The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, June 26, 1898, Page 24

UNDAY, JUNE 26, 1898 e 7 e ised pon this pixs bt chink v trapdoors > the ther -m Dundee Dund: ., in Cornwall; weliffe High- aradise % 1 an odd volume of “The Turk- ish Spy.” ) now he was reading “The Turkish Spy.” The lamplight glinted on the rim of his spectacles and on the silvery hairs in_his beard, the slack of which he had tucked under the edge of his blanket. His lips moved as he read, and now and then he broke off to glance mildly at Faed and the Snipe, who were busy beside the fire with pack of cards. or to listen to the peevish grum- shman inthe bunk below him. hman had taken to his bed six weeks before with 3 d complained incess and though they hardly knew it, these complaints were wearing his com- —doing the mischief that he cruel loneliness had ed by the fire, in a bun- 3 open now at pair whence he g up there ayers of n quaver- ands opened and shut”again, palm. He groaned at ance. Damn it all, man!—" d short, repentant and re- 5. 1 Were good sea- ipmate was part s s. The; and tender re querelous than ever, cut into e thought it for weeks, and now you swed it all along. I'm just an encumbrance, sooner you're shut of me the better, says you. You to fret.” I'll soon be out of it—out there alongside v!" The Snipe glanced over his ards face downward. “Here, let me Ivl ease ver. ou mean. - Plucky deal you care er With your nons 4 an arm_unde of skins a et out se. Dan didr't mean it.” The slip, the invalid's head and re- nd gunny_ b ay he didn® mean it, the wearily over the side of his ham- t, and shuffled across to the sick and that ye belave me.” He floor beside the bunk, pulled ed the frozen drink. The tishly. _ “I didn’t mane it,” e set down the panikin and shuffied wearily back to his hammock. The Gaffer blew a long cloud and stared at the fire; moke mounting and the gray ash dropping—drop- David Faed dealing the cards and licking his ch. Long Ede shifted from one cramped r and pushed his Bible nearer the blaze, “Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil up a ra iron fro tury hand.” the Snipe announced. avid Faed rolled the quid in his cheek. The cards were so thumbed and tattered that by the backs of them each player guessed pretty shrewdly what the other held. Yet they went on playing night after night; the Snipe shrilly blessing or cursing his luck, the Scotsman phlegmatic as a bolster. “Play away, man. What ails ye?" he asked. The Snipe had drn?ped both hands to his thighs and sat up, stiff and listening. t “Whist! Outside the door. . . ." All listened. “I hear nothing,” said David, after ten seconds. ~Hush, man—listen! There, again. . . .” They heard now. Cooney siipped down from his ham- mock, stole to the door and listened, crouching with his ear close to the jamb. The sound resembled breathing—or 80 he thought for a moment. Then it seemed rather as it Some creature were softly feeling about the door—softly fumbling its coating of ice and fi v Cooney listened. They all listened they stirred from the scorching breath came from them in clouds. now in thin wisps of vapor. The soft gray ash dropping on the h A log sputtered. Then the in ; the bears—the bears! n be my turn. u—1 told you he sn’t deep enough. Oh, Lord, ha cy . . . mer- He pattered off into a prayer, his voice and ing. commanded the Gaffer gently, = man choked on a sob. B “It ain’t bears,” Usually, as soon as cle of the sire their It trickled from them could almost hear the S vofce clattered in: ve come after Bill, Cooney reported, still with his ear to . we' the door. “Leastwise . . d béars before. The Xes, maybe . . . let me ten. oy v8 Bde murmured, “Take us the foxes, the little OXEE ..~ 3N “I believe you're righ * the Gaffer announced cheer- bear would sniff louder—though there’s no tell- vas falling an hour back, and I dessay ’tis hi . If "tis a bear, we don't want him ng on and I misdoubt the drift by the north r is pretty tall by this time.. Is he there still?" “I felt something then through the chink, here - . . like a warm breath. It's gone now. Come here, Snipe, and listen.” ‘Breath, eh? Did it smell like beer?"” “I don’t know. . . . I didn’t smell nothing, to notice. Here, put your head down, close.” The Snipe bent his head. And at that moment the door shook gently. All stared and saw the latch move up, up ..+ - . and falteringly descend on the stapie. They heard the click of it. The door was secured within by two stout bars, Against these there had been no pressure. The men waited in 2 silence that ached. But the latch was not lifted again. he Snipe. kneeling, looked up at Cooney. Cooney shivered and looked at David Faed. Long Ede, with his back to the fire, softly shook his feet free of the rugs. His eves rched for the Gaffer's face. But the old man had dra »ack into the gloom of his bunk, and the lamplight shone only on a gray fringe of beard. He saw Long Ede's look .though, and answered it quietly as ever. fetch’ us Wait if there’s a chance of a shot. I tried it this afternoo ng ]I'Irl' lighted his pipe, t . i 3 “Take a brace of guns aloft, and round. a look The, trap vith the cotd chisel.” down the eur-pieces of ed a light ladder off its staples and set it then, with_the under his arm, head s vered and Teard any- answered the is shoulder Long E shed up the trap. head framed in a panel of moonlight, with star above it. He s wriggling _through. dy."” the Gaffer or- ee, mate!” said dered, Long They stuff ac overlapp ed nd Coon, and clc heard his feet stealthily crunehing the frozen He was working toward the eaves g the door. Their ath tightened. They wait- or the explosion of his gu None came. The crunch- ing began again; it was heard down by the very edge of he ¢ 1t mounted to the blunt ridge overhead, then it ceased. “‘He will not have seen aught,”” Davld Faed muttered. “Listen, you. Listen by the door again.” They talked in whispers. Nothing; there was nothing to be heard. They crept back to the fire and stood there warming them- selves, keeping their eyes on the latch. It did not move. After awhile Cooney siipped off to his hammock; faed to his bunk, alongside Lashman's. The Gafter had picked up his book again. The Snipe laid a couple of logs on the blaze, and remained beside it, cowering, with his arms stretched out as if to embrace it. His shapeless shadow ‘waver n and down on the bunks behind him: and, re, he still stared at the laten. the sick man's voice quavered out— s Bill! They're after Bill, Bill trying to get in. . . . Why t s Bill. T tell yer!” ord the Snipe had wheeled right-about- stood now pointing and shaking like a man with t wa face, and ague. “Matey .for the love of God . . .” hush.” There's something wrong here to-night, p. It's Bill, I tell yer. See his poor hammock haking . . Cooney tumbled out with an oath and a thud. “Hush His hand it, you white-livered swine! Hush it, or by—" went behind him to his knife-sheath. mey”’—the Gaffer closed his book and leaned ack to your bed.” *“Dan C “I won't, sir. " Not unless—" out—*go blood—"" K And for the third time that night Cooney ‘went back. The Gaffer leaned a little farther over the ledge and addressed the slck man, “George, I went to Bill's grave not six hours agone. The snow on it wasn't even disturbed. Neither beast nor man, but only God. can break up the hard earth he lies under, I tell you that, and you may lay to it. Now go to sleen.’” searie iy . it s . Long Ede crouched on the frozen ridge of the hut, with his feet in the sleeping-bag, his knees drawn up and the two guns laid across them. The creature, whatever its name, that had tried the door, was nowhere to be seen; but he had decided to wait a few minutes on the chance of a shot; that is, until the cold should drive him below. For the moment the clear tingling air was doing himgood. The truth was, Long Ede had begun to be afraid of himself, and the way his mind had been running for the last forty- (N 9 B o » — ing. As eight hours upon green fields and visions of spr 2 h:gput it to hir;nselt, something inside his head was m?:‘( ing. Biblical texts chattered within him like runnthg brooks, and as they fleeted he could almost smell"l 12 brown meadow scent. “Take us the foxes, the littl foxes, the little foxes for our vines have tender grapes . A fountain of gardex a well ofv ]l(l\lng waters, and streams from Lebanmon. . . . Awake, O north wind, and come thou south . . . blow upon r;l!)e garden, that the spices thereof may flow out . . i ot was light-headed, and he knew it. He must hold o 5 They were all going mad; were, in fact, lhreeflparts craze: already—all except the Gaffer. And the Gaffer relled on him as his right-hand man. One iflmpsetur the returning sun—a glimpse only—might save them yet. He gazed g\'er the frozen hills and northward across the jcepack. A few streaks of pale violet—the ghost of the Aurora—fronted the moon.— He could see for miles. Bel]l‘i or_fox—no living creature was*in sight. But who coul tell what might be hiding behind any of a thousand hum- mocks? He listened. He heard the slow grinding of the icepack on the beach; only that. Take us the foxes, the little foxes. . . This would never do. He must climb down and walk briskly, or return to the hut. Maybe there was a bear, after ail, behind one of the hummocks and a shot, or the chance of one, would scatter his head clear of these tom- fooling notions. He would have a search around. What was that, moving . . . on a hummock, not 500 yards away. He leaned forward to gaze. Nothing now, but he had seen something. He lowered himself to the eaves by the north corner, and from the eaves to the drift piled there. The drift was frozen solid, but for a treacherous crust of fresh smow. His foot slipped upon this and he slid down of a Feap. L v, he had been careful to sling the guns tightly at his back. He picked himself up, and, unstrapping one, took a step into the bright moonlight to examine the nip- ples; took two steps, and stood stock still. There, before him on the frozen coat of snow, was a footprint. No; two, three, four—many footprints; prints of a naked human foot; right foot, left foot, both naked, and blood in each print—a little smear. it had come, then. He was mad for certain. them; he put his fingers in_ them; touched the frozen blood. The snow before the door was trodden thick with them—some going, some returning. “The latch . lifted . . .” Suddenly he recalled the figure he had seen moving upon the hummock, and with a groan he turned and gave chase. O, he was mad for certain. He ran like 2 madman—floundering, slipping, plunging, in his clumsy moccasins. ‘‘Take us the foxes, the little foxes. My beloved put in his hand by ti hole in the door, and my bowels were moved for him, . . . I charge you, O daughters of Jerusalem . . . I charge you I charge . . ." He ran thus for 300 yards, maybe, and then stopped as suddenly as he had started. His mates—they must not see these footprints, or they would go mad. too; mad as he. No. he must cover them up. all within sight of the hut. And to-morrow he would come alone and cover those farther afield. Slowly he re- traced his steps. The footprints—those which ~pointed toward the hut and those which pointed away from it— lay close together; and he knelt before each, breaking fresh snow over the hollows and carefully hidlnf the blood. And now a great happiness filled his heart, Inter- rupted once or twice as h2 worked by a feeling that some one was following and watching him. Once he turned northward and gazed, making a telescope of his hands. He saw nothing and fell again to his long task., He saw ‘Within the hut the sick man cried softly to himself. Faed, the Snipe, and Ceoney, slept uneasily, and muttered in their dreams. The Gaffer lay awake, thinking. After Bill, George Lashman, and after George . . . ? Who next? And who would be the last—the unburied one? The men were weakening fast; their wits and courage coming down at the last with a rush. Faed and Long Ede were the only two to be depended on for a day. The Gaffer liked Long Ede, who w a religious man. Indeed, he had a growing suspicion that Long Ede, in spite of £ e amiable laxities of belief, was numbered among the t, or might be, if interceded for. The Gaffer began to intercede for him silently, but experience had taugnt him h: tlings" to be effective must be noisy, and he dropped off to sleep with a of failure. The Snipe stretched himself, yawned and awoke. It vas 7 in the morning; time to prepare a cup of tea ed an armful of logs on the fire, and the noise a > the Gaffer, who at once inquired for Long Ede. He had not returned. “Go you up to the roof. The 1 frozen.” The Snipe climbed the ladder, pushed open the trap, and came back, reporting that Long Ede was no- where to be seen. The old man slipped a jumper over his suifs of clothing—already three deep—reached for a gun and moved for the door. ake a cup of something warm to fortify.” the Snipe advised. ‘“The kettle won't be five minutes boiling.” But the Gaffer pushed up the heavy bolts and dragged the door open. “Losh me! Here, bear a hand, ! Long Ede lay prone before th threshold, his out- stretched hands almost touching it, his moccasins al- ready covered out of sight by the powdery snow which ran and trickled Incessantly—trickled between his long, disheveled locks and over the back of his gioves, and ran in_a thin stream past the Gaffer's feet. They carried him in and laid him on a heap of skins by the fire. They forced rum between his clenched teeth and beat his hands and feet, and kneaded and rubbed him. A sigh fluttered on his lips; something between a sigh and a smile, half seen, half heard. His eyes opened, and they saw that it was really a smile. ‘“Wot cheer, mate?” It was the Snipe who asked. “Iflmseen The voice broke on, but he was smil- ing still. / What had he seen? Not the sun, surely. By the Gaffer's reckoning the sun would not be due for a week or two vet; how many weeks he could not say preeisety—and some- times he was glad enough he did not know. They forced him to drink a couple of spoonfuls of rum, and wrapped him up warmly. Every man contributed some of his own bedding. Then the Gaffer called to morning prayers, and the three sound men dropped on their knees with him. Now, whether by reason of their joy at Long Ede’s recovery, or because the old man was in splendid voice, they felt their hearts uplifted that morning with a cheerfulness they had not known for months. Long Ede lay and listened dreamily while the passion of the Gaffer’s thankfulness shook the hut. His gaze wandered over their bowed forms—‘“The Gaffer, David Faed, Dan Cooney, the Snipe and—George Lash- man in the bunk, of course—and me.” But. then, who was_the seventh? He began to count. There's myself— Lashman, in his bunk—David Faed, the Gaffer, the Snipe, Dan Cooney . . One, two, three, four—well, but that made seven. Then who was the seventh? Was it George who had crawled out of bed and was kneeling there? Decidedly there were five kneeling. No; there was George, plain enough, in his berth, and not able to move. Then who was the stranger? Wrong again; there ‘was no giranger. He knew all these men—they were his mates. Was it—Bill? No. Bill was dead and buried; none of these was Bill, or like Bill. Tr¢ again—one, two, three, four, five—and us two sick men—seven. The Gaffer, David Faed. Dan Cooney—have I counted Dan twice? No, that's Dan yonder to the right, and only one of him. Five men kneeling and two on their backs; that makes seven every time. Dear God—suppose—" ] , and in the act of rising caught sight osfi;geflfée;;{efia::d ‘While the others fetcr'led lhflr _bru,,. fast cans, he stepped over a\]dm?genl and whispered: oTell me, ye've seen what? 'Seen?” Long Ede echoed. “Ay, vhat? k low—was it the sun Lphe oem Whatd e e the echo died on his lips, ana his face grew full of awe uncomprehending. It frightened the Gaffer. £E “Ye'll be the better of a snatch of sleep.” said he, an he ¥uer‘r=edem geo when Long Ede stirred a hand under the edge of his rug: *‘Seven—coun! o whispered. - o sereg on it the Gaffer muttered-to his beard as he moved away. “Long Ede gone crazed. 2 And yet, though an hour or two ago this was the wor that could have befallen, the Gaffer felt unusually chee ful. As for the others, they were like different men that day and through the three days that followed. Ev Lashman ceased to complain, and, unless their ej played them = trick, had taken a turn for the vetter, declare, if 1 don't feel Hke pitching to s e Sr announced on the second evening, as wonder as to theirs. ‘Then why in th strike up?” answered Dan Cooney, and f certina. _The Snipe struck up th dt and his Dinah.” W s m e his “Paradise Los: By the end of the secc HIS HEAD AND SHOULDERS WAVEREEL AND GREW VAGUE IN THE SMOKE WREATHS. about again. He went the other be frozen A minute pa roof—a cry that weeping, cheering, “Boys! boys! thé sun rom the , choking, Mt e e g Months later—it was June, and even George Lashman had recovered his strength—ihe Snipe came running with news of the whaling fieet. n the beach, as they Long Ede told tr hallu—what d'y The Gatter's ey to ancho a hall— s crazed, eh?” Iw it—I reckon. e dered from a brambling hopping about the liche: boulders and away to the sea fowl wheeling above tha ships; and then came to his mind a tale he had read once overed in the “Turkish Sp: “I wouldn't say just that,” he an- swered, slowly ny way,” s d. i the Lord sent a miracle to us t say just that, either,” the Gaffe: N doubt it ‘was meant j for you and me, and the rest were pre- sairved, as you say, inceedentally.” Copyright, 1838, by Arthur Quiller Crouch. 00000000000 000000 OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO0000000000000000000000000000000000000'000OO0O@@@@000000000600000000000OOOOO000000090 CURIOSITIES OF TATTOOING AMONG INDIAN AT WORK TATTOOING. ATTOOING has been studied from many .points of view. It is very widely practiced, and has various origins. It is due to religlous ideas, forms distine- tive signs among tribes, is offered as a recompense ant, or, finally, is a true initiation mark- }g‘n:;ev ;lalssage from ch}’ldhood to the adult age. Tt 18 practiced In different ways: by burns which form scars (as among the Australians); by wide incisions (as among the Africans); or, finally, by fine punctures, and in this cuse becomes anl n{L ’E. 1s'from the latter viewpoint tha to exemine % ::tdr::l:':i' &:x perfection to which a race has brought NEW ZEALAND. its art, the handsomer will be its tattooing. The Austra- lians are acquainted with the very primitive drawing only. They trace straight parallel lines or angies upon their arms and thelr few utensils. They have not reached the conception of the Felyxvn. curve or spiral. They are , alternation, and the various prin- Lfnon.n! of symmei ples that presideoverthegrouping of ornamental des; sns. So their tattooing is rude, and composed simply of a few parallel or intersecting lines or of dotted ones. Tha African worshipers of fetiches, whose art is very crude, trace lines and angles, which they repeat in series; but make very little use of curves, Opposed to these are the Palvnesians. whose orna- SPECIMEN OF JAPANESE TATTOOING UPON THE BODY OF A ‘NEALTHY AMERICAN. mental art is considerably developed. They know how to draw curves and spirals; and they combine geometrical lines in such a way as to obtain harmonious results. they tattco very complicated and very beautiful designs. In New Zealand the figures are supercharged with ciose and parallel curves, which surround the mouth, nose and eyes. In the Marquesas Islands travelers have admired the pertection and fineness of the lines of tattooing practiced there, and in which res of animals are harmoniously mixed with geometrical designs, upon the human body 8 Well as upon sculptured objects. These tattooing designs, ltke the ornamental art of the natives, have, acco: EASTERN L e Sl @] i LALTIAN. to the testimony of travelers, varied since the discovery O e thamantat art of New Guines is hi ped, e ornament 0 ‘ew Guinea is but tarttooing 18 not much practiced. Howeer: ¢ tg:':rlgmefi of the Motu tribe tattoo themselves, and do it with a erfection that cedes in nothing to the art as practiced y the Polynesians. taught us to admire the very The Americans have original art of the Haldah, a people of Colombia, who lar represent man and the animals according to re; curves that give them the appearance of geometrical designs. Their tattooing is in every r the designs which they sculpture upon wood, and it fuffices to see & NEW GUINEA PEOPLES. HAIDAH. HAIDAH. specimen of it in order to recognize it among a thousand Tattooing, therefore, mnmu‘fl‘é. slri :msuse manifesta- tion, and not one of the least, of primitive races. 1t even happens that, as regards the Guanches of the Canary Islands, it is the pflnc?a.l art of this race that remalns to us. These people did not tattoo themselves in the proper sense of the word (which signifies a puncture of tne skin into which a coloring substance is introduced), but printed designs upon the body by means of matrices or ‘pintaderos.” The Museum of Las Palmas (Canary Islands) Dossesses a fine collection of these matrices in which we can see what was the ornamental art of this disapneared. race, which now