when at long long last the revolution had arrived! Well-maybe not quite THE REVOLUTION, in capitals, but certainly the chance to make a revolution work. There had never before been so many people so absolutely angry with the system, and striking back against it. He was stuck here, though, until the opportunity arose to slip through the cordon around the city and go underground. Because of the massive forces which had been poured into Denver to clear up after the Madness, this was almost certainly the most completely controlled city in the nation. What a place to be stranded! He distrusted Pete because he had been in the police, and he was even afraid of Jeannie because he'd confessed to her the killing of that state border guard. Hell, how could these two be so wilfully blind? They conceded that the Madness had been caused by poison gas, but because it was Train who had given chapter and verse about it, they were ready to argue that "it wasn't the government's fault!" They wanted the clock turned back to where it was before, they wanted the government to regain control even though it had lied to and cheated and even killed its people! If they were capable of that degree of stupidity and docility, they might all too easily sell him out… "You picked the right day to have it delivered, too," Jeannie was saying as she patted the cooker's shining side. "Mom got me a chicken. Don't hang around too long with your beer, will you? Dinner's only going to be a minute with this beauty." Carl curled his lip in disgust as he collected the beer cans and headed for the adjacent room in Pete's wake. Sitting down, he said, "Seen the sun lately, have you?"

THE SMOKE OF THAT GREAT BURNING
Opening the door to the visiting doctor, all set to apologize for the
flour on her hands-she had been baking-Mrs. Byrne sniffed. Smoke!
And if she could smell it with her heavy head cold, it must be a
tremendous fire!
"We ought to call the brigade!" she exclaimed. "Is it a hayrick?"
"The brigade would have a long way to go," the doctor told her
curtly. "It's from America. The wind's blowing that way."
NEXT YEAR
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,
But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread.
-Milton: "Lycidas"

A ROOST FOR CHICKENS Sharp on nine the Trainites had scattered caltraps in the roadway and created a monumental snarl-up twelve blocks by seven. The fuzz, as usual, was elsewhere-there were always plenty of sympathizers willing to cause a diversion. It was impossible to guess how many allies the movement had; at a rough guess, though, one could say that in New York City, Chicago, Detroit, LA or San Francisco people were apt to cheer, while in the surrounding suburbs or the Midwest people were apt to go fetch guns. In other words, they had least support in the areas which had voted for Prexy Next, the stalled cars had their windows opaqued with a cheap commercial compound used for etching glass, and slogans were painted on their doors. Some were long: THIS VEHICLE IS A DANGER TO LIFE AND LIMB. Many were short: IT STINKS! But the commonest of all was the universally known catchphrase: STOP, YOU'RE KILLING ME! And in every case the inscription was concluded with a rough egg-shape above a saltire-the simplified ideogrammatic version of the invariable Trainite symbol, a skull and crossbones reduced to Then, consulting printed data-sheets, many of which were flapping along the gutter hours later in the wind of passing cars, they turned to the nearby store-windows and obscured the goods on offer with similarly appropriate slogans. Unprejudiced, they found something apt for every single store. It wasn't too hard. Delighted, lads on the afternoon school shift joined in the job of keeping at bay angry drivers, store-clerks and other meddlers. Some of them weren't smart enough to get lost when the fuzz arrived-by helicopter after frantic radio messages-and made their first trip to Juvenile Hall. But what the hell? They were of an age to realize a conviction was a keen thing to have. Might stop you being drafted. Might save your life. Most of the drivers, however, had the sense to stay put, fuming behind their blank windshields as they calculated the cost of repairs and repainting. Practically all of them were armed, but not one was stupid enough to pull a gun. It had been tried during a Trainite demonstration in San Francisco last month. A girl had been shot dead. Others, anonymous in whole-head masks and drab mock-homespun clothing, had dragged the killer from his car and used the same violent acid they applied to glass to write MURDERER on his flesh. In any case, there was little future in rolling down a window to curse the demonstrators. Throats didn't last long in the raw air.

ENTRAINED
"It's easy enough to make people understand that cars and guns are
inherently dangerous. Statistically, almost everyone in the country now
has experience of a relative being shot dead either at home or abroad,
while the association between cars and traffic fatalities opens the public
mind to the concept of other, subtler threats.Lead: causes subnormality in children and other disorders.
Exceeds 12 mg. per m3. in surface water off California. Probable
contributory factor in decline of Roman Empire whose upper class
ate food cooked in lead pans and drank wine fermented in
lead-lined vats. Common sources are paint, antiknock gas where
still in use, and wildfowl from marshes etc. contaminated over
generations by lead shot in the water.
"On the other hand it's far harder to make it clear to people that
such a superficially innocuous firm as a beauty parlor is dangerous. And
I don't mean because some women are allergic to regular cosmetics."Polychlorinated biphenyls: waste products of the plastics,
lubrication and cosmetics industries. Universal distribution at
levels similar to DDT, less toxic but having more marked effect on
steroid hormones. Found in museum specimens collected as early
as 1944. Known to kill birds.
"Similarly it's a short mental step from the notion of killing plants or
insects to the notion of killing animals and people. It didn't take the
Vietnam disaster to spell that out-it was foreshadowed in everybody's
mind.Pelican, brown: failed to breed in California where formerly
common, 1969 onward, owing to estrogenic effect of DDT on shell
secretion. Eggs collapsed when hen birds tried to brood them.
"By contrast, now that we scarcely make use of the substances
which used to constitute the bulk of the pharmacopoeia and which
were clearly recognizable as poisonous because of their names-arsenic,
strychnine, mercury and so on-people seem to assume that any medical
drug is good, period. I wasted more of my life than I care to recall
going around farms trying to discourage pig and chicken breeders from
buying feeds that contained antibiotics, and they simply wouldn't listen.
They held that the more of the stuff you scattered around the better. So
developing new drugs to replace those wasted in cake for cattle, pap
for pigs and pellets for pullets has become like the race between guns
and armor!"ITS A GAS
Leaving behind half his lonely brunch (not that the coffee shop
where he'd eaten regularly now for almost a year wasn't crowded with
lunchers, but sitting next to the fuzz is prickly), Pete Goddard waited
for change to be made for him. Across the street, on the big billboards
enclosing the site of Harrigan's Harness and Feed Store-it had kept the
name although for years before it was demolished it had sold
snowmobiles, motorcycle parts and dude Western gear-which now
was scheduled to become forty-two desirable apartments and the
Towerhill home of American Express and Colorado Chemical Bank,
someone had painted about a dozen black skulls and crossbones.
Well, he was feeling a little that way himself. Last night had been a
party: first wedding anniversary. His mouth tasted foul and his head
ached and moreover Jeannie had had to get up at the ordinary time
because she worked too, at the Bamberley hydroponics plant, and he'd
broken his promise to clear away the mess so she wouldn't be faced
with it this evening. Besides, that patch on her leg, even if it didn't
hurt…But they had good doctors at the plant. Had to have.
New, not disposed to like him, the girl cashier dropped his due
coins in his palm and turned back to conversation with a friend.
The wall-clock agreed with his watch that he had eight minutes to
make the four-minute drive to the station house. Moreover, it was
bitterly cold outside, down to around twenty with a strong wind. Fine
for the tourists on the slopes of Mount Hawes, not good for the police
who measured temperature on a graph of smashed cars, frostbite cases
and petty thefts committed by men thrown out of seasonal work.
And women, come to that.
So maybe before going…By the door, a large red object with a
mirror on the upper part of its front. Installed last  fall. Japanese. On a
plate at the side: Mitsuyama Corp., Osofaj. Shaped like a weighing
machine. Stand here and insert 25¢. Do not smoke while using. Place
mouth and nose to soft black flexible mask. Like an obscene animal's KISS Usually he laughed at it because up here in the mountains the air
was never so bad you needed to tank up on oxygen to make the next
block. On the other hand some people did say it was a hell of a good
cure for a hangover…
More detail penetrated his mind. Noticing detail was something he
prided himself on; when his probationary period was through, he was
going to shoot for detective. Having a good wife could spawn ambition
in any man's mind.
The mirror cut in a curve to fit around the mouthpiece: cracked. Slot
for quarters. Below it a line defining the coin-hopper. Around that line,
scratches. As though someone had tried to pry the box out with a knife.
Pete thought of bus-drivers murdered for the contents of a change
machine.
Turning back to the counter he said, "Miss!"
"What?"
"That oxygen machine of yours-"
"Ah, shit!" the girl said, hitting "No Sale" on the register. "Don't tell
me the stinking thing is on the fritz again! Here's your quarter back. Co
try the drugstore on Tremont-they have three."
THE OPPOSITE OF OVENS
White tile, white enamel, stainless steel…One spoke here in hushed
tones, as though in a church. But that was because of the echoes from
the hard walls, hard floor, hard ceiling, not out of respect for what was
hidden behind the oblong doors, one above another from ankle-level to
the height of a tall man's head, one next to another almost as far as the
eye could see. Like an endless series of ovens, except that they weren't
to cool, but to chill

NA IRREALIDADE ATRAVESSOU A PORTA ...ESTAVA 40 OU 20 ANOS MAIS NOVO ...AS IMAGENS COMEÇAM A DESVANECER-SE NA NOSSA MENTE ...MECANISMOS DE PROTECÇÃO SUPONGO...UMA ESPÉCIE QUE GERE SUICIDAS NÃO ASSEGURA MUITO LÉMINGUE NÉ...NUM SONHO VI O ZÉ NUMA PORTA RITOS DE PASSAGEM PARA A LUX....NUM LONGO CONCURSO DE COMEZAINA DE BOLINHOS E OUTROS HUNS HUNS NÃO CONSEGUIA OUVIR NEM METADE DO QUE OS OUTROS DIZIAM OUVIA-SE UMA ALGARVIADA NÃO PERCEPTÍVEL PARA SABER O QUE ESTAVAM FALANDO PRECISAVA PERGUNTAR O MEU CÉREBRO OU O MUNDO VIRTUAL MULTIDIMENSIONAL ONDE ESTAVA DAVA-ME A RESPOSTA MUITOS PORMENORES COM IMPRESSÕES GUSTATIVAS E OLFACTIVAS E OBVIAMENTE AUDITIVAS SONHOS COM DOR COM CHOQUE COM CHEIRO SÃO RAROS £ 20 SHILLINGS LIBRAE AVOIR DUPOIS 7000 GRAIN 4$500 GUINEA GUINEO 21 SHILLINGS POUND TROY 5760 GRÃOS 12 OUNCES X 16 DINHEIROS X 27 X11/22 GRÃOS DENARIUS 14 GRÃOS LIBRA SOLIDI DENARI L.S,D DREAMS ARE LIKE STREAMS OF PROBABILITIES

PESOS CHINESES  POST OPIUM WARS 

PICO 60KG,479 TAEL 37,799 

CONDORIM 0,378 KG 

PREÇO DO OIRO EM BARRA POR CADA 

OITAVA 24 QUILATES DE OIRO FINO

2$201,35 22 QUILATES 2$018 

20 E MEIO Q 1$880

CATE 6048,790 MÁ 3,78 g CAIXA 0,038 g

Q-Sailing-Ship Rentonl (Gun Crew) - - - The Master of the Collier Farnhorough - - - 192 Q-Ship Famborough - - - - - - 192 Q-Ship Famborough - - - - - - 194 Q-Ship Farnhorough - - - - - - 196 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS xi TO PACK PACK S.S. Lodorer - - - - - - - 196 Q-Ship Pargust - - - - - - 198 Q-Ship Sarah Jones - - - - - - 198 Q-Ship Dunraven ...... 200 Bi-idge of Q-Ship Dunraven ----- 202 After the Battle --...- 204 Dimraven Doomed ------ 206 Q-Ship Dunraven ------ 208 Q-Ship Dimraven - - - - - - 212 Q-Ship Du7iraveti - - - - - - 214 Officers and Crew of the Q-Ship Dimraven - - - 21 6 Q-Ship Barranca (Two Illustrations) - - - 220 Q-Ship Barranca (Two Illustrations) - - - 222 Q-Ship Transformation - _ . . - 234 Q-Ship Barranca at Sea . . - . - 234 Q-ship service was representative of every species of seamen. There were officers and men of the Royal Navy both active and retired, of the Royal Naval Reserve, Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, and men from the Royal Fleet Reserve. From warship, bar- racks, office, colony, pleasure yacht, fishing vessel, liner, sailing ship, tramp steamer, and elsewhere these seafarers went forth in unarmoured, slow-moving, lightly-armed vessels to perform the desperate ad- venture of acting as live-bait for a merciless enemy. It was an exploit calling for supreme bravery, com- bined with great fighting skill, sound seamanship, and a highly developed imagination. The successes which were attained were brought about by just this com- bination, so that the officers, especially the command- ing officers, and the men had to be hand-picked. The slow-reasoning, hesitating type of being was useless in a Q-ship ; equally out of place would have been the wild, hare-brained, dashing individual whose excess of gallantry would simply mean the loss of ship and lives. In the ideal Q-ship captain was found something of the virtues of the cleverest angler, the most patient stalker, the most enterprising big-game hunter, together with the attributes of a cool, unper- turbed seaman, the imagination of a sensational novelist, and the plain horse-sense of a hard business man. In two words, the necessary endowment was brains and bravery. It was easy enough to find at least one of these in hundreds of officers, but it was difficult to find among the many volunteers a plucky fighter with a brilliant intellect. It is, of course, one of the happy results of sea training that officer or man 4 Q-SHIPS AND THEIR STORY learns to think and act quickly without doing foolish things. The handling of a ship in bad weather, or in crowded channels, or a strong tideway, or in going alongside a quay or other ship — all this practice makes a sailor of the man, makes him do the one and only right thing at the right second. But it needed ' something plus ' in the Q-ship service. For six months, for a year, she might have wandered up and down the Atlantic, all over the submarine zone, with never a sight of the enemy, and then, all of a sudden, a torpedo is seen rushing straight for the ship. The look-out man has reported it, and the officer of the watch has caused the man at the wheel to port his helm just in time to allow the torpedo to pass harm- lessly under the ship's counter. It was the never- ceasing vigilance and the cool appreciation of the situation which had saved the ship. But the incident is only beginning. The next stage is to lure the enemy on, to entice him, using your own ship as the bait. It may be one hour or one day later, perhaps at dusk, or when the moon gets up, or at dawn, but it is very probable that the submarine will invisibly follow you and attack at the most awkward time. The hours of suspense are trying ; watch has succeeded watch, yet nothing happens. The weather changes from good to bad ; it comes on thick, it clears up again, and the clouds cease to obliterate the sun. Then, apparently from nowhere, shells come whizzing by, and begin to hit. At last in the distance you see the low-lying enemy engaging you with both his guns, firing rapidly, and keeping discreetly out of your own guns' range. Already some of your men have been knocked out ; the ship has a couple of bad holes below the water- line, and the sea is pouring through. To add to THE HOUR AND THE NEED 5 the anxiety a fire is reported in the forecastle, and the next shell has made rather a mess of the funnel. What are you going to do ? Are you going to keep on the bluff of pretending you are an innocent mer- chantman, or are you going to run up the White Ensign, let down the bulwarks, and fire your guns the moment the enemy comes within range and bearing ? How much longer is it possible to play with him hi the hope that he will be fooled into doing just what you would like him to do ? If your ship is sinking, will she keep afloat just long enough to enable you to give the knock-out blow as the inquiring enemy comes alongside ? These are the crucial questions which have to be answered by that one man in command of the ship, who all the time finds his bridge being steadily smashed to pieces by the enemy's fire. ' If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you ; If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too ; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting . . .' then, one may definitely assert, you have in you much that goes to the making of an ideal Q-ship captain and a brave warrior. As such you might make a first-class commanding officer of a destroyer, a light cruiser, or even a battleship ; but something more is required. The enemy is artful ; you must be super-artful. You must be able to look across the tumbling sea into his mind behind the conning tower. What are his intentions ? What will be his next move ? Take in by a quick mental calculation the conditions of wind, wave, and sun. Pretend to run away from him, so that you get these just right. Put your ship head on to sea, so that the enemy 6 Q-SHIPS AND THEIR STORY with his sparse freeboard is being badly washed down and his guns' crews are thinking more of their wet feet and legs than of accurate shooting. Then, when you see him submerging, alter course quickly, reckon his probable position by the time you have steadied your ship on her course, and drop a series of depth- charges over his track. ' If you can fill the unfor- giving minute with sixty seconds' worth of distance, run ' ; if you have acted with true seamanship and sound imagination, you will presently see bits of broken wreckage, the boil of water, quantities of oil, perhaps a couple of corpses ; and yours is the U-boat below, my son, and a D.S.O. ; and a thousand pounds in cash to be divided amongst the crew ; and you're a man, my son !

That, in a few phrases, is the kind of work, and 
shows the circumstances of the Q-ship in her 

busiest 
period. As we set forth her wonderful story, so 
gallant, so sad, so victorious, and yet so nerve-trying, 
we shall see all manner of types engaged in this great 
adventure ; but we cannot appreciate either the 
successes or losses until we have seen the birth and 
growth of the Q-ship idea. As this volume is the 
first effort to present the subject historically, we shall 
begin at the beginning by showing the causes which 
created the Q-ship. We shall see the consecutive 
stages of development and improvement, the evolu- 
tion of new methods, and, indeed we may at once say 
it, of a new type of super-seamen. How did it all 
begin ? 

Turn your attention back to the autumn of 1014. 
It was the sinking of the three Ci^essys on Septem- 
ber *22 by U 9 that taught Gerinany what a 
wonderful weapon of offence she had in the sub- 
marine. Five days later the first German submarine 




An Early Q-ship 
Q-ship "Antwerp" entering Harwich harbour. 




Q-SHiP " Antwerp " 

Commander Herbert is on the port side of the bridge, the ^Mercantile Chief 
Officer and Quartermaster being in the foreground. 

To face p. 6 



THE HOUR AND THE NEED 7 

penetrated the Dover Straits. This was U 18, who 
actually attacked the light cruiser Attentive. But it 
was not until October 20 that the first merchant ship, 
the British S.S. Glitru in the North Sea, was sunk by 
a submarine. Six days later the French S.S. Amhal 
Ganteaame, with Belgian refugees, was attacked by 
a German submarine. A month passed, and on 
November 23 the S.S. Malachite was attacked by 
U 21, and after being on fire sank. Three days 
later the S.S. Primo was sunk also by U 21. It was 
thus perfectly clear that we had before us a most 
difficult submarine campaign to contend with, and 
that merchant ships would not be immune. On the 
last day of October H.M.S. Hermes was torpedoed 
oflf Calais, and on November 11 H.M.S. Niger had a 
similar fate near Deal. 

What was to be done ? The creation of what 
eventually became known as the Auxiliary Patrol, 
with its ever increasing force of armed yachts, 
trawlers, drifters, and motor craft ; the use of de- 
stroyers and our own submarines formed part of the 
scheme. But even at this early stage the Q-ship 
idea came into being, though not actually under 
that name. Officially she was a special-service ship, 
whose goings and comings were so mysterious that 
even among service men such craft were spoken of in 
great secrecy as mystery ships. This first mystery 
ship was the S.S. Vittoria, who was commissioned on 
November 29, 1914. She had all the appearance of 
an ordinary merchant ship, but she was armed, and 
went on patrol in the area where submarines had been 
reported. It was an entirely novel idea, and very few 
people knew anything about her. She never had any 
luck, and was paid off early in January, 1915, without 
ever having so much as sighted a submarine. The 



8 Q-SHIPS AND THEIR STORY 

idea of decoy ships suggested itself to various naval 
officers during December, 1914, and their suggestions 
reached the Admiralty. The basic plan was for the 
Admiralty to take up a number of merchantmen and 
fishing craft, arm them with a few light quick-firing 
guns, and then send them forth to cruise in likely 
submarine areas, flying neutral colours. This was 
perfectly legitimate under International Law, provided 
that before opening fire on the enemy the neutral 
colours were lowered and the White Ensign was 
hoisted. Seeing that the enemy was determined to 
sink merchantmen, the obvious reply was to send 
against them armed merchantmen, properly com- 
missioned and armed, but outwardly resembling any- 
thing but a warship. Thus it came about that on 
January 27, 1915, the second decoy ship was com- 
missioned. This was the Great Eastern Railway S.S. 
Antwerp (originally called Vienna)^ which operated in 
the English Channel. She was placed under the com- 
mand of Lieut. -Commander Godfrey Herbert, R.N., 
one of the most experienced and able officers of our 
submarine service. The choice was a happy one, for 
a submarine officer would naturally in his stalking be 
able to realize at once the limitations and possibilities 
of his opponent. It was a most difficult task, for the 
U-boats at this time were still very shy, and only took 
on certainties. Neither in boats nor in personnel had 
Germany yet any to spare, and there were periods 
when the submarine campaign fluctuated. Tlius, day 
after day, week after week, went by, and Aiitxverp 
never had any cliance. The enemy was now beginning 
to operate lurther afield, and at the end of January, 
1915, ior the first time, a U-boat made its way up the 
Irish Sea as far us off Liverpool, and tlien, on Feb- 
ruary 18, was inaugurated the Ciennau Submarine 

The Fifty-first Dragon Of all the pupils at the knight school Gawaine le Cœur-Hardy was among the least promising. He was tall and sturdy, but his instructors soon discovered that he lacked spirit. He would hide in the woods when the jousting class was called, although his companions and members of the faculty sought to appeal to his better nature by shouting to him to come out and break his neck like a man. Even when they told him that the lances were padded, the horses no more than ponies and the field unusually soft for late autumn, Gawaine refused to grow enthusiastic. The Headmaster and the Assistant Professor of Pleasaunce were discussing the case one spring afternoon and the Assistant Professor could see no remedy but expulsion. "No," said the Headmaster, as he looked out at the purple hills which ringed the school, "I think I'll train him to slay dragons." "He might be killed," objected the Assistant Professor. "So he might," replied the Headmaster brightly, but he added, more soberly, "We must consider the greater good. We are responsible for the formation of this lad's character." "Are the dragons particularly bad this year?" interrupted the Assistant Professor. This was characteristic. He always seemed restive when the head of the school began to talk ethics and the ideals of the institution. "I've never known them worse," replied the Headmaster. "Up in the hills to the south last week they killed a number of peasants, two cows and a prize pig. And if this dry spell holds there's no telling when they may start a forest fire simply by breathing around indiscriminately." "Would any refund on the tuition fee be necessary in case of an accident to young Cœur-Hardy?" "No," the principal answered, judicially, "that's all covered in the contract. But as a matter of fact he won't be killed. Before I send him up in the hills I'm going to give him a magic word." "That's a good idea," said the Professor. "Sometimes they work wonders." From that day on Gawaine specialized in dragons. His course included both theory and practice. In the morning there were long lectures on the history, anatomy, manners and customs of dragons. Gawaine did not distinguish himself in these studies. He had a marvelously versatile gift for forgetting things. In the afternoon he showed to better advantage, for then he would go down to the South Meadow and practise with a battle-ax. In this exercise he was truly impressive, for he had enormous strength as well as speed and grace. He even developed a deceptive display of ferocity. Old alumni say that it was a thrilling sight to see Gawaine charging across the field toward the dummy paper dragon which had been set up for his practice. As he ran he would brandish his ax and shout "A murrain on thee!" or some other vivid bit of campus slang. It never took him more than one stroke to behead the dummy dragon. Gradually his task was made more difficult. Paper gave way to papier-mâché and finally to wood, but even the toughest of these dummy dragons had no terrors for Gawaine. One sweep of the ax always did the business. There were those who said that when the practice was protracted until dusk and the dragons threw long, fantastic shadows across the meadow Gawaine did not charge so impetuously nor shout so loudly. It is possible there was malice in this charge. At any rate, the Headmaster decided by the end of June that it was time for the test. Only the night before a dragon had come close to the school grounds and had eaten some of the lettuce from the garden. The faculty decided that Gawaine was ready. They gave him a diploma and a new battle-ax and the Headmaster summoned him to a private conference. "Sit down," said the Headmaster. "Have a cigarette." Gawaine hesitated. "Oh, I know it's against the rules," said the Headmaster. "But after all, you have received your preliminary degree. You are no longer a boy. You are a man. To-morrow you will go out into the world, the great world of achievement." Gawaine took a cigarette. The Headmaster offered him a match, but he produced one of his own and began to puff away with a dexterity which quite amazed the principal. "Here you have learned the theories of life," continued the Headmaster, resuming the thread of his discourse, "but after all, life is not a matter of theories. Life is a matter of facts. It calls on the young and the old alike to face these facts, even though they are hard and sometimes unpleasant. Your problem, for example, is to slay dragons." "They say that those dragons down in the south wood are five hundred feet long," ventured Gawaine, timorously. "Stuff and nonsense!" said the Headmaster. "The curate saw one last week from the top of Arthur's Hill. The dragon was sunning himself down in the valley. The curate didn't have an opportunity to look at him very long because he felt it was his duty to hurry back to make a report to me. He said the monster, or shall I say, the big lizard?—wasn't an inch over two hundred feet. But the size has nothing at all to do with it. You'll find the big ones even easier than the little ones. They're far slower on their feet and less aggressive, I'm told. Besides, before you go I'm going to equip you in such fashion that you need have no fear of all the dragons in the world." "I'd like an enchanted cap," said Gawaine. "What's that?" answered the Headmaster, testily. "A cap to make me disappear," explained Gawaine. The Headmaster laughed indulgently. "You mustn't believe all those old wives' stories," he said. "There isn't any such thing. A cap to make you disappear, indeed! What would you do with it? You haven't even appeared yet. Why, my boy, you could walk from here to London, and nobody would so much as look at you. You're nobody. You couldn't be more invisible than that." Gawaine seemed dangerously close to a relapse into his old habit of whimpering. The Headmaster reassured him: "Don't worry; I'll give you something much better than an enchanted cap. I'm going to give you a magic word. All you have to do is to repeat this magic charm once and no dragon can possibly harm a hair of your head. You can cut off his head at your leisure." He took a heavy book from the shelf behind his desk and began to run through it. "Sometimes," he said, "the charm is a whole phrase or even a sentence. I might, for instance, give you 'To make the'—No, that might not do. I think a single word would be best for dragons." "A short word," suggested Gawaine. "It can't be too short or it wouldn't be potent. There isn't so much hurry as all that. Here's a splendid magic word: 'Rumplesnitz.' Do you think you can learn that?" Gawaine tried and in an hour or so he seemed to have the word well in hand. Again and again he interrupted the lesson to inquire, "And if I say 'Rumplesnitz' the dragon can't possibly hurt me?" And always the Headmaster replied, "If you only say 'Rumplesnitz,' you are perfectly safe." Toward morning Gawaine seemed resigned to his career. At daybreak the Headmaster saw him to the edge of the forest and pointed him to the direction in which he should proceed. About a mile away to the southwest a cloud of steam hovered over an open meadow in the woods and the Headmaster assured Gawaine that under the steam he would find a dragon. Gawaine went forward slowly. He wondered whether it would be best to approach the dragon on the run as he did in his practice in the South Meadow or to walk slowly toward him, shouting "Rumplesnitz" all the way. The problem was decided for him. No sooner had he come to the fringe of the meadow than the dragon spied him and began to charge. It was a large dragon and yet it seemed decidedly aggressive in spite of the Headmaster's statement to the contrary. As the dragon charged it released huge clouds of hissing steam through its nostrils. It was almost as if a gigantic teapot had gone mad. The dragon came forward so fast and Gawaine was so frightened that he had time to say "Rumplesnitz" only once. As he said it, he swung his battle-ax and off popped the head of the dragon. Gawaine had to admit that it was even easier to kill a real dragon than a wooden one if only you said "Rumplesnitz." Gawaine brought the ears home and a small section of the tail. His school mates and the faculty made much of him, but the Headmaster wisely kept him from being spoiled by insisting that he go on with his work. Every clear day Gawaine rose at dawn and went out to kill dragons. The Headmaster kept him at home when it rained, because he said the woods were damp and unhealthy at such times and that he didn't want the boy to run needless risks. Few good days passed in which Gawaine failed to get a dragon. On one particularly fortunate day he killed three, a husband and wife and a visiting relative. Gradually he developed a technique. Pupils who sometimes watched him from the hill-tops a long way off said that he often allowed the dragon to come within a few feet before he said "Rumplesnitz." He came to say it with a mocking sneer. Occasionally he did stunts. Once when an excursion party from London was watching him he went into action with his right hand tied behind his back. The dragon's head came off just as easily. As Gawaine's record of killings mounted higher the Headmaster found it impossible to keep him completely in hand. He fell into the habit of stealing out at night and engaging in long drinking bouts at the village tavern. It was after such a debauch that he rose a little before dawn one fine August morning and started out after his fiftieth dragon. His head was heavy and his mind sluggish. He was heavy in other respects as well, for he had adopted the somewhat vulgar practice of wearing his medals, ribbons and all, when he went out dragon hunting. The decorations began on his chest and ran all the way down to his abdomen. They must have weighed at least eight pounds. Gawaine found a dragon in the same meadow where he had killed the first one. It was a fair-sized dragon, but evidently an old one. Its face was wrinkled and Gawaine thought he had never seen so hideous a countenance. Much to the lad's disgust, the monster refused to charge and Gawaine was obliged to walk toward him. He whistled as he went. The dragon regarded him hopelessly, but craftily. Of course it had heard of Gawaine. Even when the lad raised his battle-ax the dragon made no move. It knew that there was no salvation in the quickest thrust of the head, for it had been informed that this hunter was protected by an enchantment. It merely waited, hoping something would turn up. Gawaine raised the battle-ax and suddenly lowered it again. He had grown very pale and he trembled violently. The dragon suspected a trick. "What's the matter?" it asked, with false solicitude. "I've forgotten the magic word," stammered Gawaine. "What a pity," said the dragon. "So that was the secret. It doesn't seem quite sporting to me, all this magic stuff, you know. Not cricket, as we used to say when I was a little dragon; but after all, that's a matter of opinion." Gawaine was so helpless with terror that the dragon's confidence rose immeasurably and it could not resist the temptation to show off a bit. "Could I possibly be of any assistance?" it asked. "What's the first letter of the magic word?" "It begins with an 'r,'" said Gawaine weakly. "Let's see," mused the dragon, "that doesn't tell us much, does it? What sort of a word is this? Is it an epithet, do you think?" Gawaine could do no more than nod. "Why, of course," exclaimed the dragon, "reactionary Republican." Gawaine shook his head. "Well, then," said the dragon, "we'd better get down to business. Will you surrender?" With the suggestion of a compromise Gawaine mustered up enough courage to speak. "What will you do if I surrender?" he asked. "Why, I'll eat you," said the dragon. "And if I don't surrender?" "I'll eat you just the same." "Then it doesn't make any difference, does it?" moaned Gawaine. "It does to me," said the dragon with a smile. "I'd rather you didn't surrender. You'd taste much better if you didn't." The dragon waited for a long time for Gawaine to ask "Why?" but the boy was too frightened to speak. At last the dragon had to give the explanation without his cue line. "You see," he said, "if you don't surrender you'll taste better because you'll die game." This was an old and ancient trick of the dragon's. By means of some such quip he was accustomed to paralyze his victims with laughter and then to destroy them. Gawaine was sufficiently paralyzed as it was, but laughter had no part in his helplessness. With the last word of the joke the dragon drew back his head and struck. In that second there flashed into the mind of Gawaine the magic word "Rumplesnitz," but there was no time to say it. There was time only to strike and, without a word, Gawaine met the onrush of the dragon with a full swing. He put all his back and shoulders into it. The impact was terrific and the head of the dragon flew away almost a hundred yards and landed in a thicket. Gawaine did not remain frightened very long after the death of the dragon. His mood was one of wonder. He was enormously puzzled. He cut off the ears of the monster almost in a trance. Again and again he thought to himself, "I didn't say 'Rumplesnitz'!" He was sure of that and yet there was no question that he had killed the dragon. In fact, he had never killed one so utterly. Never before had he driven a head for anything like the same distance. Twenty-five yards was perhaps his best previous record. All the way back to the knight school he kept rumbling about in his mind seeking an explanation for what had occurred. He went to the Headmaster immediately and after closing the door told him what had happened. "I didn't say 'Rumplesnitz,'" he explained with great earnestness. The Headmaster laughed. "I'm glad you've found out," he said. "It makes you ever so much more of a hero. Don't you see that? Now you know that it was you who killed all these dragons and not that foolish little word 'Rumplesnitz.'" Gawaine frowned. "Then it wasn't a magic word after all?" he asked. "Of course not," said the Headmaster, "you ought to be too old for such foolishness. There isn't any such thing as a magic word." "But you told me it was magic," protested Gawaine. "You said it was magic and now you say it isn't." "It wasn't magic in a literal sense," answered the Headmaster, "but it was much more wonderful than that. The word gave you confidence. It took away your fears. If I hadn't told you that you might have been killed the very first time. It was your battle-ax did the trick." Gawaine surprised the Headmaster by his attitude. He was obviously distressed by the explanation. He interrupted a long philosophic and ethical discourse by the Headmaster with, "If I hadn't of hit 'em all mighty hard and fast any one of 'em might have crushed me like a, like a—" He fumbled for a word. "Egg shell," suggested the Headmaster. "Like a egg shell," assented Gawaine, and he said it many times. All through the evening meal people who sat near him heard him muttering, "Like a egg shell, like a egg shell." The next day was clear, but Gawaine did not get up at dawn. Indeed, it was almost noon when the Headmaster found him cowering in bed, with the clothes pulled over his head. The principal called the Assistant Professor of Pleasaunce, and together they dragged the boy toward the forest. "He'll be all right as soon as he gets a couple more dragons under his belt," explained the Headmaster. The Assistant Professor of Pleasaunce agreed. "It would be a shame to stop such a fine run," he said. "Why, counting that one yesterday, he's killed fifty dragons." They pushed the boy into a thicket above which hung a meager cloud of steam. It was obviously quite a small dragon. But Gawaine did not come back that night or the next. In fact, he never came back. Some weeks afterward brave spirits from the school explored the thicket, but they could find nothing to remind them of Gawaine except the metal parts of his medals. Even the ribbons had been devoured. The Headmaster and the Assistant Professor of Pleasaunce agreed that it would be just as well not to tell the school how Gawaine had achieved his record and still less how he came to die. They held that it might have a bad effect on school spirit. Accordingly, Gawaine has lived in the memory of the school as its greatest hero. No visitor succeeds in leaving the building to-day without seeing a great shield which hangs on the wall of the dining hall. Fifty pairs of dragons' ears are mounted upon the shield and underneath in gilt letters is "Gawaine le Cœur-Hardy," followed by the simple inscription, "He killed fifty dragons." The record has never been equaled.

How To Be a Lion Tamer

The Ways of the Circus is a decidedly readable book, rich in anecdotes of the life of circus folk and circus animals. The narrator is an old lion tamer and Harvey W. Root, who has done the actual writing, has managed to keep a decidedly naïve quality in the talk as he sets it down. There is a delightful chapter, for instance, in which Conklin tells how he first became a lion tamer. By gradual process of promotion he had gone as far as an elephant, but his salary was still much lower than that of Charlie Forepaugh, the lion man. There were three lions with the circus, but Charlie never worked with more than one in the cage at the time. Conklin got the notion that an act with all the lions in action at once would be a sensational success. He was not sure that it could be done, as he had had no experience with lions. The only way to find out was to try. Accordingly Conklin sneaked into the menagerie alone, late at night, to ascertain whether or not lions lay along his natural bent.
"The animals seemed somewhat surprised at being disturbed in the middle of the night," he says, "and began to pace rapidly up and down their cages. I paid no attention to this, but opened the door of each cage in succession and drove them out. Then I began as sternly as I could to order them round and give them their cues.
"Except, perhaps, for an unusual amount of snarling, they did as well for me as for Charlie. I put them through their regular work, which took fifteen or twenty minutes, drove them back, and fastened them into their own cages and climbed down on to the floor from the performing cage, much elated with my success. I had proved to myself that I could handle lions."
Conklin then goes on to tell how he gave a secret exhibition for the proprietor of the circus and convinced him of his skill. In fact, the proprietor promised that he should become the lion tamer of the show as soon as Charlie Forepaugh's contract ran out. Conklin goes on to say that he himself was very particular for the sake of safety not to let Charlie know of this arrangement. And in explaining his timidity, he writes, "He was a big fellow with a quick temper."
This almost emboldens us to believe the old story of the lion tamer and his shrewish wife. Coming home late from a party, he feared to enter the house and so he went to the backyard and crept into the cage with the lions. There it was that his wife discovered him the next morning, sleeping with the lions, and she shook her fist and shouted through the bars, "you coward!"
To be sure as Mr. Conklin tells it there seems to be no great trick in being a lion tamer. Take, for instance, the familiar stunt in which a trainer puts his head into a lion's mouth and you will find upon close survey that it is nothing to worry about. "This never failed to make the crowd hold its breath, but it was not as risky as it seemed," says Conklin, "for with my hold on the lion's nose and jowl I could detect the slightest movement of his muscles and govern my actions accordingly." Mr. Conklin does not develop the point, but we suppose that if he detected any intention on the lion's part of closing his mouth he would take his head out in order to make it easier for the animal.
Mr. Conklin also corrects a number of misapprehensions about lions which may be of use to some readers. Contrary to popular belief, you have nothing to worry about if any of your lions insist on walking up and down. "A lion that will walk round when you get in the cage with him is all right, as a general thing," explains Conklin, "but look out for the one that goes and lies down in a corner."
To be sure, there is something just a little disturbing in the afterthought indicated in "as a general thing." Our luck is so bad that we wouldn't feel safe in a cage with a lion even if he ran up and down. In fact, we would be almost willing to wager that ours would be one of the unfortunate exceptions which didn't know the rule and so would do his bit toward providing it.
In another respect the lion tamer is a little more specific about lions and therefore more helpful. "It is true, though," he adds, "that you should never let one get behind you if you can help it, though in many of the acts it is not possible to keep all of them in front of you all the time." We can understand this advice, though it is not altogether clear to us just what we would do if a lion tried to get behind us. Of course, we would tell him not to, but after that we should be somewhat at a loss. We have never believed in being rough with lions. Probably we would let him have his way just to avoid argument. As a matter of fact we would have no great objection to having all our lions behind us if only we could keep far enough in front.
"A lion that growls frightfully and acts very ferocious when you are outside the cage may be one of the easiest to handle and get work out of when once you are actually in the cage; and on the other hand, a lion that is mean and dangerous to do anything with in the cage may be exceptionally docile from the outside and allow you to pet him freely."
This should go a long way toward solving the problems of lion tamers. All you have to do before a performance is to make a test from outside the cage. Try to pat your lion and pull his ears. If he growls and bites your hand you will know at once that you may come in and go about your business with perfect safety. On the other hand, if he meets your caresses by rolling over on his back and purring it is up to you to call off the show or send for your understudy.
The unfortunate fate of such a substitute is described by Conklin with much detail and, we fear, a little relish. The man in question took Conklin's job when he struck for a raise in salary. Things went well enough during the first performance until the very end, and then it was the fault not of the lion but of the substitute, for the trainer was ignorant of one of the cues which had become a part of the act.
"I had taught George to jump for me as I went out the door," writes Conklin. "It had been done by blowing on his nose and then jumping back as you would play with a dog. It always made a great hit with the crowd, who supposed it had seen a lion try to eat a man and that I had had a very narrow escape. I worked it this way: After I had finished the rest of my act I would get George all stirred up and growling. Then I would fire my pistol two or three times and jump out of the cage as quickly as I could. At the same time George would give a big lunge and come up against the door which I had just shut behind me. George had learned the trick so well that I frequently had to turn on him once or twice and work him farther back from the door before I dared attempt getting out."
Unfortunately the substitute had missed all this part of the act. He started out of the cage and George jumped at him and the man was not prepared to dodge. The moral seems to be that nobody should covet another man's job, not even that of lion taming.
Some readers we suppose will find Mr. Conklin's lion stories unwelcome because they may tend to take away their illusions. It is not to be denied that he has to some extent rubbed the gilt off the gingerbread by writing that the record for all the lions he has known consists of one substitute trainer and a cow. His whole attitude toward lions is contemptuous in its calm and so is the attitude of practically everybody else in the book with the exception of the cow and the substitute trainer. Even they suffered a little, at first, from overconfidence.
On the night down in Philadelphia when Wallace, the big lion, escaped from his cage in winter quarters nobody grew excited. O'Brien, the owner of the show, did not even get up, but called through the door "Go git Conklin!" The preparations of the trainer were simple. First he got an iron bar and then he found the lion and hit him on the end of the nose. "After a few minutes," he adds, "I had him safely locked in again."
Lions, for all their air of authority, seem to be easily dominated. They're not so much wicked as weak. Anybody with a little firmness can twist them around a finger, possibly not the little finger, but any of the others. It is a great pity that lions should be like that. To be sure, the information ought not to come as a surprise to anybody who is familiar with the Bible. The condition we have mentioned has existed for a long time. As far as we know, Daniel had not so much as an iron bar when he went into the den. He overawed the lions with nothing more than faith.
Perhaps it is not quite fair to go on as if lions were the only living creatures in all the world who are swayed and cowed by firmness and authority. The same weakness may be found now and then among men. All too many of us if hit on the nose with iron bars, either real ones or symbols, do little more than lions in similar circumstances. We may growl and roar a little, but we do not show resentment in any efficient way. And like the lions, we are singularly stupid in not making working alliances with our fellows against the man with the iron bar. By and by we begin to go through the hoops as if the procedure were inevitable. Having made a protest we feel that our duty is done.
It is a great pity. Lions ought to know better. The man who stares you in the eye and squeezes hard in a handshake may come to the bad end which you wish him, but it is unlikely that he will ever be eaten by lions. Something else must be devised for him. Even outside the circus he is likely to go far. Anybody who can shake a little personality can be ringmaster in this world. And we, all of us who have none, do nothing about it except to obey him. Camels we can swallow easily enough, but we strain at the natty dresser.
Still we did manage to find a few bits of information in The Ways of the Circus which were brand new to us. If, for instance, a rhinoceros escaped from his cage just what would you do to get him back again? That is, if he were the sort of rhinoceros you wanted back. At first glance it seems rather a problem, but any reader of Mr. Conklin's book could arrange it for you without difficulty. Nothing is needed but carrots and a stout heart. The carrots you scatter profusely about the floor of the cage, and when the rhinoceros returns to get them you slam down the door, and there he is.

H. G. Wells of England

H. G. Wells in his Outline of History seldom seems just an Englishman. He fights his battles and makes most of his judgments alone and generally in defiance of the traditions of his countrymen, but he is not bold enough to face Napoleon Bonaparte all by himself. The sight of the terrible little Corsican peeping over the edge of the thirty-eighth chapter sends Wells scurrying from his solitude into the center of a British square. It must be that when Wells was little and bad his nurse told him that if he did not eat his mush or go to bed, or perform some other necessary function in the daily life of a child, Old Bony would get him. And Wells is still scared. He takes it out, of course, by pretending that Napoleon has been vastly overrated and remarks that it was pretty lucky for him that he lost Trafalgar and never got to England, where troops would have made short work of him.
Nelson, Wells holds, was just as great a figure in his own specialty as Napoleon in his, but if so it seems a pity that he did not rise to Wellsian heights of strategy and lose Trafalgar so that Napoleon might land and be defeated by British pluck and skill. Then, indeed, might Waterloo have been won upon the cricket fields of Eton.
Not only does Wells insist on regarding Napoleon through national lenses but through moral ones also. Speaking of his accession as First Consul, Wells writes: "Now surely here was opportunity such as never came to man before. Here was a position in which a man might well bow himself in fear of himself, and search his heart and serve God and man to the utmost."
That, of course, was not Napoleon's intent. His performance must be judged by his purpose, and it seems to us that Wells doesn't half appreciate how brilliant was the stunt which Napoleon achieved. "He tried to do the impossible and did it." Man was no better for him and neither was God, but he remains still the great bogy man of Europe, a bogy great enough to have frightened Mr. Wells and marked him. Here was a man who took life and made it theatrical. It was an achievement in popular æsthetics, if nothing else, but Wells doesn't care about æsthetics. Perhaps even a moral might be extracted from the life of Napoleon. He proved the magic quality of personality and the inspiration of gesture. Some day the same methods may be used to better advantage.
The institution of the Legion of Honor Wells calls "A scheme for decorating Frenchmen with bits of ribbon which was admirably calculated to divert ambitious men from subversive proceedings." But these same bits of ribbon and the red and green ones of the Croix de Guerre and the yellow and green of the Médaille Militaire were later to save France from the onrush of the Germans. Without decorations, without phrases and without the brilliant and effective theatrical oratory of French officers, from marshals to sub-lieutenants, France would have lost the great war. Everybody who saw the French army in action realized that its morale was maintained during the worst days by colored ribbons and florid speeches. Even the stern and taciturn Pershing learned the lesson, and before he had been in France three months he was about making speeches to wounded men in which he told them that he wished that he, too, were lying in hospital with all their glory. Personally, it never seemed to me that Pershing actually convinced any wounded doughboy of his enthusiasm for such a change, but he did not use the gesture with much skill. He lacked the Napoleonic tradition.
Another American officer, a younger one, said, "If I ever have anything to do with West Point I'm going to copy these Frenchmen. They do it naturally, but we've got to learn. I'm going to introduce a course in practical theatricalism. Now, if I were a general, as soon as I heard of some little trench raid in which Private Smith distinguished himself I'd send a staff officer down on the sly to find out what Smith looked like. Then I'd inspect that particular organization and when I got to Smith my aide would nudge me and I'd turn, as if instinctively, and say, 'Isn't that Private Smith who distinguished himself on the evening of January 18 at 8 o'clock? I want to shake your hand, Smith.' Why, man, the French army has been living and breathing on stuff like that for the last two years."
It is an easy matter to satirize the heroic and theatrical gesture. The French themselves did it. Once in the Chamber of Deputies, late in the war, a Radical member, who didn't care much for the war, anyway, and still less for the Cabinet, arose and said: "This morning as I was walking in the streets of Paris a little before dawn I saw three camions headed for the front, and I stopped the first driver and said, 'Ah, I am overjoyed to see that at last the ministry is awake to the needs of our brave poilus and is sending supplies to the front. What is it that you carry—ammunition, clothing, food?' But the driver shook his head and said, 'No; Croix de Guerre.'"

Above all, one hideous figure grew as familiar as if it had been before the general gaze from the foundations of the world - the figure of the sharp female called La Guillotine. It was the popular theme for jests; it was the best cure for headache, it infallibly prevented hair from turning gray, it imparted a peculiar delicacy to the complexion, it was the National Razor which shaved close: who kissed La Guillotine looked through the little window and sneezed into the sack ...A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it! Something of the awfulness, even of Death itself, is referable to this. No more can I turn the leaves of this dear book that I loved, and vainly hope in time to read it all. No more can I look into the depths of this unfathomable water, wherein, as momentary lights glanced into it, I have had glimpses of buried treasure and other things submerged. It was appointed that the book should shut with a a spring, for ever and for ever, when I had read but a page. It was appointed that the water should be locked in an eternal frost, when the light was playing on its surface, and I stood in ignorance on the shore. My friend is dead, my neighbour is dead, my love, the darling of my soul, is dead; it is the inexorable consolidation and perpetuation of the secret that was always in that individuality, and which I shall carry in mine to my life's end. In any of the burial-places of this city through which I pass, is there a sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are, in their innermost personality, to me, or than I am to them?

Mr Lorry asks the witness questions:

Ever been kicked?
Might have been.
Frequently? No. Ever kicked down stairs?
Decidedly not; once received a kick at the top of a staircase, and fell down stairs of his own accord

The Night Shadows

A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it! Something of the awfulness, even of Death itself, is referable to this. No more can I turn the leaves of this dear book that I loved, and vainly hope in time to read it all. No more can I look into the depths of this unfathomable water, wherein, as momentary lights glanced into it, I have had glimpses of buried treasure and other things submerged. It was appointed that the book should shut with a spring, for ever and for ever, when I had read but a page. It was appointed that the water should be locked in an eternal frost, when the light was playing on its surface, and I stood in ignorance on the shore. My friend is dead, my neighbour is dead, my love, the darling of my soul, is dead; it is the inexorable consolidation and perpetuation of the secret that was always in that individuality, and which I shall carry in mine to my life's end. In any of the burial-places of this city through which I pass, is there a sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are, in their innermost personality, to me, or than I am to them?

As to this, his natural and not to be alienated inheritance, the messenger on horseback had exactly the same possessions as the King, the first Minister of State, or the richest merchant in London. So with the three passengers shut up in the narrow compass of one lumbering old mail coach; they were mysteries to one another, as complete as if each had been in his own coach and six, or his own coach and sixty, with the breadth of a county between him and the next.
The messenger rode back at an easy trot, stopping pretty often at ale-houses by the way to drink, but evincing a tendency to keep his own counsel, and to keep his hat cocked over his eyes. He had eyes that assorted very well with that decoration, being of a surface black, with no depth in the colour or form, and much too near together—as if they were afraid of being found out in something, singly, if they kept too far apart. They had a sinister expression, under an old cocked-hat like a three-cornered spittoon, and over a great muffler for the chin and throat, which descended nearly to the wearer's knees. When he stopped for drink, he moved this muffler with his left hand, only while he poured his liquor in with his right; as soon as that was done, he muffled again.
"No, Jerry, no!" said the messenger, harping on one theme as he rode. "It wouldn't do for you, Jerry. Jerry, you honest tradesman, it wouldn't suit your line of business! Recalled—! Bust me if I don't think he'd been a drinking!"
His message perplexed his mind to that degree that he was fain, several times, to take off his hat to scratch his head. Except on the crown, which was raggedly bald, he had stiff, black hair, standing jaggedly all over it, and growing down hill almost to his broad, blunt nose. It was so like Smith's work, so much more like the top of a strongly spiked wall than a head of hair, that the best of players at leap-frog might have declined him, as the most dangerous man in the world to go over.
While he trotted back with the message he was to deliver to the night watchman in his box at the door of Tellson's Bank, by Temple Bar, who was to deliver it to greater authorities within, the shadows of the night took such shapes to him as arose out of the message, and took such shapes to the mare as arose out of her private topics of uneasiness. They seemed to be numerous, for she shied at every shadow on the road.
What time, the mail-coach lumbered, jolted, rattled, and bumped upon its tedious way, with its three fellow-inscrutables inside. To whom, likewise, the shadows of the night revealed themselves, in the forms their dozing eyes and wandering thoughts suggested.
Tellson's Bank had a run upon it in the mail. As the bank passenger—with an arm drawn through the leathern strap, which did what lay in it to keep him from pounding against the next passenger, and driving him into his corner, whenever the coach got a special jolt—nodded in his place, with half-shut eyes, the little coach-windows, and the coach-lamp dimly gleaming through them, and the bulky bundle of opposite passenger, became the bank, and did a great stroke of business. The rattle of the harness was the chink of money, and more drafts were honoured in five minutes than even Tellson's, with all its foreign and home connection, ever paid in thrice the time. Then the strong-rooms underground, at Tellson's, with such of their valuable stores and secrets as were known to the passenger (and it was not a little that he knew about them), opened before him, and he went in among them with the great keys and the feebly-burning candle, and found them safe, and strong, and sound, and still, just as he had last seen them.
But, though the bank was almost always with him, and though the coach (in a confused way, like the presence of pain under an opiate) was always with him, there was another current of impression that never ceased to run, all through the night. He was on his way to dig some one out of a grave.
Now, which of the multitude of faces that showed themselves before him was the true face of the buried person, the shadows of the night did not indicate; but they were all the faces of a man of five-and-forty by years, and they differed principally in the passions they expressed, and in the ghastliness of their worn and wasted state. Pride, contempt, defiance, stubbornness, submission, lamentation, succeeded one another; so did varieties of sunken cheek, cadaverous colour, emaciated hands and figures. But the face was in the main one face, and every head was prematurely white. A hundred times the dozing passenger inquired of this spectre:
"Buried how long?"
The answer was always the same: "Almost eighteen years."
"You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?"
"Long ago."
"You know that you are recalled to life?"
"They tell me so."
"I hope you care to live?"
"I can't say."
"Shall I show her to you? Will you come and see her?"
The answers to this question were various and contradictory. Sometimes the broken reply was, "Wait! It would kill me if I saw her too soon." Sometimes, it was given in a tender rain of tears, and then it was, "Take me to her." Sometimes it was staring and bewildered, and then it was, "I don't know her. I don't understand."
After such imaginary discourse, the passenger in his fancy would dig, and dig, dig—now with a spade, now with a great key, now with his hands—to dig this wretched creature out. Got out at last, with earth hanging about his face and hair, he would suddenly fan away to dust. The passenger would then start to himself, and lower the window, to get the reality of mist and rain on his cheek.
Yet even when his eyes were opened on the mist and rain, on the moving patch of light from the lamps, and the hedge at the roadside retreating by jerks, the night shadows outside the coach would fall into the train of the night shadows within. The real Banking-house by Temple Bar, the real business of the past day, the real strong rooms, the real express sent after him, and the real message returned, would all be there. Out of the midst of them, the ghostly face would rise, and he would accost it again.
"Buried how long?"
"Almost eighteen years."
"I hope you care to live?"
"I can't say."
Dig—dig—dig—until an impatient movement from one of the two passengers would admonish him to pull up the window, draw his arm securely through the leathern strap, and speculate upon the two slumbering forms, until his mind lost its hold of them, and they again slid away into the bank and the grave.
"Buried how long?"
"Almost eighteen years."
"You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?"
"Long ago."
The words were still in his hearing as just spoken—distinctly in his hearing as ever spoken words had been in his life—when the weary passenger started to the consciousness of daylight, and found that the shadows of the night were gone.
He lowered the window, and looked out at the rising sun. There was a ridge of ploughed land, with a plough upon it where it had been left last night when the horses were unyoked; beyond, a quiet coppice-wood, in which many leaves of burning red and golden yellow still remained upon the trees. Though the earth was cold and wet, the sky was clear, and the sun rose bright, placid, and beautiful.
"Eighteen years!" said the passenger, looking at the sun. "Gracious Creator of day! To be buried alive for eighteen years!

They had almost finished with the loading. Outside stood the Optus, his arms folded, his face sunk in gloom. Captain Franco walked leisurely down the gangplank, grinning. "What's the matter?" he said. "You're getting paid for all this." The Optus said nothing. He turned away, collecting his robes. The Captain put his boot on the hem of the robe. "Just a minute. Don't go off. I'm not finished." "Oh?" The Optus turned with dignity. "I am going back to the village." He looked toward the animals and birds being driven up the gangplank into the spaceship. "I must organize new hunts." Franco lit a cigarette. "Why not? You people can go out into the veldt and track it all down again. But when we run out halfway between Mars and Earth--" The Optus went off, wordless. Franco joined the first mate at the bottom of the gangplank.

"How's it coming?" he said.

 He looked at his watch. "We got a good
bargain here."

The mate glanced at him sourly.

 "How do you explain that?"

"What's the matter with you?

 We need it more than they do."

"I'll see you later, Captain." The mate threaded his way up the plank,
between the long-legged Martian go-birds, into the ship. Franco watched
him disappear. He was just starting up after him, up the plank toward
the port, when he saw _it_.

"My God!" He stood staring, his hands on his hips. Peterson was walking
along the path, his face red, leading _it_ by a string.

"I'm sorry, Captain," he said, tugging at the string. Franco walked
toward him.

"What is it?"

The wub stood sagging, its great body settling slowly. It was sitting
down, its eyes half shut. A few flies buzzed about its flank, and it
switched its tail.

_It_ sat. There was silence.

"It's a wub," Peterson said. "I got it from a native for fifty cents. He
said it was a very unusual animal. Very respected."

"This?" Franco poked the great sloping side of the wub. "It's a pig! A
huge dirty pig!"

"Yes sir, it's a pig. The natives call it a wub."

"A huge pig. It must weigh four hundred pounds." Franco grabbed a tuft
of the rough hair. The wub gasped. Its eyes opened, small and moist.
Then its great mouth twitched.

A tear rolled down the wub's cheek and splashed on the floor.

"Maybe it's good to eat," Peterson said nervously.

"We'll soon find out," Franco said.

       *       *       *       *       *

The wub survived the take-off, sound asleep in the hold of the ship.
When they were out in space and everything was running smoothly, Captain
Franco bade his men fetch the wub upstairs so that he might perceive
what manner of beast it was.

The wub grunted and wheezed, squeezing up the passageway.

"Come on," Jones grated, pulling at the rope. The wub twisted, rubbing
its skin off on the smooth chrome walls. It burst into the ante-room,
tumbling down in a heap. The men leaped up.

"Good Lord," French said. "What is it?"

"Peterson says it's a wub," Jones said. "It belongs to him." He kicked
at the wub. The wub stood up unsteadily, panting.

"What's the matter with it?" French came over. "Is it going to be sick?"

They watched. The wub rolled its eyes mournfully. It gazed around at the
men.

"I think it's thirsty," Peterson said. He went to get some water. French
shook his head.

"No wonder we had so much trouble taking off. I had to reset all my
ballast calculations."

Peterson came back with the water. The wub began to lap gratefully,
splashing the men.

Captain Franco appeared at the door.

"Let's have a look at it." 

He advanced, squinting critically. "You got
this for fifty cents?"

"Yes, sir," Peterson said. "It eats almost anything. I fed it on grain
and it liked that. And then potatoes, and mash, and scraps from the
table, and milk. It seems to enjoy eating. After it eats it lies down
and goes to sleep."

"I see," Captain Franco said. "Now, as to its taste. That's the real
question. I doubt if there's much point in fattening it up any more. It
seems fat enough to me already. Where's the cook? I want him here. I
want to find out--"

The wub stopped lapping and looked up at the Captain.

"Really, Captain," the wub said. "I suggest we talk of other matters."

The room was silent.

"What was that?" Franco said. "Just now."

"The wub, sir," Peterson said. "It spoke."

They all looked at the wub.

"What did it say? What did it say?"

"It suggested we talk about other things."

Franco walked toward the wub. 

He went all around it, examining it from
every side. Then he came back over and stood with the men.

"I wonder if there's a native inside it," he said thoughtfully. "Maybe
we should open it up and have a look."

"Oh, goodness!" the wub cried. "Is that all you people can think of,
killing and cutting?"

Franco clenched his fists. "Come out of there! Whoever you are, come
out!"

Nothing stirred. The men stood together, their faces blank, staring at
the wub. The wub swished its tail. It belched suddenly.

"I beg your pardon," the wub said.

"I don't think there's anyone in there," Jones said in a low voice. They
all looked at each other.

The cook came in.

"You wanted me, Captain?" he said. "What's this thing?"

"This is a wub," Franco said. "It's to be eaten. Will you measure it and
figure out--"

"I think we should have a talk," the wub said. "I'd like to discuss this
with you, Captain, if I might. I can see that you and I do not agree on
some basic issues."

The Captain took a long time to answer. The wub waited good-naturedly,
licking the water from its jowls.

"Come into my office," the Captain said at last. He turned and walked
out of the room. The wub rose and padded after him. The men watched it
go out. They heard it climbing the stairs.

"I wonder what the outcome will be," the cook said. "Well, I'll be in
the kitchen. Let me know as soon as you hear."

"Sure," Jones said. "Sure."

       *       *       *       *       *

The wub eased itself down in the corner with a sigh. "You must forgive
me," it said. "I'm afraid I'm addicted to various forms of relaxation.
When one is as large as I--"

The Captain nodded impatiently. He sat down at his desk and folded his
hands.

"All right," he said. "Let's get started. You're a wub? Is that
correct?"

The wub shrugged. "I suppose so. That's what they call us, the natives,
I mean. We have our own term."

"And you speak English? You've been in contact with Earthmen before?"

"No."

"Then how do you do it?"

"Speak English? Am I speaking English? I'm not conscious of speaking
anything in particular. I examined your mind--"

"My mind?"

"I studied the contents, especially the semantic warehouse, as I refer
to it--"

"I see," the Captain said. "Telepathy. Of course."

"We are a very old race," the wub said. "Very old and very ponderous. It
is difficult for us to move around. You can appreciate that anything so
slow and heavy would be at the mercy of more agile forms of life. There
was no use in our relying on physical defenses. How could we win? Too
heavy to run, too soft to fight, too good-natured to hunt for game--"

"How do you live?"

"Plants. Vegetables. We can eat almost anything. We're very catholic.
Tolerant, eclectic, catholic. We live and let live. That's how we've
gotten along."

The wub eyed the Captain.

"And that's why I so violently objected to this business about having me
boiled. I could see the image in your mind--most of me in the frozen
food locker, some of me in the kettle, a bit for your pet cat--"

"So you read minds?" the Captain said. "How interesting. Anything else?
I mean, what else can you do along those lines?"

"A few odds and ends," the wub said absently, staring around the room.
"A nice apartment you have here, Captain. You keep it quite neat. I
respect life-forms that are tidy. Some Martian birds are quite tidy.
They throw things out of their nests and sweep them--"

"Indeed." The Captain nodded. "But to get back to the problem--"

"Quite so. You spoke of dining on me. The taste, I am told, is good. A
little fatty, but tender. But how can any lasting contact be established
between your people and mine if you resort to such barbaric attitudes?
Eat me? Rather you should discuss questions with me, philosophy, the
arts--"

The Captain stood up. "Philosophy. It might interest you to know that we
will be hard put to find something to eat for the next month. An
unfortunate spoilage--"

"I know." The wub nodded. "But wouldn't it be more in accord with your
principles of democracy if we all drew straws, or something along that
line? After all, democracy is to protect the minority from just such
infringements. Now, if each of us casts one vote--"

The Captain walked to the door.

"Nuts to you," he said. He opened the door. He opened his mouth.

He stood frozen, his mouth wide, his eyes staring, his fingers still on
the knob.

The wub watched him. Presently it padded out of the room, edging past
the Captain. It went down the hall, deep in meditation.

       *       *       *       *       *

The room was quiet.

"So you see," the wub said, "we have a common myth. Your mind contains
many familiar myth symbols. Ishtar, Odysseus--"

Peterson sat silently, staring at the floor. He shifted in his chair.

"Go on," he said. "Please go on."

"I find in your Odysseus a figure common to the mythology of most
self-conscious races. As I interpret it, Odysseus wanders as an
individual, aware of himself as such. This is the idea of separation, of
separation from family and country. The process of individuation."

"But Odysseus returns to his home." Peterson looked out the port window,
at the stars, endless stars, burning intently in the empty universe.
"Finally he goes home."

"As must all creatures. The moment of separation is a temporary period,
a brief journey of the soul. It begins, it ends. The wanderer returns to
land and race...."

The door opened. The wub stopped, turning its great head.

Captain Franco came into the room, the men behind him. They hesitated at
the door.

"Are you all right?" French said.

"Do you mean me?" Peterson said, surprised. "Why me?"

Franco lowered his gun. "Come over here," he said to Peterson. "Get up
and come here."

There was silence.

"Go ahead," the wub said. "It doesn't matter."

Peterson stood up. "What for?"

"It's an order."

Peterson walked to the door. French caught his arm.

"What's going on?" Peterson wrenched loose. "What's the matter with
you?"

Captain Franco moved toward the wub. The wub looked up from where it lay
in the corner, pressed against the wall.

"It is interesting," the wub said, "that you are obsessed with the idea
of eating me. I wonder why."

"Get up," Franco said.

"If you wish." The wub rose, grunting. "Be patient. It is difficult for
me." It stood, gasping, its tongue lolling foolishly.

"Shoot it now," French said.

"For God's sake!" Peterson exclaimed. Jones turned to him quickly, his
eyes gray with fear.

"You didn't see him--like a statue, standing there, his mouth open. If
we hadn't come down, he'd still be there."

"Who? The Captain?" Peterson stared around. "But he's all right now."

They looked at the wub, standing in the middle of the room, its great
chest rising and falling.

"Come on," Franco said. "Out of the way."

The men pulled aside toward the door.

"You are quite afraid, aren't you?" the wub said. "Have I done anything
to you? I am against the idea of hurting. All I have done is try to
protect myself. Can you expect me to rush eagerly to my death? I am a
sensible being like yourselves. I was curious to see your ship, learn
about you. I suggested to the native--"

The gun jerked.

"See," Franco said. "I thought so."

The wub settled down, panting. It put its paw out, pulling its tail
around it.

"It is very warm," the wub said. "I understand that we are close to the
jets. Atomic power. You have done many wonderful things with
it--technically. Apparently, your scientific hierarchy is not equipped
to solve moral, ethical--"

Franco turned to the men, crowding behind him, wide-eyed, silent.

"I'll do it. You can watch."

French nodded. "Try to hit the brain. It's no good for eating. Don't hit
the chest. If the rib cage shatters, we'll have to pick bones out."

"Listen," Peterson said, licking his lips. "Has it done anything? What
harm has it done? I'm asking you. And anyhow, it's still mine. You have
no right to shoot it. It doesn't belong to you."

Franco raised his gun.

"I'm going out," Jones said, his face white and sick. "I don't want to
see it."

"Me, too," French said. The men straggled out, murmuring. Peterson
lingered at the door.

"It was talking to me about myths," he said. "It wouldn't hurt anyone."

He went outside.

Franco walked toward the wub. The wub looked up slowly. It swallowed.

"A very foolish thing," it said. "I am sorry that you want to do it.
There was a parable that your Saviour related--"

It stopped, staring at the gun.

"Can you look me in the eye and do it?" the wub said. "Can you do that?"

The Captain gazed down. "I can look you in the eye," he said. "Back on
the farm we had hogs, dirty razor-back hogs. I can do it."

Staring down at the wub, into the gleaming, moist eyes, he pressed the
trigger.

       *       *       *       *       *

The taste was excellent.

They sat glumly around the table, some of them hardly eating at all. The
only one who seemed to be enjoying himself was Captain Franco.

"More?" he said, looking around. "More? And some wine, perhaps."

"Not me," French said. "I think I'll go back to the chart room."

"Me, too." Jones stood up, pushing his chair back. "I'll see you later."

The Captain watched them go. Some of the others excused themselves.

"What do you suppose the matter is?" the Captain said. He turned to
Peterson. Peterson sat staring down at his plate, at the potatoes, the
green peas, and at the thick slab of tender, warm meat.

He opened his mouth. No sound came.

The Captain put his hand on Peterson's shoulder.

"It is only organic matter, now," he said. "The life essence is gone."
He ate, spooning up the gravy with some bread. "I, myself, love to eat.
It is one of the greatest things that a living creature can enjoy.
Eating, resting, meditation, discussing things."

Peterson nodded. Two more men got up and went out. The Captain drank
some water and sighed.

"Well," he said. "I must say that this was a very enjoyable meal. All
the reports I had heard were quite true--the taste of wub. Very fine.
But I was prevented from enjoying this pleasure in times past."

He dabbed at his lips with his napkin and leaned back in his chair.
Peterson stared dejectedly at the table.

The Captain watched him intently. He leaned over.

"Come, come," he said. "Cheer up! Let's discuss things."

He smiled.

"As I was saying before I was interrupted, the role of Odysseus in the
myths--"

Peterson jerked up, staring.

"To go on," the Captain said. 

"Odysseus, as I understand him--"