I am a stranger and friendless

It made the cold chills creep over me! I stopped and said, a little faintly: "Maybe I didn't hear you just right. Say it again -- and say it slow. What year was it?" "513." "513! You don't look it! Come, my boy, I am a stranger and friendless; be honest and honorable with me. Are you in your right mind?" He said he was. "Are these other people in their right minds?" He said they were. "And this isn't an asylum? I mean, it isn't a place where they cure crazy people?" He said it wasn't. "Well, then," I said, "either I am a lunatic, or something just as awful has happened. Now tell me, honest and true, where am I?" "IN KING ARTHUR'S COURT." I waited a minute, to let that idea shudder its way home, and then said: "And according to your notions, what year is it now?" "528 -- nineteenth of June." I felt a mournful sinking at the heart, and muttered: "I shall never see my friends again -- never, never again. They will not be born for more than thirteen hundred years yet." I seemed to believe the boy, I didn't know why. SOMETHING in me seemed to believe him -- my consciousness, as you may say; but my reason didn't. My reason straightway began to clamor; that was natural. I didn't know how to go about satisfying it, because I knew that the testimony of men wouldn't serve -- my reason would say they were lunatics, and throw out their evidence. But all of a sudden I stumbled on the very thing, just by luck.

I judged I had found one

I moved away, cogitating, and at the same time keeping an eye out for any chance passenger in his right mind that might come along and give me some light. I judged I had found one, presently; so I drew him aside and said in his ear: "If I could see the head keeper a minute -- only just a minute --" "Prithee do not let me." "Let you WHAT?" "HINDER me, then, if the word please thee better. Then he went on to say he was an under-cook and could not stop to gossip, though he would like it another time; for it would comfort his very liver to know where I got my clothes. As he started away he pointed and said yonder was one who was idle enough for my purpose, and was seeking me besides, no doubt. This was an airy slim boy in shrimp-colored tights that made him look like a forked carrot, the rest of his gear was blue silk and dainty laces and ruffles; and he had long yellow curls, and wore a plumed pink satin cap tilted complacently over his ear. By his look, he was good-natured; by his gait, he was satisfied with himself. He was pretty enough to frame. He arrived, looked me over with a smiling and impudent curiosity; said he had come for me, and informed me that he was a page. "Go 'long," I said; "you ain't more than a paragraph." It was pretty severe, but I was nettled. However, it never phazed him; he didn't appear to know he was hurt. He began to talk and laugh, in happy, thoughtless, boyish fashion, as we walked along, and made himself old friends with me at once; asked me all sorts of questions about myself and about my clothes, but never waited for an answer -- always chattered straight ahead, as if he didn't know he had asked a question and wasn't expecting any reply, until at last he happened to mention that he was born in the beginning of the year 513.

it came nearer

In the town were some substantial windowless houses of stone scattered among a wilderness of thatched cabins; the streets were mere crooked alleys, and unpaved; troops of dogs and nude children played in the sun and made life and noise; hogs roamed and rooted contentedly about, and one of them lay in a reeking wallow in the middle of the main thoroughfare and suckled her family. Presently there was a distant blare of military music; it came nearer, still nearer, and soon a noble cavalcade wound into view, glorious with plumed helmets and flashing mail and flaunting banners and rich doublets and horse-cloths and gilded spearheads; and through the muck and swine, and naked brats, and joyous dogs, and shabby huts, it took its gallant way, and in its wake we followed. Followed through one winding alley and then another, -- and climbing, always climbing -- till at last we gained the breezy height where the huge castle stood. There was an exchange of bugle blasts; then a parley from the walls, where men-at-arms, in hauberk and morion, marched back and forth with halberd at shoulder under flapping banners with the rude figure of a dragon displayed upon them; and then the great gates were flung open, the drawbridge was lowered, and the head of the cavalcade swept forward under the frowning arches; and we, following, soon found ourselves in a great paved court, with towers and turrets stretching up into the blue air on all the four sides; and all about us.the dismount was going on, and much greeting and ceremony, and running to and fro, and a gay display of moving and intermingling colors, and an altogether pleasant stir and noise and confusion. Chapter 2 King Arthur's Court THE moment I got a chance I slipped aside privately and touched an ancient common looking man on the shoulder and said, in an insinuating, confidential way: "Friend, do me a kindness. Do you belong to the asylum, or are you just on a visit or something like that?" He looked me over stupidly, and said: "Marry, fair sir, me seemeth --" "That will do," I said; "I reckon you are a patient."

he seemed to drift away imperceptibly out of

We fell together, as modest people will, in the tail of the herd that was being shown through, and he at once began to say things which interested me. As he talked along, softly, pleasantly, flowingly, he seemed to drift away imperceptibly out of this world and time, and into some remote era and old forgotten country; and so he gradually wove such a spell about me that I seemed to move among the specters and shadows and dust and mold of a gray antiquity, holding speech with a relic of it! Exactly as I would speak of my nearest personal friends or enemies, or my most familiar neighbors, he spoke of Sir Bedivere, Sir Bors de Ganis, Sir Launcelot of the Lake, Sir Galahad, and all the other great names of the Table Round -- and how old, old, unspeakably old and faded and dry and musty and ancient he came to look as he went on! Presently he turned to me and said, just as one might speak of the weather, or any other common matter - "You know about transmigration of souls; do you know about transposition of epochs -- and bodies?" I said I had not heard of it. He was so little interested -- just as when people speak of the weather -that he did not notice whether I made him any answer or not. There was half a moment of silence, immediately interrupted by the droning voice of the salaried cicerone: "Ancient hauberk, date of the sixth century, time of King Arthur and the Round Table; said to have belonged to the knight Sir Sagramor le Desirous; observe the round hole through the chain-mail in the left breast; can't be accounted for; supposed to have been done with a bullet since invention of firearms -- perhaps maliciously by Cromwell's soldiers." My acquaintance smiled -- not a modern smile, but one that must have gone out of general use many, many centuries ago -- and muttered apparently to himself: "Wit ye well, I SAW IT DONE." Then, after a pause, added: "I did it myself." By the time I had recovered from the electric surprise of this remark, he was gone.

ts place was competently filled by a worse one

THE ungentle laws and customs touched upon in this tale are historical, and the episodes which are used to illustrate them are also historical. It is not pretended that these laws and customs existed in England in the sixth century; no, it is only pretended that inasmuch as they existed in the English and other civilizations of far later times, it is safe to consider that it is no libel upon the sixth century to suppose them to have been in practice in that day also. One is quite justified in inferring that whatever one of these laws or customs was lacking in that remote time, its place was competently filled by a worse one. The question as to whether there is such a thing as divine right of kings is not settled in this book. It was found too difficult. That the executive head of a nation should be a person of lofty character and extraordinary ability, was manifest and indisputable; that none but the Deity could select that head unerringly, was also manifest and indisputable; that the Deity ought to make that selection, then, was likewise manifest and indisputable; consequently, that He does make it, as claimed, was an unavoidable deduction. I mean, until the author of this book encountered the Pompadour, and Lady Castlemaine, and some other executive heads of that kind; these were found so difficult to work into the scheme, that it was judged better to take the other tack in this book (which must be issued this fall), and then go into training and settle the question in another book. It is, of course, a thing which ought to be settled, and I am not going to have anything particular to do next winter anyway. IT was in Warwick Castle that I came across the curious stranger whom I am going to talk about. He attracted me by three things: his candid simplicity, his marvelous familiarity with ancient armor, and the restfulness of his company -- for he did all the talking.

opened the first one and seen the nature of

"It looked like a taxi, sir. I feel sure that's what it was." It all sounded plausible enough. If they were all acting it was being cleverly done. Yet he was far from sure. But he saw one thing he did not like. Only Irene had known that he was returning to the house with the second case. The man in the grey car might have opened the first one and seen the nature of its contents. But that would give him no reason to expect that the second would be subsequently delivered with its contents intact. The natural inference would be very different from that. Either these people were giving him concocted lies, or Irene must herself have supplied the information which had caused the second man to come, and that implied that she had been in contact - in conversation - either voluntary or otherwise - with the man she had been pursuing. That was not what she had agreed to do. She was to have followed only. It did no more than confirm what he had already supposed. But it was an unwelcome confirmation, and, in view of the way in which her taxi had been returned to the rank, it had a most sinister sound. He resumed his interrupted conversation with Professor Blinkwell by saying "Yes, I suppose you're right, that I'm the one to judge; but, all the same, I should be glad to know what you think." Professor Blinkwell's tone was considerate as he replied: "I don't want to be an alarmist, and I should be very sorry to say anything that would make you additionally anxious. But from the facts you have given me, I do think that it would be prudent to endeavour to get in touch with the parties concerned, and make the best bargain you can for the young lady's release." "You think that could be done?" "I think it ought to be tried. I would indeed make an effort for you myself - I could not, of course, undertake that it would succeed - but I might have to pledge my word that there would be no subsequent punitive action of any kind. You would have to go back to Scotland Yard and telephone me an explicit authority to that effect." "Very well. I'll see what I can do." "Then you had better have the taxi in which we came, as time is important to you. I will get another, and shall be back at my own house by when you will be getting through to me."

and endeavour to come to terms in a more

What, he wondered, would the consequence be, if he should not bargain, but threaten? If he should challenge these treacherous criminals by an assertion that the police were already aware of their nefarious activities, and that their positions, perilous already, would be tenfold worse if they should not aid him in securing her safe return from wherever - as he would protest - they must know her to be? But if he should take this course, and be confronted only by indignation and denial? What should he do then? Was it not better to accept Professor Blinkwell's suggestion, and endeavour to come to terms in a more delicate way? The girl interrupted the moment's silence which his hesitation involved. She had been standing uncertainly at the door, neither having been required to stay nor given permission to go. "Is there anything more, ma'am?" she asked. Her question reminded Kindell of one thing that he had not asked, because he knew it already, but he saw that her reply might be an indication of how far he should believe her on other points. He said: "Just a moment, Becky. Can you tell me what kind of car the man came in?" "Do you mean the first man, sir, or the second?" "I don't understand you. You didn't say there were two." "There was the man who fetched the second case." "How long ago was that?" "About an hour ago, sir. Perhaps a bit less." "What sort of a man was he?" "He was rather thin, sir. I didn't look at him particularly. He seemed in a hurry." "You didn't tell me about this, Becky," her mistress said, with a faint note of rebuke in her voice. "No, ma'am. I didn't know that I need." Professor Blinkwell asked, "Did he return the first case when he took the other away?" "No, sir. He said that would be sent back in the morning." "And what sort of car did he have?" Kindell went on.

He regarded it as a leading question

It was a statement rather than a question, but Kindell had become sufficiently familiar with the subtlety of the Professor's conversational methods to accept it differently. He regarded it as a leading question. Or rather, as an indication of the lines on which a business deal might be arranged. "Than about Reynard's murder you mean? I should say they are. That's a headache for Paris rather than Scotland Yard. But they'll naturally be anxious that Miss Thurlow should not get into any trouble here." "There may be the offer of a reward, if the young lady should not be promptly found?" "I should think there will. But I hope we shall have her back before there's time to advertise that." "May I suggest that an assurance that whoever may be holding her now will not be required to explain the reason for her detention - if a channel for such communication could be discovered - might be of material assistance? That is, if she really be detained against her own will, as you seem disposed - perhaps too readily - to assume?" "Yes. Perhaps it would. But it would be a difficult undertaking to give." "By the police, yes. But if you could make such a bargain yourself, into which they might not intrude, I should suppose, if the safety of the daughter of the American Ambassador should be involved, it is a case where they might be willing to close their eyes?" "You think her safety is really at stake?" "I can only infer from what I have heard from you - but it is for you to judge rather than me." Kindell hesitated how to reply. His own inclination was to place Irene's safety before any other consideration, and - she being who she was--he saw that the police might take the same view. But he saw also that it would be an exceedingly difficult bargain to define, and one which he had no authority to make. Even a personal promise, such as a private citizen might feel free to give, was a dereliction of duty by him unless he had permission for what he did.

he could not easily decline to admit

But even if that were so, it did not follow that it was not the Professor's purpose to lead to Irene's recovery - perhaps by such a method as should place him under an obligation he could not easily decline to admit. Yet, be that as it might, it appeared evident that they were to have little assistance from either of the women who were now before them. Either they were telling all that they knew, or the Professor's influence (if he had any) was not being exerted in the right way. The idea came to him (in which he was wrong) that as Gustav had provided the label giving Mrs. Collinson's address, he might also know that to which the case was being taken away. And it was with the intention of reminding the Professor of the danger which (as he rightly hoped) might lie in any confession the French waiter could be persuaded to make that he said aloud: "There's one chance yet. We don't know what the French police may be getting from Gustav now." "Yes," Professor Blinkwell agreed readily, "their methods may be getting quite a lot from him, if I remember the sort he was. The trouble would be to know what to believe." To himself, Kindell admitted the force of that argument. The man who had professed to be his own messenger to Irene, and had given her the valise in his name, would not be likely to be short of a useful lie. "Yes," he said, "there's always that difficulty." "Perhaps," the Professor suggested, "they'd have a better prospect of getting him to say what you want to know if he were not afraid that it might be used against him in connection with the policeman's murder." "I daresay they would." "I suppose the police here are a good deal more concerned about the American girl."

You must have arranged for him to call

"That was what I meant. But he wasn't my man at all. It's his name and address that I am anxious to know." "But that doesn't sound sense. You must have arranged for him to call." "I know nothing about it. The case was not mine, nor was it sent by me. My name was used without my authority or knowledge." Mrs. Collinson had the look of one who accepts a surprising fact, and is endeavouring to adjust her mind to its implications. "I wonder," she said, "why anyone should have done that. But it's quite natural that you feel annoyed." "Mr. Kindell," Professor Blinkwell interposed, "is more than annoyed. There is a young lady involved in the matter who cannot be found, and he is anxious to trace her without delay." "Then I'm sorry," the lady replied, "but I can't do much to help you. All I know is that someone came in a car and said he was from Mr. Kindell and took the case - the first one - away. I didn't see him myself." "But your maid must have seen him," the Professor insisted "Will you permit us to question her?" Mrs. Collinson's reply was to touch the bell. When the girl appeared, she said, "Becky, I want you to tell these gentlemen all you can remember about the man who called for the case." "I didn't notice him that particular. He was quite a nice gentleman." Kindell asked, "I suppose you'd know him if you should see him again." "Oh, yes, sir. I think I should." "Can you describe-him?" The girl appeared to make a genuine effort of memory. She said he was dark. But not so very. Short. But not that short She thought he had been wearing a grey suit. It all amounted to nothing. Both the Professor and Mrs. Collinson appeared to be anxious to persuade her to talk, and to stimulate her memory. But Kindell saw that it was a useless pursuit. His real anxiety had become to decide whether he were being elaborately fooled.

the evening star trembled into sight

The little vessel continued to beat its way seaward, and the ironclads receded slowly towards the coast, which was hidden still by a marbled bank of vapour, part steam, part black gas, %ddying and combining in the strangest way. The fleet of refugees was scattering to the northeast; several smacks were sailing between the ironclads and the steamboat. After a time, and before they reached the sinking cloud bank, the warships turned northward, and then abruptly went about and passed into the thickening haze of evening southward. The coast grew faint, and at last indistinguishable amid the low banks of clouds that were gathering about the sinking sun. Then suddenly out of the golden haze of the sunset came the vibration of guns, and a form of black shadows moving. Everyone struggled to the rail of the steamer and peered into the blinding furnace of the west, but nothing was to be distinguished clearly. A mass of smoke rose slanting and barred the face of the sun. The steamboat throbbed on its way through an interminable suspense. The sun sank into grey clouds, the sky flushed and darkened, the evening star trembled into sight. It was deep twilight when the captain cried out and pointed. My brother strained his eyes. Something rushed up into the sky out of the greyness--rushed slantingly upward and very swiftly into the luminous clearness above the clouds in the western sky; something flat and broad, and very large, that swept round in a vast curve, grew smaller, sank slowly, and vanished again into the grey mystery of the night. And as it flew it rained down darkness upon the land. Part 2 Chapter 1 In the first book I have wandered so much from my own adventures to tell of the experiences of my brother that all through the last two chapters I and the curate have been lurking in the empty house at Halliford whither we fled to escape the Black Smoke.

the flames streaming from its middle parts

But no one heeded that very much. At the sight of the Martian's collapse the captain on the bridge yelled inarticulately, and all the crowding passengers on the steamer's stern shouted together. And then they yelled again. For, surging out beyond the white tumult, drove something long and black, the flames streaming from its middle parts, its ventilators and funnels spouting fire. She was alive still; the steering gear, it seems, was intact and her engines working. She headed straight for a second Martian, and was within a hundred yards of him when the Heat-Ray came to bear. Then with a violent thud, a blinding flash, her decks, her funnels, leaped upward. The Martian staggered with the violence of her explosion, and in another moment the flaming wreckage, still driving forward with the impetus of its pace, had struck him and crumpled him up like a thing of cardboard. My brother shouted involuntarily. A boiling tumult of steam hid everything again. "Two!," yelled the captain. Everyone was shouting. The whole steamer from end to end rang with frantic cheering that was taken up first by one and then by all in the crowding multitude of ships and boats that was driving out to sea. The steam hung upon the water for many minutes, hiding the third Martian and the coast altogether. And all this time the boat was paddling steadily out to sea and away from the fight; and when at last the confusion cleared, the drifting bank of black vapour intervened, and nothing of the THUNDER CHILD could be made out, nor could the third Martian be seen. But the ironclads to seaward were now quite close and standing in towards shore past the steamboat.

They did not know what to make of her

It would seem they were regarding this new antagonist with astonishment. To their intelligence, it may be, the giant was even such another as themselves. The THUNDER CHILD fired no gun, but simply drove full speed towards them. It was probably her not firing that enabled her to get so near the enemy as she did. They did not know what to make of her. One shell, and they would have sent her to the bottom forthwith with the Heat-Ray. She was steaming at such a pace that in a minute she seemed halfway between the steamboat and the Martians-a diminishing black bulk against the receding horizontal expanse of the Essex coast. Suddenly the foremost Martian lowered his tube and discharged a canister of the black gas at the ironclad. It hit her larboard side and glanced off in an inky jet that rolled away to seaward, an unfolding torrent of Black Smoke, from which the ironclad drove clear. To the watchers from the steamer, low in the water and with the sun in their eyes, it seemed as though she were already among the Martians. They saw the gaunt figures separating and rising out of the water as they retreated shoreward, and one of them raised the camera-like generator of the Heat-Ray. He held it pointing obliquely downward, and a bank of steam sprang from the water at its touch. It must have driven through the iron of the ship's side like a white-hot iron rod through paper. A flicker of flame went up through the rising steam, and then the Martian reeled and staggered. In another moment he was cut down, and a great body of water and steam shot high in the air. The guns of the THUNDER CHILD sounded through the reek, going off one after the other, and one shot splashed the water high close by the steamer, ricocheted towards the other flying ships to the north, and smashed a smack to matchwood.

There was a shouting all about him

Glancing northwestward, my brother saw the large crescent of shipping already writhing with the approaching terror; one ship passing behind another, another coming round from broadside to end on, steamships whistling and giving off volumes of steam, sails being let out, launches rushing hither and thither. He was so fascinated by this and by the creeping danger away to the left that he had no eyes for anything seaward. And then a swift movement of the steamboat (she had suddenly come round to avoid being run down) flung him headlong from the seat upon which he was standing. There was a shouting all about him, a trampling of feet, and a cheer that seemed to be answered faintly. The steamboat lurched and rolled him over upon his hands. He sprang to his feet and saw to starboard, and not a hundred yards from their heeling, pitching boat, a vast iron bulk like the blade of a plough tearing through the water, tossing it on either side in huge waves of foam that leaped towards the steamer, flinging her paddles helplessly in the air, and then sucking her deck down almost to the waterline. A douche of spray blinded my brother for a moment. When his eyes were clear again he saw the monster had passed and was rushing landward. Big iron upperworks rose out of this headlong structure, and from that twin funnels projected and spat a smoking blast shot with fire. It was the torpedo ram, THUNDER CHILD, steaming headlong, coming to the rescue of the threatened shipping. Keeping his footing on the heaving deck by clutching the bulwarks, my brother looked past this charging leviathan at the Martians again, and he saw the three of them now close together, and standing so far out to sea that their tripod supports were almost entirely submerged. Thus sunken, and seen in remote perspective, they appeared far less formidable than the huge iron bulk in whose wake the steamer was pitching so helplessly.

small and faint in the remote distance

Some of the passengers were of opinion that this firing came from Shoeburyness, until it was noticed that it was growing louder. At the same time, far away in the southeast the masts and upperworks of three ironclads rose one after the other out of the sea, beneath clouds of black smoke. But my brother's attention speedily reverted to the distant firing in the south. He fancied he saw a column of smoke rising out of the distant grey haze. The little steamer was already flapping her way eastward of the big crescent of shipping, and the low Essex coast was growing blue and hazy, when a Martian appeared, small and faint in the remote distance, advancing along the muddy coast from the direction of Foulness. At that the captain on the bridge swore at the top of his voice with fear and anger at his own delay, and the paddles seemed infected with his terror. Every soul aboard stood at the bulwarks or on the seats of the steamer and stared at that distant shape, higher than the trees or church towers inland, and advancing with a leisurely parody of a human stride. It was the first Martian my brother had seen, and he stood, more amazed than terrified, watching this Titan advancing deliberately towards the shipping, wading farther and farther into the water as the coast fell away. Then, far away beyond the Crouch, came another, striding over some stunted trees, and then yet another, still farther off, wading deeply through a shiny mudflat that seemed to hang halfway up between sea and sky. They were all stalking seaward, as if to intercept the escape of the multitudinous vessels that were crowded between Foulness and the Naze. In spite of the throbbing exertions of the engines of the little paddleboat, and the pouring foam that her wheels flung behind her, she receded with terrifying slowness from this ominous advance.

and he and his wife will take charge of you

"Tom Watterly's hotel is the only place for her," said the policeman with a nod. "Oh, I can't go to a hotel." "He means the almshouse," explained the sergeant. "What is your name?" "Alida--that's all now.  Yes, I'm a pauper and I can't work just yet.  I'll be safe there, won't I?" "Certainly, safe as in your mother's house." "Oh, mother, mother; thank God, you are dead!" "Well, I AM sorry for you," said the sergeant kindly. "'Taint often we have so sad a case as yours.  If you say so, I'll send for Tom Watterly, and he and his wife will take charge of you.  After a few days, your mind will get quieter and clearer, and then you'll prosecute the man who wronged you." "I'll go to the poorhouse until I can do better," she replied wearily. "Now, if you please, I'll return to my cell where I can be alone." "Oh, we can give you a better room than that," said the sergeant. "Show her into the waiting room, Tim.  If you prosecute, we can help you with our testimony.  Goodbye, and may you have better days!" Watterly was telegraphed to come down with a conveyance for the almshouse was in a suburb.  In due time he appeared, and was briefly told Alida's story.  He swore a little at the "mean cuss," the author of all the trouble, and then took the stricken woman to what all his acquaintances facetiously termed his "hotel." Chapter 11 Baffled In the general consciousness Nature is regarded as feminine, and even those who love her most will have to adopt Mrs. Mumpson's oft-expressed opinion of the sex and admit that she is sometimes a "peculiar female."  During the month of March, in which our story opens, there was scarcely any limit to her varying moods.  It would almost appear that she was taking a mysterious interest in Holcroft's affairs; but whether it was a kindly interest or not, one might be at a loss to decide.  When she caught him away from home, she pelted him with the coldest of rain and made his house, with even Mrs. Mumpson and Jane abiding there, seem a refuge. 

He was already married

"I can't do that, but I'll tell you the truth.  I will swear it on the Bible  I married someone.  A good minister married us.  The man deceived me.  He was already married, and last night his wife came to my happy home and proved before the man whom I thought my husband that I was no wife at all.  He couldn't, didn't deny it.  Oh!  Oh!  Oh!"  And she again rocked back and forth in uncontrollable anguish. "That's all," she added brokenly. "I had no right to be near him or her any longer, and I rushed out.  I don't remember much more.  My brain seemed on fire.  I just walked and walked till I was brought here." "Well, well!" said the sergeant sympathetically, "you have been treated badly, outrageously; but you are not to blame unless you married the man hastily and foolishly." "That's what everyone will think, but it don't seem to me that I did.  It's a long story, and I can't tell it." "But you ought to tell it, my poor woman.  You ought to sue the man for damages and send him to State prison." "No, no!" cried Alida passionately. "I don't want to see him again, and I won't go to a court before people unless I am dragged there." The sergeant looked up at the policeman who had arrested her and said, "This story is not contrary to anything you saw?" "No, sir; she was wandering about and seemed half out of her mind." "Well, then, I can let you go." "But I don't know where to go," she replied, looking at him with hunted, hollow eyes. "I feel as if I were going to be sick.  Please don't turn me into the streets.  I'd rather go back to the cell--" "That won't answer.  There's no place that I can send you to except the poorhouse.  Haven't you any money?" "No, sir.  I just rushed away and left everything when I learned the truth."

but left the food untasted

"No, no; of course not!  You'll be better off there.  Come along. 'Taint far." She walked beside him without a word. "You'd better tell me something of your story.  Perhaps I can do more for you in the morning." "I can't.  I'm a stranger.  I haven't any friends in town." "Well, well, the sergeant will see what can be done in the morning.  You've been up to some foolishness, I suppose, and you'd better tell the whole story to the sergeant." She soon entered the station house and was locked up in a narrow cell.  She heard the grating of the key in the lock with a sense of relief, feeling that she had at least found a temporary place of refuge and security.  A hard board was the only couch it possessed, but the thought of sleep did not enter her mind.  Sitting down, she buried her face in her hands and rocked back and forth in agony and distraction until day dawned.  At last, someone--she felt she could not raise her eyes to his face--brought her some breakfast and coffee.  She drank the latter, but left the food untasted.  Finally, she was led to the sergeant's private room and told that she must give an account of herself. "If you can't or won't tell a clear story," the officer threatened, "you'll have to go before the justice in open court, and he may commit you to prison.  If you'll tell the truth now, it may be that I can discharge you.  You had no business to be wandering about the streets like a vagrant or worse; but if you were a stranger or lost and hadn't sense enough to go where you'd be cared for, I can let you go." "Oh!" said Alida, again wringing her hands and looking at the officer with eyes so full of misery and fear that he began to soften, "I don't know where to go." "Haven't you a friend or acquaintance in town?" "Not one that I can go to!" "Why don't you tell me your story?  Then I'll know what to do, and perhaps can help you.  You don't look like a depraved woman." "I'm not.  God knows I'm not!" "Well, my poor woman, I've got to act in view of what I know, not what God knows." "If I tell my story, will I have to give names?" "No, not necessarily.  It would be best, though."

As it grew late

Her final words, spoken to Ferguson, were the last clear promptings of her womanly nature.  After that, everything grew confused, except the impression of remediless disaster and shame.  She was incapable of forming any correct judgment concerning her position.  The thought of her pastor filled her with horror.  He, she thought, would take the same view which the woman had so brutally expressed--that in her eagerness to be married, she had brought to the parsonage an unknown man and had involved a clergyman in her own scandalous record.--It would all be in the papers, and her pastor's name mixed up in the affair.  She would rather die than subject him to such an ordeal.  Long after, when he learned the facts in the case, he looked at her very sadly as he asked: "Didn't you know me better than that?  Had I so failed in my preaching that you couldn't come straight to me?" She wondered afterward that she had not done this, but she was too morbid, too close upon absolute insanity, to do what was wise and safe.  She simply yielded to the wild impulse to escape, to cower, to hide from every human eye, hastening through the darkest, obscurest streets, not caring where.  In the confusion of her mind she would retrace her steps, and soon was utterly lost, wandering she knew not whither.  As it grew late, casual passers-by looked after her curiously, rough men spoke to her, and others jeered.  She only hastened on, driven by her desperate trouble like the wild, ragged clouds that were flying across the stormy March sky. At last a policeman said gruffly, "You've passed me twice.  You can't be roaming the streets at this time of night.  Why don't you go home?" Standing before him and wringing her hands, she moaned, "I have no home." "Where did you come from?" "Oh, I can't tell you! Take me to any place where a woman will be safe." "I can't take you to any place now but the station house." "But can I be alone there?  I won't be put with anybody?"

He had been fairly caught

Alida, moreover, had won a far stronger hold upon him than he had once imagined possible.  He was terribly mortified and cast down by the result of his experiment, as he regarded it.  But the thought of a prison and hard labor speedily drew his mind away from this aspect of the affair.  He had been fairly caught, his lark was over, and he soon resolved that the easiest and safest way out of the scrape was the best way.  He therefore raised his head and came forward with a penitent air as he said: "It's natural I should be overwhelmed with shame at the position in which I find myself.  But I see the truth of your words, and I'll try to make it all right as far as I can.  I'll go back with you and Hannah to my old home.  I've got money in the bank, I'll sell out everything here, and I'll pay you, William, as far as I can, what you've spent.  Hannah is mighty good to let me off so easy, and she won't be sorry.  This man is witness to what I say," and the detective nodded. "Why, Ferguson," said Mr. Hackman effusively, "now you're talking like a man.  Come and kiss him, Hannah, and make it all up." "That's the way with you men," said the woman bitterly. "These things count for little.  Henry Ferguson must prove he's honest in what he says by deeds, not words.  I'll do as I've said if he acts square, and that's enough to start with." "All right," said Ferguson, glad enough to escape the caress. "I'll do as I say." He did do all he promised, and very promptly, too.  He was not capable of believing that a woman wronged as Alida had been would not prosecute him, and he was eager to escape to another state, and, in a certain measure, again to hide his identity under his own actual name. Meanwhile, how fared the poor creature who had fled, driven forth by her first wild impulse to escape from a false and terrible position?  With every step she took down the dimly lighted street, the abyss into which she had fallen seemed to grow deeper and darker.  She was overwhelmed with the magnitude of her misfortune.  She shunned the illumined thoroughfares with a half-crazed sense that every finger would be pointed at her. 

and the heaviest customer as ever I drove

"Perhaps you remember the gentleman himself? Can you call to mind driving a foreigner last summer--a tall gentleman and remarkably fat?" The man's face brightened directly. "I remember him, sir! The fattest gentleman as ever I see, and the heaviest customer as ever I drove. Yes, yes--I call him to mind, sir! We DID go to the station, and it WAS from Forest Road. There was a parrot, or summat like it, screeching in the window. The gentleman was in a mortal hurry about the lady's luggage, and he gave me a handsome present for looking sharp and getting the boxes." Getting the boxes! I recollected immediately that Laura's own account of herself on her arrival in London described her luggage as being collected for her by some person whom Count Fosco brought with him to the station. This was the man. "Did you see the lady?" I asked. "What did she look like? Was she young or old?" "Well, sir, what with the hurry and the crowd of people pushing about, I can't rightly say what the lady looked like. I can't call nothing to mind about her that I know of excepting her name." "You remember her name?" "Yes, sir. Her name was Lady Glyde." "How do you come to remember that, when you have forgotten what she looked like?" The man smiled, and shifted his feet in some little embarrassment. "Why, to tell you the truth, sir," he said, "I hadn't been long married at that time, and my wife's name, before she changed it for mine, was the same as the lady's--meaning the name of Glyde, sir. The lady mentioned it herself. 'Is your name on your boxes, ma'am?' says I. 'Yes,' says she, 'my name is on my luggage--it is Lady Glyde.' 'Come! ' I says to myself, 'I've a bad head for gentlefolks' names in general--but THIS one comes like an old friend, at any rate.' I can't say nothing about the time, sir, it might be nigh on a year ago, or it mightn't. But I can swear to the stout gentleman, and swear to the lady's name."

and left the agent in possession of

When I closed the last leaf of the Count's manuscript the halfhour during which I had engaged to remain at Forest Road had expired. Monsieur Rubelle looked at his watch and bowed. I rose immediately, and left the agent in possession of the empty house. I never saw him again--I never heard more of him or of his wife. Out of the dark byways of villainy and deceit they had crawled across our path--into the same byways they crawled back secretly and were lost. In a quarter of an hour after leaving Forest Road I was at home again. But few words sufficed to tell Laura and Marian how my desperate venture had ended, and what the next event in our lives was likely to be. I left all details to be described later in the day, and hastened back to St. John's Wood, to see the person of whom Count Fosco had ordered the fly, when he went to meet Laura at the station. The address in my possession led me to some "livery stables," about a quarter of a mile distant from Forest Road. The proprietor proved to be a civil and respectable man. When I explained that an important family matter obliged me to ask him to refer to his books for the purpose of ascertaining a date with which the record of his business transactions might supply me, he offered no objection to granting my request. The book was produced, and there, under the date of "July 26th, 1850," the order was entered in these words- "Brougham to Count Fosco, 5 Forest Road. Two o'clock. (John Owen)." I found on inquiry that the name of "John Owen," attached to the entry, referred to the man who had been employed to drive the fly. He was then at work in the stable-yard, and was sent for to see me at my request. "Do you remember driving a gentleman, in the month of July last, from Number Five Forest Road to the Waterloo Bridge station?" I asked. "Well, sir," said the man, "I can't exactly say I do."

what he and Howard were so busy about

"Co'se dey has. De ole Jedge has be'n havin' a duel wid one o' dem twins." "Great Scott!" Then he added to himself: "That's what made him remake the will; he thought he might get killed, and it softened him toward me. And that's what he and Howard were so busy about. . . . Oh dear, if the twin had only killed him, I should be out of my--" "What is you mumblin' 'bout, Chambers? Whah was you? Didn't you know dey was gwine to be a duel?" "No, I didn't. The old man tried to get me to fight one with Count Luigi, but he didn't succeed, so I reckon he concluded to patch up the family honor himself." He laughed at the idea, and went rambling on with a detailed account of his talk with the judge, and how shocked and ashamed the judge was to find that he had a coward in his family. He glanced up at last, and got a shock himself. Roxana's bosom was heaving with suppressed passion, and she was glowering down upon him with measureless contempt written in her face. "En you refuse' to fight a man dat kicked you, 'stid o' jumpin' at de chance! En you ain't got no mo' feelin' den to come en tell me, dat fetched sich a po' lowdown ornery rabbit into de worl'! Pah! it make me sick! It's de nigger in you, dat's what it is. Thirty-one parts o' you is white, en on'y one part nigger, en dat po' little one part is yo' _soul_. 'Tain't wuth savin'; tain't wuth totin' out on a shovel en throwin' en de gutter. You has disgraced yo' birth. What would yo' pa think o' you? It's enough to make him turn in his grave. The last three sentences stung Tom into a fury, and he said to himself that if his father were only alive and in reach of assassination his mother would soon find that he had a very clear notion of the size of his indebtedness to that man, and was willing to pay it up in full, and would do it too, even at risk of his life; but he kept this thought to himself; that was safest in his mother's present state.

turned away and moped toward the door moaning

He was about to close with a final grand silent demonstration, when he suddenly recollected that Wilson had put it out of his power to pawn or sell the Indian knife, and that he was once more in awful peril of exposure by his creditors for that reason. His joy collapsed utterly, and he turned away and moped toward the door moaning and lamenting over the bitterness of his luck. He dragged himself upstairs, and brooded in his room a long time, disconsolate and forlorn, with Luigi's Indian knife for a text. At last he sighed and said: "When I supposed these stones were glass and this ivory bone, the thing hadn't any interest for me because it hadn't any value, and couldn't help me out of my trouble. But now--why, now it is full of interest; yes, and of a sort to break a body's heart. It's a bag of gold that has turned to dirt and ashes in my hands. It could save me, and save me so easily, and yet I've got to go to ruin. It's like drowning with a life preserver in my reach. All the hard luck comes to me, and all the good luck goes to other people-Pudd'nhead Wilson, for instance; even his career has got a sort of a little start at last, and what has he done to deserve it, I should like to know? Yes, he has opened his own road, but he isn't content with that, but must block mine. It's a sordid, selfish world, and I wish I was out of it." He allowed the light of the candle to play upon the jewels of the sheath, but the flashings and sparklings had no charm for his eye; they were only just so many pangs to his heart. "I must not say anything to Roxy about this thing," he said. "She is too daring. She would be for digging these stones out and selling them, and then-why, she would be arrested and the stones traced, and then--" The thought made him quake, and he hid the knife away, trembling all over and glancing furtively about, like a criminal who fancies that the accuser is already at hand. Should he try to sleep? Oh, no, sleep was not for him; his trouble was too haunting, too afflicting for that. He must have somebody to mourn with. He would carry his despair to Roxy. He had heard several distant gunshots, but that sort of thing was not uncommon, and they had made no impression upon him. He went out at the back door, and turned westward. He passed Wilson's house and proceeded along the lane, and presently saw several figures approaching Wilson's place through the vacant lots. These were the duelists returning from the fight; he thought he recognized them, but as he had no desire for white people's company, he stooped down behind the fence until they were out of his way. Roxy was feeling fine. She said: "Whah was you, child? Warn't you in it?" "In what?" "In de duel." "Duel? Has there been a duel?"

and the two started for the battleground

Pembroke read and witnessed the will, then gave the old man's hand a hearty shake and said: "Now that's right, York--but I knew you would do it. You couldn't leave that poor chap to fight along without means or profession, with certain defeat before him, and I knew you wouldn't, for his father's sake if not for his own." "For his dead father's sake, I couldn't, I know; for poor Percy-but you know what Percy was to me. But mind--Tom is not to know of this unless I fall tonight." "I understand. I'll keep the secret." The judge put the will away, and the two started for the battleground. In another minute the will was in Tom's hands. His misery vanished, his feelings underwent a tremendous revulsion. He put the will carefully back in its place, and spread his mouth and swung his hat once, twice, three times around his head, in imitation of three rousing huzzahs, no sound issuing from his lips. He fell to communing with himself excitedly and joyously, but every now and then he let off another volley of dumb hurrahs. He said to himself: "I've got the fortune again, but I'll not let on that I know about it. And this time I'm gong to hang on to it. I take no more risks. I'll gamble no more, I'll drink no more, because--well, because I'll not go where there is any of that sort of thing going on, again. It's the sure way, and the only sure way; I might have thought of that sooner--well, yes, if I had wanted to. But now--dear me, I've had a scare this time, and I'll take no more chances. Not a single chance more. Land! I persuaded myself this evening that I could fetch him around without any great amount of effort, but I've been getting more and more heavyhearted and doubtful straight along, ever since. If he tells me about this thing, all right; but if he doesn't, I sha'n't let on. I--well, I'd like to tell Pudd'nhead Wilson, but--no, I'll think about that; perhaps I won't." He whirled off another dead huzzah, and said, "I'm reformed, and this time I'll stay so, sure!"

rather surprised at the summons

    "Call Jasper Redwood, Sherman," said the merchant, addressing himself to Sherman White, a boy recently taken into his employ.     Jasper entered the office, rather surprised at the summons. When he saw his accomplice, he changed color, and looked confused.     "Jasper," said the merchant, "read this letter and tell me what you have to say in reply."     Jasper ran his eye over the letter, while his color came and went.     "Well?"     "It's a lie," said Jasper hoarsely.     "Do you still insist that the articles taken from my stock were taken by Rodney Ropes?"     "Yes, sir."     "What do you say, Mr. Carton?"     "Not one was taken by Rodney Ropes. Jasper and I are responsible for them all."     "What proof can you bring?"     "Mr. James Redwood will recall the purchase I made at the time of the thefts. He will recall that I always purchased of Jasper."     "That is true," said Mr. Redwood in a troubled voice.     "Do you confess, Jasper Redwood?"     "No, sir."     "If you will tell the truth, I will see that no harm comes to you. I want to clear this matter up."     Jasper thought the matter over. He saw that the game was up -- and decided rapidly that confession was the best policy.     "Very well, sir, if I must I will do so, but that man put me up to it."     "You did not need any putting up to it.

and his face showed the agitation he felt

    In five minutes Mr. Redwood entered the office of his employer.     "You sent for me, sir?"     "Yes, Mr. Redwood; cast your eye over this letter."     James Redwood read the letter, and his face showed the agitation he felt.     "I don't know anything about this, Mr. Goodnow," he said at last.     "It ought to be inquired into."     "I agree with you. If my nephew is guilty I want to know it."     "We will wait till the writer of this letter calls. Do you remember him?"     "Yes, sir; he was discharged for intemperance."     At twelve o'clock Philip Carton made his appearance, and asked to be conducted to Mr. Goodnow's private office.     "You are the writer of this letter?" asked the merchant.     "Yes sir."     "And you stand by the statement it contains?"     "Yes, sir."     "Why, at this late day, have you made a confession?"     "Because I wish to do justice to Rodney Ropes, who has been unjustly accused, and also because I have been meanly treated by Jasper Redwood, who has thrown me over now that he has no further use for me."     "Are you willing to repeat your statement before him?"     "I wish to do so."

You can come out once a year

    "There won't be any trouble about that, Rodney. I don't blame you for wanting to obtain an education. It isn't in my line. You can come out once a year, and see what progress we are making. The mine will be called the Rodney Mine after you."     The Miners' Rest was sold to the steward, as Mr. Pettigrew was too busy to attend to it, and in a week Rodney was on his way to New York. Chapter 36 Conlusion     Otis Goodnow arrived at his place of business a little earlier than usual, and set himself to looking over his mail. Among other letters was one written on paper bearing the name of the Fifth Avenue Hotel. He came to this after a time and read it.     It ran thus:     DEAR SIR:     I was once in your employ, though you may not remember my name. I was in the department of Mr. Redwood, and there I became acquainted with Jasper Redwood, his nephew. I was discharged, it is needless to recall why. I had saved nothing, and of course I was greatly embarrassed. I could not readily obtain another place, and in order to secure money to pay living expenses I entered into an arrangement with Jasper Redwood to sell me articles, putting in more than I paid for. These I was enabled to sell at a profit to smaller stores. This was not as profitable as it might have been to me, as I was obliged to pay Jasper a commission for his agency. Well, after a time it was ascertained that articles were missing, and search was made for the thief. Through a cunningly devised scheme of Jasper's the theft was ascribed to Rodney Ropes, a younger clerk, and he was discharged. Ropes was a fine young fellow, and I have always been sorry that he got into trouble through our agency, but there seeemed no help for it. It must rest on him or us. He protested his innocence, but was not believed. I wish to say now that he was absolutely innocent, and only Jasper and myself were to blame. If you doubt my statement I will call today, and you may confront me with Jasper. I desire that justice should be done. PHILIP CARTON.     "Call Mr. Redwood," said the merchant, summoning a boy.

what do you think of it

    Rodney led the way to the narrow passage already described. By the light of a lantern Mr. Pettigrew examined the walls. For five minutes not a word was said.     "Well, what do you think of it?" asked Rodney anxiously.     "Only this: that you have hit upon the richest gold deposits in Montana. Here is a mining prospect that will make us both rich."     "I am glad I was not mistaken," said Rodney simply.     "Your capture by the Dixon brothers will prove to have been the luckiest event in your life. I shall lose no time in taking possession in our joint name."     There was great excitement when the discovery of the gold deposit was made known. In connection with the killing of the outlaws, it was noised far and wide. The consequence was that there was an influx of mining men, and within a week Rodney and Jefferson were offered a hundred thousand dollars for a half interest in the mine by a Chicago syndicate.     "Say a hundred and fifty thousand, and we accept the offer," said Jefferson Pettigrew.     After a little haggling this offer was accepted, and Rodney found himself the possessor of seventy five thousand dollars in cash.     "It was fortunate for me when I fell in with you, Mr. Pettigrew," he said.     "And no less fortunate for me, Rodney. This mine will bring us in a rich sum for our share, besides the cash we already have in hand."     "If you don't object, Mr. Pettigrew, I should like to go to New York and continue my education. You can look after my interest here, and I shall be willing to pay you anything you like for doing so."

will still be there

    "We will go over tomorrow and make an examination. Was there any one else who seemed to have a claim to the cave except the Dixons?"     "No. The negro, Caesar, will still be there, perhaps."     "We can easily get rid of him."     The next day the two friends went over to the cavern. Caesar was still there, but he had an unsettled, restless look, and seemed undecided what to do.     "What are you going to do, Caesar?" asked Pettigrew. "Are you going to stay here?"     "I don't know, massa. I don't want to lib here. I'm afraid I'll see the ghostes of my old massas. But I haven't got no money."     "If you had money where would you go?"     "I'd go to Chicago. I used to be a whitewasher, and I reckon I'd get work at my old trade."     "That's where you are sensible, Caesar. This is no place for you. Now I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll give you a hundred dollars, and you can go where you like. But I shall want you to go away at once."     "I'll go right off, massa," said Caesar, overjoyed. "I don't want to come here no more."     "Have you got anything belonging to you in the cave?"     "No, massa, only a little kit of clothes."     "Take them and go."     In fifteen minutes Caesar had bidden farewell to his home, and Rodney and Jefferson were left in sole possession of the cavern.     "Now, Mr. Pettigrew, come and let me show you what I saw. I hope I have made no mistake."

Wait till we get into the street

    "If that is all you have to be ashamed of Mr. Wheeler," said the miner pointedly, "you can rest easy."     "What do you mean?" stammered Wheeler.     "Wait till we get into the street, and I will tell you."     They went out at the Broadway entrance, and then Mr. Pettigrew turned to his new acquaintance.     "I think I will bid you good night and good by at the same time, Mr. Wheeler," he said.     "My dear sir, I hoped you won't misjudge me on account of my unfortunately leaving my money at home."     "I only wish to tell you that I have not been taken in by your plausible statement, Mr. Wheeler, if that is really your name. Before we started for the theater I had gauged you and taken your measure."     "Sir, I hope you don't mean to insult me!" blustered Wheeler.     "Not at all. You have been mistaken in me, but I am not mistaken in you. I judge you to be a gentlemanly adventurer, ready to take advantage of any who have money and are foolish enough to be gulled by your tricks. You are welcome to the profit you made out of the theater tickets, also to the little supper to which you have done so much justice. I must request you, now, however, to devote yourself to some one else, as I do not care to meet you again."     Louis Wheeler slunk away, deciding that he had made a great mistake in setting down his Montana acquaintance as an easy victim.     "I didn't think he'd get on to my little game so quick," he reflected. "He's sharper than he looks,"     Rodney took breakfast with Mr. Pettigrew the next morning. When breakfast was over, the Montana man said:     "I'm going to make a proposal to you, Rodney. How much pay did you get at your last place?"     "Seven dollars a week."

he soliloquized complacently

    Jefferson Pettigrew asked this question with so much apparent sincerity that Wheeler was completely deceived.     "I've got him dead!" he soliloquized complacently.     He hooked his arm affectionately in the Montana miner's and said, "My dear friend, I have never met a man with whom I would rather be associated in business than with you. How much capital could you contribute?"     "I will think it over, Mr. Wheeler. By the way what business do you propose that we shall go into?"     "I will think it over and report to you."     By this time they had reached the theater. The play soon commenced. Mr. Pettigrew enjoyed it highly, for he had not had much opportunity at the West of attending a high class theatrical performance.     When the play ended, Louis Wheeler said, "Suppose we go to Delmonico's and have a little refreshment."     "Very well."     They adjourned to the well known restaurant, and Mr. Pettigrew ordered an ice and some cakes, but his companion made a hearty supper. When the bill came, Louis Wheeler let it lie on the table, but Mr. Pettigrew did not appear to see it.     "I wonder if he expects me to pay for it," Wheeler asked himself anxiously.     "Thank you for this pleasant little supper," said Pettigrew mischievously. "Delmonico's is certainly a fine place."     Wheeler changed color. He glanced at the check. It was for two dollars and seventy five cents, and this represented a larger sum than he possessed.     He took the check and led the way to the cashier's desk. Then he examined his pockets.     "By Jove," he said, "I left my wallet in my other coat. May I borrow five dollars till tomorrow?"     Jefferson Pettigrew eyed him shrewdly. "Never mind," he said, "I will pay the check."     "I am very much ashamed of having put you to this expense."

It is time to go to the theater

    It was therefore with his usual confidence that he accosted his acquaintance from Montana after supper.     "It is time to go to the theater, Mr. Pettigrew," he said.     Jefferson Pettigrew scanned his new acquaintance with interest. He had never before met a man of his type and he looked upon him as a curiosity.     He was shrewd, however, and did not propose to let Wheeler know that he understood his character. He resolved for the present to play the part of the bluff and unsuspecting country visitor.     "You are very kind, Mr. Wheeler," he said, "to take so much trouble for a stranger."     "My dear sir," said Wheeler effusively, "I wouldn't do it for many persons, but I have taken a fancy to you."     "You don't mean so?" said Pettigrew, appearing pleased?     "Yes, I do, on my honor."     "But I don't see why you should. You are a polished city gentleman and I am an ignorant miner from Montana."     Louis Wheeler looked complacent when he was referred to as a polished city gentleman.     "You do yourself injustice, my dear Pettigrew," he said in a patronizing manner. "You do indeed. You may not be polished, but you are certainly smart, as you have shown by accumulating a fortune."     "But I am not as rich as you."     "Perhaps not, but if I should lose my money, I could not make another fortune, while I am sure you could. Don't you think it would be a good plan for us to start a business together in New York?"     "Would you really be willing to go into business with me?"

I can tell you of a better place than either

    "Then why do you stay in New York?"     "I have thought it might be better to go to Philadelphia or Boston."     "I can tell you of a better place than either."     "What is that?"     "Montana."     "Do you really think it would be wise for me to go there?"     "Think? I haven't a doubt about it."     "I have money enough to get there, but not much more. I should soon have to find work, or I might get stranded."     "Come back with me, and I'll see you through. I'll make a bargain with you. Go round with me here, and I'll pay your fare out to Montana."     "If you are really in earnest I will do so, and thank you for the offer."     "Jefferson Pettigrew means what he says. I'll see you through, Rodney."     "But I may be interfering with your other friend, Louis Wheeler."     "I shall soon be through with him. You needn't worry yourself about that."     Mr. Pettigrew insisted upon Rodney's taking supper with him. Fifteen minutes after Rodney left him Mr. Wheeler made his appearance. Chapter 23 Mr. Wheeler Has A Set Back     Louis Wheeler had not seen Rodney in the hotel office, and probably would not have recognized him if he had, as Rodney was quite differently dressed from the time of their first meeting. He had no reason to suppose, therefore, that Mr. Pettigrew had been enlightened as to his real character.

I am out of work

    "Nor I very well. If you are on your guard I think you won't be in any danger."     "I will remember what you say. You seem young to act as adviser to a man like me. Are you in business?"     "At present I am out of work, but I have money enough to last me three months."     "Are you, like my new acquaintance, possessed of independent means?"     "Not now, but I was six months ago."     "How did you lose your money?"     "I did not lose it. My guardian lost it for me."     "What is your name?"     "Rodney Ropes."     "You've had some pretty bad luck. Come up to my room and tell me about it."     "I shall be glad to do so, sir."     Mr. Pettigrew called for his key and led the way up to a plain room on the third floor.     "Come in," he said. "The room is small, but I guess it will hold us both. Now go ahead with your story."     In a short time Rodney had told his story in full to his new acquaintance, encouraged to do so by his sympathetic manner. Mr. Pettigrew was quite indignant, when told of Jasper's mean and treacherous conduct.     "That boy Jasper is a snake in the grass," he said. "I'd like to give him a good thrashing."     "There isn't any love lost between us, Mr. Pettigrew, but I think it will turn out right in the end. Still I find it hard to get a place in New York with him circulating stories about me."

I do not affect fishes unless when

I hope, since the afternoon was so lovely, that they were one and all rewarded; and that a silver booty went home in every basket for the pot. Some of my friends would cry shame on me for this; but I prefer a man, were he only an angler, to the bravest pair of gills in all God's waters. I do not affect fishes unless when cooked in sauce; whereas an angler is an important piece of river scenery, and hence deserves some recognition among canoeists. He can always tell you where you are after a mild fashion; and his quiet presence serves to accentuate the solitude and stillness, and remind you of the glittering citizens below your boat. The Sambre turned so industriously to and fro among his little hills, that it was past six before we drew near the lock at Quartes. There were some children on the tow-path, with whom the Cigarette fell into a chaffing talk as they ran along beside us. It was in vain that I warned him. In vain I told him, in English, that boys were the most dangerous creatures; and if once you began with them, it was safe to end in a shower of stones. For my own part, whenever anything was addressed to me, I smiled gently and shook my head as though I were an inoffensive person inadequately acquainted with French. For indeed I have had such experience at home, that I would sooner meet many wild animals than a troop of healthy urchins. But I was doing injustice to these peaceable young Hainaulters. When the Cigarette went off to make inquiries, I got out upon the bank to smoke a pipe and superintend the boats, and became at once the centre of much amiable curiosity. The children had been joined by this time by a young woman and a mild lad who had lost an arm; and this gave me more security. When I let slip my first word or so in French, a little girl nodded her head with a comical grown-up air. 'Ah, you see,' she said, 'he understands well enough now; he was just making believe.' And the little group laughed together very good-naturedly. They were much impressed when they heard we came from England; and the little girl proffered the information that England was an island 'and a far way from here--bien loin d'ici.' 'Ay, you may say that, a far way from here,' said the lad with one arm. I was as nearly home-sick as ever I was in my life; they seemed to make it such an incalculable distance to the place where I first saw the day. They admired the canoes very much. And I observed one piece of delicacy in these children, which is worthy of record. They had been deafening us for the last hundred yards with petitions for a sail; ay, and they deafened us to the same tune next morning when we came to start; but then, when the canoes were lying empty, there was no word of any such petition. Delicacy? or perhaps a bit of fear for the water in so crank a vessel? I hate cynicism a great deal worse than I do the devil; unless perhaps the two were the same thing? And yet 'tis a good tonic; the cold tub and bath-towel of the sentiments; and positively necessary to life in cases of advanced sensibility.

we do our good and bad with

When people take the trouble to do dignified acts, it is worth while to take a little more, and allow the dignity to be common to all concerned. But in our brave Saxon countries, where we plod threescore years and ten in the mud, and the wind keeps singing in our ears from birth to burial, we do our good and bad with a high hand and almost offensively; and make even our alms a witness-bearing and an act of war against the wrong. After Hautmont, the sun came forth again and the wind went down; and a little paddling took us beyond the ironworks and through a delectable land. The river wound among low hills, so that sometimes the sun was at our backs, and sometimes it stood right ahead, and the river before us was one sheet of intolerable glory. On either hand, meadows and orchards bordered, with a margin of sedge and water flowers, upon the river. The hedges were of great height, woven about the trunks of hedgerow elms; and the fields, as they were often very small, looked like a series of bowers along the stream. There was never any prospect; sometimes a hill-top with its trees would look over the nearest hedgerow, just to make a middle distance for the sky; but that was all. The heaven was bare of clouds. The atmosphere, after the rain, was of enchanting purity. The river doubled among the hillocks, a shining strip of mirror glass; and the dip of the paddles set the flowers shaking along the brink. In the meadows wandered black and white cattle fantastically marked. One beast, with a white head and the rest of the body glossy black, came to the edge to drink, and stood gravely twitching his ears at me as I went by, like some sort of preposterous clergyman in a play. A moment after I heard a loud plunge, and, turning my head, saw the clergyman struggling to shore. The bank had given way under his feet. Besides the cattle, we saw no living things except a few birds and a great many fishermen. These sat along the edges of the meadows, sometimes with one rod, sometimes with as many as half a score. They seemed stupefied with contentment; and when we induced them to exchange a few words with us about the weather, their voices sounded quiet and far away. There was a strange diversity of opinion among them as to the kind of fish for which they set their lures; although they were all agreed in this, that the river was abundantly supplied. Where it was plain that no two of them had ever caught the same kind of fish, we could not help suspecting that perhaps not any one of them had ever caught a fish at all.

what should I conclude from that

I think I hear you say that it is a respectable position to drive an omnibus? Very well. What right has he who likes it not, to keep those who would like it dearly out of this respectable position? Suppose a dish were not to my taste, and you told me that it was a favourite amongst the rest of the company, what should I conclude from that? Not to finish the dish against my stomach, I suppose. Respectability is a very good thing in its way, but it does not rise superior to all considerations. I would not for a moment venture to hint that it was a matter of taste; but I think I will go as far as this: that if a position is admittedly unkind, uncomfortable, unnecessary, and superfluously useless, although it were as respectable as the Church of England, the sooner a man is out of it, the better for himself, and all concerned. Chapter 5 On The Sambre Canalised:To Quartes About three in the afternoon the whole establishment of the Grand Cerf accompanied us to the water's edge. The man of the omnibus was there with haggard eyes. Poor cage-bird! Do I not remember the time when I myself haunted the station, to watch train after train carry its complement of freemen into the night, and read the names of distant places on the time-bills with indescribable longings? We were not clear of the fortifications before the rain began. The wind was contrary, and blew in furious gusts; nor were the aspects of nature any more clement than the doings of the sky. For we passed through a stretch of blighted country, sparsely covered with brush, but handsomely enough diversified with factory chimneys. We landed in a soiled meadow among some pollards, and there smoked a pipe in a flaw of fair weather. But the wind blew so hard, we could get little else to smoke. There were no natural objects in the neighbourhood, but some sordid workshops. A group of children headed by a tall girl stood and watched us from a little distance all the time we stayed. I heartily wonder what they thought of us. At Hautmont, the lock was almost impassable; the landing-place being steep and high, and the launch at a long distance. Near a dozen grimy workmen lent us a hand. They refused any reward; and, what is much better, refused it handsomely, without conveying any sense of insult. 'It is a way we have in our countryside,' said they. And a very becoming way it is. In Scotland, where also you will get services for nothing, the good people reject your money as if you had been trying to corrupt a voter.

It would task language to say how

The baker stands in his door; the colonel with his three medals goes by to the cafe at night; the troops drum and trumpet and man the ramparts, as bold as so many lions. It would task language to say how placidly you behold all this. In a place where you have taken some root, you are provoked out of your indifference; you have a hand in the game; your friends are fighting with the army. But in a strange town, not small enough to grow too soon familiar, nor so large as to have laid itself out for travellers, you stand so far apart from the business, that you positively forget it would be possible to go nearer; you have so little human interest around you, that you do not remember yourself to be a man. Perhaps, in a very short time, you would be one no longer. Gymnosophists go into a wood, with all nature seething around them, with romance on every side; it would be much more to the purpose if they took up their abode in a dull country town, where they should see just so much of humanity as to keep them from desiring more, and only the stale externals of man's life. These externals are as dead to us as so many formalities, and speak a dead language in our eyes and ears. They have no more meaning than an oath or a salutation. We are so much accustomed to see married couples going to church of a Sunday that we have clean forgotten what they represent; and novelists are driven to rehabilitate adultery, no less, when they wish to show us what a beautiful thing it is for a man and a woman to live for each other. One person in Maubeuge, however, showed me something more than his outside. That was the driver of the hotel omnibus: a mean enough looking little man, as well as I can remember; but with a spark of something human in his soul. He had heard of our little journey, and came to me at once in envious sympathy. How he longed to travel! he told me. How he longed to be somewhere else, and see the round world before he went into the grave! 'Here I am,' said he. 'I drive to the station. Well. And then I drive back again to the hotel. And so on every day and all the week round. My God, is that life?' I could not say I thought it was--for him. He pressed me to tell him where I had been, and where I hoped to go; and as he listened, I declare the fellow sighed. Might not this have been a brave African traveller, or gone to the Indies after Drake? But it is an evil age for the gypsily inclined among men. He who can sit squarest on a three-legged stool, he it is who has the wealth and glory. I wonder if my friend is still driving the omnibus for the Grand Cerf? Not very likely, I believe; for I think he was on the eve of mutiny when we passed through, and perhaps our passage determined him for good. Better a thousand times that he should be a tramp, and mend pots and pans by the wayside, and sleep under trees, and see the dawn and the sunset every day above a new horizon.

from any part of the globe

I too have been knolled to church, and sat at good men's feasts; but I bear no mark of it. I am as strange as a Jack Indian to their official spectacles. I might come from any part of the globe, it seems, except from where I do. My ancestors have laboured in vain, and the glorious Constitution cannot protect me in my walks abroad. It is a great thing, believe me, to present a good normal type of the nation you belong to. Nobody else was asked for his papers on the way to Maubeuge; but I was; and although I clung to my rights, I had to choose at last between accepting the humiliation and being left behind by the train. I was sorry to give way; but I wanted to get to Maubeuge. Maubeuge is a fortified town, with a very good inn, the Grand Cerf. It seemed to be inhabited principally by soldiers and bagmen; at least, these were all that we saw, except the hotel servants. We had to stay there some time, for the canoes were in no hurry to follow us, and at last stuck hopelessly in the custom-house until we went back to liberate them. There was nothing to do, nothing to see. We had good meals, which was a great matter; but that was all. The Cigarette was nearly taken up upon a charge of drawing the fortifications: a feat of which he was hopelessly incapable. And besides, as I suppose each belligerent nation has a plan of the other's fortified places already, these precautions are of the nature of shutting the stable door after the steed is away. But I have no doubt they help to keep up a good spirit at home. It is a great thing if you can persuade people that they are somehow or other partakers in a mystery. It makes them feel bigger. Even the Freemasons, who have been shown up to satiety, preserve a kind of pride; and not a grocer among them, however honest, harmless, and empty-headed he may feel himself to be at bottom, but comes home from one of their coenacula with a portentous significance for himself. It is an odd thing, how happily two people, if there are two, can live in a place where they have no acquaintance. I think the spectacle of a whole life in which you have no part paralyses personal desire. You are content to become a mere spectator.