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RUSKIN BOND’s first novel, The Room on the Roof, written when he was seventeen, won the
John Llewellyn Rhys Memorial Prize in 1957. Since then he has written several novellas (including
Vagrants in the Valley, A Flight of Pigeons and Delhi Is Not Far), essays, poems and children’s
books. He has also written over five hundred short stories and articles, which have appeared in a
number of magazines and anthologies. He received the Sahitya Akademi Award in 1993 for Our
Trees Still Grow in Dehra, a collection of short stories, and the Padma Shri in 1999.
 Other Ruskin Bond Titles

Angry River
A Little Night Music
A Long Walk for Bina
Hanuman to the Rescue
Ghost Stories from the Raj
Strange Men, Strange Places
The India I Love
Tales and Legends from India
The Blue Umbrella
Ruskin Bond’s Children’s Omnibus
The Ruskin Bond Omnibus-I
The Ruskin Bond Omnibus-II
The Ruskin Bond Omnibus-III
Rupa Book of Great Animal Stories
The Rupa Book of True Tales of Mystery and Adventure
The Rupa Book of Ruskin Bond’s Himalayan Tales
The Rupa Book of Great Suspense Stories
The Rupa Laughter Omnibus
The Rupa Book of Scary Stories
The Rupa Book of Haunted Houses
The Rupa Book of Travellers’ Tales
The Rupa Book of Great Crime Stories
The Rupa Book of Nightmare Tales
The Rupa Book of Shikar Stories
The Rupa Book of Love Stories
The Rupa Book of Wicked Stories
The Rupa Book of Heartwarming Stories
The Rupa Book of Thrills and Spills
The Carnival of Terror
 The Rupa Book of
SNAPPY SURPRISES

Edited by Ruskin Bond

 Published by
Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd. 2010
7/16, Ansari Road, Daryaganj
New Delhi 110002

Introduction and selection copyright for Great Suspense Stories © Ruskin Bond 2003

Introduction and selection copyright for Snappy Surprises © Ruskin Bond 2007

Copyright of individual stories/pieces/poems/translations vest with the individual

authors/translators.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any
form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the
prior permission of the publisher.

ISBN: 978-81-291-1589-8

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3

The moral rights of the authors have been asserted.

Great Suspense Stories typeset in 11 pts. Classical Garamond by Mindways Design, New Delhi

Snappy Surprises typeset in 11 pts. Charter by Mindways Design, New Delhi

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent,
resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated, without the publisher’s prior consent, in any form of
binding or cover other than that in which it is published.
CONTENTS

Introduction

MASTER OF THE MACABRE

The Boarded Window

One Summer Night
Staley Fleming’s Hallucination
The Stranger
Four Stories by Ambrose Bierce

THE PERFECT CRIME

Death in the Kitchen

Milward Kennedy

H2, etc.
A.J. Alan

Coroner’s Inquest
Marc Connelly

A Worm’s Turning
John Eyton

IN LIGHTER VEIN
The Two Horns
T.F. Powys

‘Yoked with an Unbeliever’

Rudyard Kipling

Dusk
‘Saki’ (H.H. Munro)

The Amorous Ghost

Enid Bagnold

The Man Who Came Back

William Gerhardi

GHOSTS AND GHOULS

The Vampire
Sydney Horler

Night of the Millennium

Ruskin Bond

‘I Will Pay You All To-morrow’

Lord Halifax

The Bordeaux Diligence

Lord Halifax

The Doctor’s Ghost

Dr Norman Macleod

CLASSIC SHORTS

The Eyes Have It

Ruskin Bond
The Vampire
Jan Neruda

The Four-Fingered Hand

Barry Pain

The Third Performance

Anthony Gittins

Torture by Hope
Count Villiers De L’Isle Adam

The Statement of Randolph Carter

H.P. Lovecraft

The Interlopers
‘Saki’ (H.H. Munro)

The Shifting Growth

Edgar Jepson and John Gawsworth

The Story of Muhammad Din

Rudyard Kipling

His First Flight

Liam O’Flaherty
INTRODUCTION

For the popularity of the short short story, or super short as I like to call it,
we must thank the newspapers of the early and mid-twentieth century. It
was customary for many newspapers to carry short fiction in their
weekend or evening supplements. Many young writers came to the fore in
this way. As the fees were respectable, established authors did not shy
away from these pages, which commanded a wide reading pubic.
Space was at a premium, and a writer had to use all his skills to
compose an effective short story that would take up no more than a
column or two. The stories seldom exceeded 1,500 words. They were
usually read during short journeys on buses or in the tube train. They had
to be short and crisp, preferably with a ‘surprise ending’. Among the
earliest and finest exponents of this form were Poe, ‘Saki’, Ambrose
Bierce, O. Henry, and Rudyard Kipling, most of whom had worked in
newspapers as correspondents or editors. Later, many successful authors
tried their hand at the super short.
In the 1950s, when I lived in London, a paper called The Evening News
carried a short story in almost every issue. And in India, in the ‘60s, most
of the Sunday papers carried short fiction, enabling me to make a modest
living with my stories. There were also a number of weekly and monthly
magazines which carried short stories. This market has now almost
disappeared. The family magazine has given way to televised
entertainment. Publishers prefer long novels to shorter forms of fiction.
And for some strange reason modern writers find it increasingly difficult
to tell a story in a limited number of words. Perhaps the computer
encourages them to ramble on interminably.
For those who like their stories neat, and without too many frills, there
is much to fall back upon, as this collection will testify.
 Here are twenty-eight of my favourite super shorts, starting with that
master of the macabre, Ambrose Bierce, whose reputation rests almost
entirely on his short fiction and his highly original and entertaining Devil’s
Dictionary. Bierce’s own end was as mysterious as one of his story
endings. He slipped into Mexico to cover a revolutionary war, and was
never seen again. There was a lot of speculation as to what might have
become of him, but to this day his disappearance remains a mystery.
Rudyard Kipling’s early stories were written for the Civil and Military
Gazette, of Lahore, and he had to tailor them to fit a limited column
length. Hardly any of them exceed 2,000 words. They were later published
in the collection Plain Tales from the Hills, and were acclaimed as being
among his best work.
Saki’s brilliant tales were written for the Westminster Gazette. He too
had an end that was worthy of one of his stories—hit by a stray bullet
while enjoying a mug of tea in a trench during World War I.
A.J. Alan made his name as a raconteur of short stories on BBC radio
when I was still a boy. Hence his easy, conversational style. The BBC
introduced a 5-minute story slot on its Home Service programme in the
1950s, and some of my own early efforts found a place here. It’s quite a
challenge writing an effective story with a reading time of five minutes.
There is no scope for long descriptions, philosophical diversions, or
padding of any sort.
I think I have exceeded my five minutes, so I will sign off by saying
that the reader will be hard put to it to find a dull moment or a dull
sentence in any of the stories that follow.

Ruskin Bond
5 September 2006
MASTER OF THE MACABRE
Four Stories by Ambrose Bierce
THE BOARDED WINDOW

I n 1830, only a few miles away from what is now the great city of
Cincinnati, lay an immense and almost unbroken forest. The whole
region was sparsely settled by people of the frontier—restless souls who
no sooner had hewn fairly habitable homes out of the wilderness and
attained to that degree of prosperity which to-day we should call indigence
than, impelled by some mysterious impulse of their nature, they abandoned
all and pushed farther westward, to encounter new perils and privations in
the effort to regain the meager comforts which they had voluntarily
renounced. Many of them had already forsaken that region for the remoter
settlements, but among those remaining was one who had been of those
first arriving. He lived alone in a house of logs surrounded on all sides by
the great forest, of whose gloom and silence he seemed a part, for no one
had ever known him to smile nor speak a needless word. His simple wants
were supplied by the sale or barter of skins of wild animals in the river
town, for not a thing did he grow upon the land, which, if needful, he
might have claimed by right of undisturbed possession. There were
evidences of ‘improvement’—a few acres of ground immediately about
the house had once been cleared of its trees, the decayed stumps of which
were half concealed by the new growth that had been suffered to repair the
ravage wrought by the ax. Apparently the man’s zeal for agriculture had
burned with a failing flame, expiring in penitential ashes.
The little log house, with its chimney of sticks, its roof of warping
clapboards weighted with traversing poles and its ‘chinking’ of clay, had a
single door and, directly opposite, a window. The latter, however, was
boarded up—nobody could remember a time when it was not. And none
knew why it was so closed; certainly not because of the occupant’s dislike
of light and air, for on those rare occasions when a hunter had passed that
lonely spot the recluse had commonly been seen sunning himself on his
doorstep if heaven had provided sunshine for his need. I fancy there are
few persons living to-day who ever knew the secret of that window, but I
am one, as you shall see.
The man’s name was said to be Murlock. He was apparently seventy
years old, actually about fifty. Something besides years had had a hand in
his aging. His hair and long, full beard were white, his gray, lusterless eyes
sunken, his face singularly seamed with wrinkles which appeared to
belong to two intersecting systems. In figure he was tall and spare, with a
stoop of the shoulders—a burden bearer. I never saw him; these particulars
I learned from my grandfather, from whom also I got the man’s story when
I was a lad. He had known him when living near by in that early day.
One day Murlock was found in his cabin, dead. It was not a time and
place for coroners and newspapers, and I suppose it was agreed that he had
died from natural causes or I should have been told, and should remember.
I know only that with what was probably a sense of the fitness of things
the body was buried near the cabin, alongside the grave of his wife, who
had preceded him by so many years that local tradition had retained hardly
a hint of her existence. That closes the final chapter of this true story—
excepting, indeed, the circumstance that many years afterward, in
company with an equally intrepid spirit, I penetrated to the place and
ventured near enough to the ruined cabin to throw a stone against it, and
ran away to avoid the ghost which every well-informed boy thereabout
knew haunted the spot. But there is an earlier chapter—that supplied by
my grandfather.
When Murlock built his cabin and began laying sturdily about with his
ax to hew out a farm—the rifle, meanwhile, his means of support—he was
young, strong and full of hope. In that eastern country whence he came he
had married, as was the fashion, a young woman in all ways worthy of his
honest devotion, who shared the dangers and privations of his lot with a
willing spirit and light heart. There is no known record of her name; of her
charms of mind and person tradition is silent and the doubter is at liberty to
entertain his doubt; but God forbid that I should share it! Of their affection
and happiness there is abundant assurance in every added day of the man’s
widowed life; for what but the magnetism of a blessed memory could have
chained that venturesome spirit to a lot like that?
One day Murlock returned from gunning in a distant part of the forest
to find his wife prostrate with fever, and delirious. There was no physician
within miles, no neighbour; nor was she in a condition to be left, to
summon help. So he set about the task of nursing her back to health, but at
the end of the third day she fell into unconsciousness and so passed away,
apparently, with never a gleam of returning reason.
From what we know of a nature like his we may venture to sketch in
some of the details of the outline picture drawn by my grandfather. When
convinced that she was dead, Murlock had sense enough to remember that
the dead must be prepared for burial. In performance of this sacred duty he
blundered now and again, did certain things incorrectly, and others which
he did correctly were done over and over. His occasional failures to
accomplish some simple and ordinary act filled him with astonishment,
like that of a drunken man who wonders at the suspension of familiar
natural laws. He was surprised, too, that he did not weep—surprised and a
little ashamed; surely it is unkind not to weep for the dead. ‘Tomorrow,’
he said aloud, ‘I shall have to make the coffin and dig the grave; and then I
shall miss her, when she is no longer in sight; but now—she is dead, of
course, but it is all right—it must be all right, somehow. Things cannot be
so bad as they seem.’
He stood over the body in the fading light, adjusting the hair and
putting the finishing touches to the simple toilet, doing all mechanically,
with soulless care. And still through his consciousness ran an undersense
of conviction that all was right—that he should have her again as before,
and everything explained. He had had no experience in grief; his capacity
had not been enlarged by use. His heart could not contain it all, nor his
imagination rightly conceive it. He did not know he was so hard struck;
that knowledge would come later, and never go. Grief is an artist of
powers as various as the instruments upon which he plays his dirges for
the dead, evoking from some the sharpest, shrillest notes, from others the
low, grave chords that throb recurrent like the slow beating of a distant
drum. Some natures it startles; some it stupefies. To one it comes like the
stroke of an arrow, stinging all the sensibilities to a keener life: to another
as the blow of a bludgeon, which in crushing benumbs. We may conceive
Murlock to have been that way affected, for (and here we are upon surer
ground than that of conjecture) no sooner had he finished his pious work
than, sinking into a chair by the side of the table upon which the body lay,
and noting how white the profile showed in the deepening gloom, he laid
his arms upon the table’s edge, and dropped his face into them. Tearless
yet and unutterably weary. At that moment came in through the open
window a long, waiting sound like the cry of a lost child in the far deeps of
the darkening wood! But the man did not move. Again, and nearer than
before, sounded that unearthly cry upon his failing sense. Perhaps it was a
wild beast; perhaps it was a dream. For Murlock was asleep.
 Some hours later, as it afterward appeared, this unfaithful watcher
awoke and lifting his head from his arms intently listened—he knew not
why. There in the black darkness by the side of the dead, recalling all
without a shock, he strained his eyes to see—he knew not what. His senses
were all alert, his breath was suspended, his blood had stilled its tides as if
to assist the silence. Who—what had waked him, and where was it?
Suddenly the table shook beneath his arms, and at the same moment he
heard, or fancied that he heard, a light, soft step—another—sounds as of
bare feet upon the floor!
He was terrified beyond the power to cry out or move. Perforce he
waited—waited there in the darkness through seeming centuries of such
dread as one may know, yet live to tell. He tried vainly to speak the dead
woman’s name, vainly to stretch forth his hand across the table to learn if
she were there. His throat was powerless, his arms and hands were like
lead. Then occurred something most frightful. Some heavy body seemed
hurled against the table with an impetus that pushed it against his breast so
sharply as nearly to overthrow him, and at the same instant he heard and
felt the fall of something upon the floor with so violent a thump that the
whole house was shaken by the impact. A scuffling ensued, and a
confusion of sounds impossible to describe. Murlock had risen to his feet.
Fear had by excess forfeited control of his faculties. He flung his hands
upon the table. Nothing was there!
There is a point at which terror may turn to madness; and madness
incites to action. With no definite intent, from no motive but the wayward
impulse of a madman, Murlock sprang to the wall, with a little groping
seized his loaded rifle, and without aim discharged it. By the flash which
lit up the room with a vivid illumination, he saw an enormous panther
dragging the dead woman toward the window, its teeth fixed in her throat!
Then there was darkness blacker than before, and silence; and when he
returned to consciousness the sun was high and the wood vocal with songs
of birds.
The body lay near the window, where the beast had left it when
frightened away by the flash and report of the rifle. The clothing was
deranged, the long hair in disorder, the limbs lay anyhow. From the throat,
dreadfully lacerated, had issued a pool of blood not yet entirely
coagulated. The ribbon with which he had bound the wrists was broken;
the hands were tightly clenched. Between the teeth was a fragment of the
animal’s ear.
ONE SUMMER NIGHT

T he fact that Henry Armstrong was buried did not seem to him to
prove that he was dead; he had always been a hard man to convince.
That he really was buried, the testimony of his senses compelled him to
admit. His posture—flat upon his back, with hands crossed upon his
stomach and tied with something that he easily broke without profitably
altering the situation—the strict confinement of his entire person, the black
darkness and profound silence, made a body of evidence impossible to
controvert and he accepted it without cavil.
But dead—no; he was only very, very ill. He had, withal, the invalid’s
apathy and did not greatly concern himself about the uncommon fate that
had been allotted to him. No philosopher was he—just a plain,
commonplace person gifted, for the time being, with a pathological
indifference: the organ that he feared consequences with was torpid. So,
with no particular apprehension for his immediate future, he fell asleep and
all was peace with Henry Armstrong.
But something was going on overhead. It was a dark summer night,
shot through with infrequent shimmers of lightning silently firing a cloud
lying low in the west and portending a storm. These brief, stammering
illuminations brought out with ghastly distinctness the monuments and
headstones of the cemetery and seemed to set them dancing. It was not a
night in which any credible witness was likely to be straying about a
cemetery, so the three men who were there, digging into the grave of
Henry Armstrong, felt reasonably secure.
Two of them were young students from a medical college a few miles
away; the third was a gigantic man known as Jess. For many years Jess
had been employed about the cemetery as a man-of-all-work and it was his
favourite pleasantry that he knew ‘every soul in the place.’ From the
nature of what he was now doing it was inferable that the place was not so
populous as its register may have shown it to be.
Outside the wall, at the part of the grounds furthest from the public
road, were a horse and a light wagon, waiting.
The work of excavation was not difficult: the earth with which the
grave had been loosely filled a few hours before offered little resistance
and was soon thrown out. Removal of the casket from its box was less
easy, but it was taken out, for it was a perquisite of Jess, who carefully
unscrewed the cover and laid it aside, exposing the body in black trousers
and white shirt. At that instant the air sprang to flame, a cracking shock of
thunder shook the stunned world, and Henry Armstrong tranquilly sat up.
With inarticulate cries the men fled in terror, each in a different direction.
For nothing on earth could two of them have been persuaded to return. But
Jess was of another breed.
In the grey of the morning the two students, pallid and haggard from
anxiety and with the terror of their adventure still beating tumultuously in
their blood, met at the medical college.
‘You saw it?’ cried one.
‘God! Yes—what are we to do?’
They went around to the rear of the building, where they saw a horse,
attached to a light wagon, hitched to a gatepost near the door of the
dissecting-room. Mechanically they entered the room. On a bench in the
obscurity sat Jess. He rose, grinning, all eyes and teeth.
‘I’m waiting for my pay,’ he said.
Stretched naked on a long table lay the body of Henry Armstrong, the
head defiled with blood and clay from a blow with a spade.
STALEY FLEMING’S HALLUCINATION

O f two men who were talking, one was a physician. ‘I sent for you,
Doctor,’ said the other, ‘but I don’t think you can do me any good.
Maybe you can recommend a specialist in psychopathy. I fancy I’m a bit
loony.’
‘You look all right,’ the physician said.
‘You shall judge—I have hallucinations. I wake every night and see in
my room, intently watching me, a big black Newfoundland dog with a
white forefoot.’
‘You say you wake; are you sure about that? “Hallucinations” are
sometimes only dreams.’
‘Oh, I wake all right. Sometimes I lie still a long time, looking a the
dog as earnestly as the dog looks at me—I always leave the light going.
When I can’t endure it any longer I sit up in bed—and nothing is there!’
‘ ’M, ’m—what is the beast’s expression?’
‘It seems to me sinister. Of course I know that, except in art, an
animal’s face in repose has always the same expression. But this is not a
real animal. Newfoundland dogs are pretty mild looking, you know;
what’s the matter with this one?’
‘Really, my diagnosis would have no value: I am not going to treat the
dog.’
The physician laughed at his own pleasantry, but narrowly watched his
patient from the corner of his eye. Presently he said: ‘Fleming, your
description of the beast fits the dog of the late Atwell Barton.’
Fleming half rose from his chair, sat again and made a visible attempt
at indifference. ‘I remember Barton,’ he said. ‘I believe he was—it was
reported that—wasn’t there something suspicious in his death?’
Looking squarely now into the eyes of his patient, the physician said:
‘Three years ago the body of your old enemy, Atwell Barton, was found in
the woods near his house and yours. He had been stabbed to death. There
have been no arrests; there was no clue. Some of us had ‘theories.’ I had
one. Have you?’
‘I? Why, bless your soul, what could I know about it? You remember
that I left for Europe almost immediately afterward—a considerable time
afterward. In the few weeks since my return you could not expect me to
construct a ‘theory’ In fact, I have not given the matter a thought. What
about his dog?’
‘It was first to find the body. It died of starvation on his grave.’
We do not know the inexorable law underlying coincidences. Staley
Fleming did not, or he would perhaps not have sprung to his feet as the
night wind brought in through the open window the long wailing howl of a
distant dog. He strode several times across the room in the steadfast gaze
of the physician; then, abruptly confronting him, almost shouted: ‘What
has all this to do with my trouble, Dr Halderman? You forget why you
were sent for.’
Rising, the physician laid his hand upon his patient’s arm and said
gently: ‘Pardon me. I cannot diagnose your disorder offhand—to-morrow,
perhaps. Please go to bed, leaving your door unlocked; I will pass the night
here with your books. Can you call me without rising?’
‘Yes, there is an electric bell.’
‘Good. If anything disturbs you, push the button without sitting up.
Good-night.’
Comfortably installed in an arm-chair, the man of medicine stared into
the glowing coals and thought deeply and long, but apparently to little
purpose, for he frequently rose and, opening a door leading to the
staircase, listened intently, then resumed his seat. Presently, however, he
fell asleep, and when he woke it was past midnight. He stirred the failing
fire, lifted a book from the table at his side and looked at the title. It was
Denneker’s Meditations. He opened it at random and began to read:
‘Forasmuch as it is ordained of God that all flesh hath spirit and
thereby taketh on spiritual powers, so, also, the spirit hath powers of the
flesh, even when it is gone out of the flesh and liveth as a thing apart, as
many a violence performed by wraith and lemure sheweth. And there be
who say that man is not single in this, but the beasts have the like evil
inducement, and—’
The reading was interrupted by a shaking of the house, as by the fall of
a heavy object. The reader flung down the book, rushed from the room and
mounted the stairs to Fleming’s bedchamber. He tried the door, but
contrary to his instructions it was locked. He set his shoulder against it
with such force that it gave way. On the floor near the disordered bed, in
his nightclothes, lay Fleming, gasping away his life.
The physician raised the dying man’s head from the floor and observed
a wound in the throat. ‘I should have thought of this,’ he said, believing it
suicide.
When the man was dead an examination disclosed the unmistakable
marks of an animal’s fangs deeply sunken into the jugular veins.
But there was no animal.
THE STRANGER

A man stepped out of the darkness into the little illuminated circle
about our failing camp-fire and seated himself upon a rock.
‘You are not the first to explore this region,’ he said gravely.
Nobody controverted his statement; he was himself proof of its truth,
for he was not of our party and must have been somewhere near when we
camped. Moreover, he must have companions not far away; it was not a
place where one would be living or travelling alone. For more than a week
we had seen, besides, ourselves and our animals, only such living things as
rattlesnakes and horned toads. In an Arizona desert one does not long
coexist with only such creatures as these; one must have pack animals,
supplies, arms—‘an outfit.’ And all these imply comrades. It was, perhaps,
a doubt as to what manner of men this unceremonious stranger’s comrades
might be, together with something in his words interpretable as a
challenge, that caused every man of our half-dozen ‘gentlemen
adventurers’ to rise to a sitting posture and lay his hand upon a weapon—
an act signifying, in that time and place, a policy of expectation. The
stranger gave the matter no attention, and began again to speak in the same
deliberate, uninflected monotone in which he had delivered his first
sentence:
‘Thirty years ago Ramon Gallegos, William Shaw, George W. Kent
and Berry Davis, all of Tucson, crossed the Santa Catalina Mountains and
travelled due west, as nearly as the configuration of the country permitted.
We were prospecting and it was our intention, if we found nothing, to push
through to the Gila river at some point near Big Bend, where we
understood there was a settlement. We had a good outfit but no guide—
just Ramon Gallegos, William Shaw, George W. Kent and Berry Davis.’
The man repeated the names slowly and distinctly, as if to fix them in
the memories of his audience, every member of which was now attentively
observing him, but with a slackened apprehension regarding his possible
companions somewhere in the darkness which seemed to enclose us like a
black wall, for in the manner of this volunteer historian was no suggestion
of an unfriendly purpose. His act was rather that of a harmless lunatic than
an enemy. We were not so new to the country as not to know that the
solitary life of many a plainsman had a tendency to develop eccentricities
of conduct and character not always easily distinguishable from mental
aberration. A man is like a tree: in a forest of his fellows he will grow as
straight as his generic and individual nature permits; alone, in the open, he
yields to the deforming stresses and tortions that environ him. Some such
thoughts were in my mind as I watched the man from the shadow of my
hat, pulled low to shut out the firelight. A witless fellow, no doubt, but
what could he be doing there in the heart of a desert?
Nobody having broken the silence, the visitor went on to say:
‘This country was not then what it is now. There was not a ranch
between the Gila and the Gulf. There was a little game here and there in
the mountains, and near the infrequent waterholes grass enough to keep
our animals from starvation. If we should be so fortunate as to encounter
no Indians we might get through. But within a week the purpose of the
expedition had altered from discovery of wealth to preservation of life. We
had gone too far to go back, for what was ahead could be no worse than
what was behind; so we pushed on, riding by night to avoid Indians and
the intolerable heat, and concealing ourselves by day as best we could.
Sometimes, having exhausted our supply of wild meat and emptied our
casks, we were days without food and drink; then a water-hole or a
shallow pool in the bottom of an arroyo so restored our strength and sanity
that we were able to shoot some of the wild animals that sought it also.
Sometimes it was a bear, sometimes an antelope, a coyote, a cougar—that
was as God pleased; all were food.
‘One morning as we skirted a mountain range, seeking a practicable
pass, we were attacked by a band of Apaches who had followed our trail
up a gulch—it is nor far from here. Knowing that they outnumbered us ten
to one, they took none of their usual cowardly precautions, but dashed
upon us at a gallop, firing and yelling. Fighting was out of the question.
We urged our feeble animals up the gulch as far as there was footing for a
hoof, then threw ourselves out of our saddles and took to the chaparral on
one of the slopes, abandoning our entire outfit to the enemy. But we
retained our rifles, every man—Ramon Gallegos, William Shaw, George
W. Kent and Berry Davis.’
 ‘Same old crowd,’ said the humourist of the party. A gesture of
disapproval from our leader silenced him, and the stranger proceeded with
his tale:
‘The savages dismounted also, and some of them ran up the gulch
beyond the point at which we had left it, cutting off further retreat in that
direction and forcing us on up the side. Unfortunately the chaparral
extended only a short distance up the slope, and as we came into the open
ground above we took the fire of a dozen rifles; but Apaches shoot badly
when in a hurry, and God so willed it that none of us fell. Twenty yards up
the slope, beyond the edge of the brush, were vertical cliffs, in which,
directly in front of us, was a narrow opening. Into that we ran, finding
ourselves in a cavern about as large as an ordinary room. Here for a time
we were safe. A single man with a repeating rifle could defend the
entrance against all the Apaches in the land. But against hunger and thirst
we had no defence. Courage we still had, but hope was a memory.
‘Not one of those Indians did we afterwards see, but by the smoke and
glare of their fires in the gulch we knew that by day and by night they
watched with ready rifles in the edge of the bush—knew that if we made a
sortie not a man of us would live to take three steps into the open. For
three days, watching in turn, we held out, before our suffering became
insupportable. Then—it was the morning of the fourth day—Ramon
Gallegos said:
‘ “Señores, I know not well of the good God and what please him. I
have lived without religion, and I am not acquaint with that of you.
Pardon, señores, if I shock you, but for me the time is come to beat the
game of the Apache.”
‘He knelt upon the rock floor of the cave and pressed his pistol against
his temple. “Madre de Dios,” he said, “comes now the soul of Ramon
Gallegos.”
‘And so he left us—William Shaw, George W. Kent and Berry Davis.
‘I was the leader. It was for me to speak.
‘ “He was a brave man,” I said. “He knew when to die, and how. It is
foolish to go mad from thirst and fall by Apache bullets, or be skinned
alive—it is in bad taste. Let us join Ramon Gallegos.”
‘ “That is right,” said William Shaw.
‘ “That is right,” said George W. Kent.
‘I straightened the limbs of Ramon Gallegos and put a handkerchief
over his face. Then William Shaw said: “I should like to look like that in a
little while.”
‘And George W. Kent said that he felt that way too.
 ‘ “It shall be so,” I said. “The red devils will wait a week. William
Shaw and George W. Kent, draw and kneel.”
‘They did so and I stood before them.
‘ “Almighty God, our Father,” said I.
‘ “Almighty God, our Father,” said William Shaw.
‘ “Almighty God, our Father,” said George W. Kent.
‘ “Forgive us our sins,” said I.
‘ “Forgive us our sins,” said they.
‘ “And receive our souls.”
‘ “And receive our souls.”
‘ “Amen!”
‘ “Amen!”
‘I laid them beside Ramon Gallegos and covered their faces.’
There was a quick commotion on the opposite side of the camp-fire.
One of our party had sprung to his feet, pistol in hand.
‘And you!’ he shouted, ‘you dared to escape?—you dare to be alive?
You cowardly hound, I’ll send you to join them if I hang for it!’
But with the leap of a panther the captain was upon him, grasping his
wrist. ‘Hold it in, Sam Yountsey, hold it in!’
We were now all upon our feet—except the stranger, who sat
motionless and apparently inattentive. Someone seized Yountsey’s other
arm.
‘Captain,’ I said, ‘there is something wrong here. This fellow is either
a lunatic or merely a liar—just a plain, everyday liar that Yountsey has no
call to kill. If this man was of that party it had five members, one of whom
—probably himself—he has not named.’
‘Yes,’ said the captain, releasing the insurgent, who sat down, ‘there is
something—unusual. Years ago four dead bodies of white men, scalped
and shamefully mutilated, were found about the mouth of that cave. They
are buried there; I have seen the graves—we shall all see them to-morrow.’
The stranger rose, standing tall in the light of the expiring fire, which
in our breathless attention to his story we had neglected to keep going.
‘There were four,’ he said. ‘Ramon Gallegos, William Shaw, George
W. Kent and Berry Davis.’
With this reiterated roll-call of the dead he walked into the darkness
and we saw him no more.
At that moment one of our party, who had been on guard, strode in
among us, rifle in hand and somewhat excited.
‘Captain,’ he said, ‘for the last half-hour three men have been standing
out there on the mesa.’ He pointed in the direction taken by the stranger. ‘I
could see them distinctly, for the moon is up, but as they had no guns and I
had them covered with mine, I thought it was their move. They have made
none, but, damn it! they have got on my nerves.’
‘Go back to your post, and stay till you see them again,’ said the
captain. ‘The rest of you lie down again, or I’ll kick you all into the fire.’
The sentinel obediently withdrew, swearing, and did not return. As we
were arranging our blankets, the fiery Yountsey said: ‘I beg your pardon,
Captain, but who the devil do you take them to be?’
‘Ramon Gallegos, William Shaw and George W. Kent.’
‘But how about Berry Davis? I ought to have shot him.’
‘Quite needless; you couldn’t have made him any deader. Go to sleep.’
THE PERFECT CRIME
DEATH IN THE KITCHEN

Milward Kennedy

R upert Morrison straightened himself, drawing a deep breath. He

glanced round the little kitchen, deliberately looking at the figure
which lay huddled on the floor; huddled, but yet in an attitude which
Morison hoped was as natural as its unnatural circumstances would permit.
For the head was inside the oven of the rusty-looking gas-stove.
He wondered whether the cushion on which the head rested was a
natural or an unnatural touch. He decided that if he were committing
suicide, he would try to make even a gas-oven as comfortable as possible.
He walked silently (for he was in stockinged feet) into the passage, and
so to the sitting-room. The curtains he had drawn so carefully that he had
had no hesitation in leaving on the lights. Quickly but methodically he set
to work. Nothing must be left which connected him in any way with
George Manning. In any way? Well, how about that package addressed not
to Manning but to himself from the local grocer? Probably it had been
delivered in error. Still, he must take no chances. He put it aside for future
attention.
Where did Manning keep his papers? He was a careless devil, not
likely to hide them securely or ingeniously. No, here they were in the
writing-table. Only six that concerned Rupert Morrison; was that really
all? He untied the packet and read each of the six. His cheeks reddened as
he read; they were certainly damning. What a fool he had been in those
days; still, he had been wise enough to remember it when Manning turned
up out of the blue (he could not have spent all the interval in gaol?) and
started his blackmail. George Manning on the other hand had grown
foolish, for he had not troubled to discover whether his victim had
changed.
Morrison’s clumsy gloved hands thrust the packet into his breast
pocket. He considered. He had plenty of time. Manning, he knew, lived
alone in the cottage, and had few friends, certainly none who were likely
to call on him; his domestic staff was limited to an old woman from the
distant village who came in for part of the day.
The important thing was to be thorough. He had no alibi, and knew
that it would be folly to fake one. Provided that there was nothing to show
that he had a motive for wanting Manning dead, he would not have to
account for his own whereabouts; his tale of a country tramp across the
fields and through the woods would not even be wanted. Outside the
cottage there was, he knew, nothing to suggest any relationship between
Manning and himself save such as might exist between two men, friends
long ago in schooldays, who had drifted apart, and then by chance met
again: the one respected and prosperous, the other—George Manning.
At last he was satisfied with the sitting-room, but there were still the
two bedrooms. Bare, shabby rooms they were, and they did not keep him
long. Down to the ‘parlour’ once more. He was reluctant to leave it, for
there, if anywhere, he would leave behind a key to the truth.
But he could think of nothing more, except the tumblers on the table
and the grocer’s package.
There must be only one glass, of course; one must be washed and put
away in the kitchen. The other? It, too, must be washed, for when it was
found there must be no trace of anything more deadly in it than whisky. Of
course, he could wash it and provide fresh prints of Manning’s fingers.
He had to make two journeys to the kitchen with the ‘properties’ for
the scene which he must set.
Soon one tumbler was back in the cupboard; the other, on which, after
he had washed it, he had carefully pressed Manning’s limp hand, stood on
the table, a trace of neat whisky in it. Beside it the bottle, nearly empty;
Manning certainly had been putting it away. That, no doubt, was why he
had been so unnoticing when Morrison (none too neatly) had emptied his
little flask into the tumbler. He gave a worried glance at the body; if the
dose had been too strong the whole plan might go astray. But that was
absurd—he had felt the pulse only a minute ago.
And now the last detail—to put that half-sheet of paper on the table.
He placed it to look as if it had been folded to catch the eye; he dared not
forge a superscription to the coroner.
He smiled; it was a bit of luck that those words so exactly filled a half-
sheet in Manning’s letter. Directly he had received it, months ago, he had
seen its possible value.
‘I am tired of it all. Who can blame me for taking the easiest way? So
take it smiling—as I propose to do. —GEORGE MANNING.’ But it was
cash that Manning had meant to take with a smile—not coal-gas.
There. And the window tight shut. Now to turn on the gas, leave the
electric light burning, and be gone. Footprints? No, his stockinged feet had
left none, he was sure. Boots on. Quietly out by the back door, with
nothing to carry but a walking-stick and that grocer’s packet ....
Not a soul did Morrison meet on his way home, and when he had
emptied the packet of sugar down the wash basin, and in the same way
disposed of the ashes of its cover and of those six letters he took another
deep breath—of relief this time . . . .
Naturally the police would come to him, for he was a man of standing
and he was known to be on terms of acquaintance with Manning. He
would be able to tell them that the ‘poor chap’ had seemed very neurotic....
His ‘Good morning’ smile as the sergeant was shown in was at these
thoughts as well as a matter of policy.
‘Yes, sergeant, I know him slightly.’ By Jove! As nearly as no matter
he had said ‘knew’; he must watch his tongue.
‘D’you recognise this, sir?’
Good God! What was the man holding up? A pocketbook. dark blue,
with a monogram. He put his hand to his breast pocket. No—could he——
He had an appalling memory of pushing those papers into his pocket. His
gloved fingers had felt so clumsy. Could he have pulled it out and left it
lying on the carpet—there?
He put out his hand; his power of speech seemed to have vanished. He
took the pocket-book, half surprised that the sergeant allowed him to do
so, and turned it over and over, and stared at it. What use was a denial?
The sergeant was speaking. Was he warning him that anything he
might say . . . ?
That’s the boy from Bayley’s, the grocer, sir. Seems he delivered the
wrong parcel—one for you, it was. Left it last evening at the cottage. Went
first thing to get it back. Couldn’t get a reply and the front door was
locked, so he went round to the back. It seems the back door was open—of
course, sir, he hadn’t no right to go in, but . . .’
Why would the fool bother about that? Go on, man. My heart won’t
stand this.
‘Electric light burning in the kitchen and this Manning lying with his
head inside the oven. Gave the boy a shock, so he says, but if you ask me .
. . Anyways, he came along on his bike to me—I found the pocket-book,
sir, in the sitting-room. I thought I’d have a word with you. You see, this
Mr Manning—well—sir, there’s a police record.’
Why must he pause? Did he expect an answer? Morrison could only
stare, his lips trembling.
‘Course, sir. You may have given it to him. Or it may just have been an
accident....’
What was ‘it’? Even if he could have spoken, Morrison would have
refused now.
‘But apart from that, sir—his record and that, I mean—it struck me
there was something queer about Manning. And I thought maybe you
could help me. That gas-oven, sir, that looks like suicide, doesn’t it, sir?’
‘Yes—I suppose so.’
Was that really his voice?
‘There was a bottle of whisky on the table—that came from Bayley’s
yesterday afternoon, too, and it was empty all but a drain this morning.
Maybe it was that that did it. . ..’
What had gone wrong? How had this local bumpkin stumbled on the
truth?
‘At any rate, sir, whisky or lunacy, would you have thought anyone,
drunk or sober, could put his head in a gas-oven and turn the tap—and
forget the gas was cut off because he hadn’t paid the bill? I can understand
how it is he’s forgotten every blamed thing about what happened last
night, but—Hallo, sir, what’s up?’
Rupert Morrison was lying at the sergeant’s feet.
H2, ETC.

A.J. Alan

W e’ve got a cat. She’s a black Persian—a shocking great beast—and

she weighs over fifteen pounds on our kitchen scales, but she’s
awfully delicate. If she stays out too long in the cold she gets bronchitis
and has to be sat up with. So, unless it’s really hot weather, we reckon to
get her indoors by eleven o’clock.
Well, one night not long ago—it was after eleven—in fact ten past
twelve, and we were sort of thinking of bed, when my wife said, ‘I wonder
where Tibbins is.’ Tibbins is, of course, our cat, and at that time in the
evening she ought, according to her schedule, to have been lying in a heap
with the dogs in front of the fire.
However, the dogs were there but she wasn’t. No one remembered
having seen her last, so I made a tour of her usual haunts. She wasn’t in
her basket by the coke stove down in the scullery, where she generally
takes her morning nap, neither was she in hell. Hell is a place at the top of
the house where the hot-water cistern is. She often retires there in the
afternoon. At all events, I drew a complete blank, so we were finally
forced to the conclusion that she wasn’t in the house as all, and my wife
said, ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to go out and meow for her.’ So I went out
and meowed.
I searched our garden, but as she wasn’t there I went through the main
garden. Perhaps I’d better explain that all the houses in our road have their
own gardens at the back, and these have gates into what we call the main
garden. This runs right along behind them, and there’s one of these main
gardens to every eight houses or so, but they are divided off from each
other by the side-turnings which run into our road.
I’m afraid it sounds rather complicated. However, our particular main
garden is about a hundred yards long and forty yards wide, and it’s quite
big enough for a black cat to hide in, as I found. I walked round every
blooming bush in it and said, ‘R-r-r-wow,’ or words to that effect, in what
I considered to be an ingratiating manner, but without any success, and I
was just going to chuck my hand in when I saw our Tibbins sitting on the
end wall. That is to say, the wall which divides the garden from the road.
She let me sidle quite close, but just as I was going to grab her she
jumped down on the far side (the road side). Then she skipped across the
road and squeezed through the bars of the gate into the next main garden. I
said a few things and climbed over the wall and followed her. Of course, I
couldn’t squeeze between the bars of the gate so I had to scramble over the
top. She very kindly waited while I did this and then moved off just ahead.
She frolicked about with her tail in the air, as who should say, ‘Isn’t it fun
our going for a walk like this in the moonlight?’ and I told her what fun I
thought it was. I’d already torn my dinner-jacket getting over the gate, but
it’s no good being sarcastic to a cat.
She continued to lead me up the garden, darting from tree to tree, until
we got half-way along, and then she turned off to the right and went into
one of the private gardens. Luckily the gate was open and I didn’t have to
climb over it. The house it belonged to was all in darkness, of course, but
when I got to the middle of the lawn the lights suddenly came on in one of
the ground-floor rooms. It had a French window and the blinds were up.
Well, this startled the cat and she let me pick her up, so that was all
right, but just as I was turning to come away a little old man appeared at
the window. He was so close that he couldn’t have helped seeing me if I’d
moved, so I stood quite still and held Tibbins up against my shirt front. He
was a very old man indeed, rather inclined to dodder, and he had on a dark
blue dressing-gown. He’d got something white hanging over his arm, I
couldn’t quite see what it was, but it looked like a small towel.
Anyway, he peered out for a bit and then he drew the bolts and pushed
the window open. He came and stood right outside, and I thought, ‘He’s
bound to see me now,’ but he didn’t seem to. After a minute he wandered
back into the room again, and sat down and began writing a letter.
By the way, this wasn’t exactly a sitting-room. It had more the
appearance of a workroom. I mean, there was a large deal table which
looked as if it was used for cutting out on, a gas-ring for heating irons, and
a sewing-machine, and things like that.
I didn’t wait to notice any more. While the old gentleman was busy,
me and my cat left.
When I got home my wife had gone to bed. I told her about my
adventures and what I’d seen and so on and she said, ‘I wonder which
house it was.’ I couldn’t tell the number from the back, naturally, but I
made a rough guess whereabouts it came and she said, ‘Oh, then, I think I
know the old man. He’s usually out in a bath-chair. He doesn’t look quite
right in his head and he’s got asthma or something.’ And I said, ‘Well,
paddling about the garden won’t do his asthma any good. What had we
better do?’
It was no use trying to telephone because we didn’t know the name of
the people or their number in the road, so there was obviously nothing for
it but to go back and see what he was up to and warn his family that he’d
got loose.
You mustn’t think that we spend our lives doing good deeds, but we
both came to the conclusion that it wouldn’t be nice to go past the house in
a week’s time and find a hearse at the door.
At any rate, at perfectly enormous self-sacrifice I went back, over all
the walls and gates and what not, and once again fetched up on this
precious lawn. The windows had been pulled to but the light was on and I
could see in.
The old josser was still sitting at the table, only I couldn’t see his face.
It was rather funny, he’d got himself up rather like a member of the Ku
Klux Klan. You know, you’ve seen pictures of them. They wear a sort of
tall white head-dress going up to a point with two round holes cut out for
the eyes. But what he’d got on wasn’t a proper head-dress, it was a pillow-
case, and there weren’t any holes for the eyes.
I wondered for a moment what he was playing at until I noticed that
he’d taken the tube off the gas-ring and shoved it up into the pillow-case.
He’d buttoned his dressing-gown round it to keep it from falling out.
I said, ‘Oh, that’s it, is it?’ and pulled the windows open (they weren’t
fastened), and I went in and lugged the pillowcase off his head and turned
off the gas.
He wasn’t at all dead, but he’d begun to turn grey—well, a silvery
colour, and I wouldn’t have given much for him in another ten minutes.
The only treatment that occurred to me was fresh air in large
quantities, so I rolled him up in the hearthrug and laid him down outside
the window. There was a note on the table addressed to the coroner, and I
wondered whether I ought to do anything with it, but decided not to.
Next I went through to the bottom of the stairs and set about rousing
the house, and you’ve no idea what a job that was. If I hadn’t wanted them
to hear me they’d have been yelling blue murder out of the top windows
for the last ten minutes. As it was, I called out loudly several times without
anyone taking the slightest notice.
I was even looking round for the dinner-gong when a door opened
somewhere upstairs and I heard whispering going on. It went on for such a
long time that I got annoyed. I said, ‘Will some one please come down at
once and not keep me standing here all night.’ That had an effect. Two
middle-aged females appeared. Singularly nasty looking they were, and I
loathe boudoir caps at the best of times. They were evidently sisters; I
explained who I was and told them that an old gentleman had just done his
very best to make away with himself. They said, ‘Oh dear, oh dear, that’s
father. How exasperating of him. He’s always doing it.’ And I said, ‘What
are you talking about, “always doing it,” it’s not a thing people usually
make a hobby of.’ (We were out by the window by this time inspecting the
culprit.) And they said, ‘Well, you see, as a matter of fact, it’s like this.
Father is very old and he suffers from melancholia. Every now and then,
when he gets an especially bad fit, he tries to commit suicide like this. We
can’t stop him because he simply won’t be locked in his room. First of all
he creeps down here and writes a letter to the coroner’ (they’d apparently
got several of them), ‘and then he goes through this performance with the
pillow-case and turns on the gas.’ I said, ‘Yes, that’s all very well, but why
doesn’t it work? I mean it ought to kill him every time.’ And they said,
‘Oh, that’s all right, we’ve thought of that. We always turn the gas off at
the main before we go to bed.’ They had the nerve to tell me that once or
twice they’d actually watched through the keyhole and seen it all happen.
According to them there was just enough gas left in the pipe to send him
off to sleep, and at three or four in the morning he’d wake up and crawl
back to bed and forget all about it.
Well, it isn’t often that I can’t think of anything adequate to say, but I
couldn’t then. I’ve never in all my life been so angry with two women at
once. It was no use calling them the names I wanted to call them because
they wouldn’t have understood. I did remark on their unsuitability to be in
charge of any one, and I also threatened to run them in, though I don’t
quite know what for, but it must be illegal to hazard one’s parents like that.
Anyway, they got rather haughty. They said there was no need for any one
to interfere because they’d already made arrangements to send their father
to a home in Kent. I said, ‘Mind you do,’ and the subject rather dropped. It
was a little difficult to know what to do for the best, because they wouldn’t
hear of sending for a doctor, and I couldn’t make them—you can’t, you
know. Every moment I was expecting them to disapprove my dictatorial
attitude. The patient was recovering, but he still looked as if he wanted
fresh air, so we decided to give him a few minutes more.
At the same time it wouldn’t have done to let him catch his death of
cold, so we covered him up with some more rugs.
After that, by way of something to do, I put the India-rubber tube back
on to the gas-ring with the idea of boiling some water for hot bottles.
When I’d fixed it I just turned the tap on and off to see if it was working
quite forgetting that there oughtn’t to be any gas. But there was—quite a
lot. It came out with no end of a hiss, and I said, ‘Oy, you seem to get a
better pressure in this house with the main turned off than we do with it
on,’ and I turned the tap on again. You could hear it all over the room.
Upon which one of the ugly sisters said to the other, Agatha, are you sure
you turned it off last thing?’ And Agatha naturally was absolutely certain.
She distinctly remembered doing it. She began to tell us all her reasons for
remembering it so distinctly, but I said, ‘Why argue when we can go and
look?’ So we went and looked, in the pantry, and, of course, there it was—
full on.
CORONER’S INQUEST

Marc Connelly

‘W hat is your name?’

‘Frank Wineguard.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘A hundred and eighty-five West Fifty-fifth Street.’
‘What is your business?’
‘I’m stage manager for Hello, America.’
‘You were the employer of James Dawle?’
‘In a way. We both worked for Mr Bender, the producer, but I have
charge backstage.’
‘Did you know Theodore Robel?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Was he in your company, too?’
‘No, sir. I met him when we started rehearsals. That was about three
months ago, in June. We sent out a call for midgets and he and Jimmy
showed up together, with a lot of others. Robel was too big for us. I didn’t
see him again until we broke into their room Tuesday.’
‘You discovered their bodies?’
‘Yes, sir. Mrs Pike, there, was with me.’
‘You found them both dead?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How did you happen to be over in Jersey City?’
‘Well, I called up his house at curtain time Monday night when I found
Jimmy hadn’t shown up for the performance. Mrs Pike told me they were
both out, and I asked her to have either Jimmy or Robel call me when they
came in. Then Mrs Pike called me Tuesday morning and said she tried to
get into the room but she’d found the door was bolted. She said all her
other roomers were out and she was alone and scared.’
‘I’d kind of suspected something might be wrong. So I said to wait and
I’d come over. Then I took the tube over and got there about noon. Then
we went up and I broke down the door.’
‘Did you see this knife there?’
‘Yes, sir. It was on the floor, about a foot from Jimmy.’
‘You say you suspected something was wrong. What do you mean by
that?’
‘I mean I felt something might have happened to Jimmy. Nothing like
this, of course. But I knew he’d been feeling very depressed lately, and I
knew Robel wasn’t helping to cheer him up any.’
‘You mean that they had quarrels?’
‘No, sir. They just both had the blues. Robel had them for a long time.
Robel was Jimmy’s brother-in-law. He’d married Jimmy’s sister—she was
a midget, too—about five years ago, but she died a year or so later. Jimmy
had been living with them and after the sister died he and Robel took a
room in Mrs Pike’s house together.’
‘How did you learn this?’
‘Jimmy and I were pretty friendly at the theatre. He was a nice little
fellow and seemed grateful that I’d given him his job. We’d only needed
one midget for an Oriental scene in the second act and the agencies had
sent about fifteen. Mr Gehring, the director, told me to pick one of them as
he was busy and I picked Jimmy because he was the littlest.
‘After I got to know him he told me how glad he was I’d given him the
job. He hadn’t worked for nearly a year. He wasn’t little enough to be a
featured midget with circuses or in museums, so he had to take whatever
came along. Anyway, we got to be friendly and he used to tell me about
his brother-in-law and all.’
‘He never suggested that there might be ill-feeling between him and
his brother-in-law?’
“No, sir. I don’t imagine he’d ever had any words at all with Robel. As
a matter of fact, from what I could gather I guess Jimmy had quite a lot of
affection for him and he certainly did everything he could to help him.
Robel was a lot worse off than Jimmy. Robel hadn’t worked for a couple
of years and Jimmy practically supported him. He used to tell me how
Robel had been sunk ever since he got his late growth.’
‘His, what?’
‘His late growth. I heard it happens among midgets often, but Jimmy
told me about it first. Usually a midget will stay as long as he lives at
whatever height he reaches when he’s fourteen or fifteen, but every now
and then one of them starts growing again just before he’s thirty, and he
can grow a foot or even more in a couple of years. Then he stops growing
for good. But of course he don’t look so much like a midget any more.
‘That’s what had happened to Robel about three years ago. Of course
he had trouble getting jobs and it hit him pretty hard.
‘From what Jimmy told me and from what Mrs Pike says, I guess he
used to talk about it all the time. Robel used to come over and see his
agent in New York twice a week, but there was never anything for him.
Then he’d go back to Jersey City. Most of the week he lived alone because
after the show started Jimmy often stayed in New York with a cousin or
somebody that lived uptown.
‘Lately Robel hadn’t been coming over to New York at all. But every
Saturday night Jimmy would go over to Jersey City and stay till Monday
with him, trying to cheer him up. Every Sunday they’d take a walk and go
to a movie. I guess as they walked along the street Robel realised most the
difference in their heights. And I guess that’s really why they’re both dead
now.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, as I told you, Jimmy would try to sympathise with Robel and
cheer him up. He and Robel both realised that Jimmy was working and
supporting them and that Jimmy would probably keep right on working,
according to the ordinary breaks of the game, while Robel would always
be too big. It simply preyed on Robel’s mind.
‘And then three weeks ago Monday Jimmy thought he saw the axe fall.
‘I was standing outside the stage door—it was about seven-thirty—and
Jimmy came down the alley. He looked down in the mouth, which I
thought was strange, seeing that he usually used to come in swinging his
little cane and looking pretty cheerful. I said, “How are you feeling,
Jimmy?” and he said, “I don’t feel so good, Mr Wineguard.” So I said,
“Why, what’s the matter, Jimmy?” I could see there really was something
the matter with him by this time.
‘ “I’m getting scared,” he said, and I says, “Why?”
‘ “I’m starting to grow again,” he says. He said it the way you just
found out you had some disease that was going to kill you in a week. He
looked like he was shivering.
‘ “Why, you’re crazy, Jimmy,” I says. “You ain’t growing.”
‘ “Yes, I am,” he says. “I’m thrity-one and it’s that late growth like my
brother-in-law has. My father had it, but his people had money, so it didn’t
make much difference to him. It’s different with me. I’ve got to keep
working.”
‘He went on like that for a while and then I tried to kid him out of it.
‘ “You look all right to me,” I said. “How tall have you been all
along?”
‘ “Thirty-seven inches,” he says. So I says, “Come on into the prop-
room and I’ll measure you.”
‘He backed away from me. “No,” he says, “I don’t want to know how
much it is.” Then he went up to the dressing-room before I could argue
with him.
‘All week he looked awful sunk. When he showed up the next Monday
evening he looked almost white.
‘I grabbed him as he was starting upstairs to make up.
‘ “Come on out of it,” I says. I thought he’d make a break and try to
get away from me, but he didn’t. He just sort of smiled as if I didn’t
understand. Finally, he says, “It ain’t any use, Mr Wineguard.”
‘ “Listen,” I says, “you’ve been over with that brother-in-law of yours,
haven’t you?” he said yes, he had. “Well,” I says, “that’s what’s bothering
you. From what you tell me about him he’s talked about his own tough
luck so much that he’s given you the willies, too. Stay away from him the
end of this week.”
‘He stood there for a second without saying anything. They he says,
“That wouldn’t do any good. He’s all alone over there and he needs
company. Anyway, it’s all up with me, I guess. I’ve grown nearly two
inches already.”
‘I looked at him. He was pretty pathetic, but outside of that there
wasn’t any change in him as far as I could see.
‘I says, “Have you been measured?” he said he hadn’t. Then I said,
“Then how do you know? Your clothes fit you all right, except your pants,
and as a matter of fact they seem a little longer.”
‘ “I fixed my suspenders and let them down a lot farther,” he says.
“Besides they were always a little big for me.”
‘ “Let’s make sure,” I says. “I’ll get a yardstick and we’ll make
absolutely sure.”
‘But I guess he was too scared to face things. He wouldn’t do it.
‘He managed to dodge me all week. Then, last Saturday night, I ran
into him as I was leaving the theatre. I asked him if he felt any better.
‘ “I feel all right,” he says. He really looked scared to death.
‘That’s the last time I saw him before I went over to Jersey City after
Mrs Pike phoned me Tuesday morning.’
 ‘Patrolman Gorlitz has testified that the bodies were in opposite ends
of the room when he arrived. They were in that position when you forced
open the door?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘The medical examiner has testified that they were both dead of knife
wounds, apparently from the same knife. Would you assume the knife had
fallen from Dawle’s hand as he fell?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Has it been your purpose to suggest that both men were driven to
despondency by a fear of lack of employment for Dawle, and that they
might have committed suicide?’
‘No, sir. I don’t think anything of the kind.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, when Mrs Pike and I went in the room and I got a look at the
knife, I said to Mrs Pike that that was a funny kind of a knife for them to
have in the room. You can see it’s a kind of a butcher knife. Then Mrs
Pike told me it was one that she’d missed from her kitchen a few weeks
before. She’d never thought either Robel or Jimmy had stolen it, too. Then
I put two and two together and found out what really happened. Have you
got the little broken cane that was lying on the bed?’
‘Is this it?’
‘Yes, sir. Well, I’d never been convinced by Jimmy that he was really
growing. So when Mrs Pike told me about the knife I started figuring. I
figured that about five minutes before that knife came into play Jimmy
must have found it, probably by accident.’
‘Why by accident?’
‘Because Robel had gone a little crazy, I guess. He’d stolen it and kept
it hidden from Jimmy. And when Jimmy found it he wondered what Robel
had been doing with it. Then Robel wouldn’t tell him and Jimmy found out
for himself. Or maybe Robel did tell him. Anyway, Jimmy looked at the
cane. It was the one he always carried. He saw where, when Jimmy wasn’t
looking, Robel had been cutting little pieces off the end of it.’
A WORM’S TURNING

John Eyton

H e was a nameless hill labourer—a natural slave if ever there was

one. He was utterly out of keeping with these days of Labour
Unions and limited hours and representative Government—an
anachronism, a survival of the days when men were herded and driven. It
was such as he who laboured in old-time quarries, and drove galleys, and
piled the pyramids. So he was out of his time, a blot on the landscape, and
a mockery at the beneficent Government which professed such high care
for the untutored masses of India. Yet he was not alone; he toiled with
hundreds of his kind—men and women—along the mountain way leading
to Bhawali. He was a carrier of woods; Heaven knows how many times a
day his task was to carry a great solid block of Sal wood—six feet by one
foot six by six inches, or something like it—for a mile and a half up the
hot, dusty path.
He was only familiar to me because he was older than the rest. His face
was seamed and lined, and his hair grey. He carried his solid block of
wood on his back, length ways; a rope passed across his forehead—which
was bound with a dirty cloth—and another rope under his arms. He lived
stooping forwards. The weight was obviously as much as he could stand;
he was just able to put one foot before the other, and the muscles of his
calves and thighs always trembled. He looked perpetually on the ground,
with eyes that started a little out of his head staring. They had no
expression, save of intense strain. They saw nothing, noted nothing. They
were the eyes of an animal—or of a slave.
Sweat poured from his face and limbs, for all that he wore only a little
wisp of dingy cloth round his waist and loins. It was obviously a
tremendous effort to him to move out of the path for a rider to pass. When
he did, it was with the stumbling, tottering gait of a blind beast of burden.
When he rested for a few minutes, he still could not escape his plank:
he had to stand upright, with the plank resting against the wall of rock at
the roadside. His face on these occasions showed utter weariness—the
other men talked and laughed; but with him it was as if life had been
squeezed out, leaving but a blind automaton. He would rest in silence—
then get up and plod wearily on.
He had a little time off for food; otherwise he did a full day—work that
a beast would have done in the plains, and that a rope railway might have
done years ago in the hills. He had no encouragement; there was no
question of efficiency or dispatch; pay was according to the weight carried
on each journey, and the sole standard of ability was weight-carrying
capacity. There was no pension for long service; he and his kind carried
wood—or heavy cases or pianos, as the case might be—until they
dropped. At night he must have slept the sleep of a worn-out beast. If he
thought at all, he must have been haunted by the fear—’One day I shall not
be able to get up with the wood when they load me. The babu will send me
away.’ Then release—utter poverty—death. He could hardly have escaped
that thought—he was so clearly past the work.
I knew the babu by sight; he was the pay-clerk of the local contractor
to the Forest Department. I have reason to believe that he took his toll of
the labourers—a small commission for employment; perhaps an anna in
the rupee; only six percent. His name was Debi Datt—a tall, weedy
specimen, who affected English dress and perched his little cap jauntily on
the side of his head. He had a black moustache, shifty brown eyes, thick
lips, and no chin. He walked about with the swagger of a cavalryman and
the assurance of a millionaire—but you could have blown him over easily
enough. I also know that he had run through a number of clerkships in
various offices, earning the encomiums of ‘incorrigibly lazy’, ‘insufferably
idle’, ‘utterly untrustworthy’, and so on. The Forest contractor had taken
him on because he was his nephew, and cheap. The latter word aptly
describes him.
I did not see the finale between the babu and the man, but I heard the
account of an eye-witness.
It happened on the hottest day of the year in the hills—just before the
rains. Debi Datt was dispatching—telling off the men’s burdens, weighing
them, and noting them in his little book. The labourers moved slowly off
in parties of six. The weighing was done at a point where the mountain
path broadened to a width of seven or eight yards, thus giving room for a
clearing station. Below, as usual, there was a steep khud—a sheer drop of
fifty feet.
The turn of the old man came, and he moved forward for his burden to
be adjusted. It was a particularly massive piece of timber; an ordinary
person would have found it difficult to raise one end of it off the ground.
The old man murmured something, to which the babu replied roughly. The
timber was duly adjusted; the order was given—‘Chalo!’ The old man
strained to raise himself, but failed. He looked round at the babu with a
world of pathos in his eyes, as if to say ‘You have me beaten at last.’ The
look was that of an animal—asking for nothing, hoping for nothing—
accepting fate. But he did not give up. Again and again he strained,
groaning at the weight. At last he really did almost stand up—his joints
cracking—then collapsed again.
It was then that the babu kicked him—once, twice, in the ribs with his
pointed shoe. There was a grunt of pain, like a sob, and then the unique
thing happened. Without an alteration of expression, but with a gigantic
heave of the whole body, the old man was on his feet. He stood for the
slightest instant, feeling his balance, and then swung sharply round. The
whole weight of the butt of timber struck the babu, sweeping him back,
spinning him over the khud.
Then the old man overbalanced and followed him, the timber bumping
against the rocks. There were two dull thuds a long way below . . . . No
worm had ever turned more effectively.
IN LIGHTER VEIN
THE TWO HORNS

T.F. Powys

D r Snowball lived at Bollen. He had lived there for ever; that is to

say, he had lived there for more than twenty years.
Dr Snowball was exactly sixty-two years old when he married Miss
Snow.
Miss Flora Snow was the daughter of Mr Allen Snow, of Hatten, who
had many daughters. Flora had been treated for the measles by Dr
Snowball. She was covered with spots from head to foot. Dr Snowball said
he had never seen such a crowd of red pimples. The pair were married at
Easter, and the bells of Hatten Church rang merrily.
Dr and Mrs Snowball went for their honeymoon to Switzerland. The
Doctor chose Switzerland for one reason in particular, his fear of thieves.
This matter needs an explanation.
Once, when Dr Snowball was waiting for the 4.15 at Balsom Junction,
on his way to Stonebridge, he sat in front of a painted picture. The colour
of the picture reminded him of the spots on Flora’s chest. How a mountain
could look like a girl with measles he did not know. But still there was the
resemblance.
Half-way up the mountain there were two little boys with bare legs and
feathers in their hats, blowing two mountain horns. The boys were calling
the cows up from a valley that, taking the given perspective of the picture,
must have been fifty miles away.
The sight of these great horns pleased Dr Snowball. If he could buy the
like he could easily awaken the whole countryside in case the thieves came
to Bollen. Dr Snowball had always had this fear in his head, that one night
robbers would break through his pantry window and steal his white
sparrow. This stuffed sparrow he had purchased himself and valued very
much. It was worth a few pence perhaps. But Dr Snowball could not rid
his mind of the idea that the thieves would break in by his pantry window
and steal the white sparrow. Incidentally, of course, they might murder
him as well, but that would be nothing to the loss of the sparrow. This was
why Dr Snowball wanted the horns to raise the neighbourhood.
As soon as ever he reached Switzerland he began to inquire about the
horns. At Basle he called at Cook’s. The clerk looked at Mrs Flora, who
explained what her husband wanted. Cook’s agent was very discreet and
smiling, he gave all the advice he could in the circumstances.
At first Dr Snowball was unsuccessful in his quest. Once he thought he
heard a sound half-way up a mountain that might have been a horn
blowing. Leaving his wife at the hotel, he climbed up as well as his age
would allow him, but the further he got up the mountain the darker it
became, for what he had really heard was a thunderstorm. Reaching a
certain point, he saw that in order to get back to his hotel again he must go
down. His courage, that had led him to clamber so far, now forsook him.
He sat down upon a rock that jutted out of the snow rather like a horn, and
waited. During that night and half the next day, twenty guides searched the
mountain.
At last the Doctor was found.
After this accident Dr Snowball tried a different plan. He advertised for
horns. The day after the advertisement appeared everyone in the hotel,
including the night porter, was awakened at three o’clock in the morning
by the most terrible noise they had ever heard. Every cowman in the
Canton had come there to blow. The manager rushed up to Dr Snowball’s
apartment and begged him on his knees to come down and buy.
Dr Snowball bought two horns. He chose the largest. He spent the rest
of his honeymoon in learning to blow them.
Directly Dr Snowball entered his own house at Bollen, he went to see
if the white sparrow was safe. He ordered Flora to dust the sparrow. This
she did most carefully. He then told her to put it upon the clock. Dr
Snowball hoped that if the thieves came they would take the clock and
leave the white sparrow behind.
One day the Doctor asked the people of Bollen to come together upon
the village green, because he wished them to hear him blow the horns. Dr
Snowball carried the horns to the green under his arms as though they
were blunderbusses. The people came out of their houses. Blacksmith
Perry had a hammer in his hand. Sexton Hobbs a spade. Old Tom Bird, the
tinker, came running from ‘The Black Swan’ in a great hurry. Little Bertie
had run into the inn screaming out ‘that Dr Snowball was going to cut up
Mrs Best upon the green grass.’ Mrs Best was a lady who had just died.
Though in his cups, Tom Bird did not wish to miss the fun. As soon as old
Tom arrived upon the green, Dr Snowball blew one of the horns. Thinking
the sound had come from heaven, Tom knelt down and began to pray. His
prayer contained only great oaths. But he hoped the kind angels would
translate them because he really wanted to be sorry for his sins.
After blowing the horns, Dr Snowball told the people that if they ever
heard that sound in the night they must come at once to Hill House, and
catch the robbers, who would be getting in by the pantry window. He then
carried the horns home again like blunderbusses.. ..

Half-way between Hatten and Bollen there was a moated Grange.

In the moat there grew bulrushes, little ducks, and yellow water-lilies.
In the Grange there lived Mrs Lidden and young Caleb. Mrs Snow had
wanted young Caleb for Nina. Why she thought Nina could catch young
Caleb no one knew.
As soon as Doctor Snowball had been accepted by Flora, he started off
to Stonebridge to buy the wedding-ring.
Young Caleb came to call that same afternoon at Hatten, and invited
the newly engaged Flora to take a walk in the wood.
Nina was left behind to cry upon the sofa.
What happened in the wood no one knew. Young Caleb told his
mother that they had looked for moorhens, and Flora had merely said at
home that they climbed trees after mistletoe.
Young Caleb was known to the Doctor, who for some odd reason did
not like him. He had attended him for mumps. ‘The young gentleman
looked so silly,’ he said. To the credit of Dr Snowball let us remark here
that this was the only time he was ever known to speak cynically about a
patient. So we may see that Dr Snowball did not like young Caleb. It was
otherwise with Flora. The more she was with the Doctor the more her
mind went back to that tree-climbing day. At length she decided in her
heart that she must see young Caleb again. She went for a long walk in the
wood.
There was one snug place between some bushes that she peeped into.
She saw something lying upon the moss. This was her handkerchief. A
shrew-mouse had nibbled out the name. Flora sat down in that place and
scribbled a note. When she came out of the wood she gave the note to a
child to carry to the moated Grange.
 Dr Snowball liked port wine. He would hold each glass before drinking
up to the light, and as he drank he would look approvingly at the white
sparrow. The evening after Flora had written her note he drank nine
glasses. Dr Snowball went to bed.
In the middle of the night Flora rose and dressed. Her husband slept
soundly. She stole downstairs and left the house by the front door. As soon
as she shut the door she remembered the new lock that had been put in that
morning. It was the kind of lock that locked of itself when the door was
shut.
Flora stood and trembled.
She forgot young Caleb. She forgot the note she had written asking
him to come into the wood to climb trees. The door was shut and she had
no latch-key.
Flora walked round the house. The wind blew cold, she shivered. She
had dressed in such a hurry that she had forgotten some of her clothes. She
wished herself in bed again beside her husband. She stopped in front of the
pantry window and tried to open it.
Flora knew that Jane would never hear her. Jane always slept like a log
—but her husband?
The latch of the pantry window was not securely fastened. Flora shook
the window. She paused for a moment before having another try.
While she waited in the moonlight she chanced to look up. Something
large like a blunderbuss was being poked out of the bedroom window
above.
After the lightning the thunder.
The noise came. All the little hills of Bollen resounded with the sound
of a horn.
Flora sneaked along in the shadow of the house and hid herself under
the large laurel bush. From her hiding-place she could see the lights
beginning to bum in the village. The enormous horns were being
repeatedly blown.
The port did its work well, it was fruity and the Doctor blew.
The first person to come upon the scene was old Tom, who got the
start of the others because he had slept in a ditch with his clothes on. When
old Tom came into the Doctor’s garden, an owl flew by. Tom chased the
owl. The owl flew into the laurel bush. Old Tom peeped in. What he saw
there impressed him in a strange manner. He scratched his head, wishing
to tell someone.
He saw Dr Snowball peering out of the front door of Hill House. He
saw him silhouetted against the light, holding in his excitement the two
horns above his head. Tom grinned, the Doctor looked so like Farmer
Ford’s bull. Old Tom told his secret to the Doctor.
The garden was now full of villagers. Blacksmith Perry was there, and
Mr Hobbs.
The port had helped the Doctor to blow, and now it helped his fears in
another matter. He thought that the white sparrow had flown into the laurel
bush. He peeped into the bush. After peeping in he turned to the people,
thanked them for coming, gave them money, and sent them away.
When they were all gone he helped Flora to come out from her hiding-
place .
He asked her whether she had found the white bird.
Flora caught gladly at the hint he gave, and replied that when he
opened the front door, the white sparrow flew into its case again.
‘She will never try to fly out again,’ Flora said.
‘YOKED WITH AN UNBELIEVER’

Rudyard Kipling

I am dying for you, and you are dying for another.

Punjabi Proverb

W hen the Gravesend tender left the P&O steamer for Bombay and
went back to catch the train to Town, there were many people in it
crying. But the one who wept most, and most openly, was Miss Agnes
Laiter. She had reason to cry, because the only man she ever loved—or
ever could love, so she said—was going out to India; and India, as every
one knows, is divided equally between jungle, tigers, cobras, cholera, and
sepoys.
Phil Garron, leaning over the side of the steamer in the rain, felt very
unhappy too; but he did not cry. He was sent out to ‘tea.’ What ‘tea’ meant
he had not the vaguest idea, but fancied that he would have to ride on a
prancing horse over hills covered with tea-vines, and draw a sumptuous
salary for doing so; and he was very grateful to his uncle for getting him
the berth. He was really going to reform all his slack, shiftless ways, save a
large proportion of his magnificent salary yearly, and in a very short time
return to marry Agnes Laiter. Phil Garron had been lying loose on his
friends’ hands for three years, and, as he had nothing to do, he naturally
fell in love. He was very nice; but he was not strong in his views and
opinions and principles, and though he never came to actual grief, his
friends were thankful when he said good-bye, and went out to this
mysterious ‘tea’ business near Darjiling. They said, ‘God bless you, dear
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OF

ARTS, SCIENCES, LITERATURE AND GENERAL

INFORMATION
 ELEVENTH EDITION

VOLUME XVI
L to LORD ADVOCATE

New York

Encyclopædia Britannica, Inc.

342 Madison Avenue

Copyright, in the United States of America, 1910,

by
The Encyclopædia Britannica Company.

VOLUME XVI SLICE I

 L to Lamellibranchia

Articles in This Slice

L LA FARINA, GIUSEPPE
LAACHER SEE LA FAYETTE, GILBERT MOTIER DE
LAAGER LA FAYETTE, LOUISE DE
LAAS, ERNST LA FAYETTE, MARIE JOSEPH PAUL
YVES ROCH GILBERT DU MOTIER
LA BADIE, JEAN DE LA FAYETTE, MARIE-MADELEINE
PIOCHE DE LA VERGNE
LABEL LAFAYETTE
LABEO, MARCUS ANTISTIUS LA FERTÉ
LABERIUS, DECIMUS LA FERTÉ-BERNARD
LABIATAE LA FERTÉ-MILON
LABICANA, VIA LAFFITTE, JACQUES
LABICHE, EUGÈNE MARIN LAFFITTE, PIERRE
LABICI LA FLÈCHE
LABĪD LAFONT, PIERRE CHÉRI
LABIENUS LA FONTAINE, JEAN DE
LABLACHE, LUIGI LAFONTAINE, SIR LOUIS
HIPPOLYTE
LABOR DAY LAFOSSE, CHARLES DE
LA BOURBOULE LAGARDE, PAUL ANTON DE
LABOUR CHURCH, THE LAGASH
LA BOURDONNAIS, LAGHMAN
BERTRAND FRANÇOIS
LABOUR EXCHANGE LAGOON
LABOUR LEGISLATION LAGOS (province of Nigeria)
LABOUR PARTY LAGOS (seaport of Nigeria)
LABRADOR LAGOS (seaport of Portugal)
LABRADORITE LA GRÂCE
LABRADOR TEA LA GRAND’ COMBE
LABRUM LAGRANGE, JOSEPH LOUIS
LA BRUYÈRE, JEAN DE LAGRANGE-CHANCEL, FRANÇOIS
JOSEPH
LABUAN LA GRANJA
LABURNUM LAGRENÉE, LOUIS JEAN FRANÇOIS
LABYRINTH LA GUAIRA
LABYRINTHULIDEA LA GUÉRONNIÈRE, LOUIS
ÉTIENNE ARTHUR DUBREUIL
HÉLION
LAC LAGUERRE, JEAN HENRI GEORGES
LACAILLE, NICOLAS LOUIS DE LAGUNA
LACAITA, SIR JAMES LA HARPE, JEAN FRANÇOIS DE
LA CALLE LAHIRE, LAURENT DE
LA CALPRENÈDE, GAUTHIER LAHN
DE COSTES
LA CARLOTA LAHNDA
LACCADIVE ISLANDS LA HOGUE, BATTLE OF
LACCOLITE LAHORE
LACE LA HOZ Y MOTA, JUAN CLAUDIO
DE
LACE-BARK TREE LAHR
LACEDAEMON LAIBACH
LACÉPÈDE, BERNARD LAIDLAW, WILLIAM
GERMAIN ÉTIENNE DE LA
VILLE
LACEWING-FLY LAING, ALEXANDER GORDON
LA CHAISE, FRANÇOIS DE LAING, DAVID
LA CHAISE-DIEU LAING, MALCOLM
LA CHALOTAIS, LOUIS RENÉ LAING, SAMUEL
DE CARADEUC DE
LA CHARITÉ LAING’S NEK
LA CHAUSSÉE, PIERRE LAIRD, MACGREGOR
CLAUDE NIVELLE DE
LACHES LAÏS
LACHINE LAISANT, CHARLES ANNE
LACHISH LAI-YANG
LACHMANN, KARL KONRAD LAKANAL, JOSEPH
FRIEDRICH WILHELM
LACINIUM, PROMUNTURIUM LAKE, GERARD LAKE
LA CIOTAT LAKE
LA CLOCHE, JAMES DE LAKE CHARLES
LA CONDAMINE, CHARLES LAKE CITY
MARIE DE
LACONIA (Peloponnese LAKE DISTRICT
district)
LACONIA (New Hampshire, LAKE DWELLINGS
U.S.A.)
LACONICUM LAKE GENEVA
LACORDAIRE, JEAN BAPTISTE LAKE OF THE WOODS
HENRI
LACQUER LAKE PLACID
LACRETELLE, PIERRE LOUIS LAKEWOOD
DE
LACROIX, ANTOINE LAKH
FRANÇOIS ALFRED
LACROIX, PAUL LAKHIMPUR
LACROMA LAKSHMI
LA CROSSE LALAING, JACQUES DE
LACROSSE LALANDE, JOSEPH JÉRÔME
LEFRANÇAIS DE
LA CRUZ, RAMÓN DE LALÍN
LACRYMATORY LA LINEA
LACTANTIUS FIRMIANUS LALITPUR
LACTIC ACID LALLY, THOMAS ARTHUR
LACTONES LALLY-TOLLENDAL, TROPHIME
GÉRARD
LA CUEVA, JUAN DE LALO, EDOUARD
LACUNAR LA MADDALENA
LACUZON LĀMĀISM
LACY, FRANZ MORITZ LAMALOU-LES-BAINS
LACY, HARRIETTE DEBORAH LAMA-MIAO
LACY, MICHAEL ROPHINO LAMAR, LUCIUS QUINTUS
CINCINNATUS
LACYDES OF CYRENE LAMARCK, JEAN BAPTISTE PIERRE
ANTOINE DE MONET
LADAKH AND BALTISTAN LA MARGHERITA, CLEMENTE
SOLARO
LADD, GEORGE TRUMBULL LA MARMORA, ALFONSO FERRERO
LADDER LAMARTINE, ALPHONSE MARIE
LOUIS DE PRAT DE
LADING LAMB, CHARLES
LADISLAUS [I.] LAMB
LADISLAUS IV. LAMBALLE, MARIE THÉRÈSE
LOUISE OF SAVOY-CARIGNANO
 LADISLAUS V. LAMBALLE
LA DIXMERIE, NICOLAS LAMBAYEQUE
BRICAIRE DE
LADO ENCLAVE LAMBEAUX, JEF
LADOGA LAMBERMONT, AUGUSTE
LADY LAMBERT, DANIEL
LADYBANK LAMBERT, FRANCIS
LADYBRAND LAMBERT, JOHANN HEINRICH
LADY-CHAPEL LAMBERT, JOHN (English
Protestant martyr)
LADY DAY LAMBERT, JOHN (English general)
LADYSMITH LAMBERT OF HERSFELD
LAELIUS LAMBESSA
LAENAS LAMBETH
LAER, PIETER VAN LAMBETH CONFERENCES
LAESTRYGONES LAMBINUS, DIONYSIUS
LAETUS, JULIUS POMPONIUS LAMBOURN
LAEVIUS LAMECH
LAEVULINIC ACID LAMEGO
LA FARGE, JOHN LAMELLIBRANCHIA

INITIALS USED IN VOLUME XVI. TO IDENTIFY

INDIVIDUAL
CONTRIBUTORS,1 WITH THE HEADINGS OF THE
ARTICLES IN THIS VOLUME SO SIGNED.
A. B. A. B. Chatwood, B.Sc., A.M.Inst.C.E.,
Lock.
Ch. M.Inst.Elec.E.

A. B. Alfred Barton Rendle, M.A., D.Sc,

R. F.R.S., F.L.S.
Keeper, Department of Botany,
Leaf.
British Museum. Author of Text
Book on Classification of
Flowering Plants, &c.

A. C. Alexander Campbell Fraser, LL.D.

F. See the biographical article: Locke, John.
Fraser, A. C.

A. C. Algernon Charles Swinburne.

S. See the biographical article: Landor.
Swinburne, A. C.

A. D. Henry Austin Dobson, LL.D.

See the biographical article: Locker-Lampson.
Dobson, Henry Austin.

A. Fi. Pierre Marie Auguste Filon.

See the biographical article: Labiche.
Filon, P. M. A.

A. F. Albert Frederick Pollard, M.A., Lambert, Francis;

P. F.R.Hist.Soc. Lambert,
Professor of English History in
Nicholson.
the University of London. Fellow
of All Souls’ College, Oxford.
Assistant editor of the Dictionary
of National Biography, 1893-
 1901. Lothian Prizeman, Oxford,
1892; Arnold Prizeman, 1898.
Author of England under the
Protector Somerset; Henry VIII.;
Life of Thomas Cranmer; &c.

A. Gl. Arnold Glover, M.A., LL.B. (d. 1905)

Trinity College, Cambridge; Joint-
editor of Beaumont and Fletcher Layard.
for the Cambridge University
Press.

A. Rev. Alexander Gordon, M.A. Laurentius, Paul;

Go.* Lecturer in Church History in the
University of Manchester. Libertines.

A. G. Arthur George Doughty, C.M.G., M.A.,

D. Litt.D., F.R.Hist.S., F.R.S.
(Canada).
Dominion Archivist of Canada.
Member of the Geographical
Lafontaine.
Board of Canada. Author of The
Cradle of New France; &c. Joint
editor of Documents relating to
the Constitutional History of
Canada.

A. H. Rev. Archibald Henry Sayce, Litt.D.,

S. LL.D.
Laodicea.
See the biographical article:
Sayce, A. H.

A. J. Rev. Alexander James Grieve, M.A., B.D. Logos (in part).

G. Professor of New Testament and
Church History, Yorkshire United
Independent College, Bradford.
 Sometime Registrar of Madras
University, and Member of
Mysore Educational Service.

A. J. Andrew Jackson Lamoureux.

L. Librarian, College of Agriculture,
Cornell University. Editor of the Lima (Peru).
Rio News (Rio de Janeiro), 1879-
1901.

A. L. Andrew Lang.
See the biographical article: La Cloche.
Lang, Andrew.

A. M. Adelaide Mary Anderson, M.A.

An. H.M. Principal Lady Inspector of
Factories, Home Office. Clerk to
the Royal Commission on Labour, Labour
1892-1894. Gamble Gold
Medallist, Girton College, Legislation.
Cambridge, 1893. Author of
various articles on Industrial Life
and Legislation, &c.

A. M. Agnes Mary Clerke. Lagrange;

C. See the biographical article: Laplace;
Clerke, A. M. Leverrier.

A. N. Alfred Newton, F.R.S. Lämmergeyer;

See the biographical article: Lapwing;
Newton, Alfred. Lark;
Linnet;
Loom.
A. P. Arthur Philemon Coleman, M.A., Ph.D.,
C. F.R.S.
Professor of Geology in the
University of Toronto. Geologist, Labrador (in part).
Bureau of Mines, Toronto, 1893-
1910. Author of Reports of the
Bureau of Mines of Ontario.

A. P. Albert Peter Low.

Lo. Deputy Minister of Department
of Mines, Canada. Member of
Geological Survey of Canada. Labrador (in part).
Author of Report on the
Exploration in the Labrador
Peninsula; &c.

A. Adam Sedgwick, M.A., F.R.S.

Se.* Professor of Zoology at the
Imperial College of Science and
Technology, London. Fellow, and
Larval Forms.
formerly Tutor, of Trinity College,
Cambridge. Professor of Zoology
in the University of Cambridge,
1907-1909.

A. Sl. Arthur Shadwell, M.A., M.D., LL.D.,

F.R.C.P.
Member of Council of
Epidemiological Society. Author Liquor Laws.
of The London Water-Supply;
Industrial Efficiency; Drink,
Temperance and Legislation.

A. So. Albrecht Socin, Ph.D. (1844-1899). Lebanon (in part).

Formerly Professor of Semitic
 Philology in the Universities of
Leipzig and Tübingen. Author of
Arabische Grammatik; &c.

A. S. Alan Summerly Cole, C.B.

C. Assistant Secretary for Art, Board
of Education, 1900-1908. Author
of Ancient Needle Point and Lace.
Pillow Lace; Embroidery and
Lace; Ornament in European
Silks; &c.

A. St Alfred St Hill Gibbons.

H. G. Major, East Yorkshire Regiment.
Explorer in South Central Africa. Lewanika.
Author of Africa from South to
North through Marotseland.

A. S. Alexander Stuart Murray, LL.D.

M. See the biographical article: Lamp.
Murray, Alexander Stuart.

A. S. Augustus Samuel Wilkins, M.A., LL.D.,

W. Litt.D. (1843-1905). Latin Language (in
Professor of Latin, Owens
College, Manchester, 1869-1905. part).
Author of Roman Literature; &c.

A. T. A. T. Thorson. Life-boat: United

T. Official in Life Saving Service,
U.S.A. States.

A. W. Arthur William Holland. Leopold I. (Roman

H.* Formerly Scholar of St John’s
Emperor);
College, Oxford. Bacon Scholar
of Gray’s Inn, 1900. Levellers.
A. W. Rev. Arthur Wollaston Hutton, M.A.
Hu. Rector of Bow Church,
Cheapside. Librarian National
Leo XIII.
Liberal Club, 1889-1899. Author
of Life of Cardinal Newman; Life
of Cardinal Manning; &c.

A. W. Alexander Wood Renton, M.A., LL.B. Landlord and

R. Puisne Judge of the Supreme Tenant;
Court of Ceylon. Editor of
Letters Patent;
Encyclopaedia of the Laws of
England. Lodger and
Lodgings.

A. W. Adolphus William Ward, Litt.D., LL.D.

W. See the biographical article: Lodge, Thomas.
Ward, Adolphus William.

B. D. Benjamin Daydon Jackson, Ph.D.

J. General Secretary of the Linnean
Society. Secretary to
Departmental Committee of H.M. Linnaeus.
Treasury on Botanical Work,
1900-1901. Author of Glossary of
Botanic Terms; &c.

C. The Rt. Hon. the Earl of Crewe.

See the biographical article: Laprade.
Crewe, 1st Earl of.

C. C. Charles Crawford Whinery, A.M. La Salle;

W. Cornell University. Assistant
Lincoln, Abraham
editor 11th Edition of the
Encyclopaedia Britannica. (in part).
C. Di. Charles Dibdin. F.R.G.S.
Secretary of the Royal National
Life-boat Institution. Hon. Life-boat: British.
Secretary of the Civil Service
Life-boat Fund, 1870-1906.

C. D. Hon. Carroll Davidson Wright. Labour

W. See the biographical article: Legislation:
Wright, Hon. Carroll Davidson. United States.

C. E.* Charles Everitt. M.A., F.C.S., F.G.S.,

F.R.A.S. Light: Introduction
Formerly Scholar of Magdalen and History.
College, Oxford.

C. F. Charles Francis Atkinson.

A. Formerly Scholar of Queen’s
College, Oxford. Captain, 1st City Long Island
of London (Royal Fusiliers). (Battle).
Author of The Wilderness and
Cold Harbour.

C. F.- Charles Fortescue-Brickdale.

Br. Barrister-at-Law, Lincoln’s Inn.
Registrar of the Office of the
Land Registry, Lincoln’s Inn
Land Registration.
Fields. Author of Registration of
Title to Land; The Practice of the
Land Registry; Land Transfer in
Various Countries; &c.

C. H.* Sir Charles Holroyd.

See the biographical article: Legros.
Holroyd, Sir Charles.
C. H. Carlton Huntley Hayes, A.M., Ph.D.
Ha. Assistant Professor of History in
Columbia University, New York Leo I.-X. (Popes).
City. Member of the American
Historical Association.

C. J. Rev. Charles James Ball, M.A.

B.* University Lecturer in
Lamentations.
Assyriology, Oxford. Author of
Light from the East.

C. L. Charles Lethbridge Kingsford, MA.,

K. F.R.Hist.S., F.S.A.
Assistant Secretary, Board of
Lancaster, John of
Education. Author of Life of
Henry V. Editor of Chronicles of Gaunt, duke of.
London and Stow’s Survey of
London.

C. M. Carl Theodor Mirbt, D.Th.

Professor of Church History in
the University of Marburg.
Lateran Councils.
Author of Publizistik im Zeitalter
Gregor VII.; Quellen zur
Geschichte des Papstthums; &c.

C. William Cosmo Monkhouse.

Mo. See the biographical article: Leighton, Lord.
Monkhouse, W. C.

C. R. Charles Raymond Beazley, M.A., D.Litt., Leif Ericsson;

B. F.R.G.S., F.R.Hist.S. Leo, Johannes.
Professor of Modem History in
the University of Birmingham.
Formerly Fellow of Merton
 College, Oxford, and University
Lecturer in the History of
Geography. Lothian Prizeman,
Oxford, 1889. Lowell Lecturer,
Boston, 1908. Author of Henry
the Navigator; The Dawn of
Modern Geography; &c.

De B. Henri G. S. A. de Blowitz. Lesseps,

See the biographical article:
Ferdinand de.
Blowitz, H. de.

D. F. Donald Francis Tovey.

T. Author of Essays in Musical
Analysis: comprising The
Lasso, Orlando.
Classical Concerto, The Goldberg
Variations, and analysis of many
other classical works.

D. G. David George Hogarth, M.A.

H. Keeper of the Ashmolean
Museum, Oxford. Fellow of
Magdalen College, Oxford. Fellow
of the British Academy.
Excavated at Paphos, 1888; Latakia;
Naucratis, 1899 and 1903; Lebanon (in part).
Ephesus, 1904-1905; Assiut,
1906-1907; Director, British
School at Athens, 1897-1900;
Director, Cretan Exploration
Fund, 1899.

D. H. David Hannay. La Hogue, Battle

Formerly British Vice-Consul at of;
Barcelona. Author of Short Lauria, Roger de;
 History of the Royal Navy; Life of Lepanto, Battle
Emilio Castelar; &c. of;
Lissa.

D. Ll. Daniel Lleufer Thomas.

T. Barrister-at-Law, Lincoln’s Inn.
Llantwit Major.
Stipendiary Magistrate at
Pontypridd and Rhondda.

D. Rev. Dugald Macfadyen, M.A.

Mn. Minister of South Grove Leighton, Robert
Congregational Church,
(in part).
Highgate. Author of Constructive
Congregational Ideals; &c.

D. M. Sir Donald Mackenzie Wallace, K.C.I.E.,

W. K.C.V.O.
Extra Groom of the Bedchamber
to H.M. King George V. Director
of the Foreign Department of
The Times, 1891-1899. Member
of the Institut de Droit Lobánov-
International and Officier de
l’Instruction Publique (France). Rostovski.
Joint-editor of New Volumes
(10th ed.) of the Encyclopaedia
Britannica. Author of Russia;
Egypt and the Egyptian
Question; The Web of Empire;
&c.

E. B.* Ernest Charles François Babelon. Leptis.

Professor at the Collège de
France. Keeper of the
department of Medals and
 Antiquities at the Bibliothèque
Nationale. Member of the
Académie des Inscriptions et de
Belles Lettres, Paris. Chevalier of
the Legion of Honour. Author of
Descriptions Historiques des
Monnaies de la République
Romaine; Traités des Monnaies
Grecques et Romaines;
Catalogue des Camées de la
Bibliothèque Nationale.

E. C. Edward Cuthbert Butler, O.S.B., M.A.,

B. D.Litt. (Dublin).
Abbot of Downside Abbey, Bath.
Leo, Brother.
Author of “The Lausiac History of
Palladius,” in Cambridge Texts
and Studies, vol. vi.

E. Da. Edward George Dannreuther (1844-

1905).
Member of Board of Professors,
Royal College of Music, 1895-
1905. Conducted the first Liszt.
Wagner Concerts in London,
1873-1874. Author of The Music
of the Future; &c. Editor of a
critical edition of Liszt’s Etudes.

E. D. Edward D. J. Wilson. Londonderry, 2nd

J. W. Formerly Leader-writer on The
Marquess of.
Times.

E. G. Edmund Gosse, LL.D., D.C.L. Lampoon; Lie,

See the biographical article: Jonas L. E.
 Gosse, Edmund.

E. Ga. Emile Garcke, M.Inst.E.E.

Managing Director of British Lighting: Electric
Electric Traction Co., Ltd. Author (Commercial
of Manual of Electrical Aspects).
Undertakings; &c.

E. He. Edward Heawood, M.A.

Gonville and Caius College, Livingstone
Cambridge. Librarian of the
Royal Geographical Society, Mountains.
London.

E. J. Edward Joseph Dent, M.A., Mus.Bac.

D. Formerly Fellow of King’s
Leo, Leonardo.
College, Cambridge. Author of A.
Scarlatti: his Life and Works.

E. O.* Edmund Owen, M.B., F.R.C.S., LL.D.,

D.Sc.
Consulting Surgeon to St Mary’s
Hospital, London, and to the
Children’s Hospital, Great Liver: Surgery of
Ormond Street, London.
Liver and Gall
Chevalier of the Legion of
Honour. Late Examiner in Bladder.
Surgery at the Universities of
Cambridge, London and Durham.
Author of A Manual of Anatomy
for Senior Students.

E. Pr. Edgar Prestage. Lobo, F. R.;

Special Lecturer in Portuguese Lopes, Fernão.
Literature in the University of
Manchester. Examiner in
 Portuguese in the Universities of
London, Manchester, &c.
Commendador, Portuguese Order
of S. Thiago. Corresponding
Member of Lisbon Royal
Academy of Sciences, Lisbon
Geographical Society, &c. Author
of Letters of a Portuguese Nun;
Azurara’s Chronicle of Guinea;
&c.

E. R. Sir Edwin Ray Lankester, K.C.B., F.R.S.,

L. D.Sc.
Hon. Fellow of Exeter College,
Oxford. Director of the Natural
History Departments of the
British Museum, 1898-1907.
President of the British
Association, 1906. Professor of
Zoology and Comparative Lamellibranchia
Anatomy in University College,
(in part).
London, 1874-1890. Linacre
Professor of Comparative
Anatomy at Oxford, 1891-1898.
Vice-President of the Royal
Society, 1896. Romanes Lecturer
at Oxford, 1905. Author of
Degeneration; The Advancement
of Science; The Kingdom of Man;
&c.

E. V. Edward Verrall Lucas.

L. Editor of Works of Charles Lamb. Lamb, Charles.
Author of Life of Charles Lamb.
F. E. Frank Evers Beddard, M.A., F.R.S.
B. Prosector of Zoological Society,
London. Formerly Lecturer in
Biology at Guy’s Hospital,
London. Naturalist to
Leech.
“Challenger” Expedition
Commission, 1882-1884. Author
of Monograph of the
Oligochaeta; Animal Colouration;
&c.

F. E. Rev. Frederick Edward Warren, M.A.,

W. B.D., F.S.A.
Rector of Bardwell, Bury St
Edmunds. Fellow of St John’s Lection,
College, Oxford, 1865-1882. Lectionary;
Author of The Old Catholic Ritual Lector;
done into English and compared Litany;
with the Corresponding Offices in Liturgy.
the Roman and Old German
Manuals; The Liturgy and Ritual
of the Celtic Church; &c.

F. G. Frederick George Meeson Beck, M.A.

M. B. Fellow and Lecturer in Classics, Lombards (in part).
Clare College, Cambridge.

F. G. Frederick Gymer Parsons, F.R.C.S., Liver: Anatomy.

P. F.Z.S., F.R.Anthrop.Inst.
Vice-President, Anatomical
Society of Great Britain and
Ireland. Lecturer on Anatomy at
St Thomas’s Hospital and the
London School of Medicine for
Women. Formerly Hunterian
 Professor at the Royal College of
Surgeons.

F. J. Francis John Haverfield, M.A., LL.D.,

H. F.S.A.
Camden Professor of Ancient
History in the University of Legion (in part);
Oxford. Fellow of Brasenose
Limes
College. Ford’s Lecturer, 1906-
1907. Fellow of the British Germanicus.
Academy. Author of Monographs
on Roman History, especially
Roman Britain; &c.

F. L.* Sir Franklin Lushington, M.A.

Formerly Chief Police Magistrate
Lear, Edward.
for London. Author of Wagers of
Battle.

F. V. F. Vincent Brooks.
Lithography.
B.

F. v. Baron Friedrich von Hügel.

H. Member of Cambridge
Philological Society; Member of Loisy.
Hellenic Society. Author of The
Mystical Element of Religion.

F. Francis Watt, M.A.

Wa. Barrister-at-Law, Middle Temple.
Law, John.
Author of Law’s Lumber Room;
Scotland of to-day; &c.

F. W. Frederick William Rudler, I.S.O., F.G.S. Labradorite;

R.* Curator and Librarian of the Lapis Lazuli.
Museum of Practical Geology,
 London, 1879-1902. President of
the Geologists’ Association,
1887-1889.

F. W. Francis William Raikes, K.C., LL.D.

Ra. (1842-1906).
Judge of County Courts, Hull, Lien.
1898-1906. Joint-author of The
New Practice; &c.

G. A. George Abraham Grierson, C.I.E., Ph.D.,

Gr. D.Litt. (Dubl.).
Member of the Indian Civil
Service, 1873-1903. In charge of
Linguistic Survey of India, 1898-
1902. Gold Medallist, Royal Lahnda.
Asiatic Society, 1909. Vice-
President of the Royal Asiatic
Society. Formerly Fellow of
Calcutta University. Author of
The Languages of India; &c.

G. E. Rev. George Edmundson. M.A.,

F.R.Hist.S.
Formerly Fellow and Tutor of
Brasenose College, Oxford.
Ford’s Lecturer, 1909-1910.
Limburg.
Employed by British Government
in preparation of the British Case
in the British Guiana-Venezuelan
and British Guiana-Brazilian
boundary arbitrations.

G. F. George Frederick Barwick. Lavigerie.

B. Assistant-Keeper of Printed
 Books and Superintendent of
Reading-room, British Museum.

G. F. George Frederick Kunz, A.M., Ph.D.,

K. D.Sc.
Gem Expert to Messrs Tiffany &
Co., New York. Hon. Curator of
Precious Stones, American Lapidary and
Museum of Natural History, New
York. Fellow of Geological Gem-cutting.
Society of America. Author of
Precious Stones of North
America; &c. Senior Editor of
Book of the Pearl.

G. H. George Herbert Carpenter, B.Sc.

C. Professor of Zoology in the Royal
College of Science, Dublin. Lepidoptera.
Author of Insects: Their
Structure and Life.

G. Sa. George Saintsbury, D.C.L., LL.D. La Bruyère;

See the biographical article: La Fontaine;
Saintsbury, George E. B. Lamartine;
La Rochefoucauld;
Le Sage.

G. S. George Somes Layard.

L. Trinity College, Cambridge. Linton, William
Barrister-at-Law, Inner Temple.
Author of Charles Keene; Shirley James.
Brooks; &c.

G. W. Rev. Griffithes Wheeler Thatcher, M.A., Labid.

T. B.D.
 Warden of Camden College,
Sydney, N.S.W. Formerly Tutor in
Hebrew and Old Testament
History at Mansfield College,
Oxford.

H. A. Hendrik Antoon Lorentz.

L. Professor of Physics in the
University of Leiden. Author of
Light: Nature of.
La théorie electromagnétique de
Maxwell et son application aux
corps mouvants.

H. B. Henry Benjamin Wheatley, F.S.A.

W.* Assistant Secretary, Royal
Society of Arts, 1879-1909.
President of the Samuel Pepys
Club, 1903-1910. Vice-President London: History.
of the Bibliographical Society,
1908-1910. Author of The Story
of London; London Past and
Present; &c.

H. B. Horace Bolingbroke Woodward, F.R.S.,

Wo. F.G.S.
Formerly Assistant Director of Logan, Sir William
the Geological Survey of England E.;
and Wales. President Geologists’ Lonsdale, William.
Association, 1893-1894.
Wollaston Medallist, 1908.

H. Ch. Hugh Chisholm, M.A. Lloyd George, D.

Formerly Scholar of Corpus
Christi College, Oxford. Editor of
the 11th edition of the
 Encyclopaedia Britannica; Co-
editor of the 10th edition.

H. De. Rev. Hippolyte Delehaye, S.J. Lawrence, St;

Bollandist. Joint-author of the
Acta Sanctorum. Linus.

H. F. Hans Friedrich Gadow, M.A., F.R.S.,

G. Ph.D.
Strickland Curator and Lecturer
on Zoology in the University of Lizard.
Cambridge. Author of Amphibia
and Reptiles (Cambridge Natural
History).

H. F. Henry Francis Pelham, LL.D.

P. See the biographical article: Livy (in part).
Pelham, H. F.

H. H. Sir Henry Hamilton Johnston, K.C.B.,

J. G.C.M.G.
Liberia.
See the biographical article:
Johnston, Sir Henry Hamilton.

H. M. Henry Morse Stephens, M.A., Litt.D.

S. Professor of History and Director
of University Extension,
Littré.
University of California. Author of
History of the French Revolution;
Revolutionary Europe; &c.

H. R. Henry Richard Tedder, F.S.A.

T. Secretary and Librarian of the Libraries (in part).
Athenaeum Club, London.
H. St. Henry Sturt, M.A.
Author of Idola Theatri; The Idea Lange, Friedrich
of a Free Church; and Personal Albert.
Idealism.

H. T. Rev. Herbert Thomas Andrews.

A. Professor of New Testament
Exegesis, New College, London.
Author of the “Commentary on
Logia.
Acts,” in the Westminster New
Testament; Handbook on the
Apocryphal Books in the
“Century Bible.”

H. W. Herbert William Blunt, M.A.

B.* Student, Tutor, and Librarian,
Logic: History.
Christ Church, Oxford. Formerly
Fellow of All Souls’ College.

H. W. Henry William Carless Davis, M.A.

C. D. Fellow and Tutor of Balliol
College, Oxford. Fellow of All Lanfranc;
Souls’ College, Oxford, 1895-
1902. Author of Charlemagne; Langton, Stephen.
England under the Normans and
Angevins; &c.

H. Y. Sir Henry Yule, K.C.S.I.

See the biographical article: Yule, Lhasa (in part).
Sir Henry.

I. A. Israel Abrahams. Lazarus, Emma;

Reader in Talmudic and Rabbinic Leon, Moses;
Literature in the University of Leon of Modena.
Cambridge. Formerly President,
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