Chapter Eight.

Chapter Eight.A Case for Psychical Research.One“We are such stuff as dreams are made of.”Once upon a time it was my hap to dwell in a certain town in the Eastern Province of Cape Colony, which will not be recognised under the name of Hilston. With a population of about a thousand Europeans, it bore a strong resemblance to several other communities in the same province. It contained the usual disproportionate number of churches and liquor-shops, the usual utter absence of anything like Christianity as a rule of life—or, in fact, as anything but a mere form—the usual number of persons whose only occupation appeared to be that of killing time, and the usual intellectual dry-rot and deadly dulness. The morning market was the great rendezvous for the gossips. Here, around the butter and vegetable-laden tables would the neighbouring farmers and their town cronies foregather every week-day morning; here they would swop mild and superannuated jokes, rank tobacco, scandalous tales, and insinuations more or less damaging to their neighbours’ characters.Being engaged upon special duty, and living in daily expectation of having to move on to new official pastures, I had taken up my abode at a small hotel near the outskirts, my choice of a sojourning place being determined by the comparative nocturnal quiet of the vicinity. Here I dwelt in moderate comfort tempered by accidents which it is needless to specify.By far the most interesting feature of Hilston, to me at least, was old Isaac, the septuagenarian billiard-marker at the hotel where I lodged and boarded. Isaac (it may be premised that he had, once upon a time, possessed a surname, although all trace of it was lost) had a phenomenally bad temper and an exceedingly bitter tongue. Being badly hump-backed, he was only about three feet nine in height. Twenty-eight years previously he had drifted as a tramp to Hilston, whence no one knew, and had been employed as a stable-hand by the then proprietor of the hotel. Eight years after this the establishment changed hands, and Isaac was taken over with the other fixtures. The new proprietor, a young man with a little capital at his command, built a billiard-room and imported a brand new and first-class table. Isaac, to his great satisfaction, was appointed marker, and he at once experienced what was probably the one great passion of his life, for he fell violently in love with his charge. It was said that he had been more than once watched through the window, when alone in the room, rubbing his cheek softly over the new, silky, green cloth, and that he was wont to stand for an hour at a time, when no players were about, gently passing his hand over the sides and fondling the cushions.When I made the acquaintance of the table and its custodian, they looked equally the worse for wear. The original cloth was still doing duty, but was patched and darned in nearly a dozen places. In spite of the shabby attire, however, Isaac still loved his mistress with ardour and constancy. The proprietor informed me confidentially that he would long since have invested in a new cloth and cushions but for the strenuous way in which the old man opposed any suggestion towards a change. He still slept, as he had done for twenty years, rolled up in an old rug on one of the lumpy benches provided for the use of spectators, and no matter how late the habitual loafers, who practically lived in the room, or the gilded youth of the town, who now and then gambled mildly over the clicking ivories, kept up their threepenny black pool, he carefully dusted down his darling, and covered her with a drab holland cloth before retiring to rest on his narrow and uneven couch.In South African towns of the Hilston class there are neither clubs, theatres nor music-halls. The billiard-room is, therefore, the only place of general resort for relaxation, and in it you will meet the local male inhabitant, or the greater part of him, in his most interesting—that is to say in his most natural—mood. Here he is relaxed and unconstrained; here he joins with his fellows in a brotherhood which, although temporary, is often renewed; here the tobacco-smoke cloud unites those who create it in a common humanity, and even seems to inspire those who breathe it with a common human soul. Many of the associations of the billiard-room are, no doubt, unedifying; but so long as man remains a gregarious animal, so long will he seek out some spot in which to meet his fellows without restraint. In my individual case the billiard-room was the only place in the hotel suitable for smoking in; consequently I spent a great deal of time in it, especially in the evenings.In the very early stage of our acquaintanceship I won old Isaac’s heart by remonstrating with a semi-intoxicated player for allowing burning tobacco to fall from his pipe upon the cloth. Soon after I got an inkling of the old man’s affection for his charge I began, for the sake of amusement, to play up to it; then the evident genuineness of the feeling gained my involuntary respect, and I could not avoid being struck by the pathos of the situation.As our acquaintance grew, Isaac became more and more confidential, and I was astonished at the critical faculty displayed in his caustic comments upon the different frequenters of the billiard-room. He had the faculty of ticking people off in a terse phrase of epigrammatic force and inevitable application. Being more or less of a butt for cheap witticisms on the part of those among whom his daily life was thrown, Isaac cordially disliked nine people out of every ten whom he knew. One of the favourite diversions of the gilded youth was to abuse the table in the old marker’s hearing, and to compare its capabilities unfavourably with those of the rival hotel up the street. This Isaac would stand for a time, but when the limit of endurance had been reached, he would break into a withering storm of profane invective such as I have never heard equalled. His power of venting ingenious and fantastic scurrility on these occasions might have rivalled that of Thersites, the “deformed and scurrilous Grecian.”Over and over again has he told me the history of each individual tear in the cloth. Two of the worst of these had been perpetrated nearly ten years’ previously, and, although the perpetrators were still constant frequenters of the room, Isaac had never from the dates of their respective delinquencies spoken a word to either of them. When one of these persons lost a game and thus had to pay for the use of the table, Isaac would silently hold out a claw-like hand for the money, and no matter how brutal the chaff to which he might be subjected, he could never be provoked to retort.One morning, after I had been for about two months a resident at the hotel, I entered the billiard-room, and there found Isaac sitting on the bench and weeping bitterly. His head was bowed upon his hands, and his poor twisted frame shook to the violence of his sobs. A large parcel lay next to him; one end of this had been opened and a new cloth thus revealed. It was quite clear what had happened: the evil and much-dreaded day had arrived; the old cloth was about to be discarded and another substituted. As a matter of fact the proprietor of the rival table up the street had invested in a new cloth and cushions, and consequently was drawing away custom in an alarming manner. Isaac’s master had at length put his foot down, and Isaac’s darling was to be re-clothed and re-cushioned. This Isaac regarded more or less as Mr Ruskin would regard draping the “Venus de Medicis” in a velveteen polonaise.“I’d rather they took off my skin and put new calves to my legs,” he said between his sobs. “If I only knowed where to get gunpowder I’d blow the two of us up.”I tried to reason with him, but he turned and withered me, in company with the proprietor and everyone else he could think of, in a blast of anathema that would have made a pope of the Middle Ages weep with envy, so I beat a hasty retreat.Later in the day Isaac was reported to be very ill. Next morning I found him crouched on his face among pillows in a comfortable little room which formed a lean-to at the side of the stable. He was breathing stertorously and evidently had not long to live. When I addressed him he looked up at me with pain-shot eyes, but appeared to be unable to reply. Sounds of tacking could be heard coming from the direction of the billiard-room; the old cloth was being removed and the new one fixed in its place. A man named Scarren was sitting at the bedside; every now and then he puffed strong tobacco-smoke into the sick man’s face. This, Scarren explained in a whisper, was done at Isaac’s request. I noticed that when Scarren, during the conversation with me, allowed a longer interval than usual to elapse without puffing, Isaac became very uneasy.Isaac died during the night. I forget exactly how the doctor who attended him described his malady, but judging from the length of the name it must have been something as uncommon as deadly. My private, unprofessional opinion was that the poor old man had died of a broken heart. Strange, that for the commonest of all diseases there should be no medical name—to say nothing of a cure.Next day old Isaac’s body was carried to its resting-place in the pretty little cemetery, in the beautifying of which the inhabitants of Hilston spent a lot of money, which would have been far better devoted to sanitation, the same being very badly needed. Scarren, two of the regular votaries at the billiard-room and myself were the only mourners. Before the body was placed in the coffin I had, with the consent of the proprietor, laid the old cloth, neatly folded, where the worn-out body would rest upon it. The editor of the local paper heard of this circumstance and took me roundly to task for what he called my “heartless practical joke at the expense of a dead man.” I had, just previously, been the means of having a heavy reduction effected in his bill for some Government printing, the details of which proved, upon examination, to be as untrustworthy as his leading articles.Scarren was installed as marker in old Isaac’s place. He was an old, shrivelled-up man of few words but many pipes, of the worst tobacco I have ever inhaled the smoke of. Scarren and Isaac had been great cronies, although the one had been as loquacious as the other was silent. However, in spite of his reserve there was a twinkle in Scarren’s eye which suggested latent humorous possibilities. He had been a hanger-on at the hotel for several years, making a precarious living by doing odd jobs. The occupation he loved most was fishing, especially for eels. As a rule, before you had conversed with him for five minutes upon any subject whatever, he would produce from his pocket what had once been a fish-hook, which ought to have been capable of holding a moderately-sized shark, but which was now a straight bar of iron with a barb at one end. The straightening-out had, he said, been effected in the following manner: One night he had hooked an enormous eel. Finding his strength unequal to landing the prey he tied the line to an adjacent thorn-tree, which swayed violently to the monster’s frantic tugs. All at once the stress on the line ceased and Scarren thought it had broken; but no, it was the hook that had given way, for when he drew it out of the water it was no longer a hook but a straight bar. The date of this episode was long before I made Scarren’s acquaintance. I was informed upon unimpeachable authority that the original, actual hook of the adventure had been stolen many years previously by some practical joker. Scarren, however, said not a word of his loss, but next day he was seen, when telling the story to a stranger, to produce another and a larger straightened hook from his pocket for the purpose of illustrating his narrative. Shortly afterwards the second hook was stolen, but was replaced by yet a larger one. This process had been several times repeated, with the result that the alleged hook of the adventure grew until quite a startling size was reached. The size to which Scarren’s hook will have attained in, say, ten years, if Scarren lives so long, might be an interesting subject for speculation.TwoAbout a month before old Isaac’s death a certain man whom I will call Chimer came to stay at the hotel. He had been sent as the representative of a firm of Port Elizabeth merchants to assist in winding up the affairs of a local trader who had come to financial grief. Chimer’s room was next to mine; thus we got into the habit of finishing our evenings together.Nearly every man has a fad, and this man’s fad was spiritualism. He was a firm believer in ghosts and astral bodies, and the prophets of his cult were A.P. Sinnett and Madame Blavatski. He did his best to make a convert of me, but in spite of a close perusal of some very striking literature on the subject from the pens of men of splendid ability and great scientific attainments, I remained conscientiously unconvinced. Like the late George Augustus Sala, although I could conceive the possibility of the ghost of a man revisiting the scenes of his lifetime, I found it impossible to believe in the ghost of his garments, and who ever heard of an undraped apparition? The detailed account given by one eminent scientist as to how he was in the habit of materialising an attractive young female spirit named “Katie King,” with whom he was on terms of striking intimacy, seemed not alone an insult to the human understanding but a melancholy instance of the weaknesses of the strong, of which history is full. Chimer was said to be a most successful medium, but he failed signally to produce any “manifestations” on the occasions when he attempted to convince me by means of demonstration. In discussing spiritualism he never used the first person singular, but always spoke of what “we” believe, what “we” have done, etc.On the second evening after old Isaac’s death I dined at the house of a friend; it was about half-past ten o’clock when I returned to the hotel. I was surprised to find the usual habitués of the billiard-room sitting in the dining-room. The only one who looked cheerful was Chimer; all the others appeared to be absolutely terror-stricken, their faces gleaming pallid under the sickly rays of a debilitated paraffin lamp. From time to time they glanced uneasily over their shuddering shoulders, and they all puffed with nervous fury at their respective pipes.It was a queer collection of specimens of the genus Homo that I saw. There was Woods, who had not missed an evening in the billiard-room (excepting Sundays, when he invariably went to church) for many years. He was in the habit of beating his wife and starving his children; no one had the least idea as to what the source of his income was, but he always had money for liquor, for billiards and for putting in the plate. There was Shawe, champion liar of the town; he apparently lived on Cape and tobacco-smoke, and he played a fair game of billiards except when sober. There was Loots, the Dutchman, who never drank at his own expense or played a game of billiards that there was the slightest chance of his losing. Dan Menzies, the Scotch tailor, who had all the instincts of a gentleman, as well as many of the potential elements of greatness, in spite of the fact of his being an almost hopeless sot. Brooke Crofton, who had been dismissed from his regiment during the Soudan campaign for disobedience of orders given during an action, or, as others put it, for cowardice. He was now, and had been for several years, trying to drink himself to death on an allowance made him for that purpose by his wife, who lived in England and had money of her own. Most of the others were young clerks and assistants in stores. Chimer looked up and caught my eye. In his there was a triumphant gleam.The proprietor, whose face was the palest of the lot, soon revealed the gruesome cause of the terror which brooded over the gathering. A few hours previously they had all been sitting in the billiard-room, watching the course of a game, the first played on the table since the fixing of the new cloth and cushions, which had only been completed during the afternoon. On the top of a little cupboard which stood in the corner, and in which spare balls, chalk, sandpaper and other billiard requisites were kept, had been placed the mahogany triangle-frame which is used for fixing the balls in position in the game of pyramid pool. Lying in the triangle were the fifteen pyramid balls. Woods and Crofton were the players. It was noticed that the lamps were in very bad trim and gave a most wretched light. (Shawe declared fervently that he had noticed a distinctly blue tinge in the flame; two of the clerks present corroborated this when appealed to).All at once the triangle was seen to fly violently from the top of the cupboard, whilst the fifteen ivory balls crashed down on the floor and rolled with loud clatterings in different directions. The triangle-frame, out of which the balls had dropped, seemed as if propelled by an unseen power almost out of the window, close to which it, too, fell to the floor with an appalling noise. The effect on the spectators was terrific; Woods, Crofton and one of the clerks fainted dead away, and the others rushed from the room with wild yells.As the moving incident was being related to me, Scarren, who happened not to have witnessed it, was engaged in quenching the lights and generally putting the room in order. The Fingo waiter was in unwilling attendance; for Scarren had, naturally enough, demurred at entering the room alone, and none of those who had been present when the fearsome occurrence took place would consent to accompany him.After some very straight hints from the proprietor the haggard band departed in a body to see each other home. The last man was not to be envied.ThreeWhilst on the way to my room for the purpose of retiring I noticed Chimer sitting on his bed. I entered his room. He was smoking his pipe, and his face wore a look of exultant satisfaction. I could hardly be surprised.“Well?” said he.“Well?” replied I.“I should like to know how you account for what occurred to-night.”“At present I cannot account for it. Can you?”“Yes, but I fear your prejudices would not allow of your admitting my explanation.”“You think, of course, that the spirit of old Isaac sent these balls rolling about the room.”“Certainly, I do.”“But if,” said I, with the vain rashness of superior knowledge, “as you admit, a spirit gives neither chemical or dynamic evidence of its presence, how can it act physically upon inert bodies?”“My dear fellow, as I have often told you, we do not for a moment pretend to be able to give an exhaustive explanation of phenomena of this class. We simply say that in incidents such as this, where what are called ‘natural’ causes are eliminated from the field of consideration by the fact of their absence, it is reasonable to fall back on what is called the ‘supernatural.’ As I have been careful to explain to you more than once, this may be a branch of the natural, and may be recognised some day as a legitimate subject for scientific research by those who now treat us with derision.”“But are you justified in eliminating all possible natural causes in the present instance?”“Certainly—you heard the account given; this was corroborated by all who were present. There was no one near the cupboard, the triangle was seen, in direct opposition to the law of gravitation, to fly through the air impelled by some force which could not, according to any scientific hypothesis, have had a natural origin.”“But, assuming the elimination of all natural possibilities—which is rather a large order—does it not seem shockingly inconsistent with all our ideas on the subject of death, which lends a certain dignity that we instinctively recognise even to the passing away of the life of a puppy, to believe that the spirits of a large number of men who, in essentials were very much the same in their lifetime as we are, have found nothing better to do in ‘the vasty halls of death,’ than to remain at the beck and call of a lot of (very often) silly persons and, when so bidden, to make tables dance, rap out unmeaning nonsense, or else to scare tipplers from a billiard-room by rolling balls about the floor.”“The world of the flesh is full of inconsistencies,” my philosopher explained; “why not, therefore, the world of the spirits? What we think of that phase of the question is this, namely: that spirits on the lower planes—which are those concerned in so-called manifestations—are the ones which cannot sever themselves from the environment their bodies were accustomed to. As there are different degrees of development among animals, of which man is the head, so there are among spirits. Thus some of the latter may be as the lower animals of the spirit-kingdom, and may indulge, as there is good reason for believing that they do, in spiritual monkey-tricks.”Knowing that Chimer and old Isaac had detested each other, I felt it would have been of no use my attempting the rehabilitation of the old man’s ghost from the suspicion of being a spiritual monkey in the gloomy groves of Hades.“Good-night, Chimer; I can only repeat the argument which Hume used against miracles. I do not think that Isaac had anything to do with to-night’s scare.”And so, with the complacent dogmatism of the sceptic, I turned on my heel. The reader, no doubt, is of the opinion I expressed, but let him await the sequel.Chimer nodded to me with an expression of pitying superiority. I went to bed and fell asleep almost immediately, for me a very unusual circumstance. I had a strange and vivid dream. I seemed to be wandering through a shadowy grove; all at once I saw a dejected-looking monkey which took great pains to conceal its face. It was sitting under a tree, to which its tail was tied. Moved by a sympathetic impulse, I approached and untied the knot; then I gently removed the paws from the downcast visage, with the view of offering consolation. The poor creature looked up diffidently and I recognised the features of Chimer.After this I wandered on and on, until I found myself on the verge of the smiling Elysian fields, which seemed to stretch away to infinity in fertile beauty. Under a tree which was laden with many-hued spherical fruit of about the size of billiard-balls, lay old Isaac, fast asleep, and with a smile of supreme peace upon his worn face. He was wrapped in the old billiard-cloth which I had caused to be placed in his coffin.FourAnother month went past. In a few days my somewhat wearying stay at Hilston would draw to a close. Chimer had returned to Port Elizabeth, whence he had written to tell me of a remarkable manifestation which had taken place under his mediumship, in the course of which he had actually communicated with Isaac’s spirit. Isaac said that he had caused the manifestation in the billiard-room, but that he did not mean to do the like again. After this, he had obstinately refused to answer any more questions. This, Chimer considered, proved that Isaac dead was more or less of the same disobliging nature as Isaac had been living—a strong collateral evidence of the genuineness of both his messages from the unseen. However, so far as manifestations were concerned, Isaac had hitherto kept his word, for the harmony of the billiard-room had not again been disturbed. The episode of the triangle and the scattered balls was almost forgotten, and the muddy trickle of belated life around the renovated table had long since resumed its normal course.I had, all along, been keenly anxious to unravel the mystery of the locomotive triangle and the crashing balls, but hitherto all my efforts had been vain. I had from the beginning suspected Scarren of having had a hand in the business, and had over and over again attempted to draw him out on the subject. He, however, with much adroitness, had invariably turned the conversation to the topic of eel-fishing. However, the suspicion that Scarren could explain the matter if he only would, grew on me day by day, and I determined to make a desperate assault upon the citadel of his reserve before leaving Hilston. I had accidentally found out that whenever I fixed him with my eye, Scarren became very uneasy and endeavoured to escape. After this discovery I ceased to question him, but whenever I could manage to do so, I fixed him with a steady stare. Each successive time this happened he squirmed more and more until, at length, he got to avoiding me by means of the most obvious and awkward shifts.At length—it was two days before my intended departure—I caught him alone in the billiard-room, where I had seen him enter with a paraffin can for the purpose of replenishing the lamps. I followed him, shut the door behind me, walked slowly to where he stood in the corner fumbling at a lamp with feverish and ostentatious activity, and stood behind him, relentless as Fate. First of all he pretended to be unaware of my presence, then he gave a hurried and startled glance over his shoulder.“Scarren,” said I, “you might as well own up. How did you manage it?”He tried to bolt incontinently, but I got between him and the door.“Don’t be a fool,” I said reassuringly. “I don’t want to get you into a row; if you own up freely, I won’t say a word to anyone.”“Well, sir, I’ll have to tell you, but for God’s sake don’t give me away. It isn’t that I am afraid of getting the sack—although that, of course, would follow; but I’ve a reason for keeping it dark which you’d never guess, and which I can’t tell you.”“Scarren,” I rejoined with solemn severity, “you’ll have to tell meallabout it, mind that. I shall not stick to my promise if you keep a single word back. Speak up at once, or else look out.”He went quietly to the doorway and looked out to see that no one was listening. Then he carefully closed the door, after which he returned on tiptoe to the corner where I was standing with a stern visage but a triumphant heart.“It was old Isaac, right enough—”“Scarren,” I exclaimed with indignation, “don’t try that on with me.”“Wait a bit, sir, don’t speak so loud. Let me tell you from the beginning, and then you’ll understand. About half an hour before you came, on the day that Isaac died, I was sitting smoking at him, and all at once he seemed to get much better.“‘Scarren,’ says he in quite a strong voice, ‘I’ll never hear the cock crow no more; I’ll die before lock-up time.’“‘Why, Isaac,’ says I, ‘you look as if you was quite your own self again. I believe you’ll be singin’ out the game again the day after to-morrow.’“While we was talking we could hear the noise of the new cloth being nailed down. Isaac knew well enough what was going on and it made him angry.“‘No,’ says he, quite raspy, ‘I’ll sing out no more games. Twenty years I’ve brushed her down, and they won’t let me die before rippin’ of her up.’“Then he lay a long time silent, and I could see he was thinking hard about something. All at once he grips my hand—“‘Scarren,’ says he, ‘do you believe in ghosts?’“First of all I was going to say no; then I thought that if I said so it might annoy him after he was dead, and he might come and show me I was mistaken.“‘Yes, Isaac,’ says I; ‘I’ve not seen any myself, but still I believes in them.’“‘All right,’ says he; ‘I’m going to give you my last dying will and testament by word of mouth, which you’ve got to carry out or be haunted by me whenever the Devil leaves the gate ajar for as much as five minutes.’“‘Well, Isaac,’ says I, ‘what is it that you want me to do?’“‘On the first night,’ says he, ‘when they plays on the new cloth and with them new cushions, which I know will be twice too strong for a table of her age, I want you to give them a fright and make them think that I’ve come back.’“‘Yes, Isaac,’ says I, ‘I’m quite willing to oblige, but how do you want me to do it?’“‘That I leave to you,’ says he; ‘there’s lots of ways. You can let the rack fall down, or set the balls rolling about, or put gun-caps atop of the lamps. Only, mind this—you’ve got to make them jump, and think it’s me that’s done it; if you don’t, I’ll make you do the jumping.’“Well, after Isaac was underground I set to thinking how I was to carry out his last will and testament, and I got fairly puzzled. There was lots of ways of making them jump, but I would be dead sure to be found out, and then, not only would I lose my billet, but I’d always think that Isaac was not satisfied, and might come to tell me so, for Isaac was always a man of his word. Then I went to rummage in an old box of his, which he’d said I might have as a keepsake. I came across in it some fine brass wire, like what he’d used for mending cues that got their butts split. All at once an idea came, and I’m quite sure that Isaac put it into my head. So that evening, before I lit the lamps, I tied the one end of the wire, which was that fine you couldn’t hardly see it, to the triangle which lay, full of balls, on the cupboard. The other end I passed along the wall and out through the window where the sash gapes; there I just whipped it round a nail. Then I lit the lamps and sat waiting for the room to fill up. When I thought there were enough in, I sneaked out, pretending that I was going to get my supper. After a bit I just gave the wire a tug, and then bolted round the corner.”Scarren’s excitement had waxed during the narrative. From force of habit he had taken the straightened-out fish-hook from his pocket, and with it he had punctuated his sentences. I remained silent and lost in thought—marvelling at the fortitude of old Isaac and wishing I knew how to attain to a philosophy such as enabled its possessor to enjoy a prospective and post-mortem practical joke upon his death-bed.“It was a regular three-star, double-barrelled eighteen-carat scare,” said Scarren, after a pause—“and I know for as good a fact that old Isaac enjoyed it well.”“What makes you think that?”“Well, on the same night I had such a curious dream. I saw Isaac, as plain as ever you like, sitting under a tree full of red and yeller apples. He was wrapped in the cloth we put in his coffin, and was laughing fit to split hisself.”I gave an involuntary start, for my dream of the same night flashed across my mind. After making the most solemn promises not to reveal the tale—except under certain improbable eventualities which, strangely enough, have since become actual—I bade farewell to old Scarren and walked away thinking, for the first time, that there might, after all, be something true in Chimer’s creed.

“We are such stuff as dreams are made of.”

Once upon a time it was my hap to dwell in a certain town in the Eastern Province of Cape Colony, which will not be recognised under the name of Hilston. With a population of about a thousand Europeans, it bore a strong resemblance to several other communities in the same province. It contained the usual disproportionate number of churches and liquor-shops, the usual utter absence of anything like Christianity as a rule of life—or, in fact, as anything but a mere form—the usual number of persons whose only occupation appeared to be that of killing time, and the usual intellectual dry-rot and deadly dulness. The morning market was the great rendezvous for the gossips. Here, around the butter and vegetable-laden tables would the neighbouring farmers and their town cronies foregather every week-day morning; here they would swop mild and superannuated jokes, rank tobacco, scandalous tales, and insinuations more or less damaging to their neighbours’ characters.

Being engaged upon special duty, and living in daily expectation of having to move on to new official pastures, I had taken up my abode at a small hotel near the outskirts, my choice of a sojourning place being determined by the comparative nocturnal quiet of the vicinity. Here I dwelt in moderate comfort tempered by accidents which it is needless to specify.

By far the most interesting feature of Hilston, to me at least, was old Isaac, the septuagenarian billiard-marker at the hotel where I lodged and boarded. Isaac (it may be premised that he had, once upon a time, possessed a surname, although all trace of it was lost) had a phenomenally bad temper and an exceedingly bitter tongue. Being badly hump-backed, he was only about three feet nine in height. Twenty-eight years previously he had drifted as a tramp to Hilston, whence no one knew, and had been employed as a stable-hand by the then proprietor of the hotel. Eight years after this the establishment changed hands, and Isaac was taken over with the other fixtures. The new proprietor, a young man with a little capital at his command, built a billiard-room and imported a brand new and first-class table. Isaac, to his great satisfaction, was appointed marker, and he at once experienced what was probably the one great passion of his life, for he fell violently in love with his charge. It was said that he had been more than once watched through the window, when alone in the room, rubbing his cheek softly over the new, silky, green cloth, and that he was wont to stand for an hour at a time, when no players were about, gently passing his hand over the sides and fondling the cushions.

When I made the acquaintance of the table and its custodian, they looked equally the worse for wear. The original cloth was still doing duty, but was patched and darned in nearly a dozen places. In spite of the shabby attire, however, Isaac still loved his mistress with ardour and constancy. The proprietor informed me confidentially that he would long since have invested in a new cloth and cushions but for the strenuous way in which the old man opposed any suggestion towards a change. He still slept, as he had done for twenty years, rolled up in an old rug on one of the lumpy benches provided for the use of spectators, and no matter how late the habitual loafers, who practically lived in the room, or the gilded youth of the town, who now and then gambled mildly over the clicking ivories, kept up their threepenny black pool, he carefully dusted down his darling, and covered her with a drab holland cloth before retiring to rest on his narrow and uneven couch.

In South African towns of the Hilston class there are neither clubs, theatres nor music-halls. The billiard-room is, therefore, the only place of general resort for relaxation, and in it you will meet the local male inhabitant, or the greater part of him, in his most interesting—that is to say in his most natural—mood. Here he is relaxed and unconstrained; here he joins with his fellows in a brotherhood which, although temporary, is often renewed; here the tobacco-smoke cloud unites those who create it in a common humanity, and even seems to inspire those who breathe it with a common human soul. Many of the associations of the billiard-room are, no doubt, unedifying; but so long as man remains a gregarious animal, so long will he seek out some spot in which to meet his fellows without restraint. In my individual case the billiard-room was the only place in the hotel suitable for smoking in; consequently I spent a great deal of time in it, especially in the evenings.

In the very early stage of our acquaintanceship I won old Isaac’s heart by remonstrating with a semi-intoxicated player for allowing burning tobacco to fall from his pipe upon the cloth. Soon after I got an inkling of the old man’s affection for his charge I began, for the sake of amusement, to play up to it; then the evident genuineness of the feeling gained my involuntary respect, and I could not avoid being struck by the pathos of the situation.

As our acquaintance grew, Isaac became more and more confidential, and I was astonished at the critical faculty displayed in his caustic comments upon the different frequenters of the billiard-room. He had the faculty of ticking people off in a terse phrase of epigrammatic force and inevitable application. Being more or less of a butt for cheap witticisms on the part of those among whom his daily life was thrown, Isaac cordially disliked nine people out of every ten whom he knew. One of the favourite diversions of the gilded youth was to abuse the table in the old marker’s hearing, and to compare its capabilities unfavourably with those of the rival hotel up the street. This Isaac would stand for a time, but when the limit of endurance had been reached, he would break into a withering storm of profane invective such as I have never heard equalled. His power of venting ingenious and fantastic scurrility on these occasions might have rivalled that of Thersites, the “deformed and scurrilous Grecian.”

Over and over again has he told me the history of each individual tear in the cloth. Two of the worst of these had been perpetrated nearly ten years’ previously, and, although the perpetrators were still constant frequenters of the room, Isaac had never from the dates of their respective delinquencies spoken a word to either of them. When one of these persons lost a game and thus had to pay for the use of the table, Isaac would silently hold out a claw-like hand for the money, and no matter how brutal the chaff to which he might be subjected, he could never be provoked to retort.

One morning, after I had been for about two months a resident at the hotel, I entered the billiard-room, and there found Isaac sitting on the bench and weeping bitterly. His head was bowed upon his hands, and his poor twisted frame shook to the violence of his sobs. A large parcel lay next to him; one end of this had been opened and a new cloth thus revealed. It was quite clear what had happened: the evil and much-dreaded day had arrived; the old cloth was about to be discarded and another substituted. As a matter of fact the proprietor of the rival table up the street had invested in a new cloth and cushions, and consequently was drawing away custom in an alarming manner. Isaac’s master had at length put his foot down, and Isaac’s darling was to be re-clothed and re-cushioned. This Isaac regarded more or less as Mr Ruskin would regard draping the “Venus de Medicis” in a velveteen polonaise.

“I’d rather they took off my skin and put new calves to my legs,” he said between his sobs. “If I only knowed where to get gunpowder I’d blow the two of us up.”

I tried to reason with him, but he turned and withered me, in company with the proprietor and everyone else he could think of, in a blast of anathema that would have made a pope of the Middle Ages weep with envy, so I beat a hasty retreat.

Later in the day Isaac was reported to be very ill. Next morning I found him crouched on his face among pillows in a comfortable little room which formed a lean-to at the side of the stable. He was breathing stertorously and evidently had not long to live. When I addressed him he looked up at me with pain-shot eyes, but appeared to be unable to reply. Sounds of tacking could be heard coming from the direction of the billiard-room; the old cloth was being removed and the new one fixed in its place. A man named Scarren was sitting at the bedside; every now and then he puffed strong tobacco-smoke into the sick man’s face. This, Scarren explained in a whisper, was done at Isaac’s request. I noticed that when Scarren, during the conversation with me, allowed a longer interval than usual to elapse without puffing, Isaac became very uneasy.

Isaac died during the night. I forget exactly how the doctor who attended him described his malady, but judging from the length of the name it must have been something as uncommon as deadly. My private, unprofessional opinion was that the poor old man had died of a broken heart. Strange, that for the commonest of all diseases there should be no medical name—to say nothing of a cure.

Next day old Isaac’s body was carried to its resting-place in the pretty little cemetery, in the beautifying of which the inhabitants of Hilston spent a lot of money, which would have been far better devoted to sanitation, the same being very badly needed. Scarren, two of the regular votaries at the billiard-room and myself were the only mourners. Before the body was placed in the coffin I had, with the consent of the proprietor, laid the old cloth, neatly folded, where the worn-out body would rest upon it. The editor of the local paper heard of this circumstance and took me roundly to task for what he called my “heartless practical joke at the expense of a dead man.” I had, just previously, been the means of having a heavy reduction effected in his bill for some Government printing, the details of which proved, upon examination, to be as untrustworthy as his leading articles.

Scarren was installed as marker in old Isaac’s place. He was an old, shrivelled-up man of few words but many pipes, of the worst tobacco I have ever inhaled the smoke of. Scarren and Isaac had been great cronies, although the one had been as loquacious as the other was silent. However, in spite of his reserve there was a twinkle in Scarren’s eye which suggested latent humorous possibilities. He had been a hanger-on at the hotel for several years, making a precarious living by doing odd jobs. The occupation he loved most was fishing, especially for eels. As a rule, before you had conversed with him for five minutes upon any subject whatever, he would produce from his pocket what had once been a fish-hook, which ought to have been capable of holding a moderately-sized shark, but which was now a straight bar of iron with a barb at one end. The straightening-out had, he said, been effected in the following manner: One night he had hooked an enormous eel. Finding his strength unequal to landing the prey he tied the line to an adjacent thorn-tree, which swayed violently to the monster’s frantic tugs. All at once the stress on the line ceased and Scarren thought it had broken; but no, it was the hook that had given way, for when he drew it out of the water it was no longer a hook but a straight bar. The date of this episode was long before I made Scarren’s acquaintance. I was informed upon unimpeachable authority that the original, actual hook of the adventure had been stolen many years previously by some practical joker. Scarren, however, said not a word of his loss, but next day he was seen, when telling the story to a stranger, to produce another and a larger straightened hook from his pocket for the purpose of illustrating his narrative. Shortly afterwards the second hook was stolen, but was replaced by yet a larger one. This process had been several times repeated, with the result that the alleged hook of the adventure grew until quite a startling size was reached. The size to which Scarren’s hook will have attained in, say, ten years, if Scarren lives so long, might be an interesting subject for speculation.

About a month before old Isaac’s death a certain man whom I will call Chimer came to stay at the hotel. He had been sent as the representative of a firm of Port Elizabeth merchants to assist in winding up the affairs of a local trader who had come to financial grief. Chimer’s room was next to mine; thus we got into the habit of finishing our evenings together.

Nearly every man has a fad, and this man’s fad was spiritualism. He was a firm believer in ghosts and astral bodies, and the prophets of his cult were A.P. Sinnett and Madame Blavatski. He did his best to make a convert of me, but in spite of a close perusal of some very striking literature on the subject from the pens of men of splendid ability and great scientific attainments, I remained conscientiously unconvinced. Like the late George Augustus Sala, although I could conceive the possibility of the ghost of a man revisiting the scenes of his lifetime, I found it impossible to believe in the ghost of his garments, and who ever heard of an undraped apparition? The detailed account given by one eminent scientist as to how he was in the habit of materialising an attractive young female spirit named “Katie King,” with whom he was on terms of striking intimacy, seemed not alone an insult to the human understanding but a melancholy instance of the weaknesses of the strong, of which history is full. Chimer was said to be a most successful medium, but he failed signally to produce any “manifestations” on the occasions when he attempted to convince me by means of demonstration. In discussing spiritualism he never used the first person singular, but always spoke of what “we” believe, what “we” have done, etc.

On the second evening after old Isaac’s death I dined at the house of a friend; it was about half-past ten o’clock when I returned to the hotel. I was surprised to find the usual habitués of the billiard-room sitting in the dining-room. The only one who looked cheerful was Chimer; all the others appeared to be absolutely terror-stricken, their faces gleaming pallid under the sickly rays of a debilitated paraffin lamp. From time to time they glanced uneasily over their shuddering shoulders, and they all puffed with nervous fury at their respective pipes.

It was a queer collection of specimens of the genus Homo that I saw. There was Woods, who had not missed an evening in the billiard-room (excepting Sundays, when he invariably went to church) for many years. He was in the habit of beating his wife and starving his children; no one had the least idea as to what the source of his income was, but he always had money for liquor, for billiards and for putting in the plate. There was Shawe, champion liar of the town; he apparently lived on Cape and tobacco-smoke, and he played a fair game of billiards except when sober. There was Loots, the Dutchman, who never drank at his own expense or played a game of billiards that there was the slightest chance of his losing. Dan Menzies, the Scotch tailor, who had all the instincts of a gentleman, as well as many of the potential elements of greatness, in spite of the fact of his being an almost hopeless sot. Brooke Crofton, who had been dismissed from his regiment during the Soudan campaign for disobedience of orders given during an action, or, as others put it, for cowardice. He was now, and had been for several years, trying to drink himself to death on an allowance made him for that purpose by his wife, who lived in England and had money of her own. Most of the others were young clerks and assistants in stores. Chimer looked up and caught my eye. In his there was a triumphant gleam.

The proprietor, whose face was the palest of the lot, soon revealed the gruesome cause of the terror which brooded over the gathering. A few hours previously they had all been sitting in the billiard-room, watching the course of a game, the first played on the table since the fixing of the new cloth and cushions, which had only been completed during the afternoon. On the top of a little cupboard which stood in the corner, and in which spare balls, chalk, sandpaper and other billiard requisites were kept, had been placed the mahogany triangle-frame which is used for fixing the balls in position in the game of pyramid pool. Lying in the triangle were the fifteen pyramid balls. Woods and Crofton were the players. It was noticed that the lamps were in very bad trim and gave a most wretched light. (Shawe declared fervently that he had noticed a distinctly blue tinge in the flame; two of the clerks present corroborated this when appealed to).

All at once the triangle was seen to fly violently from the top of the cupboard, whilst the fifteen ivory balls crashed down on the floor and rolled with loud clatterings in different directions. The triangle-frame, out of which the balls had dropped, seemed as if propelled by an unseen power almost out of the window, close to which it, too, fell to the floor with an appalling noise. The effect on the spectators was terrific; Woods, Crofton and one of the clerks fainted dead away, and the others rushed from the room with wild yells.

As the moving incident was being related to me, Scarren, who happened not to have witnessed it, was engaged in quenching the lights and generally putting the room in order. The Fingo waiter was in unwilling attendance; for Scarren had, naturally enough, demurred at entering the room alone, and none of those who had been present when the fearsome occurrence took place would consent to accompany him.

After some very straight hints from the proprietor the haggard band departed in a body to see each other home. The last man was not to be envied.

Whilst on the way to my room for the purpose of retiring I noticed Chimer sitting on his bed. I entered his room. He was smoking his pipe, and his face wore a look of exultant satisfaction. I could hardly be surprised.

“Well?” said he.

“Well?” replied I.

“I should like to know how you account for what occurred to-night.”

“At present I cannot account for it. Can you?”

“Yes, but I fear your prejudices would not allow of your admitting my explanation.”

“You think, of course, that the spirit of old Isaac sent these balls rolling about the room.”

“Certainly, I do.”

“But if,” said I, with the vain rashness of superior knowledge, “as you admit, a spirit gives neither chemical or dynamic evidence of its presence, how can it act physically upon inert bodies?”

“My dear fellow, as I have often told you, we do not for a moment pretend to be able to give an exhaustive explanation of phenomena of this class. We simply say that in incidents such as this, where what are called ‘natural’ causes are eliminated from the field of consideration by the fact of their absence, it is reasonable to fall back on what is called the ‘supernatural.’ As I have been careful to explain to you more than once, this may be a branch of the natural, and may be recognised some day as a legitimate subject for scientific research by those who now treat us with derision.”

“But are you justified in eliminating all possible natural causes in the present instance?”

“Certainly—you heard the account given; this was corroborated by all who were present. There was no one near the cupboard, the triangle was seen, in direct opposition to the law of gravitation, to fly through the air impelled by some force which could not, according to any scientific hypothesis, have had a natural origin.”

“But, assuming the elimination of all natural possibilities—which is rather a large order—does it not seem shockingly inconsistent with all our ideas on the subject of death, which lends a certain dignity that we instinctively recognise even to the passing away of the life of a puppy, to believe that the spirits of a large number of men who, in essentials were very much the same in their lifetime as we are, have found nothing better to do in ‘the vasty halls of death,’ than to remain at the beck and call of a lot of (very often) silly persons and, when so bidden, to make tables dance, rap out unmeaning nonsense, or else to scare tipplers from a billiard-room by rolling balls about the floor.”

“The world of the flesh is full of inconsistencies,” my philosopher explained; “why not, therefore, the world of the spirits? What we think of that phase of the question is this, namely: that spirits on the lower planes—which are those concerned in so-called manifestations—are the ones which cannot sever themselves from the environment their bodies were accustomed to. As there are different degrees of development among animals, of which man is the head, so there are among spirits. Thus some of the latter may be as the lower animals of the spirit-kingdom, and may indulge, as there is good reason for believing that they do, in spiritual monkey-tricks.”

Knowing that Chimer and old Isaac had detested each other, I felt it would have been of no use my attempting the rehabilitation of the old man’s ghost from the suspicion of being a spiritual monkey in the gloomy groves of Hades.

“Good-night, Chimer; I can only repeat the argument which Hume used against miracles. I do not think that Isaac had anything to do with to-night’s scare.”

And so, with the complacent dogmatism of the sceptic, I turned on my heel. The reader, no doubt, is of the opinion I expressed, but let him await the sequel.

Chimer nodded to me with an expression of pitying superiority. I went to bed and fell asleep almost immediately, for me a very unusual circumstance. I had a strange and vivid dream. I seemed to be wandering through a shadowy grove; all at once I saw a dejected-looking monkey which took great pains to conceal its face. It was sitting under a tree, to which its tail was tied. Moved by a sympathetic impulse, I approached and untied the knot; then I gently removed the paws from the downcast visage, with the view of offering consolation. The poor creature looked up diffidently and I recognised the features of Chimer.

After this I wandered on and on, until I found myself on the verge of the smiling Elysian fields, which seemed to stretch away to infinity in fertile beauty. Under a tree which was laden with many-hued spherical fruit of about the size of billiard-balls, lay old Isaac, fast asleep, and with a smile of supreme peace upon his worn face. He was wrapped in the old billiard-cloth which I had caused to be placed in his coffin.

Another month went past. In a few days my somewhat wearying stay at Hilston would draw to a close. Chimer had returned to Port Elizabeth, whence he had written to tell me of a remarkable manifestation which had taken place under his mediumship, in the course of which he had actually communicated with Isaac’s spirit. Isaac said that he had caused the manifestation in the billiard-room, but that he did not mean to do the like again. After this, he had obstinately refused to answer any more questions. This, Chimer considered, proved that Isaac dead was more or less of the same disobliging nature as Isaac had been living—a strong collateral evidence of the genuineness of both his messages from the unseen. However, so far as manifestations were concerned, Isaac had hitherto kept his word, for the harmony of the billiard-room had not again been disturbed. The episode of the triangle and the scattered balls was almost forgotten, and the muddy trickle of belated life around the renovated table had long since resumed its normal course.

I had, all along, been keenly anxious to unravel the mystery of the locomotive triangle and the crashing balls, but hitherto all my efforts had been vain. I had from the beginning suspected Scarren of having had a hand in the business, and had over and over again attempted to draw him out on the subject. He, however, with much adroitness, had invariably turned the conversation to the topic of eel-fishing. However, the suspicion that Scarren could explain the matter if he only would, grew on me day by day, and I determined to make a desperate assault upon the citadel of his reserve before leaving Hilston. I had accidentally found out that whenever I fixed him with my eye, Scarren became very uneasy and endeavoured to escape. After this discovery I ceased to question him, but whenever I could manage to do so, I fixed him with a steady stare. Each successive time this happened he squirmed more and more until, at length, he got to avoiding me by means of the most obvious and awkward shifts.

At length—it was two days before my intended departure—I caught him alone in the billiard-room, where I had seen him enter with a paraffin can for the purpose of replenishing the lamps. I followed him, shut the door behind me, walked slowly to where he stood in the corner fumbling at a lamp with feverish and ostentatious activity, and stood behind him, relentless as Fate. First of all he pretended to be unaware of my presence, then he gave a hurried and startled glance over his shoulder.

“Scarren,” said I, “you might as well own up. How did you manage it?”

He tried to bolt incontinently, but I got between him and the door.

“Don’t be a fool,” I said reassuringly. “I don’t want to get you into a row; if you own up freely, I won’t say a word to anyone.”

“Well, sir, I’ll have to tell you, but for God’s sake don’t give me away. It isn’t that I am afraid of getting the sack—although that, of course, would follow; but I’ve a reason for keeping it dark which you’d never guess, and which I can’t tell you.”

“Scarren,” I rejoined with solemn severity, “you’ll have to tell meallabout it, mind that. I shall not stick to my promise if you keep a single word back. Speak up at once, or else look out.”

He went quietly to the doorway and looked out to see that no one was listening. Then he carefully closed the door, after which he returned on tiptoe to the corner where I was standing with a stern visage but a triumphant heart.

“It was old Isaac, right enough—”

“Scarren,” I exclaimed with indignation, “don’t try that on with me.”

“Wait a bit, sir, don’t speak so loud. Let me tell you from the beginning, and then you’ll understand. About half an hour before you came, on the day that Isaac died, I was sitting smoking at him, and all at once he seemed to get much better.

“‘Scarren,’ says he in quite a strong voice, ‘I’ll never hear the cock crow no more; I’ll die before lock-up time.’

“‘Why, Isaac,’ says I, ‘you look as if you was quite your own self again. I believe you’ll be singin’ out the game again the day after to-morrow.’

“While we was talking we could hear the noise of the new cloth being nailed down. Isaac knew well enough what was going on and it made him angry.

“‘No,’ says he, quite raspy, ‘I’ll sing out no more games. Twenty years I’ve brushed her down, and they won’t let me die before rippin’ of her up.’

“Then he lay a long time silent, and I could see he was thinking hard about something. All at once he grips my hand—

“‘Scarren,’ says he, ‘do you believe in ghosts?’

“First of all I was going to say no; then I thought that if I said so it might annoy him after he was dead, and he might come and show me I was mistaken.

“‘Yes, Isaac,’ says I; ‘I’ve not seen any myself, but still I believes in them.’

“‘All right,’ says he; ‘I’m going to give you my last dying will and testament by word of mouth, which you’ve got to carry out or be haunted by me whenever the Devil leaves the gate ajar for as much as five minutes.’

“‘Well, Isaac,’ says I, ‘what is it that you want me to do?’

“‘On the first night,’ says he, ‘when they plays on the new cloth and with them new cushions, which I know will be twice too strong for a table of her age, I want you to give them a fright and make them think that I’ve come back.’

“‘Yes, Isaac,’ says I, ‘I’m quite willing to oblige, but how do you want me to do it?’

“‘That I leave to you,’ says he; ‘there’s lots of ways. You can let the rack fall down, or set the balls rolling about, or put gun-caps atop of the lamps. Only, mind this—you’ve got to make them jump, and think it’s me that’s done it; if you don’t, I’ll make you do the jumping.’

“Well, after Isaac was underground I set to thinking how I was to carry out his last will and testament, and I got fairly puzzled. There was lots of ways of making them jump, but I would be dead sure to be found out, and then, not only would I lose my billet, but I’d always think that Isaac was not satisfied, and might come to tell me so, for Isaac was always a man of his word. Then I went to rummage in an old box of his, which he’d said I might have as a keepsake. I came across in it some fine brass wire, like what he’d used for mending cues that got their butts split. All at once an idea came, and I’m quite sure that Isaac put it into my head. So that evening, before I lit the lamps, I tied the one end of the wire, which was that fine you couldn’t hardly see it, to the triangle which lay, full of balls, on the cupboard. The other end I passed along the wall and out through the window where the sash gapes; there I just whipped it round a nail. Then I lit the lamps and sat waiting for the room to fill up. When I thought there were enough in, I sneaked out, pretending that I was going to get my supper. After a bit I just gave the wire a tug, and then bolted round the corner.”

Scarren’s excitement had waxed during the narrative. From force of habit he had taken the straightened-out fish-hook from his pocket, and with it he had punctuated his sentences. I remained silent and lost in thought—marvelling at the fortitude of old Isaac and wishing I knew how to attain to a philosophy such as enabled its possessor to enjoy a prospective and post-mortem practical joke upon his death-bed.

“It was a regular three-star, double-barrelled eighteen-carat scare,” said Scarren, after a pause—“and I know for as good a fact that old Isaac enjoyed it well.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, on the same night I had such a curious dream. I saw Isaac, as plain as ever you like, sitting under a tree full of red and yeller apples. He was wrapped in the cloth we put in his coffin, and was laughing fit to split hisself.”

I gave an involuntary start, for my dream of the same night flashed across my mind. After making the most solemn promises not to reveal the tale—except under certain improbable eventualities which, strangely enough, have since become actual—I bade farewell to old Scarren and walked away thinking, for the first time, that there might, after all, be something true in Chimer’s creed.

Chapter Nine.Chicken Wings.“A chiel’s amang ye takin’ notes,And, faith, he’ll prent it.”—Burns.OneIt was by a mere coincidence that Raymond Benson and John Allister, who were both bound for Rossdale, met in the train running from Cape Town to the eastern frontier of the Cape Colony. Rossdale is a large mission institution situate in one of what are known as the Native Territories. It is liberally endowed by the United Presbyterian Church of Scotland, and has for its object the evangelisation and education of Bantu natives.Benson, a Cape Colonist by birth, had obtained through the Cape Education Department the appointment of second teacher at the Institution; Allister had just arrived from Scotland, and had been selected by the Central Mission Board as book-keeper and general accountant. As he had acquired a fair amount of medical knowledge—he had, as a matter of fact, only been prevented by financial misfortune from finishing his courses at the University of Edinburgh and qualifying as a physician—he was also expected to practise the healing art among the residents at the Mission.Benson possessed a good constitution and a keen sense of humour. He was a clean-built man of middle height and dark complexion, with features of a slightly Jewish cast. His object in going to Rossdale was the acquirement of the Bantu language spoken in the vicinity. Moreover, he had no intention of staying more than a short time should the life there prove uncongenial.Allister was a big, raw-boned Scotsman with a strong, clean-shaven face. His usual expression was extremely morbid, but now and then a very sweet smile would light up his rugged features. His speech had always a strong Scotch twang, and he occasionally—especially when excited—broke into the very broadest Doric.Benson and Allister became very good friends during the course of the journey. From the railway terminus they travelled for a couple of days and nights in the post-cart, which delivered them at a village some twenty miles from their destination. At this village a trap from Rossdale, driven by a Kaffir who was quite ignorant of any but his mother-tongue, met them.Allister, like Benson, had no missionary zeal. In fact he was absolutely without religious convictions of any kind, a circumstance which he had carefully concealed from the Mission Board. A weakness of the chest had rendered it highly advisable that he should leave Scotland for a year or two and seek some warmer clime. But his intention was to return to Scotland as soon as he should have saved enough money to admit of a continuance of his studies.A fine autumn evening was drawing to its golden close when the rickety cart bearing the two strangers descended the hillside at the foot of which Rossdale lay. The vehicle, far too light for its springs, had shaken the inmates cruelly; nevertheless they had been able to extract a good deal of enjoyment from the incidents of the journey. Their course lay through an undulating, grassy country thickly dotted over with little villages composed of beehive-shaped huts, among which numbers of naked children were playing. Every now and then they passed groups of men and women. The former had lost much of their picturesqueness owing to being dressed mainly in shoddy European clothing, but each carried at least one long, strong stick, and stalked along with a look of dignified disdain. The women were all draped in ochre-coloured blankets, fastened under the arm-pits and reaching to below the knee. But they held themselves erect and walked with a gait duchesses might have envied.The Institution was an important one and employed a large staff. The Industrial Arts were important items in the curriculum. It lay more or less in the centre of a hollow about a mile in circumference. The buildings were massive and extensive. Around them lay a large plantation of blue-gum and oak trees, with here and there patches of orchard. On every side the landscape showed gently-swelling hills of inconspicuous height, thickly dotted with groups of huts. Herds of cattle browsed contentedly on the rich grass. The gracious autumn gloaming shed a soft radiance over the settlement. It looked like a spot consecrated to civilisation and peace—an oasis in the desert of savagery. Benson drew a deep breath of satisfaction; something seemed to whisper to him that life here might include compensations other than humorous ones. He communicated this thought to his companion, who, however, cynically replied to the effect that appearances were apt to be deceitful.The vehicle drew up in front of the large central building, one wing of which was used as a dormitory for the boys, the other as quarters by most of the European staff. A neat-looking native servant-maid received the strangers and conducted them to their rooms upstairs. Soon afterwards, the ringing of a very discordant bell sounded through the premises. Benson and Allister then descended to the refectory, where, they had been informed, tea would be served.Large tables were ranged across the room, and at these the native boys, each with a plate and a large tin mug before him, were seated. A small table in one of the corners was reserved for the Europeans; at this Mr Duncan Mactavish, the boarding-master, Miss Mellish, the matron, and Miss Angus, the assistant matron, were seated. Benson and Allister, upon introducing themselves, were greeted with a reserve which, on the part of any but Scotch people, would hardly have been civil.Mr Mactavish was a tall, dark, dour-looking man of about forty-five. Miss Mellish was stout, light-haired, pallid, and severe-looking. Miss Angus was a little, dark, withered-visaged woman; she had a nervous habit of winking her eyes continually when spoken to or when speaking. When Miss Mellish made a remark, as she seldom did, her mouth closed immediately afterwards with a kind of snap. Mr Mactavish being a bachelor, these ladies attended to the domestic arrangements of this branch of the Institution, under his supervision. They considered him a very great man indeed; he considered them women of discrimination.A hymn was sung, a prayer was said (extempore) and a very lengthy blessing invoked upon the food; then all sat down to supper. The two strangers seemed to be looked upon with a certain amount of suspicion. Mr Mactavish applied himself with systematic diligence to the food and did not utter a word until his robust appetite had been assuaged. Benson and Allister were too hungry to mind the lack of conversation.“I’m thinkin’ it’s a fine drive ye’ll have had,” said Mr Mactavish, after having subjected Allister to long and intent scrutiny.“Middling” was the laconic response.“Ye’ll be new to yer wark, mebbe,” resumed Mactavish, addressing Benson.“Not quite,” he replied; “I have spent the last three years teaching in Cape Town.”“Ah, but that’s anither thing; ye’ll have lots to learn o’ oor methods here.”“I believe I came rather to teach than to learn,” replied Benson, gently.Three indignant pairs of eyes focussed themselves upon the speaker, who, however, looked blandly unconscious of giving offence. Mr Mactavish turned once more to Allister—“Ye’ll have some skill as a physeecian, I’m told.”“It depends upon what’s wrang wi’ ye,” replied Allister, with imperturbability. “I can pull teeth fine, and I’ve learnt to shoe a horse.”This seemed to strike Mr Mactavish with momentary helplessness. However, after a pause, he returned to the attack—“I suppose ye found the roads awfu’; that’s ane o’ the things we’ve to put up wi’ here—havin’ oor bones mashed when we travel. But a sense o’ duty’s a graund thing to gie ye patience.”Allister remained silent, so Benson replied—“Yes, we got a bit bumped. The road is certainly not a credit to whoever is responsible for keeping it in order. That last drift, after you descend the hill beyond the trees, is a proper boneshaker.”Mr Mactavish glared. He happened to be responsible for the state of this particular drift, and he looked upon certain repairs recently there effected as a triumph of engineering skill.At the conclusion of supper, Mr Mactavish, with an attempt at geniality, invited the strangers to accompany him to the residence of the Principal of the Institution, the Rev. Mr Campbell. The visitors were ushered into a sitting-room which was furnished and decorated with exceedingly good taste. Mr Campbell was a widower, and childless. His niece, Jeanie, a girl of nineteen, kept house for him. Benson felt a certain mild curiosity as to what Jeanie Campbell was like. She had been described to him as being a remarkably pretty girl.Mr Mactavish sat nervously on the edge of a chair which was slightly higher than the others and gazed intently at the closed door. Benson and Allister examined the engravings with which the walls were decorated. Suddenly and noiselessly the door opened and Jeanie entered with smiling face and outstretched hand.“How do you do, Mr Mactavish—and you are Mr Benson, I’m sure. Oh, there is no need to introduce us. And Mr Allister, welcome to Rossdale. I knew you had both arrived, and was most anxious to see you. How good of you to come over at once.”Benson for once found the reality transcend the ideal he had formed. Jeanie was remarkably pretty. She had a beautiful figure, with nearly perfect hands and feet. Her eyes were steel-grey, bright with vitality and full of expression; her hair was dark, plentiful and wavy. As is usual in the case of South African girls, her colouring was somewhat wanting in tone, but her skin was smooth and clear and her lips red and tempting. Her mobile face seemed to be constantly changing its expression.Mr Mactavish shifted his feet, cleared his throat and behaved generally like a nervous schoolboy. He more than once struggled to speak but found the effort beyond his strength. All this amused Benson and Allister vastly. It could be seen at a glance that the elderly boarding-master was in love with the girl, and Benson was fairly dazzled by the possibilities of amusement which the situation promised. He looked at Jeanie and happened to intercept a lightning-like glance from her. She could see that Benson had rightly gauged the situation and a double flash of sympathetic electricity passed between them.“I’m hopin’, Miss Jeanie, that your tea-meetin’ at the Girls’ School was a successful one,” said Mr Mactavish. This remark suggested, as it were, the mouse brought forth by the mountain, it was so utterly trivial as compared with the labour and trepidation which preceded it.“Oh,” answered Jeanie, lightly, “it was not either more or less dissipated than usual. Do you like tea-meetings, Mr Benson?”“It depends, of course, upon who one meets and who pours out the tea. Don’t you think so, Mr Mactavish?”“Oor tea-meetin’s have a purpose,” said Mr Mactavish, severely; “they are a feature in oor method o’ educatin’ and civilisin’ the natives.”“In Scotland they’re talkin’ o’ suppressin’ tea-meetin’s by statute,” said Allister, with a look at Jeanie, “they gie such occasions for ungodly gossip amang the weemen.”“Oor tea’s flavoured wi’ the sugar o’ Christian charity and the milk o’ human kindness,” retorted Mr Mactavish, sternly.Just then the door again opened and Mr Campbell, the Principal, entered. He was a big, red-bearded man with bushy eyebrows. Jeanie very prettily introduced the strangers to him, and he soon was deep in conversation with Allister, who knew several of his friends in Scotland.Benson crossed the room and took a low seat close to Jeanie. Mr Mactavish evidently regarded this proceeding with disapproval, for he turned his chair slightly, so as to get the girl and her companion out of the range of his vision, and took an apparently absorbing interest in the conversation of the others.“You are a Colonist, are you not?” asked the girl.“Yes,” replied Benson, “I hope you don’t object.”“Object? I should think not. Good gracious! If they had sent two more Scotsmen here I should have run away and become an hospital nurse or a...”“Were you going to say ‘barmaid’?” asked Benson, sinking his voice.“How—how did you know?” gasped the girl.“Sympathetic intuition, I suppose. But why do you object to Scotsmen? I thought you were Scotch yourself.”“Mr Benson, if you ever dare to say such a thing again, we shall quarrel. Because you were born in South Africa are you a Hottentot? I happened to be born in Scotland, but you can hardly blame me for a thing that happened when I was so very young; I was only a year old when I came away. No, I am a Cape Colonist; I have breathed Cape air and eaten Cape food ever since I was a baby. In fact, I’m just Cape from head to foot.”“I’m very glad to be able to sympathise with you, for I happen to be very fond of the Cape myself, but just now will you satisfy a perhaps impertinent curiosity by telling me why you object so much to Scotch people?”“You will know, without being told, before you have been here many months. One does not object to leg of mutton, or even pumpkin on the table now and then. But suppose you were to be fed, say, on pumpkin for breakfast, dinner and supper, including entrées and dessert, every day for several years, you’d long for a change of diet, would you not?”“Yes, I suppose so.”“Scotch people are very good indeed, ‘unco’ guid’ in fact—and no one would dispute the fact did they not carry inscriptions of their virtues printed all over them in large letters. And then—the way they run down everything South African. What puzzles me is, why they ever left their own superior country. I’m sure we could manage our own affairs well enough without them.”“Well, for my part,” replied Benson, “I have liked most of the Scotch people I have met. I must, at the same time, own it to be evident that when the individual prayed ‘Lord, gi’e us a guid conceit o’ oorsels,’ not alone must the prayer have been literally granted, but it must have been put up on behalf of the whole nation.”On the way homeward Benson tried to draw Mr Mactavish into conversation, but without success. Allister was unwontedly silent. He had, as he said, been “takin’ notes.”As a matter of fact, the boarding-master was not at all pleased at the evident pleasure Jeanie had shown in Benson’s society. Mr Mactavish was badly in love; he scented untoward complications. For a long time he had been hovering on the brink of a proposal, and, although Jeanie had never given him the least encouragement, his “guid conceit” made him as sanguine of acceptance as ever was the Laird o’ Cockpen.Mr Mactavish was the senior member of the Institution staff—so far as length of service went. He had seen Principals come and Principals go, but since the birth of the Institution there had been but one boarding-master, and his name was Mactavish. Consequently, he had come to regard the fortunes of the establishment as being bound up with his own personality. As a matter of fact none of the various Principals had ever properly asserted himself; each had tacitly acquiesced in the dour boarding-master’s assumption that he was the pivot upon which the whole organisation revolved.He now determined upon making both Benson and Allister feel the full weight of his authority. Benson he would tackle first.“Ye’ll begin your wark i’ the mornin’,” said he to Benson as they separated for the night.“Oh, we’ll see. Perhaps I’ll take a day off and look around the place before putting on the collar.”“We’re no idlers here; you’ll hae plenty o’ time to look around after school hours.”Benson had to bite his lip to prevent himself from telling Mr Mactavish with emphasis to mind his own business. But he was not an ill-natured fellow, and, having gauged the boarding-master’s feelings towards Jeanie correctly, had no difficulty in ascribing this churlishness to its true source.After all, Benson took over his class next day. The teacher whose place he was taking was anxious to leave at once, and could only do so on condition of Benson’s foregoing his “day off.” Mr Mactavish quite mistakenly took the circumstance as indicating submission to his authority.The class numbered some forty boys, their ages ranging between eleven and fifteen years. Benson was agreeably surprised at the tone of the school. The lads were fairly intelligent, and discipline had been well kept up. But he noticed that the names, rather than the sense of things taught, were retained, that memory was quite out of proportion to understanding. However, the boys were evidently anxious to learn, and the schoolroom was lofty, commodious and well lighted. Benson felt as though he were going to enjoy his work.At noon he went over to his room; he met Allister on the way.“I’ve been takin’ a walk round,” said the latter, “and have had a long talk wi’ Maclean, the carpenter. He’s just burstin’ wi’ gall an’ general information. Losh! but doesn’t he hate Mactavish.”“Well, let me have some information without the gall. I want to know as much as possible about these people.”“Man, but we’ll have lots o’ fun. It appears that Mactavish is in love wi’ young Jeanie, and both Miss Mellish and Miss Angus are in love with Mactavish. But these are trifles. The main thing is that the place has been groanin’ under Mactavish’s tyranny for ever so long; all is ripe for a revolution. Losh! but it’s a Christian community.”“Well,” replied Benson, “I, for one, will not join in any revolution. I have my own work to do; I’ll take care no one interferes with that. But I mean to lead a quiet life if they will let me.”“I’m thinkin’ ye’ll have to tak’ sides. ‘Whoso is not wi’ us is against us’ is a very philosophical text. Are ye goin’ to fish?”“Fish? Rather; it’s my favourite sport. But where? I’ve not heard of any river about here.”“I was meanin’ in the Apostolic sense—‘fishers o’ men,’ you know.”“Oh, that’s quite out of my line. I’m a pedagogue, not a missionary.”“Well, ye’ll have to cast a line at the prayer-meetin’ here. If ye don’t, Mactavish’ll gie ye drumsticks. It appears they have fowls for dinner five days a week regularly—sometimes oftener. It’s the rule that if ye don’t fish ye’ll never get a wing, but if ye cast a good long line wi’ a takin’ text for bait, not alone will ye get a wing, but sometimes a piece of liver as well.”“Oh, nonsense; the carpenter has been pulling your leg.”“All right; just wait an’ ye’ll see.”Just then the dinner-bell sounded, and the two friends descended to the refectory together. The only meat on the table was a pair of boiled fowls. Mr Mactavish, with great deliberation and a skill born of long practice, dismembered them. Then he paused as though to rest after his exertions.“Ye’ll be comin’ to oor prayer-meetin’ this evenin’?” he said, addressing Benson.“I don’t know that I shall.”“But we’ve counted on a discoorse from ye, and I’ve told Mr Campbell that ye’ll tak’ your turn to-night.”“Very good of you, I’m sure,” replied Benson, nettled, “but I know what I’ve engaged to do, and holding prayer-meetings is not included. You had no authority to tell Mr Campbell anything of the kind.”“Well, Mr Allister, we’ll just have to ca’ your services into requisition.”“Ye’ll find me in the office frae nine till five every day. Outside that time I’ll do no wark, unless ye want me to pull a tooth or compound a powder. In these cases I’ll oblige at any hour of the four-an’-twenty.”Mr Mactavish uttered, with alarming intonation, a sound which cannot be expressed by the whole twenty-six-fold force of the alphabet, but which used to be expressed as “humph!” Then he proceeded to divide the members of the fowls. One of these had been rather more debilitated than the other. The inferior drumsticks were, after the ladies had been helped, duly apportioned to Benson and Allister, respectively. Benson looked up and caught Allister’s eye which was bent on him with great gravity. Then his sense of humour overcame the schoolmaster and he fell into an absolutely uncontrollable fit of laughter.All proceedings stopped. Miss Mellish glared indignantly at the delinquent; Miss Angus gasped and winked her eyes with hysterical vigour. Allister’s face expressed nothing but sombre surprise; the boarding-master turned purple with inarticulate fury. The contagion of Benson’s laughter spread to the boys; within a few seconds the forms rocked with mirth. Then Mr Mactavish leaped up, seized the smallest boy on the nearest form and dragged him out of the room. Benson, who had regained command of himself under stress of the tragic situation, noticed that the ejected boy had given little or no cause for complaint.Dinner over, Benson went to his room, threw himself on the bed, and laughed so violently that the room shook. Allister came in, lit his pipe, and regarded his distressed friend with inscrutable gravity.“Well,” he said, “was I not right?”“Oh yes,” replied Benson, between paroxysms, “but I think I’ll roll under the table and die if such a thing happens again.”“I don’t despair o’ oor gettin’ wings, and even an occasional liver, although we don’t fish,” said Allister, after a contemplative pause.“Leg, wing or liver, for mercy’s sake don’t look at me again as you did to-day. I hate putting myself in the wrong, and my performance was very discreditable.”“An interestin’ fact I ascertained from Maclean was that Mactavish suffers from severe gout periodically, and that the malady only yields to treatment wi’ colchicum,” said Allister, with a suspiciously innocent expression.TwoNext day Benson and Allister received a note apiece from Jeanie, asking them to come over to the Girls’ School in the afternoon and take tea.On arrival they were ushered into a prim little parlour. This soon became filled to overflowing with guests. Here they met, for the first time, Mr Drew, the senior teacher of the theology section, and his wife. Mr Drew was short, stout, dark and wide-awake-looking. He appeared to be under the influence of his wife, who was evidently much older than he. She was a woman of large frame, with hollow cheeks and light-red hair. Her face and eyes were pale; her voice suggested pulmonary delicacy.The three ladies having charge of the female department of the Institution acted jointly as hostesses. Miss Meiklejohn, the eldest, was a tall, angular Scotswoman with a strong, intellectual face. She spoke with measured deliberation and was evidently unaccustomed to having her authority questioned. Miss Struben was short and exceedingly stout. She had a depressed and disappointed look, and whenever she made a remark, glanced apprehensively at Miss Meiklejohn to see how it would be taken. These two had been for many years members of the Institution staff; they regarded Mr Mactavish with the utmost reverence. Apart from their work they had one object only in life, and that was to see a match between the boarding-master and Miss Mellish. They had noted and deplored the Great Man’s weakness for Jeanie. However, as they looked upon this untoward circumstance as due to her siren wiles, they regarded the aberration with pity rather than blame.Miss Robertson, the junior teacher, had only recently been imported from Scotland. A comely girl with rosy cheeks, bright brown eyes and a generous figure, she gave one the idea that she longed for a different life and that she felt as irksome the perpetually revolving treadmill of ultra propriety that Fate compelled her to climb. In fact she struck Benson as having a healthy spice of the World, the Flesh and the Devil under her coil of abundant hair.Jeanie was the only one of the ladies who appeared to be at ease; she laughed and chatted gaily, while the others only interjected formal remarks now and then. Allister felt drawn towards little Miss Robertson; the suppressed vitality in her brown eyes aroused his interest and sympathy. With some difficulty he made his way across the crowded room to where she was sitting.“You and I are among the latest arrivals, I believe,” he said pleasantly.“So we are, but I have been through my ordeal, so am only a spectator to-day.”“Might one ask what you mean?”“Don’t you know that this is a state function, got up to welcome you and Mr Benson?”“Indeed I did not. Oh, the guilefulness of women!—and Miss Jeanie called it a simple tea-party.”“Well, you had better begin preparing your speech. I had to make one. Mind and be careful to make a good first impression.”Just then the ominous sound of Mr Mactavish clearing his throat was heard, and an apprehensive silence fell upon the assemblage. Jeanie looked at Benson with unutterable mischief in her eyes. Then the voice of the boarding-master began in measured, lugubrious tones—“Leddies and gentlemen,—fellow-warkers i’ the vineyard, we have met to-day to welcome two who have just put hands to the plough which runs in oor furrows o’ grace. One o’ them comes frae the land we left—most o’ us many years ago—to dwell in this clime o’ savagery and spend oor lives in reclaimin’ the heathen frae his barbarism. We know what we have done in the past; we know how hard oor labour was at first; but we must be thankful that strength was given tae enable us tae break the hard, virgin sod, and thus make the wark lighter for those who come after.“We will humbly trust that oor friends will duly appreciate the enorrmous responsibilities restin’ upon them as missioners, an’ that they will assist in keepin’ this little community what it is—‘a light tae lighten the Gentiles,’ and a continual example tae the heathen o’ the true Christian life.“One o’ the things we most firrmly endeavour tae cultivate is a true earnestness o’ purpose ina’branches o’ oor wark, and the consequent avoidance o’ freevolity o’ a’ sorts. Oor little warld has its laws and salutary customs, and tae these a’ must conforrm. As to what these are, I, as senior member o’ the Institution staff, will be glad to gie information. Mr Allister and Mr Benson, in the unavoidable absence o’ oor respected Principal, I bid ye a hearty welcome.”Allister flatly refused to respond, so Benson arose and made a few appropriate remarks. Soon afterwards the meeting broke up. Jeanie and Benson met at the door and walked on together.“Are you not ashamed of yourself?” he asked, “for getting us down to that function under false pretences.”“I am, rather; but I knew that if Mr Allister had had any inkling as to what was going to happen, he would not have come. But all my dissimulation was thrown away, for he did not make a speech after all. But do tell me what you think of us?”“Well, my dominant feeling is one of hopeless inability to live up to your ideals. You see, I am not in any way cut out for a missionary. Moreover, I could not conscientiously recommend any self-respecting Gentile to light his candle at my lamp.”“Oh, so far as that goes, Mr Mactavish’s lamp is so overflowing with oil, and shines so vividly that we might all quench ours without putting the Gentile public to any inconvenience. But I am keen on hearing original impressions; do oblige by telling yours.”“It is quite clear you have not even guessed at the magnitude of my limitations. Nothing, as a rule, strikes my imagination unless it be funny. And I have not yet got sufficient ‘atmosphere,’ as the artists say, to enable me to appreciate properly the local humour. Truly, the pursuit of the humorous is my only serious occupation.”“You are a disappointing man. Now, I am as fond of running other people’s impressions to earth as you are of hunting jokes. You must have acquired some impressions; do communicate them.”“Well, the thing which strikes me as most remarkable about these people is the utter absence of anything like friendliness towards each other, or, in fact, towards anyone.”“Ah, but when you have been here as long as I, you will look upon this afternoon as an oasis in a desert of unfriendly days. Why, most of these people hardly speak to each other when they meet, unless it be at a function such as this. There is, of course, one exception; outside the church on Sunday morning they all shake hands and smile sweetly. But from Monday to Saturday, when not at work, they glower and spend all their time brooding over imaginary slights and each other’s shortcomings.”“But, under such conditions, how on earth does the place hold together. What is the cement?”“That was a great puzzle to me at first; however, now that I have become accustomed to the place, all seems natural enough. The fact is, these people cannot be judged by the standard of any others. Most of them have risen from a much lower social plane and in the rising have acquired an exaggerated idea of their own individual importance. Each one is continually polishing up his dignity as though it were a little tin plate and resenting imaginary specks of rust. Then they all run in so many small grooves, and each groove appears to the one who runs in it to be the most important one in the world. The curious thing is that they are all conscientiously devoted to the missionary cause. They certainly do their work well.”“I suppose they all think they are Christians in the fullest sense of the term?”“Rather!—well, you heard Mr Mactavish to-day. But you ought to hear them at the prayer-meetings. And many of them know their Bibles nearly by heart. It is all very curious. I used to talk to uncle about these things, but he got angry. I once suggested, after a very bad general quarrel, that he should make them all come to our house and there kiss and make friends.”“Surely, Mr Mactavish fell in with that proposal?”“I said I made the suggestion to my uncle, not to Mr Mactavish.”“Well, if you want to give the plan a chance of success, propose it next time to Mr Mactavish.”“Well, since you are so interested, I make you a present of the notion. Of course, I do not come into the scheme; I have fallen out with no one. You might point out that they would only be following the example of the early Christians.”“The pioneers of a new evangel should always practise what they preach.”“Very well, you be the pioneer. You can preach to Mr Mactavish and practise on Miss Mellish and Miss Angus. But I must now go in. I hope we will have many more long talks. Lest you should become concerted, I will tell you that the great dread of my life is lest I should acquire a Scotch accent, so I value your speech highly as a corrective.”“It has become available only just in time. I would not, for the world, say that your accent is Scotch, but you must excuse my saying that now and then there is just a little suggestion of, one might say, finely-ground oatmeal, in your otherwise irreproachable speech. Yes, I think you cannot do better than cultivate my acquaintance as much as possible.”Jeanie, after flashing a look of indignation at Benson, darted into the house.ThreeLife at the Institution was void of all but the most trivial incident. Miss Mellish began to thaw slightly towards Benson. This was soon attributed by the astute Allister to its true cause: gratitude to the schoolmaster for having attracted Jeanie. Miss Mellish was, of course, fully persuaded that the latter was a designing minx, who had deliberately set her cap at Mr Mactavish. He was no longer actively aggressive, but had remained implacable in so far as the drumstick question was concerned. Two months after their arrival neither Benson nor Allister had tasted wing, breast or liver of the many birds at whose autopsies they had been present. Benson often joined Jeanie in her walks, for the purpose, as he said, of safeguarding the purity of her accent.At length the day arrived when Mr Mactavish’s place at the dinner-table was vacant. He was reported as being very ill with gout. A messenger was sent with speed to the Residency for Dr Jenkin, the District Surgeon, but that practitioner was found to be suffering from incipient delirium tremens. Then Allister was called in.That evening Allister came to Benson’s room, where he sat down and gravely lit his pipe.“Well, how is Mr Mactavish?” asked Benson.“His physical malady is subsidin’ but I fear his mental condition is no that o’ a professin’ Christian.”“Well, I’m glad the old chap is better. I’ve always heard that gout affected the temper.”“It does, awfully. Ye’ll be glad to hear that the chicken question has been satisfactorily settled.”“What do you mean?”“I may as well begin at the beginnin’ and tell ye all about it. Of course, you know Mactavish did not send for me until he’d found out that Jenkin was so fou’ he didn’t know colchicum from prussic acid. Well, I went to see the old man. He was sittin’ wi’ his left fut wrapped up and restin’ on a chair, lookin’, well, if he’d only had twa horns and a tail Auld Nick wud have just capered wi’ envy.”“‘I’m concerned to see ye sae oot o’ sorts, Mr Mactavish,’ said I, seempathetically.“‘Ah, mon,’ says he, ‘I feel like Dauvid in the fowerty-ninth Psalm when I think o’ that swillin’ swine of a Jenkin. I didna want to trouble ye, Mr Allister, knowin’ how hard ye work, but I juist had to. Hae ye brocht the colchicum wi’ ye?’“‘Wark never stands in the way o’ my helpin’ a sufferin’ fellow-creature,’ said I, ‘and I can seem-pathise wi’ ye fine just now, for I’m in a bad way myself. The wame o’ me’s just tied into knots wi’ the indigestion.’ Here I gied a groan.“‘Hoots, mon,’ says he wi’ a screech, ‘indigestion’s nae mair to be compared wi’ gout than a midge is wi’ a mad dog. Gie me the colchicum.’“‘Mr Mactavish,’ said I, ‘ye’ve evidently no idea how I suffer. Not alone is my wame tied into knots, but sufferin’ has seriously affected my memory. Will ye believe me when I tell ye that I cannot for the life o’ me remember where I put the jar o’ colchicum?’“With that he sat straight up and stared at me for a bit; then he fell back wi’ a squeal, for a twinge just made him feel as if his big toe were bein’ twisted off.“‘I’m no sure,’ said I, after a while, ‘but that if I could see some prospect o’ my indigestion gettin’ better, I might concentrate my mind sufficiently to remember where the colchicum is.’“‘What do ye mean?’ he asked.“‘Mr Mactavish,’ said I most impressively, ‘when Peter saw the sheet descendin’ wi’ a’ the beasts an’ birds in it—well, I’d stake every scruple o’ colchicum I ever saw that every fowl had twa wings and a liver; but since I’ve been eatin’ at your table not a wing o’ the many chickens ye ha’ carved has ever fluttered either to me or to Benson, and although ye’ve helped me to many a gizzard, ye’ve never given me a liver, even by mistake. It’s the lang, weary course o’ femoral muscle that is underminin’ my constitution. For many, many weeks those drumsticks ye’re so generous of, have been beatin’ the Deil’s tattoo on my sufferin’ ribs.’“He lay for a long time wi’ his eyes closed. Then he said, quite humbly—“‘Mr Allister, ye’re a hard mon;—but gin ye let bygones be bygones, I’ll help ye to the liver wing o’ every fowl I carve for the next ten years.’“‘A wing each to Benson and me when there’s two chickens on the table, and one liver in three between us. These are the conditions, Mr Mactavish.’“‘It’s my duty to submit when spitefully used,’ he replied; ‘gi’e me the colchicum.’“Wi’ that my memory came back quite suddenly, and I remembered that the colchicum was in my pocket. I gave him a liberal dose.”Two days later Mr Mactavish reappeared at table. The principal item of the banquet was, as usual, a pair of boiled chickens. The boarding-master was better than his word. Benson and Allister each got a liver wing. After a pause of indecision the carver helped Miss Mellish to one and Miss Angus to the other of the remaining wings. Then, with a sigh, and the mien of a suffering saint, he placed a drumstick upon his own plate.He ate his dinner with an expression of proud resignation suggestive of Pope Alexander VI washing the feet of the poor. Benson nearly repeated his former reprehensible conduct; he managed, however, to avoid disgracing himself, but narrowly escaped apoplexy in the process.Next Sunday, Mr Campbell happening to be absent on clerical duty, Mr Mactavish held service in his place. As an extra lesson he read the 22nd Psalm. When he reached the text “they gaped at me with their mouths as a raving and a roaring lion,” he looked straight at Benson and Allister, who were sitting together.It only remains to be recorded that Mr Mactavish adhered with strictness to the terms of the compact into which he was forced by the guileful Allister.

“A chiel’s amang ye takin’ notes,And, faith, he’ll prent it.”—Burns.

“A chiel’s amang ye takin’ notes,And, faith, he’ll prent it.”—Burns.

It was by a mere coincidence that Raymond Benson and John Allister, who were both bound for Rossdale, met in the train running from Cape Town to the eastern frontier of the Cape Colony. Rossdale is a large mission institution situate in one of what are known as the Native Territories. It is liberally endowed by the United Presbyterian Church of Scotland, and has for its object the evangelisation and education of Bantu natives.

Benson, a Cape Colonist by birth, had obtained through the Cape Education Department the appointment of second teacher at the Institution; Allister had just arrived from Scotland, and had been selected by the Central Mission Board as book-keeper and general accountant. As he had acquired a fair amount of medical knowledge—he had, as a matter of fact, only been prevented by financial misfortune from finishing his courses at the University of Edinburgh and qualifying as a physician—he was also expected to practise the healing art among the residents at the Mission.

Benson possessed a good constitution and a keen sense of humour. He was a clean-built man of middle height and dark complexion, with features of a slightly Jewish cast. His object in going to Rossdale was the acquirement of the Bantu language spoken in the vicinity. Moreover, he had no intention of staying more than a short time should the life there prove uncongenial.

Allister was a big, raw-boned Scotsman with a strong, clean-shaven face. His usual expression was extremely morbid, but now and then a very sweet smile would light up his rugged features. His speech had always a strong Scotch twang, and he occasionally—especially when excited—broke into the very broadest Doric.

Benson and Allister became very good friends during the course of the journey. From the railway terminus they travelled for a couple of days and nights in the post-cart, which delivered them at a village some twenty miles from their destination. At this village a trap from Rossdale, driven by a Kaffir who was quite ignorant of any but his mother-tongue, met them.

Allister, like Benson, had no missionary zeal. In fact he was absolutely without religious convictions of any kind, a circumstance which he had carefully concealed from the Mission Board. A weakness of the chest had rendered it highly advisable that he should leave Scotland for a year or two and seek some warmer clime. But his intention was to return to Scotland as soon as he should have saved enough money to admit of a continuance of his studies.

A fine autumn evening was drawing to its golden close when the rickety cart bearing the two strangers descended the hillside at the foot of which Rossdale lay. The vehicle, far too light for its springs, had shaken the inmates cruelly; nevertheless they had been able to extract a good deal of enjoyment from the incidents of the journey. Their course lay through an undulating, grassy country thickly dotted over with little villages composed of beehive-shaped huts, among which numbers of naked children were playing. Every now and then they passed groups of men and women. The former had lost much of their picturesqueness owing to being dressed mainly in shoddy European clothing, but each carried at least one long, strong stick, and stalked along with a look of dignified disdain. The women were all draped in ochre-coloured blankets, fastened under the arm-pits and reaching to below the knee. But they held themselves erect and walked with a gait duchesses might have envied.

The Institution was an important one and employed a large staff. The Industrial Arts were important items in the curriculum. It lay more or less in the centre of a hollow about a mile in circumference. The buildings were massive and extensive. Around them lay a large plantation of blue-gum and oak trees, with here and there patches of orchard. On every side the landscape showed gently-swelling hills of inconspicuous height, thickly dotted with groups of huts. Herds of cattle browsed contentedly on the rich grass. The gracious autumn gloaming shed a soft radiance over the settlement. It looked like a spot consecrated to civilisation and peace—an oasis in the desert of savagery. Benson drew a deep breath of satisfaction; something seemed to whisper to him that life here might include compensations other than humorous ones. He communicated this thought to his companion, who, however, cynically replied to the effect that appearances were apt to be deceitful.

The vehicle drew up in front of the large central building, one wing of which was used as a dormitory for the boys, the other as quarters by most of the European staff. A neat-looking native servant-maid received the strangers and conducted them to their rooms upstairs. Soon afterwards, the ringing of a very discordant bell sounded through the premises. Benson and Allister then descended to the refectory, where, they had been informed, tea would be served.

Large tables were ranged across the room, and at these the native boys, each with a plate and a large tin mug before him, were seated. A small table in one of the corners was reserved for the Europeans; at this Mr Duncan Mactavish, the boarding-master, Miss Mellish, the matron, and Miss Angus, the assistant matron, were seated. Benson and Allister, upon introducing themselves, were greeted with a reserve which, on the part of any but Scotch people, would hardly have been civil.

Mr Mactavish was a tall, dark, dour-looking man of about forty-five. Miss Mellish was stout, light-haired, pallid, and severe-looking. Miss Angus was a little, dark, withered-visaged woman; she had a nervous habit of winking her eyes continually when spoken to or when speaking. When Miss Mellish made a remark, as she seldom did, her mouth closed immediately afterwards with a kind of snap. Mr Mactavish being a bachelor, these ladies attended to the domestic arrangements of this branch of the Institution, under his supervision. They considered him a very great man indeed; he considered them women of discrimination.

A hymn was sung, a prayer was said (extempore) and a very lengthy blessing invoked upon the food; then all sat down to supper. The two strangers seemed to be looked upon with a certain amount of suspicion. Mr Mactavish applied himself with systematic diligence to the food and did not utter a word until his robust appetite had been assuaged. Benson and Allister were too hungry to mind the lack of conversation.

“I’m thinkin’ it’s a fine drive ye’ll have had,” said Mr Mactavish, after having subjected Allister to long and intent scrutiny.

“Middling” was the laconic response.

“Ye’ll be new to yer wark, mebbe,” resumed Mactavish, addressing Benson.

“Not quite,” he replied; “I have spent the last three years teaching in Cape Town.”

“Ah, but that’s anither thing; ye’ll have lots to learn o’ oor methods here.”

“I believe I came rather to teach than to learn,” replied Benson, gently.

Three indignant pairs of eyes focussed themselves upon the speaker, who, however, looked blandly unconscious of giving offence. Mr Mactavish turned once more to Allister—“Ye’ll have some skill as a physeecian, I’m told.”

“It depends upon what’s wrang wi’ ye,” replied Allister, with imperturbability. “I can pull teeth fine, and I’ve learnt to shoe a horse.”

This seemed to strike Mr Mactavish with momentary helplessness. However, after a pause, he returned to the attack—

“I suppose ye found the roads awfu’; that’s ane o’ the things we’ve to put up wi’ here—havin’ oor bones mashed when we travel. But a sense o’ duty’s a graund thing to gie ye patience.”

Allister remained silent, so Benson replied—“Yes, we got a bit bumped. The road is certainly not a credit to whoever is responsible for keeping it in order. That last drift, after you descend the hill beyond the trees, is a proper boneshaker.”

Mr Mactavish glared. He happened to be responsible for the state of this particular drift, and he looked upon certain repairs recently there effected as a triumph of engineering skill.

At the conclusion of supper, Mr Mactavish, with an attempt at geniality, invited the strangers to accompany him to the residence of the Principal of the Institution, the Rev. Mr Campbell. The visitors were ushered into a sitting-room which was furnished and decorated with exceedingly good taste. Mr Campbell was a widower, and childless. His niece, Jeanie, a girl of nineteen, kept house for him. Benson felt a certain mild curiosity as to what Jeanie Campbell was like. She had been described to him as being a remarkably pretty girl.

Mr Mactavish sat nervously on the edge of a chair which was slightly higher than the others and gazed intently at the closed door. Benson and Allister examined the engravings with which the walls were decorated. Suddenly and noiselessly the door opened and Jeanie entered with smiling face and outstretched hand.

“How do you do, Mr Mactavish—and you are Mr Benson, I’m sure. Oh, there is no need to introduce us. And Mr Allister, welcome to Rossdale. I knew you had both arrived, and was most anxious to see you. How good of you to come over at once.”

Benson for once found the reality transcend the ideal he had formed. Jeanie was remarkably pretty. She had a beautiful figure, with nearly perfect hands and feet. Her eyes were steel-grey, bright with vitality and full of expression; her hair was dark, plentiful and wavy. As is usual in the case of South African girls, her colouring was somewhat wanting in tone, but her skin was smooth and clear and her lips red and tempting. Her mobile face seemed to be constantly changing its expression.

Mr Mactavish shifted his feet, cleared his throat and behaved generally like a nervous schoolboy. He more than once struggled to speak but found the effort beyond his strength. All this amused Benson and Allister vastly. It could be seen at a glance that the elderly boarding-master was in love with the girl, and Benson was fairly dazzled by the possibilities of amusement which the situation promised. He looked at Jeanie and happened to intercept a lightning-like glance from her. She could see that Benson had rightly gauged the situation and a double flash of sympathetic electricity passed between them.

“I’m hopin’, Miss Jeanie, that your tea-meetin’ at the Girls’ School was a successful one,” said Mr Mactavish. This remark suggested, as it were, the mouse brought forth by the mountain, it was so utterly trivial as compared with the labour and trepidation which preceded it.

“Oh,” answered Jeanie, lightly, “it was not either more or less dissipated than usual. Do you like tea-meetings, Mr Benson?”

“It depends, of course, upon who one meets and who pours out the tea. Don’t you think so, Mr Mactavish?”

“Oor tea-meetin’s have a purpose,” said Mr Mactavish, severely; “they are a feature in oor method o’ educatin’ and civilisin’ the natives.”

“In Scotland they’re talkin’ o’ suppressin’ tea-meetin’s by statute,” said Allister, with a look at Jeanie, “they gie such occasions for ungodly gossip amang the weemen.”

“Oor tea’s flavoured wi’ the sugar o’ Christian charity and the milk o’ human kindness,” retorted Mr Mactavish, sternly.

Just then the door again opened and Mr Campbell, the Principal, entered. He was a big, red-bearded man with bushy eyebrows. Jeanie very prettily introduced the strangers to him, and he soon was deep in conversation with Allister, who knew several of his friends in Scotland.

Benson crossed the room and took a low seat close to Jeanie. Mr Mactavish evidently regarded this proceeding with disapproval, for he turned his chair slightly, so as to get the girl and her companion out of the range of his vision, and took an apparently absorbing interest in the conversation of the others.

“You are a Colonist, are you not?” asked the girl.

“Yes,” replied Benson, “I hope you don’t object.”

“Object? I should think not. Good gracious! If they had sent two more Scotsmen here I should have run away and become an hospital nurse or a...”

“Were you going to say ‘barmaid’?” asked Benson, sinking his voice.

“How—how did you know?” gasped the girl.

“Sympathetic intuition, I suppose. But why do you object to Scotsmen? I thought you were Scotch yourself.”

“Mr Benson, if you ever dare to say such a thing again, we shall quarrel. Because you were born in South Africa are you a Hottentot? I happened to be born in Scotland, but you can hardly blame me for a thing that happened when I was so very young; I was only a year old when I came away. No, I am a Cape Colonist; I have breathed Cape air and eaten Cape food ever since I was a baby. In fact, I’m just Cape from head to foot.”

“I’m very glad to be able to sympathise with you, for I happen to be very fond of the Cape myself, but just now will you satisfy a perhaps impertinent curiosity by telling me why you object so much to Scotch people?”

“You will know, without being told, before you have been here many months. One does not object to leg of mutton, or even pumpkin on the table now and then. But suppose you were to be fed, say, on pumpkin for breakfast, dinner and supper, including entrées and dessert, every day for several years, you’d long for a change of diet, would you not?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Scotch people are very good indeed, ‘unco’ guid’ in fact—and no one would dispute the fact did they not carry inscriptions of their virtues printed all over them in large letters. And then—the way they run down everything South African. What puzzles me is, why they ever left their own superior country. I’m sure we could manage our own affairs well enough without them.”

“Well, for my part,” replied Benson, “I have liked most of the Scotch people I have met. I must, at the same time, own it to be evident that when the individual prayed ‘Lord, gi’e us a guid conceit o’ oorsels,’ not alone must the prayer have been literally granted, but it must have been put up on behalf of the whole nation.”

On the way homeward Benson tried to draw Mr Mactavish into conversation, but without success. Allister was unwontedly silent. He had, as he said, been “takin’ notes.”

As a matter of fact, the boarding-master was not at all pleased at the evident pleasure Jeanie had shown in Benson’s society. Mr Mactavish was badly in love; he scented untoward complications. For a long time he had been hovering on the brink of a proposal, and, although Jeanie had never given him the least encouragement, his “guid conceit” made him as sanguine of acceptance as ever was the Laird o’ Cockpen.

Mr Mactavish was the senior member of the Institution staff—so far as length of service went. He had seen Principals come and Principals go, but since the birth of the Institution there had been but one boarding-master, and his name was Mactavish. Consequently, he had come to regard the fortunes of the establishment as being bound up with his own personality. As a matter of fact none of the various Principals had ever properly asserted himself; each had tacitly acquiesced in the dour boarding-master’s assumption that he was the pivot upon which the whole organisation revolved.

He now determined upon making both Benson and Allister feel the full weight of his authority. Benson he would tackle first.

“Ye’ll begin your wark i’ the mornin’,” said he to Benson as they separated for the night.

“Oh, we’ll see. Perhaps I’ll take a day off and look around the place before putting on the collar.”

“We’re no idlers here; you’ll hae plenty o’ time to look around after school hours.”

Benson had to bite his lip to prevent himself from telling Mr Mactavish with emphasis to mind his own business. But he was not an ill-natured fellow, and, having gauged the boarding-master’s feelings towards Jeanie correctly, had no difficulty in ascribing this churlishness to its true source.

After all, Benson took over his class next day. The teacher whose place he was taking was anxious to leave at once, and could only do so on condition of Benson’s foregoing his “day off.” Mr Mactavish quite mistakenly took the circumstance as indicating submission to his authority.

The class numbered some forty boys, their ages ranging between eleven and fifteen years. Benson was agreeably surprised at the tone of the school. The lads were fairly intelligent, and discipline had been well kept up. But he noticed that the names, rather than the sense of things taught, were retained, that memory was quite out of proportion to understanding. However, the boys were evidently anxious to learn, and the schoolroom was lofty, commodious and well lighted. Benson felt as though he were going to enjoy his work.

At noon he went over to his room; he met Allister on the way.

“I’ve been takin’ a walk round,” said the latter, “and have had a long talk wi’ Maclean, the carpenter. He’s just burstin’ wi’ gall an’ general information. Losh! but doesn’t he hate Mactavish.”

“Well, let me have some information without the gall. I want to know as much as possible about these people.”

“Man, but we’ll have lots o’ fun. It appears that Mactavish is in love wi’ young Jeanie, and both Miss Mellish and Miss Angus are in love with Mactavish. But these are trifles. The main thing is that the place has been groanin’ under Mactavish’s tyranny for ever so long; all is ripe for a revolution. Losh! but it’s a Christian community.”

“Well,” replied Benson, “I, for one, will not join in any revolution. I have my own work to do; I’ll take care no one interferes with that. But I mean to lead a quiet life if they will let me.”

“I’m thinkin’ ye’ll have to tak’ sides. ‘Whoso is not wi’ us is against us’ is a very philosophical text. Are ye goin’ to fish?”

“Fish? Rather; it’s my favourite sport. But where? I’ve not heard of any river about here.”

“I was meanin’ in the Apostolic sense—‘fishers o’ men,’ you know.”

“Oh, that’s quite out of my line. I’m a pedagogue, not a missionary.”

“Well, ye’ll have to cast a line at the prayer-meetin’ here. If ye don’t, Mactavish’ll gie ye drumsticks. It appears they have fowls for dinner five days a week regularly—sometimes oftener. It’s the rule that if ye don’t fish ye’ll never get a wing, but if ye cast a good long line wi’ a takin’ text for bait, not alone will ye get a wing, but sometimes a piece of liver as well.”

“Oh, nonsense; the carpenter has been pulling your leg.”

“All right; just wait an’ ye’ll see.”

Just then the dinner-bell sounded, and the two friends descended to the refectory together. The only meat on the table was a pair of boiled fowls. Mr Mactavish, with great deliberation and a skill born of long practice, dismembered them. Then he paused as though to rest after his exertions.

“Ye’ll be comin’ to oor prayer-meetin’ this evenin’?” he said, addressing Benson.

“I don’t know that I shall.”

“But we’ve counted on a discoorse from ye, and I’ve told Mr Campbell that ye’ll tak’ your turn to-night.”

“Very good of you, I’m sure,” replied Benson, nettled, “but I know what I’ve engaged to do, and holding prayer-meetings is not included. You had no authority to tell Mr Campbell anything of the kind.”

“Well, Mr Allister, we’ll just have to ca’ your services into requisition.”

“Ye’ll find me in the office frae nine till five every day. Outside that time I’ll do no wark, unless ye want me to pull a tooth or compound a powder. In these cases I’ll oblige at any hour of the four-an’-twenty.”

Mr Mactavish uttered, with alarming intonation, a sound which cannot be expressed by the whole twenty-six-fold force of the alphabet, but which used to be expressed as “humph!” Then he proceeded to divide the members of the fowls. One of these had been rather more debilitated than the other. The inferior drumsticks were, after the ladies had been helped, duly apportioned to Benson and Allister, respectively. Benson looked up and caught Allister’s eye which was bent on him with great gravity. Then his sense of humour overcame the schoolmaster and he fell into an absolutely uncontrollable fit of laughter.

All proceedings stopped. Miss Mellish glared indignantly at the delinquent; Miss Angus gasped and winked her eyes with hysterical vigour. Allister’s face expressed nothing but sombre surprise; the boarding-master turned purple with inarticulate fury. The contagion of Benson’s laughter spread to the boys; within a few seconds the forms rocked with mirth. Then Mr Mactavish leaped up, seized the smallest boy on the nearest form and dragged him out of the room. Benson, who had regained command of himself under stress of the tragic situation, noticed that the ejected boy had given little or no cause for complaint.

Dinner over, Benson went to his room, threw himself on the bed, and laughed so violently that the room shook. Allister came in, lit his pipe, and regarded his distressed friend with inscrutable gravity.

“Well,” he said, “was I not right?”

“Oh yes,” replied Benson, between paroxysms, “but I think I’ll roll under the table and die if such a thing happens again.”

“I don’t despair o’ oor gettin’ wings, and even an occasional liver, although we don’t fish,” said Allister, after a contemplative pause.

“Leg, wing or liver, for mercy’s sake don’t look at me again as you did to-day. I hate putting myself in the wrong, and my performance was very discreditable.”

“An interestin’ fact I ascertained from Maclean was that Mactavish suffers from severe gout periodically, and that the malady only yields to treatment wi’ colchicum,” said Allister, with a suspiciously innocent expression.

Next day Benson and Allister received a note apiece from Jeanie, asking them to come over to the Girls’ School in the afternoon and take tea.

On arrival they were ushered into a prim little parlour. This soon became filled to overflowing with guests. Here they met, for the first time, Mr Drew, the senior teacher of the theology section, and his wife. Mr Drew was short, stout, dark and wide-awake-looking. He appeared to be under the influence of his wife, who was evidently much older than he. She was a woman of large frame, with hollow cheeks and light-red hair. Her face and eyes were pale; her voice suggested pulmonary delicacy.

The three ladies having charge of the female department of the Institution acted jointly as hostesses. Miss Meiklejohn, the eldest, was a tall, angular Scotswoman with a strong, intellectual face. She spoke with measured deliberation and was evidently unaccustomed to having her authority questioned. Miss Struben was short and exceedingly stout. She had a depressed and disappointed look, and whenever she made a remark, glanced apprehensively at Miss Meiklejohn to see how it would be taken. These two had been for many years members of the Institution staff; they regarded Mr Mactavish with the utmost reverence. Apart from their work they had one object only in life, and that was to see a match between the boarding-master and Miss Mellish. They had noted and deplored the Great Man’s weakness for Jeanie. However, as they looked upon this untoward circumstance as due to her siren wiles, they regarded the aberration with pity rather than blame.

Miss Robertson, the junior teacher, had only recently been imported from Scotland. A comely girl with rosy cheeks, bright brown eyes and a generous figure, she gave one the idea that she longed for a different life and that she felt as irksome the perpetually revolving treadmill of ultra propriety that Fate compelled her to climb. In fact she struck Benson as having a healthy spice of the World, the Flesh and the Devil under her coil of abundant hair.

Jeanie was the only one of the ladies who appeared to be at ease; she laughed and chatted gaily, while the others only interjected formal remarks now and then. Allister felt drawn towards little Miss Robertson; the suppressed vitality in her brown eyes aroused his interest and sympathy. With some difficulty he made his way across the crowded room to where she was sitting.

“You and I are among the latest arrivals, I believe,” he said pleasantly.

“So we are, but I have been through my ordeal, so am only a spectator to-day.”

“Might one ask what you mean?”

“Don’t you know that this is a state function, got up to welcome you and Mr Benson?”

“Indeed I did not. Oh, the guilefulness of women!—and Miss Jeanie called it a simple tea-party.”

“Well, you had better begin preparing your speech. I had to make one. Mind and be careful to make a good first impression.”

Just then the ominous sound of Mr Mactavish clearing his throat was heard, and an apprehensive silence fell upon the assemblage. Jeanie looked at Benson with unutterable mischief in her eyes. Then the voice of the boarding-master began in measured, lugubrious tones—

“Leddies and gentlemen,—fellow-warkers i’ the vineyard, we have met to-day to welcome two who have just put hands to the plough which runs in oor furrows o’ grace. One o’ them comes frae the land we left—most o’ us many years ago—to dwell in this clime o’ savagery and spend oor lives in reclaimin’ the heathen frae his barbarism. We know what we have done in the past; we know how hard oor labour was at first; but we must be thankful that strength was given tae enable us tae break the hard, virgin sod, and thus make the wark lighter for those who come after.

“We will humbly trust that oor friends will duly appreciate the enorrmous responsibilities restin’ upon them as missioners, an’ that they will assist in keepin’ this little community what it is—‘a light tae lighten the Gentiles,’ and a continual example tae the heathen o’ the true Christian life.

“One o’ the things we most firrmly endeavour tae cultivate is a true earnestness o’ purpose ina’branches o’ oor wark, and the consequent avoidance o’ freevolity o’ a’ sorts. Oor little warld has its laws and salutary customs, and tae these a’ must conforrm. As to what these are, I, as senior member o’ the Institution staff, will be glad to gie information. Mr Allister and Mr Benson, in the unavoidable absence o’ oor respected Principal, I bid ye a hearty welcome.”

Allister flatly refused to respond, so Benson arose and made a few appropriate remarks. Soon afterwards the meeting broke up. Jeanie and Benson met at the door and walked on together.

“Are you not ashamed of yourself?” he asked, “for getting us down to that function under false pretences.”

“I am, rather; but I knew that if Mr Allister had had any inkling as to what was going to happen, he would not have come. But all my dissimulation was thrown away, for he did not make a speech after all. But do tell me what you think of us?”

“Well, my dominant feeling is one of hopeless inability to live up to your ideals. You see, I am not in any way cut out for a missionary. Moreover, I could not conscientiously recommend any self-respecting Gentile to light his candle at my lamp.”

“Oh, so far as that goes, Mr Mactavish’s lamp is so overflowing with oil, and shines so vividly that we might all quench ours without putting the Gentile public to any inconvenience. But I am keen on hearing original impressions; do oblige by telling yours.”

“It is quite clear you have not even guessed at the magnitude of my limitations. Nothing, as a rule, strikes my imagination unless it be funny. And I have not yet got sufficient ‘atmosphere,’ as the artists say, to enable me to appreciate properly the local humour. Truly, the pursuit of the humorous is my only serious occupation.”

“You are a disappointing man. Now, I am as fond of running other people’s impressions to earth as you are of hunting jokes. You must have acquired some impressions; do communicate them.”

“Well, the thing which strikes me as most remarkable about these people is the utter absence of anything like friendliness towards each other, or, in fact, towards anyone.”

“Ah, but when you have been here as long as I, you will look upon this afternoon as an oasis in a desert of unfriendly days. Why, most of these people hardly speak to each other when they meet, unless it be at a function such as this. There is, of course, one exception; outside the church on Sunday morning they all shake hands and smile sweetly. But from Monday to Saturday, when not at work, they glower and spend all their time brooding over imaginary slights and each other’s shortcomings.”

“But, under such conditions, how on earth does the place hold together. What is the cement?”

“That was a great puzzle to me at first; however, now that I have become accustomed to the place, all seems natural enough. The fact is, these people cannot be judged by the standard of any others. Most of them have risen from a much lower social plane and in the rising have acquired an exaggerated idea of their own individual importance. Each one is continually polishing up his dignity as though it were a little tin plate and resenting imaginary specks of rust. Then they all run in so many small grooves, and each groove appears to the one who runs in it to be the most important one in the world. The curious thing is that they are all conscientiously devoted to the missionary cause. They certainly do their work well.”

“I suppose they all think they are Christians in the fullest sense of the term?”

“Rather!—well, you heard Mr Mactavish to-day. But you ought to hear them at the prayer-meetings. And many of them know their Bibles nearly by heart. It is all very curious. I used to talk to uncle about these things, but he got angry. I once suggested, after a very bad general quarrel, that he should make them all come to our house and there kiss and make friends.”

“Surely, Mr Mactavish fell in with that proposal?”

“I said I made the suggestion to my uncle, not to Mr Mactavish.”

“Well, if you want to give the plan a chance of success, propose it next time to Mr Mactavish.”

“Well, since you are so interested, I make you a present of the notion. Of course, I do not come into the scheme; I have fallen out with no one. You might point out that they would only be following the example of the early Christians.”

“The pioneers of a new evangel should always practise what they preach.”

“Very well, you be the pioneer. You can preach to Mr Mactavish and practise on Miss Mellish and Miss Angus. But I must now go in. I hope we will have many more long talks. Lest you should become concerted, I will tell you that the great dread of my life is lest I should acquire a Scotch accent, so I value your speech highly as a corrective.”

“It has become available only just in time. I would not, for the world, say that your accent is Scotch, but you must excuse my saying that now and then there is just a little suggestion of, one might say, finely-ground oatmeal, in your otherwise irreproachable speech. Yes, I think you cannot do better than cultivate my acquaintance as much as possible.”

Jeanie, after flashing a look of indignation at Benson, darted into the house.

Life at the Institution was void of all but the most trivial incident. Miss Mellish began to thaw slightly towards Benson. This was soon attributed by the astute Allister to its true cause: gratitude to the schoolmaster for having attracted Jeanie. Miss Mellish was, of course, fully persuaded that the latter was a designing minx, who had deliberately set her cap at Mr Mactavish. He was no longer actively aggressive, but had remained implacable in so far as the drumstick question was concerned. Two months after their arrival neither Benson nor Allister had tasted wing, breast or liver of the many birds at whose autopsies they had been present. Benson often joined Jeanie in her walks, for the purpose, as he said, of safeguarding the purity of her accent.

At length the day arrived when Mr Mactavish’s place at the dinner-table was vacant. He was reported as being very ill with gout. A messenger was sent with speed to the Residency for Dr Jenkin, the District Surgeon, but that practitioner was found to be suffering from incipient delirium tremens. Then Allister was called in.

That evening Allister came to Benson’s room, where he sat down and gravely lit his pipe.

“Well, how is Mr Mactavish?” asked Benson.

“His physical malady is subsidin’ but I fear his mental condition is no that o’ a professin’ Christian.”

“Well, I’m glad the old chap is better. I’ve always heard that gout affected the temper.”

“It does, awfully. Ye’ll be glad to hear that the chicken question has been satisfactorily settled.”

“What do you mean?”

“I may as well begin at the beginnin’ and tell ye all about it. Of course, you know Mactavish did not send for me until he’d found out that Jenkin was so fou’ he didn’t know colchicum from prussic acid. Well, I went to see the old man. He was sittin’ wi’ his left fut wrapped up and restin’ on a chair, lookin’, well, if he’d only had twa horns and a tail Auld Nick wud have just capered wi’ envy.”

“‘I’m concerned to see ye sae oot o’ sorts, Mr Mactavish,’ said I, seempathetically.

“‘Ah, mon,’ says he, ‘I feel like Dauvid in the fowerty-ninth Psalm when I think o’ that swillin’ swine of a Jenkin. I didna want to trouble ye, Mr Allister, knowin’ how hard ye work, but I juist had to. Hae ye brocht the colchicum wi’ ye?’

“‘Wark never stands in the way o’ my helpin’ a sufferin’ fellow-creature,’ said I, ‘and I can seem-pathise wi’ ye fine just now, for I’m in a bad way myself. The wame o’ me’s just tied into knots wi’ the indigestion.’ Here I gied a groan.

“‘Hoots, mon,’ says he wi’ a screech, ‘indigestion’s nae mair to be compared wi’ gout than a midge is wi’ a mad dog. Gie me the colchicum.’

“‘Mr Mactavish,’ said I, ‘ye’ve evidently no idea how I suffer. Not alone is my wame tied into knots, but sufferin’ has seriously affected my memory. Will ye believe me when I tell ye that I cannot for the life o’ me remember where I put the jar o’ colchicum?’

“With that he sat straight up and stared at me for a bit; then he fell back wi’ a squeal, for a twinge just made him feel as if his big toe were bein’ twisted off.

“‘I’m no sure,’ said I, after a while, ‘but that if I could see some prospect o’ my indigestion gettin’ better, I might concentrate my mind sufficiently to remember where the colchicum is.’

“‘What do ye mean?’ he asked.

“‘Mr Mactavish,’ said I most impressively, ‘when Peter saw the sheet descendin’ wi’ a’ the beasts an’ birds in it—well, I’d stake every scruple o’ colchicum I ever saw that every fowl had twa wings and a liver; but since I’ve been eatin’ at your table not a wing o’ the many chickens ye ha’ carved has ever fluttered either to me or to Benson, and although ye’ve helped me to many a gizzard, ye’ve never given me a liver, even by mistake. It’s the lang, weary course o’ femoral muscle that is underminin’ my constitution. For many, many weeks those drumsticks ye’re so generous of, have been beatin’ the Deil’s tattoo on my sufferin’ ribs.’

“He lay for a long time wi’ his eyes closed. Then he said, quite humbly—

“‘Mr Allister, ye’re a hard mon;—but gin ye let bygones be bygones, I’ll help ye to the liver wing o’ every fowl I carve for the next ten years.’

“‘A wing each to Benson and me when there’s two chickens on the table, and one liver in three between us. These are the conditions, Mr Mactavish.’

“‘It’s my duty to submit when spitefully used,’ he replied; ‘gi’e me the colchicum.’

“Wi’ that my memory came back quite suddenly, and I remembered that the colchicum was in my pocket. I gave him a liberal dose.”

Two days later Mr Mactavish reappeared at table. The principal item of the banquet was, as usual, a pair of boiled chickens. The boarding-master was better than his word. Benson and Allister each got a liver wing. After a pause of indecision the carver helped Miss Mellish to one and Miss Angus to the other of the remaining wings. Then, with a sigh, and the mien of a suffering saint, he placed a drumstick upon his own plate.

He ate his dinner with an expression of proud resignation suggestive of Pope Alexander VI washing the feet of the poor. Benson nearly repeated his former reprehensible conduct; he managed, however, to avoid disgracing himself, but narrowly escaped apoplexy in the process.

Next Sunday, Mr Campbell happening to be absent on clerical duty, Mr Mactavish held service in his place. As an extra lesson he read the 22nd Psalm. When he reached the text “they gaped at me with their mouths as a raving and a roaring lion,” he looked straight at Benson and Allister, who were sitting together.

It only remains to be recorded that Mr Mactavish adhered with strictness to the terms of the compact into which he was forced by the guileful Allister.

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