, and, between them, they fastened rushes all round the hoop, although it was a large one. But, when it was done, Hazel said they were too bare. "Then we will fasten another row," said Helen, good-humoredly. And, without more ado, she was off to the river again. When she came back, she found him up, and he said the great excitement had cured him--such power has the brain over the body. This convinced her he had really hit upon some great idea. And, when she had made him eat his dinner by her fire, she asked him to tell her all about it. But, by a natural reaction, the glorious and glowing excitement of mind that had battled his very rheumatic pains was now followed by doubt and dejection. "Don't ask me yet," he sighed. "Theory is one thing; practice is another. We count without our antagonists. I forgot they will set their wits against mine; and they are many, I am but one. And I have been so often defeated. Do you know I have observed that whenever I say beforehand, Now I am going to do something clever, I am always defeated.
3727_11802	love stories	Richardson, Henry Handel	That's a ridiculous thing to say. If every fickle woman--" "Fickle woman! fickle fiddle-sticks!" he interrupted. "That's only a tag. The people whose business it is to decide these things--DIE HERREN DICHTER--are not agreed to this day whet it's man who's fickle or woman. In this mood it's one, in that, the other; and the silly world bleats it after them, like sheep." "Well, if you wish me to put it more plainly: if what you say were true, vice would be condoned." "Vice!!" he cried with derision, and sat up and faced her. "Vice!--my dear Mada!--sweet, innocent child! ... No, no. A special talent is needed for that kind of thing; an unlimited capacity for suffering; an entire renunciation of what is commonly called happiness! You hold the good old Philistine opinions. You think, no doubt, of two lovers living together in delirious pleasure, in SAUS UND BRAUS.--Nothing could be falser. A woman only needs to have the higher want in her nature, and the suffering is there, too. She's born gifted with the faculty. And a woman of the type we're speaking of, is as often as not the flower of her kind.--Or becomes it.--For see all she gains on her way: the mere passing from hand to hand; the intense impressionable nature; the process of being moulded--why, even the common prostitute gets a certain manly breadth of mind, such as you other women never arrive at. Each one who comes and goes leaves her something: an experience--a turn of thought--it may be only an intuition--which she has not had before." "And the contamination? The soul?" cried Madeleine; two red spots had come out on her cheeks. "As you understand it, such a woman has no soul, and doesn't need one. All she needs is tact and taste." "You are the eternal scoffer." "I never was more serious in my life.--But let us put it another way. What does a--what does any beautiful woman want with a soul, or brains, or morals, or whatever you choose to call it? Let her give thanks, night and day, that she is what she is: one of the few perfect things on this imperfect earth. Let her care for her beauty, and treasure it, and serve it.
31995_397	science fiction	Myers, Howard L.	You know what I am--a good God-fearin' human!" His voice dropped to a pleading mumble. "And may God forgive me if I've got myself in league with the Devil!" "Ah? Could it be?" murmured the Weapon. "Could indeed your infuriating insults of the Great Ones have been honest expressions of a puny mind with no therapeutic intentions? I answer: Yes. The possible occurrence of specific incidents in the inclusion of space-time is curiously unlimited. But you have served me, Jacob, and have earned the privilege of continuing your meager, momentary life. Besides, I can use you further." "You can, huh?" Jacob said slyly. "Look here, Weapon, I'll make a bargain with you." "Ha! Stupid, untutored slave!" chuckled the Weapon. "Learn that yours is to obey, not to bargain. But yet, state your price for my amusement, now that I can no longer be enraged by your words." "Well, you let the rest of the people on Earth alone and I'll do whatever you want me to." After a pause, the Weapon quoted, "'Nobility shows its traces in surprising places.' You do not sufficiently comprehend my nature, Technician Slave Jacob. I am a Weapon. My masters point me, as you would point a rifle, and command that I destroy. I kill at their direction, but seldom otherwise. Thus, your Terra is safe until another Weapon or I am aimed and directed. You can make no bargain." Jacob thought this over. While doing so, the Weapon drifted away. "Wait here, slave," it said in parting. "I go to meditate on my recovered sanity." * * * * * During the next two days, Jacob caught an occasional glimpse of the Weapon drifting thoughtfully around in the depths of the forest, but they did not meet for conversation. Jacob amused himself by rigging a fishing line out of some of the packaging material that contained his food. He even succeeded in catching a fish, but its queer odor discouraged him from trying to cook and eat it. Then the royal cruiser of Tresqu the Wisest dropped into the meadow. Its airlock swung open and the Ruler of Hova, followed by his entourage, came out. "Oh, Mighty Weapon!" bawled Tresqu. "Your loving servant craves audience!
18529_1034	love stories	Murray, Roy Irving	I'd been thinking all along, that he was just a convenient fiction, useful for an address, and now he turns out about the realest person going. Sometimes I imagine perhaps it will be like that when we get through with this world and wake up into what's after--that the things we've passed over pretty much here and been vague about will blaze out as the eternal verities. A miracle happened that day in your September garden. You've surely read "_Sur la Branche_"--that book written around a woman's belief in the Providence of God? Well, that's what I mean. Why did Halarkenden come down out of the woods into your uncle's garden? Why did you tell him, of all people? Why was it you who got through to the truth about him? Why did it all happen just the minute you most needed it? Of course I believe it--every word, exactly as you wrote it. It's impossible things like that which do happen and help us to bear the flatly ordinary. It's the incredible things that shout with reality. Miracles ought to be ordinary affairs--we don't believe in them because we're always straining every nerve to keep them from happening. We get so confused in the continual muddle of our own mistakes that when something does come straight through, as it was intended to do, we're like those men who heard the voice of God that day and told one another anxiously that it thundered. Just think what went to make up those five minutes which gave you the lift you had to have--that young Scotchman, beating back his devils up in the lonely mountains all those years ago--that's when it started. And then fetch it down to now; his leaving home forever--and his exile in the woods--considerably different from a camping trip--the silent days, worse--the nights. And all the time his mind going back and back to what he'd left behind--his home, seeing every little corner of it--you know the tortures of imagination--his friends--the girl--always the girl--wondering why, and why, and why. Think of the days and months without seeing one of your own kind. He had to have books; his wild garden had to blossom. That man wasn't "coddling" his soul--he was ripping and tearing it into shreds and then pounding it together again with a hammer and with nails. All alone. That's the hardest, I suppose.
37271_1050	western stories	Vandercook, Margaret	Jim says that Henry is a scientist, but a more practical man of affairs than the rest of us give him credit for being. Yet somehow I don't believe Jim is willing to leave us alone at the ranch, not only his own little girls, but you and Frieda and Olive and me. He insists on driving me over to Laramie to-night, although I do not feel he likes my speaking in public. However, when I asked his advice he merely said: 'Go ahead, Jack, do what you wish to do; your life is your own. If I am an old fogy and should prefer you to stay quietly at the lodge, I never have expected it of you since you came back and resumed your American citizenship. As long as you don't go too far I'll stand behind you.'" Jack smiled. "Of course I don't know what Jim means by 'too far,' but I suppose he will tell me in time. Now I am going away, Jean dear, and leave you to try to rest. Remember, I believe firmly that we shall hear from Ralph within the next few days, or the next few hours, who knows? But Olive and Captain MacDonnell will stay with you to-night, as Frieda and Professor Russell wish to drive over to the Woman's Club with me. At least if I am to make a speech I am glad it is to be made there. Frieda is too funny. She is torn between being rather proud of my being a sufficiently prominent person in the neighborhood for people to be willing to listen to me, and thinking it unwomanly of me to attempt to speak. Besides, I think she shares my present conviction that I am going to break down and so disgrace myself and all of us. Yet it is such a simple thing I wish to talk about, and anyone ought to be able to say what one thinks." As Jack rose, Jean placed her hands on her cousin's shoulders, her brown eyes gazing steadfastly into Jack's gray ones. "No, it is not going to be difficult for you to-night, Jack, not after you have once started with your speech. It will be difficult at first, of course, to face an audience of men and women for the first time in your life. You have said a good many times just what you will say to-night, but I know that you have never considered before that you _were_ making a speech.
14482_3473	western stories	Cullum, Ridgwell	I can't spare you, Bill." The tall thin figure of her companion stepped over towards her, and she felt herself encircled by his long powerful arms. Then he bent down from his great height and kissed her passionately upon the lips. "Take comfort, little girl. This is a war, if necessary, to the death. Should anything happen to me, you may be sure that I leave you freed from the snares of old Shylock. Yes, I will be careful, Jacky. We are playing for a heavy stake. You may trust me." CHAPTER XV AMONG THE HALF-BREEDS Lablache was not a man of variable moods. He was too strong; his purpose in life was too strong for any vacillation of temper. His one aim--his whole soul--was wrapt in a craving for money-making and the inevitable power which the accumulation of great wealth must give him. In all his dealings he was perfectly--at least outwardly--calm, and he never allowed access to anger to thwart his ends. An inexorable purpose governed his actions to an extent which, while his feelings might undergo paroxysms of acute changes, never permitted him to make a false move or to show his hand prematurely. But this latest reverse had upset him more than he had ever been upset in his life, and all the great latent force of his character had suddenly, as it were, been precipitated into a torrent of ungovernable fury. He had been wounded deeply in the most vulnerable spot in his composition. Thirty-five thousands of his precious dollars ruthlessly torn from his capacious and retentive money-bags. Truly it was a cruel blow, and one well calculated to disturb the even tenor of his complacency. Thought was very busy within that massive head as he lumped heavily along from John Allandale's house in the direction of his own store. Some slight satisfaction was his at the reflection of the prompt assistance he had obtained from the police. It was the satisfaction of a man who lived by the assistance of the law, of a man who, in his own inordinate arrogance, considered that the law was made for such as he, to the detriment of those who attempt to thwart the rich man's purpose. He knew Horrocks to be capable, and although he did not place too much reliance on that astute prairie-man's judgment--he always believed in his own judgment first--still, he knew that he could not have obtained better assistance, and was therefore as content as circumstances would permit.
7326_6542	adventure stories	Gough, George W.	My room was at the back of the house, but I heard the noise of wheels, and hoof-beats, and the harsh swearing of the sergeant. By and by he came noisily upstairs, burst into my room, and curtly ordered me downstairs. Blithely I followed him. Try how I would I could not hide my joy, and, seeing that he noted it, I said in explanation, "Anything for a change, sergeant!" "You'll wish yourself back here soon enough, blast ye!" he growled. "We'll stretch your neck for you till your eyes drop out, you swine!" "You dear, good, Christian soul!" I simpered. For answer, he kicked me savagely, and then bundled me downstairs, out of the house, and into the road. Here a two-horsed coach was in waiting, with two dragoons and a corporal in front and two more behind. One of the rear men was holding a horse, and to my annoyance the sergeant got into the coach after me, bawled out a command, and off our party started. I stumbled into a corner and sat huddled up, straining my eyes ahead to catch what was to come. Margaret's information was clearly correct. We took the road north, passed through Penrith without a halt, and out again, still on the turnpike, proof that Carlisle was to be our destination. The city was obviously now in the Duke's power. Mile after mile we covered apace, and at every curve and cross-road I peered ahead and around with my heart in my mouth. One point in my favour was the desolate nature of the country, exactly fitted for such a stratagem as was in hand. On the right the gloomy sky was blotted out by jagged masses of gloomier hills. On the left the country varied between flat and upland, but was hardly less uninviting. "Where d'ye think y're going?" asked the sergeant, joggling me with his spurred heel to make me look at him. "No idea," said I. "Blast ye. I wish y'had," he growled viciously, and I turned away to smile. We passed through a village littered with the Duke's baggage wagons and pretty full of soldiery. This chilled my spirit somewhat, for it looked as if we were about to run into the rear of the Royal army. Outside the village, however, we again had the road to ourselves, and a mile farther on dropped to a walk to climb a long slant of road.
36246_1319	western stories	Ryan, Marah Ellis	" There was no mistaking the heartiness of the man's words, and she smiled her gratitude from the niche in the corner, where, with her back toward the blaze, only one side of her face was outlined by the light. "Very well," she said amicably; "you can do something for me just now--open the door for a little while; the room seems close with being shut up so tight from the rain--and then make yourself comfortable there on that buffalo-robe before the fire. I remember your lounging habits in the camp, and a chair doesn't seem to quite suit you. Yes, that looks much better, as if you were at home again." Stretched on the robe, with her saddle on which to prop up his shoulders, he lay, looking in the red coals, as if forgetful of her speech or herself. But at last he repeated her words: "At home again! Do you know there's a big lot of meaning in those words, Miss, especially to a man who hasn't known what home meant for years? and to-night, with white people in my cabin and a white woman to make things look natural, I tell you it makes me remember what home used to be, in a way I have not experienced for many a day." "Then I'm glad I strayed off into the storm and your cabin," said the girl promptly; "because a man shouldn't forget his home and home-folks, especially if the memories would be good ones. People need all the good memories they can keep with them in this world; they're a sort of steering apparatus in a life-boat, and help a man make a straight journey toward his future." "That's so," he said, and put his hand up over his eyes as if to shield them from the heat of the fire. He was lying full in the light, while she was in the shadow. He could scarcely see her features, with her head drawn back against the wall like that. And the very fact of knowing herself almost unseen--a voice, only, speaking to him--gave her courage to say things as she could not have said them at another time. "Do you know," she said, as she sat there watching him with his eyes covered by his hand--"do you know that once or twice when we have been together
14334_988	western stories	Bower, B. M.	The King faction had looked upon us blackly, though there were too many of us to make it safe meddling, and none of us were minded to break bread with them. Instead, we sat around on the counter and on boxes in the store, and ate crackers and sardines and things like that. I couldn't help remembering my last Fourth, and the banquet I had given on board the _Molly Stark_--my yacht, named after the lady known to history, whom dad claims for an ancestress--and I laughed out loud. The boys wanted to know the cause of my mirth, and so, with a sardine laid out decently between two crackers in one hand, and a blue "granite" cup of plebeian beer in the other, I told them all about that banquet, and some of the things we had to eat and drink--whereat they laughed, too. The contrast was certainly amusing. But, somehow, I wouldn't have changed, just then, if I could have done so. That, also, is something I'm not psychologist enough to explain. That last waltz with Miss King was like to prove disastrous, for we swished uncomfortably close to her father, standing scowling at Frosty and some of the others of our crowd near the door. Luckily, he didn't see us, and at the far end Miss King stopped abruptly. Her cheeks were pink, and her eyes looked up at me--wistfully, I could almost say. "I think, Mr. Carleton, we had better stop," she said hesitatingly. "I don't believe your enmity is so ungenerous as to wish to cause me unpleasantness. You surely are convinced now that I am not afraid of you, so the truce is over." I did not pretend to misunderstand. "I'm going home at once," I told her gently, "and I shall take my spectacular crowd along with me; but I'm not sorry I came, and I hope you are not." She looked at me soberly, and then away. "There is one thing I should like to say," she said, in so low a tone I had to lean to catch the words. "Please don't try to ride through King's Highway again; father hates you quite enough as it is, and it is scarcely the part of a gentleman to needlessly provoke an old man." I could feel myself grow red. What a cad I must seem to her!
27824_4327	detective and mystery stories	Campbell, Alice	You know what happens at this stage of typhoid----" And she went on to describe the condition now prevailing. "It's the suddenness I can't get over," Roger said for the fourth time. "Nor I." In fact, she felt still dazed. Her eyes dwelt with compassion on Roger's face until she saw him pass his hand heavily over his forehead with a suggestion of pain. Then she spoke impulsively: "Roger--do you mind? I'd like to take your temperature." "Mine? What for?" "Don't be cross, I really think I'd better." "Oh, all right, go ahead." A moment later, when she was in the act of counting his pulse and while the thermometer was sticking out of his mouth, Lady Clifford entered, followed by her sister-in-law, the latter looking tired and much older. Both women looked on with interest and concern. "Miss Rowe--you don't think----?" "It is up a little," Esther admitted, holding the thermometer to the light. "Just a hundred. I thought so last night. It isn't much, of course." "So did I. You see, Roger! You wouldn't believe me." "Well, what if it is? It's nothing worth mentioning." Miss Clifford glanced helplessly at the others, and Thérèse gave a pathetic shrug. She looked fragile and wan, all life gone out of her. "My dear," she said gently to Roger, going up to him and putting her hand on his shoulder, "I had the same symptoms that you have--the same that poor Charles had. This is a dreadful epidemic; no one is safe. But look at me--I escaped it, I am perfectly well. Why? Because I took the anti-toxin." "Of course, Roger," his aunt urged eagerly. "You must let the doctor see you at once; you mustn't waste a minute!" "You think I ought to have typhoid anti-toxin, do you?" Thérèse shrugged her shoulders again very slightly before replying, "I think so, naturally. But I should leave it to the doctor. He'll advise you." Roger turned to Esther. "What do you think about it, Miss Rowe?" he asked. "Would you have it if you were I?" "The anti-toxin? Oh--that is something you must decide.
41534_776	western stories	Boyles, Virgil D. (Virgil Dillin)	Prairie dogs, perched in front of their holes, chattered and scolded at them. The sun went down and a refreshing coolness crept over the hard, baked earth. Still, there was nothing but distance anywhere in all the land, and a feeling of desolation swept over the girl. The air of August was delicious now that night was coming on. There was no wind, but the swift, unflagging pace of the Boss’s matched team made a stiff breeze to play in their faces. It was exhilarating. The listlessness and discouragement of the day were forgotten. Throwing her rain-coat over her shoulders, Louise felt a clumsy but strangely gentle hand helping to draw it closer around her. Someway the action, simple as it was, reminded her of the look in that brakeman’s eyes, when he had asked her if she were homesick. Did this man think she was homesick, too? She was grateful; they were very kind. What a lot of good people there were in the world! Now, Jim Munson did not call her “little white lamb” to himself, the metaphor never entered his mind; but in his big, self-confident heart he did feel a protecting tenderness for her. She was not like any woman he had ever seen, and it was a big, lonesome country for a slip of a girl like her. The moon came up. Then there were miles of white moonlight and lonely plain. But for some time now there has been a light in front of them. It is as if it must be a will-o’-the-wisp. They never seem to get to it. But at last they are there. The door is wide open. A pleasant odor of bacon and coffee is wafted out to the tired travellers. “Come right in,” says the cheery voice of Mary. “How tired you must be, Miss Dale. Tie up, Jim, and come in and eat something before you go. Well, you can eat again—two suppers won’t hurt you. I have kept things warm for you. Your train must have been late. Yes, Dad is better, thank you. He’ll be all right in the morning.” CHAPTER VII THE PRELIMINARY Very early in the morning of the day set for the preliminary hearing of Jesse Black, the young owner of the Three Bars ranch rode over to Velpen. He identified and claimed the animal held over from shipment by Jim’s persuasion. Brown gave possession with a rueful countenance.
31485_4073	love stories	Nason, Frank Lewis	His face flushed. His hand moved jerkily to the bosom of his shirt, only to be as jerkily removed empty. The harmonica was decidedly unequal to the task. His lips puckered and straightened. His final resort was more satisfying. He deliberately seated himself on the safe and began rolling a cigarette. Placing it to his lips, he drew a match along the leg of his trousers. The shielded flame was applied to the cigarette. There came a few deliberate puffs, the cigarette was removed. His crossed leg was thrust through his clasped hands at he leaned backward. Through a cloud of soothing smoke his answer was meditatively voiced. "When the Almighty made man, he must have had a pot of sense on one hand and foolishness on the other, and he put some of each inside every empty skull. He got mighty interested in his work and so absent-minded he used up the sense first. Leastways, some skulls got an unrighteous dose of fool that I can't explain no other way. I ain't blaming the Almighty; he'd got the stuff on his hands and he'd got to get rid of it somehow. It's like rat poison--mighty good in its place, but dangerous to have lying around loose. He just forgot to mix it in, that's all, and we've got to do it for him. It's a heap of trouble and it's a nasty job, and I ain't blaming him for jumping it." CHAPTER XXI _The Sword that Turns_ As Zephyr and Bennie left the office Hartwell turned to Firmstone. There was no outward yielding, within only the determination not to recognise defeat. "The cards are yours; but we'll finish the game." The words were not spoken, but they were in evidence. Firmstone was silent for a long time. He was thinking neither of Hartwell nor of himself. "Well," he finally asked; "this little incident is happily closed. What next?" Hartwell's manner had not changed. "You are superintendent here. Don't ask me. It's up to you." Firmstone restrained himself with an effort. "Is it?" The question carried its own answer with it. It was plainly negative, only Hartwell refused to accept it. "What else are you out here for?" Firmstone's face flushed hotly. "Why can't you talk sense?" he burst out. "I am not aware that I have talked anything else." Hartwell only grew more rigid with Firmstone's visible anger.
21998_2919	adventure stories	Williamson, A. M. (Alice Muriel)	How can he?" Beverley cried. "I don't know, I only feel," the little woman repeated. As the two had talked, Clo watched Miss Blackburne's face. It was with her as the pearl-stringer had said of herself: she "did not know--she could only feel" that the good little woman had something on her conscience, something that she was obliged to hide. Clo had by this time succeeded in clearing her mind from cobwebs. Suddenly a light shone like flame upon the mystery. "Peterson!" was the name that printed itself upon the girl's brain. "If he could have got into the flat, he could have stolen both the pearls and papers. Does Miss Blackburne know something, and if she does, why won't she tell?" It occurred to Clo that, if she could have a few words with Miss Blackburne alone, perhaps the puzzle might be solved. "Angel," she said, "if there's been a thief in this house, perhaps he's here still. With two manservants, you ought----" Beverley waited for no more. Any straw was worth catching at. She couldn't wait to ring for Johnson. She rushed out of the boudoir, hoping to find the butler in the dining room. He was there. And while she explained that something had been stolen, that the flat must be searched, Clo got the chance she had wanted. "Miss Blackburne, you're my friend!" she exclaimed. "This means life or death to me. I'm responsible for that envelope we've lost. Do, for the love of heaven, tell me what happened in this room while Mrs. Sands went out and left you here alone." The pearl-stringer remained silent. She met Clo's great, imploring eyes without shrinking, but the girl saw that she breathed hard. "If you don't want me to die, tell me!" Clo implored. "My child, I would tell you, if I could," she stiffened herself. "But, you see," she finished, "there's nothing to tell. So, I can't." XIX THE BROWN TRUNK Clo realized that there was no more to be said, since to accuse Miss Blackburne of lying would make matters worse. When Beverley came back, to say that the servants had been questioned, and the flat searched in vain, the girl had made up her mind what to do next.
27355_4202	western stories	Ames, Joseph Bushnell	Mary cried out that if he tried to force it, she'd shoot. The creature only laughed, and when she did fire, the bullet went wild." She paused an instant, her fingers twitching at the handkerchief clasped in her lap. "And then he broke in?" questioned Buck, in a hard voice. She nodded. "Yes. I fired once, but it did no good. Before I could shoot again, Pedro came up from behind and snatched the revolver away. He must have forced his way into the kitchen. He threw me into a chair, while Lynch went after Mary." Buck's lips were pressed tightly together; his face was hard as stone. "Didn't she fire again?" "No, I don't know why. I couldn't see very well. Something may have gone wrong with the revolver; perhaps she had scruples. I should have had none." Mrs. Archer's small, delicate face looked almost savage. "I'd have gloried in shooting the brute. At any rate, she didn't, and he took the weapon away from her and flung it on the table." Again she hesitated briefly, overcome by her emotions. Stratton's face was stony, save for a momentary ripple of the muscles about his mouth. "And then?" he questioned. "I--I tried to go to her, but Pedro held me in the chair." Mrs. Archer drew a long, quivering breath. "Lynch had her by the wrist; I heard him say something about not hurting her; and then he said, quite plainly, that since she'd got him in this mess, she'd have to get him out. I couldn't understand, but all at once I realized that if they did--take her away, they'd probably tie me up, or something, to prevent my giving the alarm, and so I pretended to faint." She lifted her handkerchief to her lips and let it fall again. "It wasn't easy to lie still in that chair and see the dear child--being dragged away. But I knew I'd be quite helpless against those two villains. She--she didn't struggle much; perhaps she hadn't the strength." The old lady's voice shook, and she began again plucking nervously at her handkerchief. "The minute they were out of the door, I got up and followed them. I thought perhaps I might be able to see which way they went.
27475_2296	western stories	Ryan, Marah Ellis	So that's all right, and don't you worry. Your partner, John Ingalls, is as nice as he can be to me. Why did you not tell me how good looking he was? Maybe you never discovered it--you slow, prosy old Joe! When you wrote to me of that rich find you stumbled on, I was sorry you had picked up a partner; for you always did trust folks too much, and I was afraid you'd be cheated by the stranger you picked up. But I guess that I was wrong, Joe; for he is a very nice gentleman--the nicest I ever met, I think. And he talks about you just as if he was your brother, and thought a heap of you. He tried to tease me some, too--asked how you ever came to catch such a pretty girl as me! Then I told him, Joe, that you never had to catch me--that I was little, and hadn't any folks, and how you got your folks to give me a home when you was only a boy; and that you was always like a big brother to me till you made some money in the mines. Then you wrote and asked me to come out and marry you. He just laughed, Joe, and said it was not a brother's love that a wife wanted; but I don't think he knows anything about that--do you? And, Joe, I came pretty near telling him all about that richest find you made--the one you said you wanted me to be the first to see. I thought, of course, you had told your partner, just as you told me when you sent me the plan of it--what for, I don't know, Joe, for I never could find it in the wide world, even if there was any chance of my hunting for it alone. Your partner asked me point blank if you had written to me of any late find of yours, or of any special location where you found good signs. I tried to look innocent, and said maybe you had, but I couldn't remember. I didn't like to tell a story. I wanted to tell him all the truth, and how rich you said we would be. I knew you would want to tell him yourself, so I managed to keep quiet in time. But whenever he looks at me I feel guilty. And he looks at me so kindly, and he is so good.
41010_1633	love stories	Willard, Kate Livingston	"Oh, nurse, I am so glad you are here. Gladys has been hurt." "My poor baby, Nana will make it all well. She shouldn't have left you at all. Whatever will Miss Helen say!" Jean's face contracted sharply, and she turned away to hide the tears that sprang to her eyes. Farr threw an angry glance at nurse, who, all unconscious of her offense, was petting and comforting Gladys. "This is no time for talking," he said. "We must get Gladys home as quickly as possible. Miss Jean, will you help me lift her?" Jean recognized the kindly intent in his words, and her eyes were eloquent with gratitude. "Little one," he went on to Gladys, "will you be a good, brave little girl and let me carry you? I will put you on this pillow, and I will be as gentle as possible. I can't promise that it won't hurt you some, but when you are once home you will be so comfortable." "All right," assented Gladys, looking up at him with touching confidence. But in spite of all their care, it was a very painful ordeal, and the poor child was quite spent before the manor was reached. As they mounted the steps of the veranda the doctor's gig drove up to the door. They carried Gladys up to the nursery, and Farr lingered there long enough to hear his opinion confirmed that the child had sustained no further injury than the breaking of her arm. "I will wait downstairs," he said in an undertone to Jean, and he went out and closed the door softly behind him. The moments dragged slowly, and he had almost renounced all hope of seeing Jean again, when he heard her footfall on the stair. She came down toward him, her white face showing the traces of tears. He sprang forward to meet her. "I can't stay but a moment," she said to him, "for I must go right back to Gladys. The doctor has set her arm and has given her something to make her sleep and he is going very soon now." He laid his hand on her shoulder and looked tenderly down at her. "You look worn out. Won't you try and rest a little?" She did not resent his action, but she moved a step away from him and his hand dropped at his side. Her lips quivered. "I don't care about myself.
36170_2890	western stories	Cullum, Ridgwell	" "Sure." "There ain't a muck hole in miles and miles around that you could fall into, and not come out of with a clean conscience an' a wholesome mind. Kind of different to a city." Gordon stirred. He turned and looked into Silas Mallinsbee's smiling eyes. "It's--all yours?" he inquired. "For miles an' miles around. I got nigh a hundred miles of grazing in these hills--and nobody else don't seem to want it. Makes you wonder." Gordon laughed. "Say, set a spade into the ground and find a marketable mineral and tell somebody. Then see." Mallinsbee chewed an unlit cigar, and his chin beard twisted absurdly. "That's it," he said slowly. "There's nothing to these hills as they are, except to a cattleman, I guess. Cattle don't suit the modern man. Your profitable crop's a three years' waiting, and that don't mean a thing to folk nowadays, except a dead loss of time on the round-up of dollars. They don't figure that once you're good and going that three years' crop comes around once every year. So they miss a deal." "Yes, they'd reckon it slow, I guess," Gordon agreed. "But," he went on with enthusiasm, "the life of it. The air." He took a deep breath of the sparkling mountain atmosphere. "It's champagne. The champagne of life. Say, it's good to be alive in such a place. And you," he gazed inquiringly into the man's strong face, "you began it from--the beginning?" "I built the first ranch house with my own hands. My old wife an' I built up this ranch and ran it. And now it's rich and big--she's gone. She never saw it win out. Hazel's took her place, and it's been for her to see it grow to what it is. She helped me ship my first single year's crop of twenty thousand beeves to the market ten years ago. She was a small kiddie then, and she cried her pretty eyes out when I told her they were going to the slaughter yards of Chicago. You see, she'd known most of 'em as calves." "The work of it must be enormous," meditated Gordon, after a pause in which he had pictured that small child weeping over her lost calves.
5901_3198	detective and mystery stories	Pinkerton, A. Frank	Thus decided a cunning villain, and in so doing went to his own doom. Ten days had Dyke Darrel and his friend Bernard searched the city of New York ere they found their prey. Once found, the detective resolved upon a novel manner of procedure for his capture. The sending of the letter was part of the scheme. Had this failed, then a bolder move would have been made. But it did not fail. When Mr. Elliston rapped at room 14, number 388 Blank street, the door was opened, admitting the visitor to a small room containing a bed, a few necessary articles of furniture, and a curtained alcove. The door was suddenly closed and locked behind Elliston, light was turned on fully, and then the visitor found himself confronted by Harry Bernard, whom he had met once or twice in Woodburg, many months before. "Eh!" ejaculated Elliston. "So you are the man who wrote that note requesting an interview? Well, I am glad to see you, Mr. Bernard," and Elliston held out his hand, with a smile wreathing his thin lips. "I imagined you would be," returned the youth. "I am glad to see you so well. Fact is, you are badly wanted out in Illinois at the present time." "I am sorry that I cannot accommodate my friends out there," returned Elliston, with a frown; "but it is wholly out of the question. I think I will bid you good evening, Mr. Bernard. I cannot waste precious time here." He turned and grasped the door-knob. It did not yield to his touch. "Not just yet, Mr. Elliston," said Harry. "I wish to ask you a few questions." "Well?" "What do you know of the murder of Arnold Nicholson on the midnight express, south of Chicago, some weeks ago?" "I read of it, of course." Mr. Elliston pulled nervously at his glove as he answered. "What do you know of the disappearance of Captain Osborne and the death of his daughter?" persisted Bernard. "Do you suppose I have nothing to do but answer such nonsensical questions?" demanded Elliston, angrily. "Open this door and let me pass out." "Not yet. I wish to tell you a little story, Mr. Elliston." "I haven't time to listen." "Nevertheless, you must take the time," said Harry Bernard, sternly.
42800_2301	western stories	Clay, John Wood	"Rose, sit down," he said at last. "I want to talk to you." She seated herself obediently and faced him. "_Allons_," she prompted him. "You see, it’s this way: Here ’s me, errand boy for Schatz. I draws my time, same as I ’m a-punchin’ for him, but what is it? Not enough to live on. I can make more with th’ cards, a whole lot more, on’y you says no. An’ there ain’t nothin’ reglar ’bout gamblin’, anyhow. Schatz is honin’ for his ranch. He ’s bound to get it an’ I ’m bound to help him. ’Cause why? I strike it rich. Schatz will put me on as foreman or mebby better. Now, how do we get th’ ranch? Break that McAllister-Peters combine, that’s how. An’ how do we break ’em? You." "Me?" "You. It’s pie. You get him here—Peters—an’ I got a man as ’ll clean him out like a cyclone lickin’ up a haystack. You get him here, that’s all. You know how. I ain’t a-goin’ to be jealous of a girl as breaks off a kiss in th’ middle an’ han’s me back my end of it. You ain’t woke up yet, Rose, an’ when you do, I ’ll be there." "You will be there." "You bet—with aces—four of ’em." He nodded with confident assurance. "You get Peters a-comin’ here an’ then some night Comin’ Thirty drops in casual to see yore daddy. That ’ll be all. Comin’ knows his business." "Who is Comin’?" "Who is he?" Dave grinned. "Well, he’s th’ on’y man can deal a deck between th’ Mississip’ an’ th’ Rockies. When Peters gets through with him he won’t think so much o’ that feller he met in Cheyenne—H—l!" He sprang to his feet, consternation on his face. Rose gazed at him in mute wonder. "It can’t be!" he muttered, "he went out long ago." He was silent in troubled speculation for a while. "Rose," he continued abruptly, "you ask Peters, first time you see him—when ’ll you go? To-day?
32429_5531	love stories	Erskine, Payne	You have been away so long, David, where the class lines are not so rigidly drawn, that you forget--or never knew. It is my duty, without any foolish sentiment, to guard Laura and see to it that her coming out is what it should be. For one thing, she is so very plain. If she were a beauty, it would help, but her plainness must be compensated for in other ways. She will have a large settlement, Mr. Stretton thinks, if your uncle's interests are not too much jeopardized in South Africa by this terrible war. That is something you will have to look into before you take your seat in the House." "Oh, mother, mother! I can't--" "My dear boy, your brother died for his country, and can you not give a little of your life for it? I can rely on you to be practically inclined, now that you are placed at the head of such a family? I'm glad now you never cared for Muriel Hunt. She could never have filled the position as her ladyship, your uncle's wife, did. She was Lady Thomasia Harcourt Glendyne of Wales. Beside her, Muriel would appear silly. It is most fortunate you have no such entanglement now." "Mother, mother! I am astounded! I never dreamed my dear, beautiful mother could descend to such worldliness. You are changed, mother. There is something fundamentally wrong in all this." She looked up at him, aghast at his vehemence. "My son, my son! Let us have only love between us--only love. I am not changed. I was content as I was, nor ever tried to enter a sphere above me. Now that this comes to me--forced on me by right of English law--I take it thankfully, with all it brings. I will fill the place as it should be filled, and Laura shall do the same, and you also, my son. As for Muriel Hunt, I will make concessions if--if your happiness demands it." David groaned inwardly. "No, mother, no. It goes deeper than Muriel; it goes deeper." They had both risen. She placed her hands on his shoulders and looked levelly in his eyes, and her own lightened, through tears held bravely back. "It may well go deeper than Muriel, and still not go very deep.
34593_1495	adventure stories	Wright, Jack	“All right,” Bob put in. “Now the fourth time Lindy jumped was not long before his big flight. He was still flying for Robertson’s, carrying mail to Chicago. Just south of Peoria he ran into rain that changed to snow. Lindy flew around, waiting for the fog to lift, until he heard his motor sputter and die. He was up about 13,000 feet when he stepped out of the cockpit and jumped into the air. He landed on a barbed wire fence. Tore his shirt, but the plane was pretty much of a wreck. He grabbed the air mail; hurried to a train for Chicago, got another plane, and flew the mail through. A little late, but still, it got through. And he didn’t bat an eye. Not one of the jumps fazed him a bit. “But it wasn’t as though Lindy jumped at the slightest sign of anything going wrong. He stayed with his plane until the very last minute, doing everything he could to save it. He hated worse than anything to have a plane smashed up. Look how long he stayed with that new plane he was testing out—until he was just 300 feet above the ground. “Well, Lindy was one of the best mail pilots that the Robertson corporation had, in fact, he was their chief pilot. They could depend on him to go out in weather that no other pilot would think of bucking. He didn’t show off. Just knew that he could fly through anything, and he did. “At this time there was a lot of excitement in the air. Orteig was offering his $25,000 prize for the first man to cross the Atlantic, and there were a lot of aviators who would have liked the prize, and were trying for it. Of course, the money wasn’t the whole thing. There was the honor attached to it. And besides, there was the fact that crossing the Atlantic would make people sit up and take notice that flying wasn’t as dangerous as they thought. If a man could fly all that distance in a plane, maybe planes weren’t the death traps that some people had an idea they were. Lindy must have been thinking of this when he first decided that he’d like to try for the Orteig prize. Because everything that he’s done since his flight has been to get people interested in aviation. “But it takes money to fly across the ocean. You’ve got to get a special plane and all that. Lindy had to have backers.
58132_1722	adventure stories	Brady, E. J. (Edwin James)	The good wife went to the cupboard and got a great piece of seed cake and cut it in slices. Tom dealt with it slice by slice. The woman’s face became soft and more pitiful. She went to the cupboard again and brought out half a roly-poly. Tom put his hand secretly down under the table cloth and let go the top button of his trousers. “Poor boy,” reiterated the farmer’s wife; “poor boy.” Two great womanly tears gathered in her eyes and slowly overflowed. Tom, conscious that he was playing a star part, choked down a few more morsels of food; then he laid aside his knife and fork, wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and sat staring into vacancy with bulging eyes. “Could you eat a piece of pineapple?” asked the woman. Her intentions were kind, but she did not know. Tom Pagdin groaned. He felt that any refusal of food might be a weakening of the evidence in his favour. He tried to display as much appetite as possible, and furtively letting go another trouser button, replied that he could. The woman went to a case in the corner, and selected a fair-sized pineapple from it. It was freshly cut from the pineapple patch in the garden in front, but its fragrance failed to awake any enthusiasm in Tom. He stowed away a couple of slices as a matter of form, and then he pleaded, in a thick voice, that he couldn’t eat any more. “Well,” said the farmer, “I reckon if ye did, you’d be like that cow o’ mine that got into the lucerne patch yisterday.” “Why,” asked Tom, in an anxious voice. He was not feeling well within. “Good enough reason why,” said Jacob Cayley; “the blamed animal’s dead as a dern door-nail.” “What happened to ’er?” queried the inflated pirate. “Busted!” replied Jacob, grimly. Tom turned pale. “I ain’t feeling none too well,” he murmured, placing a band on his lower deck. “Do you think a cove ’ud bust like—like a cow?” “I dunno,” replied the farmer. “If ’e’d et too much he might.” “Ob, Lord!” groaned Tom. “How do you feel?” asked Mrs. Cayley. “I got a pain,” he said, “’ere, an’ ’ere—all over me stummick.”
56902_4454	detective and mystery stories	Reeve, Arthur B. (Arthur Benjamin)	Toxicology is a hobby with me. Doctor Leslie did indeed confirm my results, working independently." He paused to let her get the full significance. "But about these beans. They come from Africa, you know. Travelers, people who have hunted over Africa, often bring them back as curios." Honora shot a covert glance at Craig. Did she know that Shattuck had possessed some, after all? I saw at once the trend of Kennedy's remarks. There was quite enough in what he had said to arouse in her the fear that Shattuck was suspected by him. And, as I studied Honora even more closely, I could see now that she was making a great effort to conceal her anxiety. If the anxiety concerned solely herself, I could have understood it better, perhaps. But was it about herself? Would she have acted in just this manner if it had been that she believed Kennedy to be making a direct accusation against her? I could not decide. But, as I thought of it, I saw how cleverly Kennedy was leading his trumps. If she were consumed with anxiety for Shattuck, the traveler in Africa, she must be heroically suppressing her own real feelings toward him, as she had done for so long. I felt sure that the added pressure, day by day, was having its effect on her. "I suppose you know," pursued Kennedy, deliberately, without letting up on the pressure, "that traces of belladonna were found in one glass on Mr. Wilford's desk at the office and that an almost empty bottle of belladonna was found by the police here in your apartment?" "It was mine," she asserted, calmly, as though prepared. "It had been nearly used up. Celeste knows all about how I used it for my eyes. Many women do. She can tell you that." She said it boldly, and yet, since Kennedy had mentioned the Calabar bean, I had an indefinable feeling that Honora was concealing something--perhaps not only a fact--but also a great fear. No longer, now, did Kennedy seem to care whether he antagonized her or not. More and more, it seemed, it was his purpose to drop the mask with her, to fight her with other weapons than those psychological. "Both physostigmine and belladonna are used by oculists, you know," hinted Kennedy, broadly. The face of Honora was a study as she listened to this direct insinuation.
30311_685	science fiction	Berryman, John	you she hasn't got the Stigma!" "You are a rotten lair," Renner said, getting dangerously red in the face. "What kind of games are you playing with Passarelli? What has _he_ got to do with the reputation of our firm? Don't try to lie," he said sharply. "I know he's here. He's been tailed all night." That was enough for Passarelli. He came out of the bedroom and walked up to Renner. "Forgive me for saying this, Renner," he said. "But I just hope you have a case in my court. I'll find some way to pin one of your slippery tax frauds to you!" Renner grew pale. He's conditioned to toady to judges. He didn't have the guts to answer Passarelli, and took it out on me, instead. "Our partnership is dissolved, as of right now," he seethed. He dragged some money out of his pocket and threw it on the rug. "There's your share of the rent. I'm throwing your stuff out in the hall in the morning. The auditors will be there at nine o'clock for an accounting. You won't need that address any longer--only reputable people come to our building." He stormed out. Passarelli and I faced each other in silence. "Jerk!" I raged at him at last. "You couldn't check to see if you were being followed!" "I regret that," he said. "But you invited me." "Don't remind me," I snarled. "What now?" "I don't know about you," Passarelli said. "But I'm going to start looking out for myself. You're too tricky, Maragon." "And I suppose you think it's time I ditched Mary Hall, eh?" "What for?" he said mildly. "You're just one more Criminal Court shyster now--Renner gave you the heave-ho. You might as well defend her, even if I can't work with you." I could feel my belly tighten with rage. "I thought you'd welcome a reputable attorney who would represent Psis," I reminded him. "Yes, I suppose I would. Very much." "All of a sudden I'm not reputable?" "Reputable?" he sneered. "You've been on every side of this thing.
12791_1308	western stories	Adams, Andy	The water holds them now without herding." [Illustration: JOEL WELLS AND HIS SPANISH COW-PONY] "Yes," replied Joel, "but we must plan to meet the worst possible winter. A blizzard gives little warning, and the only way to overcome one is to be fully prepared. That's what Mr. Paul means by bringing up the ammunition. We must provide so as to be able to withstand a winter siege." "Well, what's lacking?" insisted Dell. "Fuel. Take an axe with you this morning, and after riding around the cattle, cut and collect the dead and fallen timber in Hackberry Grove. Keep an eye open for posts and stays--I'll cut them while you're hauling wood. Remember we must have the materials on the ground when Mr. Paul returns, to build a corral and branding chute." Axe and scythe were swung that morning with renewed energy. Within a week the required amount of hay was in stack, while the further supply of forage, promised in the stunted corn, was daily noted in its advancing growth. Without delay the scene of activity shifted. The grove was levied on, a change of axe-men took place, while the team even felt a new impetus by making, instead of one, two round trips daily. The fuel supply grew, not to meet a winter's, but a year's requirements. Where strength was essential, only the best of timber was chosen, and well within the time limit the materials for corral and branding chute were at hand on the ground. One task met and mastered, all subsequent ones seemed easier. "We're ahead of time," said Joel with a quiet air of triumph, as the last load of stays reached the corral site. "If we only knew the plans, we might dig the post-holes. The corn's still growing, and it won't do to cut until it begins to ripen--until the sugar rises in the stock. We can't turn another wheel until Mr. Paul returns." Idleness was galling to Joel Wells. "We'll ride the range to-day," he announced the following morning. "From here to the ford doesn't matter, but all the upper tributaries ought to be known. We must learn the location of every natural shelter. If a storm ever cuts us off from the corrals, we must point the herd for some other port." "The main Beaver forks only a few miles above Hackberry Grove," suggested Dell.
50157_2780	detective and mystery stories	Wheeler, Janet D.	Edina shook her head. “They think I’ve lied to them. They think I’ve cheated them. They want their money, and you can’t rightly blame them. I guess I’d best be gettin’ back to Paw and Maw.” “No!” cried Billie. “You will stay here and fight it out!” Many times in the days that followed Billie Bradley was to doubt the wisdom of this decision. Edina was acutely miserable; she was subject to constant snubs, slights, insults, at the hands of her fellow students. She became pitifully pale and thin and kept to her room whenever possible. Billie herself was scarcely less miserable. Her fellow students made it quite clear that she was alone in her championship of Edina. The fact that she persisted in her stubborn course irritated them and made her something of a pariah, too. Meanwhile Billie kept close watch upon the comings and goings of the servants at the Hall, hoping for some clue that would lead her to the real thief and thus exonerate Edina. Billie found it necessary to replenish her wardrobe by a day’s shopping in town. Having asked for and received the necessary permission from Miss Walters, she set off early on Saturday morning, determined to dispose of her shopping as soon as possible and return in time to help Vi with her always-difficult mathematics. Having arrived in town, she went at once to a small drygoods store where she bought a dozen handkerchiefs and one or two inexpensive articles of underwear. When she tendered the storekeeper a ten dollar bill he returned her a five dollar bill and some odd pieces of silver. Billie was about to stuff the change into her pocketbook when something about the five dollar bill arrested her attention. She looked at it more closely and a stifled exclamation escaped her. “Anything wrong, Miss?” asked the storekeeper anxiously. “No, no,” Billie answered hastily. “There’s nothing wrong. Only--would you mind very much telling me where you got this five dollar bill?” The storekeeper took the bill, turned it over, screwed up his features in a grimace evidently meant to intimate deep thought and scratched his head doubtfully. Billie held her breath and watched him. Everything--simply everything--depended upon this man’s memory! “Well, you know, Miss, it’s not so easy to remember who gave you a certain bill when you’re busy waiting on customers and making change all day long,” he drawled.
13497_4245	love stories	Dell, Ethel M. (Ethel May)	Rose seated herself beside her. "I call Sir Eustace a very interesting man," she observed. "He fully makes up for the deficiencies of his brother and sister. He seems to be very kind-hearted too. Didn't I see him helping you with your skating the other night?" Dinah's eyes shone again with a quick and ominous light. "He helped you with your ski-ing too, didn't he?" she said. "He did, dear. I had a most enjoyable afternoon." Rose smiled again as over some private reminiscence. "He told me he thought you were coming on, in fact he seems to think that you have the makings of quite a good skater. It's a pity your opportunities are so limited, dear." Rose paused to utter a soft laugh. "I don't see anything funny in that," remarked Dinah. "No, no! Of course not. I was only smiling at the way in which he referred to you. 'That little brown cousin of yours' he said, 'makes me think of a water-vole, there one minute and gone the next.' He seemed to think you a rather amusing child, as of course you are." Rose put up a delicate hand and playfully caressed the glowing cheek nearest to her. "I told him you were not any relation, but just a dear little friend of mine who had never seen anything of the world before. And he laughed and said, 'That is why she looks like a chocolate baby out of an Easter egg.'" "Anything else?" said Dinah, repressing an urgent desire to shiver at the kindly touch. "No, I don't think so. We had more important matters to think of and talk about. He is a man who has travelled a good deal, and we found that we had quite a lot in common, having visited the same places and regarded many things from practically the same point of view. He took the trouble to be very entertaining," said Rose, with a pretty blush. "And his trouble was not misspent. I am convinced that he enjoyed the afternoon even more than I did. We also enjoyed the evening," she added. "He is an excellent dancer. We suited each other perfectly." "Did you find him good at sitting out?" asked Dinah unexpectedly. Rose looked at her enquiringly, but her eyes were fixed upon the distant mist-capped mountains.
47368_22	detective and mystery stories	Beeman, Herbert	When I had sufficiently recovered I asked him if he had discovered who fired the shot. "That is a mere vulgar detail, Whenson," he said coldly, as he turned to start the gramophone again. *II.* *THE ADVENTURE OF THE IRATE HOUSE-HOLDER* We were just finishing breakfast when the door was unceremoniously burst open and an obviously excited little man precipitated himself into the room. "You are an optimist, I perceive," said Keys quietly. The little man looked amazed, as well he might, not knowing the powers of the Great Detective as well as I did. "How on earth did you know that?" he ejaculated. "Quite simple, my dear sir," answered Keys, "you came in without knocking. What can I do for you?" "Well, sir," the little man went on excitedly, "my name is Bloggs, sir, Joseph Bloggs, and I am the victim of a conspiracy. The Council have sent me in a bill for $96 for three months water rate, and I never used so much in my life. "No, I can quite believe it," said Keys drily, surveying the rather drab appearance of the visible portions of our visitor’s anatomy. "But whom do you suspect?" "Well, sir, I voted against the nincompoops that the effete electors have chosen to represent them, and now they’re soaking me." I could not control my laughter at this unconscious pleasantry, but the little man glared at me, and Keys frowned me into silence. "Whenson, he has given me a clue; get my gum boots and a piece of blotting paper." Accustomed to obey his strange commands without question, we were soon following Mr. Bloggs to his home. Once inside the gate, without hesitation Keys strode across the lawn till he reached a place under which, owing to the unevenness of the ground, it was easy to see the pipe was laid, and stooping down he placed the sheet of blotting paper on the grass, and a second later he held it up saturated with water. "There is a break in the pipe, Mr. Bloggs," he said. "Get it mended.
54010_652	love stories	Hubback, Mrs. (Catherine-Anne Austen)	You cannot expect punctuality from such a very agreeable, pleasant young man!" "Pooh, pooh, Jane, I tell you, you know nothing about it. I cannot expect pleasure from such a very unpunctual young man—that's what you should say—it's very rude,—and he is very ill bred—and would never do for business." "Business! Tom Musgrove do for business!" cried Margaret, indignantly, "I should think not—whoever thought of business and Tom Musgrove in the same breath?" "Not many, I dare say," observed Robert, contemptuously, "but if he has no business to occupy him, the less excuse is there for his preposterous conduct." "My dear," said Mrs. Watson, with decision; "he is very genteel—and genteel people, when they have an independent fortune, are not obliged to be so regular as others—Tom Musgrove is very genteel." "You know nothing about it," cried Robert, snappishly—for when a man is hungry, he not only dislikes contradiction himself, but, invariably, is liberal with it to others. "If a man simpers and whispers, and makes a few pretty—pretty speeches to _you_ women, you set him down, forsooth, as very genteel—though he never pays a bill—if he can help it—is supercilious to his equals—and keeps a whole party waiting for dinner. Plague take such gentility, say I. Elizabeth, I shall ring the bell for dinner." He did as he said, whilst his wife sat ruffling up and swelling with indignation at his retort. Determined not to hear her he walked away and stationed himself at the window, which commanded a view of the road. She, not able to address him, and resolved he should know her opinion, audibly exclaimed—to her neighbour—that she _did_ know what gentility was, for she had seen a great of genteel company at Sir Thomas's—and that great allowances were to be made for young men who were always wild and eccentric creatures. Emma, who heard all this, could not help mentally considering where those allowances were to cease, since Mrs. Watson did not seem disposed to make them for her husband—though, in her judgment he seemed the person most entitled to claim them.
7031_1150	love stories	Hull, E. M. (Edith Maude)	His back was turned to her, but in a moment she saw that the short, slim figure in white linen European clothes bore no resemblance to the tall Arab she had expected to see. She thought her footsteps were noiseless, but he turned with a little quick bow. A typical Frenchman with narrow, alert, clean-shaven face, sleek black hair and dark restless eyes. His legs were slightly bowed and he stooped a little; his appearance was that of a jockey with the manners of a well-trained servant. Diana coloured hotly under his glance, but his eyes were lowered instantly. "Madame is doubtless ready for lunch." He spoke rapidly, but his voice was low and pleasant. His movements were as quick and as quiet as his voice, and in a dream Diana found herself in a few moments before a lunch that was perfectly cooked and daintily served. The man hovered about her solicitously, attending to her wants with dexterous hands and watchful eyes that anticipated every need. She was bewildered, faint from want of food, everything seemed unreal. For the moment she could just sit still and be waited on by the soft-footed, soft-spoken manservant who seemed such a curious adjunct to the household of an Arab chief. "Monseigneur begs that you will excuse him until this evening. He will return in time for dinner," he murmured as he handed her a cous-cous. Diana looked up blankly. "Monseigneur?" "My master. The Sheik." She flushed scarlet and her face hardened. Hypocritical, Oriental beast who "begged to be excused"! She refused the last dish curtly, and as the servant carried it away she propped her elbows on the table and rested her aching head on her hands. A headache was among the new experiences that had overwhelmed her since the day before. Suffering in any form was new to her, and her hatred of the man who had made her suffer grew with every breath she drew. The Frenchman came back with coffee and cigarettes. He held a match for her, coaxing the reluctant flame with patience that denoted long experience with inferior sulphur. "Monseigneur dines at eight. At what hour will Madame have tea?" he asked, as he cleared away and folded up the table. Diana choked back the sarcastic retort that sprang to her lips. The man's quiet, deferential manner, that refused to see anything extraordinary in her presence in his master's camp, was almost harder to bear than flagrant impertinence would have been.
538_2039	western stories	Bower, B. M.	Very soon she could go boldly to a lawyer and ask him to do something about her father's case. Just what he should do she did not quite know; and Lite did not seem to be able to tell her, but she thought she ought to find out just how much the trial had cost. And she wished she knew how to get about setting some one on the trail of Art Osgood. Jean was sure that Art Osgood knew something about the murder, and she frequently tried to make Lite agree with her. Sometimes she was sure that Art Osgood was the murderer, and would argue and point out her reasons to Lite. Art had been working for her uncle, and rode often to the Lazy A. He had not been friendly with Johnny Croft,--but then, nobody had been very friendly with Johnny Croft. Still, Art Osgood was less friendly with Johnny than most of the men in the country, and just after the murder he had left the country. Jean laid a good deal of stress upon the circumstance of Art Osgood's leaving on that particular afternoon, and she seemed to resent it because no one had tried to find Art. No one had seemed to think his going at that time had any significance, or any bearing upon the murder, because he had been planning to leave, and had announced that he would go that day. Jean's mind, as her bank account grew steadily to something approaching dignity, worked back and forth incessantly over the circumstances surrounding the murder, in spite of Lite's peculiar attitude toward the subject, which Jean felt but could not understand, since he invariably assured her that he believed her dad was innocent, when she asked him outright. Sometimes, in the throes of literary composition, she could not think of the word that she wanted. Her eyes then would wander around familiar objects in the shabby little room, and frequently they would come to rest upon her father's saddle or her father's chaps: the chaps especially seemed potent reminders of her father, and drew her thoughts to him and held them there. The worn leather, stained with years of hard usage and wrinkled permanently where they had shaped themselves to his legs in the saddle, brought his big, bluff presence vividly before her, when she was in a certain receptive mood. She would forget all about her story, and the riding and shooting and roping she had done that day to appease the clamorous, professional appetite of Robert Grant Burns, and would sit and stare, and think and think.
47128_3988	adventure stories	Duncan, Norman	It would happen again. Men gone stark mad in the wind--the floe strewn with drifted corpses. They had heard tales. And now they had visions. Dead men going into port--ship's flag at half-mast, and dead men going into port, frozen stiff and blue, and piled forward like cord-wood. "I'll make a song about this," said Toby Farr. "A song!" Archie Armstrong exclaimed. "'Tis about the gray wraiths o' dead men that squirm in the night." "I'd not do it!" Jonathan protested. "They drift like snow in the black wind," said Toby. "Ah, no!" said Jonathan. "I'd make no songs the night about dead men an' wraiths." "Ay, but I'm well started----" "No, lad!" "I've a bit about cold fingers an' the damp touch----" "I'd not brood upon that." "An it please you, sir----" "No." "Ah, well," Toby agreed, "I'll wait 'til I'm cozy an' warm aboard ship." "That's better," said Archie. Billy Topsail shuddered. Toby's imagination--ghosts and dead men--had frightened him. "It is!" he declared. CHAPTER XXXVIII _In Which the Wind Blows a Tempest, Our Heroes are Lost on the Floe, Jonathan Farr is Encased in Snow and Frozen Spindrift, Toby Strangely Disappears, and an Heroic Fight for Life is Begun, Wrapped in Bitter Dark_ It is well known on this coast, from Cape Race to Norman and the Labrador harbours, what happened to Cap'n Saul that night. It was vast, flat, heavy ice, thick labour for the ship, at best--square miles of pans and fields. In the push of the northwest gale, blowing down, all at once, with vigour and fury, from a new quarter, the big pans shifted and revolved. The movement was like that of a waltz--slow dancers, revolving in a waltz. And then the floe closed. And what was a clear course in the morning was packed ice before dusk. When the day began to foul, Cap'n Saul snatched up the First Watch, where he was standing by, and came driving down after Bill o' Burnt Bay's watch. It was too late. The ice caught him. And there was no shaking free.
31485_3400	love stories	Nason, Frank Lewis	She made no reply. He hardly expected she would. Nevertheless he did not dismiss the question from his mind. As he rode away with the company surgeon, he asked it over and over again. Then he made answer to himself. CHAPTER XVII _The Bearded Lion_ Zephyr was doing some meditation on his own account after the meeting with Firmstone at the Devil's Elbow. That not only Firmstone's reputation, but his life as well, hung in the balance, Zephyr had visible proof. This material proof he was absently tipping from hand to hand, during his broken and unsatisfactory interview with Firmstone. It was nothing more nor less than a nickel-jacketed bullet which, that very morning, had barely missed his head, only to flatten itself against the rocks behind him. The morning was always a dull time at the Blue Goose. Morrison slept late. Élise was either with Madame or rambling among the hills. Only Pierre, who seemed never to sleep, was to be counted upon with any certainty. By sunrise on the day that Firmstone and Miss Hartwell were riding to the Falls Zephyr was up and on his way to the Blue Goose. He found Pierre in the bar-room. "_Bon jour, M'sieur._" Zephyr greeted him affably as he slowly sank into a chair opposite the one in which Pierre was seated. Pierre, with hardly a movement of his facial muscles, returned Zephyr's salutation. From his manner no one would have suspected that, had someone with sufficient reason inquired as to the whereabouts of Zephyr, Pierre would have replied confidently that the sought-for person was bobbing down the San Miguel with a little round hole through his head. Zephyr's presence in the flesh simply told him that, for some unknown reason, his plan had miscarried. Zephyr lazily rolled a cigarette and placed it between his lips. He raised his eyes languidly to Pierre's. "M'sieu Pierre mek one slick plan. Ze Rainbow Company work ze mine, ze mill. _Moi_, Pierre, mek ze gol' in mon cellaire." Zephyr blew forth the words in a cloud of smoke. Pierre started and looked around. His hand made a motion toward his hip pocket. Zephyr dropped his bantering tone. "Not yet, Frenchy. You'll tip over more soup kettles than you know of." He dropped the flattened bullet on the table and pointed to it. "That was a bad break on your part. It might have been worse for you as well as for me, if your man hadn't been a bad shot.
38357_4904	adventure stories	Marchmont, Arthur W.	The morning air was very fresh and clear and the sunlight fell everywhere upon flags, decorations, triumphal arches, and the rest of the festal preparations for the great holiday to which work people were busy putting the final touches. Everybody seemed in the highest spirits. Laughter and jest and a pleasant interchange of greetings rang on the air on all sides of me; and the whole city seemed to be already wreathed in smiles. My brother officers came straggling up after I had reached the ground, and more than one of them shewed abundant signs of the previous night's carouse; looking as though a couple more hours' sleep were sadly wanted. Headaches abounded among them, and more than one regarded me with a sort of comical envy because I was not dull-eyed, pale, nor unrested. They took it for granted that I had drunk as deeply as they, and set down my steady head as one more proof of my prowess. Some men can always see something of a hero in the man who can drink heavily and yet shew no signs of his dissipation. When the Colonel came and we fell in, there was a disappointment for me. My new plan was based on the correctness of the Nihilist information--that I should have the command of the troops guarding the section of the line where were four alder trees; and I reckoned confidently upon hearing from the Colonel of the alteration in the original plans. But no announcement of the sort was made. On the contrary, as soon as the troops had fallen in, the arrangements which had been announced on the previous day were repeated; and I found that instead of being told off to take charge of the railway to the north of the city, I had to pass the whole day in guarding the Western Gate and the road for some distance on either side of it. I was ordered to parade my men at eight o'clock and to march straight to the place of guard. I went home to breakfast, disappointed and disgusted. I didn't care a jot about missing the sightseeing, but I was angry that the plan on which I had now set my heart had failed; and that instead of being able to strike a vigorous blow for my own freedom I should have to pass the hours dawdling about doing nothing more than a sort of police work in keeping order among a crowd of gaping, staring, gawky, country yokels. I was in an exceedingly ill temper therefore when I returned to the parade ground to start on my most unwelcome and unpalatable task.
11379_2273	love stories	Banks, Nancy Huston	The man never has any such subtle resource and he knows, from first to last, that he must do what is wrong if he does not do what is right. Paul Colbert's troubled perplexity grew deeper as he continued to look at Philip Alston and to listen as he talked. The softness of his voice, the culture that every word revealed, the intellectual quality of each thought, the clear, calm, steady gaze of his fine eyes, the noble shape of his distinguished head--all these things taken together almost made the young doctor feel that Philip Alston was the victim of monstrous calumny. And yet some unerring intuition told him that the terrible things which he had heard were true. His gaze wandered from Philip Alston to Ruth, and he grew sick. A sudden cold dampness gathered on his forehead under all the mellow warmth of the sun. He began to wish that he could get away long enough to clear his mind--to think. It was rather a relief when Philip Alston suggested that William Pressley should lead Ruth out for the next dance. Paul Colbert's gaze followed them as they walked away across the sun-lit grass, but he scarcely knew that he was looking at them till Philip Alston spoke. "They are a handsome, well-matched young couple, are they not?" he said with a smile, and with his eyes on the young doctor's face. "You know, of course, that they are to be married on Christmas Eve." XII THE EVE OF ALL SOULS' Ruth saw Paul Colbert when he passed Cedar House for the first time without stopping. He was riding very fast, and she feared that the Cold Plague must be growing worse. Still, a glance at her chamber window would not have delayed him, and she wondered why he did not turn his head. She was almost sure he must know that she always gave the birds their supper on the window-sill at that hour. She did not know that he had seen her without looking, and had borne away in his heart a picture of her slight white form, framed by the sun-lit window, and surrounded by the fluttering birds. Disappointed, wondering, and vaguely troubled, she gazed after him as long as he was visible amid the green gloom of the forest path. And then when he was lost to sight, she turned sharply on the boldest blue jay. "Go 'way, you greedy thing! You startled me. I wasn't thinking about any of you. How tiresome you all are!
20320_4326	adventure stories	Hemyng, Bracebridge	I'll go for it neck or nothing." "And you will take them there to-night." "I will." "Good! You'll have no cause to repent your decision. They'll do you a turn that you little contemplate." "Right! Now off with you." "I'm gone." And away he went. "What a strange fellow that Markby is," thought Pierre Lenoir, looking after him. "What an odd laugh he has." Alas! Pierre Lenoir had good reason to bear that laugh in mind. But we must not anticipate. * * * * As soon as Markby was fairly out of sight, he beckoned over to a young man in white blouse and a cap, who had walked along on the opposite side of the way, keeping Markby in view all the while without appearing to notice him. The fellow in the blouse ran across at once. "Well, how's it going?" "Beautiful," returned Markby, "nothing could be better. Already have Harkaway and his hard-knuckled companion, Girdwood, been seen in Lenoir's society. But before the day is over they will be seen in the Caveaux themselves, where proofs of their guilt will spring up hydra-headed from the very ground." "And what will it end in?" asked the other, eagerly. "The galleys," returned Markby, with fierce intensity. "Beautiful!" exclaimed the man in the blouse, with unfeigned admiration. "You always must have been a precious sight downier than I thought. Why, your old man was no fool. He made a brown or two floating his coffins, but he was a guileless pup compared to you." "You keep watch," said Markby, hurriedly; "and be ready for any emergency. It is a bold stroke we are playing for. Lenoir is a desperate ruffian, and the least mistake in the business would be something which I for one don't care to contemplate." "Lenoir be blowed," replied the man in the blouse; "the only people I care about if we should go and make a mess of the job is, firstly--Jack Harkaway, and secondly, his pal Harry Girdwood, which a harder fist than his I have seldom received on my unlucky snuffer-tray." And he was gone. CHAPTER XCI. MARKBY'S NEXT STEP--THE PREFECT OF POLICE--THE PLOT THICKENS--A GLIMPSE OF MARKBY'S PURPOSE--A DOUBLE TRAITOR--DEADLY PERIL.
18529_210	love stories	Murray, Roy Irving	And he did. And then I went out to live with my uncle, and this man lives in that town too, and I've seen him ever since, all the time. I know him now. And--" Out of the dimness the clergyman felt, rather than saw, a smile widen--child-like, sardonic--a curious, contagious smile, which bewildered him, almost made him smile back. "You'll think me a pitiful person," she went on, "and I am. But I--almost--hate him. I've promised to marry him and I can't bear to have his fingers touch me." In Geoffrey McBirney's short experience there had been nothing which threw a light on what he should do with a situation of this sort. He was keenly uncomfortable; he wished the rector had stayed at home. At all events, silence was safe, so he was silent with all his might. "When the doctors told me about my malady a month ago, the one light in the blackness was that now I might break my engagement, and I hurried to do it. But he wouldn't. He--" A sound came, half laugh, half sob. "He's certainly faithful. But--I've got a lot of money. It's frightful," she burst forth. "It's the crowning touch, to doubt even his sincerity. And I may be wrong--he may care for me. He says so. I think my heart has ossified first, and is finished, for it is quite cold when he says so. I _can't_ marry him! So I might as well kill myself," she concluded, in a casual tone, like a splash of cold water on the hot intensity of the sentences before. And the man, listening, realized that now he must say something. But what to say? His mind seemed blank, or at best a muddle of protest. And the light-hearted voice spoke again. "I think I'll do it to-night, unless you tell me I'd certainly go to hell forever." Then the protest was no longer muddled, but defined. "You mustn't do that," he said, with authority. "Suppose a man is riding a runaway horse and he loses his nerve and throws himself off and is killed--is that as good a way as if he sat tight and fought hard until the horse ran into a wall and killed him? I think not.
287_1859	western stories	Barr, Amelia E.	“How could I look Lopez Navarro in the face? Or any other man? No, no! I must win back my arms, before I can walk the streets of San Antonio again.” He took her in his arms, he kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her lips, murmuring tender little Spanish words that meant, oh, so much, to the wretched woman!--words she had taught him with kisses--words he never used but to her ears only. She clung to his neck, to his hands, to his feet; she made his farewell an unspeakable agony. At last he laid her upon her couch, sobbing and shrieking like a child in an extremity of physical anguish. But he did not blame her. Her impetuosities, her unreasonable extravagances, were a part of her nature, her race, and her character. He did not expect a weak, excitable woman to become suddenly a creature of flame and steel. But it was a wonderful rest to his exhausted body and soul to turn from her to Antonia. She led him quietly to his chair by the parlor fire. She gave him food and wine. She listened patiently, but with a living sympathy, to his wrong. She endorsed, with a clasp of his hand and a smile, his purpose. And she said, almost cheerfully: “You have not given up all your arms, father. When I first heard of the edict, I hid in my own room the rifle, the powder and the shot, which were in your study. Paola has knives in the stable; plenty of them. Get one from him.” Good news is a very relative thing. This information made the doctor feel as if all were now easy and possible. The words he said to her, Antonia never forgot. They sang in her heart like music, and led her on through many a difficult path. The conversation then turned upon money matters, and Antonia received the key of his study, and full directions as to the gold and papers secreted there. Then Isabel was awakened, and the rifle brought down; and Paola saddled the fleetest horse in the stable, and after one solemn five minutes with his daughter, Robert Worth rode away into the midnight darkness, and into a chaos of public events of which no man living could forecast the outcome. Rode away from wife and children and home; leaving behind him the love and labor of his lifetime-- “The thousand sweet, still joys of such As hand in hand face earthly life.” For what?
25071_1332	adventure stories	Borrow, George	but Jasper, only a few weeks ago, told me that you were not married; and, indeed, almost gave me to understand that you would be very glad to get a husband.' 'And you believed him? I'll tell you, brother, for your instruction, that there is not in the whole world a greater liar than Jasper Petulengro.' 'I am sorry to hear it, Ursula; but with respect to him you married--who might he be? A gorgio, or a Romany chal?' 'Gorgio, or Romany chal? Do you think I would ever condescend to a gorgio? It was a Camomescro, {75} brother, a Lovell, a distant relation of my own.' 'And where is he, and what became of him? Have you any family?' 'Don't think I am going to tell you all my history, brother; and, to tell you the truth, I am tired of sitting under hedges with you, talking nonsense. I shall go to my house.' 'Do sit a little longer, sister Ursula. I most heartily congratulate you on your marriage. But where is this same Lovell? I have never seen him: I should wish to congratulate him, too. You are quite as handsome as the Meridiana of Pulci, Ursula, ay, or the Despina of Riciardetto. Riciardetto, Ursula, is a poem written by one Fortiguerra, about ninety years ago, in imitation of the Morgante of Pulci. It treats of the wars of Charlemagne and his Paladins with various barbarous nations, who came to besiege Paris. Despina was the daughter and heiress of Scricca, King of Cafria; she was the beloved of Riciardetto, and was beautiful as an angel; but I make no doubt you are quite as handsome as she.' 'Brother,' said Ursula--but the reply of Ursula I reserve for another chapter, the present having attained to rather an uncommon length, for which, however, the importance of the matter discussed is a sufficient apology. CHAPTER XI URSULA'S TALE--THE PATTERAN--THE DEEP WATER--SECOND HUSBAND 'Brother,' said Ursula, plucking a dandelion which grew at her feet, 'I have always said that a more civil and pleasant-spoken person than yourself can't be found. I have a great regard for you and your learning, and am willing to do you any pleasure in the way of words or conversation.
31286_770	science fiction	Del Rey, Lester	He shoved back now, and stood up. "Some tests I have to make, Captain. I have an idea that might turn up the killer among us!" I had an idea he was bluffing, but I kept my mouth shut. A bluff was as good as anything else, it seemed. At least, it was better than anything I seemed able to do. I prowled over the ship, sometimes meeting Peters doing the same, but I couldn't find a bit of evidence. The crewmen sat watching with hating eyes. And probably the rest aboard hated and feared us just as much. It wasn't hard to imagine the man who was behind it all deciding to wipe one of us out. My neck got a permanent crimp from keeping one eye behind me. But there wasn't a shred of evidence I could find. In two more days, we began to notice the stuffiness more. My breathing went up enough to notice. Somehow, I couldn't get a full breath. And the third night, I woke up in the middle of my sleep with the feeling something was sitting on my chest; but since I'd taken to sleeping with the light on, I saw that it was just the stuffiness that was bothering me. Maybe most of it had been psychological up until then. But that was the real thing. The nice part of it was that it wouldn't be sudden--we'd have days to get closer and closer to death; and days for each one to realize a little more that every man who wasn't breathing would make it that much easier for the rest of us. I caught myself thinking of it when I saw Bullard or Grundy. * * * * * Then trouble struck again. I was late getting to the scene this time, down by the engine room. Muller and Bill Sanderson were ahead of me, trying to separate Hal Lomax and Grundy, and not doing so well. Lomax brought up a haymaker as I arrived, and started to shout something. But Grundy was out of Muller's grasp, and up, swinging a wrench. It connected with a dull thud, and Lomax hit the floor, unconscious. I picked Grundy up by the collar of his jacket, heaved him around and against a wall, where I could get my hand against his esophagus and start squeezing. His eyeballs popped, and the wrench dropped from his hands. When I get mad enough to act that way, I usually know I'll regret it later. This time it felt good, all the way.
14219_1097	love stories	Runkle, Bertha	Yet there was more than terror in his face; there was the look you see in the eyes of a trapped animal that watches its chance to bite. Yeux-gris cried out: "You dare not send that man, Gervais." "Why not?" "Because the moment he is clear of the house he will betray you. Look at his face." "He shall swear on the cross!" "Aye. But you cannot trust the oath of such as he." "What would you? We must send." "As you will. But you are mad if you send him." Gervais pondered a moment, his slower wits taking in the situation. Then he seized the man by the collar, fairly flung him across the room into the closet, and bolted the door upon him. "I will settle with him later. But you are right. We cannot send him." Yeux-gris burst into laughter. "My faith! we could not have more trouble if we were heads of the League than this little duel of yours is giving us. Why, what if we are seen? I will go." Gervais started. "No; that will not do." "Eh, bien, then, what will you propose?" But it was some one else who proposed. I said to Yeux-gris: "Monsieur, if all your purpose is against Lucas and no other, I am your man. I will go." "What, my stubborn-neck, you?" "Why, monsieur, I owe you a great debt. While I thought you meant ill to M. le Duc, I could not serve you. But this Lucas is another pair of sleeves. I owe him no allegiance. Moreover, he nearly killed me this morning. Therefore I am quite at your disposal." "Now, I wonder if you are lying," said Gervais. "I do not think he is lying," Yeux-gris said. "I trow, Gervais, we have got our messenger." "You tell me to beware of Pontou because he hates me, and then would have me trust this fellow?" Gervais demanded with some acumen. I said: "Monsieur, you do not seem to understand how I come to make this offer." "To get out of the house with a whole skin." I had a joy in daring him, being sure of Yeux-gris.
5901_2192	detective and mystery stories	Pinkerton, A. Frank	"Come this way." As the woman led the way through a back door, into another apartment, a pair of strong hands suddenly seized and held her fast, while a voice hissed in her ear: "Not a sound or you die!" It was a startling situation. "I am here for a purpose," said the old man, a sudden change in his voice. "I want you to lead me to the room in which Nell Darrel is confined." The man's hands fell from the woman's shoulders, and when she turned about, she found that he had her covered with a revolver. His voice sounded familiar. "You're the detective, Dyke Darrel?" "It matters not. Show me the way to the room where you have Nell Darrel imprisoned," uttered the man in a stern voice. The menacing revolver decided the woman. The old building had been arranged for emergencies of this kind, as the sequel will show. A strange glitter came to the eyes of Mrs. Scarlet as she said: "Who told you that Nell Darrel was in this house?" "It matters not. Lead the way at once, or it will be the worse for you." "You dare not harm me." "I'll show you, if you attempt to play me false. A dozen policemen have their eyes on this building at this moment." "Come on." The woman turned and walked forward. She passed into a hall, and halting at a side door, unlocked it and pushed it open. "In there." "Go on. You shall keep me company." Mrs. Scarlet advanced, closely followed by the detective. The moment he crossed the threshold the door closed behind him, and the lamp was extinguished, leaving everything in total darkness. Then the detective felt the floor give way, and he was precipitated to his doom, the last sound reaching his ears being a mocking laugh from Aunt Scarlet. CHAPTER XX. OVERMATCHED BY A GIRL. A low chuckle fell from the lips of Madge Scarlet. "I reckon you've met your match this time, Dyke Darrel. I will now enjoy the sweetest revenge; it will be like honey to my blistered tongue. You've done your last shadowing of your betters. Dan'l, husband, you shall be avenged before to-morrow's sun rises over Chicago." Lighting her lamp, the woman fiend bent down and peered through a square opening in the floor to the depths below.
20563_1905	love stories	Thomson, Charles Goff	Their sharp shadows had shortened a third when they swung up from the beach and trotted down the unkempt street of Sabaga. A chorus of howls, set up by bony, slinking curs of the type that infest all native villages, announced their presence but there was no sign of life in any of the shambling bamboo houses. The village seemed deserted. They pulled up, the Sergeant pointing significantly at the carabaos tied up under the high perched huts. Terry understood: fear of the ladrones had paralyzed the natives. As he studied the closed windows and doors, sensed the terror of these defenseless, harmless people, a cold hatred of the spoilers narrowed his steel-gray eyes. They were about to press on when the quiet of the town was suddenly broken by a cry sounded from a house behind them: "_El Soltario! El Constabulario!_" The exultant shout was taken up by other voices as windows were cautiously raised: in a moment the doors were thrown wide and a crowd of natives swarmed about the two riders. The men shrill-voiced, women and children hysterical, they crowded around the pair in a confidence that was pitiful. Frightened beyond a white man's conception by the midnight visitation of ladrones within a half-mile of their village, cowed, witless, they were reassured merely by the uniforms the two riders wore--the red-piped uniform of the small, scattered force of five thousand Filipinos, who, ably officered, highly trained, intrepid, have never tasted defeat: have wiped out every murderous band that raised treacherous hand and then, outlawry scotched, have turned the power of their discipline against the scourges of diseases, floods, cattle plagues, typhoons. Unsung, unwept, they have carried on, their motto Service and their goal Success. Terry, patient, reassuring, lingered till he had overcome their immediate fears, left them content with their faith in the protection he promised them. Hurrying on, Terry and his Sergeant shortly came to Ledesma's well kept plantation, and Terry turned his pony over to the Sergeant and approached the big bamboo house. Ledesma, gray-haired, distinguished looking, bearing his grief with Tagalog stoicism, greeted him with the finished courtesy of the Spanish tradition and led him up the precarious slatted steps into the house. It was a house of desolation. The mother lay moaning wretchedly upon the cane bottom of the carved mahogany bed which, with four chairs, a round table and a talking machine made up the furniture of the main room.
47128_3669	adventure stories	Duncan, Norman	Billy caught his hand, as the ice disintegrated under his feet, and dragged him ashore. "It can't be done," said Archie. "No, b'y; it can't." "We'll try Ha-ha Shallow again. We've _got_ to get across." A moment, however, Archie paused. A startling possibility possessed his imagination. It was nothing remote, nothing vague; it was real, concrete, imminent. Standing on the brink of the rock at the point where the ice-bridge began, he contemplated the chances of Rattle Water. With a crossing of Ha-ha Shallow immediately in prospect, there was something for affrighted reflection in the current below. And the suggestion was vivid and ugly. There the water was flowing black, spread with creamy puffs of foam; and it ran swift and deep, in strong, straight lines, as it approached the Black Pool ice and vanished beneath. There was a space between the ice and the fallen current--not much: two feet, perhaps; but it occurred to Archie, with sudden, shocking force, that two feet were too much. And the deep, oily, adherent flow of the current, and the space between the ice and the water, and the cavernous shadow beneath the ice, and the gurgle and lapping of the pool, made the flesh of his back uneasy. "A nasty fix," he observed. "What's that, Archie?" "If a man lost his feet in the current." "He'd come down like a chip." "He would. And he'd slip under the ice. Watch these puffs of foam. What would happen to a man under there, Billy?" "He'd drown in the pool. He couldn't get out." "Right, Billy," Archie agreed, shortly. "He'd drown in the pool. He couldn't get out. The current would hold him in there. Come along." "Shall we try it, Archie?" "We'll look it over." "An' if we think----" "Then we'll do it!" Billy laughed. "Archie," said he, "I--I--I _likes_ you!" "Shucks!" said Archie.
7832_5062	love stories	Phillips, David Graham	“The feeling a woman has for a man or a man for a woman, without any response, isn’t love, isn’t worthy the name of love. It’s a sort of baffled covetousness. Love means generosity, not greediness.” Then--“Why do you not ask me whether what she said is true?” The change in her tone with that last sentence, the strange, ominous note in it, startled me, “Because,” replied I, “as I said to her, to ask my wife such a question would be to insult her. If you were riding with him, it was an accident.” As if my rude repulse of her overtures and my keeping away from her ever since would not have justified her in almost anything. She flushed the dark red of shame, but her gaze held steady and unflinching upon mine. “It was not altogether by accident,” she said. And I think she expected me to kill her. When a man admits and respects a woman’s rights where he is himself concerned, he either is no longer interested in her or has begun to love her so well that he can control the savage and selfish instincts of passion. If Mowbray Langdon had been there, I might have killed them both; but he was not there, and she, facing me without fear, was not the woman to be suspected of the stealthy and traitorous. “It was he that you meant when you warned me you cared for another man?” said I, so quietly that I wondered at myself; wondered what had become of the “Black Matt” who had used his fists almost as much as his brains in fighting his way up. “Yes,” she said, her head down now. A long pause. “You wish to be free?” I asked, and my tone must have been gentle. “I wish to free you,” she replied slowly and deliberately. There was a long silence. Then I said: “I must think it all out. I once told you how I felt about these matters. I’ve greatly changed my mind since our talk that night in the Willoughby; but my prejudices are still with me. Perhaps you will not be surprised at that--you whose prejudices have cost me so dear.” I thought she was going to speak. Instead she turned away, so that I could no longer see her face. “Our marriage was a miserable mistake,” I went on, struggling to be just and judicial, and to seem calm.
31922_125	science fiction	Causey, James	It turned out to be an ancient rooming house on the West Side. Mrs. Reardon, the landlady, was an apathetic woman who brightened when he asked her about Amenth. "He moved in just three weeks ago." Her face softened in recollection. "He was like a lost dog coming in out of the rain. Couldn't hardly speak English and he wanted me to trust him for the rent. I must have been crazy." Her nostrils flared. "Not that he hasn't paid up. Are you a cop?" Vogel nodded as he took out his wallet. In it was his honorary sheriff's badge, but he doubted if the woman would know the difference. She didn't. She led the way upstairs to Amenth's room, worrying, and Vogel assured her they were only looking for a hit-and-run witness, that it was strictly routine. Amenth's room was incredibly aseptic, barren of pictures, ash trays, dirty laundry, any of the normal masculine debris. Vogel got the stark impression of a convict's cell. In the bleak dresser were two pair of socks, underwear, one tie. In the closet hung one white shirt ... period. Everything wore an indefinable patina of newness. Two books graced the top of the dresser. Vogel recognized one of them, a text on fabrication and design which Amenth had borrowed from his office. The other was a child's primer of English. "He stays in his room almost every night--reads mostly, and he speaks English much better now," said Mrs. Reardon. "A good tenant--I can't complain--and he's quiet and clean." She described Amenth and Vogel shook his head. "Our man is about sixty, with a beard," he said. "Funny coincidence. It's a strange name." Mrs. Reardon agreed. Vogel drove back to the shop, whistling. [Illustration] He did not go to his chess club that night, but went to the library instead. He read about Flying Saucers, about space travel, about the possibility of life on other planets. Sometimes he chuckled. Once he frowned deeply and bit his lip. That night in bed, listening to his wife's shallow breathing, he said, "Alice." "Yes?" "Supposing you were lost on a desert island. What would you do?" "I'd build a raft," she said sleepily. Vogel smiled into the darkness.
30318_4881	western stories	Garland, Hamlin	He did indeed dine with them that night, and quite won the Captain to a belief in him. "Come again," he heartily said. And the great artist feelingly answered: "I mean to, for, strange to say, I am almost as lonesome in this big town as anybody could be." This was a lie, but Haney's sympathy was roused. "There'll always be an empty chair for you," he repeated, with a feeling that he, too, was encouraging art. Humiston pursued this game with singular and joyous skill. He talked of the West and of politics with the Captain, and of love and art and his essentially lonely life to Bertha. He returned often to the wish that they might meet in Paris. "A trip abroad would do you infinite good," he insisted. "What you need is three years of life in Paris. With your beauty and money, and, above all, with your personal magnetism, you could reign like a queen. I wonder that you don't go. It would be worth more to you than any other possible schooling. I don't know of anything in this world that would give me greater pleasure than to show you Paris." Bertha's silence in face of these approaches deceived him. The throbbing of her bosom, the fall of her eyelashes, were due to instinctive distrust of him. That he was more dangerous than the rough miners and cowboys of the West she could not believe, and yet she drew back in growing fear of one who openly claimed the right to plow athwart all the barriers of law and custom. His mind's flight was like that of the eagle--now rising to the sun in exultation, now falling to the gray sea to slay. At times she felt a kind of gratitude that he should be willing to sit beside her and talk--he, so skilled, so learned, so famous. The Chicago papers were still filled with criticism of his work and his theories, and this discussion, as well as the appearance of his portrait in the magazines, had made of him a very exalted person in little Mrs. Haney's eyes, and the interest he took in her was too subtly flattering not to affect her. He seemed fond of the Captain, too, and often joined them in their trips about the city, and the fellows who had known Humiston in Paris and who did not know Bertha nodded knowingly. "Jerry's amusing himself, as usual.
1699_3042	detective and mystery stories	Oppenheim, E. Phillips (Edward Phillips)	she begged. “No one knows. My uncle gave out, as soon as he was conscious, that it was an accident.” “That, at any rate, was fine of him,” Hamel declared. She shivered. “He was proud, at least, of our family name. Whatever credit he deserves for it, he must have. It was owing to that accident that we became his slaves: nothing but that--his absolute slaves, to wait upon him, if he would, hand and foot. You see, he has never been able to marry. His life was, of course, ruined. So the burden came to us. We took it up, little thinking what was in store for us. Five years ago we came here to live. Gerald wanted to go into the army; I wanted to travel with my mother. Gerald has done all the work secretly, but he has never been allowed to pass his examinations. I have never left England except to spend two years at the strictest boarding-school in Paris, to which I was taken and fetched away by one of his creatures. We live here, with the shadow of this thing always with us. We are his puppets. If we hesitate to do his bidding, he reminds us. So far, we have been his creatures, body and soul. Whether it will go on, I cannot say--oh, I cannot say! It is bad for us, but--there is mother, too. He makes her life a perfect hell!” A roar of wind came booming once more across the marshes, bending the trees which grew so thickly beneath them and which ascended precipitately to the back of the house. The French windows behind rattled. She looked around nervously. “I am afraid of him all the time,” she murmured. “He seems to overhear everything--he or his creatures. Listen!” They were silent for several moments. He whispered in her ear so closely that through the darkness he could, see the fire in her eyes. “You are telling me half,” he said. “Tell me everything. Who threw your uncle over the parapet?” She stood by his side, motionless and trembling. “It was the passion of a moment,” she said at last, speaking hoarsely. “I cannot tell you. Listen! Listen!” “There is no one near,” Hamel assured her. “It is the wind which shakes the windows.
51967_3405	adventure stories	Paltock, Robert	Arco and Telamine (the murderer and his wife) lived seven thousand years in the flames; till having with their teeth wrought a passage through the side of the mountain, they begat a new generation about the foot of the mountain; and having brought fire with them, resolved to keep it burning ever after in memory of their escape; and power being given them over bad men, they and their progeny are now wholly employed in beating and tormenting them. "A great while after Arco and Telamine were thus disposed of, the people of this country multiplying, it happened one year that all the fruits were so dry that the people, not able to live any longer upon the moisture of them only, as they had always done before, and fearing all to be consumed with drought, one of their ragans praying very much, and promising to make an image to Collwar and preserve it for ever, if he would send them but moisture, in one night's time the earth cast up such a flood that they were forced to mount on the rocks for fear of drowning. But the next day it all sunk away again, except several little bubbles which remained in many places for a long time, and the people lived only on the moisture they sucked from the stone where those bubbles settled for many years; for they found that the water arose to the height of the surface, and no higher; and where they found most of those chinks and bubbles they settled and formed cities, living altogether in holes of the rock; till one Lallio, having found out the art of crumbling the rock to dust by a liquor he got from the trees, and working himself a noble house in the rock, in the place where our palace now stands, he told them if they would make him their king, they should each have such a house as his own. To this they agreed, and then he discovered the secret to them. "This Lallio directed the cutting out this whole city, divided the people into colonies where the waters were most plenty; and while half the people worked at the streets and houses, the other half brought them provisions. In short, he grew so powerful that no one durst dispute his commands; all which authority he transmitted to his successors, who, finding by the increase of the people and the many divisions of them that they grew insolent and ungovernable, they appointed a colamb in every province, as a vice-king, with absolute authority over all causes, except murder and treason, which are referred to the king and colambs in moucheratt.
29290_168	science fiction	Hensley, Joe L.	They had hounded him back to the land when he quit. Others had not been so lucky. When a whole people panic then an object for their hate must be found. A naming. An immediate object. He remembered the newspaper story that began: "They lynched twelve men, twelve ex-men, in New Mexico last night ..." _Have I been wrong? Have I done the right thing?_ He remembered the tiny hands in his own, the blind eyes. _Those hands. Why do they make me feel like ..._ He let his head slide back against the padded top of the rocking chair and fell into a light, uneasy sleep. The dreams came as they had before. Tiny, inhumanly capable hands clutched at him and the sun was hot above. There was a background sound of hydrogen bombs, heard mutely. He looked down at the hands that touched and asked something of his own. The eyes were not milky now. They stared up at him, alert and questioning. _What is it you want?_ The wind tore holes in tiny voices and there was the sound of laughter and his wife's eyes were looking into his own, sorry only for him, at peace with the rest. And they formed a ring around him, those three, hands caught together, enclosing him. _What is it you are saying?_ It seemed to him that the words would come clear, but the rain came then, great torrents of it, washing all away, all sight and sound.... * * * * * He awoke and only the rain was true. The tiny rain had increased to a wind-driven downpour and he was soaked where it had blown under the eaves onto the porch. From inside the house he heard a cry. She was sitting upright in bed. Her eyes were open and full of pain. He went quickly to her and touched her pulse. It was faint and reedy. "I hurt," she whispered. Quickly, as the doctor had taught him, he made up a shot of morphine, a full quarter grain, and gave it to her. Her eyes glazed down, but did not close. "John," she said softly, "the children ... they ... talk to ..." She twisted on the bed and he held her with strong arms until the eyes closed again and her breathing became easy. He pushed the ruffled hair back from her eyes and straightened the awry sheets. The vibration of his walking might have wakened the twins.
2127_486	love stories	Saint-Pierre, Bernardin de	This mountain was that of the Three Breasts, so called from the form of its three peaks. They then descended the steep bank of the Black River, on the northern side; and arrived, after an hour's walk, on the banks of a large river, which stopped their further progress. This large portion of the island, covered as it is with forests, is even now so little known that many of its rivers and mountains have not yet received a name. The stream, on the banks of which Paul and Virginia were now standing, rolls foaming over a bed of rocks. The noise of the water frightened Virginia, and she was afraid to wade through the current: Paul therefore took her up in his arms, and went thus loaded over the slippery rocks, which formed the bed of the river, careless of the tumultuous noise of its waters. "Do not be afraid," cried he to Virginia; "I feel very strong with you. If that planter at the Black River had refused you the pardon of his slave, I would have fought with him."--"What!" answered Virginia, "with that great wicked man? To what have I exposed you! Gracious heaven! how difficult it is to do good! and yet it is so easy to do wrong." When Paul had crossed the river, he wished to continue the journey carrying his sister: and he flattered himself that he could ascend in that way the mountain of the Three Breasts, which was still at the distance of half a league; but his strength soon failed, and he was obliged to set down his burthen, and to rest himself by her side. Virginia then said to him, "My dear brother, the sun is going down; you have still some strength left, but mine has quite failed: do leave me here, and return home alone to ease the fears of our mothers."--"Oh no," said Paul, "I will not leave you if night overtakes us in this wood, I will light a fire, and bring down another palm-tree: you shall eat the cabbage, and I will form a covering of the leaves to shelter you." In the meantime, Virginia being a little rested, she gathered from the trunk of an old tree, which overhung the bank of the river, some long leaves of the plant called hart's tongue, which grew near its root.
64835_159	western stories	Thompson, Will H.	and you will be in time. The Major and I will see this hunt to the end. Come, Major, we can cross two miles above here, but it will be six miles as we ride.’ “Back we went to our horses, leaving four men to care for the dead, and at last, after many slides and zigzags, reached the river at a point where the current was slow. Cady’s horse took the water by a plunge from the crumbling bank, and we followed, swimming our animals to a narrow shingle at the base of the opposite bluff. Following this stony passageway a short distance, we scaled the hill after a struggle that left a number of our horses useless, and after a brief rest fifteen of us rode on. “We struck the trail two miles from the river, at the point where the ravine rose to the level of the mesa, and followed it across rugged country—hard upon our horses, and harder, too, it must have been, for the indomitable man who crossed it on foot, keeping a direct course for the mountains. * * * * * “The blood-stains, found in many places, indicated severe wounds, yet the length of his strides and the deep impressions of his feet proved that he had passed at great speed. What exhaustless fountain of infernal energy supplied the strength to maintain this reckless waste? Many times we asked ourselves this question as hour after hour we urged on our flagging horses. No animal is equal to man at his best, and here, I think, was Nature’s masterpiece. “We climbed the first foothills at sunset. As night came on with clouds obscuring the moon the pursuit became impossible and we unsaddled our tired horses, spread our blankets and slept until daybreak. “Frequently, since recovering the trail, Cady had dismounted and closely examined the footprints of the fleeing man, with a look in his eyes that puzzled me. It betokened amazement, admiration and something akin to pity. “When we took the saddle at sunrise the pace was forced, and within a mile we came to the spot where Tigre had passed the night, and I was amazed to find that, wounded and wearied unto death as he must have been, he had, with much patient toil, gathered from far and near enough of weed-stems and grass-blades to make a soft couch whereon to pass the night. The scant growth upon the waterless mesa betrayed the labor necessary in such gleaning.
23149_199	science fiction	Mohler, Will	"I knowed a guy caught it from a drinking glass once." This dialogue might have gone on much longer if Dewforth had not just then noticed that his noninformer was sitting on the bottom step of a long, dark stairway which led up and up into a jungle of lacy girders and shadows above them. He did not bother kicking the pear-shaped man. He stepped over him and ran up the stairs two at a time. His footsteps rang on the iron stairs and carried through the structure. It sounded like the bells of a sunken cathedral ringing in the tide. On the second level there was more light and more air. It was colder. There were loiterers on the second level too, but these were far from menacing. They clung to things and pressed themselves against things, and they stared with unfocused eyes at something which had been there before but was not there now. These men seemed to be wearing greasy fezzes and dark, baggy long underwear with buttons and vestigial lapels. As he approached them, Dewforth saw that the fezzes were actually felt hats with the brims atrophied or rotted away, and the funereal long-johns were the weatherbeaten remains of those suits which are designed for Young Men On The Way Up. As though by tacit agreement of long standing, these men did not look directly at Dewforth as he passed, nor he at them. There was no difficulty about finding a stairway to the next level, but there was a rusty chain across the entrance. Dewforth's foot caught in this chain as he stepped over it, and it shattered like a chain of stale pretzels. There were no more people beyond the second level--none that could be seen. He soon lost count of levels. Stairs became narrower and more heavily encrusted with birdlime and rust as he ascended. In some places there were long sweeping ramps which led to blind sacs or reached out unsupported into space, and he was forced to retrace his steps. At no time did he look down, even when it was possible. There were usually high barriers along the platforms and ramps. These were covered with layers of old advertising posters which peeled and were torn by the wind, revealing still more ancient posters underneath. They seemed to have grown there by themselves like lichen. It seemed entirely reasonable to Dewforth that the writing on the older posters underneath was runic or demotic and the faces were ochre-stained skulls, but his impulse was to hurry past and not study them too closely.
64965_123	science fiction	Marlowe, Stephen	I want my arms around A slim, small girl of Earth. If she don't come to me I think I'll have to die For the slim, small girl of Earth. "Well, Harry! Thought you'd never get here." "I had some things to do," Marsden lied. "They already landed. They're here on Talbor. Here. They went to the hotel right away, of course. First time the hotel's been used since the last freighter crew decided to stay overnight. The mayor's declared a holiday. Nobody's working tomorrow." "Me and Marie got to work," said Marsden, realizing he might be able to make peace with his wife after a day in the field. "You ain't serious." Marsden said, "How many of them came?" "About twenty, half of them women, Harry. You should see the women, Harry. They wear real frilly things, like you never even saw on Talbor. They're beautiful, friend. You _know_ it. I mean beautiful all over. Hair fixed like it would take weeks to unravel. Belly's so thin you could get your fingers around them. Straight, slim legs, not a muscle on them. Such white skin you'd swear it was made out of milk. And the way they walked, Harry--so delicate they could have run across a field of fresh eggs without breaking a shell." "I think I'll spend the night in town," said Marsden, forgetting all about Marie. "Oh, didn't Marie come to town with you?" Marsden shook his head without talking. "Janie didn't come neither. Say now, that's all right, Harry. That sure is all right. Leave the wife at home on a night like this. You know what? I think I'll take a room right there in the hotel and maybe even get to eat breakfast with the women of Earth. What do you say, Harry?" "Suits me." Marsden's mind formed a brief image of Marie trying awkwardly to fit into the dress--to please me, he suddenly realized--and then the image faded. With Charlie Adcock he pushed through the crowd on the hotel steps. * * * * * Marsden felt breakfast, heavy mouthful by mouthful, forming an uncomfortable lump inside his chest.
37271_1382	western stories	Vandercook, Margaret	Jack answered, slipping her arm through her younger sister's. "Still, having done your duty, don't you think that after all I may be allowed to use my own judgment in this decision? Suppose I happen to think that life just now is offering me a great and surprising opportunity! It is surprising for me to have been chosen for this distinction; I feel this as keenly as any one of my family or friends, knowing my deficiencies, can feel it! Now don't you think it's unfair to threaten me, Frieda, to threaten in the one way which you know hurts most, the loss of any part of your affection, if I cannot make up my mind to do what you think best for me, not what I may think best for myself? I have never in all our lives, Frieda, suggested that any act of yours could possibly make me care for you less." Frieda's voice wavered a little. "Yes, I know, Jack, but then I would never do anything so rash and so foolish as what you contemplate. To see your name in the newspapers, to know that people are everywhere discussing your private affairs, making up disagreeable stories about you if they wish, for you know you are unconventional, Jack, and sometimes do give people opportunities to misjudge you, well, I simply can't bear it. So come on, baby, let us go back home, I see we are in the way here. I apologize, Jack, for wasting your time and mine. I had some socks of Henry's I wished to darn, and I should have been much better employed, as I see you already have reached your decision. Well, Jack, I am sure something very unfortunate will come of any such decision; when you become a public character you will certainly never be the same person to me." Frieda had slipped her hand inside her little girl's and was about to move away when Jack's arms went round her and her gray eyes, filled with tears, gazed into Frieda's implacable blue ones. "Frieda, in spite of all your sweetness, don't you realize that you are rather hard sometimes? I wonder if life will ever teach you to be different?" Frieda's eyes wavered an instant. "I see nothing to be gained by discussing my weaknesses of character. So long as I satisfy my husband and child I can manage without your good opinion, especially now I know that my interest and my wishes have not the slightest effect upon you."
287_2463	western stories	Barr, Amelia E.	Holy Maria! pray for me.” “Mi madre, I am innocent of wrong. I have committed no sin. Is it a sin to obey my father? Isabel, darling, speak for me.” “But, then, what have you done, Antonia?” “Fray Ignatius wants us to go to the convent. I refused. My father made me promise to do so. Is not our first duty to our father? Mother, is it not? “No, no; to God--and to Fray Ignatius, as the priest of God. He says we ought to go to the convent. He knows best. We have been disobedient and wicked.” “Isabel, speak, my dear one. Tell mi madre if you think we should go.” There was a moment’s wavering, and then Isabel went to her mother and caressed her as only Isabel could caress her, and with the kisses, she said boldly: “Mi madre, we will not go to the convent. Not any of us. It is a dreadful place, even for a happy child. Oh, how cold and still are the Sisters! They are like stone figures that move about.” “Hush, child! I cannot listen to you! Go away! I must be alone. I must think. I must pray. Only the Mother of Sorrows can help me.” It was a miserable sequence to the happy night, and Antonia was really terrified at the position in which she found herself. If the Americans should fall, nothing but flight, or uncompromising submission to Fray Ignatius, remained for her. She knew only too well how miserable her life could be made; what moral torture could be inflicted; what spiritual servitude exacted. In a moment of time she had comprehended her danger, and her heart sank and sickened with a genuine physical terror. The cold was still severe, and no one answered her call for wood. Isabel crouched, white and shivering, over the dying embers, and it was she who first uttered the fear Antonia had refused to admit to herself--“Suppose the servants are forbidden to wait upon us!” “I will bring wood myself, dearest.” She was greatly comforted by the word “us.” She could almost have wept for joy of the sympathy it included. For thought is rapid in such crucial moments, and she had decided that even flight with her would be a kinder fate for Isabel, than the cruel tender mercies of the Sisters and the convent. They could not talk much.
31485_2234	love stories	Nason, Frank Lewis	He glanced from the bar to the gaming-tables, where a few listless players were engaged at cards, and finally stepped out upon the broad piazza. He glanced at Morrison, who was following Firmstone with a look of malignant hatred. "Meestaire Firmstone, he bin come from ze mine?" "To hell with Firmstone!" growled Morrison. He turned and entered the saloon. Pierre followed him with knowing eyes. "To hell wiz Firmstone, heh?" He breathed softly. "_Bien!_" Pierre stood looking complacently over the broken landscape. Much understanding was coming to him. The harmlessness of the dove radiated from his beaming face, but the wisdom of the serpent was shining in his eyes. CHAPTER XI _The Devil's Elbow_ If Firmstone had flattered himself that his firm but just treatment of Luna in the case of the stolen ore had cleared his path of difficulties he would have been forced by current events to a rude awakening. He had been neither flattered nor deceived. He knew very well that a prop put under an unstable boulder may obscure the manifestation of gravity; but he never deceived himself with the thought that it had been eliminated. The warming-up process, recommended by Pierre, was being actively exploited. Scarcely a day passed but some annoying accident at the mine or mill occurred, frequently necessitating prolonged shut-downs. Day by day, by ones, by twos, by threes, his best men were leaving the mine. There was no need to ask them why, even if they would have given a truthful answer. He knew very well why. Yet he was neither disheartened nor discouraged. He realised the fact clearly, as he had written to his Eastern employers that it would take time and much patient endeavour to restore order where chaos had reigned so long undisturbed. There was another element impeding his progress which he by no means ignored--that was the Blue Goose. He had no tangible evidence against the resort beyond its obvious pretensions. He had no need of the unintentional but direct evidence of Élise's words that the habitués of the Blue Goose there aired their grievances, real or imagined, and that both Pierre and Morrison were assiduously cultivating this restlessness by sympathy and counsel. He was morally certain of another fact--that the Blue Goose was indirectly, at least, at the bottom of the extensive system of thieving, in offering a sure market for the stolen gold.
29748_538	western stories	Ogden, George W. (George Washington)	The Duke was in the saddle, holding in Whetstone with stiff rein, for the animal was trembling with eagerness to spring away, knowing very well from the preparations which had been going forward that some big event in the lives of his master and himself was pending. The Duke held him, looking back over his shoulder, measuring the distance as the train came sweeping grandly round the curve. He waited until the engine was within a hundred feet of him before he loosed rein and let old Whetstone go. A yell ran up the line of spectators as the pale yellow horse reached out his long neck, chin level against the wind like a swimmer, and ran as no horse ever had run on that race-course before. Every horseman there knew that the Duke was still holding him in, allowing the train to creep up on him as if he scorned to take advantage of the handicap. The engineer saw that this was going to be a different kind of race from the yelling, chattering troop of wild riders which he had been outrunning with unbroken regularity. In that yellow streak of horse, that low-bending, bony rider, he saw a possibility of defeat and disgrace. His head disappeared out of the window, his derisive hand vanished. He was turning valves and pulling levers, trying to coax a little more power into his piston strokes. The Duke held Whetstone back until his wind had set to the labor, his muscles flexed, his sinews stretched to the race. A third of the race was covered when the engine came neck and neck with the horse, and the engineer, confident now, leaned far out, swinging his hand like the oar of a boat, and shouted: "Come on! Come on!" Just a moment too soon this confidence, a moment too soon this defiance. It was the Duke's program to run this thing neck and neck, force to force, with no advantage asked or taken. Then if he could gather speed and beat the engine on the home stretch no man, on the train or off, could say that he had done it with the advantage of a handicap. There was a great whooping, a great thumping of hoofs, a monstrous swirl of dust, as the riders at the side of the race-course saw the Duke's maneuver and read his intention. Away they swept, a noisy troop, like a flight of blackbirds, hats off, guns popping, in a scramble to get up as close to the finishing line as possible.
14532_6459	love stories	Ford, Paul Leicester	" "Very much. He is just the man." "Then we'll consider that settled. Are you free for the ninth?" "Yes. I'm not going out this spring, and mamma and papa haven't really begun yet, and it's so late in the season that I'm sure we are free." "Then I will ice the canvas-backs and champagne and dust off the Burgundy for that day, if your mamma accedes." "Peter, I wanted to ask you the other day about that. I thought you didn't drink wine." "I don't. But I give my friends a glass, when they are good enough to come to me. I live my own life, to please myself, but for that very reason, I want others to live their lives to please themselves. Trying to live other people's lives for them, is a pretty dog-in-the-manger business." Just then Mrs. D'Alloi joined them. "Were you able to translate it?" she asked, sitting down by them. "Yes, indeed," said Leonore. "It means 'Towards the right side,' or as a motto it might be translated, 'For the right side.'" Mrs. D'Alloi had clearly, to use a western expression, come determined to "settle down and grow up with the country." So Peter broached the subject of the dinner, and when she hesitated, Leonore called Watts into the group. He threw the casting ballot in favor of the dinner, and so it was agreed upon. Peter was asked to come to Leonore's birthday festival, "If you don't mind such short notice," and he didn't mind, apparently. Then the conversation wandered at will till Peter rose. In doing so, he turned to Leonore, and said: "I looked the question of nationality up to-day, and found I was right. I've written out a legal opinion in my best hand, and will deliver it to you, on receiving my fee." "How much is that?" said Leonore, eagerly. "That you come and get it." CHAPTER XLII. DOWN-TOWN NEW YORK. Peter had not been working long the next morning when he was told that "The Honorable Terence Denton wishes to see you," "Very well," he said, and that worthy was ushered in. "Good-morning, Denton. I'm glad to see you.
59172_285	science fiction	Ellis, Mike	He knocked out the ashes of his pipe and tossed it on the table. He looked Willie squarely in the eye. "I was going to save it until we got back, but since you asked, I'll give it to you straight. Willie, I'm sending you back for a check-up when we get in. You can't seem to do a darn thing anymore, without having somebody doublecheck it. Tom and I have had to navigate the ship most of this trip, when you were supposed to do it. There's no place out here for a man that can't do his job. It puts too much on the others. I think you need a long rest or something." Willie sat there, his face white, blinking his eyes rapidly. Then he lurched to the door, his chair spinning behind him. Pudge got up and went to the galley. "What the hell did you do that for?" Tom asked Bart. "Why didn't you kid him along and give it to him easy when we got back. It would have been easier on his feelings." "That's not my way," Bart said. "He asked me and I gave it to him straight. He's no good out here anymore. In fact, he's dangerous. If something should come up that needs quick action, we'd all be wiped out by the time he called me." "Okay," Tom said. "It was honest, and it was truthful. But it sure as hell hurt him. I'm going to see him and try to ease it over." "You'll be a good first mate, Tom," Bart said. "But don't baby the crew too much. They've either got it or they haven't." Tom went down the narrow passageway to Willie's cabin and knocked on the door. When he didn't get an answer, he opened the door. Willie was lying on his bunk with his face to the wall. He didn't move as Tom sat in the chair. "Hey, Willie," Tom said. "You got company. I come in to shoot the breeze with you." Willie turned over reluctantly. "I'm sorry, Tom. I hate Bart's guts. He's always so goddam right." Willie clasped his hands behind his head on the pillow, and stared at the ceiling. "He'll wash me out of this job and then what will I do?
14545_1689	western stories	Rhodes, Eugene Manlove	"When you leave the last wagon, put on all the water your horses can draw. You'll strike little or no sand after that and we'll need all the water we can get. With no bad luck, you come out opposite the south end of your black mountain the third day. Wait there for us. It's three long days, horseback, from Tucson; we ought to get to your camp that night. "If we don't come, wait till noon the next day. Then saddle up, take your pack-saddles and kegs, and drag it for the extreme south end of the mountains on your west, about twenty miles. That ought to leave enough water at the wagon for us to camp on if we come later. If you wait for us, your horses will use it all up. "When you come to the south end of your Cabeza Prieta Mountain, right spang on the border, you'll find a cañon there, coming down from the north, splitting the range. Turn up that cañon, and when it gets so rough you can't go any farther, keep right on; you'll find some rock tanks full of water, in a box where the sun can't get 'em. That's all. Got that?" "I've got it," said Carr. "But Pete, aren't you taking too long a chance? Why can't I--or both of us--just slip down there quietly and do enough work on your mine to hold it? They're liable to beat you to it." "I've been tryin' to make myself believe that a long time," said Pete earnestly; "but I am far too intelligent. These people are capable of any rudeness. And they are strictly on the lookout. I do not count myself timid, but I don't want to tackle it. That mine ain't worth over six or eight millions at best." "But they won't be watching me," said Carr. "Maybe not. I hope not. For one thing, you'll have a good excuse to pull out from Cobre. You won't get any freighting here. Old Zurich has got it all grabbed and contracted for. All you could get would be a subcontract, giving you a chance to do the work and let Zurich take the profit. "Now, to come back to this mine: No one knows where it is.
30318_4123	western stories	Garland, Hamlin	"Don't show my letters to _any one_. I wish I'd 'a' had a little more schooling." CHAPTER XIX THE FARTHER EAST Haney visibly brightened as the days went by, and took long rides in his auto, sometimes with Bertha, sometimes alone with Lucius, and now and then with some old acquaintance, who, having seen his name in the paper, ventured to call. They were not very savory characters, to tell the truth, and he did not always introduce them to Bertha, but as his health improved he called upon a few of the more reputable of them, billiard-table agents, and the like of that, and to these proudly exhibited his wife. Bertha had hitherto accepted this with boyish tolerance, but now it irritated her. Some of these visitors presumed on her husband's past and treated her with a certain freedom of tone and looseness of tongue which made plain even to her unsuspecting nature that they put no high value on her virtue--in fact, one fellow went so far as to facetiously ask, "Where did Mart find you? Are there any more out there?" And she felt the insult, though she did not know how to resent it. Haney, so astute in many things, saw nothing out of the way in this off-hand treatment of his wife. He would have killed the man who dared to touch her, and yet he stood smilingly by while some chance acquaintance treated her as if she had been picked out of a Denver gutter. This threw Bertha upon her own defence, and at last she made even impudence humble itself. She carried herself like a young warrior, sure of her power and quick of defence. She refused to invite her husband's friends to lunch, and the first real argument she had thus far held with him came about in this way. She said, "Yes, you can ask Mr. Black or Mr. Brown to dinner, but I won't set at the same table with them." "Why not?" he asked. "Because they're not the kind of men I want to eat with," she bluntly replied. "They're just a little too coarse for me." "They're good business men and have fine homes--" "Do they invite you to their homes?" "They do not," he admitted, "but they may--after our dinner." "Lucius says it's their business to lead out--and he knows.
45549_1498	adventure stories	Craine, E. J. (Edith Janice)	If we smash up, I'll meet you at the gate. If you need any help, I'll tell St. Peter you're a good kid and to let you in," Jim promised gravely. "Go on. _I'll_ have to do some tall lying to get him even to look at you," Bob retorted. "Here goes." He started to manipulate the controls, slowly bringing Her Highness as he wanted her, and Jim scanned the scene ahead. He could see movement in the brush, men crawling or running on hands and knees, but not a uniform was in sight. He noted one thing in particular for which he was thankful. No one seemed to have noticed the falling plane, and that might be in their favor. Also, he thought ruefully, it might not. If the Mounties heard them dropping out of the sky, it would direct them more quickly to the road, but he thought of those men, armed to the teeth, desperate to get away, and he didn't try to imagine what they would do to the plane and the boys who threatened to frustrate their plans. Austin had read of terrific battles with rum-runners who fought to the last ditch for their lives and stopped at nothing, and now he knew that if Her Highness was not hung in those spear-like pines, or wrecked on the treacherous road, the men behind them would instantly open fire and riddle them with bullets before they could move in the cock-pit. He glanced about for a sign of the Canadian officers, but not one did he see, and by now they were so close to the ground that his range of vision was very limited. Then Bob brought Her Highness out of the spin, glided forward, her float ends scraping the edge of the truck as it slipped over, then, in another breathless second they were over the road, the wheels touched the ground, raced forward a few rods, slowed down, and at last came to a dead stop. "Hey, what the blazes do you think you're doing?" It was the belligerent voice of the driver and did not sound at all like the musical tones of Pedro. Jim looked back while Bob loosened the safety strap, but did not get out of it. "Hop over and tinker about," Bob directed, and Jim obeyed. "You get out of the way," bellowed Pedro. "Oh, hello, Old Man," Jim called good naturedly. "Our engine stalled.
9649_359	adventure stories	Leslie, Lawrence J.	"Year before last it caught me a silver fox, as the black fox is called. And perhaps you know that a prime black fox pelt is worth as high as several thousand dollars." "Hear that, will you!" exclaimed Steve. "H-h-how much d-d-did you g-g-get for it?" asked Toby. "Well," Jim went on to say, "it wasn't a Number One, but they allowed I ought to get eight-fifty for it; which check was enclosed in the letter I'll show you some day. I keep it to prove the truth of my story." "A bully good day's work, eh?" remarked Steve. "Best that ever came my way," admitted the other. "Gee, wonder now if we'd be lucky enough to set eyes on a silver fox worth a cool thousand or more?" ventured Bandy-legs. "It is barely possible you may, boys," remarked the trapper; "because I saw a beauty two or three times during the summer. And I'm kind of hoping there may be some sort of magic about this same trap to coax him to put his foot in it." "A single fox skin fetching thousands of dollars!" remarked Steve, as if hardly able to grasp it as the truth. "Whew, that beats finding pearls in the shells of mussels all hollow!" "Yes," Owen broke in, "and even Ted Shafter and his crowd hunting wild ginseng roots and selling it to the wholesale drug house at big money doesn't cut so much of a figure after all, does it?" "One thing I want to ask you, boys, right in the start," the trapper took occasion to say; "while you're up with me you must promise never to shoot at a fox, a mink, a marten, an otter, or in fact any small fur-bearing animal." "We give you our word, all right, Uncle Jim," said Steve, readily. "Of course," continued the old trapper, "my one reason for asking this is to keep you from ruining good pelts. It would be pretty tough now if after I caught that black fox I found that his skin had been so badly torn by birdshot that it wasn't worth handling." "That's right, it would," admitted Owen.
29284_512	love stories	Deland, Margaret Wade Campbell	* * * * * By the end of April Old Chester smiled. How could it help it? Gussie worried so that she took frequent occasion to point out possibilities; and after the first gasp of incredulity, one could hear a faint echo of the giggles of forty-eight years before. Mary North heard it, and her heart burned within her. "It's got to stop," she said to herself, passionately; "I must speak to his son." But her throat was dry at the thought. It seemed as if it would kill her to speak to a man on such a subject, even to as little of a man as Cyrus. But, poor, shy tigress! to save her mother, what would she not do? In her pain and fright she said to Mrs. North that if that old man kept on making her uncomfortable and conspicuous, they would leave Old Chester! Mrs. North twinkled with amusement when Mary, in her strained and quivering voice, began, but her jaw dropped at those last words; Mary was capable of carrying her off at a day's notice! The little old lady trembled with distressed reassurances--but Captain Price continued to call. And that was how it came about that this devoted daughter, after days of exasperation and nights of anxiety, reached a point of tense determination. She would go and see the man's son, and say ... That afternoon, as she stood before the swinging glass on her high bureau, tying her bonnet-strings, she tried to think what she would say. She hoped God would give her words--polite words; "for I _must_ be polite," she reminded herself desperately. When she started across the street her paisley shawl had slipped from one shoulder, so that the point dragged on the flagstones; she had split her right glove up the back, and her bonnet was jolted over sidewise; but the thick Chantilly veil hid the quiver of her chin. Gussie met her with effusion, and Mary, striving to be polite, smiled painfully, and said: "I don't want to see you; I want to see your husband." Gussie tossed her head; but she made haste to call Cyrus, who came shambling along the hall from the cabin. The parlor was dark, for though it was a day of sunshine and merry May wind, Gussie kept the shutters bowed--but Cyrus could see the pale intensity of his visitor's face. There was a moment's silence, broken by a distant harmonicon.
62768_752	adventure stories	Roberts, Theodore Goodridge	The deputy sheriff lowered his foot and turned around. “Taken?” he asked. “Who took her?” Ben said that he didn’t know and explained that he believed she had been taken, because she would have run aground on the head of the island if she’d simply drifted off. “That sounds reasonable,” returned Brown. “Heard anything of her being picked up below here?” “Not a word,” said Ben. The deputy sheriff climbed to the seat beside the constable then and the pair drove away. Ben and Jim McAllister returned to the haying and worked in the high fields until after sundown. Little Marion Sherwood went to bed immediately after supper. Uncle Jim went next, yawning, and was soon followed by Ben. The moment Ben sank his head on his pillow he discovered that he wasn’t nearly so sleepy as he had thought. For a few minutes he lay and pictured the fight between himself and the deputy sheriff which had not taken place. He was sorry it had not materialized, though he felt no bitterness toward Mr. Brown. He rather liked Mr. Brown now, in fact. But what a fine fight it would have been. The thought suggested to him the great fight in “Rodney Stone,” which he tried to remember, only to find that the details had become obscure in his mind. He left his bed and went downstairs with the intention of fetching the book from the library. He was surprised to find his mother busily engaged in locking and double bolting the front door. “What’s the idea, mother?” he asked. “Why lock that old door now for the first time since it was hung on its hinges?” She told him of the disappearance of the ham and bread. “But wasn’t one of the dogs in the house?” he asked. “Yes, Red Chief was in the kitchen; and he didn’t make a sound,” she answered. “He must have mistaken the thief for a friend, for you know how he is about strangers. It has made me nervous, Ben.” “And nothing was taken except the ham and bread?” “I haven’t missed anything else.” “It can’t be much of an enemy, whoever it is, to let us off as easy as that. It sounds more like a hungry friend to me.” “You are thinking of Richard Sherwood, Ben.” “Yes, mother. He might be hanging ’round and not want even us to suspect it.
27355_2510	western stories	Ames, Joseph Bushnell	"Seems like yuh had him there," he said briefly. "That job alone ought to land him in the pen." Buck nodded. "I know; but I'm afraid he couldn't be convicted on my evidence alone. Kreeger and Siegrist fixed up a pretty decent alibi, you see, and it would only be my word against theirs. Even the carcass of the beast wouldn't help much. They'd say it wandered through the pass by itself, and I suppose there's one chance in a thousand it could have." "Damned unlikely, though," shrugged Tenny. "Sure; but the law's that way. You've got to be dead certain. Besides, if he was pulled in for that we might never find out just what's at the bottom of it all. That's the important thing, and if I can only get a line on what he's up to, we'll land him swift enough, believe me!" Warned by Bud's unexpected question the evening before that he must have a more plausible motive for following up the case, Buck had coolly appointed himself one of Jim Hardenberg's deputies. He hinted that rumors of the cattle-stealing had reached the sheriff, who, debarred from taking up the matter openly by the absence of any complaint from the owner of the Shoe-Bar, had dispatched Stratton on a secret investigation. The process of that investigation having disclosed evidences of rascality of which the rustling was but a minor feature, Stratton's desire to probe the mystery to the bottom seemed perfectly natural, and the need for secrecy was also accounted for. The only risk Buck ran was of Tenny's mentioning the matter to Hardenberg himself, and that seemed slight enough. At the worst it would merely mean anticipating a little; for if he did succeed in solving the problem of Tex Lynch's motives, the next and final step would naturally be up to the sheriff. "I get yuh," said Tenny, nodding. "That's true enough. Well, what do you want me to do?" Buck told him briefly, and the foreman's eyes twinkled. "That's some order," he commented. "I'd pay you for the stock and grub, of course," Stratton assured him; "and at least put up a deposit for the cayuses." "Oh, that part ain't frettin' me none. I reckon I can trust yuh. I was thinkin' about how I could stall off Lynch in case he comes around askin' questions.
29481_607	love stories	Sousa, John Philip	"None that I have heard him speak of. No, certainly not," rather impetuously replied Mildred. "How old is he?" continued the old man. "Twenty-eight next month; why do you wish to know?" she quizzically asked. "Simply idle curiosity," old Sanders carelessly replied. "I wonder if he is in love with any one in Tuscany?" "Of course not; how could he be?" quickly rejoined the girl. "And why not?" added old Sanders. "Why? Because, because--he is in love with some one in America." "Ah, with you, I see," said the old man, as if it were the greatest discovery of his life; "are you sure he has not some beautiful sweetheart in Tuscany as well as here?" "What a foolish question," she replied. "Men like Angelo Diotti do not fall in love as soldiers fall in line. Love to a man of his nobility is too serious to be treated so lightly." "Very true, and that's what has excited my curiosity!" whereupon the old man smoked away in silence. "Excited your curiosity!" said Mildred. "What do you mean?" "It may be something; it may be nothing; but my speculative instinct has been aroused by a strange peculiarity in his playing." "His playing is wonderful!" replied Mildred proudly. "Aye, more than wonderful! I watched him intently," said the old man; "I noted with what marvelous facility he went from one string to the other. But however rapid, however difficult the composition, he steadily avoided one string; in fact, that string remained untouched during the entire hour he played for us." "Perhaps the composition did not call for its use," suggested Mildred, unconscious of any other meaning in the old man's observation, save praise for her lover. "Perhaps so, but the oddity impressed me; it was a new string to me. I have never seen one like it on a violin before." "That can scarcely be, for I do not remember of Signor Diotti telling me there was anything unusual about his violin." "I am sure it has a fifth string." "And I am equally sure the string can be of no importance or Angelo would have told me of it," Mildred quickly rejoined.
29303_142	science fiction	Archibald, Joe	As might have been expected, we run into some snags. The Euthanasia Society serve us with papers as they maintain nobody can commit suicide in the year 2022 without permission from the Board. Gulflex and other oil companies protest to Number One as they say we might open up a hole that will spill all the petroleum out of the earth all at once, so fast they couldn't refine it. A spark could ignite it and set the globe on fire like it was a brandied Christmas pudding. But then another earthquake shakes Earth from the rice fields of China to the llamas in Peru just when it looks as if we were about to be tossed into an outer space pokey. The seismologists get together and agree that they can't possibly figure out the depth of the focus and state that the long waves have to pass through the epicenter or some such spot underground. Anyway, all the brass agrees that something is going on in inner space not according to Hoyle or Euclid or anybody else and that we three characters might just hit on something of scientific value. The Magnificent Mole is built mostly of titanium, a metal which is only about half as heavy as steel and twice as rugged. It is not quite as big in diameter as the auger, for if it was any Martian moron knows we would scrape our sides away before we got down three miles. We store concentrated chow to last six months and get the acceleration couches ready. We are to blast down at eighteen point oh-four hours, Friday, May 26th, 2022. Today is Wednesday. The big space brass, the fourteenth estate haunt the spot marked X. We get it both barrels from the jokers carrying press cards. They call it Operation Upside Down. At last three characters were really going to dig a hole and pull it in after them. Three hours before Dig-day, Exmud R. Zmorro interviews us. We are televised around the orbit. "Laying all joking aside, Spink," the news analyst says dolefully, "you don't expect this to work." "Of courst!" I says emphatically. "You forget the first man to reach New Mu was a Spink. A Spink helped Columbus wade ashore in the West Indies. The first man to invent a road-map all citizens could unfold and understand was a Spink." Zmorro turns to Zahooli and Wurpz. "Don't ask us anythin'!" they yelp in unison. "You would only git a silly answer." "A world inside of a world you said once, Spink.
30353_33	science fiction	Hernhuter, Albert	" "We Martians have found science-fiction writers to be our greatest danger. Through the medium of imaginative fiction, such writers have more than once revealed our plans. If the public suddenly realized that--" * * * * * The Coroner broke in. "You killed Smith because he revealed something in his writings?" "Yes. He refused to take my word that it was unsalable. He threatened to submit it direct. It was vital material." "But there are many other such writers. You can't control--" "We control ninety percent of the output. We have concentrated on the field and all of the science-fiction agencies are in our hands. This control was imperative." "I see." The Coroner spoke in the gentle tones one uses with the insane. "Any writing dangerous to your cause is deleted or changed by the agents." "Not exactly. The agent usually persuades the writer to make any such changes, as the agent is considered an authority on what will or will not sell." "The writers always agree?" "Not always. If stubbornness is encountered, the agent merely shelves the manuscript and tells the writer it has been repeatedly rejected." The Coroner glanced at the two policemen. Both were obviously puzzled. They returned the Coroner's look, apparently ready to move on his order. The thin, mirthless smile was still on Cole's lips. Maniacal violence could lie just behind it. Possibly Cole was armed. Better to play for time--try to quiet the madness within. The Coroner continued speaking. "You Martians have infiltrated other fields also?" "Oh, yes. We are in government, industry, education. We are everywhere. We have, of course, concentrated mainly upon the ranks of labor and in the masses of ordinary, everyday people. It is from these sources that we will draw our shock troops when the time comes." "That time will be--?" "Soon, very soon." The Coroner could not forebear a smile. "You find the science-fiction writers more dangerous than the true scientists?" "Oh, yes. The scientific mind tends to reject anything science disproves." There was now a mocking edge to Cole's voice. "Science can easily prove we do not exist." "But the science-fiction writer?" "The danger from the imaginative mind cannot be overestimated." The Coroner knew he must soon order the officers to lay hands upon this madman.
41151_650	detective and mystery stories	Harvey, Marion	"Do you recognize this handkerchief?" holding up a dainty lace-covered bit of cambric partly stained with blood. "I have seen Mrs. Darwin carry one like it." "Are you and Mrs. Darwin the only members of the household?" "We were last night. Mrs. Darwin's father has been away for two weeks on a vacation, and Lee Darwin, Mr. Darwin's nephew, left the house yesterday morning." "What do you mean?" "He had a dispute with his uncle and I overheard Mr. Darwin tell Lee to get out and stay out, which he promptly did. He went to the Yale Club and has not been back since." "That is all, Mr. Orton. Gregory," called the coroner. "Yes, sir," answered that worthy. "Go to the Yale Club and inquire for Mr. Lee Darwin. If possible bring him here." "Very good, sir." When the policeman had gone the coroner turned to me. "Now, Mr. Davies, we will hear what you have to say." CHAPTER VI CORROBORATIVE EVIDENCE How I wished that I had been born blind, or failing that, that I had been a thousand miles away when that fatal shot was fired! A coward's attitude? Perhaps, but for the life of me at that moment I could not see how my testimony could be anything but damaging to the girl I loved. "Mr. Davies, will you tell the jury what happened last night," said the coroner. Very calmly I told them all that had happened, saying that I was a life-long friend of Ruth, that she had asked me to come to the house, and that in the course of conversation I had urged her to get me a paper which was of value to me. She entered the study and almost immediately the shot rang out. I ran to the door and found her standing beside her husband. The shock of his death caused her to faint and I carried her from the room. When I was through, the coroner stroked his chin reflectively. I was hoping he would dismiss me without further parley, but instead he began his cross-examination. "Mr. Davies, did you not think it strange that she should send for you so late at night?" he commenced, after a slight pause. "Under the circumstances, no," I replied. "Under what circumstances?" "In the interview between Mr. and Mrs. Darwin, of which you have heard, Mr. Darwin threatened to ruin me.
30311_314	science fiction	Berryman, John	fast," she said, looking worried. "Oh, I trust Keys' judgment about you. Yes, I _do_," she said earnestly, turning to Crescas. "Yes, I _know_ he got you off, Keys. But it doesn't sound right. Why should he take a chance helping a Psi--even if I really _don't_ have the Stigma? What's his angle?" "Fair enough," Keys said. "How about it, Maragon?" "I knew it was a bum rap they were trying to pin on Mary as soon as I heard about it," I explained. "This business about Mary having HC. There just isn't any such Psi power as hallucination, and every one of you knows it--it's an old wives' tale. I wouldn't touch this little lady with a ten-foot pole if I really thought she had the Stigma. I have a living to make around this town--and you can't handle Stigma business and get any decent trade, too." I looked back at Mary. "How _did_ you work your swindle at the bank?" I asked quietly. She sighed. "Sleight of hand," she said. "A damned fool stunt. I figured to put the money back in a day or so. If somebody else hadn't been working the same racket, they'd never have caught me. But they had set a trap--" "I _thought_ it was some light-finger stuff," I grinned. "Well, it will take me a while to set up a real test of your Psi Powers. Where can I reach you--or are you spending the night here?" "Certainly not!" she said, casting an annoyed glance at Elmer. She looked at her watch. "Would it be much longer than an hour? I might still be here, if Elmer--" "Jes' fine," T-shirt said. "Unless yo' mine watching Keys and me practice." He grinned at me. "Keys is he'ping me build up mah TK," he explained. "That'll make you popular," I sneered, as I wrote down Elmer's phone number. They let me out. It had been a pretty room, and in a way I hated to leave it.
13396_887	love stories	Van Schaick, George	"There is no fresh air here," she objected. "It is a compound of oxygen, nitrogen and fish, mostly very ripe fish. One has to breathe cod, and eat it, and quintals are the only subjects of conversation. Codfish of assorted sizes flop up in one's dreams. Last night one of them, about the length of a whale, apparently mistook me for a squid, or some such horrid thing, and was in the very act of swallowing me when I awoke. I'm afraid, Daddy dear, that the fresh air of Sweetapple Cove is a dreadful fiction. But it must be lovely outside." She was looking through the door, which stood widely opened, towards the places where the long smooth rollers broke upon the rocks, and beyond them at brown sails and screaming birds darting about in quest of prey. "You are hungering for a breath of the sea, Miss Jelliffe," I told her. "Sammy and Frenchy are waiting for me to go to Will's Island again. With this wind it will be only a matter of three or four hours there and back. Could you stand a trip in a fishing boat?" "Just the thing for her. No danger, is there, Doctor?" asked Mr. Jelliffe. "Not on a day like this," I replied. Miss Jelliffe made a few further objections, which were quickly overruled. Finally she gave Susie all sorts of directions, kissed her father affectionately, and was ready to go. "We'll be back soon, Daddy. You are a dear to be always thinking about me. I know I am very mean to leave you." "The young lady'll be well took care of, sir," declared Captain Sammy, who had come in to say that the boat was ready. So we went down to the cove where Frenchy, already apprised that such a distinguished passenger was coming, was feverishly scrubbing the craft and soaking the footboards, endeavoring, with scant success, to remove all traces of fish and bait. "It's dreadful, isn't it?" said Miss Jelliffe as we passed by the fishhouses. "I know that when I get back home I shall never eat another fish-cake. And just look at the awful swarms of flies and blue-bottles. And the smell of it all! It is all undoubtedly picturesque, but it is unspeakably smelly.
29481_379	love stories	Sousa, John Philip	The introduction depicted the Arcadian beauty of the trysting place, love-lit eyes sought each other intuitively and a great peace brooded over the hearts of all. Then followed the song of the Passionate Pilgrim: "_If music and sweet poetry agree, As they must needs, the sister and the brother, Then must the love be great 'twixt thee and me Because thou lov'st the one, and I the other._ * * * * * _Thou lov'st to hear the sweet melodious sound That Phoebus' lute (the queen of music) makes; And I in deep delight, am chiefly drown'd When as himself to singing he betakes. One god is god of both, as poets feign, One knight loves both, and both in thee remain._" [Illustration: He took her hand reverently] Grander and grander the melody rose, voicing love's triumph with wondrous sweetness and palpitating rhythm. Mildred, her face flushed with excitement, a heavenly fire in her eyes and in an attitude of supplication, reveled in the glory of a new found emotion. As the violinist concluded his performance an oppressive silence pervaded the house, then the audience, wild with excitement, burst into thunders of applause. In his dressing-room Diotti was besieged by hosts of people, congratulating him in extravagant terms. Mildred Wallace came, extending her hands. He took them almost reverently. She looked into his eyes, and he knew he had struck the chord responsive in her soul. VIII The sun was high in the heavens when the violinist awoke. A great weight had been lifted from his heart; he had passed from darkness into dawn. A messenger brought him this note: _My Dear Signor Diotti--I am at home this afternoon, and shall be delighted to see you and return my thanks for the exquisite pleasure you gave me last evening. Music, such as yours, is indeed the voice of heaven._ _Sincerely, Mildred Wallace._ The messenger returned with this reply: _My Dear Miss Wallace--I will call at three to-day._ _Gratefully, Angelo Diotti._ He watched the hour drag from eleven to twelve, then counted the minutes to one, and from that time until he left the hotel each second was tabulated in his mind. Arriving at her residence, he was ushered into the drawing-room. It was fragrant with the perfume of violets, and he stood gazing at her portrait expectant of her coming.
40907_1110	adventure stories	Marchmont, Arthur W.	How I have hoped it! Now I have a friend indeed." No words of mine can describe the radiant look that came on her face as she cried this; and the smile she gave me lives in my memory as one of the loveliest sights my eyes have ever beheld. After this outburst of emotion we sat silent some minutes--she, in all innocence of relief, keeping my hand between her own two; and I, on my side, drinking in, until I was intoxicated, the sweetness of emotions such as had never stirred my heart before. I made the first movement--a slight attempt to withdraw my hand. She let go, and then, with another smile of frank pleasure and trust, she said: "Not only my cousin, but my friend." "There is yet much to do," I said gently. "But we shall do it together. I am no longer alone with all against me, even my dear father. Tell me what is first to be done. I know that you will be successful, for you have given me hope. Will you tell the Count von Nauheim that the marriage project is at an end, or shall I? I will, if you wish, though I have been afraid of him; but no longer, for you are on my side." Sweet as these renewed protestations of trust were to my ears and senses, they were not without embarrassment. "If you trust me, you will have to do so wholly," I said; "and you must do as I wish, even if it is altogether distasteful to you." "I will do whatever you tell me," she assented readily. "Then in the first place we must act as if this conversation had altered nothing." "Do you mean...?" she began, with a frown of repugnance, and then stopped. "I mean that for the present your relations with the count must remain as they have been. Do not ask all my reasons. But for the present it is necessary that no one, you understand, no one shall have any thought that we are not going on with your father's scheme." I told her then of von Nauheim's visit to Munich and its result, and that before we settled anything we must know more.
61911_1284	detective and mystery stories	Roberts, Theodore Goodridge	He felt reasonably certain, however, of the identity of the traps which engaged Mr. Conley’s attentions. That was enough to work ahead on. He decided not to spring the traps on the eastern line, but to leave them as they were for the thief’s immediate profit and final undoing. Young Dan reached home safely. The snow ceased falling shortly before sundown, but with the setting of the sun a wind arose which set the feathery flakes drifting and flying. Andy Mace was in as talkative a mood as ever that night, despite the fact that he was very evidently suffering a great deal of pain. He admitted the pain, confessing that more joints than his right knee hurt him now. “But that there medicine o’ Doc Johnston’s ’ll melt the misery out o’ me all right,” he said. “I’ll be takin’ a dose of it this time to-morrow night; and ye’ll see me to work agin within a couple o’ days, Young Dan, spry as a cat an’ loose as ashes.” “Don’t you worry about the work, Andy,” returned Young Dan. “Give the medicine a fair chance when you get it. I hope Pete will be back by to-morrow night—but he couldn’t of traveled much this afternoon, in that storm and in country strange to him.” “That’s where ye’re wrong,” replied Andy. “I never knowed a likelier man nor that same Pete Sabatis to go to wherever he wanted to git to. He could do that trip backwards, an’ with both eyes patched instead of only one. That flurry o’ snow wouldn’t stop him a minute, in strange country or old.” “What happened to his eye, anyhow?” asked Young Dan. Andy rubbed his thin knees with his thin hands for several seconds in silence, gazing thoughtfully into the red draft of the stove. Then he looked at his partner and combed his long whiskers with long fingers. “Maybe he wouldn’t care for me to tell ye that, lad,” he said. “I reckon he wouldn’t yet awhile, till he knows ye better. But I kin tell ye this much, pardner—I was with him when he lost it, twenty-four year ago—and he is as good a man with one eye as ever he was with two.
805_4894	love stories	Fitzgerald, F. Scott (Francis Scott)	Amory paced the board walk at day's end, lulled by the everlasting surge of changing waves, smelling the half-mournful odor of the salt breeze. The sea, he thought, had treasured its memories deeper than the faithless land. It seemed still to whisper of Norse galleys ploughing the water world under raven-figured flags, of the British dreadnoughts, gray bulwarks of civilization steaming up through the fog of one dark July into the North Sea. “Well--Amory Blaine!” Amory looked down into the street below. A low racing car had drawn to a stop and a familiar cheerful face protruded from the driver's seat. “Come on down, goopher!” cried Alec. Amory called a greeting and descending a flight of wooden steps approached the car. He and Alec had been meeting intermittently, but the barrier of Rosalind lay always between them. He was sorry for this; he hated to lose Alec. “Mr. Blaine, this is Miss Waterson, Miss Wayne, and Mr. Tully.” “How d'y do?” “Amory,” said Alec exuberantly, “if you'll jump in we'll take you to some secluded nook and give you a wee jolt of Bourbon.” Amory considered. “That's an idea.” “Step in--move over, Jill, and Amory will smile very handsomely at you.” Amory squeezed into the back seat beside a gaudy, vermilion-lipped blonde. “Hello, Doug Fairbanks,” she said flippantly. “Walking for exercise or hunting for company?” “I was counting the waves,” replied Amory gravely. “I'm going in for statistics.” “Don't kid me, Doug.” When they reached an unfrequented side street Alec stopped the car among deep shadows. “What you doing down here these cold days, Amory?” he demanded, as he produced a quart of Bourbon from under the fur rug. Amory avoided the question. Indeed, he had had no definite reason for coming to the coast. “Do you remember that party of ours, sophomore year?” he asked instead. “Do I? When we slept in the pavilions up in Asbury Park--” “Lord, Alec! It's hard to think that Jesse and Dick and Kerry are all three dead.” Alec shivered. “Don't talk about it. These dreary fall days depress me enough.” Jill seemed to agree. “Doug here is sorta gloomy anyways,” she commented. “Tell him to drink deep--it's good and scarce these days.”
36079_556	detective and mystery stories	Lowndes, Marie Belloc	She spoke in a sad, low voice, but she felt far more at her ease than she had yet felt this evening. The last time she and Oliver had been alone, they had parted as enemies, but now there was nothing to show that he remembered their interchange of bitter, passionate words. He answered quietly, "I wonder why you feel so sure of that? I believe that if it were put to Godfrey in a reasonable way, he could not possibly object to your going abroad with your brother. It's time they made up that foolish old quarrel." "Ah, if only I could get away with Gillie and my little Alice!" Laura looked up as she spoke, and Oliver Tropenell was moved, almost unbearably so, by the look which came over her face. Was it the mention of her child, of her brother, or the thought of getting away from Godfrey for a while, which so illumined her lovely, shadowed eyes? He went on, still speaking in the quiet, measured tones which made her feel as if the scene of yesterday had been an evil dream. "I've even thought of suggesting that Godfrey should come out with me to Mexico, while your little jaunt with Gillie takes place. We could all be back here by Christmas!" She shook her head. "I'm afraid Godfrey would never go away except in what he considers his regular holiday time." "Not even if I made it worth his while?" She looked up, perplexed. And then a wave of hot colour flamed up in her face. Her conscience, in some ways a very delicate and scrupulous conscience, smote her. Was it her fault that Oliver Tropenell had come so to despise Godfrey? But he went on, speaking more naturally, that is quickly, eagerly--more like his pre-yesterday self, "No, I'm not joking! I think I can put Godfrey in the way of doing some really good business out there. We've spoken of it more than once--only yesterday afternoon we spoke of it." "You don't mean with Gillie there?" There was a note of incredulity in Laura's voice. "No." They were on dangerous ground now. "Not exactly with Gillie there--though it seems to me, Laura, that Godfrey ought to make it up with Gillie." Slowly, musingly, as if speaking to herself, she said, "If Godfrey ever goes to Mexico I think he would want me to come too--he always does.
37466_377	western stories	Calhoun, A. R. (Alfred Rochefort)	" "Wa’al," responded Badger, "hit upon the plan yersel’, an’ if I don’t carry it out without flinchin’, I’ll give you leave to shoot me down like a dog." When these men reached Hurley’s Gulch they found Edwards "drunk as usual," and loudly declaring wherever he went that Mr. Willett was trying to rob him out of fifteen hundred dollars. Here was the very chance for which Frank Shirley had been looking. If he could have Edwards put out of the way, in such a manner as to fasten the crime on Mr. Willett, a hundred stronger and braver men would be ready to accomplish his purpose with their own hands. He told Badger of his scheme, and that creature, without a moment’s thought of the awful crime he was about to commit, pledged himself to carry it out when the other gave the word. To add to the evidence against Mr. Willett, as that gentleman was arrested, Frank Shirley appeared to be very much cast down. With tears in his eyes, he explained to the many who were only too eager to listen, that Mr. Willett had married his, Shirley’s, cousin, that he had borne a bad character in Detroit, and that he had recently fled from that city to escape the consequences of his many crimes. CHAPTER VI.—WHY THE PAPERS WERE NOT BROUGHT. Before awaking his companions, all of whom seemed to be sleeping heavily, Sam went out to see if the flood in the cañon had risen. He ventured but a few yards beyond the entrance to the cave, for the sight that met his eyes appalled him. The rain was still pouring down in torrents, and the flood had risen till it was nearly on a level with the plateau. "Three feet more and it will be into the cave," he said, speaking aloud. "Watel littee mole high up no cannee stay, mus’ allee die if no can swimmee," said a voice behind Sam. There was no need to ask whose it was. Wah Shin, with thoughts of breakfast in his mind, had got up, but first he decided to satisfy himself of the condition of affairs outside. "Yes, Wah Shin," said Sam, without turning his head, "even as I look at the flood it appears to be rising." "If it come mole up, wat we allee do?" "I don’t know." "No cannee stop dis place?" "I fear not." "Way we go den, no can tink.
26956_118	science fiction	Sevcik, Al	You knew that once." His mind wandered, and for a minute he thought he could actually feel the growing pressure of three billion people waiting for the computers of Moscow Central to make their impartial choice from the world's children. Trained mathematicians, the best that could be mustered from every major country, monitored each phase of the project to insure its absolute honesty. One hundred thousand children were to be picked completely at random; brown, yellow, black, white, red; sick or well; genius or moron; every child had an equal chance. This fact, this fact alone gave every parent hope, and possibly prevented world-wide rioting. But with the destruction of the planet an almost certainty, the collective nervous system was just one micron away from explosion. There was nothing else to think about or talk about, and no one tried to pretend any different. Rothwell's eyes moved involuntarily to the little spherical tri-photo on his desk, just an informal shot he'd snapped a few months back of Martha and her proudest possessions, their rambunctious, priceless off-spring: Jim, Jr., in his space scouts uniform, and Mary Ellen with that crazy hair-do she was so proud of then, but had already forgotten. "Damn!" he said aloud. "Dammit to hell!" In one quick movement, he spun his chair around and jabbed at the intercom. "Get the heli!" His voice crackled. Grabbing his hat, he yanked open the door and strode into the sudden quiet of the small office. He turned right and went out through a side entrance to a small landing ramp, arriving just as his personal heli touched down. He climbed in. "To the ship." As he settled back in the hard seat, Rothwell offered a silent thanks that, instead of asking which ship, Sergeant Johnson promptly lifted and headed for the gray space vessel that dominated the field. A few hundred yards from the craft he said, "You'd better set her down here, Sarge, and let me walk in. Our friends might get nervous about something flying in at them." He jumped out, squinting against the hot glare off the concrete, and then, with a slight uneasiness, stepped into the dark shadow that pointed a thousand feet along the runway, away from the setting sun. He walked towards the ship. A few seconds later, his eye caught a small, unexplained flash and he threw himself flat just as a section of pavement exploded, a dozen feet ahead.
53456_332	science fiction	Elam, Richard M. (Richard Mace)	his dad asked suddenly, as though Jerry had spoken his thoughts aloud. “I—I think so, Dad,” he replied hesitantly. “I see you’re doubtful, Jerry,” Capt. Welsh said. “I won’t put you on the spot so early.” They climbed into space gear—electrically-heated suits and clear plastic helmets fitted with radios. Lastly they donned oxygen tanks and flooded their suits with the life-sustaining gas. They gathered up the mail sacks and climbed down the ladder to the ground, heading for the largest of a group of buildings which made up Moonhaven, center of Earthmen’s activity on the airless planet. The stars burned fantastically bright overhead. Traces of frost topped the distant Lunar Alps. It was incredibly cold out here, for the Moon was in its two-week period of night. Capt. Welsh got a receipt for the largest mail bag, and then he and Jerry went out a rear door of the building carrying the rest. An atom-powered mail car awaited them. It had an open top and huge wheels that looked like saw-toothed gears. “Climb aboard the Moon jeep, Jerry,” his father said. “We’ve got ten mail deliveries to make.” Inside, Capt. Welsh pulled down a section of the dash panel revealing a map. “Here’s a map of our route. There aren’t many mail stops on the Moon yet, but they are all important.” “And the mail must go through!” Jerry added. Capt. Welsh nodded soberly. “That’s the first law, Jerry.” As they moved off Jerry saw the big friendly globe of Earth hanging like a green jewel halfway up the jet black sky. He wondered what his mother and baby sister were doing this moment a quarter of a million miles away. Capt. Welsh showed Jerry how to run the jeep. Jerry found this easy for he had already had a course in mechanics in preparation for his future career as a space man. But sometime later their peaceful ride was interrupted when Capt. Welsh suddenly leaned over and grabbed the wheel. Jerry was thrown to the side as the car swerved. The vehicle straightened out and slammed to a halt as his father controlled the wheel and applied the brakes. “What happened?” Jerry breathed, his heart pounding. His father pointed behind them. “Look.” Jerry turned and saw the edge of a treacherous ditch running right across the roadway where they would have passed over. The gorge was several feet wide.
32544_1563	science fiction	Reynolds, John Murray	" "Then," roared Angus, pounding his big fist on the table till the dishes rattled, "why don't you revolt? I'll go with you myself to strike a blow against those reptile skinned devils up above!" "Count me in, too!" Gerry said quietly. Angus' voice had boomed out through the big hall. It was answered by a lilting shout as men sprang to their feet. Hundreds of sword blades flashed clear of their scabbards. Only Sarnak himself remained seated, slowly shaking his head. There was a twisted smile on his broad and heavily lined face. His eyes held bitterness. "It would only be pointless suicide, _hiziren_!" he said grimly. "We number only about a thousand all together, we hunted men of the Dragon's Teeth, against the countless thousands of Lansa's scaly hordes. It would be different if our countrymen up above could be inspired to a mass uprising, but the time is not yet. Too long have they lived under the rule of the tyrants. They are cowed. They have lost their spirit, and some of the younger ones have even become fawning satellites of the conquerors! If there comes a day when the forces of the Scaly Ones are engaged in some major war along the frontier, as in this suggested assault upon the barrier forts of Savissa that Lansa is said to be planning, then we may be able to do something. For the present we must continue to lie hidden and bide our time." Gerry Norton was uncertain about his own course. Now that the _Viking_ and her crew had been lost, with all hope of a return to Earth cut off, he felt hopelessly adrift. Sarnak urged his visitors to stay in Luralla. The place was a remarkable engineering feat, completely under water and with its air constantly re-conditioned and preserved, but Gerry felt restless and cramped there. Though the outlaws carried on a constant guerilla warfare with the Scaly Ones, it was all on a small scale. Gerry felt that he would rather return to Savissa, where at least the people were free and the Amazon warriors kept ceaseless watch on their frontiers. Closana, of course, was very anxious to return home. "Suits me, too," Angus rumbled, "in that country they at least show a proper respect for a man of my attainments." "Meaning your whiskers?" Gerry asked. "Look out, Angus," Closana warned with a smile, idly running her slender fingers along the keen edge of her dagger.
4515_2602	western stories	Curwood, James Oliver	" Another sound had drawn Celie back to the door. "When she looked in the man she had stunned with the club was moving. Her call brought Philip, and placing her in the open door to keep watch he set swiftly to work to make sure of their prisoner. With the babiche thong he had taken from his enemies he bound him hand and foot. A shaft of light fell full on the giant's face and naked chest where it had been laid bare in the struggle and Philip was about to rise when a purplish patch, of tattooing caught his eyes. He made out first the crude picture of a shark with huge gaping jaws struggling under the weight of a ship's anchor, and then, directly under this pigment colored tatu, the almost invisible letters of a name. He made them out one by one--B-l-a-k-e. Before the surname was the letter G. "Blake," he repeated, rising to his feet. "GEORGE Blake--a sailor--and a white man!" Blake, returning to consciousness, mumbled incoherently. In the same instant Celie cried out excitedly at the door. "Oo-ee, Philip--Philip! Se det! Se! Se!" She drew back with, a sudden movement and pointed out the door. Concealing himself as much as possible from outside observation Philip peered forth. Not more than a hundred and fifty yards away a dog team was approaching. There were eight dogs and instantly he recognized them as the small fox-faced Eskimo breed from the coast. They were dragging a heavily laden sledge and behind them came the driver, a furred and hooded figure squat of stature and with a voice that came now in the sharp clacking commands that Philip had heard in the company of Bram Johnson. From the floor came a groan, and for an instant Philip turned to find Blake's bloodshot eyes wide open and staring at him. The giant's bleeding lips were gathered in a snarl and he was straining at the babiche thongs that bound him. In that same moment Philip caught a glimpse of Celie. She, too, was staring--and at Blake. Her lips were parted, her eyes were big with amazement and as she looked she clutched her hands convulsively at her breast and uttered a low, strange cry. For the first time she saw Blake's face with the light full upon it.
18529_615	love stories	Murray, Roy Irving	There was a letter. Hurriedly, he snatched it out and turned the address up; a miracle--it was from the girl. The street door darkened; McBirney looked up. The rector and the bishop were coming in, the others at their heels. He thrust the envelope into his pocket, his pulse beating distinctly faster, and turned to meet his guests. When at three o'clock he got back to his quarters, after an exciting meeting of an hour, after lunch at the rectory, after seeing the bishop off on the 2.45 to New York, he locked his door first, and then hurriedly drew out the letter lying all this time unread. He tore untidily at the flap, and with that suddenly he stopped, and the luminous eyes took on an odd, sarcastic expression. "What a fool!" he spoke, half aloud, and put the letter down and strolled across the room and gazed out of the window. "What an ass! I'm allowing myself to get personally interested in this case; or to imagine that I'm personally interested. Folly. The girl is nothing to me. I'll never see her again. I care about her as I would about anybody in trouble. And--that's all. This lunacy of restlessness over the situation has got--to--stop." He was firm with himself. He sat down at his table and wrote a business note before he touched the letter again; but he saw the letter out of the tail of his eye all the time and he knew his pulse was going harder as, finally, he lifted the torn envelope with elaborate carelessness, and drew out the sheets of writing. My dear Mr. McBirney [the girl began], did anybody ever tell a story about a big general who limbered up his artillery, if that's the thing they do, and shouted orders, and cracked whips and rattled wheels and went through evolutions, and finally, with thunder and energy, trained a huge Krupp gun--or something--on a chipmunk? If there is such a story, and you've heard it, doesn't it remind you of your last letter at me? Not to me, I mean _at_ me. It was a wonderful letter again, but when I got through I had a feeling that what I needed was not suicide--I do dare say the word, you see--but execution. Maybe shooting is too good for me.
2568_3500	detective and mystery stories	Bentley, E. C. (Edmund Clerihew)	Can you imagine the state of mind in which a man dooms himself to death with the object of delivering some one he hates to the hangman?’ Mr. Cupples moved sharply in his chair. ‘You say Manderson was responsible for his own death?’ he asked. Trent glanced at him with an eye of impatience, and resumed his intent watch upon the face of Marlowe. In the relief of speech it was now less pale and drawn. ‘I do say so,’ Marlowe answered concisely, and looked his questioner in the face. Mr. Cupples nodded. ‘Before we proceed to the elucidation of your statement,’ observed the old gentleman, in a tone of one discussing a point of abstract science, ‘it may be remarked that the state of mind which you attribute to Manderson--’ ‘Suppose we have the story first,’ Trent interrupted, gently laying a hand on Mr. Cupples’s arm. ‘You were telling us,’ he went on, turning to Marlowe, ‘how things stood between you and Manderson. Now will you tell us the facts of what happened that night?’ Marlowe flushed at the barely perceptible emphasis which Trent laid upon the word ‘facts’. He drew himself up. ‘Bunner and myself dined with Mr. and Mrs. Manderson that Sunday evening,’ he began, speaking carefully. ‘It was just like other dinners at which the four of us had been together. Manderson was taciturn and gloomy, as we had latterly been accustomed to see him. We others kept a conversation going. We rose from the table, I suppose, about nine. Mrs Manderson went to the drawing-room, and Bunner went up to the hotel to see an acquaintance. Manderson asked me to come into the orchard behind the house, saying he wished to have a talk. We paced up and down the pathway there, out of earshot from the house, and Manderson, as he smoked his cigar, spoke to me in his cool, deliberate way. He had never seemed more sane, or more well-disposed to me. He said he wanted me to do him an important service. There was a big thing on. It was a secret affair. Bunner knew nothing of it, and the less I knew the better. He wanted me to do exactly as he directed, and not bother my head about reasons. ‘This, I may say, was quite characteristic of Manderson’s method of going to work. If at times he required a man to be a mere tool in his hand, he would tell him so.
5965_917	science fiction	Flint, Homer Eon	His usually easy speech nearly failed him. But he laughed as boldly as ever. "I am convinced that you are far from being a well woman, Miss Mona! I shall have to call--often!" And with a short but exceedingly intense gaze of infinite meaning, he wheeled, clapped his cap to his head, dashed to his machine and was gone. IX THE STAGNANT WORLD Smith entered the mind of his Capellan agent at a moment when he was clearly off duty. In fact, the engineer of the Cobulus was at the time enjoying an uncommonly good photoplay. Smith had arrived too late to see the beginning of the picture; but he found it to be a more or less conventional society drama. And for a while he was mainly interested in the remarkably clear photography, the natural coloring and stereoscopic effect that the doctor had already noted through young Ernol. Smith nearly overlooked the really fine music, all coming from a talking machine of some kind. And then the picture came to an end, and a farce-comedy began. It was an extraordinarily ingenious thing, with little or no plot; afterward Smith could not describe it with any accuracy. However, Mrs. Kinney, down-stairs, plainly heard him laughing as though his sides would give way. The picture over, Smith's man got up and left the place; and once outside he glanced at his watch and took up a position on the curb, much as Smith had often done when a younger man. The Capellan seemed to know a good many of the people who came out of the playhouse; and meanwhile Smith took note of something of extreme importance. The playhouse did not have any advertising whatever in sight, except for a single bulletin-board, like the bill of fare of a cafeteria. Moreover--and this is the significant thing--there was no box-office, neither was any one at the door to take tickets. The place was wide open to the world. It was located on a very busy street in what appeared to be a good-sized city; but, to all appearances, any one might enter who chose to. "Free amusements," thought Smith, "to keep the boobs happy." Shortly his agent stepped down the street, which seemed to be greatly like one in any city on the earth, except that there was remarkably little noise. Perhaps it was due to the total lack of street-cars and surface machinery in general. Certainly the space between the sidewalks was used for little else than the parking of flying-machines.
47633_869	adventure stories	Hendrick, Edward P.	“Do you think we could get a crowd to come way out here?” asked Tommy Beals doubtfully. “It’s a lonesome dump even in the daytime, and at night it is mighty easy to believe these yarns about its being haunted.” “Why not make _that_ the big attraction!” exclaimed Ned with sudden inspiration. “Everybody is looking for thrills nowadays. We might be able to give ’em a brand new one.” A chorus of approval greeted this suggestion. “Bully stuff, Ned!” cried Charlie Rogers. “Great idea! And if there don’t happen to be any honest-to-goodness ghosts on the job, we can manufacture a few just to keep up the interest.” “What do you think it would cost to fix up the old shebang?” asked Wilbur, who, despite his rather affected laziness, was beginning to take an interest in the scheme. “Oh, not a whole lot,” replied Ned, glancing about with an appraising eye. “As Dick says, the floor is our chief consideration, and if we do the work on it ourselves, the only expense will be for scrapers and sandpaper. We can string bunting and flags to cover the breaks in the walls and ceiling. We’ll have to lay a floor over that stair-opening, or somebody will manage to tumble through into the cellar, but I guess we can find enough lumber around here to do the job.” “How about lights?” inquired Sanford. “There isn’t an electric line within five miles.” “We’ll use candles,” decided Ned. “A dim light will be just what we want for ghost stunts anyhow, and candles won’t cost much if we buy ’em in wholesale lots.” “Shall we figure on refreshments?” asked Rogers. “Sure thing!” asserted Dick. “The Pavilion sells ice cream and soft drinks; we can do the same and serve the stuff from the butler’s pantry. That will be just the job for Fatty!” “Nothing doing!” objected Beals in an injured tone. “I draw the line on handing out grub for other folks to eat, but I’ll _manage_ the refreshment business and get our darky, Sam, to serve the stuff. Sam used to work in a restaurant and can do the trick in style.” “All right, then,” announced Ned, who had, by common consent, assumed leadership, “let’s get organized into working shape.
5270_4305	detective and mystery stories	Reeve, Arthur B. (Arthur Benjamin)	Then whenever there is a change in color, as from amber daylight to blue tint for night, the negative is broken because pieces of different coloring have to go through different baths, and that also determines the size of the rolls. The prints, or positives, in the other vaults, are in reel lengths and so are kept in the round boxes in which they are shipped." Kennedy glanced about curiously. "The negative of that snake picture is here, you said?" Manton went to a little desk where there was a card index. Thumbing through the records, he found the number and led us to the proper place in the rack. In the box were only two rolls of negative, both were large. "This was a split reel," the promoter began. "It was approximately four hundred feet and we used it to fill out a short comedy, a release we had years ago, a reel the first part of which was educational and the last two-thirds or so a roaring slap-stick. We never made money on it. "But this stuff was mighty good, Mr. Kennedy. We practically wrote a scenario for those reptiles. Doctor Nagoya was down himself and for the better part of a day it wasn't possible to get a woman in the studio, for fear a rattler or something might get loose." "Were there rattlers in the film?" "Altogether, I think. The little Jap was interesting, too. Between scenes he told us all about the reptiles, and how their poison--" Manton checked himself, confused. Was it because the thought of poison reminded him of the two deaths so close to him, or was it from some more potent twinge of conscience? "You'll see it all in the film," he finished, lamely. "I may keep these for a little bit?" Kennedy asked. "Of course! I can have the two rolls printed and developed and dry sometime this afternoon, if you wish." "No, this will do very well." Kennedy slipped a roll in each pocket, straining the cloth to get them in. Manton opened a book on the little table, making an entry of the delivery of the rolls and adding his own initials. "I have to be very careful to avoid the loss of negative," he told us. "Nothing can be taken out of here except on my own personal order." I thought that Manton was very frank and accommodating.
42423_631	western stories	Whitson, John Harvey	Then his face flushed. “Why didn’t you stand up with me against that granger the other day, when I told him that his horses, and not ours, had damaged his crops?” Justin desired to think well of Ben and remain on terms of friendship with him because of Lucy. “I couldn’t very well,” he urged, “for I saw our horses in his millet, myself.” “Well, he didn’t; he was in town that day. He would have believed you, if you had said they were his horses. You might have backed me up, instead of flinching; I’d have done as much for you.” “You’ve got a handsome dog there!” said Justin. “Oh, that setter’s going to be fine when I get him broke,” Ben asserted, with enthusiasm. “I only wish we had some Eastern quails here. Harkness put you on this line today, did he? I wanted to train my setter; so I told him I wasn’t well, and slipped out of it.” As the dog was now far ahead, Ben hastened to overtake him, and Justin rode on, thinking of Ben, of Lucy, and of William Sanders. Ben’s easy disregard of certain things he had been taught to consider essentials troubled him. He wanted to think well of Ben. When Justin learned the outcome of the controversy between Davison and Sanders he was somewhat astonished. Sanders’ truculence had made him think the man would persist in his demands; but Sanders had agreed to fence his own land, if Davison would but give him a right of way to it. Within a week Justin understood why. Sanders, visiting the ranch-house to see Davison, had also seen Lucy. He became a familiar visitor, where his presence was not desired. If Lucy rode out, William Sanders invariably chanced to be in the trail going in the same direction. If she remained at home he came to the house to get Davison’s advice as to the best manner of constructing a fence, and Lucy’s advice concerning the proper furnishing of a dug-out for a single man who expected to live alone and do his own cooking. Lucy came to Justin with the burden of her woes. “He follows me round all the time, just as if he were my dog!” “You ought to feel flattered,” said Justin, though he was himself highly indignant.
7132_3491	adventure stories	Hudson, W. H. (William Henry)	“She would sell it for what it cost--perhaps for eight dollars. Ah, pumpkin-head, why did you not think to make all that profit? Then I could have bought slippers and a thousand things.” “You are never satisfied, Cleta,” he returned. “Have you not got slippers to your feet?” She tossed up a pretty foot and displayed it cased in rather a shabby little slipper. Then, with a laugh, she kicked it off towards him. “There,” she exclaimed, “put it in your bosom and keep it--something precious! And some day when you go to Montevideo, and wish to appear very grand before all the town, wear it on your great toe.” “Who expects reason from a woman?” said Antonio, shrugging his shoulders. “Reason! you have no more brains than a Muscovy duck, Antonio. You might have made this profit, but you never can make money like other men, and therefore you will always be poorer than the spiders. I have said this before very often, and only hope you will not forget it, for in future I intend to speak of other things.” “Where would I have got the ten dollars to pay Petrona for the saddle?” he retorted, losing his temper. “My friend,” I said, “if the saddle can be had, it is only just that you should have the profit. Take ten dollars, and if you buy it for me I will pay you two more.” This proposal pleased him greatly, while Cleta, the volatile, clapped her hands with delight. While Antonio prepared to go to his neighbour’s after the saddle I went out to a solitary thorn-tree about fifty yards from the _rancho_, and, spreading my _poncho_ in the shade, lay down to sleep the siesta. Before the shepherd had been long gone I heard a great noise in the house, like banging on doors and on copper vessels, but took no notice, supposing it to proceed from Cleta engaged in some unusually noisy domestic operation. At length I heard a voice calling to me, “Señor! Señor!” Getting up, I went to the kitchen, but no person was there. Suddenly a loud knock was given on the door communicating with the second room. “Oh, my friend,” cried Cleta’s voice behind it, “my ruffian of a husband has locked me in--can you let me out, do you think?”
20563_449	love stories	Thomson, Charles Goff	she sobbed, but as the words fell from her lips she heard the door close and felt the gust of cold air that chilled the hall. * * * * * She was still awake when the midnight accommodation whistled its impending arrival from the north. She listened, tense, as the train came to a stop in the town. A brief halt, then it sounded its underway, the pistons accelerated their chugging beat and it passed out of Crampville into the south. She stood, still-breathed, dry-eyed, till the last grinding rumble died out of the frosty night, then as a full realization of her loss came home, she dropped to the side of the bed and buried her face in the coverlid. The floor where she knelt seemed cold and hard. CHAPTER III MINDANAO The old _Francesca_, directed by a nervous and none too competent Tagalog captain, maneuvered in the six-mile tidal current which swept west through the Straits making Zamboanga a nightmare to all the native skippers who called at that port. Crab-like, she crawled obliquely to within a few hundred feet of the low-lying town, then the screw churned up a furious wake as the anxious Tagalog on the bridge swung her back into the Straits to circle in a new attempt. Carried by the tidal rush the old tub circled in a great ellipse. Alone at the rail on the dingy promenade Terry stood enjoying his first glimpse of Mindanao. Seven months in Luzon had brought him countless tales of this uncertain southland--tales of pirates, of insolent, murderous datos defiant behind their cotta fortresses, of kris and barong wielded by fanatic Moros gone amok; of pearls as large as robins' eggs, of nuggets tossed as playthings by naked children of the forests, of mysterious tribes who inhabited the fastnesses of inaccessible hills. He wore the service uniform of the Constabulary, the field uniform of khaki blouse and breeches, tan shoes and leggings, and stiff-brimmed cavalry Stetson. The smart uniform set his erect figure off trimly and added to the impression of alertness conveyed by his steady gray eyes. In the two wide swings back into midstream that ensued before the steamer approached near enough land to get ropes to the little brown stevedores who waited on the dock, Terry had ample opportunity for study of the tropic panorama. The sea was dotted with Moro vintas, swiftest of all Malayan sailing craft; tide and wind borne, some scurried at tremendous pace toward the fishing grounds of the Sulu Sea, others tacked painfully into the Celebes.
47471_1569	detective and mystery stories	Webb, Marion St. John	" "I am more than double your age," said Elizabeth Bagg steadily, though her heart was beating rapidly at these, the first words of genuine praise and encouragement that she had had for a long time. "I have been working for many years past." "That’s not it," said Pamela, shaking her head. "There’s something in your pictures, that if you had not got it _in_ you, no amount of practice would produce. I can’t explain any better than that—but you know what I mean, don’t you? I think your work’s fine.... Have you ever exhibited any of your pictures anywhere?" Elizabeth Bagg shook her head. "No," she replied, and a tinge of colour crept into her cheeks again. "Oh, but you _should_," said Pamela, enthusiastically, looking at a charming study of a little girl in a red tam-o’-shanter. Pamela’s enthusiasm affected Elizabeth Bagg strangely. She felt suddenly much younger than she had felt for years past. It was so long since anyone had noticed her pictures. Her days were spent in household duties for her brother and the children (just as Martha had told Pamela), with every spare half hour snatched for her painting. Some days, when she knew there would be no half hour to spare, Elizabeth would get up very early in the morning to continue a picture, and would feel all the fresher to face the work afterward, knowing that her picture was progressing, surely if slowly. Twice a week she gave painting lessons at a ’School for the Daughters of Gentlemen’ in Inchmoor, a practice at which her brother had ceased to grumble when he found it brought her in a few shillings a week. He considered her ’daubing’ a fearful waste of time; she had far better be employed in making a tasty apple-pie or mending the children’s stockings, he thought—work for which Elizabeth received her ’board and lodging.’ Old Tom Bagg flattered himself that he was good-naturedly indulgent to Elizabeth’s little hobby, nevertheless Pamela noticed that there were no pictures of Elizabeth’s anywhere about the house—they were all packed away in her own room. Pamela did not know of the gratitude Elizabeth felt toward her; she only knew that she admired Elizabeth’s pictures immensely, and felt a keen interest in the painter of them. As Elizabeth said she would like very much to see some of Pamela’s work, Pamela arranged to bring some round the following day.
55801_773	science fiction	Elam, Richard M. (Richard Mace)	FLIGHT OF THE CENTAURUS Spacemaster Brigger came into the navigation compartment of the _Centaurus_, which was thrusting into the starry night of space far beyond Saturn. Rob Allison, junior officer, looked up from the desk where he sat, wondering at the frown on the skipper’s face. “It’s just as I feared, Allison,” Mr. Brigger said gravely. “The men are sorry they signed on for Titania and are grumbling already. They think they’ll be ridiculed when they get back.” “Because of Dr. Franz’s being discredited by all the scientists, I suppose?” The skipper nodded. “They’re sure they’re on a wild-goose chase. I’m afraid I’m inclined to agree with them.” “I guess you and the crew, sir, are only reflecting the opinion of almost everyone else on Earth,” Rob mused bitterly. The spacemaster of the _Centaurus_ dropped onto a plastic bench beside a port that overlooked the star fields of the outer solar system. “Exactly why did your brother Grant authorize this expedition, Allison? Does he really believe we’ll find animal life on Uranus’ satellite or is it something else?” Grant Allison, an illustrious front-rank explorer of several years before, was now president of Interplanet Exploration, which controlled research space travel. Rob relaxed as he prepared to answer. “You probably didn’t know, sir, that Dr. Franz put my brother through space school when our father couldn’t afford it. He was Grant’s teacher in space mechanics in high school and thought he showed unusual promise.” “That would explain President Allison’s interest in Dr. Franz,” Mr. Brigger agreed, “but I can’t understand an intelligent man like your brother falling for a harebrained story such as Dr. Franz told.” The facts of Dr. Franz’s amazing discovery were known to the whole world. While studying the planet Uranus a distance of two and a half years before, the research ship blew a rocket tube and was forced down on Titania, Uranus’ largest moon. While the crewmen repaired the craft, Dr. Franz went prospecting. After he returned, he reported that he saw fish life swimming beneath Titania’s solid ice sheet, where the temperature was 300 degrees below zero Fahrenheit. The crewmen were too interested in their work and, not having a scientific curiosity anyhow, did not bother to verify the scientist’s claim. Upon returning to Earth, Dr. Franz, who was in the early stage of a fatal illness, told the scientific world of his remarkable discovery.
29572_4417	western stories	Spearman, Frank H. (Frank Hamilton)	Whispering Smith was killed yesterday in Williams Cache by Du Sang." McCloud stiffened a little. "I hope that can't be true. We have had nothing here but rumors; perhaps it is these that you have heard." "No, no! Blake, one of our men, was in the fight and got back at the ranch at nine o'clock this morning. I heard the story myself, and I rode right in to--to see Marion, and my courage failed me--I came here first. Does she know, do you think? Blake saw him fall from the saddle after he was shot, and everybody ran away, and Du Sang and two other men were firing at him as he lay on the ground. He could not possibly have escaped with his life, Blake said; he must have been riddled with bullets. Isn't it terrible?" She sobbed suddenly, and McCloud, stunned at her words, led her to his chair and bent over her. "If his death means this to you, think of what it means to me!" A flood of sympathy bore them together. The moment was hardly one for interruption, but the despatcher's door opened and Rooney Lee halted, thunderstruck, on the threshold. Dicksie's hand disappeared in her handkerchief. McCloud had been in wrecks before, and gathered himself together unmoved. "What is it, Rooney?" The very calmness of the two at the table disconcerted the despatcher. He held the message in his hand and shuffled his feet. "Give me your despatch," said McCloud impatiently. Quite unable to take his hollow eyes off Dicksie, poor Rooney advanced, handed the telegram to McCloud, and beat an awkward retreat. McCloud devoured the words of the message at a glance. "Ah!" he cried, "this is from Gordon himself, sent from Sleepy Cat. He must be safe and unhurt! Listen: "Three of the Tower W men trailed into Williams Cache. In resisting arrest this morning, Du Sang was wounded and is dying to-night. Two prisoners, Karg and Seagrue. G. S. "Those are Gordon's initials; it is the signature over which he telegraphs me. You see, this was sent last night long after Blake left. He is safe; I will stake my life on it." Dicksie sank back while McCloud re-read the message. "Oh, isn't that a relief?" she exclaimed. "But how can it be?
9150_2381	adventure stories	Verne, Jules	The two men were Harris and Negoro, the one lately landed from New Zealand, the other pursuing his wonted occupation of slave-dealer in the province of Angola. They were seated at the foot of an enormous banyan-tree, on the banks of a rushing torrent that streamed between tall borders of papyrus. After the conversation had turned awhile upon the events of the last few hours, Negoro said abruptly,-- "Couldn't you manage to get that young fifteen-year-old any farther into the interior?" "No, indeed; it was a hard matter enough to bring him thus far; for the last few days his suspicions have been wide awake." "But just another hundred miles, you know," continued Negoro, "would have finished the business off well, and those black fellows would have been ours to a dead certainty." "Don't I tell you, my dear fellow, that it was more than time for me to give them the slip?" replied Harris, shrugging his shoulders. "Only too well I knew that our young friend was longing to put a shot into my body, and that was a sugar-plum I might not be able to digest." The Portuguese gave a grunt of assent, and Harris went on,-- "For several days I succeeded well enough. I managed to palm off the country as the forest of Atacama, which you may recollect I once visited; but when the youngster began to ask for gutta-percha and humming-birds, and his mother wanted quinquina-trees, and when that old fool of a cousin was bent on finding cocuyos, I was rather nonplussed. One day I had to swear that giraffes were ostriches, but the young captain did not seem to swallow the dose at all easily. Then we saw traces of elephants and hippopotamuses, which of course are as often seen in America as an honest man in a Benguela penitentiary; then that old nigger Tom discovered a lot of forks and chains left by some runaway slaves at the foot of a tree; but when, last of all, a lion roared,--and the noise, you know, is rather louder than the mewing of a cat,--I thought it was time to take my horse and decamp." Negoro repeated his expression of regret that the whole party had not been carried another hundred miles into the province.
4903_4106	detective and mystery stories	Allen, Grant	“We are English! English!” The men let their rifles drop, and rode down towards us. “Who are you?” I cried. They saluted us, military fashion. “Matabele police, sah,” the leader answered, recognising me. “You are flying from Klaas's?” “Yes,” I answered. “They have murdered Klaas, with his wife and child. Some of them are now following us.” The spokesman was a well-educated Cape Town negro. “All right sah,” he answered. “I have forty men here right behind de kopje. Let dem come! We can give a good account of dem. Ride on straight wit de lady to Salisbury!” “The Salisbury people know of this rising, then?” I asked. “Yes, sah. Dem know since five o'clock. Kaffir boys from Klaas's brought in de news; and a white man escaped from Rozenboom's confirm it. We have pickets all round. You is safe now; you can ride on into Salisbury witout fear of de Matabele.” I rode on, relieved. Mechanically, my feet worked to and fro on the pedals. It was a gentle down-gradient now towards the town. I had no further need for special exertion. Suddenly, Hilda's voice came wafted to me, as through a mist. “What are you doing, Hubert? You'll be off in a minute!” I started and recovered my balance with difficulty. Then I was aware at once that one second before I had all but dropped asleep, dog tired, on the bicycle. Worn out with my long day and with the nervous strain, I began to doze off, with my feet still moving round and round automatically, the moment the anxiety of the chase was relieved, and an easy down-grade gave me a little respite. I kept myself awake even then with difficulty. Riding on through the lurid gloom, we reached Salisbury at last, and found the town already crowded with refugees from the plateau. However, we succeeded in securing two rooms at a house in the long street, and were soon sitting down to a much-needed supper.
37102_1406	adventure stories	Marshall, Bernard Gay	“Did Sir Geoffrey make for her her excuse?” My face, as I could feel, grew burning red as I made answer: “Nay, he said no word of her.” Then Lady Mountjoy turned to my father, who had been closely listening: “It seems, my lord, that we shall not soon ride toward Teramore.” My father sadly shook his head, and gazed at the board before him. He had been glad at heart at the thought of the healed breach between the two houses; and now it seemed that all such thoughts were vain. “Mayhap Lady Carleton will ride over with Sir Geoffrey when next week he comes to Mountjoy as he promised,” I offered. My father again shook his head. “Mayhap she will, Dickon. If so be, she shall have the right hand of welcome; but much I misdoubt her coming to Mountjoy. When all is said, ’tis but natural she cannot bring herself to call us friends. It was we of Mountjoy that did to death her husband and her eldest son; and though we know well, and have maintained it by oath and by arms, that ’twas in fair battle, on our part at least, and that they brought their deaths upon themselves, yet perhaps ’tis too much to expect her to credit our words and deeds that give the lie to those of her own house. Nay, I see it now. She will never be a friend of Mountjoy.” He sighed deeply and turned again to his carving. None of us had more words; and it seemed that a cold fog, like those that come from the Western Sea in springtime, had settled on our spirits. Four days later Sir Geoffrey came to Mountjoy, attended by a well-armed retinue; but his lady mother was not with him; and again he said no word of her. We made the young heir of Carleton full welcome to Mountjoy, and spent the day with meat and drink and the practice of arms. With the cross-bow he did even better than before, and showed himself not too dull a learner at the foils. But the gayety we had had at Teramore was not with us at Mountjoy. ’Twas as if some shriveled witch had envied us our merriment and put a spell upon us to destroy it. Something of this Sir Geoffrey seemed to feel at last; and the sun was yet three hours high when he took horse for his return. So passed the summer.
58820_1449	detective and mystery stories	Sayers, Dorothy L. (Dorothy Leigh)	I boned the card from the table when I left. “Well, now, Parker, here’s what’s been keeping Bunter and me up till the small hours. I’ve measured and measured every way backwards and forwards till my head’s spinnin’, and I’ve stared till I’m nearly blind, but I’m hanged if I can make my mind up. Question 1. Is C identical with B? Question 2. Is D or E identical with B? There’s nothing to go on but the size and shape, of course, and the marks are so faint—what do you think?” Parker shook his head doubtfully. “I think E might almost be put out of the question,” he said; “it seems such an excessively long and narrow thumb. But I think there is a decided resemblance between the span of B on the water-bottle and C on the bath. And I don’t see any reason why D shouldn’t be the same as B, only there’s so little to judge from.” “Your untutored judgment and my measurements have brought us both to the same conclusion—if you can call it a conclusion,” said Lord Peter, bitterly. “Another thing,” said Parker. “Why on earth should we try to connect B with C? The fact that you and I happen to be friends doesn’t make it necessary to conclude that the two cases we happen to be interested in have any organic connection with one another. Why should they? The only person who thinks they have is Sugg, and he’s nothing to go by. It would be different if there were any truth in the suggestion that the man in the bath was Levy, but we know for a certainty he wasn’t. It’s ridiculous to suppose that the same man was employed in committing two totally distinct crimes on the same night, one in Battersea and the other in Park Lane.” “I know,” said Wimsey, “though of course we mustn’t forget that Levy _was_ in Battersea at the time, and now we know he didn’t return home at twelve as was supposed, we’ve no reason to think he ever left Battersea at all.” “True. But there are other places in Battersea besides Thipps’s bathroom. And he _wasn’t_ in Thipps’s bathroom. In fact, come to think of it, that’s the one place in the universe where we know definitely that he wasn’t. So what’s Thipps’s bath got to do with it?”
29479_1398	western stories	Cullum, Ridgwell	Wal, you're a fool, Tresler--a dog-gone fool! Guess you'll strike a snag, an' snags mostly hurts. Howsum, I ain't no wet-nurse, an' ef you think to bluff Jake Harnach, get right ahead an' bluff. An' when you bluff, bluff hard, an' back it, or you'll drop your wad sudden. Guess I'll turn in." Joe moved off and Tresler followed. At the door of the bunkhouse they parted, for Joe slept in a lean-to against the kitchen of the rancher's house. They had said "good-night," and Joe was moving away when he suddenly changed his mind and came back again. "Say, ther' ain't nothin' like a 'tenderfoot' fer bein' a fool, 'less it's a settin' hen," he said, with profound contempt but with evident good-will. "You're kind o' gritty, Tresler, I guess, but mebbe you'll be ast to git across a tol'ble broncho in the mornin'. That's as may be. But ef it's so, jest take two thinks 'fore settin' your six foot o' body on a saddle built fer a feller o' five foot one. It ain't reason'ble, an' it's dangerous. It's most like tryin' to do that as isn't, never wus, and ain't like to be, an' if it did, wouldn't amount to a heap anyway, 'cep' it's a heap o' foolishness." Tresler laughed. "All right. Two into one won't go without leaving a lot over. Good-night, Joe." "So long. Them fellers as gits figgerin' mostly gits crazed fer doin' what's impossible. Guess I ain't stuck on figgers nohow." And the man vanished into the night, while Tresler passed into the bunkhouse to get what little sleep his first night as a ranchman might afford him. CHAPTER V TRESLER BEGINS HIS EDUCATION But the story of the nocturnal visit of the horse thieves did not reach the foreman next morning. Jake hailed Tresler down to the corrals directly after breakfast. He was to have a horse told off to him, and this matter, and the presence of others, made him postpone his purpose to a more favorable time.
50939_2968	western stories	Turner, William Oliver	Besides, Willie's capture of Palma put an end to Charlie's responsibility in the matter, and he might as well get drunk. Willie said crisply that he would lend no more money. Charlie retired to an empty stall and sat down. The livery man caught the reins of Willie's horse and led it outside. All at once, Charlie was aware of a young white woman in the barn. She had appeared so miraculously that Charlie considered the possibility she might be a spirit, but Willie seemed to know her. "Stella!" he said. "Villie," she said in strangely accented English, "you must not leave. They vill kill you. I heard them." "Now just c-calm d-down," Willie said. "What did you hear?" "Marshal Madrid said he vould stop you from leaving town. I think he meant he vould kill you. Mr. Yay, he said no. He said it vould happen on the road. The prisoner vould have a gun and escape. You vould be dead, I think. At first, it vas only vun prisoner. Then you took the other vun. Mr. Yay said so much the better...." Stella was extremely excited, and her accent made it doubly hard for Muckamuck Charlie to understand what she was talking about. He gathered that she was warning Willie someone would kill him if he tried to take Palma to Ellensburg, but Charlie doubted that this could be taken literally. She probably wanted to keep Willie in town for reasons of her own. It was disappointing to see that Willie was sobered by her jabbering. "Thanks, S-Stella," Willie said. "You'll not go?" "I g-guess I'll go. I'll be as safe on the road as I am in t-town. But I'll search those prisoners before I start out, Stella." Willie touched her elbow and they walked together through the big barn door into the sunlight. Charlie got up and watched Willie ride to the marshal's office, leading the two extra horses. Stella hurried off toward the big house behind the town. Willie went into the office and reappeared with two handcuffed prisoners. All three mounted and rode out of town. The sight of Palma stirred an ugly hatred in Charlie and a fear for Willie. True, Willie had a gun in his belt and the prisoners were handcuffed. But Jim Palma was a strong and wily man.
35819_913	love stories	Dorrance, James French	From surprise or alarm the man backed a step or two. “To—to the police station,” he answered nervously. “Why didn’t you telephone? that would have been quicker. You seem in a hell of a hurry.” “The wires are cut, sir.” “Who are you anyway?” Pape’s demand was uttered with a note of authority. “I am Jasper—the Sturgis’ butler. Mrs. Sturgis has sent me to bring a detective.” With a short laugh Pape approved the born butler’s habit of subordination. “You’re in luck, Jasper. I’m the very man you’re looking for. Lead me to the case.” His location—he well might have been coming from the Central Park station house—favored him. The Arsenal could be seen a few yards within the wall. Although he had no shield to show, nor named himself a sergeant of the Force, the butler seemed satisfied with the assertion and his own misconclusions. Dutifully, he led the way back to the house which he had quitted in such a hurry. “This rushing about gets me in the wind, sir,” complained Jasper _en route_. “I fear I am growing a bit weighty. And what a comfort is the telephone. Things like that, sir, you never miss until they’re gone. Ah, sir, excitement like this is bad for the heart.” Opening the door with a latch key, he conducted his find across the reception hall, up a broad flight of stairs and into a formally furnished drawing-room. From between wide doors, half opened into a room beyond, appeared a woman of medium height, whose looks made unnecessary any introduction as Irene’s mother. If her mauve crape dress revealed rather too distinctly her plump outlines, it softened the middle-aged beauty of her face and toned with the magnificent grayish pearls she wore. “Is this the detective, Jasper?” she asked, but did not await an answer. “I’ll ring when I want you again.” She turned to the stranger as the butler passed out of the room. “Thank you for answering our call for help so promptly Mr. ——” “Pape, madam.” “Won’t you take off your coat and be seated, Mr. Pape? This is in some respects an unusual robbery, and your investigation probably will take some time.” He followed her suggestion with alacrity, using a nearby Davenport to rack his hat and overcoat.
55415_2478	adventure stories	Palmer, Don	“See for yourself, Jack. The underpinning’s been cut with a sharp knife. Quite recently too! Maybe today or within the last few hours!” The discovery rather unnerved the two Scouts. With Pedro helpless on the rocks below, and Mr. Livingston somewhere behind them, suffering from fever, their situation seemed to be growing more precarious by the moment. “Hostile Indians probably,” Jack muttered. “Something like this is to be expected after those warning arrows. They’re trying to prevent us from going on. We’re at the fringe of the forbidden country.” “If the Indians get it into their heads we’re here to despoil treasure temples, I hate to think of the revenge they might wreak on us! We’re in a spot, Jack.” “I sure wish Hap would get here,” Jack declared, casting an uneasy glance back toward the darkening crags. “No chance for a few hours.” “Pedro’s safe enough on the ledge, but we’ve got to get down to him. You’ll have to lower me on the rope.” “Getting back won’t be so easy.” “We’ll worry about that later. It’s no good trying to make camp on this side of the stream. Too exposed. If an attack should come, we’d have no protection whatsoever.” “We’ve lost most of our supplies,” Jack said grimly. “This finishes us, even if Pedro isn’t in a bad way.” The fading sunlight, splashing on the great rocks, transformed them into glowing fire. But the two Scouts had no thought for the splendor of the scenery. Working feverishly against darkness, Jack managed to lower Ken to the rock shelf above the stream. He provided first aid, and made a crude splint for Pedro’s leg which had a cracked bone. Then Ken called excitedly that he could see a balsa raft made of logs, hidden in a clump of bushes close by. “If I can get Pedro onto the balsa, we can ferry downstream where we can make camp,” he called up to Jack. “It’s our best bet.” “Okay,” Jack agreed after considering the proposal. “I’ll lower the duffle bags, and then try to get down there without breaking my neck.” He left another note for Mr. Livingston, after making certain that the following party was nowhere in view of the mountainside. Anchoring the rope to a stone support of the wrecked bridge, he slid down onto the narrow shelf.
22466_55	science fiction	DeKy, Thornton	From the two long, coffin-like liquid baths, there arose two perfect specimens of the _Homo sapiens_. Man and woman, they were, and they blinked their eyes in the light of the noonday sun, raised themselves dripping from the baths of their creation and stepped to the floor before Kiron. The man spoke, the woman remained silent. "I am Adam Two," he said. "Created, by you Kiron from a formula they left, in their image. I was created to be a Master and she whom you also have created is to be my wife. We shall mate and the race of Man shall be reborn through us and others whom I shall help you create." The Man halted at the last declaration he intoned and walked smilingly toward the woman who stepped into his open arms returning his smile. Kiron smiled too within his pumping heart. The words the Man had intoned had been placed in his still pregnable mind by the tele-teach phones and record that the last Master had prepared before death had halted his experiments. The actions of the Man toward the Woman, Kiron knew, was caused by the natural constituents that went to form his chemical body and govern his humanness. He, Kiron, had created a living man and woman. The Masters lived again because of him. They would sing and play and again people the magnificent crysolite city because he loved them and had kept on until success had been his. But then why not such a turnabout? Hadn't they, The Masters, created him a superb, thinking _robot_? Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Comet_ July 1941. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
29278_2710	love stories	Bradley, Mary Hastings	he asked. "Has it been good fun for you up here?" Only the blind could have missed the change that came over the girl's face, blotting out its laughter and etching in queer, startled fear. "It has been--very gay," she stammered. Despairingly she asked herself why she still tried to hide her story from him since in the morning it must all come out. He would know all about her then. And what must he be thinking already of her stammered evasions? Oh, if only on that yesterday, which seemed a thousand yesterdays away, she had stayed closely by her Cousin Jane! If she had not let her folly wreck all her life! Bitterly ironic to know that all the time Barry Elder was here, at hand. If only she had known! Had he just come? She wondered and asked the question. And at that Barry's face changed as if he had remembered something he would have been as glad to forget. "Oh--I've been here a few days," he gave back vaguely. She glanced about the shadowy room. "So alone?" A wry smile touched his mouth. "I came for alone-ness. I had a play to write--I wanted to work some things out for myself," and indefinably but certainly Maria Angelina caught the impression that all the things he wanted to work out for himself in this solitude were not connected with his play. His linked hands had slipped over his knees and he looked ahead of him very steadily into the fire, and Maria Angelina had a feeling that he looked that way into the fire many evenings, so oddly, grimly intent, with oblivious eyes and faintly ironic lips. He was quiet so long, without moving, that she felt as if he had forgotten her. He did not look happy. . . . Something dark had touched him. . . . "Is it something you want that you cannot get, Signor?" she asked him in a grave little voice. He turned his eyes to her, and she saw there was smoldering fire beneath their surface brightness. "No, Signorina, it is something that I want and that I can get." "There is no difficulty there," she murmured. "No?" His tone held mockery. "The difficulty is in me. . . . I don't want to want it." His eyes continued to rest on her in ironic smiling.
17418_1816	western stories	Woodrow, Wilson, Mrs.	"To-morrow? No, to-day. You said yesterday, father, that you would be going back at once. Oh, to-day! The afternoon train--" She looked eagerly from one man to another. "Yes, to-day," agreed Bob Flick. "You can go as well to-day as to-morrow, Gallito." The Spaniard had been thinking with thrust-out jaw and narrowed eyes, now he threw out his hands and lifted his brows. "Have it so, then," he said. "The train leaves this afternoon. Go, Pearl, and pack your things. I promised Hughie that he should go back with me, but he had better wait a few days until his mother can get her sister to stay with her. You had better tell him, Pearl." After she had gone into the house the two men sat in silence for a few minutes and then Flick lifted his relieved face to the sky. "If there's any God up there," he said, "I'm thanking him for that unexpected you were talking about, Gallito." "Ah, that unexpected!" returned Gallito. "It is more comforting than many religions. More than once when I have been in a tight place I have relied on it and not vainly. You will go with us this afternoon, Bob?" Flick hesitated a moment. "I can't," he said. "I've got a lot to do at the mines here, but I can come up soon if you think it will be all right." The old man smiled in his most saturnine fashion and sighed dismally. "I will make a special offering to the church if you come often," he said. "I can see black days ahead of us. She does not like the mountains." "Oh, she'll not stay long," Flick consoled him. "The summer, perhaps; but she will be ready to sign up with Sweeney before fall. She can't stay off the stage longer than that. You'll see." Gallito sighed again and pessimistically shook his head. He was far from anxious to assume the responsibility of restoring his daughter's spirits, and had hoped that Flick would relieve him of that duty, but, since that was not to be, he accepted the situation with what philosophy and fortitude he could muster and hurried the feminine preparations for departure so successfully that he and Pearl actually got away on the afternoon train.
57614_450	adventure stories	Seeley, Charles Sumner	There was reason to believe that plenty was to be had on the island, which was of volcanic formation, and moreover the water of the brook, swollen by the recent rain, was stained as though with clay. As I neared the line of cliff and rocks that formed the central ridge or back-bone of the island, the course of the stream bent to the north, and the forest was interspersed with small open glades where the great butterflies floated across through the sunshine, the metallic satiny blue of their lustrous wings glancing in the light. A flock of parrots with green, red, and blue plumage were chattering and screaming noisily in the bordering trees, and an occasional little green lizard would dash along the fallen trunks or over the rocks like a flash of emerald light. In one of these glades I found a quantity of shrubs growing about ten feet high and loaded with berries about the size of pepper-corns. The outside of these berries seemed covered with a greenish white wax. The leaf was somewhat like the myrtle. A sample of this, and of several other varieties of vegetation which were strange to me, I gathered to take home for identification in my manual of botany. I may here state that this berry-bearing shrub turned out to be the wax myrtle (_Myrica cerifera_ of the botanists), and that the waxy coating of the berries was what is known as bay-berry tallow. This wax can be readily collected by boiling the drupes and skimming it off as it rises to the surface of the water; and a bushel of the berries will yield from four to five pounds of the wax, which can be employed to make excellent candles. Near the cliffs I came upon a fine bed of clay, and I was so delighted with this discovery that I immediately began casting about for means of transporting a good supply to my house. The bed was distant from the house, as nearly as I could judge, about two miles, and the labor of carrying such heavy material would be very great. The best plan would be to knock together a raft of dry wood and float the clay down stream as a cargo. Vines and creepers to serve as cordage to tie the dead wood together were abundant, nor did it take me long to collect the wood and fashion the raft. Indeed, the harder task proved to be the digging out of the tough clay, as the only implements I had for this purpose were pointed sticks.
45627_567	detective and mystery stories	Newcomb, Ambrose	It began to grow much colder too, although they managed to don some heavier coats which would keep them from feeling the change in weather conditions to any extent. "Don't seem to be much use I guess Perk, in all my experience I can't say I ever ran across a fog that expended such a distance above the earth. Most times you can get out of the ditch by climbing, but here we are at a thirteen thousand foot ceiling and it's as black as ever. No use trying to get above the line--it just can't be done." "Right you are partner," admitted Perk, leveling off, "though I must say the breathin' seems a shade easier than down below." "We'll stick it out here for a while," Jack went on to say, "and it may be that the coming dawn may bring some sort of a breeze along to scatter this beastly stuff and let us see what's what." "Anyway," Perk was saying, as if in relief, "at such a height we ain't likely to rub noses with any rock pinnacle and to our everlastin' grief in the bargain. The air's like enough free of mountain peaks around this section o' country, which is some comfort to a fog-bound pair o' ginks, I admit." It was by this time about five o'clock and Perk was banking heavily on the fact that inside of another half hour, at that extreme height, they were likely to discover the advance couriers of approaching dawn commencing to paint the eastern heavens with fingers of delicate shaded colors. "Got any sort o' idee where we might be right now, Jack?" "Why, sitting tight in a nice fog blanket I'd say, brother," replied the one who was now at the controls, having some time back made the exchange, easily enough accomplished without the necessity of changing seats. "Jokin' aside, Jack, I mean what section o' country might be away down below-stairs where there's land and green things--how I'd like to rest my tired peepers on somethin' _green_ for a change." "I'm not as sure of my figures as I'd like to be Perk, for it's been hours since we saw anything at all except this fog; but we've covered a lot of space and must be well on our way to the hunting ground we started for. Wait until we get out of this mess
42441_4279	western stories	Mulford, Clarence Edward	There was a satisfied look on his face and he chuckled as he cogitated. "I shore got th’ drift of this; I know th’ game! Wonder how Cassidy got onto it?" He laughed contentedly. "Well, five hundred ain’t too little to split two ways; an’ mebby it is a two-man job. Mr. Joe Worth, who was once Mr. George Atkins, I would n’t give a peso for yore chances after I get th’ lay of th’ ground an’ find out yore habits. Yo ’re goin’ back to Willow Springs as shore as ’dogies’ hang ’round water holes. An’ you ’ll shore dance their tune when you gets there." Mr. Cassidy, arriving at the Bar-U, asked for the foreman and was told that the boss was in town, but would be back sometime in the afternoon. The newcomer replied that he would return later and, carefully keeping out of sight of the ranch house as well as he could, he wheeled and rode back the way he had come, being very desirous to have a good look at the foreman before they met. Arriving at an arroyo several miles north of the ranch he turned into it and, leaving his horse picketed on good grass along the bottom, he climbed to a position where he could see the trail without being seen. Having settled himself comfortably he improved the wait by trying to think out the best way to accomplish the work he had set himself to do. Shooting was too common and hardly justifiable unless Mr. Worth forced the issue with weapons of war. The time passed slowly and he was relieved when a horseman appeared far to the north and jogged toward him, riding with the careless grace of one at home in the saddle. Being thoroughly familiar with the trail and the surrounding country the rider looked straight ahead as if attention to the distance yet untraveled might make it less. He passed within twenty feet of the watcher and went on his way undisturbed. Hopalong waited until he was out of sight around a hill and then, vaulting into the saddle, rode after him, still puzzled as to how he would proceed about the business in hand. He dismounted at the bunkhouse and nodded to those who lingered near the wash bench awaiting their turn. "Just in time to feed," remarked one of the punchers. "Watch yore turn at th’ basins—every man for hisself ’s th’ rule." "All right," Hopalong laughed. "But is there any chance to get a job here?"
29290_283	science fiction	Hensley, Joe L.	Those things lie all through your mind--on the surface we have sensed only your pity for us and your hate for the shadowy ones around you, the ones we do not know. It was a wall we could not climb. She is different. "A part of her will go with us," the voice said. "There is another place that touches this one which we perceive and know more fully than this one." The voice died away and brief pictures of a land of other dimensions beyond sight flashed in his brain. He had seen them before imperfectly in the disquieting dreams. "She must go with us for she can no longer exist here," the voice said softly. "Perhaps there are others like us to come--we do not yet know what we are or whether there will be others like us. But we must go now, before we were ready, because of her." The mother's voice came. "You must go too. There is nothing here for you but sorrow. They will take you, John." A softness touched at him. "Please, John." The longing was a thing of fire. To cast off the world that had already given him all of the hate and fear that he could stand, that had made him worse than a coward. To go with her. But she no longer needed him. She was complete--as they were, only necessary to themselves. He could not go. During the long night he kept the vigil by the bedside; long after any need to keep it. The twins were gone and she with them. He could not cry for all tears seemed useless. He said a small prayer, something he had not done in years, over the cold thing left behind. The rain had ceased outside. Somewhere out there in his world there were men trying to undo the harm that had been done, harm that he had helped to do, then retreated from. He had no right to retreat further. Something spoke a requiem sentence in his consciousness, light as late sunset, only vaguely there. "_We are_ here--we will wait for you ... come to us ... come ..." He wrote a short note for the doctor and the others who would come and hunt and go through the motions that men must live by. Perhaps the doctor might even understand. "I have gone plumbing," the note said. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Fantastic Universe_ August 1957.
48146_623	adventure stories	Moyer, Bess	We’ve got troubles enough as it is. How are we ever going to get away from here? How will we fly to Peru with Dad’s papers? My head is whirling with problems and all I want to do is to get out of this jam as quickly as possible.” Prim ceased whispering as Joe came closer. Terry was looking toward her plane. Bud Hyslop was busily testing the motor. The girl could not bear the idea that Bud should touch _Skybird_. “If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to do my own repair work, Mr. Arnold,” said Terry with as polite a smile as she could muster. “I’ve always done my own overhauling and somehow, I’d rather attend to it myself. It’s very kind of you to want to be so helpful, but please tell Bud to leave my plane alone.” As she started toward the beach where _Skybird_ was standing, Joe Arnold stepped ahead of her. “Now don’t bother yelling and carrying on for there is no one around to hear you except some savages and they are my men. I’m boss here, and I tell you to keep quiet. I’m giving that plane to Bud Hyslop. It’s his from now on.” “You’re giving him _my_ plane!” stormed Terry. “You have no right to do that!” “Is that _so_? Well, I’m taking the right!” “But what about us? How can we get away?” cried Prim, almost in tears. “If you take our plane, we’ve got to stay here.” “That’s it exactly!” Joe sneered. “Here you stay until I get ready to let you go.” He stared at them coldly then turned and walked away. CHAPTER IV Island Prisoners Prisoners on a desert island! Dazed by Joe Arnold’s brutality, Terry and Prim looked about them for a way of escape, but there seemed no way out. Apart from the few huts in the cove where Joe Arnold had his camp, there was no sign of life. They were alone and at the mercy of these unscrupulous men who had every reason to destroy them. Prim clung to her sister with a grip that hurt. “Whatever will we do now, Terry?” she asked in a hoarse whisper. “We’re up against it for sure.” But Terry did not hear her. She was watching with flashing eyes as Bud Hyslop worked over the plane.
47368_69	detective and mystery stories	Beeman, Herbert	"Well, you can now, here is our old friend, Inspector Morebusiness" (You, dear reader, can guess his real name). "Tell the Inspector what you saw." "It was a leg of mutton hanging up in a butcher’s shop," shouted the miserable would-be humorist, as he made a dash out of the door, just in time to escape the bottle of ink that Keys sent hurtling through the air, only, alas! to smash on the rapidly closing door. The Inspector rolling on the floor in a paroxysm of laughter could hardly get out the words. "First of April," and Keys sank back in his chair muttering the monosyllable "Stung!" *V.* *THE ADVENTURE OF THE THIRTEEN CABS* London was in the throes of a general strike, and the labour world in such a seething ferment that many of the unions had broken from the control of their leaders, while others were led to lengths that many of the members deeply regretted, but were unable to prevent, so that deeds of violence were of daily occurrence. As we sat at breakfast Inspector Morebusiness was announced, and Keys bade him to enter, not very cordially I am afraid, as it was the first time we had seen him since his display of—to put it mildly—undue levity over the unfortunate case of Theophilus Brown. However, on seeing how white and worried the Inspector looked, Keys’ look of annoyance passed away, and heartily inviting him to join us at the table, refused to listen to his story until he had done justice to our ham and eggs and coffee. It was a terrible story that the inspector had to tell us. nothing less than the destruction of the National Gallery, with its priceless treasures, and of course loss of life, or injury, to anyone happening to be in the neighborhood, for nitro-glycerine was the destructive agent used. He went on to say that the police had no clue, and in despair he had come to Keys, a genuine acknowledgment of the Great Detective’s marvellous powers, if a somewhat tardy one. Keys closely questioned him as to anything unusual having been noticed in the vicinity, and the inspector said that one of his men had seen thirteen cabs passing shortly before the explosion. "Arrest the President and all the Officers of the Bakers’ and Pastrycooks’ Union, at once," said Keys. Greatly wondering, but willing to catch at any straw, the Inspector hastened to obey him.
33383_1230	detective and mystery stories	Clark, Joan	Quickly she walked across the yard and pounded on the door. Penny waited a few minutes and then turned back to the car. She halted as she heard a rap on one of the windows. Glancing up, she saw Perry looking out at her. "Oh, hello, Perry," Penny called. "Open the door." "I can't," shouted the boy through the glass. "It's locked." "Isn't your grandfather here?" The lad shook his head. "He's been gone all day. I'm locked up in here." "Can't you open a window?" Penny called. Again Perry shook his head. "I haven't had anything except bread to eat all day," he told her. "I'm getting real hungry." "Well, I should think so," said Penny grimly. She observed that the lower floor windows were all high from the ground, beyond the reach of anyone in the yard. "Aren't any of the upstairs windows unfastened?" she called to the boy. "Yes, but I can't get out there." "Does your grandfather have a ladder?" "I think there's one somewhere in the barn." "I'll find it," Penny said encouragingly. "Just you wait until I come back, Perry." She hurried off to the barn, well aware that in taking matters into her own hands, she was certain to incur the wrath of Herman Crocker. "I don't care if I do get into trouble," she thought indignantly. "He has no right to shut Perry up in the house without anything to eat. It's cruel." Penny opened the barn doors and stepped inside. She stopped short to stare at an automobile which stood on the floor beside the granary. One glance assured her that it was not Herman Crocker's ancient car. This was an expensive model with a streamline design, shiny and new save that one fender was slightly battered. "Why, it's Walter Crocker's automobile!" Penny thought in amazement. "How did it get here?" CHAPTER VIII The Toy Lantern Clue Penny stood staring at the car. She knew she could not be mistaken. It was the same automobile which Walter Crocker had upset in the ditch. She had last seen it there when she and her father had gone after Mrs. Masterbrook. "I suppose Walter Crocker might have instructed his uncle to bring the car here," Penny mused.
20320_5457	adventure stories	Hemyng, Bracebridge	How did that affair happen?" Pierre Lenoir told his friend, whom of course he did not know as a detective, but merely as an associate with coiners and such like people, how he had been tricked by Markby. "But I'll have his life, though." "Doubtless. It will be a bad day for him when he falls into your hands." Lenoir growled a fierce oath. "He has escaped me for the present, but if I wait for years, I will have my revenge. Pierre Lenoir never forgives." Unheedful of the coiner's anger, the detective stroked his moustache, and continued-- "But how about the prisoners up at the gaol yonder?" "They are innocent." "Innocent!" "Undoubtedly." "Then why are they in prison?" "Because the only persons who can clear them are Markby and myself." "Ah, I see!" "And Markby for some reason or other won't clear them." "Some old grudge, I suppose." "Yes. However, they are innocent; when I tried them, they flatly refused to have anything to do with the game." "Well, they are in a nice fix; but how did you manage to escape after that little affair with Markby and the peasant?'" "Crawled into a bush as near as possible to the scene of the fight." "Ah!" "If I had gone half a mile away, the police would no doubt have found me, but the thick-headed rascals never thought of looking only half a dozen yards off. Ha, ha, ha!" The detective smiled grimly. "They are thick-headed rascals." And after a pause occupied in listening to sounds in the street, he repeated-- "And the English prisoners are entirely innocent then?" "Entirely." "Now listen to me, Pierre Lenoir," continued the detective, rapping the table smartly as though to command attention. "But what a curious echo you have in this old room." "I had not noticed it; but to continue." "These English refused to have any thing to do with your business, you say?" "Yes; and showed fight when I would have used force to detain them." "Then if the judge knows that, the young fellows will be released?" "Yes; but, my dear friend, it is not likely I shall go to the court to give evidence in their favour.
19330_2068	western stories	King, Charles	What man or pair of men could pierce that cordon of Indians lurking all around them and reach the beleaguered command? What need to speculate on the fate of the earlier couriers anyway? Only Indians could hope to outwit Indians in such a case. It was madness to expect white men to get through. It was madness for Blakely to attempt it. Yet Blakely was gone beyond recall, perhaps beyond redemption. From him, and from the detachment that was sent by Bridger to follow his trail, not a word had come of any kind. Asked if they had seen or heard anything of such parties, the Indian couriers stolidly shook their heads. They had followed the old Wingate road all the way until in sight of the valley. Then, scrambling through a rocky labyrinth, impossible for hoof or wheel, had made a short cut to the head waters of the Beaver. Now Blakely, riding from the agency eastward slowly, should have found that Wingate trail before the setting of the first day's sun, and his followers could not have been far behind. It began to look as though the Bugologist had never reached the road. It began to be whispered about the post that Wren and his luckless companions might never be found at all. Kate Sanders had ceased her song. She was now with Angela day and night. One hope, a vague one, remained beside that of hearing from the baker's dozen that rode on Blakely's trail. Just as soon as Byrne received the Indian story concerning Wren's disappearance, he sent runners eastward on the track of Sanders's troop, with written advice to that officer to drop anything he might be doing along the Black Mesa and, turning northward, to make his way through a country hitherto untrod by white man, between Baker's Butte at the south and the Sunset Mountains at the north. He was ordered to scout the cañon of Chevlon's Fork, and to look for sign on every side until, somewhere among the "tanks" in the solid rock about the mountain gateway known as Sunset Pass, he should join hands with the survivors of Webb's troop, nursing their wounded and guarding the new-made graves of their dead. Under such energetic supervision as that of Captain Sanders it was believed that even Apache Yuma scouts could be made to accomplish something, and that new heart would be given Wren's dispirited men.
35833_3429	detective and mystery stories	McCulley, Johnston	Pretty smooth article, that Black Star—but we’ve got him! There they come now!” From the distance came the sound of a siren, the clanging of a patrol-wagon bell. Then the pounding feet on the marble stairs, loud commands, and men rushed into the establishment of Jones & Co. “We’ve got him!” Riley exulted. “Caught him at it! Locked him in the vault! And now we’ll stand around until the manager gets here and works the combination. He played a smooth game, all right—ask Mr. Verbeck about it. But we got him! I reckon he’s mighty sorry now that he stayed in town to make a fool out of Mr. Verbeck.” They waited, crowding about the place, talking excitedly in whispers, debating whether the Black Star would put up a fight when the door was opened, whether he’d commit suicide and cheat the law, now that he was cornered. Then the chief came beaming, dreaming of the vindication of his department the newspapers would have to grant. He grasped Verbeck by the hand warmly, patted Muggs on the back, congratulated Detective Riley. “I didn’t tip off the reporters this time,” he said. “Too late for ’em, anyway. They’ll get it in the noon editions to-day, though. Laugh at the police department, will they? Not after this!” And then the manager of Jones & Co. arrived, a gentleman the personification of dignity generally, but at present the personification of excitement and dread. He stammered when he talked, and threw up his hands in horror when he saw his establishment crowded with police, and it took the chief some minutes to assure him that his property was safe and the would-be thief locked in the vault. He advanced to the door and prepared to work the combination. His nervousness caused him to make a mistake at first, but finally he nodded that all that was necessary to open the door was to turn the handle. The manager retreated then, to hide behind a show case in fear of flying bullets. “Might as well come out, Mr. Black Star, and take your medicine!” Riley cried “We’ve got twenty men here, with guns pointing at that door. You make a hostile move when we open it, and you’ll see your finish!” He nodded to the police, twisted the handle, and threw the door open. Light flooded the interior of the vault. Half a dozen officers, Riley at their head, rushed.
40464_3523	detective and mystery stories	Machray, Robert	"Can you cast your thoughts back," said Eversleigh, in a weak and quavering tone, "to a certain Saturday in July, when you were in this office? I had spoken to you of the presence of Mr. Bennet at Ivydene----" "Remember that day!" broke in Gilbert. "Shall I ever forget it? It was on the evening of that day I proposed to Kitty, and she accepted me. I have more cause than ever now to remember it!" "That was the day, Gilbert. It was also the day, you will remember, on which we heard that Mr. Thornton was coming back to England. The whole trouble begins with his letter," said Eversleigh, and stopped with a gulp and a choke. "With Mr. Thornton's letter?" "Yes," said Eversleigh, trying to fight down his emotion. "Gilbert," he went on more calmly, "I am very sorry to tell you that on the day we received the letter intimating Mr. Thornton's return, I received from Mr. Silwood a confession that he had been speculating with the funds and the property of our clients, and that all had been lost--Mr. Thornton's with the rest." "What!" cried Gilbert, doubting his senses. "It is true." "Father, do you know what you are saying?" "Alas, yes, only too well! Thornton's letter spoke of making a formal examination of the securities we held of his, and it was this which led Silwood to confess his embezzlements." "But you had nothing to do with them, father!" "No; but I need not tell you that in the eye of the law, I, as Silwood's partner, was equally guilty. What I have suffered, what I have endured from that moment, you can never guess; I have lived in a hell of torture. When I knew the truth, I did not know what to do; but I just let myself drift and drift and drift, hoping against hope that somehow or other there might be a way out of the difficulties that beset me. But there has been no way out. Things have gone from bad to worse. There was first Silwood's death, and then the death of Morris Thornton." Gilbert uttered a sharp cry. "You thought Silwood murdered Thornton because of the money?" he said. "Before the inquest I did, but not afterwards. I know no more about that mystery than you.
45973_570	detective and mystery stories	Newcomb, Ambrose	The die was cast, and for better or worse they had made their decision; but neither of them had any disposition to turn back. Danger and these men of the Force were accustomed to being familiar campmates; since there was no mission on which they could be sent but had its share of peril; if such expeditions were but picnics it would not be so necessary to dispatch the prize men of the Service on the track, where others had failed after shooting their bolt. Speedily were they swallowed up in the night. Far distant, and in the east a mellow light low-down announced the rising of the moon, now far advanced in its last quarter. Jack did not count for any assistance in the rising of the uncrowned queen of the night, since already he could see the gathering fog was growing thicker every passing minute. Several times he lost the remnant of moon entirely, to have it creep into view again, as though the thick vapor had temporarily opened up; but only to close in again worse than ever, until the glimpse of the climbing orb came no more. Thus began their fight with the fog--its insidious influence seemed to shut them in like an opaque curtain, growing more and more dense as the minutes moved along. Realizing that they were now heading into that stretch where they might expect to meet with lofty mountain peaks, and crags, Jack began a steady upward climb, being most desirous of taking no unnecessary chances of crashing against a rock cliff that was hidden from their view by the creeping fog. It seemed to be a most extraordinary fog, all told, Perk explained to his own satisfaction. Usually when thus compassed around about by a dense sea of vapor, and unable to take any sort of reckoning by means of the heavens above, or the earth beneath, this trouble could be remedied by climbing still further into the region of the clouds, and thus finding an altitude where the air was sweet and pure, even if a bit shivery. Apparently that was not going to answer in the present case. Jack had ascended until they were already some eight thousand feet from the earth; but if anything their enemy the fog appeared to be more dense than ever. In fact, it did not seem worth while to pursue this system of tactics any further, in order to beat the enshrouding blanket of sticky wetness--why, if they kept on much longer, the cold increasing the higher they lifted their ship, that same dripping moisture would be turning into _ice_, and the additional weight was apt to play havoc all around.
32706_1255	science fiction	Smith, E. E. (Edward Elmer)	Although he was very evidently an officer, no insignia were visible. As Kinnison and the gunners approached, a first lieutenant--practically spic-and-span--spoke to the man on the rock. "First thing to do is to settle the matter of rank," he announced, crisply. "I'm First Lieutenant Randolph, of...." "Rank, eh?" The seated one grinned and spat out the butt of his cigarette. "But then, it was important to me, too, when I was a first lieutenant--about the time that you were born. Slayton, Major-General." "Oh ... excuse me, sir...." "Skip it. How many men you got, and what are they?" "Seven, sir. We brought in a wire from Inf...." "A _wire_! Hellanddamnation, why haven't you got it with you, then? Get it!" The crestfallen officer disappeared; the general turned to Kinnison and the sergeant. "Have you got any ammunition, sergeant?" "Yes, sir. About thirty belts." "Thank God! We can use it, and you. As for you, Captain, I don't know...." The wire came up. The general seized the instrument and cranked. "Get me Spearmint ... Spearmint? Slayton--give me Weatherby.... This is Slayton ... yes, but ... No, but I want ... Hellanddamnation, Weatherby, shut up and let me talk--don't you know that this wire's apt to be cut any second? We're on top of Hill Fo-wer, Ni-yun, Sev-en--that's right--about two hundred men; maybe three. Composite--somebody, apparently, from half the outfits in France. Too fast and too far--both flanks wide open--cut off ... Hello! Hello! Hello!" He dropped the instrument and turned to Kinnison. "You want to go back, Captain, and I need a runner--bad. Want to try to get through?" "Yes, sir." "First phone you come to, get Spearmint--General Weatherby. Tell him Slayton says that we're cut off, but the Germans aren't in much force nor in good position, and for God's sake to get some air and tanks in here to keep them from consolidating. Just a minute. Sergeant, what's your name?" He studied the burly non-com minutely. "Wells, sir.
56278_5246	adventure stories	Standish, Burt L.	Tinker snapped it to first to catch Rattleton. Had the throw been accurate Harry would have been caught, but Cross was compelled to jump for it. He muffed it, giving Rattleton time to get back to the bag. “Wouldn’t dot jar you!” half sobbed Hans, as he turned toward the bench. “I had dot pall labeled dree pags vor.” “Oh, give up! give up!” laughed Wolfers. “You’re beaten.” “It is my hour of glory,” said Ready, as he picked out a slugger and sauntered toward the plate. “You’ll be a snap,” said the Elkton pitcher. “Don’d you pelief him!” cried Hans. “Der pall can hit you easy. You vill a three-pagger get.” “A safe hit wins this game,” declared Jack. “Merry follows me, and he will promulgate the ball out of the lot.” “You’ll get no safe hit off me,” asserted Wolfers. He was mistaken. Ready did not try to “kill” the ball. He took a short hold on his bat and drove a clean hit out between first and second. Rattleton stretched his legs and raced to third, while Ready took first. Wolfers was disturbed. “Here’s where de Merries win der game!” yelled a small boy. “Frank Merriwell is goin’ ter hit, an’ he always does de trick.” Instantly a dozen of his companions turned on him. “What’s der matter with you, Spud Bailey?” snarled a big chap, with red hair and plenty of freckles. “Wolfers will strike him out!” “Bet you two hundred t’ousan’ dollars he don’t!” hotly retorted Spud. “Dey never strike dat boy out!” “Bet your small change,” advised Freckles. “How do you know so much?” “I’ve read about Frank Merriwell. Wot’s der matter with you! You’re a back number!” “You’ll think you’re a back number arter you see wot Wolfers does ter him.” “Will I?” “Yes, yer will!” “Naw, I won’t!” “Yes, yer will!” “Naw, I won’t!” By this time they had their fists clenched and their noses close together, while they were glaring into each other’s eyes. “Say,” said Freckles, “arter ther game I’ll give you all that’s comin’ ter ye!”
5270_3902	detective and mystery stories	Reeve, Arthur B. (Arthur Benjamin)	Botulism is food poisoning. If I had not found the stem of that glass it would be absolutely impossible to show that Werner died from anything on earth but bad food. That is why I do not even take time to analyze the stomach contents. That is why I say we are confronted by an archscoundrel of highest intelligence and downright cleverness. More"--Kennedy paused for emphasis--"I realize now the presence of a grim, invisible menace. It has just now been driven home to me. The botulin, with its deadly paralyzing power, sealed Werner's tongue even while he tried to tell me what he knew." Mackay was tremendously impressed by Kennedy's explanation. "Does this mean," he asked, "that the guilty man or woman is some outsider? Those we have figured as possible suspects would hardly have this detailed knowledge of poisons." "There are two possibilities," Kennedy answered. "The real person behind the two murders may have employed some one else to carry out the actual killing, a hypothesis I do not take seriously, or"--again he paused--"this may be a case of some one with intelligence starting out upon his career of crime intelligently by reading up on his subject. It is as simple to learn how to use crotalin or botulin toxin or any number of hundreds of deadly substances as it is to obtain the majority of them. In fact, if people generally understood the ease with which whole communities could be wiped out, and grasped that it could be done so as to leave virtually no clue to the author of the horror, they might not sleep as soundly at night as they do. The saving grace is that the average criminal is often clever, but almost never truly scientific. Unfortunately, we have to combat one who possesses the latter quality to a high degree." "What is the invisible menace of which you spoke, Craig?" I inquired. "The possibility of another murder before we can apprehend the guilty person or gain the evidence we need." "Good heavens!" I imagine I blanched. "You mean--" "Werner was struck down, apparently, for no reason but that he had guessed the identity of the villain. There is a second man in the company who has certain suspicions and is acting upon them. If he is on the right trail, by any chance--" Kennedy shrugged his shoulders soberly. "Shirley?" "Exactly! And there is still another possibility.
32697_334	science fiction	Quattrocchi, Frank	There was a long moment of complete silence on the field. Nothing moved. Then the voice of the frog boomed from the alien ship. "The solution appears to be correct." * * * * * The alien left three days later. Regular communications would begin within the week. Future meetings would work out technical difficulties. Preliminary trade agreements, adequately safeguarded, were drafted and transmitted to the ship. The Races of Man and the Races of Wan were in harmony. * * * * * "It was simply too obvious for any of us to notice," explained Harrison. "It took that street-corner evangelist to jar something loose--even then it was an accident." "And the rest of us--" started Mills. "While _all_ of us worked on the assumption that the test involved a showing of strength--a flexing of technological muscle." "I still don't see--" "Well, the evangelist put the problem on the right basis. He humbled us, exalted the aliens--that is, he thought the alien was somehow a messenger from God to put us in our places." "We were pretty humble ourselves, especially the last day," protested Mills. "But humble about our _technology_," put in Harrison. "The aliens must be plenty far beyond us technologically. But how about their cultural superiority. Ask yourself how a culture that could produce the ship we've just seen could survive without--well destroying itself." "I still don't understand." "The aliens developed pretty much equally in _all_ directions. They developed force--plenty of it, enough force to kick that big ship through space at the speed of light plus. They must also have learned to control force, to live with it." "Maybe you better stick to the sword business," said Mills. "The sword is the crux of the matter. What did the alien say about the sword? 'It is defective.' It _is_ defective, Bob. Not as an instrument of death. It will kill a man or injure him well enough. "But a sword--or any other instrument of force for that matter--is a terribly ineffectual tool. It was originally designed to act as a tool of social control. Did it--or any subsequent weapon of force--do a good job at that?
58711_5175	detective and mystery stories	M'Govan, James	The grunt was utterly derisive of me and my powers. After trying her for nearly half an hour I gave the old woman up in despair and left, determined to overhaul the books of the registrar for the district. I did so for a period extending over the two years, but could find no record of such a death. I had not expected to find it. The strange reticence of the mother had convinced me that I had misjudged the broken wife, and that the man was really alive. My visit to the registrar was productive of one discovery, however, which pointed to a solution to one mystery. I found recorded the death of one Richard Hanford, aged 58 years, spouse of the old woman who had proved so intractable under my questioning. By referring to the broken wife I discovered that she had never thought of looking at the _age_ of the deceased as recorded in the certificate; and I had a strong suspicion that it had been the certificate of the father’s death which had been shown her, with a view to severing the connection for ever. Back I went to the old woman’s home, only to find her flown, and the house shut up and empty. She had taken alarm, then, and deemed flight the most easy way out of her difficulties. I had now no clue whatever to the discovery of Hanford, and, truth to tell, was not sorry. I heartily hoped that he, too, had taken alarm and left the city, and that I should thus hear no more of the case. But the broken wife, from the hour of the first meeting, had never rested. She was continually on the prowl, never going to her work, seldom eating or sleeping, and almost forgetting to drink. The result was that one night, in watching a quiet hotel or boarding-house at the West End, she saw a man come out and hurry towards a waiting cab, and flew across and pinned him in her arms with his foot on the steps. “Dick! Dick Hanford! look at me and say why you have tried to make me believe you were dead?” she cried in frenzied tones. The man was alone, and did not seem greatly surprised, though he was labouring under great excitement and emotion. “Call me John Ferguson,” he said, tremulously, without trying to push her off or escape. “Dick Hanford is dead—dead to everyone.” “Not to me, for I am still your wife,” she excitedly returned. “Oh, Dick!
31699_3643	western stories	Mulford, Clarence Edward	" The Texans nodded and one of them glanced at his leader while he spoke to Tom. "Reckon if ye got them mules ter Bent's ye could sell 'em, or trade 'em fer a couple o' hosses?" He hesitated and then said: "We're runnin' powerful short o' powder an' lead." "Th' caravan bein' so clost ter Santa Fe, it's got more o' both than it needs," replied Tom. "If we kin git ye some we'll leave it behind th' hill at that old cache o' Hanks. If ye go that way, look fer it." He grinned. "Hank an' me air aimin' ter carry some in one of th' buffaler rug packs. Thar's two fifty-pound pigs o' lead fastened to each o' th' cannon carriages, an' they won't have no use fer more than one ter each gun. "Wish I war goin' with ye," growled the Texan leader, his eyes flaming again. "I'm hankerin' ter git Salezar's ears, fer I saw th' polecat c'llect Texan ears on th' road from San Miguel ter 'Paso, ter keep th' tally o' his prisoners straight. He strung 'em on a wire, d--n him!" His face became livid with passion, and murder raised its grisly visage in his eyes. Tom paled. "Yes," he said. "He took th' ears o' a friend o' mine that war sick an' weak with hunger an' cold an' exhaustion, an' couldn't keep up. He had traded most o' his clothes fer short rides on th' mules o' th' guards. They killed him near Valencia, an' his ears war took ter account fer him." "Valencia!" muttered the leader, pacing back and forth like a panther. "I remember him! Oh, Christ!" he cried, and then got hold of himself. "Boyd, I'd give everythin' I own ter git my han's on that Salezar; an' go ter hell with a smile on my face!" Then he stiffened and reached convulsively toward his holster, for the unmistakable twang of a bowstring sounded from the bushes above his head. The Texans leaped to their arms, but Tom stopped them with a cry. "Wait, boys! That's Hank--my pardner!" He looked up toward the bushes. "Ye damned fool! Show yerself!
32544_943	science fiction	Reynolds, John Murray	Down on your knees, captives and slaves." Closana went to her knees, though otherwise holding herself proudly erect with her hands tied behind her back. In the greenish light her long blonde hair looked like molten gold. Angus McTavish muttered savagely in his beard and stayed on his feet. Instantly one of the reptile guards drew his sword and held the blade horizontally behind the Scot's knees. "Kneel--or I cut the tendons!" he snapped. "Come down, you stiff-necked idiot!" Gerry growled. With a muttered oath Angus dropped to his knees, and the guard stepped back into line. Then the door opened, and three men came slowly into the room. Two were gray-scaled guards who carried their gas-guns cocked and ready. The third was a tall man in a loose green robe. His head was hooded, so that nothing of his face could be seen at all, his hands were tucked in the sleeves of his robe. There was something deadly and almost grotesque about that silent figure. Gerry knew that at last he was in the presence of Lansa, Lord of the Scaly Ones and ruler of Giri-Vaaka, self-styled Overlord of all Venus! * * * * * The seconds passed in silence. The guards were frozen motionless at attention. At last Lansa spoke, his voice coming hollowly from the shadows of his hood. "Take them to the cells. Their doom shall be decided when the Serpent Gods have spoken. I have ordered it!" The tyrant of Venus gestured sharply, and the guards closed in about the prisoners. For a fleeting instant Gerry had a glimpse of a thin green hand, a hand where the finger was missing at the second joint. Then Lansa went out and the door closed behind him. The deeply resonant gong sounded again, and the pulsating green light instantly vanished so that there was again no light except for the thin trickle of yellow radiance that came in the single high window. The prisoners were pulled to their feet. There was no chance to speak to Angus or Closana again. Gerry's guards led him down a narrow corridor, past the steel doors of cells. It was very dim and silent. From some of the cells he heard a faint rattle of chains, from others a low groaning. Otherwise there was no sound but their own footfalls. At last the guards opened the door of a cell, pushed Gerry inside, and cut the ropes that bound his arms. As they slammed the heavy steel door behind them he heard the rasp of bolts.
29303_131	science fiction	Archibald, Joe	He has been flying cargo between Earth and Parsnipia and says he is quite unable to explain certain expense items in his book. A Parsnipian D.A. is trying to serve him a subpoena. "You are in, Axie," I says. "A crew of three is enough as that is about all the oxygen we can store up. Meet D'Ambrosia Zahooli." "Why is he wearing a mask?" Wurpz quips. "You are as funny as a plutonium crutch," Zahooli says. "No hard feelin's," Wurpz says, and takes a small flask out of his pocket. "We will drink to Operation Earthworm." As might have been expected, we run into some snags. The Euthanasia Society serve us with papers as they maintain nobody can commit suicide in the year 2022 without permission from the Board. Gulflex and other oil companies protest to Number One as they say we might open up a hole that will spill all the petroleum out of the earth all at once, so fast they couldn't refine it. A spark could ignite it and set the globe on fire like it was a brandied Christmas pudding. But then another earthquake shakes Earth from the rice fields of China to the llamas in Peru just when it looks as if we were about to be tossed into an outer space pokey. The seismologists get together and agree that they can't possibly figure out the depth of the focus and state that the long waves have to pass through the epicenter or some such spot underground. Anyway, all the brass agrees that something is going on in inner space not according to Hoyle or Euclid or anybody else and that we three characters might just hit on something of scientific value. The Magnificent Mole is built mostly of titanium, a metal which is only about half as heavy as steel and twice as rugged. It is not quite as big in diameter as the auger, for if it was any Martian moron knows we would scrape our sides away before we got down three miles. We store concentrated chow to last six months and get the acceleration couches ready. We are to blast down at eighteen point oh-four hours, Friday, May 26th, 2022. Today is Wednesday. The big space brass, the fourteenth estate haunt the spot marked X. We get it both barrels from the jokers carrying press cards. They call it Operation Upside Down. At last three characters were really going to dig a hole and pull it in after them. Three hours before Dig-day, Exmud R. Zmorro interviews us. We are televised around the orbit.
45870_2932	adventure stories	Phillipps-Wolley, Clive	It might have been Pete's perhaps." And so the matter dropped and the glove was forgotten, for there were many things to occupy the attention of Ned and Steve in those days; and as for Phon, he never even heard of the glove, being busy at the time upon some engineering work in connection with that great boulder of his at the bend in the stream. For several days the Chinaman had ceased to wash or dig, all his time being devoted to preparations for the removal of the boulder, and at last, one morning, when the gully was full of the pent smoke of his fires, he was ready for the last act in his great work, and came to Corbett and Chance for help. On the top of the rock were the ashes of Phon's fires, and at its feet, where once the waters ran, was dry ground, while from summit to base the rock itself was split into a hundred pieces, so small as to offer no serious difficulties to the united efforts of the three men who wanted to remove them. For centuries the rock had stood upon a kind of shelf, from which the three men, using a pine-pole as a lever, pitched one great fragment after another until the whole of the rock's bed lay bare. Then for a moment they paused, while the smoke drifted about them, and the corded veins stood out strangely upon their pale faces. Surely they were dreaming, or their eyes were tricked by the smoke! Phon had guessed that the boulder had caught and held some portion of the gold which had come down the mountain stream in the course of the last few centuries, but the sight upon which he gazed now was such as even he had only dreamed of when the opium had possession of him body and soul. The bed of the boulder was a bed of gold--gold in flakes and lumps and nuggets; gold in such quantities that as Steve and Ned looked at it a doubt stole into their minds. Surely, they thought, it cannot be for this common, ugly stuff, of which there is so much, that men toil and strive, live and die, and are damned! [Illustration: "GOLD--GOLD IN FLAKES, AND LUMPS, AND NUGGETS."] The wet pebbles amongst which the gold lay were twice as beautiful, and as Ned wiped the perspiration from his brow he thought that a quart of gold would be but a small price to pay for a quart of honest Bass. But Phon had no such fancies.
45776_880	detective and mystery stories	Newcomb, Ambrose	Jack was paying little attention to side issues just then for he knew his pal’s peculiarities, and short-comings as well and having “exhausted his boiler” Perk presently lapsed into utter silence. They had climbed to a fairly high ceiling, and caught only occasional fugitive glimpses of the earth far below, when the moon chanced to break through the banks of clouds, which intervals became less and less frequent, Jack noticed. He did not altogether fancy the looks of the heavens, by degrees becoming more and more overcast; still, this might after all mean next to nothing and their business was to keep steadily on their way as if things were bound to come out all right. It was now drawing well on toward midnight, and they had placed hundreds of miles between the city of their recent stay and themselves. Long since Perk had taken what proved to be his last glimpse of the vast gulf as seen far away toward the south, when the night was brightly illuminated, with the moon’s silvery rays shining on the glistening waters, and making a picture that even appealed to Perk’s rugged nature—after that all he was able to make out was the monotonous level plains that lay in every quarter, as though the whole earth consisted of this same stock country. No longer were they able to find any cheer in the company of the moon, for the canopy above, earlier in the night peopled by a multitude of bright stars, was now gripped in dense masses of clouds. Having thus lost his guide marks below, Jack was compelled to place all dependence upon his faithful instruments, but this of course was an old story to one of his experience, so that he did not do any worrying on that score. Perk, buried in his own thoughts, and paying scant heed to what changes were taking place in the signs of the weather, had no warning until suddenly there came a dazzling flash, that was almost instantly succeeded by a tremendous burst of thunder. “Ginger pop! that means we’re booked for a bit o’ storm, mebbe, eh, Jack?” was his startled exclamation. “Let’s hope it turns out to be _only_ a bluster,” the pilot went on to say, as he turned the nose of his ship upward, and commenced to climb, evidently in hopes that by so doing they might get above those low hanging clouds, and have clear sailing while the disturbance lasted.
60947_581	science fiction	Anvil, Christopher	Dan pulled himself up and looked out at a walk and a high wall a few feet away. He cut the sleeve of his shirt into strips and knotted the strips together with a transceiver tied onto either end, so that one transceiver hung on the outside and the other on the inside. Then Dan was outside, in an underground part of the planet where no one was supposed to be without an official permit. The air seemed as fresh as outdoors, while overhead there was the appearance of the sky on a heavily overcast day. There was light enough to see by, but it was apparently dimmed to provide an artificial night. Dan saw no one, and said mentally, "Kielgaard?" Kielgaard's voice had a hoarse sound. "Are you out of that place?" "I'm out of it--thank heaven." "Amen. But listen, things have taken a nasty turn." "What's happened?" "We've questioned that prisoner. The outfit behind this trouble is Trans-Space. But they don't have the control center. Instead, they've got the headquarters of the election committee that controls the referendum. Trans-Space is representing itself as the government of an interstellar league of planets. They have everything set up to falsify the vote tomorrow." Dan frowned. "What of it? I can still plant the mataform transceivers and we can bring men down from above." "Yes, but Trans-Space has a mataform terminal set up in the terminal election headquarters. It hooks into the local system and connects with an outpost in the jungle on the surface. Trans-Space has been building up to this day for over three years. The election headquarters is manned like a fortress. It's in immediate touch with the outpost on the surface where they've got an army of reinforcements." Dan stood still, thinking. He remembered the official with the carrying case in the corridor overhead, who had said to the angry crowd, "Go to the War Ruler." Dan mentioned the incident and said, "What about this War Ruler and his emergency powers?" * * * * * Kielgaard said, "It looked promising to us at first, but actually that's as if someone should say, 'England is in peril. Go to King Arthur.'" "What?" said Dan, puzzled. "The War Ruler is a myth. A thousand years or more ago, after a terrific internal war, they had a famine.
61283_86	science fiction	Banta, Frank	I'd better radio the Division Chief." * * * * * As the jet plane flashed across their vision, the Kentons saw a tiny bundle drop from it. Pole ran out into the jungle and was under the parachute when it landed. He came back into the clearing unwrapping a package. "It sure was thoughtful of Mr. Wattles to answer so fast," said Pole, as he opened the little package. "And will you look here in the middle! He even sent us a present!" "It's a beautiful, plain white, rectangular carton of approximately three by seven inches," she said breathlessly. "But we mustn't be selfish," Pole reminded hastily. "Let's see what Mr. Wattles has to say in his memorandum here first." They both read the green memorandum. To: Napoleon B. Kenton, Special Agent, Pretzin Division, Venus From: Chief, Pretzin Division, Venusport, Venus Subject: Personal Problems of Special Agents In a radio message dated January 25, 1982 you related certain personal problems you were experiencing, and you stated that delays might be encountered in your harvesting of pretzins. We regret your difficulties. However, it is believed these misfortunes may be overcome during leisure hours and should be soon resolved without loss of a measurable part of your productive time. Pole interrupted his reading to beam at his wife. "He's sorry for us, Bliss, and he hopes things will be better for us soon." "Isn't he the nicest man?" They read on. In your radio message you refer to difficulties you are having with a snake and a lizard (which you colloquially refer to as a dragon). It is believed that the enclosed package, serial number 93G-18, will cope with the matter, and that no further report will be necessary with respect to snakes and lizards. Carl Wattles Chief, Pretzin Division Eagerly Bliss Kenton opened the plain white carton bearing the serial number 93G-18. She slid out the two and three-quarter by six and one-half inch fumigation bomb can. Bliss read the label. "'Lizards and snakes go 'way and stay. Only $1.19 F.O.B.U.S.A.' Why, it rhymes!" she said, a wondering smile lighting her face. "Does it say how long the lizards are that go 'way and stay?" Pole asked anxiously, thinking of the neighborhood's forty-foot hellion. "_All_ lizards, it says. And only $1.19." "Good!
538_702	western stories	Bower, B. M.	She looked at the gun she had picked up from the ground,--being loaded with blank cartridges was what had made it look so queer!--and at Robert Grant Burns of the Great Western Film Company, who had put on his hat again and was studying her the way he was wont to study applicants for a position in his company. "Did you get permission to haze our cattle around like this?" she asked abruptly, to hide how humiliated she really felt. "Why--no. Just for a few scenes, I did not consider it necessary." Plainly, the chuckly Mr. Burns was taken at a disadvantage. "But it is necessary. Don't make the mistake, Mr. Burns, of thinking this country and all it contains is at the disposal of any chance stranger, just because we do not keep it under lock and key. You are making rather free with another man's personal property, when you use my uncle's cattle for your rustling scenes." "Your uncle? Well, I shall be very glad to make some arrangement with your uncle, if that is customary." "Why the doubt? Are you in the habit of walking into a man's house, for instance, and using his kitchen to make pictures without permission? Has it been your custom to lead a man's horses out of his stable whenever you chose, and use them for race pictures?" "No, no--nothing like that. Sorry to have infringed upon your property-rights, I am sure." Mr. Burns did not sound so chuckly now; but that may have been because the three picture-rustlers were quite openly pleased at the predicament of their director. "It never occurred to me that--" "That the cattle were not as free as the hills?" The quiet voice of Jean searched out the tenderest places in the self-esteem of Robert Grant Burns. She tossed the blank-loaded gun back upon the ground and turned to her horse. "It does seem hard to impress it upon city people that we savages do have a few rights in this country. We should have policemen stationed on every hilltop, I suppose, and 'No Trespassing' signs planted along every cow-trail. Even then I doubt whether we could convince some people that we are perfectly human and that we actually do own property here." While she drawled the last biting sentences, she stuck her toe in the stirrup and went up into the saddle as easily as any cowpuncher in the country could have done.
21513_1590	adventure stories	Paltock, Robert	I would many a time have given all my interest in the ship's cargo for a Bible; and a hundred times grieved that I was not master of a pocket one, which I might have carried everywhere about me. I never imagined there was one aboard, and if there were, and You-warkee should find it, I supposed it would be in Portuguese, which I knew little of, so it would be of small service to me if I had it. Since I am on the topic of religion, it may not be amiss, once for all, to give you a small sketch of my religious proceedings after coming into my new dominions. I have already told you that from my first stop at the rock I had prayed constantly morning and evening, but I cannot say I did it always with the same efficacy. However, my imperfect devotions were not without good effect; and I am confident, wherever this course is pursued with a right view, sooner or later the issue will prove the same to others as I found it to myself; I mean, that mercies will be remembered with more gratitude, and evils be more disregarded, and become less burdensome; and surely the person whose case this is, must necessarily enjoy the truest relish of life. As daily prayer was my practice, in answer to it I obtained the greatest blessing and comfort my solitude was capable of receiving; I mean my wife, whose character I need not farther attempt to blazon in any faint colours of my own after what has been already said, her acts having spoken her virtues beyond all verbal description. After we were married, as I call it--that is, after we had agreed to become man and wife--I frequently prayed before her, and with her (for by this time she understood a good deal of my language); at which, though contrary to my expectation, she did not seem surprised, but readily kneeled by and joined with me. This I liked very well; and upon my asking her one day after prayer if she understood what I had been doing (for I had a notion she did not)--"Yes, verily," says she, "you have been making petitions to the image of the great Collwar."*--"Pray," says I (willing gently to lead her into a just sense of a Supreme Being), "who is this Collwar? and where does He dwell?"--"He it is," says she, "that does all good and evil to us.
50317_3412	love stories	Hamilton, Cosmo	" Her merry laugh remained in the room and Ida Larpent added a chuckle to it. "Enjoy your joke, my child," she said to herself, "but count me out. If I have to work a miracle I’ll stay on the yacht and in good time, with ordinary luck and great tact, I may have something to laugh at too." *XXIII* Franklin was in his room talking to the Captain about a fishing expedition when Beatrix knocked at the door. "Come in ... and if we lie at anchor for a couple of days we can ship some grub on the big launch..." He stopped on seeing Beatrix, who stood framed in the doorway, the most bewitching picture he ever hoped to see. "Am I disturbing you? ... I’ll come back presently." "Oh, no, please!" said Franklin. "We’ve finished." Beatrix had no intention of leaving whether she disturbed or not. "Good morning, Captain," she said, "What a wonderful day!" "Good morning, Mrs. Franklin. It’s good to be alive in such weather, isn’t it? ... Very good, sir. I’ll see about the fishing trip at once." He picked up his cap, dropped the ash of his cigar into a silver tray, bowed to Beatrix and took himself off, wondering for the hundredth time what sort of marriage this was in which these two young people treated each other as though they were casual acquaintances. "Won’t you sit down?" Franklin pushed an armchair forward. "No wonder you like this room," said Beatrix. "May I wander round for a moment? How jolly these Yale groups are, and I see you play polo,—the only game that makes me wish I were a man. And what’s this uniform? The National Guard?" "Yes, I hold a commission." "I didn’t know that. Very versatile, aren’t you? And that’s a tarpon, isn’t it? What a big fellow. Probably gave you some trouble." "About four hours," said Franklin. Good Lord, what was this extraordinary girl made of! Yesterday she had fought him like a tigress, to-day she was as sunny and calm as the weather. She sat down on the edge of a table, pushing back a box of cigars and half a dozen well-smoked pipes.
14486_1286	western stories	Bower, B. M.	"Us, we been gawdin' amongst the Injuns," he stated loftily. "We sure had some time. I'll say we did! Say, we're goin' to be ready to do business now pretty quick. Don't you birds want to fly? Just a little ways--to see how it feels?" Halfway up the stepladder Johnny stopped. "What's the matter with you, Bland?" he asked sharply. "You crazy?" "We're out to do business. That's right, boys. Now's your time to fly. All it takes is a little nerve--and ten dollars." "Shut up!" growled Johnny. "Don't be a darned boob." The boys looked at one another uncertainly. It might be some obscure joke of Bland's, and they were wary. "Fly where?" Bud guardedly sought information. "Anywheres. Just a circle or two, to show yuh how this ranch looks to a chicken hawk, and down again," Bland persisted, in spite of Johnny. "Yeah--it's that _down again_ I wouldn't much hanker for," Aleck put in. "I seen how you and Skyrider come down, once." "That there was him learnin' not to pick nice, deep, soft sand for a landin'," Bland explained equably, glancing up to where Johnny was painting a somewhat wobbly B. "He ain't done it lately, bo." "Lemme up there, Skyrider, and see what it is yo'all are paintin' on," Bud pleaded. "If it's po'try, maybe I can sing it." Johnny relaxed into a grin, but he did not answer the jibe. He was disgusted with Bland for having such bad taste as to drum up trade here on the ranch, among the boys who had ridden hard and long, believing him in dire need. He hoped the boys would not guess that Bland was in earnest; a poor, cheap joke is sometimes better than tactless sincerity. He was even ashamed now of the name he was painting on the wings. That, too, seemed cheap and pointless. He felt nauseated with Bland Halliday and his petty grafting. A little more and he would have told Bland so and sent him about his business.
40907_807	adventure stories	Marchmont, Arthur W.	He winced and flushed, and for a moment was stung to anger; but it passed. "You think poorly of me because I have decided matters thus. As you will. We shall not meet again. Probably I shall never again cross the frontier. To show you my decision is no mere whim, but a deliberately chosen course, here I have a duly drawn up declaration renouncing my heirship. I drew it, of course, before I knew of the Prince's death, and I declined absolutely his proposals, and announced my intention to change my name and become a Frenchman. I was going to have this attested before a notary, and then send it to my uncle; but you can take it as it is, if you like. I will make a sworn declaration at any time it is desired. Do just what you will. And this I swear to you: I will never breathe a word of what has passed unless you wish me to speak. I owe you that for having brought you into the mess." I took the paper and rose to leave. "I will take means to let you know what is done. Here, I suppose?" I spoke curtly, for I felt strongly. "I do not wish to hear anything. A letter here will find me, of course, but my name for the future will be Henri Frombe--Hans von Fromberg will have ceased to exist, unless you are he." So indifferent was he to the critical seriousness of the affair that he laughed as he said this, and added: "After all, then, you will not see Angele. I am grieved at that," and he held out his hand. "I cannot take your hand, M. Frombe," I said sternly. "I remain a German. Your desertion of your family at such a juncture of need makes any friendly feeling toward you impossible on my part. You hold that any man can lightly renounce his family and country. I do not. I take the strongest view of your conduct. France profits little by her newest citizen, and the Fatherland gains by the loss of so self-satisfied a renegade. I trust that we shall not meet again." He was a coward, and shrank and paled under the lash of my words; but he made no attempt to resent them, and I left him with a feeling of bitter contempt and disgust at his conduct.
37271_949	western stories	Vandercook, Margaret	Good-by, dear; anyhow, you can do your best to follow my advice." Scarcely a moment after Frieda had disappeared Jacqueline Kent went quickly forward to greet Ralph Merritt, who was walking slowly across one of the fields in the direction of the Rainbow lodge. At once Jack believed that even had Frieda not forewarned her, she must nevertheless have observed the trouble in Ralph's face. "I have come to say good-by and hello at the same time, Jack," he announced. "Sorry not to see more of you, but I'm off for New Mexico this afternoon, I don't know for how long a time." Perhaps there are occasions in this life when frankness may not be desirable. But the spiritual frankness of Jacqueline Kent, which did not consist of saying unkind things to people under such a guise, but of going directly to the heart of what she felt and believed and of expecting the same thing of other human beings, nearly always served. She did not hesitate at this instant. "Ralph, I believe you are in some kind of difficulty. I think I have guessed partly by your expression and also because you would not leave the ranch so abruptly and with the suggestion that you may not return for many months without an important reason. I wonder if the trouble is a money one, Ralph, because if it is, you must let me help you. You know I have a fairly large estate and it is costing Jimmie and me almost nothing to live here at the lodge, and Jean,--Jean has been like my sister since the days when we spent our girlhood here as the 'Ranch Girls of the Rainbow Lodge.'" Ralph shook his head. "You're a trump, Jack, but that is out of the question. Suppose we walk down to the Rainbow mine. I had not intended talking to any one, but perhaps it is best I should, and somehow, Jack, it is not so hard to confess one's mistakes to you as to most persons. I can't take your money because I have already lost most of Jean's and all of my own. Jean hates poverty and has lost faith in me besides. I don't altogether blame her, yet it has been hard for a good many of us to get started in the old fashion since the war ended, and these days the Government has so many regulations about mining gold that only where the output is large does the work pay.
13077_3636	western stories	Jones, J. B. (John Beauchamp)	her happiness was of short duration. Scarce six months had passed before Mr. Nicholson began to neglect his youthful and confiding bride. She had still remained at her mother's cottage, while, as she stated, his establishment was being fitted up in town for their reception. He at first drove out to the cottage every evening; but soon afterwards fell into the habit of visiting his bride only two or three times a week. He neither carried her into society nor brought home any visitors. Yet he seemed to possess immense wealth, and bestowed it upon Juliet with a liberal, nay, profuse hand. My young friend, what kind of a character do you suppose this Mr. Nicholson to have been?" said the old man, pausing, and turning to Glenn, who had been listening to the narrative with marked attention. "He was an impostor--a gambler," replied Glenn, promptly. "He _was_ an impostor! but no adventurous gambler, as you suppose. I will proceed. About seven months after his marriage, he abandoned Juliet altogether! Yet he did not forget her entirely. He may have felt remorse for the ruin he had wrought--or perhaps a slight degree of affection for his unborn--; and costly presents, and many considerable sums of money, were sent by him to the cottage. But neither the aged mother nor the deserted wife found the consolation they desired in his prodigal gifts. They sent me a note, informing me of their distressful condition, and requesting me to ascertain the locality of Mr. Nicholson's establishment, and, if possible, to find out the cause of his unnatural conduct. I did all in my power to accomplish what they desired. I repaired to the cottage, unable to give the least intelligence of Mr. Nicholson. I had not been able to find any one who had ever heard of him. Juliet became almost frantic. She determined to seek him herself. At her urgent solicitation, I accompanied her to the city in an open curricle. A pitying Providence soon terminated her insupportable suspense. While we were driving through Hyde Park, we were forcibly stopped to permit, among the throng, the passage of a splendid equipage. The approaching carriage was likewise an open one. Juliet glanced at the inmates, and uttering a wild piercing shriek, fainted in my arms. I looked, and saw her quondam husband! He was decked in the magnificent insignia of ROYALTY.
30680_404	science fiction	Olin, Richard	_Why?_" "I tried to make you see it today. The world is stuck. It's stuck in this God-forsaken one day! We don't know why. Some of us--just a few--have known it all along. But even we can't remember what caused it." "You mean it's happening everywhere?" "Yes. Or not happening, I guess you'd say. We're not getting reports from overseas ... not any that are any different from the first Wednesday. So it must be the same over there. It's the whole world, Ernie." "Wait a minute. Let me think." After a moment, he got up, went into the kitchen and got another beer. "O.K., I'm ready," he said as he came back. "Now, why did you guys pick me? How many of you are there?" "Just a handful ... no more than twenty. We're scattered all across the country. We picked you because you're a test case, Ernie. One of us is a psychologist. "He says you're a common denominator. If we could break you out of it, then we could get through to a whole cross section of people." Ernie grunted and sipped his beer. "A common denominator, huh? Thanks, pal. You mentioned drugs. I guess you can go anywhere? Just walk past people and never be seen?" "That's right." Ernie laughed scornfully. "You've got a good deal. Why louse it up? What do you stand to gain?" Jory shook his head. "You're wrong, Ernie. For one thing, everything is slowly running down. Miners go to the same part of the mine each day and send out nothing but empty cars. The same thing is happening all across the country, in farms, in factories, in hospitals--" Ernie got up. "Keep talking," he said. "Hospitals are hideous these days, Ernie. Don't go near a surgeon. All he can do are the same operations he performed on the first Wednesday. If you're the wrong height, the wrong weight, or just there at the wrong time, he'll cut you to pieces. "Homes burn to the ground. And nobody tries to get out of them. The fire department is no good. It's stuck in that first Wednesday. "We broke off broadcasting last night. We had to fight an apartment house fire.
41534_2077	western stories	Boyles, Virgil D. (Virgil Dillin)	Ah, little doctor, something untoward must have happened to cause you to forget that! What that something was he was thinking about now, and that was what made his blue eyes twinkle so merrily. Last night,—was it only last night?—oh, way, way in the night, when ghosts and goblins stalked abroad and all good people were safely housed and deeply asleep, there had come a goblin to his door in the hotel, and cried for admittance with devilish persistence and wealth of language. When he, the doctor, had desired information as to the needs of his untimely visitant, the shoulders of some prehistoric giant had been put to the door, and it had fallen open as to the touch of magic. A dazzling and nether-world light had flamed up in his room, and this Hercules-goblin with lock-destroying tendencies had commanded him to clothe himself, with such insistency that the mantle of nimbleness had descended upon all the little doctor’s movements. That this marvellous agility was the result, pure and simple, of black arts, was shown by the fact that the little doctor was in a daze all the rest of the night. He did not even make show of undue astonishment or nervousness when, clothed in some wonderful and haphazard fashion, he was escorted through the dimly lit hall, down the dark stairway, past the office where a night-lamp burned dully, out into the cool night air and into the yawning depths of a mysterious vehicle which rattled with a suspiciously familiar rattle when it suddenly plunged into what seemed like everlasting darkness ahead. He had felt a trifle more like himself after he had unconsciously rammed his hand through the rent in the cushion where the hair stuffing was coming out. But he had not been permitted the reins, so he could not be sure if they were tied together with a piece of old suspender or not; and if that was Old Sorrel, he certainly had powers of speed hitherto unsuspected. Witchcraft? Ay! Had not he, the little doctor, heard ghostly hoof-beats alongside all the way? It had been nerve-racking. Sometimes he had thought it might just be a cow pony, but he could not be sure; and when he had been tossed profanely and with no dignity into the house of one White, homesteader, with the enigmatical words, “There, damn ye, Doc!
38663_890	detective and mystery stories	Mason, A. E. W. (Alfred Edward Woodley)	No, your pearl has vanished altogether. There is a new pearl which can be traded." He looked at Ricardo. "Who shall say that those pearls are not already in one of the queer little back streets of Amsterdam, undergoing their transformation?" Mr. Ricardo was not persuaded because he would not be. "I have some experience in these matters," he said loftily to Hanaud. "I am sure that we shall lay our hands upon the criminals. We have never failed." Hanaud grinned from ear to ear. The only experience which Mr. Ricardo had ever had was gained on the shores of Geneva and at Aix under Hanaud's tuition. But Hanaud did not argue, and there the matter rested. The days flew by. It was London's play-time. The green and gold of early summer deepened and darkened; wondrous warm nights under England's pale blue sky, when the streets rang with the joyous feet of youth, led in clear dawns and lovely glowing days. Hanaud made acquaintance with the wooded reaches of the Thames; Joan Carew sang "Louise" at Covent Garden with notable success; and the affair of the Semiramis Hotel, in the minds of the few who remembered it, was already added to the long list of unfathomed mysteries. But towards the end of May there occurred a startling development. Joan Carew wrote to Mr. Ricardo that she would call upon him in the afternoon, and she begged him to secure the presence of Hanaud. She came as the clock struck; she was pale and agitated; and in the room where Calladine had first told the story of her visit she told another story which, to Mr. Ricardo's thinking, was yet more strange and--yes--yet more suspicious. "It has been going on for some time," she began. "I thought of coming to you at once. Then I wondered whether, if I waited--oh, you'll never believe me!" "Let us hear!" said Hanaud patiently. "I began to dream of that room, the two men disguised and masked, the still figure in the bed. Night after night! I was terrified to go to sleep. I felt the hand upon my mouth. I used to catch myself falling asleep, and walk about the room with all the lights up to keep myself awake." "But you couldn't," said Hanaud with a smile. "Only the old can do that.
27475_3356	western stories	Ryan, Marah Ellis	" "Can you tell me what they were?" "Certainly; and I see I will have to--and maybe bring proof to indorse me before you will quite credit what I tell you," answered Lyster, with an amused expression. "You can scarcely believe a tenderfoot has learned more of your vagabond reds than you yourself knew, can you? Well, I distinctly heard him say to Mr. Haydon: 'See! She looks at you.' But his other mutterings did not reach my ears; they did Haydon's, however, and drove him out yonder. I tell you, Dan, you ought to chain up your medicine men when capitalists brave the wilds of the Kootenai to lay wealth at your doorstep, for this pet of yours is not very engaging." Overton paid little heed to the chaffing of his friend. His gaze wandered to the old Indian, who, as Lyster said, was at that moment a picture of bland indifference. He was sunning himself again at the door of Harris' cabin, and his eyes followed sleepily the form of Mr. Haydon, who had stopped at the creek, and with hands clasped back of him, was staring into the swift-flowing mountain stream. "Oh, I don't doubt you, Max," said Overton, at last. "Don't speak as if I did. But the idea that old Akkomi really expressed himself in English would suggest to me a vital necessity, or else that he was becoming weak in his old age; for his prejudice against his people using any of the white men's words has been the most stubborn thing in his whole make-up. And what strong necessity could there be for him to address Mr. Haydon, an utter stranger?" "Don't know, I am sure--unless it is that his interest in 'Tana is very strong. You know she saved the life of his little grandchild--the future chief, you said. And I think you are fond of asserting that an Indian never forgets a favor; so it may be that his satanic majesty over there only wanted to interest a seemingly influential stranger in a poor little sick girl, and was not aware that he took an uncanny way of doing it. Had we better go down and apologize to Haydon?" "You can--directly. Who is he?" "Well, he is the great moneyed mogul at the back of the company for whom you have been doing some responsible work out here.
52498_432	detective and mystery stories	Regis, Julius	"Good evening, gentlemen." Wallion’s face assumed a new expression; he seemed to have been deeply impressed at sight of the dead man, and Tom inquired anxiously, "Found out anything?" The journalist looked at him for a moment, "Tom," he exclaimed suddenly, "I wonder whether any man has ever been murdered from a more incomprehensible motive than your poor friend. Whoever it was who did the deed he is the vilest monster I ever came across, unfit to be called a human being. Yes," he added abjectly, "Dreyel, in his extreme need, begged for my help—I know why now—and the help came too late..." The muscles of his face were working. "But whoever it was that killed Victor Dreyel, he shall not escape." Before Tom’s eyes there rose a vision of a girl hidden in the dark room and, quaking with fear and apprehension, he listened to the steps of the pursuers. At last he asked: "What are you going to do?" "I am going to unravel the mystery, of course," replied Wallion, rather irritably. He went up to the portrait shelf and said, "It seems absurd, and yet it is true, Tom, this is the place where the wooden doll stood, isn’t it?" The young man shivered. Wallion was pointing to the upper shelf and to his dismay, Tom perceived that the little wooden figure was indeed no longer there; but Wallion gave him no time to speak. Turning to the superintendent, he suddenly remarked: "Well, Aspeland, and what is supposed to have been the motive?" The officer who was just then deep in conversation with the porter’s wife, replied with some irritation: "The motive, sir? That will be a question to be answered later on. Once we’ve got hold of the perpetrator the motive will reveal itself fast enough." Wallion smiled at Aspeland’s display of temper. He knew that clever, conscientious official of old and could make a shrewd guess at what had put him out. It would have been an immense gratification to the old veteran to have laid hands on a reckless criminal, but to run down a poor girl who might have been driven to commit the crime, and was now probably hiding like some hunted animal, was not at all to his taste. Wallion cast an interrogative glance at Tom and said: "Isn’t it rather a waste of time to wait here any longer?
45859_448	adventure stories	Busk, Rachel Harriette	" As he spoke he disappeared from sight, with the mules and their burden. Turian now once more reminded Conde Dirlos of his father's command, and bid him provide him with the swiftest galley on all the coasts of the kingdom, manned with the stoutest rowers, and that with the utmost speed. If the wise old count shrunk from the former mission, his horror was but the greater at this one. He reminded the prince that when the king had given his consent to the adventure, he had not contemplated any other than a loyal undertaking, such as a noble prince might entertain: he would never have trusted him on one of this nature. Turian felt the force of the reproach, but lacked the strength of character to command himself. Hurried on by his uncontrolled desire, he bid the old man remember that the command to fulfil his orders was quite unconditional, and there was no limit whatever named. The count owned this was unfortunately true, and as he could prevail nothing by argument, set himself to remedy the Infante's headstrong wilfulness by making the journey as safe as possible. He not only insisted on having the galley examined as to its seaworthiness by the most experienced shipwrights, and selected the steadiest oarsmen to man the banks, but appointed a consultation of all the astronomers of the kingdom to name the day when they might be sure of safe passage, free from winds. It was pronounced that a storm was just then impending which would last ten days, and after that there would be ten days of fair weather, so that if they allowed ten days for their preparations, they would have time to make the journey and return in all security. The delay seemed another age to the Infante; nevertheless he was now so near the accomplishment of his object that it passed swiftly enough in the enjoyment of the pleasure of anticipation. The count, too, found some relief to his anxieties in the fact that the storm came on at the predicted moment, giving him great confidence that the halcyon days predicted to succeed might be surely counted on. They came duly; and a shout of admiration rose from the people on the shore as the gallant vessel moved out over the face of the blue, sunlit waters, which glittered as if showered over with every precious stone at each stroke of the countless oars.
54010_512	love stories	Hubback, Mrs. (Catherine-Anne Austen)	"In consequence, I am quite accustomed to move in a gay circle—though my friends there, tell me, indeed, I am quite the Queen of Croydon. I believe I am rather looked up to—one is, you know, when one has high relations, and goes to town, and gets patterns and books from London; now, it's something quite remarkable the number of houses we visit—and the white gloves I wear out in the year—I am excessively particular about my gloves; and Margaret, whose hand is small, was quite glad to take some of mine; and, really, when she had cleaned them a little, they did very well for her. _I_ seldom wear them a second time. You will come to Croydon—will you not?" "Thank you, not this winter; you are very kind in asking me; but I have been so short a time at home." "Oh! but you must: I assure you, you will have much the best chance in the winter, there are so many more young men in the country then. But, perhaps, you have left your heart in Shropshire. Have you any little charming love story to confide to me. Ah! you may trust me—I assure you I am very discreet—I never betrayed Margaret the least in the world." Emma again declined the proposed visit to Croydon. Her sister-in-law looked much surprised, and not quite pleased. "Well I should have thought our house might have some attractions for a young lady of your age; however, of course you know best, I hope you will find something more pleasing here." Emma was spared the trouble of replying by the entrance of Margaret and Elizabeth, who were immediately engrossed by attentions to Mrs. Robert, which soothed her into complacency again. Dinner speedily followed; the early hour was a subject of comment on the part of the visitors. "Dear me, I wonder when I dined at three o'clock before—really a little change is quite amusing, I am so glad you did not think it necessary to alter your hour for me." "I certainly would have fixed on any hour agreeable to you, Jane," replied Miss Watson good humouredly, "but my father has so long been used to this time, that it would be very unpleasant to him to alter it. But I dare say it seems very gothic to you.