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Planters' Punch


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Planters' Punch
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Herbert G. deLisser
Planters' Punch
Place of Publication:
Kingston: Jamaica
Creation Date:


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Periodicals   ( lcsh )
serial   ( sobekcm )
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Source Institution:
National Library of Jamaica ( SOBEK page | external link )
Holding Location:
National Library of Jamaica ( SOBEK page | external link )
Rights Management:
All rights reserved by the source institution.
Resource Identifier:
nlj - P57
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Jamaica's Foremost Ironmongers &

Lumber Merchants.



- -- ` ,',,
*''' "1









I a



STORE 2187
DEPT. 2874
S"-" WMH1-'i



. II



Jts is o ime

7, or fr ls.

^ No time for frilly thinking, frilly
living, frilly buying, in the
woman's world to-day. It's a
time for sane thinking for
sensible shopping. Whether
hats or hairpins fashion-wise
women are buying GOOD
THINGS that will last .
many new activities ... STIMU-
S)r PLATING THINGS to keep mor-
ale soaring.
That's why Kingston's "three
smart shops" step forward and
-/ I take the lead in the kind of
clear-sighted selling that will
help women to buy wisely and




I _
---- -




Vol. IV No. V.


For the year 1942-1943


A Thought that Grew into an
Institution-and Jamaica
is the gainer.

O NE day in the year 1936 two men sat en-
gaged in earnest conversation on thi
southern verandah of the Myrtle Bank Hotel.
One was tall, spare in physical formation in
that there was no superfluous flesh on him,
yet large in size naturally, with strong. deter-
mined roIntenance and shrewd, appraising eyes.
He lpoke English with an accent, and at a
glance eveu the canal observer would have
taken hlim lfii an American, prob-
a.ly1 an AmIicoan of foreign
hirtli ,.ricinilly. The other was
shrt,-r, slim, with keen eyes
al,.. and a glance at his long
upper lip and firm well oullided
chi n iwo uld have -i ein to anyone
anl impression of his strength
ot ch.iracter. He spoke the Enl
liMh of Oxford: it was easy to
see that he was a Jamaican. The
elirl man was Mr. Samuel
7Zeainui;y, President of the
United Fruit Company. The
yig,"-r was Mr. N. W. M3anhlv,
the leading barrister of Jamaica.

T HEY were talking about a
Jamaica cooperative banana
olgalni-a tiion founded some years
before. This banana coopera-
tive society was not doing very
well, though it had begun under
excelluit auspices; a series of
hurriT; iuens had reduced the
quantity of fruit produced by
Jamaica and many of the mem-
bers of the cooperative body were
suirrip-iti iiuisly selling their pro-
duce to the two other banana
coincrnus doing business in the
island Il, because of the better cash
prices offered for open inark'-t
bananas. It appeared, then, as
though the cooperative movement
were drifting on to dissolution
or destruction; but the resolve
of those who had fathered it was
to save it if it could possibly be
saved. A way out of the difficulty
was an arrangement with the
American Fruit Companies that
had been the rivals of the co-
operative body. Such a way had DECIDED TH
been recommended by a com-
mittee of men sent out to Jamaica by the Col-
onial Office to deal with this particular matter.

T the moment of the discussion at M3rtlr-
Bank Hotel, Mr. N. W. Manley was ex-
pre;iing regret that an effort begun with such
excellent promise should not have continued




prosperous. We may be certain that for this
situationn he blamed no individual or group
of individuals but only the cyclones which had
struck Jamaica in 1932, '34, and again in '35;
blows which must have shaken any organisa-
tion that had not ample sources of banana
suplpIly in more than.one hurricane-subject
coulltriy. He wasl diWelliin now on the chance
which. the crooperative movement woi)ilin liae
given the Jamaica peasant to develop certain
socriAl seirices apart from wvh;t inilght be done
or attempted by (Iovernment; we may guess
tlht lie said Ithait any tru.rtntii of such a plan
oii hIop was lhinmentalie, and the elder man,
Mr. Zenurlll ly, listened attentively. It may



which lay very near to his heart. Hence his
words were informed with feeling and sincerity.
SOME TIiME passed. It now appeared in-
cr-,ittri\-itible to the chiefs of the banana
cooperative movement that an arrangement
entered into by them and the two American
fruit companies connected with Jamaica would
;*'.'e tll-il ri'lanisatiun for its members, would
enable them to reorganise it on
a iuinldalti(on that would prevent
the members from losing money
and their venture. So in 1937
we again find Mr. Manley, repre-
sentting tihe Cooperative Associa-
tion, in communication with the
head of the United Fruit Com-
pany. A conference (or, rather,
series of conferences), took place
in New York, and resulted in
two distinct things.

ITH the first this sketch has
nothing to do; it is part
of the banana business' story.
Surtice it to say that the Co-
operative Association was turn-
ed into a company. Other ar-
rangements were also arrived
at: one thinks that during these
arrangements Mr. Manley found
Mr. Samuel Zemurray an ex-
tremely reasonable and helpful
man, a business man altogether
different from the stern, hard
commercial dictator and capital-
ist of fiction and of popular tra-
dition. He discovered in the
head of the United Fruit Com-
Ipilly a very human'sort of per-
s-",--that, at any rate, is the
writer's impression. And I
speak from a persioial knowleild-e
and experience of Mr. Samuel
Zemurray. But another and, in
its way, a far more dramatic
surprise was in store for the
Jamaica emissary.

HE, conferences were over.
Courtesy of Blank & Stoller, 'New Yor 1 The business was done.
Iparties. More than one trip to
lie that he agreed with Mr. Manley, it may be New York had been made for the Jamaica
that he said nntlhint. btit merely registered in Banana Producers Association by Mr. Manley.
his mind what the younger man asserted. He This was to be his last.
mn,.i even have th]Ougft that this aspect of the
subject, didl not at all concern his company. IT was then that Mr. Zeniurray, unexpectedly
But Mr. Manley was sieaikiuLn just then on I and casually as it were, alluded to the
s.oniethiin "hihlih he felt keenly, something talk of Mr. Manley in the preceding year:


to that conversation in which mention had
been made of the hope that certain voluntary
social services would have been the outcome ,oL
the cooperative banana experiment. He had
not forgotten the regret once expressed by
Mr. Manley that more could not be done to
improve, socially as well as economically, the
lot of the small Jamaican, his emphasis on
the need of this endeavour, his remarks on the
exiguous means that existed for the fulfilment
of that need. No, as was now evident, Mr.
Zemurray had never forgotten. Tihre were not
many things that he.did forget. In a wiiil. Mr.
Zemurray had grasped the fact that Mr. Manl..-y
felt that his company might well do something,
for the Jamaica people bes.ilde. I urchasinii ti.;iri
fruit. Quietly and suddenly he spoke of doing
something now.

III --'-
T RY to imagine the scene.
The headquarters of the
United Fruit Company are tech-
nically in ,i.stii,u but in New
York it mnintaiun, a la-ge suite
of offices at the downtown end
of the city. The building is. tor l
New York, a low one; about
three stories and painted outside
a yellowish hue. Of stone and
unpretentious in allpearalnce, it
faces east upon an immense c
paved open space, up and down i,
which the auntoimolbilh- ;ae always
moving cars, trucks, vans,
.singly and in swift continuous
procession. Other sh ipling of-
rices of various heighlit are to
the left and right of the TUuitel
Fruit Company's building; op-
piol.'ite to these stand edifices of
another kind and used for iliffer.
ent purposes. In the great space
between these structures piles
trians hurry hither and yon.
every man intent on his own
business. There is not very
much clamour, this is actually
a quiet part of New York, and
once you are within the Ttnitedl
Fruit Comlpany's offices you are
not conscious of noise. Here are
men of all ranks attending to
their work, attending to it quiet:
ly, for in a N,-w York office you
do not notice that intense and
feverish liu.-ll' which has been
written about by tlih., who
probably have never iientredl a
luisiiiness office in New York in MR. N. w. M,
all their lives.

ONE of the rooms overlooking the great
street or open space to the east is the
iltic.E of Mr. Zumiiiiiia;y. A long .cirl-iiloi di-
vides this suite of rooms from that on the op-
,poslite side. Enter one of the ruon,.s west of thie
corridor and look outwanrds. It is ten to one
that the view upon which your eyes will li ght
will gi\e you a keen thrill of surprise.

F OR there before you is a sheet of water ni,
which float, one, or, it nmay be, two of
the United Fruit I'ompany's I-e;ii-.':oiiiL' ships..
Tnefore you is a pier, and if you thrust your
head out of the window you will -'e other and
still other piers and more and more ships, for
you are now i-,okine at part of the hliarlIbour rof
New York. Thi view is something unexpected
douitless it is taken as a matter of (Icourse iby
tlloNe a:i'lustomed to it. but not by the strangier
who sees it for the first time, not by the man.

at any rate, who has within him the imagina
tive instinct. The sight stirs within one's
mind and heart tlniinghts of adventure and of
romantic Ihapp;lliin-.s. For these ships sail to
far-off Iprtl- where trees come almost down to
the sea, and green ad in rev mountains loom in
the distance, and tropical peoples toil or bask
leiiealih an ardent sun, and clouds so often
iIbsuriF the view, to ili-slhiarge deluges of
rain lluplo the tlp.[i(c lan11. These shilis will sail
flrom tlihe cold of a temileralte lanliI to :waIrm.
sunlit countries "where never fills the lea-t
while shall of snow," to places so utterly dif-
I'iruent frtlm- an American city tiliat no w,lrd.s
Will I'fully set forth that difference to any hu-
man mind. And withinn an office in a hnilinm
overlooking the water and the pier and the


-hip sits tlhe he;l ,f tli.- coi-mp.ny t- whi-li -hip
.iiIl pie-r belongg. A.!il he knows thei tl.-pits. .i-
few men il'.. anil Inie. feels thli:t in hiis heart
hlie liiites thenim.

M l. S.lAMU-IL ZEMt'IIAY lha.s ,,lne much
tol loi. ,il.iins,. tlile ie uillii to which !.e
went when "iiite a yinun man. and within which
he has ala\\iys been bil,.ntifiel1. With about .
million iniil.ita nts- now, thioumlih .-inie ten times
the size of J;.inici-,., lHhllur-.-- was more
sparsely ,Ipuiiilate1! when Samlelh Zenlinrr:iy
weni there as a very yuiin: man. anil it h:ul
1lh'lly beglunl as yet tlh,it career na a : n;unai
|Iiinl,'iin. country which eientially was to
lacee if in fiinut uf all other ('enrral .Anei-ii'an
,lanna I.prol ,,ucers and 'secon l only to .Tamainca
as a banana explri-ter. But it hia.l the .soil and
the climate, and Mr. Zernurri-i pericleived its

pol.sil.ilities. How he worked in Honduras,
how he succeededil, the hold he established upon
the people of the land-that story does not
come within the compass of this sketch. One
needs but say here that Honduras won his
heart and he has never forgotten it; it has
been admitted that he has been extremely gen-
erous in his contributions to causes designed
tol- buetit the people of that country. His con-
nection with Jamaica, on the other hand, is of
comparatively recent origin. But he has felt
that he and the United Fruit should assist
a Jamaica scheme that seemed to promise
well for Jamaica; hence his reminding Mr.
Manley of what tile latter had said to him some
time ago, hence his offer to give a halfpenny on
every hunch of Jamaica bananas handled by his
company towards social work in
S Joiii ;aica. For that was the offer
that he made.

.. OR was this all. Mr. Zemur-
N i ry;lv also promised to take
the matter up with the Chief of
the Standard Frrit (C'oipany,
i,^ --"i;'-k Mr. Salvadore D'Autoni, with a
-. : view of getting him to associate
S his Company with ithe projected
welfare ,hlneme. A ldayv or two
afterwards Mr. D'Antoni went
to see Mr. Ze iiurlay on various
business matters; Mr. Zemurray
mientiilned the scheme to him
and within five minutes the help
and co-operation of Mr. D'An-
toni was secu.ri. The thing
was done swiftly, even casually
as it appeared; but that is how
many a matter of importance is
settled amongst l American busi-
nessmen. Thus, then, was launch-
ed .Tauniii-.;i Welfare, Limited.

M ANY reasons determine
11 one's decisions; all ,of these
are h1ard1ly or rarely ever realised
by thle man who makes these ie-
cisions. But in this particular
instance the dtccision of MIr.
Samuel Zemncuniy, the writ r
believes, was influenced by Ihis
love for tropical countries end
Peoples. The United Fruit Com-
pany's downtown New York
Offices, the pier, the ships ofh
the company, thlie till grey walter
in which they floateld, the ]n'i-Ii
ories of the past and all tal.it
I hey stood for, had had their
EVENrTiALL' sh liping and determining ethi-t
Tupon him. They linlke-l .Nnini'
Zenillui i- with the hot disthlnt
linul.s, in one of which he had lived and
ctrui-.ledl flr' so long and had succeeded. Is
this ibut imnamiuiatiiin? One does not think -ii.
But even it it weue it is superior to mere pir,
saic fact; 'one loves to believe that i-e mlnail
frl'm Ceniitral Europe and the man from .la-
nimaica were both touched by the wand of I0i
W E can see the two men in that New York
room, see the square. strong face of the
Pi evident of the Ttnittel Fruit Company, ca i
recall his qui.ick authoritative style of n walking
and hear his vulce. subdued enough when talk-
iie ordinarily, but lifted in a orit of roar if
ilie speaker is angry or is moved by some emo-
tiini. We can see Mr. Manley also, with
nmobhile, expressive face. keen eyes., long upper
lipi. firm chin. He too lives sparelv. as does



Mr. .Zemurray; like Mr. Zemurray he also
neither drinks nor smokes, works hard, is an
idealist-but with a grip on reality; he too is
courageous and determined. He loves inlun
once, power, but money for personal use,
money for itself or for what it may purchase,
has little meaning for him. In this respect
Jama;ical and American touch. But Mr.
Zemurray is a great man of business; how
wouIld MIr. Manley do in practical affairs?
Certainly. he did not begin badly, from a
practical point of view, with his Jamaica
Welfare Fund.

THE tist thing, Mr. Manley did, on retinan-
ing to Janialica. was to found a company
with the name mentioned above. To control
this company's affairs a directorate w;as
appointril and Mr. Manley became its clhaii
nman. One hears that when Mr. Manley is
chairman of an organisation that means lhe
is the boss he may deny this, others lmay
deny it: tle prevailing opinion is stated heie.
We may therefore attribute to him mainly
tlhe decision, set forth in one of the company's
annual rep,.rts, to adopt "a conservative
policy." anil so we are not surprised to finol
that a cons:ileralble proportion ot the money
received in the first years of the company's
existence was invested instead of being sipen:
This \wa- wise. for since then there hlve been
hurricane and drought, more leaf spot d;s-
ease and war. And, inevitably, the cash re-
ceipts froni the two contributing companies
have diminished with the fall in the exporta-
tion of Jim;inica bananas.

IN tle lirst year the company received
2.ouipu. After a couple of years it was
found that it had to spend on various unlert;ak-
ings nmre than the revenue actually received.
This year. tihe writer has been, informed, it will
receive a;lut 5.000 from the American organ-
isations in spite of the radical change that
lias come over, the whole of the banana busi'
ness., It it will probably disburse much more
than that. This fact should form a sort of
lesson to those who dwell on the profits made
by ani business in fruitful years, but who
never seem to take into account the poor re-
turns. or even losses, of the meagre years. For
these loo occur; bad times are as niuchl a
part of thle nlplitalistic system as good one-.
and l must he calculated upon.

.AMAICA Welfare must also have learnt
cone usetul lesson at its very inception.
which is thle practical difficulty of doing
things that will be ueflil and profitable even
if one has a certain amount of money to do
then n ith. The possession of practically un-
limitrel nalpit;il. or even of a large amount of
capital, makes s-,ial experiments or ventures
easy; not so if your resources are limited or
uncertain. You must then go warily or may
fail. Hence one is not surprised to read in
Mr. Manley's Jamaica Welfare's first anminlil
report tllat "Tihe company devoted the first
few nionllis of its existence to cosilideration
of a niilinber iof possible lines of activities." A
few months, not a few weeks. Then "atten-
tion soon cent red on three principal lines ..."
Not a lirge number of lines, it will be noted,
though as a matter of fact the company has
reached out in more than only three direc-
tions. But after taking every one of its
activities into account it still stands that its
approach to practical problems was cautious
and conservative. more cautious probably than
a purely capitalistic, profit seeking organisation
would have been. Jamaica Welfare wan wisely
afraid of anything like failure.

P LANTERS' PUNCH does not dlesigi to
write about tie eftorts whiih Jamaic.i
Welfare, Limited, i;is made year by year, or
about its successes or failures, if any. It is
the idea of the venture and its origin that in-

C..urrn"I 'f4 International News

terest this magazine, it is mainly the person-
ality of the men chiefly re-ponrsible for its
existence that appeals to us for discussion and
comment, At first we wondered whether the


idea was nortli much; we agree now that it
ought to have been tried and we entertain hope
for its future., It may not become what may
have been hoped for it at tile egininnin. unless
the banrana wins 1ack to its (,11 position of a
very. considerlaIl i Jamaica export. Nor must,

it be forgotten that there is no pledge on the
part of the American companies concerned to
linanre Jamnaica Welfare, Limited, indefinitely
or even for a certain number.of years. But
much money has been given in the last five
years, and the schemes that are being tried out
will benefit by the cautious, careful policy
adopted by the company at its initiation, and
probably will be nurtured to success as edu-
cational st inuili and practical object lessons.
The community centre idea, for instance, may
s.liecially cited as one of these stimuli and
object lessons by which may be remembered
in tie future the man ire.-ponsible for Jamaica
welfare, Limited.

11E man? It is more correct to say the
Imien. For two men weie originally iden-
tified with that idea, and others were warmly
as~isoiated with it subI.eliineutly. Mr. Samuel
Zemnirray and Mr. N. W. Manley stand at the
lhea14 ol the list; there are also Mr. D'Antoni
of the Stanalurd Fruit Company, and Mr.
I'olla.n ;andd Mr. Bradshaw of the United Fruit
Companyy, Mr. lollan, who is Vice-President
of the united I'Frit Company, has increasing-
ly ldevelopied an interest in the scheme; Mr.
lhial.shiaw has welcomed it. Just when it
was proposed to e-tal isli Jamaica Welfare,
Lim ited. Tomn Bradshaw was appointed man-
:ger ot the United Fruit Company's business
in Jaminica; had he been opposed to the Ja-
maica Welfat-re scheme it could hardly have
been founded the view of "the man on the
spot" must always have a great determining
influence. He was not opposed to it; on the
contrary, he was in favour; it therefore owes
very, much to him., This statement is not
merely a matter of conjecture. The writer
knows it to be a matter of fact.

ONE final word. Community Centres have
been mentioned above. What is a com-
munity centre, what effect is it intended to
lprodice? These centres, we read in an an-
nual report of Jamaica Welfare, Limited, "are
designed to provide an expanding programme
embracing educational and recreational work
and also the development of co-operative study
for the improvement of rural life in all re-
spects." There are at these centres classes
for adult education evening classes. There
are classes for teaching handicrafts and car-
,pentry; there are organized social evenings
which are well attended, and at which games
and other forms of recreation are indulged in.
There are parent cnl m unity centres around
which are grouped in various districts sub-
sidiary centres; the parent centre is provided
with "; trained woman organiser and a train-
ed maternity and general nurse." You grasp
the idea? It is not only to teach the people
things that should be of much use to them,.
but also to bring them together; it is to pro-
vide pleasure and entertainment as well as
prI'.tical instruction, hence one is not sur-
prised to learn that this effort has been suc-
cessful from the start. Once properly launch-
ed and sustained for a time, such an effort.
should progress independently after a while,
should grow and become strong because of
its own innate vitality. It should have a
marked effect upon the country's future; it
should be more flourishing tomorrow than to-
day. The writer considers the community
centre idea as one of the most promising of
those to which Jamaica Welfare devotes itself.
It supplies a need that has long been felt.

When finished with this Planters' Punch,
please pass it on to relatives and friends,
and thus save paper.







T was still early morning. But on the slave sh p
in Kingston Harbour there had been great ac-
tivity for some time before daybreak. The ship
had dropped anchor in the forenoon of the pre-
vious day and at once the master and crew of her
had begun preparing their human cargo for the
sale that was to take place next morning; they
were in a jovial frame of mind for not more than
fifteen of the slaves had died pn the long voyage
from the West Coast of Africa to Jamaica, and the
rest were, take it all in all. in very good condition
When the sun rose it shone on groups of human
beings who had been brought up from the holds of
the ship, bathed, by having sea water liberally
sluiced over them, and given a large breakfast of
yams and boiled cornmeal dumplings. Practical-
ly all of these folk were young, since the age at
which they should be taken from their homes had
been fixed by law at not above twenty-five; but
there were one or two older ones among them also,
and especially remarkable among these was a giant
who must have been fifty if a day and who was
obviously regarded by the other slaves with marked
But among the women it. was a girl of not
more than seventeen years of age who stood con-
spicuously out. She had been bathed and had been
given some sort of frock to cover her nakedness;
this dress she had used as a kind of apron, so
that her back was entirely exposed and her firm,
prominent young breasts and well-proportioned
torso bore not a vestige of covering.
Three or four metal anklets adorned her
feet; dn her arms she wore a few brass bangles.
She was tall, with flashing coal-black eyes, and held
herself as though she considered she was someone
of importance,
Of her the master and his officer had made a
favourite during the voyage, hence she had-fared
very well. It is true that she slept down below
with the other women, but she had received tit-
bits from the officers' table, salted meat and boiled
coi-nmeal, or maize, and often tea and coffee, and
she had been taught many words of English as day
followed day aboard the ship, showing as she
pointed to this object and that, and repeated
the names spoken to her by the Britishers, a quick
intelligence which put her quite apart from her
companions in misfortune.
"There's a strain of Arab blood in her," the
master had said more than once, glancing at her
long hair and thin lips; "she isn't the pure Mckay."
"Perhaps. sir," had once ventured a junior
officer, "she is the daughter of a chief."
"That's what every one of them will say after
they have been a year in Jamaica," laughed the
captain; "everybody wants to be the son or daugh-
ter of a chief. But being that would not give this
girl the features and hair she has. No. I guess
there's Arab blood in her though her complexion
is quite black. She has longish, soft hair; then
look at her nose; it is positively hooked." (By this
he meant that the girl's nose was more inclined to
be aquiline than platerine or flat.) "She's good-
looking too. I ought to get a tidy sum for her."
He spat tobacco juice over the rail upon which
he was leaning, and resumed.
"She may even be a virgin, though at her age
that would be rare in Africa. But somehow I don't
think she was married, though not being married
would not make her a virgin, of course. However,
whatever she is, she will remain exactly so on my
ship, by God, for I won't have that girl interfered
with by my men. I'd half-kill anyone on this ship
that I found monkeying with my profits."'
He had named the girl Psyche. Classical names
for slaves had become the fashion of late in the
West Indies, and he had heard of Psyche some-
where, though he could not have said to whom it
referred or from what language it came She had
quickly grasped what her new name was,
and answered readily to it. And she had stuck lo
the old man, as much as he would allow her to do
so. on the voyage, having instinctively understood
that the younger white men had been warned away
from her and were perforce avoiding her.
Now and then she would give one of them a
quick glance. which might have been taken as an
invitation. But there dared be no answer. The
officers had long since learnt that their chief com-
bined a passion for profits with a terrible temper

when provol:ed. and he seemed to have eyes all
u\ er his head. Yet they liked Psyche; her youth,
her luools, her manner, her spirit appealed to them.
So for her. on the whole, the voyage had been a
.ery pleasant one.
On the narroiun w, den pier that jutted out into
the water of Kingston Harbour a small crowd of
men soon began to appear. The:e were plante-s
'.'ho had come into Kingston a few' days before to
Sawait the arrival of this ship. In trousers of white
drill, o. ertopped by tw;eed waistcoats and long coats
whose tail; covered more than half the length of
the back of their legs. \with feet cased in service-
able black boots. and heads covered with broadi-
rimmed beavers-a form of dress quite unsuited
to tropical conditions-they looked smart enough
but could not possibly be comfortable. Yet to Ibe
clothed and hatted otherwise would have seemed
to them a derogation of rank on such an occasion.
Show, ostentation, was a necessity entailed upuon
them when they ltvited Kingston. or any other im-
portant town of the island. They were plant-
ers of position and this was the dress which they
expected each other to wear when they came to
The v.harf from which the wooden rickety pier
projected into the still, shining harbour formed
by a long spit of land that ended at a narrow
entrance miles away to the south, was an un-
paved oblong enclosure with a few lo'w wooden
buildings in it: in this yard men clad in rough osna-
burgh trousers and loose jackets of the same ma-
terial were rolling hogsheads into one of the build-
ings or warehouses of the place. Behind lay the
city.-situated at the tip of a plain that was backed
by a great arc of mountains whose tops were now
hidden in vapour and mist which the rays of the
rising sun would shortly dissipate. Even from the
deck' of the slave ship Kingston looked a congeries
of mean buildings, low. small, but each seemingly
set in a garden ot high trees which at'a distance
relieved the ugliness of the town that had sprung
into existence shortly after the destruction of Port
Royal by earthquake over a hundred years before.
The planters on the pier could see distinctly
who were on the ship's deck in so far as the crowd
of people standing there allowed. Only about three
hundred and fifty slaves had come on a vessel
which could carry five hundred men and women
in its spaces below deck, and perhaps six hundred
at a pinch. The white men, crew and officers, num-
bered about fifty. But the purchasers did not go
aboard; the selling of the slaves would take plare
in a building within the wharf premises set apart
for that purpose. Yet the eyes of potential pur-
chasers were already busy scrutinising the men
and women who would shortly be disposed of by
auction or by bargaining, each of them intent upon
provisionally selecting beforehand those workers
whom he thought he would prefer if they passed
the preliminary examination as to their health and
One young man glanced casually at the slaves
while the gangway was being run between the ship
and pier. and his eyes alighted on Psyche. She
s;ood near the rail nearest to the pier; she had
been purposely placed there by the captain as a
sort of attraction. She was gazing earnestly on
the white men on the pier, exactly the like of whom
she had never seen before. Her eyes were caught
by those of the young planter but a few yards away.
They stared at one another. Then the young man's
attention was momentarily distracted by the voice
of someone speaking to him from behind.
The slaves now began to stream across the
gangway. but as yet Psyche had not stirred. She
had been made to understand by Captain McClin-
otck twho spoke her dialect fairly well) that she
must not move until ordered to do so. The eyes
of the young man on the pier returned to her.
The man behind him noticed his preoccupa-
tion, followed the direction of his glance, and grin-
ned. "That's a fine-looking colt there." he observ-
ed: "thinking of buying her, sir?"
"I don't know, Jones: I might or 1 might not:
it will all depend on her price."
"If you don't. I think I will," returned Mr.
Jones: "Golden Spring wants some hands, and some
breeders among them. That girl should be able to
bear many children, and if the trade stops we
shall want every hand that is born in the island."
Huntingdon nodded, and began to walk towards
the auction house in the wharf were the slaves
were to be sold. He was twenty-eight and had
been some rive years in the colony. He was a
younger son, his father a nobleman who had given
him his Jamaica estate, since the rest of the fam-
ily property must go to the elder brother: he was
the Hon. Charles Huntingdon. and in the northern
part of the island where his estate was situated lie



had already won a reputation for kindness to his
The ground of the wharf's yard was rough,
uneven, full of holes. This made walking difficult,
but the planters were accustomed to this sort of
thing. There %\ere about tv.enty of them; they
flocked into the long, low wooden shack where
hundreds of sable human beings already stood,
and at once they began to choose those who they
thought would serve them best, and to demand their
price. The captain and his officers, with one or
two local men v.ho had a financial interest in this
venture, began to haggle. An auctioneer stood
ready to preside over any auction that might take
place. The murmur of voices rose higher and
higher, offers were accepted or refused, protests
were voiced. 'altercations as to whether credit should
be given or cash paid down took place. A babel
soon was the result. But still the sale went stead-
ily on.
The men and women disposed of were taken
out of the shack and grouped according to their
new owners under the charge of black "drivers"
brought up from the country to take new slaves
to the several estates to which they would hence-
forth belong. Presently there were only thirty or
forty persons left to be sold. Among these was
Psyche. "How much do you ask for that girl?"
enquired Huntingdon of one of the vendors.
"I think we shall put her and some others up
for auction. Mr. Huntingdon." said the captain, in-
terposing; "I shouldn't be surprised if that girl was
a queen in her own country."
"What difference would that make here?"
laughed Huntingdon: "besides, I fancy you have
brought other 'queens' to Jamaica in the past,
though these never seemed aware of their former
The captain grinned, some of the assembled
planters laughed out; "well, anyhow," rejoined the
captain, "she's a fine, strong girl. and young. And
very good-looking, too, me lord. She's worth a lot
more than any other woman I have brought this
time. It would surprise you to learn how much 1
paid for her in Africa."
"That too is what you always say. McClintock,"
scoffed a planting attorney; "and I'm sure we'd be
surprised to hear how little you do pay for the
slaves you sell us at such exorbitant prices. \Vell.
I'll give you fifty pounds for her, and you know
that that's a top price for a woman."
The captain strove to prevent a pleased ex-
pression from stealing over his face. The bidding
had begun excellently; was good even if it got
no farther. But he shook his head deprecatingly.
as though he had actually been asked to make
Psyche a present to Mr. Simon Jones.
"I'll give you sixty," said Huntingdon quiet-
"Sixty-live"' This bid came from an old gent-
leman whose age was the exact figure of his bid.
Everybody there knew that if he bought Psyche
she would become one of his "ladies" on some one
of his numerous estates. On a conservative esti-
mate he already had about twerity-five of these
odalisques, but he seemed not averse from adding
to the number.
"Seventy," cried Jones, who was reflecting thqt
Psyche could both be a pleasant companion and
also the mother of many children who would be
useful in the future. But Mr. Jones was secretly
startled by his own extravagance.
Huntingdon hesitated. He did not wish to ap-
pear too anxious to purchase this girl. But she
seemed aware that different men were bidding for
her, and she kept her eyes on him. Was there a
sort of entreaty in them? He scoffed at the idea.
What would a savage know of what was going on?
Yet, in a way, he was secretly pleased And he
did not like either of his rivals at this auction.
"A hundred pounds," he said calmly.
Those about him gasped. Seventy pounds had
appeared to them a pretty stiff sum to offer for
the girl: a hundred was extraordinary. They were
puzzled too as to the reason for this bid.
Although no one could know. in days of little
communication and bad roads, what took place on
a neighboring estate but a couple of miles away.
yet it was generally understood that Huntingdon
(astonishingly; did not follow the general custom
of the country and keep mistresses. He lived alone
in his Great House. he had-so report went-no
children. It was whispered that he had not been
loathe to leave England for Jamaica because of
a bitter disappointment in love; and his re-
straint both in drinking and in sex affairs,
was regarded now as something permanent,
even while it was sneered at by those of his own
calling. Yet here was he. buying a young girl at
a wildly extravagant price. What, asked some of
those at the auction, could possibly be his reason?



The auctioneer implored the other bidders to
go better than Huntingdon; he discovered extra-
ordinary excellencies in Psyche, turning her round
and round for all to see, pointing out her unusual
features, pinching her jutting breasts. But no fur-
ther bid was forthcoming. The deal was closed.
Presently the purchases were marched off by
the Negro drivers towards places in the city where
they would stay for the night, their journey coun-
try-wards to begin before daybreak next morning.
They would walk every foot of the distance, stop-
ping at night at villages or towns which they would
reach at nightfall. Psyche noticed that the young
man with the straight nose, thin, proud lips and
clear blue eyes had spoken last when she was being
sold, and felt that he was now her owner. Hi,
driver took her by the arm and led her outside.
Huntingdon accompanied him
"Coto," he said. "you needn't brand this girl;
it's a pity that any of them ha\e to be branded."
When Psyche emerged from the wharf with
her nine companions the scene she observed on
either hand and before her was strange and be-
wildering to her; she had known nothing like it
before. The shops in the streets through which
the slaves passed in a sort of procession were open
now; in the streets themselves gentlemen rode on
horses on their way to work. or drove in small
carriages drawn by a single horse. Carts crawled
along, pulled by mules or oxen, their drivers walk-
ing at their side and incessantly cracking the long
whips they carried in their hands. Black and yel-
low women moved about with trays and bundles
poised and balanced on their heads crying out wares
in a tongue that was new to the young slave
girl. Hogs rooted in the heaps of refuse in the
streets, dogs fought one another for the bones they
had somehow procured. or wandered idly to and
fro. The thoroughfares were full of holes and
sandy; there were no sidewalks: the passing of this
new batch of slaves scarcely drew anything more
than a casual glance or a v.'ord or two from the
people in the streets. All was sordid, and the sun's
heat smote everyone with a pitiless impartiality;
nevertheless to Psyche it was all wonderful. She
particularly noticed that the women in the streets
wore some sort of clothing and were by no means
as scantily attired as the slaves. And, had
she understood what was said. she would have
known that some of these tow nsfolk, most of whom
were bondspeople themselves, now and then scorn-
fully alluded to the newcomers as "guinea nagers,"
or as "guinea birds."
She and the others turned west after walking
upwards for about half a mile, and presently were
herded in shacks in large yards piled high here
and there with grass. These were the grass-yards
of Kingston. There they would stay and rest for
that day, and in the morning they would say fare-
well to Kingston.



6"V OU seem to be happy here, Psyche."
I The girl started, surprised to be addressed
by her master in her native landing dialect.
"Yes, master," she replied; "you treat me
"Tell me something about your life in your own
country. Psyche."
"But how, master, do you understand my lan-
guage? You have never lived over there?" Psyche
pointed in what she believed to be the general di-
rection of Africa; as a matter of fact she was point-
ing towards the north.
"No; I have never been in Africa; but you must
surely know by now that there are many people
on this estate who come from your part of that
country. I have learnt the tongue from them, and
I can speak the Eboe tongue also, and one or two
others-not much, you know, but enough to make
myself understood."
Psyche looked with awe upon her young mas-
ter. She naturally expected that he would know
everything, but in this she had never thought to
include her own language. She herself was pick-
ing up English, slave English now for the most part,
but she would talk in the Mandingo dialect to
those on the estate who hailed from her own part
of the Dark Continent, never dreaming that any
white man could comprehend what she said.
She had arrived at Hope Vale, in the parish of
St. James, a month before. Huntingdon had re-
mained in Kingston to transact some business, then
had gone on to the capital. Spanish Town, where
he had stayed a week. The driver who had
taken Psyche and the other slaves to Hope Vale
had borne a letter from him to the estate's over-
seer; that letter from Mr. Huntingdon had instruct-
ed the man in charge of the estate's working to
use Psyche well, not to put her to work in the
cane fields but to find for her some household job.
She had therefore been installed in the cook-house,
as the kitchen was called in those days, under the
head cook, a woman of sixty years of age whose
son was the driver that had been put in charge of
the slaves in Kingston. He had quickly told

her of the price Mr. Huntingdon had paid for the
girl; this had caused the old woman to regard
Psyche with great respect. There was another
reason too why she should look upon Psyche as a
young woman out of the ordinary. This woman
had come from the Alandingo country in early youth.
She knew what Psyche meant when the latter had
one day informed her, in tones that admitted of
no dispute, that "In my own country I was a priest-
It was afternoon; Psyche had been stand-
ing a little beyond the cook-house when her master
had come upon her suddenly with his question.
Her whole body was now clothed in a print cotton
dress, as became one of the maids attached to the
house, but her feet were bare, and round her
ankles her anklets shone brightly. Lithe, tall, with
shining eyes, ebony in hue but with the tell-tale
nose that spoke of her partly semitic extraction,
she was striking to look at in comparison with the
other women on the estate, despite the ill-fitting
clothing that she wore. And now she could talk
at ease, for the language that the master used was
her own.
She told him her story. She had grown up
with the other girls of her village, planting food,
weaving mats, attending to the chores of her hut
from morn to eve. Then she had been chosen as
a priestess when she was fifteen; at sixteen she was
to be married to some man who would pay her
father liberally for her. But there had been a war
between neighboring tribes and her own, and her
husband to-be had been killed as well as many
of- the younger men of her village, and fa-
mine had nearly come, but had been averted just
in time by good seasons. So. because she was be-
lieved to have directly brought the welcome rain
as a priestess, and also because the price her father
demanded for her as a wife was higher than
the men could afford to pay, it was decided that
she should continue as priestess for another year.
She knew that this was a rare honour, though not
Then one night the village had been attacked
by slave-raiders. She and several others had fled
to the surrounding forest, but had been hunted
down and caught by the victors. She had been
taken to the coast, and there sold to a slave fact-
ory, which in turn had disposed of her to Captain.
McClintock. A simple oft-told tale which almost
every West African village could relate.
"A priestess. eh?" commented Mr. Huntingdon
humorously. "Then you were a lady of some im-
portance in your own part of the world, Psyche9"
"Yes," she replied, without a moment's hesita-
tion: "I was very important, master."
He laughed. "And you learnt many strange
secrets as a priestess?" he enquired.
"Oh, yes master; I was very powerful."
She remembered that the evening her vill-
age had been attacked she had previously gathered
some beans of a plant to dry and crush later on
for the doctoring of the spears of those who went
out to hunt big game. She had wrapped
them up in a piece of pliant kid-skin and had
snatched up her tiny parcel when about to flee'
from the hut. She had concealed them in her hair
when she knew she was certain to be caught. All
the way from Africa she had treasured and hidden
them, not because she thought that they were of
any value but because they and the anklets and
bangles she wore were her( only possessions.
Other slaves, she knew, had not even a brass
anklet to boast of: nothing except the bush girdle
with which they modified their nakedness. But
she said nothing about these things now. They
seemed utterly unimportant.
"You must have been sorry that your marriage
was postponed," Huntingdon went on, "or rather.
that your intended husband was killed."
"No, master; I was glad. He was old, though
rich, and he had many other wives. Then, per-
haps, -if I had married him I wouldn't have come
"But here you are a slave, Psyche. How can
you possibly like that?"
"I am freer here than I was in my village," she
replied; "if I had married that old man I would
have been his slave too. I like to be here, master-
with you."
"Thanks for the compliment, Psyche. .Well,
perhaps we shall find you a-young husband."
"You?" she asked.
"Good God, girl, you are very direct! Have
you no"-he wanted to say "modesty." but could
think of no word in her tongue that would express
that idea.
"But, master, don't you like me? They say
here that you paid a lot of money for me; more"
-she continued proudly-"than any master in this
country ever paid for a female just come from
Africa. Didn't you buy me because you liked me'
Why don't you make me one of your wives?"
"I have no 'wives,' Psyche."
"Not yet, though you should have, and plenty
of children. But I prefer to be the first. I would
look after your big hut for you. and prevent peo-
ple from robbing you, and love you, and give you
plenty of children. And I am beautiful, master;
everybody says so; they said so in my village when

I was little, and I am more beautiful now. I don't
want any other husband but you. You will take
me, master?"
"This is plain-speaking with a vengeance," he
laughed. "But I tell you what I'll do, Psyche, and
that will be better for you than taking you as a
'wife.' I will get the overseer to give you
some shoes, and even stockings if you like. And
you shall have a dress or two that will be smarter.
and will fit you better than the one you are wear-
ing now. I'll see about it to-morrow."
He laughed 'again and walked away. She
watched him go with a puzzled frown. He had
refused to make her his own as she had suggested,
though ever since the day he had bought her in
Kingston her mind had been set upon that. There
were other men on the estate, white men too, whom
she could have, but none of these did she want.
It was he, and he alone. She loved him. And he
was so kind to her so superior to every other
man that she had ever seen. He was going to
give her clothing such as the white women wore.
Better, perhaps, than most of them wore. Then...
then.... A determined look crept into her face.
The blood of her Semitic grandfather stirred within
her. She would not cease to strive for what she
Charles Huntingdon went into his house, but
stood with a thoughtful air by the open front
door, looking out upon his property as far as eye
could reach. Carpets of green rolled away, green
spears of cane topped ,by soft lilac-coloured
The land sloped upwards: where the growing
cane stopped the Negro village of the estate began.
Here were the cottages in which many of the
slaves lived with their families, and about their
huts grew coconut palms and plantain trees; pigs
rooted in styes near these habitations, and babies
toddled about. Farther off were barracks for the
men who had no wives on the property; opposite
to this village, and also on rising ground, were the
overseer's house and the estate hospital. To the left
were the sugar works, the mill, the boiling house.
These were a scene of ceaseless activity during all
the time when the canes were reaped and the
sugar made. This work would begin next week.
The master's residence stood upon rising
ground also. It 'Was of but one storey and had
been built in the days when slave rebellions were
far more feared than now. Its walls of stone
were thick and pierced with holes through which
the inmates could fire their muskets if attacked;
the rooms were unceiled and the heavy rafters
showed; these rooms were large but dark, and all
round the house ran a verandah sheltered from the
sun by jalousie blinds. The furniture was old
but solid, nearly all of native mahogany. Hunting-
don had changed nothing since he had taken pos-
session. He entertained so little, was so much of
a recluse, that he gave no thought to the new style
of living and of building which was now rapidly
coming into vogue in Jamaica and which had al-
ready found expression in such mansions as Rose-
hall, which was situated not far away on the sea-
coast of St. James.
The next morning he rode over to the
overseer's house. He had not forgotten his promise
to Psyche. For her he ordered three new dresses,
a couple of pairs of shoes, and, actually, half a
dozen pairs of stockings. It amused him to think
how she would look in these, and whether she
would not hate to walk about in shoes to which,
during all the days of her life, she had been totally
The overseer received Mr. Huntingdon's orders
without raising an eyebrow or asking a question.
But when the master had ridden away he sought
out his wife-for, though this was unusual, he was
a married man-and told her what was afoot.
"I thought it was something like that," she
drawled in her Jamaica accent when he had finished
his tale: "that's why he pay so much for her."
Mrs. Buxton was a woman of thirty-five,
plain, and already much too stout. She was of
tradespeople class and born in Jamaica, and al-
ways she remembered she was white. Yet she
had never dared to think that an overseer or
his wife could enter the owner's house as
an equal, and she had been secretly glad that Mr.
Huntingdon had remained a bachelor. Now, how-
ever, she argued, his domestic relations were about,
fo change. Happily (from her point of view) he
did not contemplate marriage. To keep a slave girl
as a mistress would be entirely a different thing
from bringing a white woman and a lady as a
wife to the Great House of Hope Vale. That, of
course, would have demoted Mrs. Buxton from
her proud position of being the only married white
woman on this flourishing estate. But she did not
quite approve of what she believed to be Mr.
Huntingdon's present choice.
"I am not so sure as you are about Psyche," her
husband commented. "Mr. Huntingdon does some
funny things at times. He felt sorry for this girl,
I think; but I don't believe he wants her as a
His wife sniffed contemptuously. "You must
be blind," she retorted. "He may not know his
own mind now, but she will soon teach him what



it is. Shoes and stocking for a nigger gal! And
a hundred pounds to buy her! What you think it
can mean?"
Buxton shrugged his shoulders thoughtfully.
"You may be right," he conceded; "she's rather
good-look ing."
"So you've been looking at her, eh? You said
the same thing about that other gi4 who was here
two years ago, and who quite suddenly bought her
freedom. Where did she get the money from,
Thomas, if not from you? I wish you would tell
me that!"
Her voice had grown angry; Mr. Buxton
thought it was about time for him to hurry to the
fields. He regretted that he had mentioned Mr.
Huntingdon's order to his better half.
But that same day he sent a man on
horseback to Moniego Bay for the things which
Mr. Huntingdon had commanded him to obtain for
Psyche. That afternoon he was able to hand
them over to the slave girl; and if the dresses did
not fit as well as they might, were really second-
hand and intended for the-evening wear of ladies,
and if the shoes-the size of which he had cal-
culated-were a trifle too large, and the stockings
tight, Psyche was not troubled by all this. She
had to take off her anklets to wear the stockings.
She put them away, and this was like saying good-
bye to a part of her former life. She knew she
would never wear them again.



THE Jamaica dinner hour was four or five o'-
clock as might be convenient; Mr. Hunting-
don preferred to dine at seven.
He dined alone in the dim room with the huge
mahogany dining table, the great sideboards on
which polished silver gleamed, amidst the chairs'
all made of mahogany, seats and everything, the
air, coming through windows with stone em-
brasures two feet thick, which were shuttered at
night, for the windows were not glazed. The floor
was innocent of any sort of carpeting. but highly
polished and dark; a chandelier hung from a beam
overhead but the table was lighted by candles set
in silver sconces. And always there were at least
four servants to wait upon him, though he often
thought that one would have sufficed. *
This evening the cook had prepared a special
feast, as though he had returned after months of
absence from his home. He ate but little, how-
ever, feeling moody and restless. He made it a
rule to take coffee after dinner, and this was al-
ways served by a man servant; he now sat wait-
ing for it and presently received a surprise.
For coffee was brought in by Psyche walking
slowly and with great care; Huntingdon would
have laughed but that he instinctively realized that
that might have hurt the girl's feehngs. He saw
at once that her careful, precarious gait was the
consequence of the shoes she now wore for the
first time in her life; she walked in fear and
trembling lest she should pitch headlong to the
floor as the result of one false step.
She was dressed in something made of flower-
ed silk, cut low; an evening dress originally that
she had been given that afternoon. Her skirt
spread out in flounces; her arms were bare. She
held the tray of silver as far from her body as
she could, placed it on the table, and then looked
at him enquiringly. She was clearly at a loss as
to what she should do next.
"So you are butllering tonight, eh?" he asked
kindly, talking in her own dialect. "How did you
come to get this job?"
"I asked the cook, master, to let me do this;
I told her you wanted it."
"But I don't remember saying anything of
the kind, Psyche,"' he replied, as he placed a cup
before him and reached out for the coffee pot, she
watching intently to see just what he would do.
"You didn't, master, but I mightn't have been
allowed to come to you unless I had said that you
wanted me to."
"Do you know the difference between 'truth
and falsehood, Psyche?" he asked, as, anticipating
his wishes, she handed him the milk jug.
She nodded affirmatively, then said: "But it is
true that you prefer me to the man who brings
In your coffee."
"Well, I dare say it is," he agreed, "now that
you are here; but it won't do, you know, for you
to use my name as an authority for your own pre-
meditated acts."
"You can always tell me afterwards if I dis-
please you," she answered. "and then I won't do
again what you object to."
"My good girl!" he exclaimed, "what do you
imagine you are?"
"Your housekeeper," she said calmly.
She had heard that word since she had been
at Hope Vale: she had been told that all unmar-
ried white men, and married ones also, and many
who were not white, sported "housekeepers." that
that was a regular custom, and that her young
master was considered a peculiar and inexplicable

exception. He lived alone, and had always done
so. But rumour on Hope Vale said that Psyche had
been bought to fill the position vacant for so many
years. And she herself wanted and was planning
that it should be so. She had tried to interest him
in her viewpoint the day before; she was trying
again. And now she was inside the house with
him, her story that he had willed it so having
been accepted without question by the cook.
"I wish no housekeeper, Psyche; I hinted that
to you only yesterday afternoon," he replied in
tones of finality.
She looked at him steadily; his eyes were on
his cup. She answered nothing.
When he had finished coffee she went to the
sideboard and brought to him a decanter of ma-
deira and a- large wineglass. She silently filled
the glass, though she had been told often Mr. Hun-
tingdon drank no liquor either at dinner or after.
Mechanically he took up the glass and began
to sip its contents; she filled it again when it was
empty, but he shook his head.
"I think I have had enough," he said.
"You are tired, master; you came home only
yesterday; this will do you no harm."
"Well, you take a glass, too, Psyche, if you
think so much of it."
She had sampled :he stuff before surrepti-
tiously, just a little at a time, since she had been
about the house. She knew how potent it was,
how it went to one's head and made one bold and
reckless. So she poured out for herself but half a
glass, yet when her master had emptied his she
again filled it up. He did not remonstrate this
time, or even hesitate. He tossed it off. He felt
less melancholy, indeed he had become exhilarated.
"Sit down," he said to her, "and we shall talk
more comfortably. Do you know that you are
wearing a white woman's clothes?"
"*Yes," she answered, "and I want to be a
white woman."
"Good Lord! is there anything more that you
She looked puzzled, riot understanding what
he meant.
"Drink your wine and sit down," he again
ordered, at the same time refilling his own glass.
Her eyes gleamed with pleasure as she heard him.
The distance between them seemed perceptibly
"So you want to be white, is that it?" he con-
tinued, looking at her with a smile.
"No, master, for I can't be white in colour.
But I want to be a .white woman."
He laughed. "Please explain," he suggested.
The wine she had taken was affecting her now.
It loosened her tongue completely. "I mean," she
said in a forthright fashion, "that I want to dress
like I am now, and to wear shoes always, though
they hurt. And I want to live in this house and
look after you and it, and have slaves under me,
like the wife of your headman"-by which word
she meant Mr. Huntingdon's overseer. "And then
when we have children they too will be white, and
they will grow up and be like you."
He smiled sadly; she noticed this and misun-
derstood what was passing in his mind.
She became eager: "I am young, I can have
plenty of children, master: why do you doubt
"And that's your idea of bestowing blessings,
eh? You seem to be always harping on children.
Do you understand that if you had children they
would be slaves? Would you like that?"
"They wouldn't be slaves," she answered with
placid assurance, then poured herself out another
half-glass of madeira. He filled his own glass once
"Let me tell you something. Psyche", he said.
"I have an elder brother in England; he is a big
chief there. Do you understand?"
"And he, though very lucky, may die before
me; and as yet he has no children. Nov.-. if he died
I should have to go from Jamaica and become the
big chief in his place. Do you understand?"
She nodded affirmatively.
"But you and your 'plenty of children,' if you
had them, could never go with me. Have you
thought of that?"
She had not, but the matter seemed to her of
no importance whatever. Why should he wish to
tell her all this?
"And when I die, if my brother should then
be alive, or if he should by then have any children,
even this property would be theirs. That is the
law, you know. I could not leave it to your chil-
She stared at him blankly. What on earth did
all this mean? What strange palaver it was!
Others would have thought so too, white as
well as black. White men would have laughed to
hear Huntingdon talk all this stuff. They would
have been scandalised that he should have spoken
to the girl as if she were an equal, or even white.
And what would she care about the possibilities
of the future, anyhow" After all, she was only a
"I have lived a lonely life in this country." he

went on, communing with himself more than with
her; but he still spoke in the Mandingo dialect,
and she followed him. "I have kept myself aloof
from others, -white or black or brown. And
now ."
He continued musing, silently she again filled
his glass, and then she gathered up the things on
the table leaving only the decanter. He did not
seem to see her go, but sat there for another hour,
thinking on his past fortunes and his prospects.
Mechanically he had continued to drink.
Ne. er before, since he had been in Jamaica, had
he drunk so much. At last he rose and went to-
wards his room. His earlier feeling of exhilaration
had passed; he did not raise that it had been re-
placed by a spirit of recklessness, nor did he
imagine that this was what Psyche had hoped for,
that this was \vhy she had placed the wine before
His bedroom was lighted by candles which
shed a dim light upon high canopied bed and huge
chairs. At a glance he saw her. She had thrown
off her dress: she was standing, waiting for him
with but a single garment on; as he entered she
quickly blew out two of the three lighted tapers.
She did not speak a word.
When at length the dawn came he said: "They
will be wondering outside what has become of you,
S"No," she answered simply. "I told them yes-
terday that in the night I would be with you."

MRS. BUXTON, the wife of the Overseer of
Hope Vale. was permanently displeased. Mr.
Huntingdon had at last taken to himself a house-
keeper, which was right and proper in its way, ac-
cording to the custom of the country. But instead
of setting up some nice-looking free brown female
at the Great House he had chosen this slave girl
who had come but the other day to Jamaica. It
is true that this had been expected, but now that
it had happened Mrs. Buxton felt outraged. The
young woman simply did not know her place. She
gave herself airs and ruled it with a high hand;
and no one dared complain to Mr. Huntingdon about
Mrs. Buxton, assured in her position as the
one white woman on the estate, had spoken to
Psyche one day about some household arrangement
-she, a white woman and a married woman to
boot, had condescended to do this. And the im-
pertinent thing had actually, almost, told her to
mind her own business. Flesh and blood could not
stand this, and yet Mrs. Buxton's flesh and blood
had continued to stand it since there was nothing
else to be done. But some day, she thought grim-
ly, she would get even with "this nigger gal." An
opportunity would assuredly present itself.
"And now he drinks too," muttered Mr. Bux-
ton angrily, talking to his wife. "He never did
that before."
Mr. Buxton would not have minded if Charles
Huntingdon had taken heavily to drink from the
day he set foot at Hope Vale, for in that case there
might have been more opportunities for a certain
Mr. Buxton to feather his nest properly under the
very nose of his employer. But now thpa Hunting-
don drank as he had never done before,
he had by his side a young woman who, in-
stead of remembering what she was, and content-
ing herself with being but a sort of upper servant
in the Great House, went about looking into estate
affairs in general. Though she could not under-
stand them she seemed to see to it that Huntingdon
kept his attention fixed on them; also, she encour-
aged some of the more intelligent slaves to talk to
her and tell her what was going on. This infor-
mation she imparted to her master, while at the
same time she gradually tightened her hold upon
all that concerned the Great House, and directed
the other domestics as though they were her pro-
perty. One or two who had long been on the es-
tate started to rebel. They objected to Psyche's
assumption of authority. But they too discovered,
like Mr. Buxton. that there was nothing to be gain-
ed by taking complaints to Mr. Huntingdon. In-
deed, as a result of such complaints, Psyche had
had a couple of them summarily removed from the
position of domestic servants and sent once more to
labour in the fields.
She now always waited on her master herself,
never allowing the other slaves to do so. It was
usually while functioning as butleress that she re-
tailed to him all the news she had picked up, dur-
ing the week or day, or had caused to be gathered
for her. and if some of it was lies and pure malice,
some was true and of value. For nearly a year
now she had'been "housekeeper," and she had
thought that by this time she would have had a
child. But there was not the slightest sign of one,
This angered her. She wondered whether any of
the folk on the estate had bewitched her or some-
thing, and particularly she thought of Mrs. Buxton.
She knew that Mrs. Buxton hated her. -She also'
(Continued on Paoe 14)





THE war was much talked about, as war, in the also, and Mrs. John Duck, in the midst of listening
first four weeks of its declaration. Today there to a cultured voice on the Radio explaining in a
seems to be nothing new to say about it, though mixed-up fashion why Marshal von Stickemup fail-
plenty to say about its consequences. There is ed to cross Moscow on skis last summer-Mrs. Duck,
the scarcity of beef. There is the extraordinary I say, while vainly endeavouring to find out what
price of fresh hsh. Salted fish cannot be had? con- the radio announcer means, may be called upon
densed milk is terribly expensive? flour has gone to face the problem that cook is not satisfied with
up, meal is scarce? You will hear much about such the amount of butter she has been given for cer-
matters continually these days. tain purposes and is displaying strong tendencies
Why, all clothing materials are three, four, five to declare a sort of a guerilla war against every-
times as dear as they used to be; stockings that one and everything in her neighbourhood, In-
once sold for two-and-six a pair are now seven- eluding the cat. The butter is quite enough, and
and-six-if you can get them. This dress I am cook knows it. But evidently the war has got on
wearing now was nmnepence a yard three years ago, her nerves, without her knowing it, and as she
it is now three shillings. Shoes? You are lucky has no guns she turns to butter as the substitute
if you can get a good pair for less than two pounds; upon which to issue a declaration of hostilities.
and. my dear soul, they don't last; that is the Mrs. John Duck prevents her from issuing any ul-
hard part of the business-nothing lasts. What is timatum by the simple method of giving her more
to become of us" What is going to happen? When butter, which cook has to accept quietly; but cookie
are we going to win this war? Suppose we don't is secretly indignant at being thus thwarted.
win it? But w\\h talk foolishness? We must win; Cobkie wants to make a row. She desires war,
you know that; then why say things like that? Fun? brief, glorious war, and is quite prepared to march
My dear sir. you can't make fun in these serious away in search of another job. Of course she
times: it is like what Gary Cooper says in that knows that she cannot be sent away immediately,
play now running at the Palace, "The Biter Bit." for the master must have his dinner; what is more,
Gary Cooper says-what does he say? I forget. there are a couple of guests tonight who have been
But that don't matter, he is right. You're going invited to drop in and have "pot-luck." But if cook
to the Palace tonight.' Or the Carib? I prefer the is treated harshly there will be no pot and no luck;
Carib. my love, it is cool there, and the car stops the kitchen war must therefore (cookie feels) end
right outside of it. And you know who I saw there today in a complete victory for cook.
last Saturday night" Who but Elsie, but since she's But not as it actually ends. Not with a sur-
married she don't want to talk much to some of render on the part of Mrs. Duck before any real
her old trends. Not that I care-I should worry! conflict has developed but in such a way that it does
What? The war should have taught her a lesson? not seem that Mrs. Duck has surrendered at all.
But .why bring in the war every now and then? Cookie now has her superfluous butter, and Mrs.
Why not target it. we win the \\% ar but tell me, what about that can think of nothing at the moment; the fact is that
dance Sue said she was giving? There is hardly she hasn't the brain of a Napoleon, and having been
a dance now. hardly a thing. It is the war? I compelled to withhold her projected offensive she
know: damn that man, Hitler! can think of no other line of attack at the moment.
You will guess at once that I am now v.rili'i But Mrs. Duck is not deceived. She is aware that
about the remarks. not of the common people, but the cook will develop other tactics a day or two
of certain sections of our middling middle-class hence, and will endeavour to wear her down by
folk. and you .ill have noticed how their talk, attrition. Mrs. D. guesses that the other servants
which every now and then touches on the war, yet (who hate the cook) are yet waiting to see how
shunts off to some other subject, obviously not the Cook's War progresses in order to launch at-
connected with the war. But don't imagine that tacks of their own, not in sympathy with the cook-
it is they alone. or the working people alone, who for they hate the cook, and the cook hates them.
actually, %hen you come to think of it, have little and everybody hates everybody else-but merely
to say al )it the v.ar. That is true of all classes to make war on general principles. Mrs. Duck
in Jamaica. wherever you meet them this year they knows that she will have to get rid of one, if not
are devoting nine-tenths of their conversation to indeed of two of them, at no distant future; but,
ordinary matters: and the younger married upper as she remarks bitterly to herself, it is six of one,
classes are commenting, not on what Timoshenko half a dozen of the other; you may change, but you
is doing, or Wavell. or any other general. can never be certain that you will not get just as
They feel that the present crisis is having a very impossible servants as you have had before. What
bad effect upon Muriel's conduct, but, after all, my do they want? She doesn't know. They do not
dear, if Muriel was not flighty at heart the war know. Nobody knows. It is the war.
could not have induced her to act as she is doing:
She is out v.-ith him up to all hours of the night, III
I hear. and her mother doesn't dare say a word.
Her mother is as bad" Well, I am inclined to agree But how does the war affect the thinking of
with you: she was probably a little devil herself the common people-the ordinary worker, the man
when she was young; still, she can't possibly like in the street, the loiterer on the sidewalk, the pas-
to see how M\uriel is getting on with men. Who senger in the bus? Does he talk about it much, does
is he" Nobody k no..s. He's been here a few months he speculate upon the future? Not more than any-
only. and everyone has taken him up; I must cer- body else does. As a matter of fact, you may travel
Stainly say he is a gentleman in his manners, and in a bus for weeks and months and never hear the
lhe' say he i. rich. I wouldn't be surprised at war so much as mentioned. You may listen careful-
that: a lot ot these young fellows in the war are ly to talk upon the streets, yet only rarely will you
rich. but they feel that they too must do their bit. hear the war discussed. And yet nobody has for-
Look, there is Muriel now; she's coming our way. gotten the war. It is in everybody's mind.
Well, Muriel darling. how are you; looking sweet "Remember Rangoon!" I shall never forget
and pretty as e.'er. eh? No, my dear, that is not that word. I was walking along Harbour Street,
flattery; I ne.er latter. How is your mother? Not one.morning; Rangoon had fallen some days or
very well" I am not surprised; we are all very wor- weeks previously-I do not recall which-and the
ried nowv about the war, aren't we? And how is Jamaica public immediately knew it. And after
the boy-friend? I hear he is charming. You the fall of the capital city of Burma had come strict
should bring him round to see me some day; sup- gasoline rationing in Jamaica, and those of us who
pose we fix a time now. What about tomorrow possessed motor cars began to walk in order to
afternoon at half-past six? We are simple people save petrol and tyres. So a man among a group
and can't manage more than a whisky-and-soda of those who assemble along the edge of the square
or a cocktail. but you won't mind that, I am sure. between Duke and East Streets (waiting for a ship
Good; just a iev'. f us. We shall expect you. to give them work) caught sight of me tramping it
Stewards the Myrtle Bank Hotel one morning, he
called out in a ringing voice, Remember Rangoon!
II I saw what he meant. Rangoon fell; H. G. D.
"Remember Rangoon!" That is what I was ad- should therefore not think himself immune from
\vsed to do one day in Harbour Street by a wharf falling; if he did, he had better remember Rangoon.
labourer shortly after the fall of that city. But how He and others like him. I didn't point out to my
can one think much about Rangoon when the ser- admonishing friend that I felt like falling already,
vant problem is forever with us? In the city of since my legs had grown tired with the walking
Kingston. in Lower St. Andrew, in some of the I-had to do: I said nothing, merely smiled. But I
island's towns also, servants' wages have risen per- remembered Rangoon, noticing how the word was
ceptibly within the last four years. But it looks used symbolically; and in fact I have long since
as though the lemper of servants had risen higher noticed that the incidents of this war are some-

times taken by the man in the street, but far more
often by the old woman in the street, to have a
spiritual significance of a somewhat disturbing
The war, in fact, with a certain type of per-
son, is looked upon as being fraught with direful
religious implications. It provides the signs and
wonders which some writer in the Scriptures as-
sures us shall be .observed before the coming of
the Last Day when the vast majority of human be-
ings shall be condemned to an everlasting hell--
for surely there is no sense in having a hell unless
full and proper use is to be made of it.
So these persons love to preach their warnings,
and Rangoon with its fall becomes one of the
warnings to the stiff-necked and to the proud. Ran-
goon, however, on the morning of which I write,
was far away; what my friend in the group in
Harbour Street was more particularly struck by
was the walking about, or crawling about, of so
many people who but a short time ago had driven
proudly by in motor cars. Had he been better ac-
quainted with the Scriptures-or rather, had he re-
membered, for I am sure that he knew the Scrip-
tures very well-he would have quoted something
about the mighty having been brought down from
their seats and the humble and meek having
been exalted. Or perhaps he did remember this
verse, but was unable to perceive the exaltation of
the humble and meek, since those who had always
walked were walking still. Rangoon was a safer
bet; let it be remembered, with its religious appli-
cation, and the lesson it had to teach might sink
deep into the hearts of those who now must begin
to realise that this war was a punishment for sin-
the poorer classes being, evidently, quite sinless,
since they at least had no private cars and so were
never called upon to purchase tyres or gasoline.

But your working men are not fools; after all,
it is not the majority of them who believe that the
Last Day is coming because there is a war. And
meantime, even if it be coming, people must eat
and live, and there is no sense in meeting the Last
Day half-way. So one of the group in Harbour
Street detached himself from his fellows and sig-
nified to me that he wanted to say something. He
hurried to my side as I continued on my way and
proceeded to accompany me. "Manager," he be-
gan, "we have been waiting days for a ship, and
we don't earn nothing while we are, waiting." I
am not a manager, but he seemed to like that word,
so I said notlllng "They don't tell us nothing,"
he continued; "do you think, Manager, that this
secrecy is due. to the Competent Atrocity?" "I
don't see how the Atrocity, as you call him, can
have anything to do with this matter," I replied.
"You see, the movements of ships are kept secret
so that the enemy shall know nothing about them;
let the enemy know, and there may be no ships.
But one, I feel certain, will come here shortly, and
then another and another. It is hard to wait, but
what to do?" He considered this for a moment.
"You are right, Manager," he replied at length; "we
must wait patiently. You advise that?" "I do,"
I fervently replied, knowing how easy is advice
when one has not to follow it oneself. Then he
departed quite cheered by my few well-chosen
answers, or, more likely, bucked up by a con-
versation with a Manager who had shown him-
self friendly and sympathetic, possibly because he
remembered Rangoon.
The truth is that the working classes do not
believe so strongly in the end-of-the-world idea
now as did their like at the time of the earth-
quake of 1907. Some of them may have witnessed
the great earthqual:e in their youth, and the world
did not end then. Then the First World War broke
out and three or four hurricanes happened while
it lasted, and still the world did not come to an
end. They, therefore, have grown somewhat sceptic-
al by this about the almost immediate termination of
all things terrestrial; but older folk resent this
scepticism: they see in the attitude of younger peo-
ple a conversion to a sort of paganism which is very
distressing. The Book of Revelation is obviously
not as much pondered in these days as it ought to
be; Pale Horses are not ridden about conspicuously;
we are not as much disposed to seek a supernatural
misrepresentation of facts as our fathers would
have been. Ah, my child, you don't know what is
coming, says a woman of sixty-five to her grand-
daughter of nineteen, and the little wretch wants
to know whether the "Competent Atrocity" is rais-
ing prides again. The old lady means something
dreadful such as the crashing of the skies and
the perishing of mankind; the girl is thinking of
the price of red pease. There is a great gulf fixed
between the two minds; yet one knows that the
supernatural is not wholly forgotten by any of us,
young or old, white or black. For let an earth-
quake occur or the thunder of enemy guns be
suddenly heard, and all of us exclaim, or at least
say in our hearts, "Lord have mercy!" Though why
we should expect the Lord to give us a thought is
something I personally have never been able to
H. G. D., May 24th, 1942





A T fifty years of age Mr. Proudleigh was con-
sidered and regarded himself as an old man.
By then he had developed rheumatism and a strong
disinclination for work; he had also created a fam-
ily, having been busy at this job for nearly thirty
years. So, not unnaturally, he felt he had done
his duty by the State and looked to his children to
support him for the remainder of his life.
Rest, almost perpetual rest, had done MIr.
Proucileigh a world of good., He lived with his
daughter Susan and her husband, iMr. Samuel Jo-
siah Jones, and as he worked not, neither wanted
for anything-his wants were after all never many
-he enjoyed himself in his own way and was fond
of relating his reminiscences and of giving his ad-
vice to whoever would listen to him. He had once
been for some months in the Republic of Panama
what time the American Panama Canal was build-
ing. He had gone there as an unexpected visitor
to his daughter Susan. who had preceded him for
some time, and had been received by her with
every demonstration ot unwelcome and annoyance.
Sue knew her father, knew that he delighted to live
on other folk, feared his habit of interfering in
matters that did not concern him, not wilfully, but
because he liked to talk. But he had ignored this
reception, then had returned from Panama to King-
ston with Susan and her second husband, the afore-
said Mr. Jones..
That was long years ago; to hear him now talk
of his experiences in the Latin-American Republic
you might have thought that the chief constructors
of the Canal did nothing of any moment without
first consulting Mr. Proudleigh while he was in
their midst, and that, if the Canal had been event-
ually built, it was Mr. Proudleigh who was respon-
sible for that. He had never left Jamaica again;
in the interval his wife and sister had died, his
two other daughters had married, and Susan had
become the mother of three children. The eldest,
a girl, was now nearly seventeen. The other
two were boys. It is regrettable to have to state
that they never listened to their grandfather, took
no notice of him whatever. But the girl, Louise,
had become very friendly with the old man since
she was sixteen years of age. This he appreciated
much, and he felt that there was nothing that he
would not do for her. He even spoke vaguely of
making his will in her favour. This was an expres-
sion of hope and faith since he had no tangible
possessions to leave to anyone.
The old man was tall, thin, of a brown com-
plexion and with a rather weak cast of counten-
ance. His figure was now bent, slightly, his thin
covering of hair grey, but he walked better than
he had done when a younger man and all present
indications were that, without an effort, he would
cling to life until he was ninety-which a less kind-
ly soul than the energetic Susan would have re-
garded as a terrible prospect. But Susan cared for
her father in her own way, and Samuel her hus--
band liked the old man too and was quite content
to support him.
Samuel was a dark-brown man whose progress
in life was a continual surprise to himself. Hear-
ing him talk, you would have thought that his ad-
vancement had always been regarded by him
as inevitable, but his self-confidence was not as
profound as his conversation suggested. He was
now in receipt of six pounds a week, owned the
house in which he lived, was able to send his chil-
dren to quite respectable schools. "It is innocuous,"
he sometimes reflected with pride, "it is positively
preposterous": thus he sometimes described to him-
self his own progress. For Samuel was in the ha-
bit of treating the English language after a fashion
of his own, and if some persons could not always
understand what he meant, neither, for the matter
of that, could he.
It was when she was sixteen, as has been sai:l,
that Louise, the eldest daughter of Mr. and Mrs.
Samuel Josiah Jones, one morning suddenly made
up to her grandfather. She was a tall girl of clear
sambo complexion, with good features, and at six-
teen she looked eighteen years of age. She had
just left school. The problem was, what to do
with her now: it was discussed one night in their
little sitting room in a Kingston suburb between
Samuel and his wife, with Mr. Proudleigh present.
Louise had gone to bed in a temper, her pa-
rents sternly forbidding her to go by herself that
night to a distant moving-picture house. The boys
were playing in the street with some of their
friends. Jones himself brought up the matter of
Louise's immediate future. "I think," he said, "I
had better send her to learn shorthand and type-
writing; plenty of girls learn that nowadays."
"And plenty don't get jobs," remarked his wife
practically. "Besides, she don't seem to me like
a girl who will set her mind to learn such a thing

as shorthand. She look to me like she's thinking
too much about boys."
S"You mean dose things dat look like pothook
an' hangers. Sue?" asked her father suddenly, as
though he had just been awakened.
"No, sah," replied Sue impatiently, "I never
see a boy yet that look like pothook an' hangars."
'Plenty of them do, me daurter," replied her
father argumentatively; "boys in dese days are not
like boys in my days. Why, I remember-"
"Never mind what you remember, papee," re-
torted Susan; 'these are days when boys don't look
like pothooks-shorthand does."
"You right, Sue, I agrees with you. But I hear
you say just now dat you don't like Louise to learn
shorthand, but prefer 'er to have a boy like pot-
hooks an'-"
"Papee!" exclaimed Susan, scandalised.
"For shame!" cried Samuel, who had long since
become a paragon of virtue because of the stern
unbending watchfulness and bitter admonitions of
his wife. Susan, once married, believed in the
narrow path of conduct for all men and women,
and Jones now followed that path so as to ensure
a fairly peaceful life. Besides, he now had a fam-
ily to look after. He was that family's slave,
though he fondly believed that he was its head and
"But," murmured Mr. Proudleigh plaintively,
"she must 'ave a boy some time. an' a'ter all, she
growing big now. Didn't you 'ave plenty of boy,
Sue, when you was a gal? While as for Mister
"Papee, if you can't talk sense," snapped Su-
san, "you better go to bed."
"What an exvantage is take of a pore ole man
because he lost his money an' is old." complained
the old gentleman. As he never had had any
money, that part of his complaint about its loss
was somewhat unjustifiable. But in these days
he entertained the illusion that once he had been
a man of considerable means, and nothing could
dislodge that belief from his mind. What is more,
he was secretly of the opinion that a large portion
of his mythical fortune had somehow been taken
possession of by Susan and her husband.
But nobody taking any notice of this remark,
he merely observed: "Ef I was not sixty-five years
old, I know what I would do."
At fifty-three. Mr. Proudleigh always insisted
upon speaking of himself as sixty. At seventy-two
he had decreased his age by seven years. This
usually created some merriment amongst those who
knew how old he was; but.on this occasion there
was not even a smile: Samuel and his wife were
much too seriously worried to engage in pleasant-
ries. Perceiving which, Mr. Proudleigh refrained
from harping any further on the age question, but
could not bring himself to abandon entirely his self-
imposed function of defending his granddaughter.
He did care much for Louise, and imagined (er-
roneously) that a stand taken by him in her behalf
would assist her considerably with her parents.
"What sort of job you goin' to get fo' Louise
that will prevent 'er havin' a boy?" he asked.
The question was very badly put; he seemed
unable to get the subject of boys out of his mind.
Therefore his son-in-law answered sharply : "She
not to have any boy at all at 'er age; but if she
can get a job in a store at twelve or fitteen shill.n's
a week, that will give her more than enough poc-
ket money to be independent of presents from all
these fellows that can hardly afford to wipe their
nose with their shirt-tail, an' will teach her that
there are decent young men in the world with
whom she can become exclusively acquainted when
she's about ei ghteen or so. That's quite old enough
for any respectfully born girl to think of a young
man, and you must remember, Mr. Proudleigh, that
Louise is legitimate."
Mr. Proudleigh had never been able to per-
ceive any, special virtue in legitimacy, and he did
not see what that matter had to do with the con-
duct or employment of Louise, but he would not
say so. Both Jones and Susan were proud that
their children were legitimate, and they were de-
termined that, in so far as they could bring it about,
their daughter's children should be legitimate also.
Their sons must go their own way; it'was unrea-
sonable to expect from them a course of behaviour
such as one might justly demand from a girl. And,
Sin any case, whatever they did in the line of bring-
ing children into the world, no stigma would at-
tach to them. There existed different standards
of morals for men and women. Samuel Josiah
Jones strongly but privately approved of that dif-
Louise's bedroom was not far from the sitting
room of the house owned by her father. It opened
into her parents' chamber, and if the door between

these two bedrooms were left ajar, and the inter-
vening door which opened on the sitting room were
not tightly closed, a careful listener might hear
any conversation in the sitting room by a well-con-
sidered system of eavesdropping. Louise had dis-
covered this long ago; and occasionally, when she
suspected that she was to be the subject of a con-
ference between her mother and father, or that
they v.ere disposed to talk about some matter of
v.'hich they desired that she should remain in per-
fect ignorance, she would ostentatiously retire to
rest and then so arrange i. that she should catch
at least the gist of the talk which should take
place after her voluntary retirement. Thus she
learnt much that she was not supposed to know and
she pondered these things in her heart.
Tonight she was listening intently. From the
first she had guessed that. on her retirement from
the sitting-room, she would be the main subject of
her elders' conversation.
Tonight she understood clearly at least three
things. First, her parents were disposed to get her
a job in a shop or store somewhere "downtown."
With that she agreed entirely. Secondly. they felt
that until she was eighteen she must not associate
with "boys." This she considered arrant nonsense.
She wanted to know boys-lots of them. She want-
ed them to make love to her. "They must think I
am a child," she whispered resentfully to herself,
referring to her parents. But Louise regarded her-
self as quite a grown-up young lady now, and it
appeared to her that her old grandfather thought
so too.
This brought her to her third understanding.
Which was that grandfather was steadfastly on her
side. even to the point of arguing against the view
her parents held regarding her. She had for some-
time looked upon him as a potential ally: now she
was certain he would prove useful if she should
ever need his services. Particularly in relation to
the acquiring of boy-friends.
The very next morning she definitely made up
to iMr. Proudleigh. Within a week they were close
On the Saturday of the week in which the
above-related conversation took place. Samuel Jo-
siah Jones presented himself at the store of a mer-
chant he had known in his youth, and who had
once done him a really decent turn. Jones had re-
peatedl.y met this gentleman in subsequent years,
and had never failed to remind him of how good
he had once been to Samuel Josiah. a circum.s'ance
that pleased the merchant much. That gentleman
now regarded himself as having been the chief
benefactor of Mr. Jones, though he could not clear-
ly remember whether he had saved the life of
Mr. Jones or lent him money. On the whole he was
disposed to believe that the cause of Jones's grati-
tude was not money, since he had never greatly
wanted to lend anybody anything whatever, and
had proclaimed this far and wide. Still, whatever
it was that he had done for Jones, the latter re-
mained grateful. So Mr. Solomon not unnaturally
looked upon himself as being in some way respon-
sible for Jones unto the third or fourth generation;
he saw Jones with the eye of a moral proprietor
who was in honour bound to protect his own. When,.
therefore, on a Saturday afternoon, when business
was good and the world seemed a fair and pros-
perous place to live in,. Samuel appeared before
his erstwhile benefactor, he was greeted warmly and
asked what could be done for him just now.
"Mr. Solomon," said Josiah portentously, "you
do so much for me already that it would be pre-
emptive for me to ask you to do anything more."
"Never mind that, Sam me boy," said Mr. Solo-
mon, hoping that Jones would now definitely re-
mind him of what he had actually done. "If you
even save the life of a fellow creature, what is that?
Nothing at all. It is a duty, an obligation." Mr.
Solomon's tone suggested that he was in the habit
of saving human lives every clay.
"You more than saved me life," asseverated
Jones; "I can never repay you,"
"Forget it," advised Mr. Solomon earnestly,
hoping in his heart that Samuel would never be
so ungrateful as to forget it, whatever "it" meant.
-Forget it. I have completely forgotten it," he add-
ed truthLflly.
"I can't forget it," asserted Samuel, whereupon
Mr. Solomon was more pleased than ever. But
business was business.- He glimpsed just then a
rather good-looking and stylish dark young lady
behind Samuel; he imagined that she was a poten-
tial purchaser who was being neglected by the
staff. This was atrocious, a continuance of such
negligence might spell ultimate ruin. "Forward
here!" he cried out peremptorily, and three attend-
ants rushed forward to attend to Louise. Each of
them cast a bitter glance at the other two, in the



hope that Mr. Solomon would notice this. Devo-
Lon to duty, they felt, might be amply demonstrat-
ed by bitter glances.
"She don't want nothing today. Mr. Sol," Jones
explained: "she is me daughter, Louise Jones, and
it is she that I come to talk to you about. If such
a busy man like you have a minute to spare me."
"Certainly, Jones, certainly: you know that
although I am always busy I can always spare you
a few minutes. So this is your daughter, eh? A
nice young lady." Mr. Solomon was suddenly
seized with a democratic impulse. He held out his
hand to Louise. "You ought to be proud of your
father, miss," he said: "he's a man among thous-
ands. Step this way into me office and we can
talk in private."
He had easily guessed that Samuel had come
to ask him to take on his daughter as an assistant
in the store. And it happened that he had been
thinking of late of adding one or two persons to
his staff, since business was increasing. But of
this he would. naturally. say nothing to Samuel.
He led the way into a railed-off tiny open space
situated where he could command a good view of
the store and of the clerks or assistants thereof,
and in which there was a desk. a chair for himself
in front of the desk. and two hard and uncomfort-
able chairs for the accommodation of persons who
must not be induced by comfort to prolong their
stay and so consume his time.
"Well, what is your trouble?" demanded Mr.
"It's not exactly trouble. Mr. Sol," said Jo-
siah, "for we can afford to keep Louise in plenti-
ful cornucopia at home. But I an' her mother
think that, as she leave school now, wherein she
did well for herself educationally, we ought to get
her a job. For Satan finds some mischief still for
idle han's to do."
"Quite true." said Mr. Solomon gravely. "quite
true. But what can I do?"
He knew very well what he could do. but this
was business. He must appear to be quite unable
to do anything whatever.
"I was wondering, Mr. Sol if you could give
Louise a small job in your emporium; she's smart
and intelligent--she take after me."
Mr. Solomon now pretended to scrutinise
Louise closely. He saw before him a dark girl,
well put together, with shrewd lively eyes and
agile countenance. She was of middling height;
not slim but not on the other hand fat, whose every
movement suggested energy. He knew she could
be of service in his business. So he shook his head
doubtfully and remarked: "Business is so bad now,
Jones, that I was thinking of getting rid of two of
my present clerks. But you know me; I am too
soft-hearted to do that. So I don't see how I can
help you, and yet How old is Louise"" he con-
cluded abruptly.
"Eighteen," lied Samuel with an easy con-
-cience, for he knew that Louise looked that age.
"Well," said Mr. Solomon slowly, "I suppose I
must try and do something for you, though I am
afraid it can't be much. Later on, though .
Well. I tell you what we can do. I will give Louise
fifteen shillings a week and train her up. I can't
say better than that."
"I know I could depend upon yoLu. Mr. Sol,"
cried Josiah. "In the precincts of my conscious-
ness I had a feelng that say to me: 'Sam. Mr. Solo-
mon will never let you down Thank Mr. Solomon,
Louise," Josiah commanded. "And never forget
what he has done for you today."
Very gratefully did Louise thank Mr. Solomon.
and it was straightway arranged that she should
report for work on Monday morning at eight o'-
clock. And Mr. Solomon endeavoured to look like
virtue personified. like a man who. at immeasur-
able expense to himself, was always willing to em-
ploy the daughters of those whom. at some previous
period, he had rescued from imminent death or
something of the sort. The fact that an hour ago
he had been thinking of two new assistants at a
pound a week each, but now believed that a really
intelligent and energetic girl like Louise might
easily do the work of two. for some little time to
come at any rate, did not disturb his complacency.
He offered grandly to shake hands with Jones;
Louise. of course, who was now an employee, could
not agair expect that honour. "It was a letter from
you that got me a good job many years ago," Jones
now reminded him. "and now you employ me
daughter!" Mr. Solomon would have preferred to
have been reminded of something of greater signi-
ficance. At least would have preferred to con-
tinue to believe, quite wrongly, that upon a certain
dramatic occasion he had saved Samuel Josiah
Jones from sudden death. Still, it was indisputable
that again he had rendered signal service to the
family of Jones: and he had no reason to regret
that as long as Louise was on his payroll. What is
more he increased her wages (at her suggestion)
in about six months.
Louise now knew greater happiness than be-
fore. She was working, she earned money, and
though Susan compelled her to contribute five shill-


ings a week to the family budget she still had ten
shillings weekly to spend upon herself.
The cosmetics she loved she could now buy free-
ly: lipstick, powder and rouge, for of course, dark
as she was, she was firmly convinced that a touch
ot artificial pink on her cheeks improved her ap-
pearance. She could go more frequently to enter-
tainments, paying for herself and any girl-friend
or two that she took along with her, for Susan did
not approve of her going anywhere alone. "They
watch me like they think I am going to run away
or that I am a slave," she now and then complain-
ed to Mr. Proudleigh, and that gentleman, wholly
on her side, agreed that that was a shame and as-
sured her that when her mother, his daughter, was
her age, she was at liberty to do whatever she
wanted-which was only, as a matter of fact, too
Then one afternoon, drawing the old man aside
to the back of the yard, Louise whispered to him:
"You'd like to go to the moving-pictures with me
tonight, grandpa?"
"No," replied positively Mr. Proudleigh, whose
eyes troubled him now when he looked at the sil-
ver screen and who preferred conversation in the
form of a monologue by himself to any picture in
the world.
Louise wvas disappointed in him. This seemed
like an ungrateful reaction to the many glasses of
anisou to which she had treated the old man, hav-
ing regard to his intense appreciation of anisou.
Then it came to her that Mr. Proudleigh was think-
ing that she only wished to give him a pleasure he
did not appreciate, and did not understand that she
wanted him to be of service to her. She tried
"I am sick of going to these places with other
girls," she said frankly. "There's not much fun in
it. I prefer to go with a young man. That's why
*I ask you."
Mr. Proudleigh thought this over for half a
minute. "But I am only you' pore gran'father,
Louise, an' a ole man. What sort of a man I is to
be goin' wid a nice young lady like you to pitcher
show? Y'u might as well takes a corpse."
"But you are the only one I can go with," Louise
pointed out. "A young gentleman friend o' mine
ask me to go with him tonight, but I tell him
plain that me mother and father wouldn't hear of
it, and that he must not even come to this house.
I told him that me parents were very old-fashioned.
but that me grandfather was modern, like him and
me. And I know you are modern, grandpa."
Mr. Proudleigh was pleased. Of course he was
modern, of course Jones and Susan had grown old-
fashioned. He wondered now that he had nQt be-
fore perceived their moral degeneration, their
decline from the bracing heights of modernity to
the gloomy depths of of .. well, whatever it
was. It was a shame. And it was doubly a shame
because it affected the happiness of Louise.
Mr. Proudleigh brought his brain to bear on
the problem placed before him. "But I don't see
as how I goin' wid you to the pitcher can help,
Louise. I am not de young gentleman dat ask you:
in fact I couldn't, for I don't 'ave a quattie to pay
for one ticket, let alone two."
"That's all right, grandpa; it's quite all right,"
Louise briskly replied. "I told the young gentle-
man that we would meet him outside the Palace
Theatre between seven and half-past seven tonight:
I arranged it like that, for I knew you would help
me. You see, grandpa," she continued in'a wheed-
ling tone of voice, "if I was to go with a girl-friend,
the first thing I know is she might be trying to cut
me out with my gentleman friend, and that would
not be fair. So I have only you."
"An' I won't cut y'u hout," promised Mr. Proud-
leigh grandiloquently. but scarcely knowing what
he said. His mind was slowly revolving round the
problem of'deceiving his daughter and her hus-
band, as that was.what Louise was clearly intend-
ing he should do.
"Suppose you' parents fine out dat you meets
a young man, Louiise: what will dem say to me?"
"What can they do you, grandpa?"
"Plenty. I 'fraid for Susan's tongue; she gotten
to be a terrorum in dese days: she's not modern."
"Well, how can they find out, unless you tell
them? And won't you be with me all the time?
And can it be wrong for a young lady to meet a
young gentleman friend with her own grandfather"
And besides, later on, you can say that you meet
this gentleman downtown and at the pictures, and
invite him to come to the house quite simply and
open, and me parents can't say a word after that.
You ought to speak up for yourself more than you
do, grandpa. You let people take too much ad-
vantage of you."
That was just what Mr. Proudleigh himself
thought; the trouble was to muster enough courage
to speak up for himself. And what was he to speak
for'himself about? There was, of course, this un-
known young gentleman: but, after all, he, Mr.
Proudleigh. was not desirous that the young man
should come to see him; he would much rather he
did not. Still, there was Louise's side of the mat-
ter, and Louise evidently required assistance which
he alone could give. So he was yet of some im-
portance. He yet counted for something in the

world. He litted his head .proudly ?andi exclaimed,
"I will."
"But don't act like you and I had any talk
about going to the pictures," anxiously counselled
Louise. Because if--"
"Gal," said :Mr. Proudleigh with pride, "y'u tink
y'u can larn me to be deceptivous? I know all about
dat before I was fourteen ears ole. I 'member dat
"Go inside now," interrupted Louise firmly,
not being desirous of hearing any story relating to
Mr. Proudleigh's deceptive career. She had noticed
that the same story, told by him, often differed so
widely, one version from another, that it was im-
possible to believe any version of it at all.
Mr. Proudleigh and Louise went to the Pal-
ace Theatre by tram, the old man dressed in his
suit of Sunday clothes. in which he always felt un-
comfortable and hot. When, at dinner that even-
ing Louise had casually asked him if he cared to
go to see a picture, he had accepted that offer in-
stantly, declaring with warmth that in these, days
the thing he most longed for was seeing pictures,
and then he added what he regarded as a realistic
touch. "I once see a pitcher," he said, by a lady
who them call Miss Greeta Garbage. She say, 'I
wants to be alone alone in de mud,' dough why she
wants to be in de mud she never explain. I en-
jie meself at pitchers. But nobody ask me to go
wid dem dis long time except you, me dear."
As for Susan and Jones, they were very pleased
at this demonstration of granddaughterly regard by
Louise; it showed nice feeling; besides, how could
any young girl be better chaperoned? A grand-
father was the essence of propriety and respectabil-
ity. They smiled their approval.
Mr. Proudleigh was properly introduced to the
young man, of whom, at first sight, he thought but
little. But the young gentleman was dressed in the
height of the prevailing fashion of his order of so-
ciety: that is to say. he wore tweeds and had his
jacket open and his rainbow tie blowing about his
bosom as the wind listed. He disdained a hat. He
was at least two shades lighter in complexion than
Louise, and he appeared prosperous. Mr. Proud-
leigh solemnly shook hands with him and assured
him that he strongly reminded Mr. Proudleigh of a
young friend of fifty years ago, now long dead: "Ef
he was alive he would look exactly like you, sir,"
said the old gentleman, making nothing of the effect
of time upon face and form.
After that, Mr. Proudleigh went out fairly often
with Louise and learnt to sleep quietly through the
most desperate chasing of villains on the screen,
or the most passionate love scenes. But sometimes
he did not go to the pictures at all. He was taken
by the couple to a nearby ice-cream saloon, where
he had a glass of beer; and they talked and made
love, and even went for little walks together. These
walks lasted for quite a long time on some occa-
sions. But the old man was not worried. His niece
assured him that this was the modern way, and he
rather loved to think that he was modern. Be-
sides, he had implicit confidence in the discretion
of Louise.
She invariably knew the plots of the pictures
to which they went or were supposed to go; she read
them in the picture magazines that she now bought.
She related them to her grandfather so that, if any
folk should ask him anything about a picture he
could say enough to convince them that he had seen
it with his own eyes. And when he got mixed and
described a hero as riding recklessly, pursued by a
bandit gang while on his knees making love to a
beautiful young lady on the point of drowning in
a distant stormy sea, his kindly audience attributed
this mix-up to his advancing years. Then one after-
noon Louise suggested to him that he should invite
young Mr. Mortlake to the house.
"Me?" screamed the old man, in anguish.
"Yes," inexorably replied Louise. "It must be
you, for I can't do it."
"But wat am I to tell you mother, Susan?"
"Tell her that you meet this young gentleman
downtown-you go out sometimes, you know-and
that sometimes you meet him at the pictures, and
that you like him and that you asked him to come
and see you on whatever night it is. They can't
say no, for he will come all the same as you invite
him, and you will only tell them before he comes.
And they will like him, as he is quiet and nice."
"But-but them will know he is coming to see
you, an' ef ,dem have disapproval-pore me boy,
what is dis I bring upon meself!"
"You're too cowardly, grandpa: you just watch.
Not a disagreeable thing is going to happen. You
will see."
So the next afternoon Mr. Proudleigh made his
pronouncement at dinner, Louise having gone out
to see a vaguely indicated girl-friend. "I invites
a young gentleman to come an' see me tonight, not
dat I expected he would, but he will," said the old
man suddenly. "I meet him now .an' then down-
town and at de Palace Theatre."
Suspicion darkened Susan's eyes. She glanced
sharply at him. "What is that. sah?" she demand-
"It is a clerk in de Government service," said


Mr. Proudleigh. "I wouldn't be surprise ef them
make him Chief Collectorate nex' ear, him is so
smart. I hear it is de Governor himself who give
him de job he has gotted," he added mysteriously.
"Perhaps him is de Governor son outside, of
S "Please don't talk stupidness to me, papa," per-
emptorily commanded Susan; "the Governor only
bin here two years."
I "Not dis Governor I mean," promptly counter-
ed her father.
"Tcha!" Susan angrily exclaimed. "This young
man you speak of : I suppose he know Louise?"
"I introduced dem," calmly announced Mr.
Proudleigh, though inwardly he felt the reverse of
"Or she introduced you." commented Susan
sarcastically. "I know you, you know. papee. When
it suit you, you will say anything."
"An' I know you, too." cried in a high. cracked
voice the old man, who with questioning and feur
was being driven desperate. "You can't form any-
thing wid me, Sue, let me tell y'u. When y'u was
livin' wid Mr. Jones. an', before dat. wid-"
"My God!" exclaimed Susan. "Is this what I
get for all I do for this ungrateful old man? I
believe he would abuse me before me own daugh-
ter's face if she was here-he is so lost to shame.
Well, I can tell you, sah, that that friend of yours
is not entering me house tonight or any other night:
I will order him straight out if he come. an' if you
don't take care you will go with him too."
"Sue, Sue," murmured Samuel Josiah propi-
"Don't you 'Sue, Sue,' me, Sam," cried Susan
furiously. "Don't you do it! I wonder you can
sit there while me own father trace me about what
I had to do when I was young so that he could have
a bread, which he never earn for himself. He's
lying about this man he want to bring to me house,
and Louise is in the plot too. Wait till she come
in! I'm going to give her hell!"
Alarm awoke in the breast of Samuel Josiah.
He knew that Susan was capable of keeping her
word. Something must be done, or rather, said, at
once. He rose to his feet.
"This has gone far enough," he called out per-
emptorily, striving.to make his voice firm. "I see
no reason for these demonstrations of acrimonious
acrimony. You' father say a young man in good
position is coming here to see him this evening.
You an' I believe that the young man is coming' to
see Louise who he met with you' father somewhere.
But the fact that he want to come here, in the light
-of the sun, instead of going' round the corner and
meeting Louise where we don't know she is tem-
porarily domiciled at, and in a state of imminent
seclusion, offers a reason for us to believe that he
is acting openly an' like a gentleman. What more
can we want? That Louise should meet him in
ominous and obsolete privacy? Let him come, I
say, and let us see him. Let us look upon him in-
dependently. We can thereby draw our own con-
clusions and conclude therefrom upon a peremptory
course of action."
Susan heard, and, with her usual quickness of
mind, grasped that there was sense in what her hus-
band said. This Mr. Mortlake. however he had
made the acquaintance of her father and Louise,
seemed to have nothing to hide. and wanted to hide
nothing. And Louise was seventeen now. had been
working for nearly a year, and was hardly the sort
of girl who could be kept too tautly in leading
strings. Girls were married at seventeen; if Louise
wanted to be, she had better be allowed. Other-
wise worse might happen.
"Very well, Sam," answered Susan after a mo-
ment or two. "have it your own way. But I don't
feel that papee have acted straight and above
"He never has," agreed MIr. Jones.
Mr. Proudleigh decided to let the insult pass
without comment. There was a great deal of truth
in it.
Mr. Mortlake came to the house and was duly
received and inspected; on the whole he was thought
to be not so bad a piece of goods though given to
boasting. Samuel did not like this: if there was
any boasting to be done and there seemed to be
quite a lot-Samuel felt that it all ought to be left
to him: he could boast from morning till night, and
then some. Susan, on the other hand, did not care
what the young man said so long as he meant stern
business where Louise was concerned, and so long
as he earned sufficient money to make the business
a going concern. She gathered that he was twenty-i
six years of age, was a clerk in the Government's
employment, and had a salary of two hundred
pounds a year. That was surely enough for two
young people to start married life upon. especially
(she reflected) as a man in Government service was
certain to rise in the salary scale, provided he did
not make a nuisance of himself by wanting to work
too hard.
Mr. Proudleigh was proud of his guest From
thinking but little of Mr. Mortlake. he had now
come to hold him in the highest estimation, and
the reason was simple. Mortlake was in the habit

of treating Mr. Proudleigh on occasions to sundry
luxuries in the way of eats and drinks when they
met, and so, had established with the old man a
reputation for such generosity as one did not easily
find in these decadent days. Then, but for Mr.
Proudleigh, Mr. Mortlake could not have penetrated
the sacred precincts of the House of Jones, and as
we all tend to like those to whom we have been
of service, Mr. Proudleigh was now liking Mr. Mort-
lake immensely: even to the point of monopollsing
him on his first visit to the family. Mr. Proudleigh,
in fact, to the indignation of Louise and the misery
of Mr. Mortlake, settled himself after the first halt-
hour of the young man's appearance to relate to
him the wonderful story of Mr. Proudleigh's early
life. That life seemed to have no beginning, and
apparently would never end. But no one could vell
interrupt a narrative containing such thrilling de-
tails as how Mr. Proudleigh had once drunk kero-
sene oil in mistake for liquor, an incident that stood
out in the old gentleman's memory with greater
vividness than the whole of the First World War.
But this was the only time that Mr. Proudleigh
was given a chance to display his unequalled pow-
ers of monologue. Mlortlake came to the house the
very night after and was taken possession of by
Louise who had plainly told her grandfather that
her boy-friend was not coming round to waste his
time listening to any "damn old man foolishness."
Shocked and reduced to misery by this evidence
of youthful ingratitude. Mr. Proudleigh neverthe-
less speedily recovered on finding that Louise w.as
still thoughtful in the way of small supplies of ani-
sou and seemed much disposed to continue to re-
gard him as a friend and benefactor. He had to
admit in his soul that she was singular in this re-
The friendship between the young man and the
girl ripened; in a week he had asked her to go to
the pictures, and when AMr. Proudlelgh instantly
said "yes," imagining that he was included in the
invitation. Mortlake made it known that he was
taking Louise alone. The invitation had not been
extended in the presence of Samuel. but Susan was
in the sitting room when it was. She hurried ou:-
side to consult her husband.
'You think it is safe to let Louise go out with
him alone. Sam?" asked Susan in a troubled tone of
"We can't say no all the time," Sam pointed
out, "so what is the use of saying no now?"
"True, but they are not engaged, and ."
"I understand," said Samuel; "young people
are not like they were when we were young," though
he would have been much put to it to demonstrate
the superiority of an elder over the present genera-
tion "They have no reticence," he continued, "no
ratiocination"--a word he had but recently picked
up. "They are not like us."
"So we must raise no objection?" observed the
practical Susan, sticking to the point.
"Not at present, for he may ask us for Louise
in a month or so; if he doesn't, that will be suffi-
cient time to assume moral rectitude and kick him
So the young people went off to the pictures by
themselves that night, and on many subsequent
nights they did likewise. The general understand-
ing was that they were about to become engaged,
and Mr. Proudleigh even spoke in the presence of
comparative strangers of "my prospectuous grand-
son-in-law." He talked about weddings. According
to him, in the days of his youth hardly a week pass-
ed when he was not a best-man or a guest of hon-
our at a wedding. That was, of course, when he
wasn't being married himself.
"Grandpa."'said Louise to him one afternoon,
"I want to speak to you." I
This was about three months after she had
been going out with AIr. Mortlake. It had been
noticed of late that often, although the place she
worked at closed at four in the afternoons, she did
not come home until six, while on the Wednesdays.
when shops and stores gave a half-holiday, she still
was absent until a late hour of the afternoon from
the paternal roof. But though she had been ques-
tioned about this at first, her father and even her
mother now feared to repeat the inquisition. For
Louise would openly lose her temper and would re-
mind them that she was working and about to be-
come engaged, and was not prepared to stand too
much nonsense.
"Did you hear me grandpa'" she asked, as the
old man did not immediately reply.
"Wat it is, me dear?" said Mr. Proudleigh.
"I 'member when I w.'as a young man a gal say
dose very same words to me. but I didn't answer'.
I knows before han" wat she wasgoin' to say, an'
I didn't want to hear it. In fact. to tell you de
trute. I had two young ladies at de time. an' money
was not plentiful: so all I did was--
'I want to speak to you." repeated Louise firm-
ly. who had no sort of desire to hear of the im-
proper incidents of her grandfather's youth He
seemed to be getting in his dotage now: he would
talk even to her of things that should not be men-
tioned! This was outrageous. Besides, it lacked

the respect which the old should show to the young,
and especially to their descendants.
"Yes?" ejaculated Mr. Proudleigh Hu- had
learnt that when Louise adopted that tone of voice
she meant business.
"Morty don't propose to me yet, grandpa;
though he's been coming here over three months."
"Well, dat doant meant he won'ts propose to
y'u," Mr. Proudleigh pointed out. "Me first chile
by you' grandmother, which is in heaven, singin' all
day long, dough she never did 'ave any good vice.
-what was I saying? "
"Never mind that: I want you to speak to Morty
for me."
"About wat. Louise?" asked Mr. Proudleigh,
whose knees suddenly developed a tendency to
buckle under. He felt at once that some terrible
responsibility was about to be laid upon him.
"Tell him he should propose to me at o',ce."
"But y'u can't tell a young man dat!" exclaimed
Mr. Proudleigh; "besides, it is you' farder to do it,
not me. I is only a pore ole man."
"But it was you who bring us together," in-
sisted Louise quite untruthfully, "an' you know what
sort of man me father is: he will only blame me
and talk a lot and do nothing at all."
Mr. Proudleigh heartily agreed with this sum-
mary of Samuel's character. But that was no help
to him. "What about you' mother?" he asked un-
"You know my mother," was all Louise's ans-
But it was enough. Mr. Proudleigh grew more
and more afraid of his daughter every day, and
he not unnaturally believed that Louise was much
afraid of her also. Which was not true, but Louise
wanted him to believe that. "What y'u want me
to talk to Mr. Mortlake about?" he enquired feeb-
'Tell him he must propose to me," explained
Louise. "Tell him he must become engaged to me
at once. Tell him, if he refuse, that you will speak
to his chief about it and that the Government may
discharge him. Tell him I will get into trouble
unless he becomes engaged to me."
"Trouble!" That word smote on Mr. Proud-
leigh's ear like a knell of doom. "Trouble!" and
her father and mother would say that he was the
indirect cause of it. "'Trouble;" and Louise was
after all a young lady, and therefore superior in
social position to what Susan, his own daughter, had
been when she was between seventeen and eighteen
years of age. The old man was dazed. -'How can
I speak to him?" he muttered; "where is I to meet
"Go down to his office just before four o'clock,"
advised Louise briskly "and catch him just \hen
he's leaving work. Then take him aside an' talk
to him. Remember what I say about complaining
to his chief if he won't act right. And you mustn't
fail, grandpa, or you and I will get into any amount
of trouble."
She quickly left the old man, with the word
"trouble" ringing in his ears.
Having thus received his instructions, Mr.
Proudleigh proceeded to act upon them the very
next day. He carefully attired himself in his hot
Sunday clothes, which made him feel more than
usually miserable, and which evoked from Susan
the not unnatural enquiry as to why he was thus
dressed and where was he going to.
At first he thought he would say that he had
to attend a funeral: unfortunately, no one that he
knew was then dead. So he fell back upon the
necessity he felt for taking a walk, and he put the
matter thus : "I finds, Sue. dat walking is good fo'
rheumatism, an' I couldn't go hout in me common
clothes: dat would be a disgrace to you. An' nobody
can ever say I disgrace me familyy"
Susan shrugged: after all. her father was get-
ting very old. And old people did a lot of things
for which they could give no good reason.
Mr. Proudleigh waited half-an-hour before Mr.
Mortlake left his office, and then he slowly bore
down in that young gentleman's direction as lie
emerged upon the street. Mortlake saw him but
greeted him morosely. "How's Louise?" he enquir-
ed. "I haven't seen her these two days."
"I wants to speak to you about Louise. Mr.
Mortlake." said Mr. Proudleigh impressively. "I
am 'er grandfather."
"Yes; that's so."
"An' she's a nice gal.'
"Hear, hear"
"She's educated an' I hear dat when she was
at school she lar something them call calisthenics
-it must be a new language," suggested the old man
"It isn't; but-"
"Then when y'u goin' to get engage to Louise?"
demanded Mlr. Proudleigh, suddenly blurting out
what was in his mind.
The question was startling. For it Mr. Mort-
lake had been entirely unprepared. This seemed
like an invasion upon his liberty. "What is that
to you?" he hotly demanded.
(Continued on Page ;?2)







l T was still the same old street, yet strangely
a. changed.
:: The stranger walked the length of it slowly,
onking to right and left of him; he had not seen
tt.for some titty years. But he had gone instinct-
Avehy to visit it again after an absence-from King-
n so long that he had almost lost his way after
sliding that morning from the ship and attempting
Steer himself about by landmarks which were
fferent from those once so familiar.
In the lower section of the city were build-
ngs entirely different from those to which he had
een accustomed in his youth; the whole city seem-
Icd to have altered its previous appearance. Elec-
:trically-run tramways had taken the place of the
old mule-trams; there were motor cars everywhere.
The streets were thronged with people; but at once
le noticed that in none of them walked women
with trays on their heads piled high with goods;
aese preceded by other women evidently in charge
these goods-in his day they were called drogh-
14r women and went about selling various textiles
Wadhaberdashery to those who did not find it con-
seaent to go dowv.n to the shops, large or small, to
|jke their purchases. The surface of the thorough-
H too, was asphalted, whereas in his youth
Swas much if some few of them were paved with
st, friable limestone that powdered easily and
then became dust which when the wind blew, was
a stifling cloud that wreathed everything round in
,= shroud of greyish-white.
All was changed, as he very soon realized; and
'he too was changed past all recognition; no one
possibly know him now. But still he want-
lto see the street in which, as a boy, he had
ved for some impressionable years. He knew its
tion, its name: by asking policemen and others
pe found it at last: and when he came to it he re-
cognised it at once, though it was no longer as he
known it in his youth.
It was but a section of a lengthier thoroughfare,
tbe recalled that in days gone by it had seemed
tohim a thoroughfare in itself, with an independ-
pet individuality, with a connected life of its own.
i guessed that now there was not a single man
woman there who remembered what it had been,
had known the people living there: none ex-
thimself, and he felt lonely. The people about
d casually at him, knew him for a stranger,
him for a foreigner: he was a white man and
American" was written large all over him. Yet
Shad been born in this country, and for the street
which he had once lived he had experienced
kind of nostalgia now and then in the land which
now his home. Perhaps it was the memories
this street that had drawn him back to Jamaica,
O the first and last time in his life.
One thing came to him forcibly now. While
te was no mistaking his street (as he thought
it) in spite of the changes he noticed at a glance,
mythings in it seemed much smaller than they had
uoomed in his mind. He had exaggerated their size
well as their importance when a boy. Yet he
now, in some sort of way, as though they had
l become part of himself. He was a stranger
yet strangely at home.
p The street as he had known it in the past was
aded on the south by a long thoroughfare run-
from east to west; to the north it stretched
i:less than a quarter of a mile, and then became
vad that extended between waste land in which
densely shrubs and trees, and yet more trees;
not cut into blocks and sections by cross-streets
forming one long extension. It was covered
buildings now: no longer could one 'wander
it as in a sort of forest. Even in the street
properly so called, he remembered that in
youth there had been a "penn"; now he per-
it had completely disappeared. The site of
was at present occupied by a large electric power-
and the offices of a company that supplied
c light and power to the city. The street-
Street-had become somewhat industrialized.
how he resented this. He wished it had re-
as it had been in his youth, untouched by
influence of time and progress.
The penn had been owned by an English offi-
|iM who was regarded by the other people in this
et 'almost a. one fit the greatest men in the
d, certainly as one of the greatest men in King-
and who was credited with being fabulously
SHis salary was exactly six hundred pounds
annum. but in those days a pound was of far
Upter purchasing value than at the beginning of

L 1 ,



1940; of even greater value, indeed, than it had
been at the century's beginning. This gentle-
man was married, had two sons and a daugh-
ter, and these were taught at home by a
private governess. Father walked it down to
work every morning; walked about a mile wear-
ing a black morning coat and black homberg;
the family also walked in the forenoon, although
the mule-tram passed their gate at stated intervals.
They did not keep a buggy. Some of the neigh-
bours attributed this to meanness, others to a kind-
ly condescension; none could believe that such peo-
ple would walk because they felt they could not
afford a buggy and a pair of horses. Surely they
could afford chariots had they been inclined to
such means of conveyance. Chariots of fire and
the horses thereof if they wished.
In the afternoons this family travelled in
the trams drawn strenuously by mules, and when
they passed within the gates of their penn it was
as though the feudal lords of the district had en-
tered their mysterious castle. For few indeed were
the inhabitants of the street who ever went with-
in those iron portals. Wherefore stories of the
grandeur of the house in the inner grounds grew
up and were believed, and the servants employed
in it were careful (for the sake of their own im-
portance) that this legend of grandeur should al-
ways be maintained.
When the feudal lord took his way officeward
in the morning the stranger now remembered
that, rain and shine, he invariably carried a tightly
furled umbrella the passers-by or loiterers who
lived in the street, and therefore regarded this po-
tent person as in some sort of way one of their
most cherished possessions, always accosted him
with a bow and murmured a "good-morning, sir."
And invariably a courteous "good-morning" or a
bow was instantly returned. They did not venture,
however, to speak to the lady of the penn or cas-
tle; she was rather grim-looking and had the re-
putation (perhaps entirely undeserved) of being a
very formidable personage indeed. But if they
feared her, they also had for her a most profound
respect; she was as one set above the run of com-
mon humanity and to be looked upon and treated
accordingly. She knew, too, something about the
awe in which she was held in the street in which
she lived. It was not displeasing to her soul.
Then she died. The stranger recalled how
her sickness was regarded in the little street, and
how the news of her death. It was as though a
terrible calamity had fallen on the world. When
the funeral cortege passed down the thoroughfare,
both sides of it were lined with genuinely sympa-
thetic people; everyone who could be there was
present, some of them with tears in their eyes. A
few years later news from a friend reached the
stranger, who had since left for the United States;
he then heard something about a second marriage
of the lord of the penn, then of his death, then of
the departure of the family from Jamaica. All
went, everyone: their very name was now not
a memory. Yet when they lived in this street it
was though they endowed it with a peculiar and
enduring glory. Who would have thought that they
could have become so entirely forgotten?
As the stranger continued wandering up and
down the street, some persons loitering about be-
gan to stare at him : what was he looking fos, why
did he act so queerly? One or two asked him if
there was any place he wished to find, and offered
to help him.
"What yoi want to find, sir?"
"Can I direct you anywhere, father"
"You looking for anything?"
These and other enquiries were directed at him;
he noticed that some of the younger folk did not
say "sir," that others were distinctly familiar, as
witness the appellation "father." There was not,
evidently, as much deference shown now to people
like him as there had been of yore. Or so he
thought. He sighed as he reflected that those days
were dead, as indeed he himself would be in the
not distant future-perhaps five, perhaps ten years
hence. One never knew.
To all these questions he had the same reply,
which he courteously gave. He was "only looking,"
he said, so they concluded that he was a peculiar
kind of tourist, for they themselves found nothing
to look at particularly in the street in which they
lived. But he was searching for a house he had

known in the past, and which now seemed to have
given place to a shop. He remembered very clearly
the people of that house.
They were a married couple with a single
child, a girl. They were fair in complexion, though
not white; he thought that the head of the house
kept a small haberdashery shop somewhere lower
down in the town; he used to think of the couple as
quite old, but he saw now that that had been
because he himself was but a boy of fifteen. They
bore the reputation of being exclusive and grandly
proud. They had a few acquaintances in the street,
but no friends whatever, so far as he recalled; and
the little girl must mix with no one in the imme-
diate locality. The people of the penn they did
not know, of course; the people of the penn were
high above them. But perhaps they patterned
themselves upon what they conceived to be those
people's attitude towards all men and things, and
kept at arm's length all whom they did not choose
to consider as of their own distinguished social sta-
tus. On the little girl's birthdays they gave a party
to her school friends, a small party which must
have been the quintessence of boredom. The low-
er orders of the people of the street would then as-
semble outside to watch the progress of affairs,
though there never was really any progress, and
at ten o'clock at night the function would be
over and the atmosphere of exclusiveness would
enshroud the house once more. What had become
of these folk? Long dead, no doubt; even the child,
grown up, married perhaps, might be dead and
buried by now. If living, she must be close upon
seventy. If living, she probably never once gave
a thought to the street or to the home of her child-
hood days.
He remembered these folk, for as a boy he had
been much in love with that little girl. She was
about one year his junior; she went to the same
church where he was sent; it was because of her
that, even though he might refuse to go without
dread of punishment, he had sedulously attended
Sunday School, since from his seat in that place of
religious instruction he could see her face dis-
She knew he was always looking at her, and
took advantage of his evident devotion to pretend
that she was unaware of his existence. She never
spoke to him; her parents would have been scan-
dalised if she had and they had known. But in
the afternoons she often sat by the window in her
little house and, when he was passing-which he
very often did-walking slowly and not daring to
throw more than a glance in her direction, she
would sing the words of a song then very popular.
He knew them by heart-
"I'm dying for someone to love me,
I want a young man who can talk."
As she sang she seemed oblivious of his pre-
sence, of his very existence. Nevertheless he guess-
ed that the words were intended for his ear.
She was pretty; it had appeared to him that
she was surpassingly lovely, altogether desirable.
He was always thinking out schemes that would
enable him to speak to her, but these never came
to fruition. He never got to know her. She re-
moved from the street before he did; evidently hab-
erdashery paid, for it had been said in the street
that the family had gone to live in a better and
bigger house in a better and finer neighbourhood,
and for a few weeks he was disconsolate. Then
he himself had left the street and Jamaica, and he
had forgotten all about her. But he remembered
her now as she had been when quite a little girl.
The houses in the street had been inhabited by
people of all classes; the class system was deep-
rooted there as anywhere else in Jamaica. The
stranger himself recollected how his mother he
was her only child had insisted that he should
not mix with this one, make a companion of that
one, be familiar with a third, and so forth. They
themselves were poor but respectable, she had
-often said; and had never failed to remind him
that he was white and that his parents had been
gentlefolk come down in the world through a
mysterious dispensation of Providence. His mo-
ther, who- lived on a trifling pension paid her by
the Government, always pretended to accept the dis-
pensations of Providence meekly, though in a
rebellious tone of voice. She resented her position;
but if he did learn somehow that his father had
died from drink, it was not from her; that fact she
kept as a painful secret to herself. She was
always repeating the adage that "poverty i
not a crime," though she evidently believed thit,
many persons considered that it was. There were
other people in the street who said the same;
prominent amongst these was an elderly female,
Jewish by birth, who was compelled by the lack
of a servant to do her own small shopping. The
stranger recollected how, despite his widowed mo-
ther's efforts to keep him strictly in the path of
social snobbery, he would go everywhere he could,
and mix as much as possible with everyone; he
therefore got to know quite well when this old
lady would repair to a shop in the street, presided
over by a Chinese genius, to make her frugal pur-



'chases. There. as though she were reciting a sol-
'emn religious litany, she would proclaim that "pov-
erty is not a crime" what time she demanded a
salted herring or a microscopic piece of salted fish.
'She stood prepared to argue the matter out, but
'nobody ever contradicted her. In time her pro-
nouncement became a slogan and a vigorous cry of
The black and brown people shopping along
with her were also convinced that poverty was no
crime; were they not themselves poor and could
that be criminal? They endorsed what she said;
in their hearts they were proud that she too was
poor and yet could defy the rich, even though the
rich were not there to hear her. Not that a few
of them, perhaps, would not have preferred a life
of safe. and profitable crime to perennial poverty;
indeed, one of two of them had known the inside
of a jail a miscarriage of justice, they con-
sidered it, for what, after all, had they done?
"Taken" a few empty bottles? Made away with a
couple of bags that nobody really wanted? Should
the police have bothered to notice such trifling
affairs; should owners have troubled about bottles
or bags? But the police were a peculiar people,
much hated and feared, and the police evidently
believed that poverty was a crime, since they seem-
ed suspicious of all very poor people. What a trial,
my God! Still, in and among the goats the police
would surely stand at the last great day of ap-
praisal, while the poor would be classified as sheep,
especially those of them who had been so unjust-
ly and unhappily sent to jail.
Those Chinese shops of a former day, how
different they were from these modern ones. They
were dark and dingy places, the men who served
in them wore only a pair of trousers and a merino
and could hardly make themselves understood in
English. These Chinese were known as John: that
was believed to be the name of the men; the women
were addressed as "Madam," as women from
France or from Hayti would be. They all lived
in little cubicles; it was the current conviction
in the street among the youthful that a Chinese
could sleep comfortably on the end of a stick,
though no one had ever seen this done. They were
cheerful and good-humoured; the smallest coin of
the realm being a farthing, they would subcdivide
any minutely divisible article to sell a larthing's
worth of it. They would smoke opium openly,
there being as yet no law against opium selling or
smoking in Jamaica or, if there was a law, no-
body paid attention to it. So in a little room open-
ing on his shop, and stocked with boxes and bar-

rels of all sizes, your Chinese shopkeeper would
stretch himself upon a narrow plank, with a small
spirit lamp burning a blue flame beside him,
and a long skewer-like object in his hand, and
would carefully toast a small pellet of opium on
the tip of his skewer, transfer it to a pipe when it
was properly cooked, and inhale the smoke to his
heart's content. It did not seem to do him any
harm, and he appeared not to mind in the least
that he was being watched by a few fascinated
children of another race. Indeed, he seemed to
appreciate this much.
Opposite to him, in the street, might be a
native competitor with a somewhat better shop. He
did not smoke opium. But perhaps he loved to
play dominoes or to go horse-riding, and he was
not disposed to sell things for a mere farthing as
the Chinaman usually was. So he too had disap-
peared, and now in the street the stranger saw not
a single native grocery. But the cabinet-makers'
places, and the cloth shops, and the provision shops,
were all run by native Jamaicans as before. In
certain lines of trade they were entrenched.
In his time, the stranger recollected, there had
not been half, a quarter, so many shops as he now
noticed. They had replaced very many of the
"front houses," but the "yards" had by no means
disappeared. These had been situated behind
the little houses of the better sort that usually
fronted the street, and as a. rule they were crowd-
ed with inhabitants. Unless his memory served
him badly, the rent asked for these rooms ranged
from five to ten shillings a month, a room for ten
shillings being quite a respectable and even (in
a manner of speaking) an upper-class affair.
The yards were still there, as he saw. It
seemed to him, as far as he could judge from the
outside, that these .yards were much more crowded,
more built upon with tenements, than in his day;
a larger number of persons lived in them. His
memory recalled some of the tenants that he
had known, some of the scenes he had witnessed.
Probably all of them were now dead, for they
had been adults when he'was still a little boy.
He saw distinctly with his mind's eye a cou-
ple who had occupied a single room in one of these
places; they lived together in uneasy and sometimes
tumultuous alliance, and they had a child, a little
girl, to whom the mother would perpetually sing
while she went about her daily tasks. The song
never varied: curiously enough, he remembered
the words of it, and tune also, across the long

bridge of years connecting the old with the new.
These words were-
'Pon me word Ah wouldn't kiss you
Till you' papa come home;
'Pon me word Ah wouldn't kiss you
Till you' papa come home;
Ah-la-la, ah-la-la,
Ah-la-la, ah-la-la,
The child, being small, wouldd sit in a little soap-
box for hours playing with a rag-doll or with its
toes, and doubtless the singing appeared to it beau-
tiful; but when papa came home he might be-
come displeased with something, and then there
would be a quarrel with the mother, terminating in
a fight. As papa was by profession a drayman and
accustomed to handling mules, he was strong and
vigorous, and it might be thought that his victory
over the feminine enemy would be swift, decisive
and easy. It was not so.
For she Jso was a person of much muscular
development and well given to the defending of
herself. Therefore she usually put up a decent bat-
tle though the odds were against her from the first.
None of the other people in the yard ever
ventured to interfere, though they did not seem
pleased that a man should beat up a woman in the
way that drayman did; it must be said for him,
however, that he never went as far as his strength
would have enabled him to do. and the signing of
an armistice between the two parties, to be
followed by a declaration of peace, usually oc-
curred within a few hours of the fight. The couple,
too, did not separate, but continued to live to-
gether. So perhaps they found this continuous
scrapping congenial.
In another yard, in a somewhat better habita-
tion, lived a man and his wvite of quarrelsome
tendencies also; but these never fought with one
another. They were above the social status of the
drayman and his lady; hence the husband's tech-
nique was different, though it appeared to be ex-
pensive. When provoked by his better half be-
yond endurance-or, as she probably thought, when
he had provoked her beyond human endurance-
he would embark upon a campaign of smashing
things. Her pride was in her crockery and glass-
ware, which in normal times would be set forth on
tables in her room for all the world to see. Ignor-
ing her person, he would make a flying attack upon
the crockery or the glasses, conveying several arti-

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Produced Iin Jamaica by
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cles -tut. outdoors at the same time and violently
smashing them one by one against the short flight
of brick:.steps that led into their room. The wo-
mqn's: voice would. be raised in denunciation of
such an outrag, and waste; the neighbours in that
and tJe adjoining yards would rush to the scene of
action and watch aghast such a wanton piece of
extravagance, for they knew that later on he would
have to replace the goods he now destroyed. One
old woman, tall, dignified, severe of appearance,
fearless in demeanour, would loudly rebuke him;
invariably she would shout at him, "Oh,. fie,' Mr.
Brown; Oh, fie!" She seemed never to vary her
verbal formula; she evidently considered it crush-
ing. But Mr. Brown, as was to be expected, never
"fied," but went on with breaking and smashing
until there was nothing left to be destroyed. It
must have been once every three months or so that
he indulged in this method of preventing the sun
from going down upon his wrath. This must have
cost him a pretty penny, but he was never heard
to repine.
The dignified old woman mentioned (it came
to the stranger's mind) had the reputation of being
an obeahwoman, or witch, albeit a stalwart mem-
ber of a nonconformist church. and was dreaded
and maligned in consequence. He recalled her'
clearly. It seemed to him that she herself had never
been a witch or an obeahwoman, though much
given to wasting her substance in consult-
ing the highpriests of obeahism. Strongly was she
convinced that ghosts could be "put on" people by
enemies or the envious, and she was satisfied
that she had many foes. Every little spell of sick-
ness was obviously due to the machinations of
these; serious illnesses could only be countered by
the aid of other ghosls. or. at least, by enlisting
the services of a skilled obeahman to take away the
ghost that had been put upon one, and that was an
expensive business. She had owned some property,
but as she grew older she could not attend to it
properly, another proof that evil men and wo-
men were endeavouring to impair her efficiency.
So she gradually sold what she possessed, until at
last she was reduced to nothing. To nothing, for
even her mattress went for a few shillings when
she had to find some more money to pay the rapa-
cious creatures that were preying upon her. The
stranger had now forgotten whether she died
in the Almshouse or in her own little room; but
he knew she had died from poverty and her belief
in obeah. He sighed as he thought of this. For
the woman had been kind to him, had always treat-
ed him respectfully, as one of the superior caste:
had liked him. Her steady decline had been a tra-
gedy. There had been other tragedies in that
Indeed, many persons who lived in the street
had believed in obeah; that seemed natural to
them; they would have been surprised to learn that
any of their class and order, or even of a somewhat
better class, were sceptical about what was incon-
trovertible to them. There had once been three
deaths coming quickly after each other in that par-
ticular part of Kingston. A doctor said something
about typhoid fever, but though fever may have
been the outward manifestation of "wickedness,"
the people knew that behind this fever were the
workings of malicious souls. The third victim
was a young man of education and promise who
had occupied a minor position in a Government of-
fice. He was liked, was well regarded; he lived
in a nice little front house with his mother; he was
almost one of the gentlemen of the neighbourhood.
It is true that before his house ran an open un-
paved gutter which sometimes stank, that the
sanitary arrangements in every yard were primi-
tive, that the death-rate among the yinC ".:as high.
But no one gave a thought to all this asa contribu-
tory cause of illness; one who liad reached
manhood's estate might surely expect to endure
to old age-unless! Yes: it was clear that he had
been envied, and so had been cut off ; and Mrs. G.
to the south gave vent to dolorous sighs as she ex-
claimed repeatedly that "funny things happening
now," and Miss K. was certain that she had seen,
a month before, a dark shadow entering the house
in which that young man lived. She may have
seen something that threw a shadow, but she fixed
her mind upon the shadow and. regarded it with
superstitious awe, denying emphatically that it
could have been connected with any corporeal sub-
stance. Everybody heard the story, and for a
month after the funeral folk went about whisper,
ing, solemnly shaking their heads, and wondering
when the next blow would fall. They lived on
earth, but the spirits of evil were never far away.
In a few of the houses in the upper section of
the street there were no tenement yards. There
were rooms for servants, but none "to rent." The
persons residing in these places were nearly gentle-
folk; that is to say, they did not rank with the peo-
ple of the penn yet stood immeasurably above
those who were considered and who consider-
ed themselves the lower orders, and were content
with their position. The girls in one or two of
these better-class houses went to concerts and gave
dances occasionally, and, of course, were all at-
tached to some church. Now and then there was
a marriage; quite a gay affair with flowers, car-

riages and speeches; and before the marriage there
naturally was a period of courting. The young
male visitors at any of these houses would arrive
at about. seven in the evening, an hour or so after
dinner. They would be described by those who
saw them as "dressed to the nines," though no one
ever had been heard to explain what exactly was
"the nines" or how anyone could be dressed to
them. These young men would sometimes sing-
singing was very popular then-and the music
would be afforded by a piano, for all girls of this
class knew more or less (and perhaps rather less
than more) how to play the piano. The young men
would alsp talk in impressive tones of voice about
things of which they knew nothing, and often the
lads and lasses would repair in couples to verandahs
to make love, and subsequently a marriage would
be arranged,
Were any of these people living still?
It was now. drawing towards five o'clock; the
stranger knew that he must presently find hisway
back to the ship; he was but a bird of passage;
he was here today, he would be gone by nightfall.
Suddenly he felt old. He felt very old and tired.
He had a few minutes to spare, and a step stood
invitingly upon a raised sidewalk; upon this step
he could sit and rest a little while. He had been
walking up and down for over two hours; what with

the exertion and the heat, he felt a trifle faint. To
think, he mused vaguely, as he seated himself, that
he had lived in this neighbourhood for five years
and should have come back to it, if only for an
hour or two; to think too that he should have re-
membered so much; to think .... He did not hear
the ship's sharp whistle calling to passengers who
might be still ashore, warning them that they
must return at once. He had closed his eyes,
fallen asleep from sheer weariness; after all he was
seventy. He must have been on that step, his head
bent downwards, for about an hour, when a man
touched him on the shoulder; but this he never
knew. The man called out in a frightened voice,
other persons came hurrying up. They summoned
the police, they took the body to the public hospi-
tal; from there it went to the mortuary and it was
buried the next day. The stranger had died of
heart failure.
There was quite sufficient money on him to pay
the expenses of a decent funeral, but hardly any-
one attended as a mourner. No one knew him. He
was a tourist who had succumbed to the heat, the
newspapers said: a man with a weak heart who had
passed away painlessly. Regret was expressed that
he should have died so far away from his home. It
occurred to none whatever that he had really re-
turned home to die.


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(Continued from Page 6)
hated that lady, and, if she could, would have im-
plemented her hatred with murder.
With Mr. and Mrs. Buxton was.sitting this
morning a girl who had come over from a neigh-
bouring estate, Plimsole, to spend a few days with
them. She was the daughter of the head carpen-
ter of Plimsole, lived but two miles away as the
road went, was now nearly twenty years of age,
and undeniably pretty. Josephine had actually been
twice engaged, but both her intended had very
quickly broken off the engagement. For her
temper was fiery, and she had shown it only too
plainly to men who shuddered with horror at the
thought of having to live until death with such a
bitter-tongued woman.
That had been a lesson to her. Latterly she
had endeavoured to keep her temper more in check
when dealing with persons of her own colour.
"Mr. Huntingdon is handsome," she now broke
into the conversation; "I have seen him twice since
I have been here; twice yesterday." She spoke
with the drawl of the poorly educated Jamaica


white woman of the middle class. Her complex-
ion had not been affected by the sun, and her long
golden hair and keen blue eyes bespoke her Nor-
dic inheritance. There was, however, something
rather common about her. Her look and gestures
proclaimed her plebeian origin and the tendencies
of her disposition.
"And he didn't even give you a glance, I am
sure," commented Mrs. Buxton wrathfully, "he has
eyes only for his nigger gal."
"Oh, I don't know. Perhaps he did."
"Well, he wouldn't marry anyone in our sta-
tion," murmured Mr. Buxton, "so there's no use
your thinking of him, Jose. We don't count in his
"He's taught this nigger gal of his to talk like
himself," said Mrs. Buxton, "instead of like a nig-
ger. You should hear her clipping up! Yet, when
she came here, she could only talk some damn Afri-
can language. I never see anything like this be-
"She don't mix with the other slaves?" asked
Josephine incredulously. "What she think she
"A lady, I suppose; a black lady," replied Mrs.
Buxton with heavy sarcasm. "She actually wear
shoes, like white people! It's a joke!"




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SMr. Buxton rose to go, his "second breakfast"
over. He agreed with all his wife had said, but
it was not wise for an overseer to indulge in or
to listen to much caustic criticism of his employer
or of his employer's favourites. Chance remarks
had a way of coming to ears for which they had
not been intended.
The two women, left alone, continued their
conversation. They spoke confidentially.
"I couldn't expect him to marry me," said Jo-
sephine, in a low reflective tone of voice, as though
she were thinking out something, "but I would like
to take him away from that black slave girl."
"I wish you could, Jose," eagerly agreed Mrs.
Buxton; "but you can't. He is too wrapped up
with her. Besides, you couldn't be his 'housekeep-
er' here. You are white, and you must either marry,
or remain an old maid, or-" The lady paused, not
knowing whether or not she should be more ex-
"Well, with a man like Huntingdon, wouldn't
that be better than marrying some man who don't
have much?" enquired Josephine quietly. "So
long." she added, "as it wasn't too open?"
Mrs. Buxlon's eyes gleamed. "You could live
in Mlontego Bay. if you hked," she commented,
and he could come there at night time to see you.
It isn't far. But you would have to get him first,
and you would have to make him give up this girl.
I don't see how you're going to do that."
"He would do it if he loved me," answered
Josephine confidently, "an' he can't possibly love a
nigger. She is only a convenience."
"But how you going to meet him?" enquired
Mrs. Buxton, fired now with the idea of seeing
Psyche driven to take her place as an ordinary
slave on the estate and subject to her orders.
"He wouldn't come here if I asked him; an' I
wouldn't fit to ask him. And that black imp of
hell would know."
'"He was riding by the river when I was going
to bathe yesterday," said Josephine suddenly. "He
often go that way?"
"Everyday, at about half-past twelve o'clock,
when he going to the Great House."
"Then I am going there now," said Josephine
with decision. She sprang up and hurried off for
a towel without saying another word. Mrs. Bux-
ton eyed her doubtfully, wondering what was in
her mind. Whatever it was, thought the lady, it
was bound to fail. Mr. Huntingdon had eyes for
none except "his nigger gal."
There- was a riding path by the river, which
was screened in some places by rows of trees grow-
ing on its banks. Behind some of these trees, and
at a spot below where water for drinking purposes
was baled out of the flowing stream, the white peo-
ple on the estate sometimes bathed; should any-
one pass by, it was easy enough for the bather to
hide his or her body for a while; for this reason,
perhaps, the trees were never disturbed.
Josephine now hurried to this spot, which was
but about a furlong from Mr. Buxton's house. She
disrobed entirely, than slipped silently into the
water at its deepest part thereabouts. Her plan
was simple, even primitive. She had not long to
wait before the sound of a horse's hooves on the
river bank came to her ears; the rider could sure-
(Continued on Page 16)

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(Continued ft-om Page 14)
ly be none else than Mr. Huntingdon. When he
was almost abreast of her, she commenced to
scream. Naturally; he pulled in his horse, sprang
off; and hurried to the river's edge. In front of
him was a white girl, half submerged, who yelled
out that she was drowning and seemed to be strug-
gling to extricate herself from .somethin~."she was
not looking in his direction. He didn't see how

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she could possibly be in danger, as the river was
nowhere so deep that one could not stand upright
in it with one's chest well above its surface: it ran.
besides, with but ordinary velocity. This woman
was evidently a stranger, and apparently had given
way to unnecessary fright. But he must reassure
her. She was quite obviously white, and it would
never do for any male slave, hearing her voice,
to come upon her all unclothed as she now was.
"You are all right," he called out to her, "you
can easily walk to the bank."
"Oh," she gasped, "I didn't know. It is deep
here, and my foot has caught in some rushes or
something." Which was true in a way, as she had
deliberately wound her foot among the tall rushes
that grew here and there in the river bed."
"You are only frightened," he replied. "Pull
cut your foot and wade ashore."
She obeyed instantly, and, seemingly because
she was still frightened, made no ado about his
seeing her all nude. He held out his hand to her
and she clamoured up the bank. Then she sank
down as though she were exhausted, while he walk -
ed to where her clothes lay and brought them to
She hastily covered her body, as if for the
first time aware that she was naked. "Thank you,"
she drawled, "I' might have drowned if you hadn't
come along."
"Not a chance," he assured her. "You haven't
bathed here before, have you?"
"No, sir; I came to stay with Mrs. Buxton only
yesterday. I am Josephine Brookfield' from Plim-
"Well, tell Mrs. Buxton from me that, when
next a pretty girl comes to stay with her, she
should tell her about this place. If you are all
right now, I'll be going, Josephine."
"Couldn't you stop a minute behind those trees,
Mr. Huntingdon, till I get dressed, and then show
me the way to Mr. Buxton's house?"
"But surely you must know it Why .
"Then you can't stay even a minute or two?"
"Well, certainly, if that will help you. You
say you are from Plimsole, don't you?" "
"Yes, sir'-she had almost said "Massa," but
caught herself up just in time. She must not talk
to him as she so often did at home.
She knew that she was excellently formed.
that no one in that parish had shoulders and breasts
which were more beautiful than hers. And if there
was already a certain hardness about her face, he
did not notice it, nor had he observed that her hair;

the road to success.

in spite of her pretended fight, had not been
touched by water or been in any way disturbed.
Her full lips .were smiling at him, even as she
fingered her dress as though to conceal her nudity.
Then he turned his back and walked away, and in
a few minutes she was clothed and calling out to
him. The first part of her plan had succeeded.
They walked together to Buxton's house, the
horse following behind. "Won't you come in an'
have a drink, sir?" she asked, smiling brightly at
him. He hesitated a moment, then accepted her
inflation. Mrs. Buxton, all curtsies, was thuud-
erstruck to see him in her house. This was the
first time he had crossed its threshold. She won-
dered how this miracle had been accomplished by
He took a glass of wine, then held out his hand
to say goodbye.
"Till we meet aain?"" the girl enquired.
"But you're leaving here to-morrow, aren't
you? I seem to have heard so. Someone told
me, I remember now, that you were coming here
for a day or two." He did not mention that his
informant had been Psyche; but Mrs. Buxton and
Josephine guessed it.
"Yes, but I live at Plimsole, only two miles
away," replied the younger woman. "Of course
:ny lather s15 only a carpenter, but I would like to
see you again." She beseeched him with her eyes.
Too much modesty, or pretence at such, would not
suit her purpose now.
"Well, some time I may drop over at Plimsole,"
he promised: "though I don't leave Hope Vale
"I'm giving a party this week," she said-that
was her determination of the moment-"to a few.
Of course, my friends are all ordinary people, and
you are a big buckra; but as you are not married
that shouldn't matter. Will you come?"
"When is this party?"
"Saturday night."
"Very well, I'll be there, Josephine. Thank
you for your invitation."
He went then, and did not notice that the ser-
vant who had' brought in the wine had been care-
fully listening to his conversation. Nor would he
have thought anything of it had he done so. Cer-
tainly Mrs. Buxton did not, nor Josephine, what
had they to hide from a slave? But the girl told
someone else all she had heard, and this included
Jose's recital to Mrs. Buxton as to how Mr. Hun-
tingdon had come upon her naked in the river.
And that evening Psyche was told the whole tale.
(Continued on Page 20)





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THE shrill singing of the mosquitoes in my ear
aroused in me a feeling of hatred. Big, heavy,
winged insects, they sang and stung as though my
body were theirs and 3ll they had to do was to feast
at leisure on my blood. Flit seemed powerless to
slay them, citronella kept them at bay only so long
as the acrid smell endured; one might go to sleep
bathed in citronella but a few hours afterwards one
would awaken with the feeling of fire in one's fin-
gers, on one's nose, about one's feet-everywhere.
And then one knew that the mosquitoes were at
work again and triumphing in their apparent im-
munity from punishment.
Nor was this triumph only a matter of their
imagination. They had achieved success. Driven
from the field of battle (to use military metaphors
in time of war) they had rallied some hours later
and then returned in mass formation to sting and
sing You might chase them in an effort to kill
them-the proper word is "annihilate." But to
kill means to catch, and everyone who has attempt-
ed to kill mosquitoes knows how illusive the little
wretches are. One is singing in your ear. You
launch in that direction a tremendous blow, almost
breaking your skull. You have nearly injured your-
self. but have you injured Mr. Mosquito? Eviden:-
ly not, for a moment after you hear his paean of
joy. as he darts here and there, always escaping
your desperate efforts to hit him, always just dodg-
ing out of the reach of your hand, always defying
you with an impudence which is maddening. Now
and then, it is true, you slay one of them and feel
as proud of it as though you had driven back a
whole army of Germans, but for one mosquito
thus slain there are always nine others to survive.
Now, what is the use of these creatures? Why were
they created?
Take, again, jiggers. People in Kingston have
but a slight acquaintance, if any, with jiggers. The
jigger is a country gentleman for the most part;
that is, you find jiggers amidst rural surroundings
and in small towns, rarely in cities with asphalted
streets, motor cars and other evidences of a high
state of urbanization. Now and then, of course, one
does hear of a city-dweller having found a jigger
in his toe. But that is so extraordinary that it is
matter for comment in the family and among friends
and acquaintances: the problem is always, where
did that man get the jigger, or how did the jigger
manage to arrive in Kingston? She-for it seems
that only the female jigger tries to find a home
from home in the toe of a human being--he must
have been brought to Kingston in a truck. or per-
haps a servant has conveyed her, or something like
that. Anyhow the jigger is not usually an inhabit-
ant of a city; it is in the country that iiggers live
and flourish, and seek a restful residence in the
toes of high and low alike.
What are the uses of jiggers? Why were they
But I have said that it is the female jigger
that seems to live in the human toe, just as it is
the female mosquito that carries the germs of ma-
larial fevers. A fact which apparently bears out
the late Mr. Rudyard Kipling's dictum about the
female of the species being more deadly than the
male. He-mosquitoes may be nasty, troublesome
animals; it is possible that they sing louder than
the females and sting sharper. But they give no
fever: not that they wouldn't if they could, but be-
cause it has been decreed by an all-wise Provi--
dence that they shall not be so deadly. Similarly,
when you find.your.toe infected by a jigger, you
are always warned to take care that, in removing
the jigger, you remove at the same time the bag
of eggs it has laid in your toe. Now, male jiggers
do not lay eggs. They have another, function in
the scheme of things. And if the female seeks the
human toe in which to lay her eggs, it is evident
that she is intent upon providing her future off-
spring with a comfortable habitation and plenty of
warm nutritious food. Both are provided by your
toe, and you can at once perceive the usefulness
of your toe from a jigger's point of view. But what
is the usefulness of the jigger from your point of
view or that of your toe? A fair question, for, after
all, it is youth and your toe that suffer from the jig-
ger's attentions.
A jigger is a tiny insect that burrows under
your skin, lays its eggs, and then, presumably, dies.
But the young jiggers. if they are lucky enough
to be born in your body, do not die. They seem
to thrive just where they are, they thrive and
multiply and replenish in your toe; they set up an
intense itching, they have been known, if habitu-
ally neglected, to cause the loss of part of one's
toe, or to bring about a permanent crippling. They
are usually extracted from their human host with
a needle or with an orange thorn, and there are
certain persons who speak affectionately of them,
alleging that the itch they cause is rather pleasant
and stimulating-which -hows that there is no ac-
counting for tastes But surely jiggers could not
have been created merely for the purpose of giving

one a pleasant itch, assuming that one feels the itch
to be pleasant. They must have some other pur-
pose in this world; but what?
It was the day after I had spent hours in spe-
culating on the reason for the creation of jiggers,
mosquitoes, and the like that I came upon a pas-
sage in a book which suggested why disagreeable
insects were invented. I read that a certain law-
yer accepted some folk "as creatures designed by
Providence. like insects, to make life unpleasant
that man's higher nature may be stimulated." That
set me thinking. Do insects bring out the highest
qualities in a human being. I asked myself; are they
designed to draw from us an exhibition of patience,
fortitude, resignation or what-not" Does, for in-
stance, the sting of a mosquito make a man better?
Do I rise to nobler heights of living because I have
a jigger in my toe"
I cannot believe it. Whatever may be the
purpose of the mosquito, the jigger, the tick, the
wasp, or any small thing that can make itself very
disagreeable, that purpose is not the elevation of
the soul of man. For think of it. Have you ever
known a man any the better for having been an-
noyed by a mosquito or a tick? Is swearing, im-
patience, a perpetual grumbling a true expression
of all that is fine and elevating in the human heart?
Watch a man who is being tormented by an insect,
any insect. Does not the look in his eye suggest a
desire to do murder, and is murder the sort of
thing that we can wish to do and yet think we are
on the top of the moral world? I know, of course,
that there was a time in the history of civilized hu-
man beings when insects upon the person were
not got rid of or incontinently slain, but rather
cultivated as an aid to holiness. It is on record
that some of the ancient Christians who retired to
live in deserts, or in caverns, or who sat for years
on stone pillars, were covered with insects and har-
boured them with touching pride. But these people
were saints. Unfortunately, too, insects never
have had any particular partiality for saints; they
would just as soon live with a sinner. But the
average sinner, if he cared anything whatever for
cleanliness or comfort, would find in insects merely
another curse instead of a means to acquire bless-
ings; merely a reason for indulging in profane
language instead of an aid to indisputable holiness.
So it is difficult, it is impossible for me to believe
that an insect was made to make one holy, espe-
cially as the vast majority of men do not want
to be holy and are not made so either by insects
or by anything else.
And now I will tell you of a belief that obtained
in Europe when the New World was discovered and
for some time after. What there was to afford it
foundation I do not know; but undoubtedly it was
said in Europe. after Columbus had been in these
parts, that in the New World there were none of
those insect pests that made life unpleasant in the
older continent. It was said that after a ship had
passed a certain degree of latitude, and was in the
Hemisphere in which were America, Jamaica, and
some other insignificant places, the insects suddenly
disappeared, nor could you find one of them living
if you searched for over a year. The insects were
not all specified so far as I can remember, and of
course some of them now well known to us must
have been brought here by the discoverers and
conquerors of the New World. But you could not
get me to believe that the Arawak Indians of Ja-
maica did not know the mosquito before they knew
Colombus, or the jigger, or the sandfly, though
probably the tick came with the European and has
remained here ever since. Fleas and lice, however,
were definitely not supposed to be here in the days
when young ladies and gentlemen roamed about
the Jamaica seashore wearing no clothing and liv-
ing a simple life that rarely extended to old age.
Therefore there can have been no typhus or bu-
bonic plague in these tropical regions.
But to return to my original point-the use-
fulness of insects, or the reason why they were
created. I confess that I am stumped. I can find
no good reason for the flea, no adequate purpose
for a louse, no defence for a mosquito, no kind
word for a tick. The most that can be said is that
the presence of ticks should stimulate one to dip
one's cattle so as to get rid of the ticks, but this
is often considered as entailing too much trouble.
Or one might say that the effort to exterminate
mosquitoes in a neighbourhood will develop an in-
stinct for sanitary work; unfortunately the ma-
jority of us would rather the mosquitoes than the
work. And so on. Also I am forced to remember
that if we do know today that the flea is an enemy
and the fly a foe, that was not at all known for
countless generations before us, and I can hardly
imagine that this generation counts for more than
all those who have gone before. So I am afraid
there is nothing to be said for the creation or in-
vention of noxious insects. But then, of course,
it is sometimes difficult to find any adequate reason
for the creation or invention of man.









Announces The Receipt of a Cablegram From The Actuary Advising



per cent
per annum

on the Sums Assured and on all existing
Bonus Additions.

Participating Policy-Holders will be notified on or about the
1st October, 1942, of the amounts to which they are entitled.
1111ExamplesOf The Remar1111111 1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111 kable Results Obtained By Those InsIred In "The JamaicaMutual".
Examples Of The Remarkable Results Obtained By Those Insured In "The Jamaica Mutual".

Whole Life Policy No. 2223 for ...... 200. 0. 0.
Taken out on 14/4/1888.
The Amount of Assurance
Increased by Bonuses added to
1939 280. 2. 0.
1942 Bonus 27. 7. 0. 307. 9. 0.
Total 507.9.0

Endowment 20 Year Policy No. 9410 for 200. 0. 0.
Taken out on 6/6/1922-Matured 4 April 1942
The Amount of Assurance
Increased by Bonuses added to
1939 86. 7. 0.
1942 Bonus 16. 6. 0. 102. 13. 0.
Total 302.13. 0

To Obtain Real Service and Excellent Results,

Assure in

The Jamaica Mutual Life Assurance Society

A Society that has a record of consistently awardinA Triennial Bonuses.

For All Particulars Apply to:-

Travelling Agent
Asst. Travelling Agent



John DaSilva
M. M. Phillips
Aston Figueroa
V. G. Martin




I -



Doctor's Cave Bathing Club White Sands Beach, Montego Bay.


Visitors to the Island are welcome and admitted
to membership.

Comfortable, Clean, Sanitary, Dressing Cubicles,
Large Spacious Pavilion.

Diving Tower,

Spring Boards, Moored Rafts,

Beach Umbrellas and Beach Chairs for the use

of Visitors and Members.

Pay Montego Bay a-Visit and Enjoy the Sea and Sun-Bathing under the most Ideal Conditions.



F OR this all must strive and work according to their de-
gree,- "By the sweat of thy brow shalt thou live"

is as true today as when it was first voiced. In times
as desperate and urgent as these we must work

even harder and think ahead; making it more plain
to those who waver, that

for the Morrow as well as the present means ec-

onomizing wisely, spending carefully, working
honestly, patriotically and unselfishly,-wherever
our fate has placed us,-towards a common wecd

and rising bravely above the effects of a common
woe-not easy, but this attitude towards life in gen-
eral and ours in particular will serve to carry us far
on the road to that VICTORY which we one and
all fervently pray may be ours, sooner lather than

We sincerely hope XMAS 1942 and the Coming Year will bring
all our friends near and far as much happiness as possible in
a world temporarily darkened by the Clouds of War.


168 Harbour St.



I 'CotlIrII#fd fYroim PaOle 16)
Psyche felt that she wanted to know more about
Miss Josephine Brouklield.
MR. BUXTON was not a good judge of the finer
shades, the more delicate nuances, of character
or behaviour; yet he could not but perceive that Mr.
Huntingdon had altered much in the last year
or so, and he was right in attributing this change
to the influence of Psyche. Charles Huntingdon
himself felt that he had badly broken down under
the pressure of conditions. True. he was now
doing only what everybody else in the island did,
and doing it but moderately, but even that fall
Irom his own previous level of conduct meant
much more to him than Psyche would ever be able
to realise. Not that it would have made any dif-
ference to her procedure had she realized it;
she cared for her master, but she did not wish him
to remain aloof from her and she could see in his
new mode of life nothing whatever for him to
regret. He was now, in her view, merely normal,
and that was right.
But now he had met this girl. Josephine
Brookfield, and she had shown plainly enough that
he had greatly attracted her. Coming to think
over the episode of the river, he arrived at the
conclusion that she had never imagined that she
w'as in any danger whatever, but had simply wish-
ed to compel his attention. He was amused. A
year before he would have been disgusted.
He was not an expansive person; he did not
talk about himself and his feelings to others. He
was still lonely in spite of the companionship of
his "housekeeper," and this companionship was,
after all, erected on a basis of physical attraction
only. Psyche was black, and a savage still at heart;
he was white and a cultivated man. Besides, the
two were entirely different races. The only girl
of his own race whom he had met of late was
this Josephine Brookfield, and he was conscious
every hour since he had seen her of her undeni-
able bodily perfections. Well, he would go to her
party; he would no longer hold himself apart from
the life of Jamaica. There were no critics to con-
clemn him. On the estates each owner or attorney
was a law unto himself in so far as his personal
conduct was concerned.
Early on Friday morning Psyche, who now
knew parts of the parish very well, left Hope Vale,
having given out that she was going into the town
of Montego Bay. She rode one of the estate's
horses: when she went fairly long distances she
usually chose this mode of transportation.Mrs.
Buxton was always outraged at this; only white
people should ride, was her firm conviction, and
the white man or woman who could not afford a
horse was "poor buckra for true." But that a
black girl should ride anywhere was a defiance of
the laws of nature. Regardless of Mrs. Buxton's
feelings, however, Psyche continued to defy the
laws of nature. So, this Friday morning, she went
off upon a horse.
But she did not take the way to PIontego Bay.
Instead, she went in the opposite direction, to
Plimsole, riding along the road that bordered the
beach of the bay where lay the tiny wooden piers
from which were shipped the sugar and rum man-
ufactured by the neighboring estates.
'When she reached the spot from which opened
one of the easy back entrances into Plimsole (for
she did not dare ride through the main entrance),
she glimpsed across the water the roofs of Montego
Bay. The town looked diminutive from this view-



point. On the hills that rose behind and to the east
of it were the larger planters' houses, like castles
dominating the homes and businesses of those who
depended for security on the lords who lived abo\ e.
Save for the town and Great Houses. the scene be-
fore her eyes was one of green and silver: green
woods and fields of cane, silver sea that glinted
and shimmered in the still early sun of the morn-
ing. And over all brooded an atmosphere of quiet
and of peace. But Psyche gave no thought to the
beauty about her, never saw it. She turned her
horse, climbed the rise that divided the estate of
Plimsole from the road, and found herself in the
Her advent occasioned surprise. A black girl
on a horse was an event, something unprecedent-
ed. What had she come for, who could she be?
To whom could she possibly have brought a mes-
sage-for surely she must be on an errand for
someone. The slaves glanced at her curiously; a
headman hailed her, asked her business. She re-
plied that she had come to see a man, a slave from
her own country who had arrived in Jamaica on
the ship with her a year ago. She believed that,
as he was old, he was attached to the household
of Mr. Brookfield. Could anyone direct her to Mr.
Brookfield's house?
"Dere is de house," replied the headman,
pointing to a single-story wooden building not far
away, "but you better git off dat 'orse an' walk.
Nagars don't ride here. De young missis would
hab a fit if she eber see y'u."
"I will leave the horse here," she agreed, dis-
mounting, and tying the reins to a branch of a
nearby tree. "Give him an eye for me, please."
The Negro slave driver noticed her accent, her
manner of speaking, perceived her self-assurance,
observed her independent air. "Massa me Gawd!"
he exclaimed. "Dis is de firs' time me eber see
black gal talk an' walk an' ride like white." He
shook his head wonderingly as if this was a prob-
lem quite beyond him. But Psyche was already on
her way to the carpenter's house, and did not so
much as give the headman another thought.
Skilled carpenters were paid more than the
overseers on these self-contained properties; so
Josephine's father lived pretty comfortably for
those times, and, his wife being dead, and Jose
not tolerating anything like a "housekeeper" with-
in the paternal home-housekeepers could be main-
tained outside quite easily-she was the boss of
this establishment. Round to the back of it walk-
ed Psyche, and there, luck favouring her, she found
the old man, the gigantic Negro who had come to
Jamaica with her. He was a general servant at-
tached to the house except when the cane crop
commenced, when he would help reap the cane in
the fields like the others. He had been a head-
man, a sort of Elder Statesman, in Psyche's village
but eighteen months before, when she had been a
priestess; now he was only a slave. She had known
for some time that he lived on Plimsole, but
this was the first occasion they had seen one
another since they had parted many months ago
in Kingston. He stared at her, astonished. She
wore the dress of the white women, her feet were
shod with shoes, her head was protected from the
sun by a tasteful turban. Surely it must be her
magic that had won her these things. But he was
shrewd. Almost instantly he guessed that her tal-
isman had been her good looks; knew that she must
now be some great buckra's mistress. Yet her ma-
gic may have helped her to this position too.
"Mashimba," said she rapidly, speaking to him
in their common native tongue, "I hear there's to
be a party here tomorrow night. I want you to
help me come to it."
"A black girl at a white party?" he gasped.
"Do you know what you are saying?"
She gestured impatiently. "I only want to
watch it from outside; from the yard. You can
rind me a good place, and explain to any people
who may see me that I have come here to see you.
Say I am your daughter or niece and that I live
near here. Don't tell them I am fit m Hope Vale."
"They will find that out in good time," he
answered positively; "but you can come tomorrow
night, only I shall be very busy. Lots of slaves
go from estate to estate after nightfall to visit their
loves' Why -do you want to come?"
"To see this party. Also"'-for she knew she
could trust him, and of a sudden resolved to be
candid "also, my white man is invited to the
party, and I want to see whom he meets and what
happens. Can.you help me?"
."Who invited him?" asked Mashimba.
"The white girl, Josephine Brookfield."
"Phew. She wants to take him away, take him
for herself?"
"Perhaps. But she won't."
"She will; but of course he may still keep you.
You are his slave, so ..."
"I will know what she wants to do tomorrow
night. Then I will know too what I want to do.
I am a priestess, remember, iMlnhimba."
She spoke more confidently than she felt, .but
she had to impress this man. She succeeded too,
for he became more deferential than before.
'I will arrange that you shall see the party," he
agreed, "everybody else here who wants to see it

can do so; there is nothing to prevent them. Come
here at about nine o'clock; other strangers will be
here, so no one will notice you particularly; but
now I-" He started, and the remainder of the sen-
tence was unuttered. For at that moment Jose-
phine appeared on the upper tread of the short
flight of wooden steps leading to the ground. She
saw the two talking together. Idling. And not
disguising that fact even. She called out sharply:
"Who is that, Homer?"-the name borne by the
African in his new home-"and what is that girl
doing away from her work?"
Mashimba stammered something unintelligible;
Josephine stared more sharply at the girl. "Oh!"
she exclaimed as recognition came to her, "it is
that slut from Hope Vale. Well, what she doing
"I came to see my old relative, missis," re-
sponded Psyche respectfully, knowing that, if pos-
sible, she must avoid angering Josephine.
"You have no right to; you should be cleaning
cane in the fields. Did you ask Mrs. Buxton if
you could come?"
Josephine knew that Mrs. Buxton had no kind
of jurisdiction over Psyche, but deliberately chose
to forget that. She was glad of this opportunity
of openly humiliation Psyche.

"Well, why don't you answer me?" she demand-
ed shrilly, as Psyche racked her brain to find a
suitable reply.
"I am going to Montego Bay, missis, but thought
I would call here for a little while."
"Montego Bay is the other way round, and
you know it, you black liar. You ought to be flog-
ged. I think I will tell your master so; that will
teach you not to wander about enticing men and
keeping other people's slaves from their business.
Homer, go right on with your work!"
"Yes, missis," muttered the man humbly, and
hurried off without another word, leaving Psyche
to bear alone the brunt of the young woman's
Josephine came slowly down the steps and
walked up to Psyche with a glint of contempt and
anger in her eye. She wished that Psyche would
utter one impertinent word; she even hoped that
the girl, forgetting herself completely, would make
some show of physical violence. For that, though
Psyche did not belong to this estate, would have
been an unpardonable crime, to be punished with
flogging and imprisonment; while impertinence
would meet with summary and by no means gentle
ejection at the hands of robust male slaves. Some-
(Continued on Page 26)





there is a dillerence"

Every business house and certainly
banks come under this heading has
its own viewpoint on what constitutes
service. And nearly always you will
find this viewpoint visibly reflected in
the working atmosphere of the estab-

As you talk with the managers of this
Bank, with the tellers, or with others
who take a visible part in giving service,
you will very quickly perceive that strict
attention to a great volume of business
is tempered by a spirit of real friendli-
ness and courtesy.

Your own banking needs may be per-
sonal or commercial local, national
or international. In any case, at the
branches of this Bank, you are sure of
service that is accurate, speedy and
cordial well rounded out in every

Kingston, Jamaica Branch

Established 1893

Incorporated 1899


A Record of experience and reliability invaluable to Borrower and
This Society today enjoys the confidence not only of the people of St.
Ann, but of shrewd Investors and Borrowers all over the Island.
The Society still maintains the object of its formation
(a) Thrift and Self Help;
(b) Home ownership.
And by keeping the personal touch with its varied clientele continues to
give that little more courtesy, that little extra help, which is so appre-

RESERVE FUND ...... ......

111,447 13 3
16,237 6 1

Prospectus and Balance Sheet will be sent on request.
C. OWEN COVER, Manager.

His Granddaughter
(Continued from Page 10)
"Do y'u know who she is?" asked Mr. Proud-
"Yes. Just as I know who you are."
"Very well, sah. Her farder is a man wid a
terrible temper, an' me daurter Susan is hell. When
I tell dem dat y'u get Louise in trouble-bwoy, mind
you' life! Beware, I say. I 'member dat when I
was your age an' I was engage to t'ree young lady
at de same time-"

"Come off of that, old man," cried Mortlake
angrily. "What you mean by trouble?"
"You mus' know, sah, better dan me. In my
day young people was more propitious an' didn't
call upon dem elders to bespoke words dat should
never be spoken."
"You talking foolishness," cried Mortlake im-
patiently. "Did Louise send you?"
"She wouldn't do sich a t'ing," declared Mr.
Proudleigh untruthfully.
"Well, if she says she's in trouble, perhaps you'd
better ask the young man I've seen her with more


For more than half a century our policy of honesty,

reliability and quality of service has won for us un-

rivalled confidence throughout the Island.

In spite of restrictions to-day we endeavour to main-

tain a supply of much needed lines of:-







than once about it," asserted Mr. Mortlake. "What
do you know about that?"
"I knows," said Mr. Proudleigh solemnly, but
feeling shaken, "dat Louise love you an' you alone.
She say so to me every day. P'rhaps," he added,
on a sudden inspiration, "ef y'u see her wid any
other young man, she only meet him to meek y'u
jealous. When I was a young man-"
It seemed that Mr. Proudleigh was never to be
allowed to finish the relation of any charming re-
miniscence of his youth. For now again, as on
most other occasions, he was abruptly interrupted.
"You know, you may be right," cried Mortlake
joyfully. "I never thought of that. I was believing
lately that she didn't care for me much, but, as you
say, she might only have wanted to make me jeal-
ous. Well, I am never jealous," he concluded proud-
Then he asked with emphasis: "You sure she
tells you every day that she loves me?"
"Every morning before she go to work, an' every
evening dat she come back," protested Mr. Proud-
leigh. "I am sick of it."
"And she send you to me today, didn't she?"
pressed Mortlake.
"Well, since y'u ask me as a frien', Mr. Morty,
an' as I never tell no lie, yes."
"Good!" cried Mortlake. "I am satisfied. I
love Louise, too, old massa, and I am going to pro-
pose to her this very night. I am glad you came
to see me. You must take a taxi-cab.home."
Mr. Proudleigh accepted with dignity the sil-
ver coin handed to him for taxi-cab fare, shook
hands, and sedately took his departure. He said
nothing about lodging a complaint with the young
man's official chief about his granddaughter, or of
trouble, marriage, and things of that kind. No;
he felt that he had handled the situation in a mas-
terly manner, without littering a single threat. Only
he of all living beings could have done that! He
would now take the tramcar home. The bulk of
the money given him could be applied to the pur-
chase of anisou.
The engagement of Mr. Mortlake to Louise was
announced at a little entertainment given by Mr.
and Mrs. Samuel Josiah Jones at their residence;
for, as he insisted, Samuel believed in doing things
"in style." Mortlake came prepared to deliver a
speech, Samuel also had determined to make a
speech, Mr. Proudleigh too had made up his mind
as to -what his remarks were going to be. Un-


Brown's Town, St. Ann.,

_ _




fortunately, when he began he torgot just '.'.ih.t lie
had intended to say and so w'.andered off into an
anecdote ot his early days, when it appeared that,
in order to conserve the peace and harmony of tile
country, he had once become engaged to two young
ladies and had married both. It was at this point
that Susan loudly suggested that he should cease.
He did. feeling that he had not been tre'-ted lairly
and that his audience evidently cared nothing for
the finer aspects of autobiographical reminiscences.
Mr. Mortlake was sulky. Louise had insisted
upon inviting three of the guests, two being her
girl friends, and one a young man whom Mortlake
at once recalled as the swain he had recently seen
with Louise on two or three occasions. He took her
aside and mentioned this. why had this Mr. Shorty
been invited? Was it quite proper?' "Why 1.t '"
enquired Louise.
"You see, Morty." she continued. "he is only a
friend, but I know you are jealous. Now that I
bring him before your eyes you can Fee that there
is nothing at all between him and me v.r I jli:Ul.n t
have asked him here. You sautsfied?"
Mortlake had to agree that her action was fair
and above board: he admitted that he hadn't thought
of the matter in the light in which she now put it.
"And anyhow." he added, "our engagement is nowv
a settled thing at last, and not even a dozen ;MI.
Shorties can have any doubt about that."
It was after this hurried tal; between the
young people that Samuel took the opportunity of
"saying a few words." though those v.ho knew him
were convinced in advance that he could not be
briet were his life dependent on it. He spoke for
twenty minutes. alluded glowingly to the coming
marriage, and wound up by asserting earnestly ltat
when Mr. MIortlake took Louise to hei new hume
he would find everything in connection with her
"in perfect harmony." This .was taken to have re-
ference to Louise's physical condition as the vir'ila
daughter ot the House of Jones and .\ouid not h;i e
been said had Samuel been entirely sober. Susan
frowned, some of the women present gigglert. Mr.
Proudleigh scandalised everyone by ejaculating:
"Nobody can ever know!" But Louise merely toss-
ed her head in disdain, and. perceiving that gesture,
Mortlake was completely reassured.
As for Mr. Shorty, he look everything as should
a guest and a stranger; he even asked permission
to say a word or two. and said them. It appeared
from his remarks that he had but lately had th.
happiness of making the acquaintance of Miss Jones,
and now was blessed with the opportunity of meet-
ing on friendly and fraternal terms her eminent
fiaace. He found them both superior persons: he
would think of them always as a young man and
a young lady deserving a domestic telicity such as-
was not often observed in this country As for
himself, he expected to leave Jamaica in two or
three weeks' time for Costa Rica. where he hid
secured a situation as a master mechanic. But he
would always keep in touch with his two new friends
and would think of them day and night. The
burden of his speech, indeed. seemed to be that it
would be with difficulty that he could ever cease
from thinking of the two young people day and
He was a brownish person, not older than
twenty-i'.e and quite intelligent Financially. he

was going to be better off than Mortlake; socially,
he was not of Mortlake's status, since a mechanic
could not rank with a minor Government officer.
Mr. Mortlake remembered this, and so, after Mr.
Shorty had spoken, was more than ever disposed to
treat him with a kind and friendly condescension.
As Mr. Shorty did not seem to notice this, a general
harmony prevailed.
"Grandpa," said Louise one afternoon, about a
month after, "won't you do something for me?"
"I's always doin' dat," Mr. Proudleigh remind-
ed her. "You wouldn't be goin' to get married
shortly if it wasn't fo' me. An' when you married,
dere is a few tings you can do fo' me : I set dem
all down on a piece o' paper. In de first place--"
"It's my marriage that I want to speak to you
about," said Louise.
"Dat is natural. I 'member when-"
"I want to get married by special licence, but
you mustn't say a word about this to a soul."
"I understand, said Mr. Proudleigh briskly;
':you feels dat you have to keep up you' name and
de pride of you' parents. Well,-it don't matter so
long as you get married in time. But a special li-
cense will make people talk, an' dere is no neces-
sity for dat. My advice is, don't bodder wid a spe-


cial marriage; it cost five poun's, an' you can't in-
vite a large number of guestss"
"I don't want any guests," said Louise, "an' I
must be married this week."
"But Mr. Mortlake-"
"I'm not marrying Morty."
"I'm not marrying Morty."
"Den who?"
"Mr. Shorty. We arrange everything yester-
day. He's going away at the end of this week, and
I'm not letting him go without marrying me."
"You mean," said the old man slowly, as though
light were breaking upon him at last, "it was him
dat get you in trouble all de time, when you say
it was Morty? Wat is dis, me father in heaven!
What a piece of dupliciousness! An' why you get
engage to Morty if it was Shorty .
"Stop talking nonsense," comnianded Louise
impatiently, "and listen to me. I am nearly eighteen
years of age now, and-"
"Yes, dat is de age when most female get in
trouble," agreed Mr. Proudleigh, with the air of a
man profoundly versed in that sort of thing.
"And stop talking about my being in trouble.
Who told you so?"
"Why, you yourself, Louise."


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"I never did. Long ago I said that there would
be trouble for you and me and everybody else if
Morty didn't become engaged to me, for I knew
that my parents expected that, and my friends. But
I didn't say there was going to be any other sort of
trouble, for I am not that kind of a girl. And you,
me own grandfather, ought to be ashamed to be-
lieve anything of the kind. What you take me
"But how come you an' Mr. Shorty want to get
married now," asked Mr. Proudleigh, desperately
struggling to understand the problem, "when it was
Mr. Morty you wanted to get married to only de
odder day?"
"Listen, grandpa, I didn't want to get married
to Morty at all. I like him, but I could never get
on forever with him. I got acquainted with Shorty
after I met the other one, who used to take us to
the pictures; and sometimes in the afternoon Shorty
and me would go out together. But I see that
Shorty couldn't make up his mind, so I became en-
gaged to Morty in disgust; but now Mr. Shori;y
wants me to break my engagement with Morty and
go away with him, and I am going. But, you see,
I could only go as his wife; you can trust me not
to do anything else. But I am young, and the Gov--
ernment won't give a special license for a young

girl to be married if her parents object; the Gov-
ernment will wait and make enquiries, and all that
sort of foolishness. And that would humbug me.
But if you, who are my own grandrlther, go and
ask for the license, and say that my parents ask
you to do it, it will be all right. You see now?"
She paused, hoping she had made herself clear.
The old man took a long breath, then plunged into
Impressively, even solemnly, he began.
"I 'member n.hen I was a young man-"
"My God,", groaned Louise.
"-I gets a special license for a friend, dough,
to tell you de trute, I was trying' to pre'.ent him
from getting married, fgr it is a foolish life."
"But you got the license?" cried Louise eagerly,
relieved to find that the old man had not, after all,
strayed too far from the path she wished him to
"Yes; an' them got married, and tree years af-
terwards me friend die from constipation of dd
lungs. Dat t'ing frighten me about all special li-
cense ever since."
"My lungs are all right," asseverated Louise.
"You must go tomorrow and arrange about the li-
cense. Today is Sunday; I could get married by
Thursday, and we must leave Jamaica Saturday.



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Here," she went on, "is the money for the license
and a pound fo' yourself. Now. it's all right?"
"A whole poun' fo' me?" gasped Mr. Proud-
leigh, incredulous. It was long, long years since
he had owned so much money.
"Why not. grandpa? You are the best grandpa
in the world. And when we are married you Pre
going to get another present one pound more.
Meet me outside the Post Office tomorrow at nine,
and I will tell you more about just what you have
to do."
"But your employer?" stammered Mr. Proud-
"I will ask for the week; I will tell him I am
not feeling well."
*And Sam an' Susan?"
"What I care what they say after I am mar-
"An poor Morty?"
"He's a fool."
"Dat's why you makes up you' mind from the
first to fool him"'" asked Mr. Proudleigh.
Fear of Susan, his daughter, had now given
place to a greater fear of his granddaughter Louise.
Mr. Proudleigh felt himself constrained to do what-
ever she commanded, especially now on discovering
that -he had deliberately induced Mortlake to pro-
pose to her in order to bring Mr. Shorty to the
scratch. And she had kept Shorty very much in
the background, as it were, though it was he that
she had had in mind for some time. Her audacity,
her unscrupulousness, filled her grandfather with
admiration. "She's just like me when I was a
young man," he muttered over and over 'again to
himself, though that was certainly a reflection on
the intelligence of Louise.
Over and above this fear and this admiration,
however, was the satisfaction of having been
heavily bribed. He was paid to keep his mouth
shut as well as to be of service in getting the li-
cense. He trembled When he thought of what
Louise's parents would say when they learnt of
the whole scheme. But a discreet imbibing of anisou
maintained his courage for the time. He had
taken risks in his life before, and on the whole
had not suffered because of that. He would take
this supreme risk now and would pretend that he
did it to rescue his granddaughter from future
misery, and had therefore acted virtuously and as
a hero.
So the special license was obtained, and Louise
became Mrs. William Shorty, and on the Thursday
afternoon the couple presented themselves "before
their parents, with Mr. Proudleigh hovering like an
anxious spirit in the background.
"We are, married, mamma," said Louise calm-
ly, as though getting married was a usual expe-
rience in her life.
"How you mean 'married'?" asked Susan, look-

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ing from Mr. Shorty to her daughter with a puzzled
"I found that I didn't love Morty after ail,"
explained Louise, "and that William here was in
love with me. And as William is leaving Jamaica
on Saturday I thought it was best I should marry
him so I could go away with him in an honourable
fashion. Grandpa helped to get the license for
our wedding."
'"What?" almost screamed Susan, "an' you
didn't say one word to me about it? You go behind
me back, and me own father was in it, and your
father and me left out hke a fool?"
Susan fell backwards into a chair in sheer
bewilderment, and Samuel also stared open-mou;ih-
ed at the young couple, indignant and surprised.
"What will people say?" he demanded. "You'
name is going to be worth nothing, Louise, when
they hear you have jilted Morty like this. People
are going to whisper sinister interpellations and
say that you had to marry Mr. Shorty because you
didn't dare to marry Morty for good reason. Did
you think of that?"
"If anybody say a word derogatory of my \'vi F."
said Mr. Shorty, speaking for the first time, 'I v.'ll
bring them up."
"How can you bring up anybody if you ;,re
out of Jamaica?" demanded Susan with a petulant
gesture, "an' what are we to say to Morty?"
"And to fancy this old man knew about it all
the time and keep his mouth shut!" exclaimed Sam-
uel. "Don't I always say that you can't trust an
old man?"
"Not this one, anyhow," agreed his wife bit-
But here Mr. Proudleigh refused to be insulted
any longer; he was full of righteousness and ani-
"See here," he cut in with dignity, "you thl-nk
y'u can teck an advantage of a pore ole man be-
cause he lost his money an' odder people get it,
but I can tell you I 'ave saved :me granddautor from
suffering' by*what I do, an' I is glad I do it. She
come to me an' say- 'Grandpa, I fine I doant love
Morty.' 'Anybody else love y'u?' I say to 'er.
'Yes,' she say, 'Shorty love me.' 'Awright,' I say,
'marry Shorty, but ef him won't marry you, stick
to Morty, for 'alf a loaf is better dan no bread.'

And so it go from one t'ing to anodder, an' I agree
to get de special license as being Louise' lawful
grandfader, an' I tell de Registrar gentleman dat
her parents, who is busy, ask me to look after de
matter, an' here you are. Louise is now honour-
ably married, an' when Mr. Morty hear about it
tonight him will thank God, for Louise 'ave a 'ell
of a temper an' I doant envy de man who is 'er
husband I even tell Mr. Shorty dat he can sleep
here tonight as he is leaving wid his wife on Sat-
urday, an I knows I 'ave done me duty according
to law."
Susan glanced at Samuel, Samuel at Susan.
Into both their minds came at once the same
thought: -W\hat is done is done, and we must make
the best of it." They knew their daughter. This
was evidently something that she had long since
As for Mr. Proudleigh, having said his piece
he walked out of the sitting room, devoutly thank-
ful that he had escaped so lightly. Two pounds for
the work he had done-two pounds which, if care-
fully husbanded and concealed (for Susan especial-
ly must not know of it), would last him for months
and yet provide a liberal quantity of anisou. And
all the remainder of his life he could boast how he
had rescued his granddaughter from a loveless
marriage, and had proved even in his old age that
he and he alone could rise to emergencies and di-
rect the course of marital events. He envisaged a
splendid future of self-laudation if only he could
induce the unwary to listen to him.
It was Samuel Jones however who, that even-
ing, had to break the news to' Mr. Mortlake. To
his surprise, Morty took it philosophically, and even
\v.ith something that seemed suspiciously like re-
lief. Samuel did not blame him.
On Saturday the young couple sailed; on Sat-
urday afternoon Samuel paid a visit to Mr.. Solo-
mon's store. He entered it hesitatingly.
"W\ell, Jones," said Mr. Solomon, "your daugh-
ter better yet? She got the week's leave from me
but I expect her back on Monday."
"You will never see her again, Mr. Sol," said
Samuel, shaking his head lugubriously.
"Good Lord. man, you don't say she's dead?
Merciful Master!"
(Continued on Page 30)

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(Continued from Page 21)
how, Psyche read Josephine's wishes and inten-
tions" in her looks, and kept a stern grip upon her-
self This was not Hope Vale. And her master
was not on the spot.
"Sorry, missis," she forced herself to say: "I
beg pardon."
"Well, I don't want any idle sluts round here,
you understand," rapped out Josephine. "Very
likely you come here to try to steal something-

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all of you t'ief. And you are dressed up too! You
look like a Christmas poppy-show. I don't think
I ever see a blacker slut than you in me life, or
a uglier. What part of Africa you come from?"
Psyche did not answer; she turned to leave.
"Answer me at once," snapped Josephine; "I
don't put up with any nonsense from poppy-show
'slave gals."
But Psyche, knowing that she had done no-
thing to merit punishment, and that she could not
be detained against her will, went on her way, fol-
lowed by the scornful laughter of Josephine. "You
may be the housekeeper of Mr. Huintlngdon now,"

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volleyed that young lady after her; "but you won't
be for long, I can tell you. You going to dig cane-
hole before many weeks, and I will come to see
you do it. Fancy walking into Plimsole in broad
daylight as you like! I never hear of such a piece
of forwardness from a nigger slut before. Next
time I will set me dogs on you! Now, clear out
But by this Psyche was making rapid progress
towards her horse, keeping her lips tightly shut,
realising that Josephine knew all about her and
never doubting that Josephine would work hard to
see her flung down among the field labourers as
soon as possible. Yet even when she was out of
Plimsole and on her way to the town of Montego
Bay she did not burst into tears, or rave, or curse.
That was' not her habit or in accordance with her
character. She was thinking swiftly; a war had
been declared between her and this white lady, with
all the weapons in'the hands of the white lady.
She was beautiful: Psyche frankly faced that fact.
She was Mr. Huntingdon's own colour. She had
made up her mind to have Mr. Huntingdon; that
river scene was sufficient proof of that; and now
there was this open and unwarranted abuse. And
she, Psyche, had not even a child by which she
might retain some hold upon Charles Huntingdon's
affections! Compared with Josephine Brookfield
she had nothing, was nothing. Oh, if she only had
a child!
"I MAY not be back before daybreak, Psyche,"
1 said Mr. Huntingdon, "so you must not wait
up for me."
"Yes, Squire," answered Psyche, addressing him
as the white men did on the estate: he preferred
"squire" to "master" from her, anyhow.
She saw him ride off; it was then about nine
o'clock, and the night was dark save for the stars
Hardly had he gone than she slipped into the
room which she had been given by special favour
when she came to Hope Vale, though now she
rarely used it. In a trice she was clothed in rough
osnaburg garments such as the slaves wore, and
which she had procured some time before, though
with no definite reason. She took off her shoes,
feeling glad that she had only worn them when
in the house and in the squire's presence; they clog-
ged her movements and hurt her feet as a rule. By
going barefoot whenever she could, the soles of her

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feet had retained their original cal-
losity more or less. She could
therefore still make good progress
barefooted, and this she proposed to
do to-night.
With her slave's dress, bare
legs, and her head swathed in a mul-
ti-coloured turban of cotton cloth,
she would not be easily recognized
in the darkness; as to the journey
before her, she could make it by
shortcuts and be at Plimsole not long
after a horse that went at easy pace.
Quietly she locked up the Great
House and cautiously made her way
outside No one saw her, and the
dogs on the property knew her too
well to bark.
When she arrived at the neigh-
bouring estate she mingled with the
crowd of sightseers who thronged the
open yard of Mr. Brookfield's house.
To peer in at any festivity in a
white man's residence was the priv-
ilege of any slave, and if some of
these spectators were strangers from
neighboring properties, no one
dreamt of denying them a share in
this privilege. This was a freedom
long established by custom.
Mingled with the other observ-
ers, then, she crept close up to a
window and peered inside, knowing
that she, being enshrouded by dark-
ness, and in the midst of other peo-
ple, would not be noticed. There
were only nine persons within; these
were seated round a table which was
loaded with a huge variety of foods,
fish and vegetable, and with numer-
ous bottles containing Madeira and
also with jugs of rum punch. There
were four women and five men, and
none of the women had looks to boast
of; hence Josephine queened it con-
sciously among them, seated at the
head of the huge table with Mr. Hun-
tingdon to her right. The five men,
one of whom, was Josephine's father,
had for some time been self-conscious
and ill at ease; they had not known
until his appearance that Squire
Huntingdon would be there. Prob-
ably, had they known, sheer diffi-
dence and a feeling of inferiority
would have prevented them from at-
tending the function. Josephine had
guessed that; hence her secrecy. She
now enjoyed the triumph of having
at her table a real gentleman whose
presence would have honoured any
dining room in the parish of St.
James. She had introduced Mr.
Huntingdon to the rest of her guests
as though he were her property.
And that, indeed, was the impression
she desired to create.
They had sat down to supper at
about ten o'clock, and Josephine,
knowing that wine could break down
the barriers of class for a time if
enough of it were taken, had her but-
lers pass round bottles and jugs un-
remittingly, while the people at
table, with the exception of Hun-
tingdon and herself, proceeded to
gorge. Soon the wine and the rum
commenced to have their intended
effect. The men were talking loudly
when Psyche arrived at about eleven
o'clock, while more than one of the
women, filled to repletion, had push-
ed their chairs a little away from
the table and hoisted their legs there-
Laughter and noise of a drunken
description filled the room as the
hour drew on to midnight; two of
the younger men, careless or oblivi-
ous of Mr. Huntingdon's presence
now, had thrown their arms round
the shoulders of the women next to
them and were fondling these with-
out any regard for appearances what-
ever. These young women seemed
not to a care a jot, but squealed and
shouted when the men went too far,
and talked in the slave-English that
they used at horbe, and larded their
speech with words which in their
sober moments they i'ould themselves
have declared to be obscene.
Josephine's father had passed out,
his head resting on the table help-
lessly. All this Psyche saw and
heard from her vantage point by the
window, and she was not surprised
when Josephine deliberately threw
her arm round Charles Huntingdon's


neck. Then Josephine leaned against
him and whispered something in his
ear.i They rose from the table quiet-
ly, no one paying any attention to
them. Josephine led the way out of
the house.
The slaves saw them, of course,
Sbut merely made way for them. What
slaves might think mattered nothing.
The change of atmosphere was
grateful to Charles; he stood in the
yard and breathed in the cool night
air gladly. The candles, the smoke
from the men's cigars, the heat from
nine or ten ill-bathed waiters -
slaves whom Josephine had borro,'v-
ed for the night of festivity had
made ,the dining-room close :ind
smelly: it was a pleasant relief to
be outside. "Let's go for a walk,"
suggested, Josephine in what she
imagined to be a whisper. But she
spoke loudly. for she too, though she
had been careful, had been drinking
more than she was accustomed to
Psyche was not far from th.
couple when, they came down the
steps and set off in the direction that
Josephine indicated. They went arm
in arm. She slipped from the spec-
tators among whom she had been
standing and crept after them, being
guided by the sound of their feet as
they walked heavily on the hardened
earth. Barefooted as she was, and
extremely careful, her footsteps could
not fall upon their ears.
The front of the head carpenter'.
house faced the Negro village of
Plimsole: it stood upon a slight emin--
ence, as did the other residences of
the white men employed on this
estate. Through the farms, or cane-
pieces as they were called (which on
two sides came close to the house)
ran long paths or avenues from
twelve to fifteen feet wide, these
allowing the workers to cut down
the ripened cane easily when crop.-
time came, and enabling ox-wagons
and mule-carts to pass to and fro
collecting the cane for conveyance to
the sugar mill. It was along one of
these paths that Josephine led Charles
Huntingdon. And as they walked
she talked gaily and laughed, paus-
ing in her stride now and then. At
these pauses Psyche, listening intent-
ly, heard the sound of kisses.
She would not have minded much
if the woman kissed had been a
slave girl like herself. That a man
should have more than one wife she
had always taken for granted, had
expected indeed that Mr. Hunting-
don himself would some day follow
a course which she deemed quite
natural, inevitable, and which the
women of her own country openly
approved of since it lessened their
incessant toil. But Psyche knew
that there could be no place for her
if Josephine once established herself
in his heart. Josephine hated her,
would never cease working against
her until she was turned out of the
Great House, and would have as an
active ally Mrs. Buxton, whose eyes
ever disclosed her rooted aversion to
Psyche. And now Josephine was
taking the squire somewhere she
had no doubt as to Josephine's pur-
pose. Hiding in the darkness she
followed the two with dogged pertin-
The screeching and clamour
within the house soon became dulled;
Psyche, with eyes attuned to the
dense darkness of the narrow avenue
(to one side of which she clung as
she slunk along) perceived now a
great silk cotton tree towering up
into the skies. She knew these trees;
their roots jutted high above the
ground in part, forming enclosures
in which a couple could sit or lie at
ease. Josephine knew this tree as
well as she knew her own house. Her
voice came to Psyche: "Let's sit here,
darling, and make love to one an-
other. We are far from everyone."
Psyche too halted abruptly Then,
gingerly, she worked her way to the
opposite side of the path and crept
to the rear of the spot where Charles
Huntingdon and Josephine reclined.
She listened; see she could not; but
(Continued on Page 30)


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(Continued from Page 27)
presently she guessed that Josephine had thrown
herself in the young man's arms, and that she was
whispering, whispering in his ear. A wave of jeal-
ousy and hate flooded the heart of the listener; she
was a savage stark and furious at that moment, an
African woman in a frenzy of hate. But she
could do nothing, did not dare let her presence be
suspected; she still had sufficient self-control
to check her impulse to fling herself upon Jose-
phine. Did she dare do so, she knew that the
white girl would have had her flogged that very
night, flogged without mercy, even should the
squire plead for her. So she remained, all ears,
and her limbs grew stiff, for she hardly dared to
move. Thus an hour passed, and at last the two
rose and made their way to the house, and to the
guests who still caroused in the dining room.
She took the way back to Hope Vale. She
knew that the white girl, Josephine Brookfield, had
become the "wife" of Charles Huntingdon. She
felt that it would not be long now before, at Jose-
phine's demand, she would be shifted to the slave
village and perhaps made to work as a field hand
on the plantation where she had queened it for
these long months.
ON, Tuesday Josephine came again to spend a
few days with Mrs. Buxton. This was part
of her plan. She brought with her the man
Mashimba as a servant; Plimsole could spare him
for a time. She rode into Hope Vale with a trium-
phant air; she considered herself as being, in a man-
ner of speaking, almost mistress of that establish-
ment, for had its master not become her lover?
"He loves me, Ida," said she to Mrs. Buxton,
for the first time addressing that lady -by her Chris-
tian name; "he is mine for good. And now he must
get rid of that nagar slave he has, and you must
look after the Great House when I am not here."
Josephine knew what she had next to do. Be-
tween twelve and one o'clock that day she betook
herself to the Great House, going boldly up to the
front door and walking into the house when the
door was opened. Charles was taking lunch at the
time. He had not expected her; this manoeuvre
on her part took him by surprise.

Psyche was waiting on him, as usual. She
stared at the visitor. Josephine was possessive in
manner and entirely self-confident. "I have come
to stay awhile with Mrs. Buxton," she announced,.
"and I dropped in to see you. You don't mind,
Squire, do you?" This was unusual, for class dis-
tinctions were strictly observed even if the opposite
sexes were privately on terms of the utmost in-
timacy. But Huntingdon could only reply: "Of
course not; will you have some lunch?" And Jose-
phine readily consented.
She had not so much as glanced at Psyche as
she came into the room. Now she sat at the table
while the black girl waited on her, affecting not
to observe the embarrassment of Mr. Huntingdon.
She ordered what she wanted, taking care to help
herself to none of the things which Psyche first
handed to her. She wished to begin her reign by
giving commands to a menial, a menial who was
also a slave. Once she spoke sharply, as though
Psyche had made an avoidable mistake. Then, the
meal over, she asked Huntingdon could she stay in
the house with him for a couple of hours. It was
all openly, brazenly done. He hesitated one mo-
ment. then said that he would be pleased if she
remained She looked at Psyche pointedly. "We
shall no longer need you, Psyche," he said.
The slave girl bowed silently and left the room,
then Josephine rose and went to the squire's chair.
He had pushed it back from the table; she squeezed
herself into his lap and put her arm" around his
neck. She bent him down and kissed him. "I
missed you," she murmured, "so I come here to
see you. Are you glad to see me, Mr. Charles?"
He did not quite like her attitude of possession;
indeed, he had been regretting the incident of Sat-
urday night, feeling that he was slipping, feeling
that he must get a hold upon himself before he
reached the bottom of the slope drinking and
promiscuity and a brutal disregard for the feelings
of others. But now he realized that Josephine had
no intention that he should pause on his downward
slide; her presence today was proof of that. She
kissed him again and again as though she loved
him passionately, as though there were no one with-
in a mile of them, though only a few yards away
were Psyche and the other servants. The warmth
of her body, the passion of her caresses, sent a
fever through him: he found himself responding to
her fervour: soon he felt as indifferent as she did
as to who might be within call, careless of the
fact that there were men and women about who.
if they could not see, nevertheless knew that be-
hind the closed door of the dining room were a

young man and young woman, meeting privately,
probably making love: both of them white, both
of them set high above the bondspeople of the
estate. For the slaves knew by this where he had
gone last Saturday night: Psyche's eyes were not
the only ones which had seen Josephine and
Charles Huntingdon steal away into the cane farm
at midnight.
"Don't go out now," she whispered; "stay with
me; stay with me forever."
"But you can't live in this house, Jose," he
pointed out weakly. "Your father could not allow
that; it is one of the things that no white woman
does in'this country, I believe."
"I love you, and I don't care for anything else,"
she answered. "But I could live in Montego Bay
if you like, and you could come there and see me-
often. And I could come here and stay with Mrs.
Buxton every now and then, and come over in the
evening to see you. Nobody could say anything
to that; and if they want to do so, let them. I
am here today, to-morrow, and Thursday, and I
am going to come here night after night unless you
don't want me to. But perhaps you don't want
me to?" she enquired. "They say, you know, that
Psyche is your housekeeper."
(Continued on Page 3S)

His Granddaughter
(Continued from Page 25)
"She's not dead, Mr. Sol, but she's married."
"Married? and she don't breathe a word about
it to any of us in here? And, mind you, Jones, we
are all a happy fainily here, all a happy family. Why
she keep her marriage so secret?"
"She get married in a hurry," explained
Mr. Solomon thought he understood (though,
as a matter of fact, he distinctly misunderstood). and
so put on a sympathetic look. "Never mind, me
boy," he consoled Samuel; "we are all human, all
human, and we must be content. I will get another
girl in her place, but I can't pay Louise this week's
wages as she didn't give me notice and is gone
away. But anything I can do for you, you know,
you have only to let me know it. Anything."
"I can never forget your kindness, Mr. Sol,"
murmured Samuel sincerely.
Mr. Solomon felt that no right-feeling man
ever could.


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ao oJ e on. u do rcot cOns 0
cause it is tound, on ehe g"e o, o
t .. et ch ho .ec o loo10ks to the
goods beofthe te 0f'It ro t'ese.
goo with each other. ich. it doe s ,, -Lia fact,
dete of ocs labid may of its
te foc clcamsesn this POfit
Not even a ctrl iN o- obligecybsm '"
althoughit maY and does
normal application nNTROL
W AR~1Nl'

WAR-TI1-1,: .^ ^
W RThe encies f wa hely entled corn
Of war hae econ of the wa
The exgences the effective pros do c this is
!bI tbbecause ssthan CanCadian of the war

is sunderd no less tecme ose orer the
inevia beusey other interest in
u coeerctcory without which there
n ostkpe and final victortyOf peoples. This
gain that cornplete an" s e costi ty o p
can be no lasting peace, nhich trade can rest.
is the onlY sound basis upon hich

lt,,ithstcr g h e'st anr c onnal situation
Clndia nd I BTh et Indies are still very
inuch tesd chn goods with each other.
er s t ied oe on. pa a and
T h e y 1 h a 'ee d t if ir r la k i tig t h e ir
I-r-onlr buhhn to the En'PIre s c10 Ierclal and
o ianljd to the E wapire s the future,
lctxmuln ri TheY ,-ces 3wnsuranc
imn:icictic re pd_ -resent s, be and can be
precfi," LIT' lTh -in.Lisir h ou t
done s -'em done.

I ilat ed Trad

,ies Cada has m..- covering
the B is WestInd es. covering
For mn t Bshe ct rest doL so in time
S0nssioner. i ni conltnuaesi. and diticulties
the entire ore 11,t, n o obstacL es a h o norTlt
c -the ladespte thas placed in the path oiknormal
ot The er cd a c these OHi-
chk the 1 the tottr tCsi g
troe. H- as t he utu-TTe. e' i -:he Bntish Wes'
toon ,.... at teun i s c"- e jsell as 1-
cers re aOt 11" :-n- nte n a .e s SO
Indian busire ls

T o i e i e t W

Trade Commissioners in the British West
JAMAICA: F. W. FRASER, P.O. Box 225,
Kingston. Office Canadian
Bank of Commerce Chambers.
(Territory includes the Ba-
hamas and British Hondu-
ras.) Cable address, Cana-
125. Port-of-Spain. Office -
Barclays Bank Building. (Ter-
ritory includes Barbados,
Windward and Leeward Is-
lands and British Guiaua.)
Cablet ddri-ss, Canadian.



,N ,~
, .


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S 12

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I oirtiilnurl from Pai 30)
Ho.'w distastetul all this was. he thought. He
ignored her last remarl:
..You know I want you to come," he said, and
felt that he had taken an irrevocable plunge do.'n-
wardc. "rThat' wiv'hr I want you to say," she cried
She had left Mashimba to shift for him-e-f
outside. The Mandigo caught sight of Psyche broo-i-
ing by an open window at the back and attracted
her attention. She beckoned to him and he wenr
up to her: he sensed that ismething was atoot tu
make her unhappy.
He spoke some English now; it was in th-it
tongue that I" addressed her.
"Miss Josephine is wit' de master. \lIss P:yvhl..
"dis is de firs' time she come at Hrpe Vale i'..,,
weeks running. "
"She come for him, MIashimba. as you i:nc-.
She wants to take him an' to turn me ou:."
"Didn't I tell y'u so?"
"What y'u goin' to do?"
"What can I do?"

He dropped into his native dialect : "You were
a priestess in our own country," he said. "and you
could bring the rain and save us from starvation.
You were powerful. Is the white girl more power-
ful than you?"
She thought. "I don't know," she said at
length, dejectedly.
"I believed you had a strong magic, and you
spoke the other day when you came to Plimsole
a~ if you had. Now-"
"The power of white people is stronger than
ours. Mashimba: I see that now. But you are
rignt: I have a strong magic and she hasn't got the
squire yet. If only I had a child!"
"A child! But our people don't sacrifice
children, Psyche: we never do that: it is accursed."
"I mean a child for him." she replied patient-
ly. "Perhaps it would be different then. I don't
knov. But it is too late now to think about that.
Hurry away now. Mlashimba, lest she see me talk-
Ing to you. Come tonight to that door" she
pointed to the attached outbuilding which she had
kept as hers.
Masinmba went away, and she remained at
the .indlov'. thinking. She had been so confident
of her hold over the squire even after she had
first visited Plimsole: she was shaken to the foun-

A S the World Conflict with quickening tempo drives
onward into its fourth year, each day the magnitude
of this gigantic struggle is more clearly brought home to

LACK of shipping facilities, absorption of commercial
manufacturing plants and enterprises by the Govern-
ment for war work and the steady drain on man-power for
the fighting and essential forces, have all combined to
make it increasingly difficult to produce those foodstuffs
and commodities so necessary for our very existence.

B UT we, too, have a duty to perform and we shall do
our utmost to help in keeping the trade supplied. In
this, we ask your indulgence and co-operation, for never
before have the united efforts of each and everyone of us
meant so much toward a final victory.

SE pledge ourselves to the trade and will endeavou:
to offer that service which has gained for us during
the past forty years, a large and satisfied clientele.


nations of her bemi in that conviction now. Yet
she would have to fight. She felt it, knew it; the
alternative for her was too terrible. She would
have to fight; but how?
She heard Josephine's voice calling her im-
peratively: only then did she realise that she had
stood at that window for nearly three hours, neg-
lecting her chores, dwelling over and over again
on the single problem that occupied her mind.
She hastened to obey the call.
"You," said Josephine peremptorily. "I want
you to see that the squire's room is nicely cleaned
at once: it smells funny: it's disgusting! it is filthy!
And put clean sheets on the bed, you hear? I sup-
pose you are head servant in this place?"
"Yes." said Psyche.
"Yes, missis." rapped out Josephine: "do you
forget you'self? Answering me 'yes' like that!
What a piece of forwardness! And you wearing
shoes too: that's a joke! Now. make no mistake
about the room. I I shall be here tonight, you
"You mean to say
"Never mind what I mean to say: what T mean
to say have nothing to do with a slave gal! But if
you want to know, I can tell you I am going to be
here tonight, and tomorrow night, and Thursday
(Continuied oa Page .31;





J. E. KERR & CO.


















For. In fornmarion please

Consult the Represen native
for Jamaica




_ _I

- I






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These. tr eatn a awys a
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(C'ontinued from Page 82)
night also, and I am going to sleep in the squire's
room, with the squire, and you will bring in coffee
at six o'clock, for I shall be leaving about then.
And the squire won't have no black slut sleeping
with him again: the proper place for people like
you is the cane field. That's what I mean to say.
And I shall be here for supper tonight, an' if yot
open you" mouth to say one word that I say to
you now, I will never rest till I have you damn'
well flogged. That's what I mean to say. Now
clear out!"
Silently Psyche turned to obey, knowing that
the other's eyes dwelt on her scornfully and with
intense dislike. And this was but the beginning.
There was probably worse to come.

PSYCHE did not wait at table that evening; her
master told her it was not necessary: he wish-
ed to spare her feelings., Two men servants did so;

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As a bed-time beverage, too, 'Oaltine'.
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Sold in airtight tins by
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the result was some awkwardness and blundering
which Mr. Huntingdon noticed, if Miss Brookfield
did not.
Psyche hovered about the kitchen while din-
ner was being prepared and served, and already
she observed the altered demeanour of the other
domestic slaves. These no longer treated her with
deference but merely as one of themselves; and,
those who felt they had a grievance because of her
sneered at her openly and even presumed to speak
sharply to her. She flared up at them, and that
awed them into silence. After all, it came to their
minds, they did not know yet how far she had
fallen from the master's grace.
She remembered that Miss Brookrield (whom
her fellow-slaves already spoke of as "the young
missis" in servile tones) had ordered her to serve
coffee at six the following morning. By then' Mr.
Huntingdon would have left the house, since very
early hours for both white men and black was the
rule on all estates. But Psyche was not disposed
to listen abjectly to any more of Josephine's rude-
ness. She would not take in that young lady's
coffee. She would prefer to be flogged-though
she felt certain that Mr. Huntingdon would never
consent to her undergoing such a punishment.
She was crouching at the threshold of the lit-
tle:outhouse that night, dinner being long over -and
darkness supervening, when Mashimba quietly
stole up to her as directed. No one saw him. He
squatted on the ground at Psyche's feet. She said
to him casually:
"You wait on the young mistress at her place
sometimes, don't you. Mashimba'"
"Yes." he answered, speaking as she did in
his African tongue. "though shortly I shall have to
go to cut canes in the fields."
"Come here tomorrow morning early, before
six o'clock, and take in her coffee then; she would
prefer someone she knows."
"But I am a stranger here," he objected; "un-
less she says she wants me."
'No: she wants me; but I can't do it, Mashimba;
I am not going to do it. She would abuse me, per-
haps strike me. and I could do nothing. She has
taken away my master already, now she wants nt
wipe her feet on my face. I can't stand that. I
would strike her in return, perhaps kill her. And
"Very well," he interrupted quickly. "I will
come; but suppose she says she don't want me to
wait upon her?"
"Then one of the other slaves here will have
to do it. I won't. I don't care what they do to
me-I won't."
"And afterwards?" he asked. He was consci-
ous of a feeling of disappointment in Psyche. He
thought that, considering what she was in her own
land, and her confident boasts when he had first
met her at Plimsole, she would have been able to
demonstrate her "power." shown that she was not
helpless even before a white woman. But she was
now like all the rest of them. submissive to her
fate, even if she was putting up some sort of fight
against becoming the body-servant of his mistress.
"There is no afterwards," she answered dully,
"unless the master gets tired of her. Do you think
he will, Mashimba?"
"She is white and you are black," he replied
boldly. "You were only for a time, and so long
as he didn't know her. It is bad for you now, but
in a little while it will be worse. You are going
to the cane fields, daughter, as I am."
She noticed he did not say "Priestess,' ad-
dressed her by no title of honour. Yet, in this
land. where the slaves craved to maintain some
sort of pretence that they were great people in
Africa, they were usually scrupulous in respecting
the dignity of those who were not common folk in
their own countries. On the other hand the term
"'daughter" implied affection in this man. She felt
that he loved her as though she were his own flesh
and blood.
"Better go now," she suggested ; "it won't help
us if people should see us together. She uwou!d
prevent you even speaking to me it she saw you."
He went at that word. truly sorry for her, even
grieving, but feeling her case to be hopeless.
The following morning. Josephine being dress-
ed and ready to leave the Great House by six'
o'clock, he took her morning coffee in to her. She
was in the dining room; Mr. Huntingdon had left
half an hour before. Neither Josephine nor Ma-
shimba knew that Psyche had waited on him.
SNor had Psyche said anything to him about what
had happened She noticed. though. that the squire
avoided her eyes. Had she been'a keener reader
of faces she would also have observed that on,his
countenance were depicted uneas~iess. remorse and
For Josephine had_ told _him 'she had ordered
"Psyche to bring in her coffee in the morning, and
Josephine had even suggested that the girl should

When finished with this Planters' Punch,
please pass it on to relatives and friends,
and thus save paper.

now be sent to labour in the fields. "I don't want
her to be in the house with you, Mr. Charles,"
Josephine had said emphatically, "and you won't
want her to be here if you love me. Turn her
away; she is robbing you, I have no doubt."
"No, Jose, she's not robbing me," he had re-
plied, "and she has been here almost ever since
she came to Hope Vale."
"But now it is different, darling," she had
whispered; "you didn't know me then. And she is
a nigger an' a savage: you can't love her. And I
lo\e you. You must send her away, you hear?"
Weakly he had promised that he would,'but
decided that it would not be to the cane fields. Per-
haps Mrs. Buxton would take her on in her house;
if he ordered Buxton to see that that was done,
there would be no further talk about the matter.
He mentioned this decision to Josephine, fearing
that she would argue and protest against it. To
his surprise and pleasure she readily agreed.
S Josephine fascinated him, already had begun
to dominate him. And Psyche was only a slave.
But he remembered that he had cared for her, and
he could not rid himself of the feeling that, no
matter what other masters in Jamaica might do,
'he was a gentleman by birth and breeding and had
a standard of honour rather different from that
which prevailed amdngst those around him.






120 Barry SIreet. Kingston, Jamaica.






CommissionN Merchants i




i ___ I

t t (



"I suppose that nigger slut ordered you to bring
in me coffee." said Jose to Mashimba as he enter-
ed the dining room that morning, and he meekly
answered: "Yes, missis."
"Well, you can tell her from me that after
this week she is going to Mrs. Buxton's house and
will catch hell there, as she know. It will even be
worse than going to the cane field, where some
"bookkeeper" might pick her up for his woman.
She will have to scrub floor and wash clothes and
work from morning to night until her face look like
old plantain skin. Tell her I say so. She is you'
relative, no?"
"No, missis, she not related to-me," said MTa-
"So much the better for you; yet when she say
so at Plimsole, you didn't deny it. Why you people
love to lie an' tief so, eh?"
She didn't pause for an answer, but went on
chattering, while she poured her coffee into the
saucer, blew on the liquid loudly with her breath,
and swallowed it. Then she hurried off while still
the January morning was dark. Mrs. Buxton, she
guessed, would be delighted to learn that in a few
days at most Psyche would be coming to her as a
slave domestic. Mrs. Buxton would easily be able
to find enough faults in Psyche that would justify
physical punishment at fairly frequent intervals. it
was just such an opportunity as would give pleas-
ure to Mrs. Buxton's heart.
That night Mashimba told Psyche what Jose-
phine had said to him. Psyche, who had continued
to wait on table when Mr. Huntingdon was in the
house, had noticed the malignant glances shot at
her that evening by Josephine. the air of triumph
which that young lady wore. Now she knew the
reason. She knew also that work in the cane fields.
though it would be to her a terrible humiliation.
would be much preferable to being under the direct
commands of Mrs. Buxton. That would be simply
unbearable now. Her fate would be worse than
any she had formerly contemplated
She made up her mind to speak to the squire
about it. But would he change his decree, with
the white mistress urging him to stand firm and
perhaps insisting that there was no pleasing this
spoilt slave girl? That was doubtful. The upshot
of her pleading might only be the disgusting of the
man who had liked her once. Her dilemma was
terrible. She buried her face in her hands, but she
did not weep. She was thinking.
Suddenly she lifted her head.
"You will come to me tomorrow night as usual,

Mashimba?" she asked the man. "You go back to
Plimsole on Fnday morning, you know."
"I will come to say good-bye," he promised, and
she nodded satisfaction. Then she sent him away.
The cookhouse or kitchen of Hope Vale was
usually deserted after two o'clock in the afternoon,
though on the huge brick fireplace embers al-
ways glowed. About two o'clock the next day
Psyche slipped into the little room she now inhabit-
ed, carefully closed every aperture opening upon
the yard, raised quietly a loosened board which
formed part of the flooring of the room,,and drew
from a hole dug in the earth, and lightly covered
with dirt, a tiny bag of cloth. From this bag she
extracted two beans: there were ten in all, and she
had brought them with her from Africa and hid-
den them ever since She was acquainted with
their properties; she knew that they were potent
even after many years; that some of them were
kept for much longer than she had lived and yet
were in effect as though they had been gathered
the day before. Toast them, grind them to pow-
der, and mix them into paste, smear the paste on
the spears of hunters that went out to slay big
game, and once their poison had entered the flesh
there was no hope for the largest and strongest of
animals. For the poison killed surely if slowly,
and there was no antidote for it. To be cut or
stabbed, or even bruised with something on which
it had been rubbed, meant certain death.
And she it was who. as priestess of her \ill-
age. had to make this poison-her people called
it magic. She had been taught to do it. And
knowing the effect of the poison upon beasts and
men. she had felt herself a woman of power.
But administered in drink" Would it be effi-
cacious then? She had heard of those who had
slain men in that fashion, though she herself had
never done so. She would know in a little while
if that report were true.
She sauntered into the kitchen, hastily toasted
the couple of beans over the embers in an iron
spoon, went back to her room and powdered them
by rubbing another iron spoon against them. She
was skilled in this sort of thing, and the work was
easy. She carefully shook the powder into an
envelope she had taken from Mr. Huntingdon's
study, placed it in her bosom, and hid the spoons
under the floor of her apartment, intending to throw
them in the river when she had the chance. Then
she waited patiently until night and Mashimba
should come.
When he made his appearance she went to the
point at once.

"Mashimba," she said, "I was powerful in our
own country: you remember?"
"Yes, my daughter, but powerless here."
"That is not so, Mashimba; I but pretended to
have no magic because I wanted to see if you
still believed in me. Perhaps you don't: but now
you will see shortly whether I am lying to you or
not. You wait on the young mistress sometimes
at Plimsole, as you do here, don't you?"
"Yes; sometimes."
"Very well. Either Saturday morning, or
whenever you can, soon after that, take her in her
morning coffee. But before you do so, put this
powder in it; it has no taste. You promise?"
"What is it, Priestess?" he asked, struck by the
urgency of her manner, by her confident claim to
power at a moment when he had expected despon-
dency and a submissive spirit.
"It is some of my magic. If she takes it she
will be separated from my master forever; he will
want to have nothing to do with her again."
"But if she wants to have something to do with
"She will not: that is the magic. And, Ma-
"Yes, Priestess?"
"No one must see you put the powder in the
young mistress' coffee-not a soul. 'And when no
one is looking, burn the envelope in which it is.
And, whatever happens, say no word to anyone;
not a word, mind. If you do you will have serious
trouble, and I will never forgive you."
"Is it-is it something to kill?" he whispered.
"And if it were," she said, "you would not do
what I ask?" There was a threat in her voice.
"I would do it," he answered, "for I hate that
woman also. And you-are you not of my own
country and people?"
"But I could put the magic in her coffee to-.
morrow before we leave here," he suggested "I
may have a better chance."
"'No," she hissed. "not here; anywhere but
here. Plimsole is best."
"It will be as you say." he agreed
"Go now, and the gods of our country pros-
per you."

THAT Saturday was the worst that Psyche had
ever spent in Jamaica. She had created
(Continued on Pope 38)


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GOODWILL is created by consistent sat-
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V^ *-0 fl

L ,'


,, ,S9. ......

In 1891 when the curtain rang up on the unforgettable
Jamaica Exhibition when' thousands of visitors flocked to
our shores, MYRTLE BANK HOTEL threw open its doors
to the eager travelling public of the world. Built
of brick and plaster, this famous hostelry rose
--. on the site where once stood the Emporium of
SJames Gall, an enterprising and far-seeing

But twenty years before this, James Gall, had turned the
first spade on what was to be, eventually, one of the
leading hotels of the West Indies. Here, on this plot where
flourished a profuse myrtle bush,
James Gall, had established a board-
ing house and cottages, had given --
Kingston its first bathing beach, and
had advertised in his famed "News .--.
Letter" that he owned and operated
an "American Hotel".

Down through the year
century, Myrtle- Bank
Kingston's fast growing

...-. ., ,,
. ,
,- ,.
.. .., :~'." :...;. .'
.:-'-':"- i .
...., ..

s and towards the turn of the
became the social centre of

Famed for its superb ca-
tering, its unexcelled man-
agement and its individual
care and attention to its
guests, Myrtle Bank Hotel
rapidly grew in popularity
until, the disastrous earth-
quake of 1907 brought
it tottering to the ground
quickly from the ruins
of bricks and plaster a
new and modern MYRTLE
BANK arose.






Half a century has passed since James Gall's dream
was born, and down through these years many changes
have come to Myrtle Bank. Where once stood the small
Cottages and the "American Hotel" of
this enterprising Scotsman, there'now
towers the modern and well appointed
hostelry a West Indian landmark of
service and comfort.

Gone are the myrtle bushes from which came the name,
but replacing these, a tropical garden, filled with lush multi-
coloured blooms invites the visitor to sit and sip long
delicious cooling drinks.

Occupying the beach site where
Kingston first saw mixed bathing the
modern tiled pool with its near -by
coconut grove offers an all-day haven
for those who wish to relax in comfort.

To-day, MYRTLE BANK with its fine and modern equipment,
its unsurpassed management, beckons the visitor from home
and abroad. Whether it is
for a vacation, an over-
night stay or a business
engagement, you'll always
hear, "I'll meet you at







For all conditions and

Hll crops.


V I I -t A i-.1 ih[ ,ill-.-i l- ,I.' __u ti rii in;: a
'irr.w i: r ii%-I:,. \ %i II- wi 1 .'-r-" i'
vii, H1, -liii, Ighri'r

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il. r-l. .-rk .I i.i -rlirr .i. .I2r iiiI I.. rrr
I i. l iL rri .w r ri' 1" n. s 1 .t:. I.I Ii l. \\-i tl \t. = -Fj"
.'I i'i rI.. iv -:: mill- .


VJtA i 4-I

No. ; iP.R IN ahIIl BAR.',NETI DIS'' HA.R-
R( W S F1 .r S ir>-[liJi ,ll I ,,l lilrii, W i'.Jrrl Tr.'.m
. r.l- 'E f W -i. ht ip to 3.2,l1llu,-

(i'o"uitin'd from, PoI ,3.j,1
jealousy, she had stirred up envy, she had even
engendered hate in the hearts of some of her fel-
low-slaves: tier downfall, therefore, now\ that it was
plain, created tar more joy than pity: even to
those who felt no active enmity towards her it
seemed only natural that she should give place to
a missis who was almost as young as she was, and
pretty, and, above all, white.
Some knew that Josephine was hard, was per-
haps inclined to be cruel. But she was of the
master's race and therefore privileged. Psyche
had no rights and was clearly only a usurper; andt
Psyche also was inclined to be hard. Her domin-
ance when in power had been secretly resented:
her fall was therefore matter for satisfaction. Al-
ready one of the women on the estate who had
heard ot the coming of Miss Brookfield had com-
posed a song that would soon be chanted by every-
one when at work or play, a song of two lines
merely, of which the \words were:
SGuinea bud fly high,
But Backra lady cut him wing, Oh!
She had begun to sing it already, laughing as sh-t
did so. Everybody who heard the song knew its
implications. It was a taunt, an expression of
scorn. And the slaves well knew that scorn and
taunting were to one of their own people the bit-
terest insult that could be offered.
Would Mashimba succeed? That was the ques-
tion in Psyche's mind all day long. He might be
discovered, and that would mean his death, and
hers too if he told of how she had set him on.
Or the poison might not work: it had not been
rubbed upon a cutting instrument to enter directly
into the blood stream, and that was the only way
it had ever been potent, so far as she was certain,
in distant Africa. Besides. here in Jamaica there
,were magicians who were called doctors, and they
cured illnesses that puzzled Africans, and profess-
ed to know the causes of those illnesses. If they
should discover what had killed Josephine it was
hanging for her as well as for Mashimba. She
shuddered at this thought. Yet she knew she
\would do again now what she had planned to do
on Thursday. All that was hard and strong and de-
termined in her nature came to the surface now
that she was putting up the supreme fight of all
.her life.
I Had Mashimba succeeded even. in putting the

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powder into Miss Brooklield's drink? Again and
again she asked herself that question
As a matter of fact he had
He made it his business to be early in the
kitchen or cook-house of Mr. Brookfield's residence
ion the Saturday morning, he pretended to be mak-
ing himself useful chopping wood, attending to the
fire. and s.o forth: and as he had done this before
his actions were not suspicious. Knowing too that
he sometimes took in Miss Brookfield's early morn-
ing coffee, the cook had handed to him the steam-
ing cup ot it when it was ready and he had star;-
ed oil at once to take it in to her. In early Janu-
ary it is szill dark at six in the morning in Ja-
maica: the kitchen too was situated at a little dis-
tance from the house, as was the custom on the
estates. On his way with Josephine's morning
beverage, therefore, he glanced about him: and as
there seemed no one within eyeshot it was easy for
him to take out of his trousers pocket the envelope
which Psyche had given him, shake its contents
c.uickly into the cup. slip the envelope back into
his pocket, and, when he had set down the tray
\ ith the coffee on the dining table, hastily stir the
liquid until n. trace of powder remained on its
surface, and then wipe all signs of the liquid from
the spoon. Jose ordinarily drank her early coffee
in the dining room: at seven o'clock she had some
more coffee and a regular breakfast, and at eleven
the ate a "second breakfast," which was really the
meal of the day for most free women in Jamaica.
Mashimba never entered her bedroom when lhe
brought in her coffee. Jose took no meals in bed.
She came out when he summoned her by a
knock at her door: she poured milk into the coffee,
added a little dark brown sugar, then emptied the
Fragrant mixture into a saucer and began to cool
Io with her breath. This was her custom:' she also
often, when alone, or with intimate friends, ate
even meat with her fingers and would squat dow.'n
on the floor to eat out of a pot. This was a habit
of childhood to which she would now and then re-
,.ert. Table manners were mostly company man-
ners for people ot her class, and crude
Mashimba lingered in the dining room. looking
at her anxiously Would she suddenly fall dead?
It was only now that this question forcibly occur-
red to him: hitherto he had been thinking only of
putting tie "magic" in her cup: he had given no
thought as to 'what might be its immediate con-
sequences He had dwelt upon his first step only:
now that that had been taken he felt considerable
alarm. If he were suspected .. but he had faith
in Psyche. She had been a priestess, therefore she

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was still one in his eyes. She could protect him
from harm.
Josephine finished her coffee, then suddenly
asked Mashimba how he v.ould like it if Mr. Hun-
tingdon bought him from the attorney of Plimsoie.
She saw that the question surprised him.
"I will be often at Hope Vale now." she said
complacently. "and I would like one or two of the
people I know here to be there too. Now that I
know you are not related to that slut, Psyche. I
may get Mr. Huntingdon to buy you You would
like that. eh?"
Naturally, he answered yes. Whether he would
like this transference or not, it would take place
it the price offered for him were sufficiently tempt-
ing. He was only being asked his opinion because
his mistress was in a gracious mood this morn-
"You say you not related to that nagar gal at
Hope Vale?"
"No. missis."
"Then hov. y'u come to know her?"
"We come on de same ship, missis."
"I see. Well, I want you to belong to Hope
Vale. Psyche will be a slave in Mrs. Buxton house.
an' instead of riding horse an' wearing stocking
she will have to scrub floor with coconut brush.
and wear osnaburg. That's all she fit for. And I
want some of the people who come to Jamaica
with her to see it: you in particular, as she seem
to teck you for a friend. But. you hear. you mustn't
even speak to her at Hope Vale. You hear"'"
"Yes, missis."
"An' you must watch her. an if she say an,-
thing or do anything to get near to the massa, you
must let me know as soon as you can. You hear?"
"Yes. missis."
"And I will treat you w\:ell. for you getting ol-
Though you people are so damn ungrateful that
sometimes it seem useless to do anything for you."
As she was inclined to be familiar, he ventured
to ask her a question. "You wine to live with
the massa at Hope Vale, missis?"
"Of course not, you big fool." she laughed. "I
am a white lady, an' I couldn't live out-an'-out with
a gentleman. But I will come often an' often to
Hope Vale t-osee me friend. Mrs. Buxton. an' I
will be the real missis of the place. You under-
stand now?"
He nodded comprehension. Indeed. he knew
that this was how it was already. He was greatly
relieved too that she had not fallen dead before
him, and in fact appeared to be no wise the worse
(Continued on Page 40)







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IC'ntwliwi'l iim Page 38)
for Psyche*' "magic." The access of fear that had
swept upoii hiim. the terrible reaction, now ebbed.
but he felt strangely \weal:. He said to himself
that the white man's magic was more powerful th-in
that of the black main.
Josephine went about in high good humoiur
tlat forenoon: she '\as dwelling on her golden pros-
pects. She ate her "second breakfast" with a
hearty appetite as usual. not giving a thought to
the tact that, it she continued to feed herself as
she was doing, she would be fat at thirty and so
lose the splendid figure of which she was now in-
cidinately proud. At one o'clock she went for her
usual siesta. She t ll asleep thinking of Charles
Huntingdon. He was hers now. and she would bernd
his mind to her purposes.
When she awoke at three she was conscioius
of a numbness in her feet. It was slight, but un-
accustomed. She piid no attention to it; but an
hour later, when dawdling over the meal calle.l
dinner, she noticed that the numbness had crept
up to her legs; she mentioned the fact to her father.

"You must ha.e caught a cold in your legs,"
he diagnosed "You are very careless."
She agreed good humouredly and took no fur-
:her notice of her trifing complaint.
At ten o'clock that night, after they had gone
to bed, her taller heard her calling to hum loud-
"I am frightened," she gasped, .hen he rushed
into her room. "I am numb up to here"-she
pointed to her stomach-"and I can't move my legs
and my arms is heavy. I am sick. For God's
sake, send for a doctor "
Her face '.'as distorted by fear: he dared not
argue with her though he thought she \'as exagger-
ating. But this w'as Saturday night, and to get a
doctor from Montego Bay now might be no easy
undertaking. However, he ran out and ordered
Mashimba. the first slave he encountered, to hasten
Sto the Bay at once and bring a doctor. "Take a
horse," commanded Mr. Brookfield, "and ride like
He summoned two or three female slaves: these
applied hot towels to Josephine's body and limbs;
one of them threw herbs-"wild bush" as she call-
ed them-into a cauldron, proposing to boil them
and to bathe Jose with the concoction. No one
knew what had happened, but the suddenness of



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the attacji seemed to them mysterious: they whisp-
ered among themselves; the word "obeah'" was mut
tered again and again. 'Are you in any pain'.'"
asked Mr. Brookfield of his daughter, as she lay on
the bed unable to move.
"No." she replied faintly: "not at all. But I
can't mo\e. I can't move."
Meantime Mlashimba rode swiftly to Monte-
go Bay. and his brain hummed with but one
thought. The magic was taking effect; the magic
was working. But it did not seem to mean death;
perhaps, when the young missis' sickness was over,
she would turn with distaste from Massa Hunting-
don, and he from her: perhaps Psyche had given
the massa a similar drink. At any rate no one
suspected him. Marhimba. of having had anything
to do with the matter Otherwise Mr. Brookfield
would not have sent him to fetch the doctor.
Mashimba was lucky: the doctor was found at
home. He grumblingly consented to go to Plimsole,
although he was not the usual medico-who was
merely a dispenser--of that estate. He arrived at
about midnight; he was told that Josephine's numb-
ness had crept steadily upwards, and must have
reached her heart. She had died an hour ago.

It was midday Sunday before the news reach-
ed Hope Vale, and this was only because Mrs.
E'uxton had been a friend of Josephine's. Other-
wise a week might have passed and no one on
Hope Vale might have heard of the event. Ma-
shimba, however, was sent with the tidings' to Mrs.
Buxton; it seemed to that lady as if a thunderbolt
had struck her. It was incredible. On Friday
morning Josephine was bidding her good-bye,
strong, healthy, in the flush of her youth and beauty,
the accepted mistress of the squire, the prospective
Welder of power on Hope Vale estate. Now she
was lying cold and dead, and not even the doctor
knew what it was that had killed her.
Mrs. Buxton would go to the funeral; her hus-
hand's trap would take her over in lime. Jose was
to be buried that afternoon; her body could not
longer be kept uninterred in such a climate.
Mrs. Buxton went herself to inform the squire
of the tragedy that had occurred; with real tears
in her eyes she told him of the sudden ending of
her young friend's life. "An' no one know what
cause it. Squire." she said. "She just dead so."
Charles Huntingdon was startled, shocked.
His face whitened: for a moment he could arti-
culate no word. Yet he was conscious. shamefaced-
ly, of a curious feeling of relief. It was as though
shackles, which had been fastened upon him, were
unexpectedly struck off. "Thank you for coming
to tell me this awful news." he said couriecusly
at length, as soon as he mustered his voice; "it is
dreadful. Poor girl! Of course, I will go to the
tuneral." Then, lith bowed shoulders, he went
into his room.
What had caused Josephine's death, he wond-
ered. And would there be an inquest' Death
came only too quickly in this country; it followed
one like a perpetual shadow; it was the constant
spectre at the feast of life. But Josephine? Sure-
ly mere was something strange in her swift end-
She had become hii mistress, through his own

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weakness, he felt. Why had he grown so weak"
But for him, would this tragedy have occurred?
Had Psyche? .. But how? No; that thought
must be dismissed. In this thing, surely, she could
baVe-ad no hand. But how, how, how?
S Mrs. Buxton too asked herself what had killed
her friend: again and again the question rang in
her mind. It wasn't yellow fever. It couldn't be
arsenic either, for Mashimba had said positively
that there was no pain and no vomiting. Then
Good God. what coult it be? For the sudden
death of this handsome girl did not seem natural.
there was something devilish about it. She had
been murdered. By whom and by what means?
The domestics of the Hope Vale Great House
heard the news: and they too wondered. On Fri-
day the missis had been there; on Saturday nighl
she was dead. She had displaced Psyche. Then
... then?
Then they sa\v Psyche going about her woni
as usual, work which had changed somewhat during
the past two weeks, but which was not markedly
menial And they noted her air. It was not one
of relief merely; that would be natural. For now
she might well hope to be restored to the while
massa's favour. It was not an air even of thankful
satisfaction: no one could blame her for that. But
her gait was swaggering, arrogant, triumphant:
her eyes blazed with conscious fire of power, she
spoke as though she expected to be obeyed, she gave
orders; she was not the young woman of yesterday.
The others saw. were frightened, and whispered
"obeah." They had all heard that. in her own
part of Africa. Psyche had been a priestess.
There was no reason why Psyche should go
that afternot..n in the direction of Mrs. Buxton's
house. Yet she did so. just when Mrs. Buxton was
setting forth for Josephine's funeral. Incongru-
ously enough, she had dressed in one of the lov. -
cut frocks that had been bought for her at Mr.
Huntingdon's command a year ago, and she wore
the shoes she had discarded during the last two
weeks. She saw Mrs. Buxton as that lady was
about to leave for Plimsole. and she insolently
gazed full into her eyes. making no sort of curtsy.
not moving her lips in humble salutation. but hold-
ing high her head Mrs. Buxton glared at her. then
heard the low, scornful laugh that came from the
slave girl's lips. "It's that black wretch that kill
Josephine!" gasped Mrs. Buxton: "but howl'" And
into her mind, also, crept the word "obeah For
in those days white as well as black believed that

there might be something in the savage's dark and
mysterious cults.
It came to Mrs. Buxton at this moment, too,
that if this girl could kill Josephine Brookfield so
ruthlessly, so mysteriously, and at such a distance.
there were others that she could kill also.
And Mrs. Buxton was afraid.
,"SQUIRE, I have something to tell you."
Psyche knelt beside the squire, who, in
the intense heat of the summer afternoon, was re-
clining on the sheltered verandah of the Great
House in a huge leather armchair, a small table
at his side whereon was a tall tumbler filled with
rum punch. He had discarded his jacket; his soft
shirt was open at the neck; he looked a little fat-
tei than he had done some months before but had
not lost that look of distmetion which marked him
out from among most of the other leading planters
of his parish. or, indeed, of the island.
-"Well. say it. Psyche : is it anything import-
"Squire. you wouldn't want any child of yours
to be a slave, would youl?"
"-Good Lord. no, Psyche! But why do you ask
that' You have no children."
"No and yes."
"No and yes' That sounds like nonsense; no,
but-" he sat erect suddenly. "Just what do you
mean?" he asked in a strange tone of voice.
."I am going to have a child, Squire, I know it
positively now. I thought so more than a month
ago; now I know it. At last."
"Great heavens'"
"You're vexed?"
"'How couki I be vexed at something neither
you nor I could prevent? T have foreseen this pos-
sibility for long. But it creates certain problems,
Psyche. You see that?"
"Problems?" It was clear that she did not
understand the implications of the word, did not
realise what he could possibly mean. Then she
asked: "If you are not vexed, are you pleased"'
At the moment he.could not answer her truth-
fully. He turned the question over in his mind
Was he pleased? He felt no pleasure at her
announcement, though he knew he had been
expecting it for montSg and months, that it was
something any man would have expected, and

that then the matter had simply faded from his
mind. He understood, too, why she had asked
whether he would like any child of his to be a
slave. A great many white men in the country
had to face that question at one time or the other.
They answered it usually by making their children
"No, Psyche," he answered after a few mo-
ments of silence, "your child-and mine-will not
be a slave."
"I knew that," she replied in a tone of satis-
faction. "Then when will you make me free?"

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"You? Well, I thought you were happy and
satisfied; that you wished to be always with me."
"Yes; always. But if you died, Squire, before
I did?"
"That has never occurred to me, I confess; but
you are right. Once you are free you are free for-
ever. So that if I died and you had children by
some other man they also would be free. Is that
what you are thinking about?"
"You know it is not, Squire. If you died I
would have no more children; I wouldn't have any
other man. You know that. But my children--
and yours-must be born free, and you can see
that they are. Am I right?"
"I will go down to Montego Bay tomorrow
and arrange for the drawing up of your manumis-
sion papers, Psyche: that won't take long. And
then you can do as you please, no one preventing
you. It is curious that I never thought of making
you free before; you see, it seemed to me that here
you were really your own mistress and were quite
contented. But I have been selfish, or, at least, un-
thinking. As a matter of fact," he added bitterly,
"I would like to set free every slave on this pro-
perty. I hate slavery."
"But you must have people to make sugar.
Squire, and these slaves don't know any better

What more do they want? But I am to be free,
and our children will be free!" She sprang upright.
"And I too will have slaves, and property in time,
and"-she hesitated a little, but the words had to
come-"and nobody will try again to take you from
me, Squire, for they can't succeed."
This oblque reference to Josephine Brookfieid
was almost the first she had made to that unfortun-
ate girl since the tragedy on Plimsole some six
months before. He understood her, but offered
no comment. and she fell gently back to the floor,
sitting, not kneeling now, wondering whether she
had said too much.
Mechanically his hand wandered to her should-
er and rested there. A child? He, the son of aris-
tocrats, he who might some day return to his na-
tive land? He would have to leave behind his Ja-
maica children, perhaps would never see them
again, as happened to so many other men in this
land. But would he want to leave them? Would
he be strong enough, or sufficiently indifferent, to
do that?"
She too was thinking. She remembered that
Sunday when news of Josephine's sudden death had
been brought to Hope Vale. She had seen some-
thing in Mrs. Buxton's manner that warned her of
Mrs. Buxton's suspicions. But the doctor that had

gone to Phmsole too late-not that. in any case, ne
could have done anything for Josephine-had made
little fuss about the death: he had talked something
about heart disease, and no one was sufficiently
knowledgeable or influential to say that his opin-
ion was nonsensical. There was no inquest; there
seemed no reason why there should be any; and,
had there been, it would have resulted in nothing.
As tor Psyche. she felt not a twinge of remorse
for what she had done. It seemed to her right and
proper that she should have removed a dangerous
rival by the only means in her power: she was
pleased and proud that her plan had gone so well.
And. because she was quickwitted, she realized
within a week of the occurrence that the people on
Hope Vale believed that, in some sort of way, it
was she who had struck down Josephine Brookfield
and consequently stood in great awe of her. She
saw this in the frightened attitude of Mrs. Bux-
ton as well as in the deferential. in fact cring-
ing, behaviour of the slaves. They were talking
about her, she knew: but she deemed this more of
an advantage than otherwise. They might suspect
anything, but they knew nothing: the one person
on Hope Vale that she did not want to get suspi-
cious was the master. And soon she was satisfied
that he did not suspect her.
She wore shoes continually now. she dressed
everyday in European costume, she tried more and
more to talk as her master did, despising the bro-
ken English, the peculiar dialect, of the slave peo-
ple. She was definitely "Missis" to all the slaves.
No one of them dared to speak to her by her chris-
tian name. No one desired to do so.
And now there was a child coming at long last
It must be born free, and to ensure that she her-
self must be made free.
In a few weeks it w.as clone. She was a free
woman, and under the law she too could novw own
slaves if she had the money to buy them. She could
be a mistress in reality, and not merely by deputy.
She knew that. And why not? she asked herself.
"Squire," she said to Mr. Huntingdon one
night, when she sat at his feet on a low stool after
lie had dined for ne'.er, once, had she presumed
e\en to speak to him as to an equal, easygoing and
kind-natured though he was "Squire. will you
buy Mlashnmba for me?'
"Buy lashinba: who is he?"
*'They call him Cato at Plimsole. where he is
a slave. He is from my village. and came over on
the ship with me. He is an old nimn now. Squire.
and he would be happier here. If you would gi.,e
him to me .
"As your ov.wn property. you ni.-Ln?"
"Yes. I am a free wornmn now, but I haven I
a thing: and I am going to have a child, so, you
see. I want something. Don't you understand?"
"And is this mani, Mlashimba, all you want,
Her condition was quite apparent in these da.is,
and he felt increasingly a responsibility that
hali caused him to do a good deal of thinking ot
late. As she was silent he resumed the conversa-
"If I gi'e you IMashimba, that won't be very
much in the circumstances, will it be"''
"But you ,will give me more when the baby-
.o1ur baby-is born." she answered. "But I would
l'.e Mlashimba, and he would like to come to me
"I'll see if the people at Plimsole will sell him;
they will hardly refuse if he is an old man, as you
say. But \we have to think of other things as well
as Mashimba now. When your child is born I will
buy for it a small property near here: the law, you
know, does not allow me to leave any child in the
position of yours more than twelve hundred pounds
in money or property. I have an idea," he laugh-
ed. "that I told you that long ago when you first
proposed to be one of my 'wives.' In fact," he
added almost gaily, "when I come to think of it,
it is you who seem to have done all our courting.
She nodded affirmatively. "You \wouldn't. so
I had to do it. I am glad. Are you sorry, Squire?"
"No, not now."
"I didn't understand you when you talked to
me so long ago about children: but I understand
you now. But don't you see. Squire, if you give
every child I have a property or twelve hundred
pounds"-the sum of money mentioned seemed an
unimaginable fortune to her-"they will all be
"And suppose you don't have more than one
child. Psyche?"
"I will have twenty."
"Suppose. I say. you have only one."
"But there is nothing, Squire, to prevent you
giving me anything-money, I mean-you like?
You are rich. Give me money now, and whenever
you can afford it. I will keep it for my children.
What can the law do about that?"
Nothing. he felt; and was also convinced of
something else. He believed that any money he
gave to her would be held in trust for her children.
not wasted upon some other man. He thought the
law limiting the amount which children of colour
could receive from their fathers a foolish and ini-



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quitous one: besides. the very men who made that
law evaded it m just such ways as the one which
Psyche suggested. The law was a sheer piece of
hypocrisy and continually set at nought. He was
angry as he thought of it. "Very well," he con-
cluded; "I think I shall do as you say."
SHE was tree. she had property, she was twenty
years of age. and had been in Jamaica for three
years. Her child was healthy, bright, and now it
could be seen that it was lighter in complexion than
a pure Mulatto would be; the Semitic blood of
Psyche's grandfather, which Psyche herself show-
ed in her features and hair but not in her hue, was
evidenced in her baby, who in later years would
in Jamaica be considered a quadroon. It was one
year old now, the mother and father saw in it fu-
ture beauties that no one else perceived at present,
and already Psyche was dreaming of a great career
for her little one. She had hoped for a boy, but
it was a girl that came. She had named it after
herself. And because it was free she had added
the father's name of Huntingdon. To this the
squire had offered no objection. He himself in-
deed would have insisted on this had Psyche not
suggested it.
Hope Vale had made money during these past
few years: it was difficult for any sugar property
decently administered not to make money out of
sugar during the period of the Napoleonic Wars.
With some of his savings Huntingdon had pur-
chased in Psyche's name a large plot of good land
adjoining his estate; later on he would leave to
her and her girl as much as the law allowed and
would give to the little child in the meantime what
he could, even if that contravened the strict letter
of the law. A house had been built on the land
bought for Psyche, a small place in which she
promptly installed a free Negro who understood
much about cattle raising. Her design was to breed
cattle as beasts of burden for the surrounding
estates; in her Atrican village they had kept such
stock, some of which frequently formed the pur-
chase money for wives on the part of men who.
by African standards, were wealthy. She herself
knew something about cattle: Mashimba knew more.
And now Mashimba w'as hers. He was her first
slave. She had determined to acquire others, and
when, because the slave trade had been prohibited
at last, the price of human lalbourers rose con-

siderabiy, she still bought some by paying more
than other buyers were inclined to do. And so
the years slipped by, and Psyche became twenty-
the years of age. Often she wondered at her
material good fortune and happiness, and felt that
it would never end.
The Squire himself had grown a little stouter,
and he was absorbed in his child. It \wa the only
one; Psyche had begun to be frightened that she
would have no more: sometimes she speculated
as to the cause of this, for she believed, and
would continue to her last day to believe, that many
misfortunes experienced by human beings were

caused by obeah or witchcraft, with malice or envy
as its originating source. But these periods of flight
or annoyance were short-lived; she reflected that
she was still young; she knew of women who had
borne children when older than herself; she fancied
that white men often did not have children in
quick succession. Happily, too, the- squire didn't
seem to mind that there was only one child. He
was satisfied; but when little Psyche was six years
of age the problem of her education confronted him.
He solved that temporarily by determining to
teach her, himself, the rudiments of reading and
(Continued on Page 46)

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(IC'onitined from Page -pi)
. writing. But, later on. where was lie to send her?
There were no schools for her like within a radius
of twenty miles: none into which she would be
readily taken. And there were no suitable teachers,
even if he decided to hire some dame to do nothing
but undertake the instruction of his daughter. He
thought vaguely about bringing out a teacher from
England. That, at any rate, could be done.
Psyche had heard a strange kind of talk that
%was going about, had heard it occasionally, though
no one seemed to believe it. The slave trade had
ceased; it was now unlawful. And it was being
said that slaveiy itself would cease, that a fight
against it had even then begun in England,
that in time everybody in Jamaica would be free.
She thought such a sugges~on monstrous: did she
herself not own slaves? Would it be fair for any-
one to rob her of her property? Did she not treat
her people well; was not the master the kindest
of men' And yet he hated slavery. Sometimes,
when he was preoccupied, thinking of the future
or their child, Fhe imagined that it was these ru-
mours of a possible coming emancipation that he

was brooding upon. She felt that, though he would
suffer loss. ne would welcome it. She could not
agree with this attitude; she failed to understand
December came, the estate was getting busy
for the taking off of the cane crop and the manu-
factu'ing of sugar.. Suddenly the squire seemed
to abandon all interest in these important prepara-
tions. Psyche noticed this. She wondered what
had happened.
"Something worrying you, Squire?"
It was after dinner, the darkness Had fallen;
on the verandah Mr. Huntingdon was seated in hi;
favourite arm chair; he sat here at nights when
he was not reading: when he was, of course, he
w.'anted to be quite alone.
Psyche sat on a sort of cushion at his feet;
in one of the bedrooms the child lay asleep, watched
over by a young female slave who now performed
the functions of a nurse. In the sitting room, which
was never used. but in which the central chandelier
was always lighted after dark, night insects hum-
med and whirled around the shaded candles; from
the slave village came muted sounds that carried
far: occasionally the sharp bark of a dog was heard.
For an hour the squire had sat thinking, uttering
not a word.
He did not answer her immediately even now:


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after waiting awhile she repeated her question.
"Why do you ask that?" she said.
"Because you walk about as if something is
on your mind; something serious. What is it,
*lMy brother in England is dead, Psyche; I got
a letter some days ago."
"And you are sorry he is dead?"
"Yes; but that is not why I am worrying; after
all, I haven't heard from my people at home these
many years now. But, you see, he was my elder
brother, and though he was married he had no
"*You can write and say you are sorry, Squire;
tlat is all you can do."
"No: I am afraid I shall have to go home,
Psyche; I succeed my brother, you know. I wish
I didn't."
"-W'hat do you mean, Squire?"
"I shall have to go home." he said again, pa-
tiently. "They expect that. and there is no way
out of it. It's my duty."
"Duty? But why? What is that?"
"I am afraid you wouldn't understand, Psyche.
But my mother is still ahve, and I have other re-
latives; and there is the continuance of the family
name to consider but you won't understand all
this. It would have been different if my brother
had left a child. But now .."
"If you go, will you come back, Squire?" she
asked urgently, a suggestion of fear in her voice.
"I'll try to," he answered, but she noticed that
there was no conviction in his tone.
"You will leave me here, and little Psyche?"
she asked heavily.
"I shall have to leave you; there is no way out
of that. But I have been thinking of the child ....
What would you say if I took her with me, Psyche?"
"She is small; she couldn't go alone with a man,
Squire. But if I go along with you-"
"That is impossible," he interrupted firmly. "I
can take the slave that nurses her; of course, the
moment she sets foot in England she will be free.
But you are the mother, and the child is mine;
what should I have to say about you. Psyche, and
what should I do with you?"
"And when will my little girl come back?"
Silence fell in the darkness; an expression of
misery crept over Huntingdon's countenance. "She
would go to school in England," he replied at
length; "she would not return to Jamaica until she
was grown up; and then-do you think she would
like to come back, Psyche?"
"No. Not if you were not here. But if you
take her I shall be left alone, all alone; for some-
thing tells me. Squire, that you will never come
"Don't think such nonsense: why should you
say that?" he answered weakly.
"You think it yourself; you know it. Look at
the different Englishmen who have gone to England
since I came here. Which of them has come back?
And I haven't another child!"

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1942-43 PLANTERS' PUNCH 47
1942-4:3 PLANTERS' PUNCH 47 \

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"Then you v.'ill prevent little Psyche from go-
ing with me' Do you mean that?"
Another tall ot silence ensued, in the midst of
which the droning of the night insects could be dis-
tinctly heard. Then Psyche spoke.
"She \.ill go to a good school and learn to be a
lady, Squire?"
"Of course."
"And then, perhaps, she wouldn't like to kno'.
her mother; and you wouldn't like that either .
Yet," she hurried on to prevent an interruption-
"yet all that would be good tor her, and I could
work here and save money for her she woild
be rich some day. with whiat you and I could do
for her Rich. But I \ill be alone."
"Don't say it. Squire; I know what you are
going to say. I could get married; but after you?'
Oh, no. I will remain alone. When are you going.
"About four months' time. There will be
things to do here, and anyhow I could not take
little Psyche to England in the dead of winter."
In the darkness he heard a sob.

Mr. Buxton was both pleased and annoyed.
Mrs. Buxton delighted yet scandalised. The squire
was going away: he was now. a lord; it was never
likely that he would return to Jamaica. And in-
stead of appointing some outsider to be the estate's
"attorney" he proposed that Mr. Buxton should act
in that capacity while still remaining overseer of
Hope Vale. This meant that he would now live in
-the Great House, would receive a handsome com-
mission on the profits made, would be his own
boss, and have under him a sib-overseer wxho must
obey his every command. So far, excellent; but
in this delicious ointment there was one ugly fly.
The fly got into the ointment after the follow-
ing conversation between Psyche and the squire
very shortly after he had told her ot his brother's
death and of his plans.
"Who will look after your property after you
have gone. Squire"" asked Psyche.
"I am thinking that Mr. Buxton will do as
well as anyone else, in fact better. He has been
here any number of years; he understands the work;
he is about the only person I think I can depend
"Yes. so long as you are here; but leave him
alone and you don't know what may happen. You
may lose everything in time."

"Like so many others, eh? But what am I to
do? All these attorneys are alike."
"Couldn't you join me with him, Squire, to
look after your interests-and little Psyche's?"
"Such a thing has never been known in Ja-
maica. my good girl; I am afraid it is impossible."
'"Is there a law against a free black woman,
v.ith property of her own, becoming an attorney?"
asked Psyche anxiously.
"No: now that you ask that, I don't think there
is. But you forget. Psyche, that while you speak
English. and speak it very well, you only read and
write it indifferently-I mean," he explained hast-
ily. "you can read and write, for I have taught you:
you insisted on that, didn't you? But-"
"I don't think Mr. Buxton reads and writes any
better than me, Squire; and there is Mr. Dodds, the
lawyer in Montego Bay, who helps me with my
cattle penn. He is very kind. He could help me
with anything I have to do concerning this place.
Why not try it, Squire? Ask Mr. Dodds. If lie
says I can protect you from being robbed, it will
be all right. He knows your law and I can always
go to him."
"Very well. Psyche. I'll see."
Huntingdon consulted Mr. Dodds after this; he
was anxious to do what he possibly could for
Psyche, whom he probably would never see again.
Mr. Dodds agreed that she could be made a sort of
joint-attorney for Hope Vale, although such a thing
had never been known before. There w'as no law
to prevent her from acting along with Mr. Buxton.
and he. Mr. Dodds. would do his best for her.
Then, as the weeks drevw on, as spring ap-
proached. Psyche's face became drawn, at times
almost haggard. She was losing the squire; she
knew it was for ever. He would probably marry
in England. might have children. white children:
what would happen then to her own little girl? She
lay awake at night asking herself that question:
it was ever in her mind. This Jamaica property
could not be left to her: the law said so; it was
worth far, far more than a mere twelve hundred
pounds -- Psyche understood that now: she had
learnt much about money and riches in the last
rew years. But what truth was there in that talk
of universal freedom, which she had heard with
impatience formerly, but which she now' caught at
as though it were a shining hope? Surely this law
that blocked little Psyche as an inheritor now
would be altered then, if not indeed before; and all
Hope Vale could then become the child's.

It was one week before the squire would leave
Hope Vale. Psyche was sitting at her usual place
cn the verandah one night; he thought her brave
exceedingly to keep back tears and reproaches as
she did.
"I am sorry I have to go. Psyche," he said,
breaking the silence; it was all that he could say.
"You have done a lot for me. Squire: I can't
be ungrateful.'' she replied. "You know," she add-
ed. "I think that you and I shall live to be old, very
."But what has that to do with my going away,
"Plenty. I shall never see you again. I may
never see my child again. But perhaps, long be-
fore we are dead, everybody here may have free-
dom, and the laws you always speak of. Squire,
may be changed. Am I right?"
'I think so. The freedom ot everyone in this
country I would rejoice at: and with freedom, if
not indeed before. there must come a changing of
the laws. That indeed is certain."
''Then, Squire. will you promise me one
"What is it?"
"Make a will leaving this property to our
"It would not be valid now, Psyche, whether
made here or in England. But I can tell you this.
I will make a will such as you want every year.
so that if the laws of inheritance in Jamaica are
changed-as they will be some day-little Psyche
shall have Hope Vale unless I die before the will
is valid. I will do more for her. too. much more;
you may depend upon me. But I can see that on
her inheritance of this property you have set your
"Yes, Squire; and she will get it. I feel cer-
tain of that."
"I will send you, regularly, successive copies
of the will. But, you understand, the property may
not be worth much if a general emancipation
"It will be worth a lot." she answered: "I will
work for it. and Mr. Buxton will work for it
"I hope so; you must try to get on with him:
he has promised to get on with you."
"We shall work well together, Squire," she
answered quietly. Then she shuttered to herself:
"Mr. Buxton will remember Josephine Brookfield."
(Continued on Page 49)


c ,I



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Ford Aients In Jamaica For Over 37 Years.



(Continued from Page '7)
THE Great House was lighted up this early April
morning as it never had been before in Charles
Huntingdon's time. In the darkness before sun-
rise there was within it a sound of busy movement
as men and women gathered and brought out to the
waiting vehicle the things that the squire would
take with him to Kingston. The journey to the
city would occupy four arduous days; the heavier
luggage had been sent to the city by sea two days
ago. The slaves on the estate all knew that
Massa Huntingdon was leaving Jamaica for ever
-that was the tale which had got about, and it
was true. So from all parts of the property
they were coming to bid him farewell, though
normally they would have been preparing to flock
to their daily routine tasks.
He wished to see them all, to wave to them
goodbye: he had had that wish conveyed to them.
So they gathered outside the Great House and
waited for him; and they muttered amongst them-
selves that never again would they have a "massa"
?o considerate and kind.
A mist rose from the river that fowed through
Hope Vale: there was a chill in the morning air
that would disappear when the sun shot up in a
burst of golden glory. lighting plain and hillside.
slave's hut andt white man's house, heralding a new
day's toil, ushering what would be for the people
on the estate a new era, for another white man
would rule there now ind they wondered what
sort uf a master he would make with the owner
far away in England. They knew that there were
things that the squire would never tolerate, but
that his attorney might attempt. True, it was said
that, impossible as it might sound, Miss Psyche
would help to look after the estate. But they ex-
pected from her no softness. Hence their sorrow
at the owner's departure was genuine and sin-
Psyche had wept much in secret, though not
given usually to weeping. during the last few weeks.
This morning, she was resolved, her eyes should
be dry, her voice unbroken, as she took leave of
the man and the child that she loved. She would
not distress the squire with any maudlin exhibi-
tion of sorrow. But her heart was heavy as lead,
and she felt that her world was falling to pieces
about her.
"Where is Miss Psyche?" he asked of the young
woman who carried in her arms the little girl
carefully wrapped in a shawl as protection against
the chilly morning air. Nurse and child were to
Travel in the buggy to Kingston along with him.
'In there, massa," answered the girl. pointing
to the sitting room "Miss Psyche tell me to tell
you she waiting' to tell y'u goodbye. sah."
Psyche was standing in the lighted sittin-
room, which hardly \.was ever used: she v.as neat-
ly dressed in white. She lifted her eyes as the
^--__- ---i-. -- ^-^--r^-

squire came into the room; she had seen him but
ten minutes before, had superintended his final
packing, and then had slipped away, for she want-
ed her leave-taking to be unwitnessed by other
people. In those few minutes a change had swept

over her countenance. Huntingdon, sad at heart
himself, was startled. Wretchedness stared out of
her eyes.
"Aren't you coming outside to see us off.
Psyche?" he asked.

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"Yes, Squire, but I wanted to bid you good-
bye alone, and to ask you one last favour."
She paused. but he saw that she had more to
say, so he waited silently.
"Squire," she resumed, "you know. after little
Psyche was born I used to think that nothing bad
could ever happen to me again. I was so happy
He had nothing to say m reply: what could he
say? Presently she continued.
"Long, long ago. they took me from my village
in Africa. I was frightened then, but I was young,
and on the slave-ship the captain treated me well
"Then I came to Jamaica, and you bought me.
And you have been good to me ever so good
You have been like your God."
"You mustn't say that. Psyche!" he ejaculatedl
"I am afraid that at times I have been very sel-
"No. Not even when Miss Josephine Brook-
field tried to *t-e you away from me. For, aft'ti
all, she was young and pretty and white, and any
man would have done what you did. But evren
then, Squire, you liked me better than she. I knv\.
"Then she died-suddenly. You were sorry,
Squire. and yet not sorry-you understand what I
mean. You came back to me. And from that time
to this you have stuck to me alone. No other manl

in this country would have done it. I want to
thank you for that, Squire. On my knees."
She sank to her knees; he seized her by the
shoulders. "Get up, Psyche," he cried. "You
must not kneel to anyone. But I thank you fat
what you have said--from my heart."
"I have been happy, too happy all this time,
Squire." she continued, as she rose under his com-
pelling gesture. "Do you think, Squire, that it is
because I have been too happy that I must pay for
it now?"
"WVhere did you learn that doctrine, girl?" he
Z.sked wonderingly. "Why, it is Greek. The gods.
the old Greeks used to say, grow jealous of a mor-
tal's too great happiness. But you can know no-
thing of such philosophy. How could you know of
"We all know it. Squire. The slaves here al-
ways say that "when chicken merry, hawk is go-
ing to catch him.' Isn't that what you mean?"
"Yes. I suppose it amounts to the same thing.
Strange that I have never heard that Negro pro-
Scrb before."
"It is true: I was very merry, and I didn't see
the hawk. It has caught me.
"I am losing everything now that I love: you.
the child. And I must leave the Great House to-
(Conitnied on Page ..5)



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MONTEGO BAY has been hard hit by the war.
It depended much upon tourists during the
winter season: for at least three months of the
year its hotels were tilled with visitors from abroad
and the money that they spent circulated amongst
the thousands lf folk who live in Montego Bay.
Now all of this is o'.er for a time. yet Montego Bay,
and St. James, of which it is the principal town.
nevertheless endeavour to keep up their end with
courage and v. ith something approaching serenity.
They know prosperity will return to Montego Bay.
Meantime St. James has been doing in a quiet
but very effective i.sllion a great deal of war work.
This is not yet the time to say anything about this
\work in detail: but v.e have made enquiries, we
have heard accounts, and \we feel that wve .an
heartily congratulate St. James on what it has
done, is doing, and still will do. MIeantime also it
has been selling such things as it produces from
the soil-its chief source of wealth. And just as
it has endured what is undoubtedly the longest
period of hardship and restriction which we shall
ruffer from the war. so with dignity and even cheer-
fulness it will endure the shorter period that lies
before it and all of us.






~-The Fund includes the

...Buy a



for your child as a
Christmas Gift and
help this worthy

Obtainable from:
STORE: JUSTIN McCARTHY and from the Sec-
retary. Jamaica Central War Assistance Com-
mittee. 2 Port Royal Street.


1/6 ea.

. I.1/- ea.






1 \


"ri-i E



IT was this year. 1942, that the war hit Jamaica
with perceptible force. Hitherto the people had
known there was 'v.ar in progress. but though cer-
tain kinds of goods were scarce and everything
was steadily becoming dearer, gasolene and kero-
sene could still be obtained in the usual quantities
and so both easy transportation and the lighten-
ing of darkness were commonplace things. Sud-
denly came the announcement that private cars
could no longer obtain gas and that kerosene oil
could only be purchased weekly and in extremely
small quantities by the average consumer. Then
it w\as that everyone went about saying that there
actually was a war going on in the world, and
adding to themselves that they had never felt it till
Time was when anyone belonging to the spe-

cies of lady or entleinan could no; do certain
things, at any rate in public. There was then one
form of transportation for the "better classes."
another for the "lio.'er classes." and one came
down in the social scale if one forgot the great
gulf fixed between these means of getting about.
But v.ar did not in tlose days affect so directly
and intimately everyone in Jamaica: it had become
quite different in the year 1942. For instance.
the working people. and many of the middle class
people. h:id always travelled in buses and trucks.
and the donkey had been the steed of the country-
.'.oman from time immemorial. So ..lien the gen-
try invaded the bus. and e'.'en the truck. and i;
was knov.n that here andc there an old gentleman
.was seen riding a jacl:-si about his property, and
that a lady even did not disdain this mode of con-


If you are sending, by rail or bus, a parcel to be delivered
in Greater Kingston, Address it like this





If you are coming to Kingston, Telephone 4101, on arrival.
We will look after your luggage more cheaply than taxis
Sand more cheaply and reliably than hand carts.


Passenger's luggage to and from Railway station is
most reliably and cheaply handled by us.
O You can shop by telephone. Most stores send out
C.O.D. through us.
If you wish to send a parcel by rail or bus we look after
Radios carried by us are packed in special mattresses
so that they cannot be damaged.
An urgently wanted bottle of medicine is most quickly
fetched by our express service.
S0Our charges in this Greater Kingston are often less than
your tram fares would be if you took a parcel yourself.





.eyance. it was wondered what the ordinary
folk would say. Some of these did say something.
But. on the whole, it was much less than might
have been expected, and peace and harmony have
prevailed throughout the country.
The outward change that has taken place in
our city. in our towns, on our country roads, even
in our country .illages. has struck the younger
generation more forcibly than the older. The lat-
ter remembers, after all. when motor cars. trucks
and so forth were rarities, when the horse-bus still
plied by the score in Kingston and in Montego Bay,
when buggies and carriages were the means em-
ployed by the better-off folk to get about. Even
during the last war there were comparatively few
motor vehicles in Jamaica. The ox and the mule
still drew produce, men rode about. distrusting the
internal combustion engine, one's financial status
,was often estimated by the possession of a pair of
horses instead of but a single horse. \while a great
lumbering carriage w, as an outward expression of
an inward dignity It v.'az only about some five
years after the first v.orld war that Jamaica ra-
pidly began to become completely mechanised. or
motorised. But lads and lassies who were then
ten years of age could not now distinctly remember



Groceries. Confectionery. Perfumery.
Toilet Requisites, Patent Medicines.
Stationery. Cotton Shirts, Underwear.
Canvas Shoes. Haberdashery.




PHONE 2229.







35-37 Princess St.,

Kingston, Ja.

Phone 2230

P.O. Box 378.



for coelivery to:-

17r. J.nguss fllcjavi



Ish "

,'5" Sclarligh





1 1-1 1 1 1 111 1|1 1 1 1 1 11ll l1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1






1111;r l l l l l l'11111111111I III 111111111 111IIIIIIII IIIII11111111111111 1111111111111111 11111111111111111 ll1lII lIIllllHl

buggies and horses and mules. The fact is that
there have been many ot them nw.ho only this '.Iyea
took their first ride in a horse-lra'.'.n trap -Fnd
were genuinely nervous about doing so. They fe-r-
ed that anything might happen. They looked upon
the hor-e as possessing -nl the attribuites of a (lj!i-
geroLs creature.
But atth w'as just how. their elders once re-
garded the motor car: t '.'.az hrv.' man.'y of the
people oi Kingston inid St. Andrievf. once thought
of the electric t;iram".ay. The -il.ov'.ne oi the elec-
tric tramvay is now spoKen of. at lbet. inr tunes
of resignation: who remembers that there .'was a
time when the pace at x'liich this tram travelled
in Kingston and St. Andirev. '.-.&s tl-hiucht of as. w.-
and reckless. as a --peed thrt would d as:iuredly lead
to innumerable accid(int:. t., danLe'is .,yel inspeci-
fled"' \Wlen mules p.",tiently plilleai the strcct cars
for ciomparati,'ely :hirt ditianlcc z. that \.s telt Io
be reasonable; v. lieii lecrrnity "..as employed as a
motive poeri it ,'.ai '.' ondercd '.hlethEr men '.'ere
not too I:,latantly flying in tihe face of Pro'.cden.:e.
All that is forgotten now; and the younger people.
and also many i.f the older ones. az-1n1g up rin'.
down a street that --o shortly since .was killed '.tllt:
motor cars. s.ay thit the desolation tthey behold
remind- them of Sunday--..iich indicates that
they do not thin!; of Sunday as a lda. aot re;t or 01
joy and glaciness. but as a day ot desolation. \vhich
is highly improper Yet they are right about the
altered appearance of the streets in our city and
our towns. Hardly ainytning bring. home morc
forcibly to the mind of the Jamaican the tact that
we are at war than the appearance of these streets
The buggie. that '..e no'. see in our thorough-
fares are not at all like the buggies we sa'w thir'y
or even twenty-five years ago. They are makeshift
contrivances: some have hoods. some have none.
some are compounded out of parts ot light motoi
cars. some are built of wood put together v.ith hone
and prayer. hope and prayer that they will last some
time. and not suddenly disintegrate. Many ha.-e
wooden wheels v.ith iron rims. others have old
rubber tyres: and everywhere nov. one sees stables
while garages are locked up "for the duration."
That motor cars will "come back" nobody doub's
Rubber may be more expansive than it was im-

When finished with this Planters' Punch.
please pass it on to relatives and friends,
and thus save paper.

meciately before the v\.a. ibut there '..ill afttr :the
v.ar be enough ruboer for i\n ilI pirpoiJCts: ii W..11
iow' freely again: the cars iona dlisuscui .'ill on, e
more be put upon the 'road Eut meanttime v.-e
ha'.e to deals .'itn the present. ancdl ,. ao & -in is
1no'." eyed i:eenly a I-a.-ibhle means of convey-
.nce to a dance 'r a c.c:'tail pix!ty v'..hEn It has
nished its dclay5 .'.oi l: i-ira in fti lltnLiire ,i-r tal-.i'i
2r,-cerLies from one pit.L-o to another. The .' a i
ha1d .i.iv. minced in dicrity, thle io.'"ly h.s beii exa.lttLd
But it !t i't only l1o. re-d a'.,.i hicle ri .;,s.
:art. '.ian: a:nd the like that lia e emerged crn-
i'tCLiiisl'y during tl'hi :ear ot .'. ar. One has seen

riiue '..nLite ,..xen slowly and hea.ily dragging
:ru' l 1:5 through the city ,f Kingston in recent
mrnnth.. ir.ia'ini~ them in Harbour and in King
Street, thr-rouightaires .'vhIh vere supposed to
ihai'e tben lbartred to o these horned beasts cf burden
!-,r ti la5t tquCldrer cenlur;' at least. And the hand-
cat r mn ha been born ag-in 'They have oIro.wn
a:3bi:ly" .'.hiere 'ye.t-eida there '' ere but a dozen,
hi.,lday there :,re a hunil .idltCi and their tortured
.creams spilt lind hatter the air as though their
.ittecer %s 'EtE i..,eolc .-'in some particularly violent
lirnm v.i iNazl~ i ;cipline instead of thoroughly en-
joying tlhemei.'vs. The ztret vendor has never

ilIIIIIlllllll l lllllllllllllllll l l ll lll lll l ill ulllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllljlllilfil lll l iI lliiiiiiiiiii~llilllllllll




Haberdashery, Hosiery, Fancy Goods,

Enamelware, Tinware, Hardware,

Glassware, Chinaware, Earthenware,





' 11lll1111 llill l llllill1111111111111111111ii 11111111

' 1


completely disappeared, of course. Always he has
held his own, to some extent, against all the ad-
vances of mechanical equipment, and as it has been
in the past so will it be in the future. His little
cart contains yams, potatoes, green bananas and
various other edibles, but no flesh foods, tor the
vendors of fish have always gone about hawking
their wares and nothing else, as, in the distant
past, did the vendors of beef and the vendors of
fruit, etc.
As soon as the war began to make trans-
portation difficult these men multiplied exceedingly.
They adopted the vending of other things besides
food, but each thing was and is sold separately:
that is to say, the man who sells one article does
not sell another: he specialises in his particular
line. Take ice, for example. A scarcity of ice
threatened in the middle of 1942; the manufactur-
ing companies could no longer undertake a house-
to-house delivery of ice. But the handcart men
could and did, and though they raised retail ice
prices considerably, they did and do supply what
is, in a tropical country, an almost indispensable
luxury, though it was not known a century ago.
And women too now carry about more often than
before the local fruits of the season, and vegetable,.

and so forth: they also have quietly taken the place
of the motor van and motor truck. One might almost
detect a cry of triumph in their tones as they shriei:
out that cooooo is gwinee pass,"' or "fresshh ieeesh."
Which mysterious words mean coal and fish, though
no Jamaican needs to be told this, surely.
The gentleman who trundles about chickens in
a little cart carefully covered from the sun'-! ra3s
by a wooden top (the sides of the boxlike contrap-
tion being made of mesh wire), complains bitterly
of the profiteering taking place all round. By way
of showing that he does not approve of this. he has
raised his prices by seventy-five to a hundred per
cent. Eggs used to be retailed in the summer
months at a shilhng a dozen. They went to two-
and-sixpence a dozen at that same time this year.
while those who sold them declaimed with indig-
nation at the high prices asked for imported goods.
So it was and so it is with many other things: up
and up has soared the spiral of prices, the Food
Controller issuing Orders that not more than so
much is to be charged for this and that article,
and the vendors, thoroughly approving of these
Orders in so far as they affect goods distributed
by other persons, ignoring them when they affect
the things distributed by themselves. Even sand has
advanced in price by a couple of hundred per cent,
















and a man who sold manure justiled an increase
in the price of manure some time ago on the ground
that feed for horses was dearer than it used to be,
and that manure was a bye-product of this feed.
But manure is cheap today, thanks to the general
Keeping of horses as draught animals. In some dis-
tricts of Kingston and Jamaica you cannot give
away manure: nobody wants it. The problem that
is becoming a pressing one now, is how to get rid
of manure. It is becoming even worse than a drug
upon the market. It is becoming a nuisance. Sani-
tary authorities and the like declare that they dream
of manure in these days. and that invariably it as-
sumes the form and face of Hitler.
And lo, during this year particularly, the streets
of Kingston, the roads of Jamaica, have become
overrun with bicycles. For some time before the
outbreak of this war it had been observed that bi-
cycles were becoming more and more popular in Ja-
maica. Men and women wished to move about
quickly, and if they could not afford a car they at
least could obtain a cycle on the instalment plan.
Then the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbour and car -
ried the war to Malaya, the Philippines, Java and
the like; this was an offensive against oil and rub-
ber and was understood as such: so immediately


TODAY the ingenuity of BRITISH

TOMORROW the same ingenuity
will continue to provide you with
the finest and most efficient LIGHT
and HEAVY MACHINERY for your

will be put into effect AFTER THE
WAR and the resources of the fol-
lowing firms WILL BE AT YOUR DIS-

Babcock & Wilcox Ltd.

The Candy Filter Co. Ltd.

Crossley Brothers Ltd.

Thos. Firth & John Brown Ltd.

The Mirrlees Watson Co. Ltd.

Staveley Coal & Iron Co. Ltd.

Stewarts & Lloyds Ltd.

J. Blakeborough & Sons Ltd.

Represented by:




94R P5






/cr Super Service


Throughout Jamaica and from the aAents:


there was a scramble for bicycles. What will
happen when the rubber on these wheels wears out
nobody knows, but evidently the feeling is that
"sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." Many
of these cycles have in the meantime been trans-
formed into carriers: with the rigging up of a soil
of deep tray fastened over the cycle's torewheel milk
is taken about and small packages of all sorts, and
by the means of new or second-hand cycles
cocktail parties are attended and visits are ex-
changed. Even men and women wvho have not rid-
den cycles since the days of their youth now en-
dea\our to do so on the ground that one never tor-
gets how to ride a cycle. This may be true, but
the expression cn the faces of some of these older
folk when they have finished a four-mile ride on
gradually rising ground, suggest that they wish-edl
they had never learnt to ride a cycle and that they
are now done with riding one fo:rever, anyhow.
So. in one \vay or other. during this year 1942.
especially, the scene in Jamaica, in so far as trans-
portation is concerned, has radically changed, and
life has somewhat changed \itli it. Yet the spirit
slho\n by practically everyone is an admirable
spirit. and it v'ill endure. What is still to come no
one can say: most people are disposed to look no
further ahead than twel\e months hence. Yet if
arrangements are made to meet the exigencies of
another year. that certainly is much. For it pre-
pares us to adapt ourselves still further to whatever
other changes may take place.

(iConti,'ifd from Plge5 .1)
morrow. Not that I mind that," she hastened :o
add: "I wouldn't stay here for anything without
you: I prefer the little house on my own property.
But I see now that it is not good to be too happy
and to believe th.it nothing bad can ever happen
to you. Yet. Squire. I want little Psyche to be
happy. Perhaps there \\ill be no hawk for her."
"I have promised to do my best for the child.''
he returned. "Surely you do not doubt me,
"No, Squire. nobody who knows you will e.:ec
doubt you. You will put little Psyche to school
in your ow'n country, you say, and will bring her
up as a white girl: as a white girl in a white
country. And you will see that she doesn't 'want
for anything, and I will see to that, too. Already
I am not poor, and I will stint myself for her."
"There will be po need for you to do that.

Psyche. I am rich now, and even were I poor I
should work for my own flesh and blood."
"'Yes. Squire; I know you would; but I will
work too, so that my daughter shall grow up weal-
thy and be a lady. And this is what I am going
to beg of you. If when she is growing big she re-
members me and asks after me, tell her I was her
nurse. Never tell her I am her mother!"
"But. Psyche-"
"You vourselt said. Squire, when you told me
that you wanted to take her to England with yoi,.
that she might not wish to come back here. I have
been thinking about that for a long time. You

were right; but if she knows that her mother is
out here and still alive don't you see? She
may want to come back on a visit and then she
will learn too much. But if you tell her that her
rurse is in Jamaica-and I have been her nurse as
well as her mother-and that her mother was a lady
and is dead. she will feel different. She won't
want to come back .. So promise me, Squire."
"I promise." he said, "but don't think that yon
are the only one that feels this parting."
He added. "Isn't it terrible for you to cut your-
self off from e' erything hke this-from your own

|11111111111111111111111111111111 111111111111111111 IIIII1111111111111111111111111111111111111"11111111111111111111111111111111111111


- vemmL an c/ t f L ,

Tel. Aidre,.. Codes:


Auto Parts Gas & Oils =- Tiyres..

General IMlotors Service..




r: 5.



,Packed with Power.




r sq .. c 7 .
.. ., .* *
rp ..t r t



"No. It is best for her, and that will make
me as happy as I am likely to be now."
"You have more strength of character, and
more intelligence, than any other woman I have
ever met," he said sadly. "I don't think that I have
ever known you well, Psyche. I seem to have re-
alised only a part of you."
She smiled slightly at these words. No: he had
not known her very well, after all. Had never
guessed her thoughts, probed her anttions. He
had never known either that she had deliberately
killed Josephine Brookfield and had never regret-.
ted that act, though they called it murder in this
country and punished it with death. She would
kill again, if necessary, though now it would not be
for herself, but would be for her child or for him.
She would kill as a duty, be merciless, dealing death
so that good might come of it. For that was the
creed in which she believed.
But had good really come of her poisoning .lo-
sephine? Had she herself ultimately benefited by
that? She had had some years of happiness; but
would not all her future now be lonely and bitte:.
cut off as she would be from everything that she
held dear and that she had ne.er thought to lose'
She had won much; now she was about to begin
to pay the price for all that she had won. She was.

losing all. Everything was disappearing as the
mist rising from the river would presently disap-
pear when smitten by the rays of the risen sun.
But the child would never know of the circum-
stances of her early life; the child would be hap-
pier than she. And the child's future was more
than worth the mother's future or past.
So she thought, and in that thought she found
some consolation.
"It's time you started. Squire." she said at
length. "You have a long journey before you."
A shout of welcome greeted his presence when
he appeared on the front-steps of the Gre" Fouse;
the slaves pressed round him; most t9 Fhem, with
the undisciplined emotion of the untifred African,
openly weeping. Behind him, almost unnoticed,
Psyche stood, but she fought back her tears and
tried to smile. Mrs. Buxton was there too, and
her husband: their farewells were subdued: it seem-
ed that they too were genuinely affected by this
final taking of leave. Both of them felt that this was
the last they should ever see of the master.
Huntingdon hurried into the buggy, where his
child already was. Up to then little Psyche had
been all excitement, thrilled with the idea of mak-
ing her first long journey. But now it came to her
that she '.as leaving her mother, and suddenly she



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Actually, this fine Edwin Charley brand of Old Jamaica has so much char-
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"Joyal IReserive

held out her arms to Psyche, crying aloud. The
memory of that mother would fade from her mind
as the years went on; she would come to believe
as she grew older that it was only a nurse that still
lived in Jamaica, a nurse who had loved her
and who was devoting.her life to her. She would
have a vague blurreS-memory of black faces, of
waving green fields, 6. Serce sunlight, of brilliant
blue skies. England W her would be home; Ja-
maica merely the place where she was born. But
now it was from a mother that she was going, and
she felt frightened and sorrow-struck; and so she
stretched out her arms and cried bitterly.
But Psyche had already kissed the child good-
bye, and now she held herself away, not wishing
to prolong the agony of that moment.
All her mother-liftincts pulled her toward
the little girl: she' 0foght them down. Nor 'did
Charles Huntingdon turn his eyes to right or left
once he had taken his seat in the carriage. He sat
as though carved out of wood, a living statue in
the surrounding dimness.
Then the driver shook his reins, cracked his
whip, and tht heavy conveyance lurched forward.
Under paling skies and amidst the shouts of the
assembled people, Charles Huntingdon and his child
rolled away from Hope Vale for ever.








We are representatives for Com-
mercial and Industrial Firms
throughout the world and organ-
ized to serve you promptly and
efficiently with our several de-
partments covering





Pullli.sh lt by I'LNTrEIRnS P'It !r. I.I ITEn., annl printed hv
TmH: GLEANEI C'). LrD, 148 Harholr St, Kiagston. Jamaica,
,h;11a01 U1 9 Dir, r .t r rP-illent atr ;H La,, Muprrgrav' olnl.

I .

- ---I



a a



VICTORY needs more than Unity in Thought !..
more than Unity in Word! Victory needs Unity
in ACTION! Jamaica needs to Plant More Food .
not merely to PLAN to plant More Food!

Start NOW... if you haven't already started... to co-
operate with the Government's Food Production Plan.
That is the biggest job Jamaica has in this war ... and
every citizen has a part to play.

Whether it is YOUR job to sow the seed, or till the
soil, or reap the crop, or transport the harvest, or dis-
tribute the surplus, ... your country expects you to do
your bit as honestly as if you were on the battle front
instead of the home front!

This is TOTAL WAR! United we eat... Divided we
starve! The choice is YOURS!

Don't Delay Di& in To-day

Published by authority of
This space presented to the country by




s Ii II I ir



THERE is a taste of the tropics in MYERS'S Fine Old :
RUM,... a flavour of the friendliness and good humor
characterize the isle of perpetual sunshine.



ar which

For Rum needs an equable, year-round, warm and sunny
climate, to enable it to mature to mellow perfection. And only
after several summers of ageing in wood does even the choicest
Jamaica Rum achieve that wealth of flavour, that distinctive
character and bouquet, which entitles it to be labelled MYERS'S
Fine Old Jamaica RUM.
No wonder then that MYERS'S RUM is accepted at home and
abroad as "the Spirit of Jamaica", and that it was this famous rum
that made Rum famous and fashionable throughout the world.


"c-he Toast.:: and The "Boast... of Jamaica"
F R E E Illustrated cocktail recipe hook tell you how to make over 60 de-
lightful Rum drinks with MYERS'S R M11M. Semi. write or 'phone for your copy.
FRED L. MYERS & SON LTD. (Founded 1879) "The Sugar Wharf," Kingston, Ja., B.W.I.

__ i ___

Full Text

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