VII

VIITHE BLUE AND THE GREYA PRE-WAR WAR STORY(The title is selected for its originality. A set of seventy-five maps will be supplied to any reader free for seventy-five cents. This offer is only open till it is closed)

(The title is selected for its originality. A set of seventy-five maps will be supplied to any reader free for seventy-five cents. This offer is only open till it is closed)

The scene was a striking one. It was night. Never had the Mississippi presented a more remarkable appearance. Broad bayous, swollen beyond our powers of description, swirled to and fro in the darkness under trees garlanded with Spanish moss. All moss other than Spanish had been swept away by the angry flood of the river.

Eggleston Lee Carey Randolph, a young Virginian, captain of the ——th company of the ——th regiment of ——'s brigade—even this is more than we ought to say, and is hard to pronounce—attached to the Army of the Tennessee, struggled in vain with the swollenwaters. At times he sank. At other times he went up.

In the intervals he wondered whether it would ever be possible for him to rejoin the particular platoon of the particular regiment to which he belonged, and of which's whereabouts (not having the volume of the army record at hand) he was in ignorance. In the intervals, also, he reflected on his past life to a sufficient extent to give the reader a more or less workable idea as to who and to what he was. His father, the old grey-haired Virginian aristocrat, he could see him still. "Take this sword, Eggleston," he had said, "use it for the State; never for anything else: don't cut string with it or open tin cans. Never sheathe it till the soil of Virginia is free. Keep it bright, my boy: oil it every now and then, and you'll find it an A 1 sword."

Did Eggleston think, too, in his dire peril of another—younger than his father and fairer? Necessarily, he did. "Go, Eggleston!" she had exclaimed, as they said farewell under the portico of his father's house where she wasvisiting, "it is your duty. But mine lies elsewhere. I cannot forget that I am a Northern girl. I must return at once to my people in Pennsylvania. Oh, Egg, when will this cruel war end?"

So had the lovers parted.

Meanwhile—while Eggleston is going up and down for the third time, which is of course the last—suppose we leave him, and turn to consider the general position of the Confederacy. All right: suppose we do.

At this date the Confederate Army of the Tennessee was extended in a line with its right resting on the Tennessee and its left resting on the Mississippi. Its rear rested on the rugged stone hills of the Chickasaba range, while its front rested on the marshes and bayous of the Yazoo. Having thus—as far as we understand military matters—both its flanks covered and its rear protected, its positionwas one which we ourselves consider very comfortable.

It was thus in an admirable situation for holding a review or for discussing the Constitution of the United States in reference to the right of secession.

The following generals rode up and down in front of the army, namely, Mr. A. P. Hill, Mr. Longstreet, and Mr. Joseph Johnston. All these three celebrated men are thus presented to our readers at one and the same time without extra charge.

But who is this tall, commanding figure who rides beside them, his head bent as if listening to what they are saying (he really isn't) while his eye alternately flashes with animation or softens to its natural melancholy? (In fact, we can only compare it to an electric light bulb with the power gone wrong.) Who is it? It is Jefferson C. Davis, President, as our readers will be gratified to learn, of the Confederate States.

It being a fine day and altogether suitable for the purpose, General Longstreet reined inhis prancing black charger (during this distressed period all the horses in both armies were charged: there was no other way to pay for them), and in a few terse words, about three pages, gave his views on the Constitution of the United States.

Jefferson Davis, standing up in his stirrups, delivered a stirring harangue, about six columns, on the powers of the Supreme Court, admirably calculated to rouse the soldiers to frenzy. After which General A. P. Hill offered a short address, soldier-like and to the point, on the fundamental principles of international law, which inflamed the army to the highest pitch.

At this moment an officer approached the President, saluted and stood rigidly at attention. Davis, with that nice punctilio which marked the Southern army, returned the salute.

"Do you speak first?" he said, "or did I?"

"Let me," said the officer. "Your Excellency," he continued, "a young Virginian officer has just been fished out of the Mississippi."

Davis's eye flashed. "Good!" he said. "Look and see if there are many more," andthen he added with a touch of melancholy, "The South needs them: fish them all out. Bring this one here."

Eggleston Lee Carey Randolph, still dripping from the waters of the bayou, was led by the faithful negroes who had rescued him before the generals. Davis, who kept every thread of the vast panorama of the war in his intricate brain, eyed him keenly and directed a few searching questions to him, such as: "Who are you? Where are you? What day of the week is it? How much is nine times twelve?" and so forth. Satisfied with Eggleston's answers, Davis sat in thought a moment, and then continued:

"I am anxious to send some one through the entire line of the Confederate armies in such a way that he will be present at all the great battles and end up at the battle of Gettysburg. Can you do it?"

Randolph looked at his chief with a flush of pride.

"I can."

"Good!" resumed Davis. "To accomplishthis task you must carry despatches. What they will be about I have not yet decided. But it is customary in such cases to write them so that they are calculated, if lost, to endanger the entire Confederate cause. The main thing is, can you carry them?"

"Sir," said Eggleston, raising his hand in a military salute, "I am a Randolph."

Davis with soldierly dignity removed his hat. "I am proud to hear it, Captain Randolph," he said.

"And a Carey," continued our hero.

Davis, with a graciousness all his own, took off his gloves. "I trust you,MajorRandolph," he said.

"And I am a Lee," added Eggleston quickly.

Davis with a courtly bow unbuttoned his jacket. "It is enough," he said. "I trust you. You shall carry the despatches. You are to carry them on your person and, as of course you understand, you are to keep on losing them. You are to drop them into rivers, hide them in old trees, bury them under moss, talk about them in your sleep. In fact, sir," said Davis,with a slight gesture of impatience—it was hisonefault—"you must act towards them as any bearer of Confederate despatches is expected to act. The point is, can you do it, or can't you?"

"Sir," said Randolph, saluting again with simple dignity, "I come from Virginia."

"Pardon me," said the President, saluting with both hands, "I had forgotten it."

Randolph set out that night, mounted upon the fastest horse, in fact the fleetest, that the Confederate Army could supply. He was attended only by a dozen faithful negroes, all devoted to his person.

Riding over the Tennessee mountains by paths known absolutely to no one and never advertised, he crossed the Tombigbee, the Tahoochie and the Tallahassee, all frightfully swollen, and arrived at the headquarters of General Braxton Bragg.

At this moment Bragg was extended over some seven miles of bush and dense swamp. His front rested on the marshes of the Tahoochie River, while his rear was doubled sharply back and rested on a dense growth of cactus plants. Our readers can thus form a fairly accurate idea of Bragg's position. Over against him, not more than fifty miles to the north, his indomitable opponent, Grant, lay in a frog-swamp. The space between them was filled with Union and Confederate pickets, fraternizing, joking, roasting corn, and firing an occasional shot at one another.

One glance at Randolph's despatches was enough.

"Take them at once to General Hood," said Bragg.

"Where is he?" asked Eggleston, with military precision.

Bragg waved his sword towards the east. It was characteristic of the man that even on active service he carried a short sword, while a pistol, probably loaded, protruded from his belt. But such was Bragg. Anyway, he wavedhis sword. "Over there beyond the Tahoochicaba range," he said. "Do you know it?"

"No," said Randolph, "but I can find it."

"Do," said Bragg, and added, "One thing more. On your present mission let nothing stop you. Go forward at all costs. If you come to a river, swim it. If you come to a tree, cut it down. If you strike a fence, climb over it. But don't stop! If you are killed, never mind. Do you understand?"

"Almost," said Eggleston.

Two days later Eggleston reached the headquarters of General Hood, and flung himself, rather than dismounted, from his jaded horse.

"Take me to the General!" he gasped.

They pointed to the log cabin in which General Hood was quartered.

Eggleston flung himself, rather than stepped, through the door.

Hood looked up from the table.

"Who was that flung himself in?" he asked.

Randolph reached out his hand. "Despatches!" he gasped. "Food, whisky!"

"Poor lad," said the General, "you are exhausted. When did you last have food?"

"Yesterday morning," gasped Eggleston.

"You're lucky," said Hood bitterly. "And when did you last have a drink?"

"Two weeks ago," answered Randolph.

"Great Heaven!" said Hood, starting up. "Is it possible? Here, quick, drink it!"

He reached out a bottle of whisky. Randolph drained it to the last drop.

"Now, General," he said, "I am at your service."

Meanwhile Hood had cast his eye over the despatches.

"Major Randolph," he said, "you have seen General Bragg?"

"I have."

"And Generals Johnston and Smith?"

"Yes."

"You have been through Mississippi and Tennessee and seen all the battles there?"

"I have," said Randolph.

"Then," said Hood, "there is nothing left except to send you at once to the army inVirginia under General Lee. Remount your horse at once and ride to Gettysburg. Lose no time."

It was at Gettysburg in Pennsylvania that Randolph found General Lee.

The famous field is too well known to need description. The armies of the North and the South lay in and around the peaceful village of Gettysburg. About it the yellow cornfields basked in the summer sun. The voices of the teachers and the laughter of merry children rose in the harvest-fields. But already the shadow of war was falling over the landscape. As soon as the armies arrived, the shrewder of the farmers suspected that there would be trouble.

General Lee was seated gravely on his horse, looking gravely over the ground before him.

"Major Randolph," said the Confederatechieftain gravely, "you are just in time. We are about to go into action. I need your advice."

Randolph bowed. "Ask me anything you like," he said.

"Do you like the way I have the army placed?" asked Lee.

Our hero directed a searching look over the field. "Frankly, I don't," he said.

"What's the matter with it?" questioned Lee eagerly. "I felt there was something wrong myself. What is it?"

"Your left," said Randolph, "is too far advanced. It sticks out."

"By Heaven!" said Lee, turning to General Longstreet, "the boy is right! Is there anything else?"

"Yes," said Randolph, "your right is crooked. It is all sideways."

"It is. It is!" said Lee, striking his forehead. "I never noticed it. I'll have it straightened at once. Major Randolph, if the Confederate cause is saved, you, and you alone, have saved it."

"One thing more," said Randolph. "Is your artillery loaded?"

"Major Randolph," said Lee, speaking very gravely, "you have saved us again. I never thought of it."

At this moment a bullet sang past Eggleston's ear. He smiled.

"The battle has begun," he murmured. Another bullet buzzed past his other ear. He laughed softly to himself. A shell burst close to his feet. He broke into uncontrolled laughter. This kind of thing always amused him. Then, turning grave in a moment, "Put General Lee under cover," he said to those about him, "spread something over him."

In a few moments the battle was raging in all directions. The Confederate Army was nominally controlled by General Lee, but in reality by our hero. Eggleston was everywhere. Horses were shot under him. Mules were shot around him and behind him. Shells exploded all over him; but with undaunted courage he continued to wave his sword in all directions, riding wherever the fight was hottest.

The battle raged for three days.

On the third day of the conflict, Randolph, his coat shot to rags, his hat pierced, his trousers practically useless, still stood at Lee's side, urging and encouraging him.

Mounted on his charger, he flew to and fro in all parts of the field, moving the artillery, leading the cavalry, animating and directing the infantry. In fact, he was the whole battle.

But his efforts were in vain.

He turned sadly to General Lee. "It is bootless," he said.

"What is?" asked Lee.

"The army," said Randolph. "We must withdraw it."

"Major Randolph," said the Confederate chief, "I yield to your superior knowledge. We must retreat."

A few hours later the Confederate forces, checked but not beaten, were retiring southward towards Virginia.

Eggleston, his head sunk in thought, rode in the rear.

As he thus slowly neared a farmhouse, awoman—a girl—flew from it towards him with outstretched arms.

"Eggleston!" she cried.

Randolph flung himself from his horse. "Leonora!" he gasped. "You here! In all this danger! How comes it? What brings you here?"

"We live here," she said. "This is Pa's house. This is our farm. Gettysburg is our home. Oh, Egg, it has been dreadful, the noise of the battle! We couldn't sleep for it. Pa's all upset about it. But come in. Do come in. Dinner's nearly ready."

Eggleston gazed a moment at the retreating army. Duty and affection struggled in his heart.

"I will," he said.

The strife is done. The conflict has ceased. The wounds are healed. North and South areone. East and West are even less. The Civil War is over. Lee is dead. Grant is buried in New York. The Union Pacific runs from Omaha to San Francisco. There is total prohibition in the United States. The output of dressed beef last year broke all records.

And Eggleston Lee Carey Randolph survives, hale and hearty, bright and cheery, free and easy—and so forth. There is grey hair upon his temples (some, not much), and his step has lost something of its elasticity (not a great deal), and his form is somewhat bowed (though not really crooked).

But he still lives there in the farmstead at Gettysburg, and Leonora, now, like himself, an old woman, is still at his side.

You may see him any day. In fact, he is the old man who shows you over the battlefield for fifty cents and explains how he himself fought and won the great battle.

VIIIBUGGAM GRANGEA GOOD OLD GHOST STORY

The evening was already falling as the vehicle in which I was contained entered upon the long and gloomy avenue that leads to Buggam Grange.

A resounding shriek echoed through the wood as I entered the avenue. I paid no attention to it at the moment, judging it to be merely one of those resounding shrieks which one might expect to hear in such a place at such a time. As my drive continued, however I found myself wondering in spite of myself why such a shriek should have been uttered at the very moment of my approach.

I am not by temperament in any degree a nervous man, and yet there was much in my surroundings to justify a certain feeling ofapprehension. The Grange is situated in the loneliest part of England, the marsh country of the fens to which civilization has still hardly penetrated. The inhabitants, of whom there are only one and a half to the square mile, live here and there among the fens and eke out a miserable existence by frog-fishing and catching flies. They speak a dialect so broken as to be practically unintelligible, while the perpetual rain which falls upon them renders speech itself almost superfluous.

Here and there where the ground rises slightly above the level of the fens there are dense woods tangled with parasitic creepers and filled with owls. Bats fly from wood to wood. The air on the lower ground is charged with the poisonous gases which exude from the marsh, while in the woods it is heavy with the dank odours of deadly nightshade and poison ivy.

It had been raining in the afternoon, and as I drove up the avenue the mournful dripping of the rain from the dark trees accentuated the cheerlessness of the gloom. The vehicle inwhich I rode was a fly on three wheels, the fourth having apparently been broken and taken off, causing the fly to sag on one side and drag on its axle over the muddy ground, the fly thus moving only at a foot's pace in a way calculated to enhance the dreariness of the occasion. The driver on the box in front of me was so thickly muffled up as to be indistinguishable, while the horse which drew us was so thickly coated with mist as to be practically invisible. Seldom, I may say, have I had a drive of so mournful a character.

The avenue presently opened out upon a lawn with overgrown shrubberies, and in the half darkness I could see the outline of the Grange itself, a rambling, dilapidated building. A dim light struggled through the casement of a window in a tower room. Save for the melancholy cry of a row of owls sitting on the roof, and croaking of the frogs in the moat which ran around the grounds, the place was soundless. My driver halted his horse at the hither side of the moat. I tried in vain to urge him, by signs, to go further. I could seeby the fellow's face that he was in a paroxysm of fear, and indeed nothing but the extra sixpence which I had added to his fare would have made him undertake the drive up the avenue. I had no sooner alighted than he wheeled his cab about and made off.

Laughing heartily at the fellow's trepidation (I have a way of laughing heartily in the dark), I made my way to the door and pulled the bell-handle. I could hear the muffled reverberations of the bell far within the building. Then all was silent. I bent my ear to listen, but could hear nothing except, perhaps, the sound of a low moaning as of a person in pain or in great mental distress. Convinced, however, from what my friend Sir Jeremy Buggam had told me, that the Grange was not empty, I raised the ponderous knocker and beat with it loudly against the door.

But perhaps at this point I may do well to explain to my readers (before they are too frightened to listen to me) how I came to be beating on the door of Buggam Grange at nightfall on a gloomy November evening.

A year before I had been sitting with Sir Jeremy Buggam, the present baronet, on the verandah of his ranch in California.

"So you don't believe in the supernatural?" he was saying.

"Not in the slightest," I answered, lighting a cigar as I spoke. When I want to speak very positively, I generally light a cigar as I speak.

"Well, at any rate, Digby," said Sir Jeremy, "Buggam Grange is haunted. If you want to be assured of it go down there any time and spend the night and you'll see for yourself."

"My dear fellow," I replied, "nothing will give me greater pleasure. I shall be back in England in six weeks, and I shall be delighted to put your ideas to the test. Now tell me," I added somewhat cynically, "is there any particular season or day when your Grange is supposed to be specially terrible?"

Sir Jeremy looked at me strangely. "Why do you ask that?" he said. "Have you heard the story of the Grange?"

"Never heard of the place in my life," I answered cheerily. "Till you mentioned itto-night, my dear fellow, I hadn't the remotest idea that you still owned property in England."

"The Grange is shut up," said Sir Jeremy, "and has been for twenty years. But I keep a man there—Horrod—he was butler in my father's time and before. If you care to go, I'll write him that you're coming. And, since you are taking your own fate in your hands, the fifteenth of November is the day."

At that moment Lady Buggam and Clara and the other girls came trooping out on the verandah, and the whole thing passed clean out of my mind. Nor did I think of it again until I was back in London. Then, by one of those strange coincidences or premonitions—call it what you will—it suddenly occurred to me one morning that it was the fifteenth of November. Whether Sir Jeremy had written to Horrod or not, I did not know. But none the less nightfall found me, as I have described, knocking at the door of Buggam Grange.

The sound of the knocker had scarcely ceased to echo when I heard the shuffling offeet within, and the sound of chains and bolts being withdrawn. The door opened. A man stood before me holding a lighted candle which he shaded with his hand. His faded black clothes, once apparently a butler's dress, his white hair and advanced age left me in no doubt that he was Horrod of whom Sir Jeremy had spoken.

Without a word he motioned me to come in, and, still without speech, he helped me to remove my wet outer garments, and then beckoned me into a great room, evidently the dining-room of the Grange.

I am not in any degree a nervous man by temperament, as I think I remarked before, and yet there was something in the vastness of the wainscoted room, lighted only by a single candle, and in the silence of the empty house, and still more in the appearance of my speechless attendant, which gave me a feeling of distinct uneasiness. As Horrod moved to and fro I took occasion to scrutinize his face more narrowly. I have seldom seen features more calculated to inspire a nervous dread. Thepallor of his face and the whiteness of his hair (the man was at least seventy), and still more the peculiar furtiveness of his eyes, seemed to mark him as one who lived under a great terror. He moved with a noiseless step and at times he turned his head to glance in the dark corners of the room.

"Sir Jeremy told me," I said, speaking as loudly and as heartily as I could, "that he would apprise you of my coming."

I was looking into his face as I spoke.

In answer Horrod laid his finger across his lips and I knew that he was deaf and dumb. I am not nervous (I think I said that), but the realization that my sole companion in the empty house was a deaf mute struck a cold chill to my heart.

Horrod laid in front of me a cold meat pie, a cold goose, a cheese, and a tall flagon of cider. But my appetite was gone. I ate the goose, but found that after I had finished the pie I had but little zest for the cheese, which I finished without enjoyment. The cider had a sour taste, and after having permittedHorrod to refill the flagon twice I found that it induced a sense of melancholy and decided to drink no more.

My meal finished, the butler picked up the candle and beckoned me to follow him. We passed through the empty corridors of the house, a long line of pictured Buggams looking upon us as we passed, their portraits in the flickering light of the taper assuming a strange and life-like appearance, as if leaning forward from their frames to gaze upon the intruder.

Horrod led me upstairs and I realized that he was taking me to the tower in the east wing, in which I had observed a light.

The rooms to which the butler conducted me consisted of a sitting-room with an adjoining bedroom, both of them fitted with antique wainscoting against which a faded tapestry fluttered. There was a candle burning on the table in the sitting-room, but its insufficient light only rendered the surroundings the more dismal. Horrod bent down in front of the fireplace and endeavoured to light a fire there.But the wood was evidently damp and the fire flickered feebly on the hearth.

The butler left me, and in the stillness of the house I could hear his shuffling step echo down the corridor. It may have been fancy, but it seemed to me that his departure was the signal for a low moan that came from somewhere behind the wainscot. There was a narrow cupboard door at one side of the room, and for the moment I wondered whether the moaning came from within. I am not as a rule lacking in courage (I am sure my reader will be decent enough to believe this), yet I found myself entirely unwilling to open the cupboard door and look within. In place of doing so I seated myself in a great chair in front of the feeble fire. I must have been seated there for some time when I happened to lift my eyes to the mantel above and saw, standing upon it, a letter addressed to myself. I knew the handwriting at once to be that of Sir Jeremy Buggam.

I opened it, and spreading it out within reach of the feeble candlelight, I read as follows:

"My dear Digby,"In our talk that you will remember, I had no time to finish telling you about the mystery of Buggam Grange. I take for granted, however, that you will go there and that Horrod will put you in the tower rooms, which are the only ones that make any pretence of being habitable. I have, therefore, sent him this letter to deliver at the Grange itself."The story is this:"On the night of the fifteenth of November, fifty years ago, my grandfather was murdered in the room in which you are sitting, by his cousin, Sir Duggam Buggam. He was stabbed from behind while seated at the little table at which you are probably reading this letter. The two had been playing cards at the table and my grandfather's body was found lying in a litter of cards and gold sovereigns on the floor. Sir Duggam Buggam, insensible from drink, lay beside him, the fatal knife at his hand, his fingers smeared with blood. My grandfather, though of the younger branch,possessed a part of the estates which were to revert to Sir Duggam on his death. Sir Duggam Buggam was tried at the Assizes and was hanged. On the day of his execution he was permitted by the authorities, out of respect for his rank, to wear a mask to the scaffold. The clothes in which he was executed are hanging at full length in the little cupboard to your right, and the mask is above them. It is said that on every fifteenth of November at midnight the cupboard door opens and Sir Duggam Buggam walks out into the room. It has been found impossible to get servants to remain at the Grange, and the place—except for the presence of Horrod—has been unoccupied for a generation. At the time of the murder Horrod was a young man of twenty-two, newly entered into the service of the family. It was he who entered the room and discovered the crime. On the day of the execution he was stricken with paralysis and has never spoken since. From that time to this he has never consented to leave the Grange, where he lives in isolation."Wishing you a pleasant night after your tiring journey,"I remain,"Very faithfully,"Jeremy Buggam."

"My dear Digby,

"In our talk that you will remember, I had no time to finish telling you about the mystery of Buggam Grange. I take for granted, however, that you will go there and that Horrod will put you in the tower rooms, which are the only ones that make any pretence of being habitable. I have, therefore, sent him this letter to deliver at the Grange itself.

"The story is this:

"On the night of the fifteenth of November, fifty years ago, my grandfather was murdered in the room in which you are sitting, by his cousin, Sir Duggam Buggam. He was stabbed from behind while seated at the little table at which you are probably reading this letter. The two had been playing cards at the table and my grandfather's body was found lying in a litter of cards and gold sovereigns on the floor. Sir Duggam Buggam, insensible from drink, lay beside him, the fatal knife at his hand, his fingers smeared with blood. My grandfather, though of the younger branch,possessed a part of the estates which were to revert to Sir Duggam on his death. Sir Duggam Buggam was tried at the Assizes and was hanged. On the day of his execution he was permitted by the authorities, out of respect for his rank, to wear a mask to the scaffold. The clothes in which he was executed are hanging at full length in the little cupboard to your right, and the mask is above them. It is said that on every fifteenth of November at midnight the cupboard door opens and Sir Duggam Buggam walks out into the room. It has been found impossible to get servants to remain at the Grange, and the place—except for the presence of Horrod—has been unoccupied for a generation. At the time of the murder Horrod was a young man of twenty-two, newly entered into the service of the family. It was he who entered the room and discovered the crime. On the day of the execution he was stricken with paralysis and has never spoken since. From that time to this he has never consented to leave the Grange, where he lives in isolation.

"Wishing you a pleasant night after your tiring journey,

"I remain,

"Very faithfully,

"Jeremy Buggam."

I leave my reader to imagine my state of mind when I completed the perusal of the letter.

I have as little belief in the supernatural as anyone, yet I must confess that there was something in the surroundings in which I now found myself which rendered me at least uncomfortable. My reader may smile if he will, but I assure him that it was with a very distinct feeling of uneasiness that I at length managed to rise to my feet, and, grasping my candle in my hand, to move backward into the bedroom. As I backed into it something so like a moan seemed to proceed from the closed cupboard that I accelerated my backward movement to a considerable degree. I hastily blew out the candle, threw myself upon the bed and drew the bedclothes over my head, keeping,however, one eye and one ear still out and available.

How long I lay thus listening to every sound, I cannot tell. The stillness had become absolute. From time to time I could dimly hear the distant cry of an owl, and once far away in the building below a sound as of some one dragging a chain along a floor. More than once I was certain that I heard the sound of moaning behind the wainscot. Meantime I realized that the hour must now be drawing close upon the fatal moment of midnight. My watch I could not see in the darkness, but by reckoning the time that must have elapsed I knew that midnight could not be far away. Then presently my ear, alert to every sound, could just distinguish far away across the fens the striking of a church bell, in the clock tower of Buggam village church, no doubt, tolling the hour of twelve.

On the last stroke of twelve, the cupboard door in the next room opened. There is no need to ask me how I knew it. I couldn't, of course, see it, but I could hear, or sense in someway, the sound of it. I could feel my hair, all of it, rising upon my head. I was aware that there was apresencein the adjoining room, I will not say a person, a living soul, but apresence. Anyone who has been in the next room to a presence will know just how I felt. I could hear a sound as of some one groping on the floor and the faint rattle as of coins.

My hair was now perpendicular. My reader can blame it or not, but it was.

Then at this very moment from somewhere below in the building there came the sound of a prolonged and piercing cry, a cry as of a soul passing in agony. My reader may censure me or not, but right at this moment I decided to beat it. Whether I should have remained to see what was happening is a question that I will not discuss. My one idea was to get out, and to get out quickly. The window of the tower room was some twenty-five feet above the ground. I sprang out through the casement in one leap and landed on the grass below. I jumped over the shrubbery in one bound and cleared the moat in one jump. I went down theavenue in about six strides and ran five miles along the road through the fens in three minutes. This at least is an accurate transcription of my sensations. It may have taken longer. I never stopped till I found myself on the threshold of theBuggam Armsin Little Buggam, beating on the door for the landlord.

I returned to Buggam Grange on the next day in the bright sunlight of a frosty November morning, in a seven-cylinder motor car with six local constables and a physician. It makes all the difference. We carried revolvers, spades, pickaxes, shotguns and an ouija board.

What we found cleared up for ever the mystery of the Grange. We discovered Horrod the butler lying on the dining-room floor quite dead. The physician said that he had died from heart failure. There was evidence from the marks of his shoes in the dust that he had come in the night to the tower room. On the table he had placed a paper which contained a full confession of his having murdered Jeremy Buggam fifty years before. The circumstances of the murder had rendered it easy for him tofasten the crime upon Sir Duggam, already insensible from drink. A few minutes with the ouija board enabled us to get a full corroboration from Sir Duggam. He promised, moreover, now that his name was cleared, to go away from the premises for ever.

My friend, the present Sir Jeremy, has rehabilitated Buggam Grange. The place is rebuilt. The moat is drained. The whole house is lit with electricity. There are beautiful motor drives in all directions in the woods. He has had the bats shot and the owls stuffed. His daughter, Clara Buggam, became my wife. She is looking over my shoulder as I write. What more do you want?

THE END

BY THE SAME AUTHORLITERARY LAPSESTwelfth Edition. Crown 8vo. 5s. netSpectator.—"This little book is a happy example of the way in which the double life can be lived blamelessly and to the great advantage of the community. The book fairly entitles Mr. Leacock to be considered not only a humorist but a benefactor. The contents should appeal to English readers with the double virtue that attaches to work which is at once new and richly humorous."Globe.—"One specimen of Mr. Leacock's humour, 'Boarding-House Geometry,' has long been treasured on this side."The Guardian.—"Much to be welcomed is Professor Stephen Leacock's 'Literary Lapses,'—this charming and humorous work. All the sketches have a freshness and a new personal touch. Mr. Leacock is, as the politicians say, 'a national asset,' and Mr. Leacock is a Canadian to be proud of. One has the comfortable feeling as one reads that one is in the company of a cultured person capable of attractive varieties of foolishness."Pall Mall Gazette.—"The appearance of 'Literary Lapses' is practically the English début of a young Canadian writer who is turning from medicine to literature with every success. Dr. Stephen Leacock is at least the equal of many who are likely to be long remembered for their short comic sketches and essays; he has already shown that he has the high spirits of 'Max Adeler' and the fine sense of quick fun. There are many sketches in 'Literary Lapses' that are worthy of comparison with the best American humour."Morning Post.—"The close connection between imagination, humour, and the mathematical faculty has never been so delightfully demonstrated."Outlook.—"Mr. John Lane must be credited with the desire of associating the Bodley Head with the discovery of new humorists. Mr. Leacock sets out to make people laugh. He succeeds and makes them laugh at the right thing. He has a wide range of new subjects; the world will gain in cheerfulness if Mr. Leacock continues to produce so many excellent jests to the book as there are in the one under notice."Truth.—"By the publication of Mr. Stephen Leacock's 'Literary Lapses' Mr. John Lane has introduced to the British Public a new American humorist for whom a widespread popularity can be confidently predicted."LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

LITERARY LAPSESTwelfth Edition. Crown 8vo. 5s. netSpectator.—"This little book is a happy example of the way in which the double life can be lived blamelessly and to the great advantage of the community. The book fairly entitles Mr. Leacock to be considered not only a humorist but a benefactor. The contents should appeal to English readers with the double virtue that attaches to work which is at once new and richly humorous."Globe.—"One specimen of Mr. Leacock's humour, 'Boarding-House Geometry,' has long been treasured on this side."The Guardian.—"Much to be welcomed is Professor Stephen Leacock's 'Literary Lapses,'—this charming and humorous work. All the sketches have a freshness and a new personal touch. Mr. Leacock is, as the politicians say, 'a national asset,' and Mr. Leacock is a Canadian to be proud of. One has the comfortable feeling as one reads that one is in the company of a cultured person capable of attractive varieties of foolishness."Pall Mall Gazette.—"The appearance of 'Literary Lapses' is practically the English début of a young Canadian writer who is turning from medicine to literature with every success. Dr. Stephen Leacock is at least the equal of many who are likely to be long remembered for their short comic sketches and essays; he has already shown that he has the high spirits of 'Max Adeler' and the fine sense of quick fun. There are many sketches in 'Literary Lapses' that are worthy of comparison with the best American humour."Morning Post.—"The close connection between imagination, humour, and the mathematical faculty has never been so delightfully demonstrated."Outlook.—"Mr. John Lane must be credited with the desire of associating the Bodley Head with the discovery of new humorists. Mr. Leacock sets out to make people laugh. He succeeds and makes them laugh at the right thing. He has a wide range of new subjects; the world will gain in cheerfulness if Mr. Leacock continues to produce so many excellent jests to the book as there are in the one under notice."Truth.—"By the publication of Mr. Stephen Leacock's 'Literary Lapses' Mr. John Lane has introduced to the British Public a new American humorist for whom a widespread popularity can be confidently predicted."

Twelfth Edition. Crown 8vo. 5s. net

Spectator.—"This little book is a happy example of the way in which the double life can be lived blamelessly and to the great advantage of the community. The book fairly entitles Mr. Leacock to be considered not only a humorist but a benefactor. The contents should appeal to English readers with the double virtue that attaches to work which is at once new and richly humorous."

Globe.—"One specimen of Mr. Leacock's humour, 'Boarding-House Geometry,' has long been treasured on this side."

The Guardian.—"Much to be welcomed is Professor Stephen Leacock's 'Literary Lapses,'—this charming and humorous work. All the sketches have a freshness and a new personal touch. Mr. Leacock is, as the politicians say, 'a national asset,' and Mr. Leacock is a Canadian to be proud of. One has the comfortable feeling as one reads that one is in the company of a cultured person capable of attractive varieties of foolishness."

Pall Mall Gazette.—"The appearance of 'Literary Lapses' is practically the English début of a young Canadian writer who is turning from medicine to literature with every success. Dr. Stephen Leacock is at least the equal of many who are likely to be long remembered for their short comic sketches and essays; he has already shown that he has the high spirits of 'Max Adeler' and the fine sense of quick fun. There are many sketches in 'Literary Lapses' that are worthy of comparison with the best American humour."

Morning Post.—"The close connection between imagination, humour, and the mathematical faculty has never been so delightfully demonstrated."

Outlook.—"Mr. John Lane must be credited with the desire of associating the Bodley Head with the discovery of new humorists. Mr. Leacock sets out to make people laugh. He succeeds and makes them laugh at the right thing. He has a wide range of new subjects; the world will gain in cheerfulness if Mr. Leacock continues to produce so many excellent jests to the book as there are in the one under notice."

Truth.—"By the publication of Mr. Stephen Leacock's 'Literary Lapses' Mr. John Lane has introduced to the British Public a new American humorist for whom a widespread popularity can be confidently predicted."

LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD

BY THE SAME AUTHORNONSENSE NOVELSTHIRTEENTH EDITIONCrown 8vo. 5s. netSpectator.—"We can assure our readers who delight in mere joyous desipience that they will find a rich harvest of laughter in the purely irresponsible outpourings of Professor Leacock's fancy."Pall Mall Gazette.—"It is all not only healthy satire, but healthy humour as well, and shows that the author of 'Literary Lapses' is capable of producing a steady flow of high spirits put into a form which is equal to the best traditions of contemporary humour. Mr. Leacock certainly bids fair to rival the immortal 'Lewis Carroll' in combining the irreconcilable—exact science with perfect humour—and making the amusement better the instruction."Daily Mail.—"In his 'Literary Lapses' Mr. Stephen Leacock gave the laughter-loving world assurance of a new humorist of irresistible high spirits and rare spontaneity and freshness. By this rollicking collection of 'Nonsense Novels,' in tabloid form, he not only confirms the excellent impression of his earlier work, but establishes his reputation as a master of the art of literary burlesque. The whole collection is a sheer delight, and places its author in the front rank as a literary humorist."Mr.James DouglasinThe Star.—"We have all laughed over Mr. Stephen Leacock's 'Literary Lapses.' It is one of those books one would die rather than lend, for to lend it is to lose it for ever. Mr. Leacock's new book, 'Nonsense Novels,' is more humorous than 'Literary Lapses.' That is to say, it is the most humorous book we have had since Mr. Dooley swum into our ken. Its humour is so rich that it places Mr. Leacock beside Mark Twain."Morning Leader.—"Mr. Leacock possesses infinite verbal dexterity.... Mr. Leacock must be added as a recognized humorist."Daily Express.—"Mr. Stephen Leacock's 'Nonsense Novels' is the best collection of parodies I have read for many a day. The whole book is a scream, witty, ingenious, irresistible."Public Opinion.—"A most entertaining book."LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

NONSENSE NOVELSTHIRTEENTH EDITIONCrown 8vo. 5s. netSpectator.—"We can assure our readers who delight in mere joyous desipience that they will find a rich harvest of laughter in the purely irresponsible outpourings of Professor Leacock's fancy."Pall Mall Gazette.—"It is all not only healthy satire, but healthy humour as well, and shows that the author of 'Literary Lapses' is capable of producing a steady flow of high spirits put into a form which is equal to the best traditions of contemporary humour. Mr. Leacock certainly bids fair to rival the immortal 'Lewis Carroll' in combining the irreconcilable—exact science with perfect humour—and making the amusement better the instruction."Daily Mail.—"In his 'Literary Lapses' Mr. Stephen Leacock gave the laughter-loving world assurance of a new humorist of irresistible high spirits and rare spontaneity and freshness. By this rollicking collection of 'Nonsense Novels,' in tabloid form, he not only confirms the excellent impression of his earlier work, but establishes his reputation as a master of the art of literary burlesque. The whole collection is a sheer delight, and places its author in the front rank as a literary humorist."Mr.James DouglasinThe Star.—"We have all laughed over Mr. Stephen Leacock's 'Literary Lapses.' It is one of those books one would die rather than lend, for to lend it is to lose it for ever. Mr. Leacock's new book, 'Nonsense Novels,' is more humorous than 'Literary Lapses.' That is to say, it is the most humorous book we have had since Mr. Dooley swum into our ken. Its humour is so rich that it places Mr. Leacock beside Mark Twain."Morning Leader.—"Mr. Leacock possesses infinite verbal dexterity.... Mr. Leacock must be added as a recognized humorist."Daily Express.—"Mr. Stephen Leacock's 'Nonsense Novels' is the best collection of parodies I have read for many a day. The whole book is a scream, witty, ingenious, irresistible."Public Opinion.—"A most entertaining book."

Crown 8vo. 5s. net

Spectator.—"We can assure our readers who delight in mere joyous desipience that they will find a rich harvest of laughter in the purely irresponsible outpourings of Professor Leacock's fancy."

Pall Mall Gazette.—"It is all not only healthy satire, but healthy humour as well, and shows that the author of 'Literary Lapses' is capable of producing a steady flow of high spirits put into a form which is equal to the best traditions of contemporary humour. Mr. Leacock certainly bids fair to rival the immortal 'Lewis Carroll' in combining the irreconcilable—exact science with perfect humour—and making the amusement better the instruction."

Daily Mail.—"In his 'Literary Lapses' Mr. Stephen Leacock gave the laughter-loving world assurance of a new humorist of irresistible high spirits and rare spontaneity and freshness. By this rollicking collection of 'Nonsense Novels,' in tabloid form, he not only confirms the excellent impression of his earlier work, but establishes his reputation as a master of the art of literary burlesque. The whole collection is a sheer delight, and places its author in the front rank as a literary humorist."

Mr.James DouglasinThe Star.—"We have all laughed over Mr. Stephen Leacock's 'Literary Lapses.' It is one of those books one would die rather than lend, for to lend it is to lose it for ever. Mr. Leacock's new book, 'Nonsense Novels,' is more humorous than 'Literary Lapses.' That is to say, it is the most humorous book we have had since Mr. Dooley swum into our ken. Its humour is so rich that it places Mr. Leacock beside Mark Twain."

Morning Leader.—"Mr. Leacock possesses infinite verbal dexterity.... Mr. Leacock must be added as a recognized humorist."

Daily Express.—"Mr. Stephen Leacock's 'Nonsense Novels' is the best collection of parodies I have read for many a day. The whole book is a scream, witty, ingenious, irresistible."

Public Opinion.—"A most entertaining book."

LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD

BY THE SAME AUTHORSUNSHINE SKETCHES OF A LITTLE TOWNWITH A FRONTISPIECE BY CYRUS CUNEONinth Edition. Crown 8vo. 5s. netThe Times.—"His real hard work, for which no emolument would be a fitting reward, is distilling sunshine. This new book is full of it—the sunshine of humour, the thin keen sunshine of irony, the mellow evening sunshine of sentiment."Spectator.—"This is not the first but the third volume in which he has contributed to the gaiety of the Old as well as the New World.... A most welcome freedom from the pessimism of Old-World fiction."Academy.—"One of the best and most enjoyable series of sketches that we have read for some time ... they are all bright and sparkling, and bristle with wit and humour."Pall Mall Gazette.—"Like all real humorists Mr. Leacock steps at once into his proper position.... His touch of humour will make the Anglo-Saxon world his reader.... We cannot recall a more laughable book."Globe.—"Professor Leacock never fails to provide a feast of enjoyment.... No one who wishes to dispose intellectually of a few hours should neglect Professor Leacock's admirable contribution to English literature. It is warranted to bring sunshine into every home."Country Life.—"Informed by a droll humour, quite unforced, Mr. Leacock reviews his little community for the sport of the thing, and the result is a natural and delightful piece of work."Daily Telegraph.—"His Sketches are so fresh and delightful in the manner of their presentation.... Allowing for differences of theme, and of the human materials for study, Mr. Leacock strikes us as a sort of Americanised Mr. W. W. Jacobs. Like the English humorist, the Canadian one has a delightfully fresh and amusing way of putting things, of suggesting more than he says, of narrating more or less ordinary happenings in an irresistibly comical fashion.... Mr. Leacock should be popular with readers who can appreciate fun shot with kindly satire."LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

SUNSHINE SKETCHES OF A LITTLE TOWNWITH A FRONTISPIECE BY CYRUS CUNEONinth Edition. Crown 8vo. 5s. netThe Times.—"His real hard work, for which no emolument would be a fitting reward, is distilling sunshine. This new book is full of it—the sunshine of humour, the thin keen sunshine of irony, the mellow evening sunshine of sentiment."Spectator.—"This is not the first but the third volume in which he has contributed to the gaiety of the Old as well as the New World.... A most welcome freedom from the pessimism of Old-World fiction."Academy.—"One of the best and most enjoyable series of sketches that we have read for some time ... they are all bright and sparkling, and bristle with wit and humour."Pall Mall Gazette.—"Like all real humorists Mr. Leacock steps at once into his proper position.... His touch of humour will make the Anglo-Saxon world his reader.... We cannot recall a more laughable book."Globe.—"Professor Leacock never fails to provide a feast of enjoyment.... No one who wishes to dispose intellectually of a few hours should neglect Professor Leacock's admirable contribution to English literature. It is warranted to bring sunshine into every home."Country Life.—"Informed by a droll humour, quite unforced, Mr. Leacock reviews his little community for the sport of the thing, and the result is a natural and delightful piece of work."Daily Telegraph.—"His Sketches are so fresh and delightful in the manner of their presentation.... Allowing for differences of theme, and of the human materials for study, Mr. Leacock strikes us as a sort of Americanised Mr. W. W. Jacobs. Like the English humorist, the Canadian one has a delightfully fresh and amusing way of putting things, of suggesting more than he says, of narrating more or less ordinary happenings in an irresistibly comical fashion.... Mr. Leacock should be popular with readers who can appreciate fun shot with kindly satire."

Ninth Edition. Crown 8vo. 5s. net

The Times.—"His real hard work, for which no emolument would be a fitting reward, is distilling sunshine. This new book is full of it—the sunshine of humour, the thin keen sunshine of irony, the mellow evening sunshine of sentiment."

Spectator.—"This is not the first but the third volume in which he has contributed to the gaiety of the Old as well as the New World.... A most welcome freedom from the pessimism of Old-World fiction."

Academy.—"One of the best and most enjoyable series of sketches that we have read for some time ... they are all bright and sparkling, and bristle with wit and humour."

Pall Mall Gazette.—"Like all real humorists Mr. Leacock steps at once into his proper position.... His touch of humour will make the Anglo-Saxon world his reader.... We cannot recall a more laughable book."

Globe.—"Professor Leacock never fails to provide a feast of enjoyment.... No one who wishes to dispose intellectually of a few hours should neglect Professor Leacock's admirable contribution to English literature. It is warranted to bring sunshine into every home."

Country Life.—"Informed by a droll humour, quite unforced, Mr. Leacock reviews his little community for the sport of the thing, and the result is a natural and delightful piece of work."

Daily Telegraph.—"His Sketches are so fresh and delightful in the manner of their presentation.... Allowing for differences of theme, and of the human materials for study, Mr. Leacock strikes us as a sort of Americanised Mr. W. W. Jacobs. Like the English humorist, the Canadian one has a delightfully fresh and amusing way of putting things, of suggesting more than he says, of narrating more or less ordinary happenings in an irresistibly comical fashion.... Mr. Leacock should be popular with readers who can appreciate fun shot with kindly satire."

LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD

BY THE SAME AUTHORBEHIND THE BEYONDAND OTHER CONTRIBUTIONS TO HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. With 16 Illustrations byA. H. Fish.Fifth Edition. Crown 8vo. 5s. netPunch.—"In his latest book, 'Behind the Beyond,' he is in brilliant scoring form. I can see 'Behind the Beyond' breaking up many homes; for no family will be able to stand the sudden sharp yelps of laughter which must infallibly punctuate the decent after-dinner silence when one of its members gets hold of this book. It is Mr. Leacock's peculiar gift that he makes you laugh out loud. When Mr. Leacock's literal translation of Homer, on p. 193, met my eye, a howl of mirth broke from me. I also forgot myself over the interview with the photographer. As for the sketch which gives its title, to the book, it is the last word in polished satire. The present volume is Mr. Leacock at his best."Spectator.—"Beneficent contributions to the gaiety of nations. The longest and best thing in the book is the delightful burlesque of a modern problem play. Miss Fish's illustrations are decidedly clever."Observer.—"There are delicious touches in it."Queen.—"All through the book the author furnishes a continual feast of enjoyment."Dundee Advertiser.—"'Behind the Beyond' is a brilliant parody, and the other sketches are all of Mr. Leacock's very best, 'Homer and Humbug' being as fine a piece of raillery as Mr. Leacock has written. Mr. Leacock is a humorist of the first rank, unique in his own sphere, and this volume will add yet more to his reputation."Aberdeen Free Press.—"Exquisite quality ... amazingly funny."Yorkshire Daily Post.—"In the skit on the problem play which gives the book its title the author reaches his high-water mark."Glasgow Herald.—"Another welcome addition to the gaiety of the nations. The title-piece is an inimitably clever skit. It is both genial and realistic, and there is a genuine laugh in every line of it. Humour and artistry are finely blended in the drawings."Daily Express.—"The pictures have genuine and rare distinction."LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

BEHIND THE BEYONDAND OTHER CONTRIBUTIONS TO HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. With 16 Illustrations byA. H. Fish.Fifth Edition. Crown 8vo. 5s. netPunch.—"In his latest book, 'Behind the Beyond,' he is in brilliant scoring form. I can see 'Behind the Beyond' breaking up many homes; for no family will be able to stand the sudden sharp yelps of laughter which must infallibly punctuate the decent after-dinner silence when one of its members gets hold of this book. It is Mr. Leacock's peculiar gift that he makes you laugh out loud. When Mr. Leacock's literal translation of Homer, on p. 193, met my eye, a howl of mirth broke from me. I also forgot myself over the interview with the photographer. As for the sketch which gives its title, to the book, it is the last word in polished satire. The present volume is Mr. Leacock at his best."Spectator.—"Beneficent contributions to the gaiety of nations. The longest and best thing in the book is the delightful burlesque of a modern problem play. Miss Fish's illustrations are decidedly clever."Observer.—"There are delicious touches in it."Queen.—"All through the book the author furnishes a continual feast of enjoyment."Dundee Advertiser.—"'Behind the Beyond' is a brilliant parody, and the other sketches are all of Mr. Leacock's very best, 'Homer and Humbug' being as fine a piece of raillery as Mr. Leacock has written. Mr. Leacock is a humorist of the first rank, unique in his own sphere, and this volume will add yet more to his reputation."Aberdeen Free Press.—"Exquisite quality ... amazingly funny."Yorkshire Daily Post.—"In the skit on the problem play which gives the book its title the author reaches his high-water mark."Glasgow Herald.—"Another welcome addition to the gaiety of the nations. The title-piece is an inimitably clever skit. It is both genial and realistic, and there is a genuine laugh in every line of it. Humour and artistry are finely blended in the drawings."Daily Express.—"The pictures have genuine and rare distinction."

AND OTHER CONTRIBUTIONS TO HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. With 16 Illustrations byA. H. Fish.

Fifth Edition. Crown 8vo. 5s. net

Punch.—"In his latest book, 'Behind the Beyond,' he is in brilliant scoring form. I can see 'Behind the Beyond' breaking up many homes; for no family will be able to stand the sudden sharp yelps of laughter which must infallibly punctuate the decent after-dinner silence when one of its members gets hold of this book. It is Mr. Leacock's peculiar gift that he makes you laugh out loud. When Mr. Leacock's literal translation of Homer, on p. 193, met my eye, a howl of mirth broke from me. I also forgot myself over the interview with the photographer. As for the sketch which gives its title, to the book, it is the last word in polished satire. The present volume is Mr. Leacock at his best."

Spectator.—"Beneficent contributions to the gaiety of nations. The longest and best thing in the book is the delightful burlesque of a modern problem play. Miss Fish's illustrations are decidedly clever."

Observer.—"There are delicious touches in it."

Queen.—"All through the book the author furnishes a continual feast of enjoyment."

Dundee Advertiser.—"'Behind the Beyond' is a brilliant parody, and the other sketches are all of Mr. Leacock's very best, 'Homer and Humbug' being as fine a piece of raillery as Mr. Leacock has written. Mr. Leacock is a humorist of the first rank, unique in his own sphere, and this volume will add yet more to his reputation."

Aberdeen Free Press.—"Exquisite quality ... amazingly funny."

Yorkshire Daily Post.—"In the skit on the problem play which gives the book its title the author reaches his high-water mark."

Glasgow Herald.—"Another welcome addition to the gaiety of the nations. The title-piece is an inimitably clever skit. It is both genial and realistic, and there is a genuine laugh in every line of it. Humour and artistry are finely blended in the drawings."

Daily Express.—"The pictures have genuine and rare distinction."

LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD

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