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Planters' Punch


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


Subjects / Keywords:
Periodicals   ( lcsh )
serial   ( sobekcm )
Spatial Coverage:

Record Information

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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Counter space
and Efficient

2 1 87.
257 1.
P O. BOX 332.


We can
everything to
Build Your
Every Estate


Prompt Delivery of all Orders by our Fleet of Trucks.

Our large and varied stocks of Hardware are supple-

mented by two to three million feet of

Lumber in all Grades-all Sizes.

Wharf :-














w/ o pays...

Sbe interested in the things we sell ...
CERTAINLY a husband has best reason to be interested n the thngs we sell
(Ef, accorng to ou calculations it's the man who pays (nine times
for, according to our

out of ten). the home -- there
whether it be or dressing up yourself or himself or the home there
alwaether it be o d u m behind every purchase every woman makes
always the shadow of a man






Where The Price Is Less Than Elsewhere

Kingston's Exclusively Ladies' Shop

Owned and Operated ByKigst
SA & BROS., (ESTABLISHED 1893) Harbour St, K(nqst
SA & BR~b .^OS--,;--
__ ,_ .jflgff^^^SSSt^ ^a W

t Shop


:i 6E.




_ ~,....~Jr*8fgl((llRIr'


n ou shops it is comforting to know that the
So whoever bus whoever pass smart shops, hand-picked by our
world's newest fashions csot atosOurhbers, and that they come in wide assort-
words newest fashions come to ou b
own keen, globe-trotlng 'spot cash' b uying c ds, represent
ments to meet the demands of Jamaica's largest buying crowds, representing
ments to meet te reality IMerchandise always at prices they
every class and every age
are happy to pay!




Vol. IV. No. II.


For the Year 1939-1940





author of
"T H E W H I T

A Thrilling

Tale of




~~GOING for a stroll."
said Gordon. tak.
ing up his hat
His friend, an older
man, looked up at him
with a queer expression
in his eyes. He liked
Gordon. the tall. hand-
some youth with reddi.-s
hair. light-blue eyes. and
rather careless, almost
reckless expression.
Janles was only twenty.
five. well-off, a fellow
under no romnulsion to
work for his living. HaInm-
ilton was a planter. fifty.
and one who had nev.:r
enjoyed the advantages
which the younger nian
looked upon as a matter
of course Hamilton had
lived in Jamaica for iup-
wards of thirty years,
only broken by a lew
long-spaced visits to tile
Old Country. He knew
James Gordon's father,
regarded him as a su.
period, had felt honoured
when the elder Gordnn
had suggested that his
son might come to Ja-
maica to stay for a
while with him. look
about, and see if he
would care to settle down
as a landowner in a
country where he would
have the advice and
friendship of a man
whom his father trusted.
But recently Hamilton
had not been quite satis-
fled with Gordon. He
had taken to going far
too frequently for
"strolls." and Hamilton LADY D'COSTA. who helj
knew whither those
strolls took his steps.
He made a effort. He would say something at
last of what was in his mind.
"It isn't for me to interfere with you. James."
he remarked, trying to speak casually. "But going
so often to Mrs. Bodkin's house-do you think that's
How do you know I go there?" Gordon demand-
ed, genuinely surprised. This was the country; his
visits were paid after dark; Mrs. Bodkin lived half
a mile away, and James could not guess how any-
one could recognize him. as the house to which he
went had no neighbours worth thinking of within
a quarter of a mile.
"There are eyes all about, James, even if you
don't see them. You are still a stranger in these
parts, and so still a sort of a curiosity: and you are
a young white man visiting the house of a coloured
woman whose daughter is admittedly pretty. Add

ps Sir Alfred D'Costa in the social aspei(.t of 1is work. A Ja
great lorer or her country
these things together, and you get a story that will
be handed from one person to another."
'But I also go to see Mr. Fullard, George. and
he has two pretty daughters. You go there yonr-
self." .. .- .....
"Man, you are crazy!" Hamilton exclaimed.
"Mrs. Fullard is a lady, her husband is a man of
position; why, he is part owner of this property
and I owe a lot to him. How could you mention
the Fullards in the same breath with Mrs. Bodkin?
You would never meet Mrs. Bodkin in Mrs. Fullard's
house-except in the waiting room. You would
never see the Fullard girls mixing with Elma Bodkin:
they simply don't know one another. The Fullards
are all right."
"And what's wrong with the Bodkins, George?"
"They are not your class."

"Oh, I thought your
objection was on the
score of colour."
"You know it isn't
George not altogether.
We don't talk much
about colour in Jamaica
these days: not loudly,
anyhow. But Mrs. Bod-
kin and poor Elmna ."
"There's nothing
poor about Elma that I
can see," the younger
man interrupted. e'For
people of their unpre-
tentious pos it ion the
Bodkins seen quite comn-
fortably off. and Elma
is the prettiest girl I
have met in these parts.
and highly intelligent. I
like her company."
"That is the danger,"
remarked the older mall.
"You see, James, it's like
this. Elma is not in your
sphere at all, and never
can be. Yet you like her,
you like to be with her,
and in the last four
weeks there is hardly a
night you haven't gone
to see her. What do you
think she will expect?"
"Why, I don't know.
Or rather, as she is a
quite sensible girl, she
knows that we are just
good friends, that's all."
"Oh is that all she
thinks? And what about
her mother?"
"The old dame is a
very quiet and serious
person," laughed Gor-
don; "I admit I don't
think she quite approves
of my coming to see her
girl so often. But we
don't let that trouble
amalean, Lady D'Costa is a us."
"Shall I tell you
what I think, James?"
"Yes, do."
"Mliss Elma Bodkin is satisfied that you are in
love with her, and that some day you will propose
to her. Her mother is not so certain, being older
and more experienced. But perhaps her daughter
has persuaded her not to interfere with your coming
and going, not to 'spoil her chances,' as she would
put it. Now you couldn't think of marrying Elma,
could you?" s
"Good Lord, man, there has never been any
thought of marriage! Can't a fellow go to see a
girl without either of them thinking of wedding
"The man may not, but the woman is likely to."
"Well. you have remained a bachelor all your li!-,
anyhow: yet there are your three sons, George. fine
boys and a great help to you. I notice. One is as old
as I am."


"They are good boys," admitted George Hamilton,
with complacency; "as good as any in Jamaica. But
my time was different from yours, James; and in
any case my station ii life was different from yours."
"Bother your station and all stations. I am
a Socialist."
"But Elina and her mother are just ordinary
women who would like a man of your type to
make a fool of himself over a girl. I wouldn't
have mentioned this matter; but as you came
out to me, in a manner of speaking, I thought
I should. Now you know what I think."
"And your thoughts are all wrong, George;
there's nothing to worry about. And now I am
going for a stroll."
James left the dining room in which they
had been sitting, swung out of the house,
whistled to his dog, which came joyously bound-
ing up to him, walked down to the gate and
took the road that inclined directly to the east.
His friend had risen and moved to the door to
watch him go. Hamilton liked this young man
as much for his own sake as for his father's.
It was James Gordon's father who had helped
Hamilton to come out to the West Indies: Gor-
don's father was eight years older than Han-
ilton, and a gentleman of birth, education and
means. Hamilton had looked up to him in the
old country as in older days a superior vassal
might look up to his lord. Although English
born, they were both of Scotch descent, and that
was an additional bond between them. But
though Hamilton called the younger Gordon by
his Christian name, he never forgot the young;
man's social status.
James Gordon, senior, had treated Hamilton
as one might a younger cousin: it was in his
blood as well as his mood not to think of social
differences but to like a man for himself. Gor-
don recognized that in this the son had taken
after the father: there was no "side" to him,
no snobbery; what he did, how he treated others,
was an expression of his genuine character, and
that made Hamilton uneasy. There was no tell-
ing, he said to himself, what an impulsive, de-
cent fellow like James might do. Elma Bodkin
was pretty, striking in her way; ambitious too;
and it was her ambition that George Hamilton MR
feared. As for Elma's mother, Hamilton frankly "no
detested her. He thought there was something~ A
sinister about the woman. IIe had heard curi
ous things said about her. It was not good that
James should get into the clutches of two persons
like these; yet what could lie do about it? He had
gone so far as to broach the matter to James-no
aasy task-and the young man had laughed at him.
What more could he do?
"He looks as though he were in love," thought
Hamilton sadly, as he watched the young man
march away.
James went by the high road, with dark
mountains towering to the right of him, and,
here and there, a sheer precipice to his left.
But sometimes the ground to the left shelved
gently, allowing ample space for houses and cul-
tivations. Trees clothed the mountain side;
trees dotted all available space everywhere:
verdure was all about him, verdure and wild-
ness. HIe had heard his father talk of Jamaica,
to which the elder Gordon had been once when
little more than a lad. He had fired his son
with a desire to see this land. James himself
had suggested to his father that he might set
up as a planter in Jamaica, as he thought he '-
would prefer to work in the tropics and did
not care to live an idle life inl England. The
old man had agreed, but on the understanding
that James would not live the whole of any year
away from England, and that he would not
marry unless his father knew something about
the girl. Mr. Gordon, senior, did not appreciate
i.r :. n entanglements."
James walked briskly. On these heights
the temperature was always bearable at nights;
now that the cool weather had commenced, that
the tropical "winter" was coming, it was delight-
ful. A cool wind gently swept the road from
the north, swaying the tree tops and branches
slightly. The stars hung low, seeming but a
little distance away from the high-flung moun-
tain summits; they studded the sky with silver
patines of soft, lustrous luminosity, though all
beneath them was dark. Here and there, he
caught a glimpse of lights twinkling in some
peasant's hut built on shelving land, a hut the
hinder part of which stood on high pillars on
ground that sloped almost precipitously towards
the ravine below. Now and then he heard mR
voices raised in high laughter among groups of of
youths and maidens who sat in the yards around
their thatched habitations telling each other
stories or making love.
An idyllic scene, he thought, one of perfect con-
tent, and of happiness which nothing could disturb.
Mrs Bodkin's cottage was built on a gradually
shelving area of land that admitted of considerable
farming. It faced the road and the oppl-ite mouin-
tains; from the wooden porch with its short flight

of three steps you entered the sitting room, behind
which was the somewhat longer dining room. On
either side of these were bedrooms, two on each
side, and a little way from the cottage were the out-
buildings, the kitchen, bathroom, etc., all in a row
and all under one roof.
As James pushed open the low white-painted

Photograph by Ruth Geddes
IS. G. F. .KELLY (formerly M:ss Desnoes) is Jamaica-born b
w an American by marriage. Mrs. Kelly as wife of the fi
ler'can Vice-Consul in Jamaica, does much to bring America
and Jamaicans into friendly contact
wooden gate, the door of the house swung ajar, was
quickly closed, and a-tall gifrPcame tripping down
towards him. As they neared each other she glanced
hastily behind her, then quickly put up her lips to
be kissed. A moment after they were standing in
the lighted room, the illumination coming from a
great kerosine lamp of brass and whited glass that

rnr)ograpt o y (ics
IS. LOUIS KENNEDY is one of the prettiest and most charn
our younger matrons. Born in Santo Dominzo. she grew up
was educated in the Un'ted States

hung by a brass chain from the white-painted roof.
The floor of this sitting room was of polished
mahogany. The walls, of brick and plaster, were
covered with a wall-paper of indifferent design. In
the centre stood a marble-topped table: there were
two other, tables of yacca wood. and half-a-doz'en
polished brown chairs, of the kind then imported

and known as Austrian steambent chairs. The room
also contained three rocking chairs of the same
colour and material, and two couches of a rather
frail description, covered with bright chintz. No
carpet was on the floor; but on the tables were orna-
ments and a few vases filled with flowers. Four
glass windows opened on the little garden in front
of the house, and over these windows were hung
cream-coloured lace curtains.
A short, sturdy-looking woman of about
forty-five years of age rose from one of the
straight-backed chairs to greet the visitor. But
there was no smile of welcome on her face as
she took the hand offered to her. If polite,
her greeting was distinctly frigid.
"How are you this evening, Mrs. Bodkin?"
. enquired Gordon pleasantly.
"Quite well, thank you, Mr. Gordon." The
tone had about as much brightness and resilience
Sas lead.
"And you, Elma?"
"Topping, Jim. I went to Kingston today,
did some shopping, and came back this evening
as fit as a fiddle. I wanted to buy you a pre-
Ssent, but didn't know what you'd like. And
mother couldn't suggest anything."
James glanced involuntarily at mother, won-
dering for the hundredth time how such a wo-
man could have such a daughter.
r.i Elma was tall, vivacious, sparkling. Large
': dark eyes, full, well-mnoulded lips, a strong,
round chin, straight nose and black, silken hair
formed a head which she held erect upon a slen-
Sder neck as though fully conscious of her
beauty. Her figure was not exactly slim, but
of admirable proportions: her complexion might
be described as palest gold; her hands and feet
were small. Standing or walking, in repose or
Sin a laughing mood, she was a girl whom men
looked at with admiration. She knew it. And
she felt that such admiration was her due.
There was almost no likeness between her
s. and her mother: a faint general resemblance
only, an indication in facial expression of the
same strength of character. But Mrs. Bodkin
was not only short as compared with Elma, she
was dark and -on the glum and gloomy side.
ut There could never have been much brightness
rst in her, Gordon had long ago concluded, though
ns as a girl she may have been good-looking. The
lines of her face were strongly marked, the whole
countenance suggested all unbending, relentless dis-
position. He knew she had the reputation of being
a just woman; she was considered honest in all her
business relations. But he had never heard anyone
speak of her as kind. For the softer sentiments ahe
did not appear to have much use.
Yet, years ago, this woman had married a
minister of religion, an English nonconformist
I missionary who had come out to Jamaica to save
the souls of the people and had lost his heart,
or at any rate his freedom, to one of them.
How had this happened? No one exactly knew;
what was known was that a year after his mar-
riage he was dead, leaving a baby in arms. Re-
port said he had died mad; some of his con-
temporaries insisted that his marriage had been
an act of madness and could be explained only
in this way. He had lived on this same pro-
Sperty, though in a house which had been torn
down to give place to the one in which Elma
and her mother resided now. The property had
belonged to Mrs. Bodkin's father: it had once
formed part of a great demesne that had long
been owned by white men, influential Jamaica
landowners, from whom Mrs. Bodkin could claim
lineal though not legitimate descent. This
larger property surrounded Mrs. Bodkin's farm
of eighty acres, on three sides, and was still in
Possession of her late father's brother. But this
I gentleman Mrs. Bodkin but rarely saw. She had
not spoken to him for years.
Queer rumours were circulated about this
property, which was perhaps one reason why only
that portion of it inherited by Mr. Bodkin had
ever been detached from the rest. All over
the district the belief persisted that it was haunt-
ed, that very peculiar things had happened there,
the work of strange, powerful necromancers of
African origin. And whites as well as blacks
believed this story. It was a sort of legend
handed down from the earlier times.
"Why didn't you tell me last night that
you were going to Kingston today?" asked James
as he sat down; "I would have driven you over
in my car."
"I didn't know, until early this morning
ning that I was going," answered Elma. "A friend
and called here and asked me to go with her; and
her horses are very good. But a car! I have
never driven in pne yet. I hope they are safe."
"They are, if the driver is careful. Next tini
you are going to town you must let me know, Elma "
"Would that be quite right, Mr. Gordon?" the
voice of Mrs. Bodkin broke in. "A young gentle-
man and a young lady going all the way to the city
by themselves? What would people say?"
"Oh, people!" exclaimed Elma impatiently.


~ --1~-1


But James caught the woman's point of view.
"0O course you are right, Mrs. Bodkin," he agreed;
"I had not thought of that."
There was sincerity in his voice, and Mrs.
Bodkin heard it. The hard lines of her face re-.
laxed a little.
Her daughter noticed this, but noticed also that
her mother looked as though she had something
more to say. and that of no particularly pleasant
description She made, involuntarily, a slight ges-
ture of anno..vance with her head. She had known
for some time her mother's objections to these fre-
quent visits of James Gordon; the elder woman had
actually spoken to her about them. And now, Elma
feared, she was going to speak about them to James
himself There was a warning of that in Mrs. Bod-
kin'6 attitude. in the very fact that she had deliber-
ately waited for the young man tonight in the sit-
ting rou-u. a thing she had never before done.
She had met him there, yes, on two or three
occasions: but on these occasions she had come into
the room. spoken politely, and then had soon with-
drawn. To-night it was different, and hearing the
flat, heavy tlnes of her voice, Elma felt that her
mother wau. going to be very disagreeable.
An angry look came into her eyes; her will was
rising in its strength to match her mother's.
"I think we'd better sit in the garden, Jim,"
she suggested. "it is cooler out there."
"Right-.'" he agreed quickly, "I'll take two
"Please: don't leave the room, Mr. Gordon,"
said Mrs. Bodkin definitely, "I have something
to say tlhit I would rather say in here."
"Somnethinig nice, mamma?"
hiMr. Budkin looked her daughter straight
in the eyes: she had recognized the tone.
"Sqmething you both must hear," she re-
plied. ind there seemed a slightly ominous in-
flex.i-n ulf hlir voice, "before it is too late."
Jairn# C;ordon stared at the woman. There
wa ino miistaking her attitude now. His con-
versation ., but a while before with Hamilton
caine \i\lly to his mind.
'Well. let's hear it then," said Elma, settling
herself defiantly in her rocking-chair; "though
I hrper it i-'n't going to be a sermon."
"I-Mr -" don, why do you come here so
"\Wi.hy. -iely, Mrs. Bodkin, to see Elma! We
are gpii'id friends, and I like to talk to her, and
she hllt no objection, I hope, to me. You too--
I lihr.e yoll don't mind my coming?"
"I do "
"Ma lIIinia:"
"That means," said James quietly, but with
a fate ilu-hed crimson, "that you are telling me
nor to <-iiie here again." He rose as he spoke.
"It means that, yes, unless-but it's no use
talkin- I",olihness. Let me explain, Mr. Gor-
don. I doll't say you have done anything wrong;
but your are young and Elma is only twenty.
And she is not of your class. I hear your father
is an important man in England; that even Mr.
Hamiltiri mni here was little more than his un-
derling "
"He is my father's friend," interrupted James
-"S you say, just as Elma is your friend ed
and you are Elma's fiend. But you are white
and Elma is coloured; you are a big gentleman,
and she is a simple Jamaica country girl. A friend-
ship 1hle this isn't good for both of you: it isn't
good for her. so it had better stop before it goes too
"Do you think I am a child, mamma, that you
ran pick my friends and companions for me?"
stormed Elma, springing out of her chair and facing
her mother with flashing eyes. "And why didn't
you say all this to me to-day instead of waiting till
James came round to be insulted in your own
"Because you wouldn't have told him what I
said, Enma. and because this is the best way.' Peo-
ple know that Mr. Gordon is coming here almost
every night now. They are talking about it--"
"Let them talk!"
"And let your name be scandalised? I didn't
bring you up for that."
"'But can't a girl be friendly with a gentleman
instead of with one of the common brown men about
this district without her name going to pieces?"
"No. Not as you and Mr. Gordon are friendly;
not when he is a society gentleman and you are just
Elma Bodkin."
"But my father was a minister, and an English-
man like James. And I don't consider myself less
than James. and he doesn't think I am his infer-
'Of course not!" James exclaimed warmly.
"Surely you never thought that, Mrs. Bodkin?"
"I knew that Elma was counting on her father,
and trying to forget me," remarked Mrs. Bodkin
with an acid smile; "but you couldn't forget me,
Mr. Gordon, and you couldn't think as much of my
husband as his daughter does. Because he was an
Englishman like yourself doesn't mean a thing to
you; he was not of your station.

"But I don't see why we should go on talking
all night," she concluded. "I have said all I have to
say. You mustn't come back here anymore, and
Elma mustn't meet you. You both understand?"
"I will meet whom I want to meet, even if I
have.to leave your house, mamma!"
"But Mr. Gordon won't want any trouble and
scandal, even if you wish to turn worthless," as-
serted her mother quietly. "Besides, if you left me
to go to him for that can be only what you mean
-I would follow and punish him. Don't think I am
making fun! If you care for him at all, and he care
for you, and for himself, you both had better let
this business end right here!"
Her face had grown stern and menacing; she
spoke as one convinced of her power to do what she
said. 'She was now on her feet. Seeing her thus,
looking implacable, almost evil, James felt suddenly
frightened. A sinister aura seemed to envelop this
Elma also gazed at her mother astonished. Into
her memory there rushed certain hints and old
remarks she had heard about this dour, determined
parent. She knew that her mother was feared by
many, that some ancient Negroes on the great plan-
tation adjoining spoke of her with awe and dread as
one possessing powers more than human. And now

Photograph by Corinald
RS. LUDLOW MOODY, who takes a keen, intelligent interest
ucation. One of her recreations is racing. She is an excell
judge of horses

her mother was claiming this herself. That was the
only possible explanation of her words.
But Elma had no lack of high courage and reso-
lution. Whoever else feared her mother, she did
"I am not going away to Jim, and you know it,"
she snapped. "I am not that sort, and he is not that
sort. But you will find that you can't bully me. You
had better go now, Jim," she went on, turning to the
young man. "I never thought my own mother would
insult you in her own house."
"I didn't mean to insult you, Mr. Gordon, but
plain speaking is better than trouble," said Mrs.
Bodkin. "And I can scent trouble a long way off."
"Come, James, I'll walk to the gate with you.
I don't suppose that that can mean any 'trouble,'"
scoffed Elma angrily.
Gordon took up his hat, bowed politely to Mrs.
Bodkin, and turned towards the door. He felt out-
raged, humiliated. Class distinctions ordinarily
meant nothing to him; but now he was conscious of
feeling that a woman who might have been an upper
servant in his father's house, but nothing more, had
so far forgotten herself as to treat him with unl.lar-
donable rudeness. As he passed through the d,.:-.r
he had a sense of personal degradation. He did not
even want Elma to accompany him to the gate.
But she did, banging the sitting-room door be-
hind her in her rage, though knowing well that her
mother could and would watch them from one of
the windows.
"Jim," she whispered at the gate, "don't mind
what my mother said. We will meet again soon."
"I have been humiliated enough, Elma. I have
no desire for any repetition of to-night's business."
"There won't be any. I am going to talk to her.
After all, my life is my own, even if she is my

mother, and we are not doing any wrong. I will
write you. Perhaps I'll go to Kingston next week,
"I will write you. Just wait a little, and don't
forget me. Kiss me goodnight now, darling."
"Your mother is probably watching us."
"I know she is, but I don't care. I am going to
have it out with her presently. Let her see what she
likes; I don't care."
She put her lips against his and kissed him:
she remained at the gate for a minute or two
watching his receding figure followed by his dog.
She would have wept for very rage, but thought that
tears might be mistaken for weakness. And to show
weakness now, she felt, would be a fatal mistake.


E LMA walked back into the house with lifted head
and lips pressed tight. She was determined to
defy her mother and talk to her as equal to equal; she
would not allow her whole life to be mapped out
for her by one who evidently was a slave to the
opinions of other people.
Mrs. Bodkin was waiting for her, having
resumed the chair which she had occupied be-
The eyes of both met with a challenge. Ehna
took the first word.
"So you have driven him away-the only
decent friend I have ever had in this wretched
"Sit down, Elma, if you are going to talk:"
"I prefer to stand."
"I don't see why I should answer you, Elma;
but since you say I drove Mr. Gordon away, I
will ask you to remember that he went of his
own accord. It is funny you didn't notice
"Look here, mamma, it's no use beating
about the bush. You can't get out of what you
did by saying that Jim cleared off because he
wanted to. You insulted him, and he couldn't
do anything else. And I want to tell you this--"
"Before you tell me anything you might be
sorry for, will you tell me why, when I asked
him why he came here so often, he only said
it was because you two were friends?"
"Well, what else was he to say?"
"Men don't go to see a girl every night be-
cause they are friends, Elma, and you should
know that, even if you are very young. They
are either in love with the girl, or they mean
something bad. But your friend didn't say he
was in love with you, didn't you notice that?"
W\'ell. lie is."
"Perhlia-. But lie wouldn't say it. Why?"
"Does a man blurt out that he is in love
with a woman before everybody, and when he
is being treated like a dog?"
S "I am not everybody; I am your mother. I
made him see as plain as I could that there was
i only one justification for his coming here night
in after night; but he wouldn't tell me that he
ent loved you. Has he ever told you so?"
"That's my business."
"And mine. So he has told you he loves
you, or made you believe that? But he has never
proposed to you, or you would let everybody know
it. What is that man aiming after, Elma?"
"Mamma, you make me tired! A young man
may be in love with a girl and yet take some time
to propose to her: surely you know that. But if
you drive and worry him he mayn't say a word.
Perhaps Jim knew you were trying to bully him
into proposing to me right away, and that would
offend any man. But I won't have it. Jim is the
only man that I like in this whole parish; he is a
gentleman, and the rest of the young men about here
are ordinary and common-I hate them. He loves
me and I love him, and "
"And you would rather have him as a 'sweet-
heart' than have one of the others as a husband?"
"I wish you wouldn't be low. Jim couldn't
think of me as a 'sweetheart.' Did my father, who
was an Englishman"-and here Elma drew herself
up proudly-"take you for a sweetheart? He mar-
ried you, didn't he?"
"You forget who you are speaking to!" said Mrs.
Bodkin imperiously. "Besides, I was never like you.
What you would do now, I wouldn't when I was a
girl: I had too much sense and too much pride. I
thought more of myself than you seem to do."
"Well, if you could get an Englishman to marry
you, I don't see why 1, whose father was one, should-
n't do likewise. I am a lady. I am educated. I am
not dark like you. There is nothing wrong with
me. Yet you talk a lot of nonsense and act in a
highhanded sort of fashion because I am dependent
on you. But please remember, mamma, I can work:
I can go to Kingston and work, and if you drive me
too far, that is what I will do."
"So you are not so sure, after all. that this
gentleman would marry you," replied .Mrs. Bodkin



dryly. "I thought so. But since you have brought
up your father, maybe we had better talk this affair
right out to-night. Your father wasn't what Mr.
Gordon would call a gentleman, Elma; he was a very
simple man who came out here to work among the
poor. I was a choir girl in his little church. I
helped him ."
"And you married him," was the sarcastic an'd
spiteful interruption.
"And he married me. But a lot of people didn't
like it. And after six months he didn't like it either,
"I am not surprised, if you tried to treat him as
you treat me. People don't like to be bullied."
"You are the only woman who could dare speak
to me like that and escape," said Mrs. Bodkin softly,
but with a sort of hiss that startled even the angry
Elma. Again her mother was looking dangerous.
"Your father wanted, to leave me, you under-
stand?" Mrs. Bodkin continued brutally. "He want-
ed to go back to his people in England. That would
have meant that you had been deserted by your own
father. He died before he could go."
"You mean to say you killed him?"
The question was asked in
a tense and vibrant voice. It was
forced out of Elma by the warn-
ing, menacing expression on Mrs.
Bodkin's face and the suggestion
of her words. At that instant it
flashed into the girl's mind that
her mother might be actually a
dangerous woman. But Mrs. Bod-
kin only smiled.
"He went off his head and
died. The doctors knew that. It
was better like that than his go-
ing away and deserting me, for
then, when you were a young
lady, people would talk about you
as the girl her father didn't want
to have."
"He would have sent for me
if he was in England," replied
Elma confidently and with pride.
"I would have sent him my pic-
ture, and he would have been
glad to have me with him."
"Perhaps, Elma, I think,"
the woman continued, as though
talking to herself, "you are right
about that. Maybe it would have
been much better for you if he
hadn't died; but I didn't think
so at the time. At any rate I
never at any moment wanted him
to die, I only wished him to re-
main; yet he was willing to leave
you, a baby in arms, with me,
and go away. But he died."
"How did he die?"
"He killed himself."
"My God!"
Elma had collapsed into a
chair. This was the first time
she had heard how her father
had actually died. A minister of
the gospel and a suicide! A
minister of the gospel and yet one
who, according to her mother, had
wanted to desert both his wife
and her baby. If all this was
known, what a disgrace it must
As if divining her thought
her mother said quietly: "No one
but me knew that he had killed
himself. They said he had had
an accident, falling over one of MRS. R. L. KIRI
these precipices about here from
his horse. He lived a day or
two after his fall. Only I knew the truth."
"Maybe you drove him to his death," wailed the
girl, willing in her grief to find someone upon whom
she could vent her bitter feeling.
"Maybe I did," came the startling response, "al-
though I did not directly kill him. Why do I tell
you this? Because I want you to understand that
even though I love anyone I won't let them do what
they like with me; and if anyone-like this Mr.
Gordon-injured me or you, he couldn't escape so
long as he was in Jamaica. I can- strike back, Elma,
and then God help the man or the woman that I
strike. Do you understand me, girl? Do you un-
"Yes," cried Elma, springing up with blazing
eyes and facing her mother. "I understand enough
to know why some people about here whisper about
you and think you are a damned old witch. You
killed my father, and now you are threatening my
lover and me. But you are a fool. These are not
the days when you can frighten people; you wouldn't
have been able to frighten my poor father now.
What a hell of a life he must have led with you be-
fore he died!"
Her mother listened to this terrible diatribe in
silence. When Elma stopped she resumed her re-
marks as though nothing particularly unpleasant
had been said.


"Your father left you no money; he had none.
But this place was mine: my father had willed it
to me."
"He was a white man, wasn't he? Isn't it funny
that you should have had a white man for a father
and a white man for a husband, and yet object to
my marrying a white man?"
"I have no objection, Elma; it is the white man
who objects; only you won't see it. But, as I was
saying, when your father died I had to bring you up.
There was this little property; I cultivated it; I
bad to borrow money on it for that at first. I pros-
pered. I had no friends, but I could manage without
them. I sent you to good schools, Elma, the best in
Jamaica. You know that."
"Yes; that at least you did. And I met many
nice girls there, and we were very friendly. But
whom have I met here? I have asked you to send me
to England, and you have only hummed and hawed
about it. And now when I have a young man, some-
body like myself, who is fond of me, you are rude
to him and you drive him away. Is that fair to me?"
"I was afraid to send a girl like you to England,
Elma; you see, I know your disposition. You want

Photograph by
KWOOD, with her children Caroline and Francis. They live i
Bobbie, husband, and father-a real live-wire

to be a great lady, and you haven't enough money to
be that, though you are not poor. You don't want
to mix with girls and young men of your own class,
and you might bring back with you from England
some so-so husband who might live on you, and des-
pise me, and who might leave you after a while, or
take to drink."
"Or who might do nothing like all that! What
a woman you are mamma! I tell you, you are living
in the past. And what you are saying is only non-
"You are well educated. You say you can speak
and write French, and know Latin, which was more
than even your father did.. You play well. You
read books that mean nothing to me. But for all
that you are a fool, Elma, if you can believe that a
young man like this Mr. Gordon would marry you
and take you into English society. I would still be
here, you see, even if he was always satisfied with
you. He couldn't forget me."
"Well, you won't live forever," replied Elma
brutally, disgusted with her mother's adamantine
objections and determined to fight for her own hand.
Her mother looked at her steadily for one full
minute before she replied. And then it was only to
say "good night."
"I am not giving up Jim," her daughter flung
back, as she went to her own apartment, which was


separated by the length of three rooms from that
of her mother." "Get that into your mind. I am
not giving him up."
Mrs. Bodkin made no reply.


Two hours later, at midnight, utter silence brood-
ed over that wild and precipitous countryside. ,No
one passed along the road that ran in front of the
little cottage where Elma now lay fast asleep, worn
out by the emotions she had experienced that even-
ing; in every peasant's hut the lights had been long
ago put out; great stars shone above, but there was
no moon, and the spreading branches of trees, the
close-planted stems and long-drooping fronds of the
banana, intensified the dense obscurity. Even the
dogs, so vocal at night seemed all to have fallen
In the Bodkin cottage there was darkness. But
its owner had not retired to bed. An hour ago, any-
one watching her would have noticed her doing a
strange thing. From the bottom of an old trunk
she had drawn a long blood-red robe which had pro-
bably lain there undisturbed for
years. It had lain amongst
bunches of the native coos-coos
grass which had been from time
to time renewed and which effect-
ually prevented moths and other
insects from destroying the
clothes hidden away in the trunk.
The robe was a sort of flowing
shroud, and when Mrs. Bodkin
drew it over her head and let it
fall, it covered her from neck to
feet completely and swept the
ground: evidently it had not been
made for her but for a taller wo-
man; evidently it was very old.
But the material was tough and
had lasted, and in this robe, in
the light of her kerosine lamp,
she looked weird and startling,
as though she were covered with
a garb of blood.
From the trunk also she took
a turban of scarlet; this she laid
upon her bed. Then she sat upon
the bed to wait and to think, and,
judging from the expression on
her face, her thoughts were far
from happy ones.
Elma had never seen this
dress, this turban; she had been
told that the trunk contained
odds and ends of rubbish, and her
mother pretended that the key
was mislaid somewhere. Elma
had shown no curiosity about the
trunk. And even had she seen
these things she would have re-
garded them as a masquerade
dress of some former time.
Twenty years had passed
since Mrs. Bodkin had last at-
tired herself in them; she remem-
bered that distinctly. Elma had
then been a baby but three
months old. What she had done
on that distant occasion, when
clothed in the apparel of a West
African priestess of an awful cult,
she was about to do again. But
with a difference. For now she
was going not to her father's
burial place but to the grave
Marcus Adams in which had been buried, so
in Jamaica, with long ago, her daughter's father.
The man who had been a minister
of religion, but who had died by
his own act. And she had not now the intention
to go as far as she had gone that night some twenty
years before. Now she was taking no final, irre-
vocable step.
The little clock on the shelf above her bed rang
out the hour in twelve quick, brassy sounds. The
woman rose slowly, heavily, as though fearing
what she had willed herself to do. But her will was
stronger than her reluctance. It overbore every other
impulse save that which drove her to the execution
of her aim.
She opened quietly the backdoor of her room,
and stepped out into the yard. In that darkness her
red robe was black. In another minute or two she was
among the long-leaved banana trees and moving with
swift certainty towards her goal. The ground sloped
downwards, but not so steeply that it made walking
difficult for her. She knew just where, on the borders
of the land of the great estate which her farm abutted,
and from which it had been carved, her husband's
bones reposed.
For in these modern times, as in days long
past, men and women are still often buried in their
own land in the Jamaica countryside.
She came to the spot in a little while; it was
marked by a low tomb of brick, now browned by
the weather; into the surface of this tomb a small
(Continued on Page 21)




The Oft-told Tale in one of its

Humbler Settings, and one of

its more Humorous Tellings.

HIER name is Melinda. Her donkey is Alice; for
the strange thing is that all Jamaica donkeys
seem to be called Alice, whether female or male.
Why this should be so nobody has ever yet been
able I., explain.
Melinda is the sole proprietress of her ass, and
this al'nie stamps her as a lady of some position in
her neighbourhood. And so she is, for she also pos-
sesses land to the extent of four acres, with good
soil. und io this property is a small house which has
long sinci risen to the dignity of a corrugated iron
roof and wooden flooring, whereas most of the other
habitation' around are thatched.
Melinda's father was a hardworking, saving type
of man. a widower who had only three children, a
very small family considering the average Jamaica
birthrate Two of these were boys, and he provided
for them by making one a chauffeur and the other
a tilior These learnt their callings in town, and
the chauffeur was helped by his father to purchase
a seiciind-hand car with which he set up in business
on his ~nii account; the tailor, his period of apuren-
tiwe-hil and journeymanship over, opened a small
shop ln her he makes garments that fit indifferently
but are Ionsidered quite in the fashion by those
who patronise him. Melinda remained at home in
Ihe villa-e to help her father, who, in his will, be-
queathld to her his property and a few pounds in
cash HeI brothers felt that they should have been
left a share in the property, but did not make much
ofa ; ns about this, as the old man had not done
su hidly1 by, them. They were not prepared to return
to the country either, they preferred the long streets,
Ihe inr..e.. ihe bustle, the glare of lights of an urban
ceiitri. while Melinda only liked the town for a fort-
nightly visit or so.
And that was a business visit. Rising early on
Satun day morning, before the sun had yet surged up
irom below the eastern horizon, she would load her
paniers with the foodstuffs she had gathered late
on the previous evening, and then place the paniers
on hur fLithful ass. With the aid of some reliable
hired labour she grew yams, cocoas, sweet potatoes;
red peas also, with okras, escallion, pears, ackees
and other local edibles. More, she had not less than
one acre uf land in coffee, for hers was a hill district.
She al was said that the coffee was her bank, by
which shi- meant she could count upon it to bring
her in a tidy sum of ready money when the berries
were ready for picking; this money she would put
away to pay her taxes, to improve her property, and
gEncrally to fall back upon at any time of emer-
gency. She loved of an evening, when the coffee sea-
son wa'- approaching, to stand at the threshold of
. er littler house and watch and smell the wonderful
white blosjoms with which her trees were covered.
Then indeed she felt she was her own woman, and
could complacently dream of the future she had plan-
ned ftr herself-for Melinda is a girl with vision,
anrd also a girl with character.
Thu vegetables Melinda takes to town on one of
her periudical visits may be worth five or six shill-
ings at mn.st, and the journey in front of her is
at Ipast twelve or thirteen miles. But it is mostly
downhill. and it will not be made alone. There are
Always lther persons going to Kingston from her
village. there will be others, strangers, whom one
will meet upon the road. Many of these will carry
baskets of provisions balanced on their heads, not
hatne yet risen (nor being likely to rise) to the
proud possession of a donkey; and one may go along
with these, the donkey-folk driving their beasts be-
fore them. holding them by means of long ropes.
Starting before the heat becomes unpleasant, antici-
pating the pleasures of bargaining and selling, having
in mind the making of small purchases of things
which cannot be obtained in the village, chattering,
laughing. picking up friends as easily as one may fall
off a log. the journey will be of the nature of a picnic.
And Melinda is strong, healthy, and only twenty-
two. So she loves this walk to the town.
Her great-grandfather was a white man, though
she does not know of this. The fact is proclaimed in
her nose and lips and longish hair, and a similar
mixture of blood is advertised in many others
of Melinda's order of society. She has no children;
her father was very strict with her, and her own
ambitions jumped with his ideas of propriety. Had
it not been so, she might at any time have presented
him with an unexpected grandchild, for if love can
laugh at locksmiths, it surely can shriek with wild
merriment at stern parents in the Jamaica country-


side. But Melinda, at quite an early age, made up
her mind to become a marry-ed woman, and this for
quite practical reasons. For Melinda is a practical
First, she knew she would have property and
that she herself was legitimate; and she had noticed
the deference paid to wedded couples by those in
her village who had never aspired to the dignity
of "the ring." Always the woman was addressed as
Mrs. So-and-So: never did anyone take the liberty,
in public, of forgetting the title. A marry-ed woman
-as the people pronounced the term-was a lady of
sorts and equal in some social respects to the Gover-
nor's wife herself, being equally married. A high
plane of social equality was thus attained through
marriage, and Melinda coveted that. Then, she knew
that she was good-looking, attractive, and she put a
high value upon herself.
Also, Melinda had been a Sunday-school scholar
and was now a member of the church which was
quite close at hand, say about a mile away. She
would walk to that church on a Sunday, arriving
there unexhausted and still fresh-looking, sing
loudly, meet her friends in the churchyard after ser-
vice for a little talk, and might even exchange a
word or two with the young English clergyman who
knew that members like Melinda were well worth
encouraging. She was therefore in religion, in society,
and that was a status greatly to be prized. She felt
that she was saved, was by no means a sinner, and
she had determined upon remaining saved and sin-
less. True, her warm blood grew hot at times and
the instinct of motherhood stirred in her when she
saw some girl with a baby, who seemed so proud
of it. But she told herself that she could wait,
though some of her friends marvelled at her re-
straint. Some, of course, believed that she was not
half so good as she pretended to be.


Melinda remembered today a conversation she
had had when going down to market about a month
ago: as a matter of fact she had never forgotten it.
One of the women from the next village had asked
her casually:
"Y'u have a sweetheart yet, Melinda?"
"But don't y'u is over twenty and have plenty of
of lan'?"
"Yes; but I waiting for Mr. Right; when he
put the ring on me finger I must feel that I love him
an' he love me."
"Y'u ambitious," laughed the other woman; "but
suppose Mr. Right don't come?"
"Then I will remain single."
"An' don't have a young man an' a chile?"
"No! What I doing with them if I don't mar-
This brought a hearty peal of laughter from all
the folk who heard her, a shout which so startled
the donkeys that one of them took it as directed
against his well-known dilatory habits and so started
to trot down the hill suddenly, to the great annoy-
ance of his mistress. Inevitably the other animals
followed suit, hence there was much straining and
tugging at ropes, a bracing back of female human
forms, shrill cries of "beast, beast!" intended to
warn all persons coming in the opposite direction
to make clear the path of the errant creatures who
acted so foolishly that they demonstrated once again
that they possessed no souls.
There had been a young man among the small
crowd, a countryman on his way to Kingston to see
some friends. He of course carried nothing: it would
have been shocking for a man to carry provisions to
the market to sell. He wore heavy shoes, whereas
nearly all of the other persons walked barefoot,
though there was none of them who had not a pair of
shoes at home. He was dressed in a suit of hot, cheap
tweed and a jippa-jappa hat; in complexion he was
nearly brown. He had glanced keenly at Melinda dur-
ing the conversation just recorded. He noticed that
she was wearing leather-soled canvass slippers and
that her sentiments fitted in, so to speak, with her
superior footwear. He and she were the only two non-
barefoot people in that travelling crowd. That alone
stamped them as of a higher social position, almost
indeed as of a higher creation. And evidently, from
what had been said, this girl was a person of sub-
-When the donkeys had been brought to their
usual walk, the dilatory one now being inclined to
compensate itself for its unusual exertion by standing
still, this young man called out to Melinda:
"Young lady, I would like to make your acquain-
"Hi!" shouted the young woman who had been
talking to Melinda, "dis look like something. De
young gentleman fall in love already."


"The man is marry-ed, can't you see," sniffed
Melinda. "He only want to make a joke."
"I don't married," retorted the young man in-
dignantly, as though marriage was a sort of offence
that should never be expected from him."
"You mean to say that you don't married at your
age?" scoffed Melinda.
"Well, what about yourself?" queried the young
"I am a woman."
"Man is man an' woman is woman," replied the
young man, as if that obvious fact settled all ques-
tions. "I live at Smith Hill, an' if you doubt what
I say, go there an' ask about me."
"Smit' Hill is near to where Melinda and we
live," said one of the ladies of Melinda's village:
"we live at Jackass Gap."
"Then I coming there next Sunday," the gentle-
man asserted with finality.
"Hi, Melinda," the chorus went up, "y'u get a
nice beau: when de wedden to tek place?"
"If him don't married, him have a girl," said
Melinda positively, "an' I wouldn't be number two,
even if a wife."
"I don't have a girl," the young man assured
her, and this was true, for he had had, not one, but
two. But that had been as long as three months
ago, and in the interval he had been thinking of get-
ting married. After all, he was attached to a church
and was generally regarded as a good example to
the other fellows; he owned property too, and at
thirty the call of respectability was strong. But
Melinda shook her head at him derisively, yet moved
herself closer to where he walked. He also drew
near to her. They were going side by side when
they reached that part of the road where he could
take a 'bus down to Kingston, and by that time it
had been arranged that he should go to see her on
the following Sunday.
He had gone, seen, and had been satisfied. A
girl who owned some land, who had a donkey, whose
brothers were independent and town-dwellers, and
who had extraordinarily virtuous notions, was indeed
a pearl of great price. He told Melinda what he
thought of her in no uncertain words. But she
wanted more courting, and so she chaffed him and
still insisted that he was a man with a girl, or per-
haps many girls.
But she made him understand that she expected
him next Sunday.
On her way to market this morning she had
made up her mind to visit a lady (a small dress-
maker) she knew in Kingston, to enquire the price
of a wedding dress. The lady had been reasonable--
she knew that Melinda could not be cheated. There-
fore Melinda had practically decided to say yes to-
morrow to Sanford (which was the Christian name
of her suitor) when he should once again insist that
they get marry-ed. She agreed already that a
month of courting was a long time, almost unprece-
dented in fact. But then, she iImluuded. she was no
ordinary girl, while he was quite obviously a most
superior gentleman.
She had sold all her provisions quickly, had fin-
ished her other business. Now she would hasten
back home. Her donkey, no longer loaded down
with weight of food, would carry her on its back:
it had rested and eaten, and it knew what was ex-
pected of it on such occasions as this. She might
meet some tourists on the road who might wish to
take her photograph: well, she would let them. Tour-
ists were amusing people without much sense, and
sometimes they were generous: sometimes they paid
maidens to pose for them. But she would ask for no
payment; she would leave that to them, though if
they wanted to take pictures of people they should
clearly expect to pay for the privilege. She would
arrive at home late, tired, but happy that she had
done well with her goods, and happy also in the
thought that her lover was coming to see her on
the following day.
He had no girl now; she had persuaded herself
of that. She did not doubt that he had had some
in the past. But that was to be expected: after all,
he was a man, not a saint. She could have no re-
gard for a saint. In the future, however, she must
be the only one. At any rate, she hoped so. But
men were men. Still, as for any woman who made
eyes at her husband, only let her know of this and
the lady would be happy if she only lost a couple
of handfuls of hair and escaped with but a few sting-
ing scratches on the face and some other maltreat-
ment. Melinda said to herself that she was not the
sort of girl for anyone to fool with. They had better
look out!

Sunday morning. Sanford is momently expected.
Smith Hill is but a mile away from Jackass Gap,
no distance to speak of; Sanford is walking it over



Photograph by Henry Turner

to breakfast. And Melinda has risen bright and early
to prepare that feast.
Thick chocolate that she herself has made out of
cocoa pods picked from one of the few trees growing
on her land. This will be sweetened with "wet
sugar," sugar not passed through any refining pro-
cess but heavy and moist with molasses, very sweet,
of a flavour dear to those well accustomed to
it and not to be found in any other sort of sugar.
Melinda has also grated a hard coconut, expressed
a thick white liquid from this fine stuff, and poured
this liquid into the chocolate. The chocolate is nowv
delicious and it will be drunk hot. For Sanford
will appear in a couple of minutes at latest.
She purchased salted codfish at a Chinese shop
in Kingston yesterday; a large bit of this she has
roasted and over it has poured some fresh coconut
oil. A roasted yam from her own field is on the
table ; but there is also bread made out of imported
wheaten flour, and two roasted green plantains.
There is an avocado pear too-again the product of
her own land-and a large hot pepper. The meal
is enough for three persons. Two will eat it.
,This breakfast is set out on a table covered with
a white oil-cloth, and there are cheap knives and
forks and spoons on the table, for Melinda eats in
a civilised fashion. You will notice that in this
room (the house has two rooms, the larger one be-
ing subdivided in father's time to serve as sleeping
apartments)-you will notice there is a table crowded
with crockery. Every Jamaica peasant loves to have
plenty of crockery. And Melinda is distinctly above
the status of a peasant. She is a proprietress.
Two wooden-seated chairs are drawn up to the
breakfast board. Melinda surveys her arrangements
and finds them good.
"Well. Melli, here I am." calls out the voice of

PUNCH 1939-40

for you. She seem to like me."
"She say I 'ave selected a splendiferous young
female," spoke Sanford earnestly from the depths of
a full stomach. "She are satisfy, an' so am I."
An' I satisfy too, so there's three of us," laughed
"An' soon there'll be more," said he.
"I suppose so: boys an' girls."
"I hope they'll be clever like me," he said.
"Sure to be," she replied with genuine affection;
"them will be proud of you."
"And me of them. Moresoever, they not going' to
grow up as country bumpkin. They will be highly
"Same thing I say," agreed Melinda with en-
thusiasm. "As soon as the boys them grow up we
will send them to a good school, and when them is big
I will board them with me brother the tailor-he
have more stabilizing than me other brother-an'
we'll make one a lawyer an' the other one a parson.
And the girls will be seamstresses and stenos-to-
"You mean typewriters," he corrected her: "I
thought of that meself."
"We'll 'ave to work hard for them," hinted
Melinda, "but I like work."
"You ever hear that I am idle?" lie demanded of
her, startled into suspecting that perhaps she did not
appreciate his industrious habits as highly as he did
"Never," she asserted, and so emphatically that
he was satisfied. "Everybody speak high about y'u.
I am a lucky girl."
"You talk true," he assured her. "You are
lucky." Then lie added: "And I am lucky too."
"Yes, you are."
"It's not every young man who can be sure that
his wife is a virgin."
"No lie."
"An' you can cook, me son! this roast saltfish
is bunununus."
"I glad you like it, San."
"Kiss me, me love!"
"Wipe you' month first; it have oil on it."
And the mouth was wiped and the kiss delivered.

But does Melinda never think of another side
to the picture? She does; she is not a fool.
That Sunday afternoon after Sanford had left
for his home, a trusted lady friend came over to
see her, a marry-ed woman with two children who
was comfortably off.
"You know, Meli," she said, "people praisin' y'u
to you' face now, and congratulating y'u, but most
of them jalous of y'u in them heart."
"Y'u think I don't know?" replied Melinda com-
placently; "you think I don't see it in their face?
After 1 don't blind! But I like it so, Miriam; it
make me feel importance. I like people envy me,
so long as them can't injure me. There is plenty of
them that would like to teck away Sanford; but look
on them, look on me! They have nothing, an' I
have something, an' a sensible young man like San-
ford would never marry a girl with noten-for he
have something. All he would do with such girl
as those round here who envy me is to give them a
baby; an' if any of them had one for him already,
she would 'ave to support it herself, for I would not
allow me husbandd to support another woman's child.
That's what I say an' that's what I mean!"
Miriam showed open admiration of Melinda's
worldly wisdom. "You have plenty of wit, Meli," she
cried," nobody can fool you."
"Them can try!" scoffed Melinda proudly. "They
'ave to get up soon in the morning' to throw dust in
me eyes.'
"Yet you ask them to you' weddin'," said Miriam;
"I wouldn't bother wid some of them."
"I want them to see me, Miriam, an' them couldn't
see me if they wasn't there. Them goin' to eat me
cake an' drink me wine; but, Miriam, some of them
will 'ave to give me a nice wedding present, an' that
will be more than de cake an' wine."
Miriam nodded agreement and left Melinda's
home more impressed by the genius of her friend than
ever before. Miriam was a simple, unpretentious
creature, which was perhaps the reason why she got
on so well with the worldly-wise Melinda.
Melinda is a happy young woman now: she
has found out that Sanford is nearly as ambitious as
herself. The marriage will take place about three
weeks hence, and when the children are born they
will be dedicated at once to some special calling,
to fit them for which Melinda is determined to save.
She will buy more land; Sanford will have to work
harder than he has ever done before; but the mere
fact that his children are "lawful" will urge him to
do this with willingness and pride. Melinda has no
doubt about keeping Sanford up to the mark; why,
what man would not toil and spin when one of his
children might win to high position in the land?
Meantime there is the wedding-the drive to
the church, the march up the aisle with the little
organ playing grandly and all out of tune; the feast,
the speeches, the flowery congratulations. All this
is almost immediate: already she can hear herself
being addressed as "Mrs." What a title, what a
triumph! Yes, Melinda feels sure that she is lucky.

her lover, and he enters without further preliminary.
"Thought you was never coming. I suppose you
see a pretty girl on the way and stop to talk to 'er."
Thus Melinda pretends to be annoyed.
"You is the only pretty girl I know about here,"
he replies, eyeing the food on the table thoughtfully.
He is hungry. He has come to make love, but also
to eat. The love-making can wait.
But Melinda thinks not. She thinks that love
and chocolate can very well go together. "Why you
so late?" she asks him, as both take their places and
attack the meal.
"I am not late; an' if I had come before you
'wake, I might have wanted to get into the bed with
you," he replies boldly, not shrinking from conversa-
tion that borders on impropriety.
"Y'u facety!" she retorts; "an' you forget that
this is Sunday. Sunday is not the day for talk like
"Well, I say what I mean," mumbled Sanford,
his mouth stuffed with roast yam; "when a man
love a girl this chocolate really nice nobody can cook
it like you, a man can't retain himself from saying
what is in his 'art, give me another piece of roast
fish it really fine an' the coconut oil is fresh an' you
look beautiful an' when we goin' get married?"
"What about the girl y'u meet on the road?"
"Stop talking foolishness an' answer me."
"You really want to get married?"
"Stop asking foolishness."
"Well, whenever you want. Say about six weeks'
"Good. I have nearly everything already, an'
we'll publish the banns. Boy, see me an' you in the
church-how people will envy we! But where we
goin' to live, here or at my place?"
"Here, for you' mother can look after your place



ST was on an afternoon in the month of November
1S29. that an old gentleman was standing on the
extreme end of the Wherry Wharf in Kingston, gaz-
ing intently on a large West Indiamaid that had just
come to an anchor abreast of the 'harf. Mr. Prickley
(such was the gentleman's name) was a fervent ad-
mirer of the beaur ies o. f natu rei: he had regarded them
with a loiini eye from his childhood, through the
front windows ofi ls house, in Church Street, and he
felt himself called upon on this"occasion, by the sub-
lime sereniry ...f the afternoon, to,say something on his
favourite Itppi. Accordingly he assumed his usual
meditanle attitude. that is to say, he thrust his
hands deeply into the pockets of his white jean
trousers, reclined his chin complacently on his breast,
and transferi'Ed his gaze towards his boots. In this
fash.in iie- ihui'ht hlie could best observe the beauties
around hini
S0. Nature' idol of my soul!" he muttered,
"when will Ail. though it boast and vaunt never so
mulh. b ble ibl,- c produce anything like unto thee!
What is the -!rudy of Art, Science, or Philosophy
when iiImpared to ihe study of thy wonderous works
-vain though it be-for who can fully comprehend
Ihee?--and where art thou more beautiful than in
this happy Isle of Springs and Plantains-where
thou shiinrst forth with supernatural splendour eclip-
sing loth mani anid beast in thy wonderful con-
struction? Verily I will write a Poem on Nature,
and will dedicate it to Nature, and will entitle it
'A Natuial Pomn'."
Just then. Ihoever, his attention was attracted
to a boat from tihe ship, which had just touched the
wlharl to land the passengers. As these disembarked,
Mr. Pr lil Ie removed his hands from the depths of
his pu.-ktts. and walking up to the passengers desired
to I:I infurm..-d which of the gentlemen then present
wa' Mr. Whipirny.
My name i. \Whipmy, sir," said a gentlemanly
looking young nman. who might be about twenty-five
year, of age. stepping forward to meet the old gentle-
man "'An excellent opportunity you had there for
quotiihn Shake.peare." observed Mr. Prickley as he
shook handc-. "You hliould have said, "'Tis I, Hamlet
the Dane.' It would have come in capitally. How-
ever, my name "l Prickley-so now that we are
'arnucient,' a-, John Anderson's wife says, I hope we
shall like each other."
M]r. Pri'kley. be it known, was very fond of quo-
tations; but his enemies said he misapplied them.
"I hope so, sir." said Mr. Whipmy, taking off his
hat. in which was secured a letter directed to his
future employer.
"Fur God'"i sake, sir," cried Mr. Prickley, "put
on your har. you must not trifle with our climate;
you know what Don Juan says about the busy sun
that wunln'r t I ur poor flesh alone, bearing reference
most aqsii-rdly to the yellow fever? I forget the
exa(t words hie makes use of; but you ought never
to expose yo.ur uncovered head to the night blast.
You iiunw what Shakespeare says, 'it breeds dis-
lempers in the blood We will go home at once-it
is near silpper-tinim. and you know what the servant
says in Ie .st hi..i for Scandal, 'Madam, the carriage
Th..- ari inae. however, was a very sickly looking
pony tlhaii-. and the animal was quite in keeping
with the set iot. After sundry blows and scrapes on
both sides. Mi- Pir'kley desiring Mr. Whipmy to make
no c,,mplimi ints. and the latter declaring that Mr.
Prickley nimust cet in first, they managed to take their
seals in ile re,'zy vehicle. The pony was then
coaxed fini fln.i--'ti into a favourite pace quite pecu-
liar rt itself. and which was something between a
sholn ti nt rindI lI .u' walk, and after the lapse of
about fii niinittlO ihey were on their way home,
where n- .-l.hil leavii them for the present, to explain
the i l.itrtin in which they stood to each other.
M.i. Whipmy wis descended from a very respec-
table f.iunly v ni hal. for the last two centuries, in-
S habited a lirtle c.trage 'ituat-d in the beautiful
village 'f Ni.rwli.,J. a few mihls to the south of
.. London. Tiey had always enjoyed an ample compe-
Stence uni;l within twenty years of the commence-
I meant of our tale. a' which period the last heir to the
estate found his family increasing to so alarming an
extent that Ihe bIi--ai to be uneasy about the where-
wilhal to support them. It now consisted of fifteen
.: children, and lie thought it time that the two eldest
should beein to do something for themselves. But
how was this to be done? At this stage of uncertainty,
;: the "Times" brought to the notice of the elder Mr.
Whipmy the following advertisement:-
"WANTED.-For an Academy for young gentle-
men in Kingston. Jamacia, A respectable young
man. who understands the French language. A
i::" single man would be preferred. Salary liberal.
Apply to Mr. John Chick, 206, Leadenhall Street."
"Here's the very thing that will suit you,
A Charles," said Mr. Whipmy the elder, jumping from
his chair, and seizing his son by the arm, while he


read the paragraph aloud.
And Charles determined on trying his luck. At
three o'clock that afternoon he knocked on the door
of Mr. Chick's office in Leadenhall Street, and was
admitted to the presence of a dry shrivelled old
gentleman answering to that name.
The arrangements were soon completed and
Charles found himself engaged as an assistant at
Mr. Prickley's academy for young -cnileinrmrn in
Kingston, Jamaica, upon terms satisfactory to all
parties. He had a short and very agreeable passage
-of not longer than two months, and landed, as we
have seen, early in November.
"Are you fond of the drama, Mr. Whipmy?" en-
quired Mr. Prickley, as they sat at super on the first
evening of that gentleman's arrival.
"Very," said Charles. "Are not you?"
"Am I not?" said the party addressed, answering
one question by asking another. "You know what
Shakespeare says, 'The play, the play's the thing,
wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King,' I
introduced that passage with great effect in one of
my Lectures on Elocution, which I will show you
tomorrow. But as you say you are fond of the
Drama, I have a ticket for the performance to-night,

A Short but Hectic Stay, in which

a Love Affair, Jamaica Rum, and

Convivial Company, with a queer

way of Paying Bills figured


which is at your service. Will y(u go?"
"With much pleasure," said Charles. "Have
you a good company here?"
"Excellent! they are merely amateurs, but they
really are very good in their way. You know what
Cato says-'Tis not in mortals to command success,
but they'll do more, Sempronius, they'll deserve it. "
"Gloster, my son," then said Mrs. Prickley, a tall
gaunt lady with a slight tendency to moustache on
the upper lip, "order the carriage." Gloster was one
of the Prickley children-the youngest.
The vehicle delighting in this high-sounding title
was soon brought to the front, and presented to
Charles's eyes a c'Iniuririptive-looikliiiie conveyance on
four wheels, seeming for all the world to have been
built upon the foundation of a superannuated dray.
Charles gave his arm to Mrs. Prickley and assisted
her into the 'carriage.' Mr. Prickley followed, then
came Master Henry, and the remaining, seat inside
was occupied by Charles himself, Master Gloster being
perched upon the dicky.
They drove through unpaved streets with filthy
gutters on each side, and rows of shabby houses,
the lower portion of brick, the upper of wood. Each
house presented to the street a large number of
jalousie windows which were once painted green
but now were covered with the dust of years. In-
terspacing these were a few sash windows of glazed
glass. High steps that encroached upon the public-
sidewalk led up to the doors of these houses; light
from kerosine lamps gleamed faintly in their inter-
iors; but the city itself was unlighted, and the
odours that came from the dog that died some time
before, or the cat whose soul had long departed, and
from other offal and refuse thrown into the streets,
were not pleasant to the nostrils of. the stranger.
They had not far to go. The theatre was situated
then, as it is today, to the north of the Central Park:
but in those days there was no Park and the place
was called the Parade. It was but a sandy waste with
a well in the centre from which water was drawn
by means of an iron pump. When the rains des-
cended, it was mud and muck, when the sun had
blazed upon it for a couple of days it was a blinding
wilderness, the dust of which was furiously stirred
and agitated by every passing puff of wind, making
breathing difficult and progress a misery. As a rule
pedestrians avoided it.
To the west of this open space as one looked
north, stood the barracks where were lodged the sol-
diers that garrisoned Kingston. There too stood the
public gallows where criminals were hanged either
for murdering people or for stealing goods of and
above the value of 5/-. On the southern side of this
arid square the Parish Church was built; it could
easily be seen from the theatre, but unlike the thea-
tre was carefully avoided by most of the upper classes
of Kingston when any sort of service was being con-
ducted within. The theatre itself was of wood with a
brick foundation; it was entered by narrow flights of


steps on either side of a flagstone platform upon
which these flights converged.
It was usual for the devotees of the drama to
send their slaves to occupy their seats in this
theatre until their masters and mistresses could put
in an appearance; and as these slaves either had
not much time for washing, or, did not consider a
bathe as necessary to health or beauty, the atmosphere
of the theatre when they, left it on the coming of
their superiors was not exactly as sweet as it might
have been. At any time too the inside of the theatre
was warm, and sometimes infernally hot. But i\lr.
Prickley and his family thought nothing of all. this.
What was heat and a few smells to those so well ac-
customed to them?
"What do you think of our theatre, sir," en-
quired Mr. Prickley after they had been seated for
some time in the box next to the stage-box, a situa-
tion which no earthly inducement could entice him
to give up, inasmuch as it commanded the best view
in the house of the Governor and his lady whenever
they might visit the theatre. "What do you think of
our theatre, sir?"
"Why, really I thought to have seen something
better," said Charles-"besides, the entrance is so
"Dear me, sir! you can't mean it. Why, this
theatre is the admiration of the whole world; you
have, however, seen but one portion of the building,
and that is, to my iluilin-. only an insignificant
part of the whole; however, I am admitted to the
sanctum sanctorum, as somebody calls it, and I will
take you there. Gloster, my dear, remain with your
mamma till I and Mr. Whipmy return." Saying
which the old gentleman led the way through the
stage door and into the interior of the sanctum sanc-
"Ah! my worthy," said Mr. Prickley, addressing
a spare man in the uniform of a brigand, who, he
whispered to Charles, was the manager, "are you
all ready?"
"Not half, sir," replied the manager in a tone of
disappointment. Everything is in a state of con-
fusion one of the gentlemen has been tying the
prompter's legs to a chair, and he in return has thrown
things at the whole company. Mr. Stalky has sent to
say that he has been taken suddenly ill, and won't
be able to-
"Mr. Kettletone," interposed a short heavily built
man, in the costume of an old soldier, "I beg to say
that it will be utterly imipo':1,-ble for me to go on
this evening."
"Why not, my good fricird"" answered the
manager, in a whining conciliatory tone, "You cannot
be in earnest. What is the matter?"
"Why, sir, the book says I an to enter with a
double-barrelled gun, and the property-man has put
a common musket into my hands. It's quite impos-
sible that I can consent to break through the laws
of theatrical regularity in this way; I can't do it--
it would be a violence to my feelings I should for-
get my dignity were I to condescend to it thank
heaven I know more of theatricals than that comes
to. I'm very sorry, sir, but I can't," and he proceeded
very leisurely to divest himself of his heavy red coat,
and cartouch-box.
"Good gracious, Mr. Hightalk!" exclaimed the
manager, "you know the Association cannot afford to
I a double-barrelled gun. I endeavoured to borrow
one from all my friends, but could not get one. How-
ever," he continued, "I think we can obviate the dif-
ficulty what do you say to going on with two
"Excellent idea!" said Mr. Prickley, completely
astounded at the ingenuity of the manager. "Capi-
"Why, yes; I think that would do very well,"
said Mr. Hightalk, resuming-his martial costume.
"Then let somebody go to Mrs. Kettletone at
once, and request her to send my own gun," cried the
manager. "Very great confusion, you see, Mr. Prick-
ley,-here, I say, tell Mrs. Kettletone that she will
find the gun behind the door in my dressing room, but
they will have to look for the ramrod, for the children
were playing with it this morning."
"Oh! never mind the ramrod," said Hightalk,
"only bring the gun."
."There appears to be a noise in front," said
Charles, at the end of this dialogue, "what is the
"No; they're very quiet," replied the manager,
applying his eye to a hole in the drop-curtain, which
had been made for the purpose of affording the actors
a stare at the audience. Perhaps it is the orchestra
that you hear."
"Oh, indeed!" said Charles, as he turned away to
hide his laughter.
"Monsieur Kittletone," said a little Frenchman,
shuffling up just then with a paint brush in one
hand and a small bucket of paint in the other, and
followed by a gaunt spare man, "it villa be quite im-




possib to paint zat virand wisout you call zose ama-
teurs from ze green room zey have take my large
brush away, and wisout it it will not be possib to
conclude!" (Enter from the other side, the prompter,
an old man with a bald pate and a paunch, and
dressed in a suit of black, rather the worse for wear.)
"Mr. Kettletone," said this gentleman-"very sorry
to disturb you; but by the Immaculate! a set
of scamps d--d blackguards, sir have put a
paint brush, full of black paint, into my pocket,"
and he drew the cause of his complaint from its
hiding place, where a quantity of Naar's choice No.
I. had become closely attached to it.
"Zat is the same, Mr. Fortresso, zat is mine,"
cried the little Frenchman, as he snatched his au-
xiliary from the hands of the irate prompter and
marched off, while the latter gentleman and the com-
pany set to at a battle of words with great spirit.
The manager knew not what to do.
"Ring the first bell," said he at last. "Gentle-

after half an hour's conversation they entertained a
mutual liking for each other, despite the unseemly
interruptions of the American gentleman, who ap-
peared to consider it a part of constitutional inde-
pendence to interfere in their conversation, however
little the subject might concern him. "It's dull work,"
said William after a while, "sitting here to see a
piece murdered. Let us take a walk into the open
air. We can always rejoin the family in time to
take them home."
Accordingly he and Charles walked arm in arm
from the theatre, and enjoyed a couple of hours' con-
versation before going back to the others.
On the next morning Mr. Prickley, who was
master over seventy boys, introduced these young
gentlemen to the care of the new teacher. Charles
ran his eyes over the lot, and thought he had never
seen a better collection of well-fed, laughter-loving

"Good morning, Mr. Prickley. You are out early
this morning."
"Why yes and do you know I did not leave
the billiard table till two o'clock this morning?"
"Indeed!" replied Lucy, in a tone of irony which
however was lost upon her admirer, "there are few
young men of your age who could do so much."
"As you say, Miss Lucy, as you say, there are
very few but can you guess the reason for my
coming here so early?"
"No, I cannot," said Lucy indifferently.
"Then I won't tell you that's what I won't
do," said the expert billiard player.
"Then don't," said Lucy, very quietly resuming
her frame of embroidery which she had put aside
on the visitor's arrival.
Henry was taken aback at her coolness. He would
not, however, abandon the course he had already
planned, but proceeded-

A view of Church Street, Kingston, in 1829. Opposite the houses to the left stood the old Wolmer's building. The street was unlighted and un-
paved. It was typical of Kingston's thoroughfares at that period

men, clear the stage." But the clamour still con-
tinued. Charles stood near the prompter's desk, look-
ing on, delighted at the fun, while old Prickley, with
his back to the drop curtain and paying no attention
to the combatants, was wrapped in Othello's address
to the Senators.
The manager fixed the two men who were to
meet as servants in the first scene at either wing,
and, being determined to stop the clamour, gave the
order to ring the second bell, and "up with the cur-
tain." The plot answered capitally at the first
tinkle of the second peal the trumpet ceased, and the
stage was cleared of all but Mr. Prickley who heard
nothing save his own speech. True to his orders,
the scene-shifter drew up the curtain, and there
stood Prickley with his back to an admiring audience,
thundering forth
"What drugs, what charms,
What conjurations, and what mighty magic-
For such- ."
"Ha! ha! ha! bravo!" roared the audience,
while Mr. Prickley, being rendered sensibly alive to
the situation by the shout, bounded off the stage with
the rapidity of lightning.
His habitual good humour, however, would not
allow him to look on his mishap otherwise than as a
good joke, and after the noise had in some degree
abated, he and Charles joined his family in front.
The theatre was nearly full when they returned.
In the box on their left hand sat a Mr. Ashdale, with
his son and daughter, and Mr. Caleb Aminadab Brush-
up, a Yankee philosopher who was then making "A
Tour of the West Indyse," as he sublimely expressed
it, but who was afterwards checked in his philoso-
phical researches, and thrown into goal for debt at
one of the neighboring islands. With this family
Mr. Prickley was very intimate, and there was some-
thing about them that appeared so frank and generous,
that Charles, on his being introduced to them, con-
gratulated himself on this addition to his as yet
very slender stock of Jamaica acquaintances.
William Ashdale was about Charles' age, and

urchins in his life. They did not seem to learn much,
but no one seemed to mind, and Charles soon found
out that he had got into a very easy berth. He had
little to do. Old Prickley was always in good humour.
and full of quotations, and the time passed very
smoothly indeed.
Things went on in this way for more than a
season, when they would go smoothly no longer. Old
Prickley had had several attacks of illness, and began
to entertain serious ideas of giving up the school to
his sons to be continued on their own account. As for
Charles, he (poor fellow) had fallen deeply in love
with Lucy Ashdale. His sense of right, however,
did not fail to point out to him that he was no
match for an heiress, but his flame burnt not the
less intensely on that account. He endeavoured,
therefore, to suppress every manifestation of his love,
but Lucy was not so short-sighted as not to observe
it, and to appreciate his conduct. William also per-
ceived and rejoiced at it, but forbore any conversation
on the subject. In the meanwhile Master Henry Prick-
ley, Mr. Prickley's eldest son, whose hopes of being
accepted led him to aspire to the affections of Miss
Ashdale, was most assiduous in his attention to that
young lady.
He fancied that she must have him, because
there was none better, nay, as good as himself, in
the island, and as he had not penetration enough to
discern that he was the laughing stock of everybody
who enjoyed the pleasure of his acquaintance, he
hugged himself with the pleasing anticipation of de-
ferred joy.
Four months had passed since Charles' arrival,
when the school was transferred to the son and heir
of the proprietor. This gentleman, finding himself
"in a situation" as he expressed it, "to support a
wife," resolved no longer to defer the declaration of
his love. Accordingly, on the first favourable oppor-
tunity, he flew to Miss Ashdale's presence, and de-
clared his seninients in the following pithy dialogue:
"Good morning, Miss Lucy."

"If you'll give me what I'll ask you for, I'll tell
you my reason."
"Ah! indeed?" said Lucy, "then what shall I
give you?"
"A kiss, my dear Lucy," ejaculated Henry,
throwing himself on one knee, as he had often seen
his father do in some quotations.
"A what Mr. Prickley? I hope you have not
taken leave of your senses. Here, James, ask Mr.
"Hold! for mercy's sake," exclaimed Master
Henry, who was thunderstruck at this unexpected
termination of his suit. Then, acting under the in-
fluence of the hereditary theatrical spirit which then
had possession of him, he burst forth-"Miss Ash-
dale, I love you to distraction, I can never be happy
without you-have pity on me, or I die;"-then merg-
ing sweetly from pathos to commonplace, he wound
up ith-"By G-, I counted upon you."
"Mr. Prickley," said Lucy, endeavouring in vain
to stifle her laughter, "I regret it exceedingly, but
the feeling is not by any means mutual."
"Then I must lay me down and die," said Henry,
turning up the whites of his eyes, and opening a
"Die and be d-d, so you don't do it in my house,"
was the answer he received from the voice of old
Ashdale immediately behind him.
Master Henry waited to hear no more, but, bounc-
ing out of the house, was soon far away from it on
his way home.
Lucy and her father enjoyed a hearty laugh at
the young gentleman's expense, and were in the act
of speculating upon the kind of beverage which was
most likely to have operated upon the brain of Mr.
Prickley, junior, when a servant announced that Mr.
Caleb Aminadab Brushup desired to speak to Mr. and
Miss Ashdale.
Mr. Brushup, be it understood, prided himself
on being as long about the delivery of a sentence as
any of his distinguished compatriots. He was par-
ticularly well dressed, and, as he marched rather



than walked inii, the presence of Miss Ashdale and
her father, he drawled out with the most puritanical
"G(ood-mo'rn-itig-Miss-Ash-dale. How-do-you-do
thii-mnurn-iun. Mr. Ashdale?"
"Good mi.orling, sir," said the lady and gentle-
man. wondering what had brought him there.
"Mr. Alid:il We air a great nation, we air,
and n- know tlh value of time. One of our great
writers lnd I believe the United States can boast of
the greatest in the world), says that 'time is money';
now. altlluuhi I despise money, I love time, so the
sooner we come? to the point the better, Mr. Ashdale.
We air a liueinress-like nation, or we could not have
beat your pi'ople in the glorious struggle for inde-
pendence. By the bye, I reckon John Bull won't for-
get that licking in a hurry."
"YI' spike of coming to the point," said Mr.
Ashdale. -with c-mne impatience.
-"Dyrectly. directly we air a patient nation,
we air. we dtiii't trouble anybody, but when we air
troubled. \we air boa-constrictors. That's a figure of
speech. Mr. Aslidale-we air a figgera-tyve nation.
Poweriiil :ncryni_ in figgers of speech, Mr. Ashdale,
and ric, y.rn k rnw I was in the third class of philoso-
phy at New Etim school in the state of New York
befur I fl'unil that out? The editors of our news-
papers. MIr. Ashdale, some of the most wonderful men
in the wrlil. jii- very fond of figgers of speech."
Is th. iit- point to which you alluded, Mr.
Bru:hip ""
*\\ell. I utlcl not, altogether," replied Mr. Brush-
up. wirh a si..'li 'notion' of irony. "I calculate it's
a horse -:i' anmlthor colour, or, as a lady is concerned
1glan'.inc; a Lucy), I should say it was a bird of
another fa-:lher. The fact is, sir, that I love your
daughter! I wasn't a-goin' to go clandestynely to ask
her by li-r-"lf. No! it wouldn't be in the true spirit
of Amerm.an independence. We air an independent
nation. we air. Mr. Ashdale, and we always do things
aboie hb.nril. I love your daughter, and if you air
willing, why. I -hall marry her, and we'll settle in
the Staitei we\ are a patryotic nation, we air, Mr.
Ashdale. and I lIove my country."
"I admire ilie feeling, Mr. Brushup," said Mr.
Ashdale. "mililini. "but I cannot interfere with my
daughter'; thii,.e on so important a point. I will
leave the answer entirely to herself."
"C'mi-n. MisF'," said the philosopher, looking
tenderly tUwardS Lucy, peregrinatee, that is, go a-
head -peak up and name the day I'm willing to
wait if it ain't convenient directly. We air an
obliging nation, we air, Miss very."
"I ft'ar. then. you will have to wait a long time,
Mr. Brlu uip." said Lucy, "and I beg that the sub-
ject may never again be mentioned. I wish you a very
good nimrninu'." saying which, Lucy rose, and having
retired to hide her laughter, shut the door in the face
or the discmfinted swain.
"Why. she don't mean to say she won't have
me!" exclaimed Brushup.
"Well. fromn what has passed," returned Mr. Ash-
dale. with difficulty retaining a serious look, "I really
should be inclined to suppose that such was her mean-
"TThen. -ir. I warn you, that, as an insulted
American. I shall apply to the Consul for redress,"
said the enraged gentleman, squeezing his hat down
upon his head. and squirting tobacco juice.
"N,. don't." requested Mr. Ashdale.
"But I will. though," replied Mr. Brushup, "we
air a hih-mninded nation, we air, and won't submit
to insults I can tell you that, my fine feller." Saying
which. Mr. Brushup walked sharply out of the house,
and speedily took his passage in a vessel for St.
Thomas. having previously laid his case-before the
Consul, who dryly declared he could give him no
sBtisi(tiri.n whatever.

Master Iltiiy, in the meanwhile, guessed that
Luty's fiidness for Charles was the cause of his re-
jection. and liked him none the better for it. He de-
termined. hlolne\vr, not to bear his hard fate quietly,
and c.n~-ilired with his brother Gloster on the best
means ift s(ciuiring the obdurate young lady, and of
revenging himself on his rival. For the first object,
C lobster. in tile 'ull flow of theatrical feeling, suggest-
ed a ladder f ropes and a guitar at midnight; also
that, as a plnihliment to Charles for daring to love
the same girl a. his employer did, an immediate dis-
missal was the bIst plan that could possibly be adopt-
ed Henry .t-rcutid, on the other hand, that this could
not be dune. ,: articles had been already drawn up
and signed
"**Nins-nri-.'" said Gloster, adopting a style of al-
legorv at ,ti''e interesting and pathetic. "There are
more waiv to kill a dog than choking him. We'll
S treat him so hllfish that he will be very glad to leave
us you may depend. Leave him to me, I'll do him."
And so. indeed, he did, for in a couple of weeks
after the i onversation above alluded to, Master Henry
was left without an Assistant, but with as sound a
horsewhipping as he could have desired, if he were
ever so urnreasonable in his expectations.
Charles W'hipmy knew not what course he should
now adopt In a strange country, and with very
little means., lh found he must soon get something
to do or starve True he had friends, but his pride
revolted at the idea of making them acquainted with,

his condition, a step which he considered might
create a suspicion that he had adopted it as a hid-
den means of asking their assistance. In his distress
he remembered the circumstances which first led to
his holding the situation he had just quitted.
"Dear me," he said, "how dull I was not to think
of advertising." Immediately as the thought entered
his mind, he repaired to one of the newspaper offices
of the day.
On his arrival at this Kingston office, which was
situated in a rather humble dwelling house in the
lower part of the city, Charles enquired for the
Editor. He was not there at the moment, but
Charles was told that if he would walk into the next
room he could see the sub-editor.
Charles did as he was desired, and found him-
self in the presence of the short, fat, grey-haired in-
dividual who enjoyed this high-sounding and no
doubt enviable title. He was surrounded by several
gentlemen to whom he was reading an article which
would appear next day.
To him Charles intimated his desire to write an
advertisement, which being done, he paid for it, and
went out to seek lodgings. These he procured at the
Date Tree Hall in East Street, whither he had his
luggage immediately removed.
His advertisement was happily of some service
to him, for on the next morning he received a sum-
mons to wait on a gentleman in Port Royal Street,
who desired to engage a clerk for one of his friends
in an inland parish, some fifty or sixty miles dis-
tant from Kingston. The terms were soon agreed
on, and as Charles was to leave on the next day but
one, he resolved on at once paying farewell visits
to his friends in town.
Lucy was surprised at the news of his intended
departure, as indeed were her father and William.
The latter was very much displeased that Charles
should so prematurely and rashly have resolved to
quit Kingston without previously informing him of
the causes that had led to so untoward an event.
"Why not mention the circumstance to my
father?" said William, as they walked in the garden
on the evening previous to Charles's departure. "If
old Prickley had been in town I am sure he would
not have permitted those youngsters to treat you as
they have done."
"No matter," said Charles, "I am very glad that
I have no more to do with them. I only hope they
may not misrepresent the matter to their father."
"I will take care that they shall not," interposed
William, "but my first question remains unanswer-
"I will tell you," said Charles, "my reason,
though to say the truth, William, I would rather not
answer it. I have received the greatest kindness
and attention from your family since my arrival, and
knowing the heavy debt of obligation which I have
already incurred, I cared not to increase the ac-
"Nonsense, Charles," said his friend impatiently.
"You ought to know more of West Indians by this
time than to suppose that they can extend too much
kindness to a stranger who has always conducted
himself like a gentleman. No, no, the truth is, you
have become tired of us, and do not care how soon
you leave us."
"Nay, William," said Charles quickly, "you
wrong your good sense, and you wrong me in sup-
posing me so ignorant of the value of your friendship
and that of your family as to desire to relinquish it.
Besides, there is one at least"-Charles blushed and
stammered, and could go no further.
"Indeed," said William, "I did but jest; but who
is this one to whom you allude under the mysterious
title of 'one at least'?"
Charles could hold out no longer-he blushed,
stammered, and hesitated, and at length confided to
his friend the feeling entertained by him towards
Lucy, and his despair of their ever being united on
account of the difference of fortune between them.
Charles told his story, as we have said, with much
hesitation and many blushes, and, as he drew to a
conclusion, and related the utter hopelessness of his

situation, "a change came o'er him, and he wept-
he wept," a quotation which Mr. Prickley was known
to have made use of on relating to his family the be-
haviour of a murderer after sentence of death had
been passed upon him, at whose trial Mr. P. was
foreman of the jury.
"Cheer up, my boy," said William, "It will be all
right, I assure you. I know my sister loves you.
Will you be guided by me?"
Charles, who was in raptures at this speech, ex-
pressed his readiness to accede to any plan which
his friend might suggest, and it was ultimately re-
solved that after Charles had been two or three
weeks in the mountains, he should write to old Ash-
dale, and formally propose for the hand of Lucy.
There was little objection to be expected from her
father, as William averred, and he was to use all his
influence to further his friend's interests.
On the next evening but one, Charles, attended
by a servant, drew bridle in front of the residence of
Mr. Peter O'Swilliquer, in the parish of Manchester.
On Charles's arrival, Mr. O'Swilliquer himself
came to the door, and with a strong Hibernian ac-
cent desired Charles to "alight and take a dhrink."
Charles, who was not yet "up to" the customs
of the Jamaica mountaineers, thought the greeting
strange and uncouth.
"Thank you, sir," he said "I would rather not
drink just now. I am afraid I am too heated."
"Thrue for you," answered the employer, "more
by raison you should take it-not to check the pers-
piration. By St. Patrick-and that's a great oath-
you must take a finger or so, if it's only for hospital-
ity's sake; but come along, there's a lot of divils
above stairs that will make you dhrink, or would Ire-
land is not would Ireland, and that's all about it."
Charles, during this speech, took a survey of his
host. He was a muscular and powerful man, some-
thing above the middle stature, and slightly inclined
to corpulency. He had a good natured smile con-
tinually lurking about his countenance, which pre-
possessed Charles in his favour immediately.
He scarcely had had time to form this opinion
before Mr. O'Swilliquer introduced himto the society
of some seven or eight gentlemen from the neigh-
bourhood, who were then in the full enjoyment of a
few dozens of Madeira, together with brandy and
water and some real old Jamaica ad libitum.
Charles's arrival was hailed with acclamation by
the party, and having taken a seat at the table, a
substantial meal was placed before him, which he
quickly consumed.
"Now that you have finished your dinner in a
satisfactory manner," said Mr. O'Swilliquer, "permit
me to observe, that you never will kape your health,
nor your friends in this part of the country, Mr.
Whipmy, without you take a dhrop or two of the
cratur, to keep the aitables in a subservient condi-
"I will take a glass of wine with you with great
pleasure," said Charles, "if you will allow me to do
"It's meself that will be very glad to do that
same, and no mistake," said Mr. O'Swilliquer; "but
that's not letting you off from the chafe conviviality
o' the evening, which is the brandy and water, or
the Jamaiky, as you like, for we put no restraint
whatever on your inclination that way. One of the
two, however, you must take, or the fine is a pint of
salt and water. I'm very sorry, but rules must be
stuck to, my dear sir, rules must be stuck to," saying
which, he nodded to Charles, and tossed off his glass
of wine with evident satisfaction.
One of the party, a short thickly-set Scotchman,
now rose and protested that "the new gentleman
should take a boomper to the health of the host
Charles protested that he was unaccustomed to
liquor, and it would make him ill. They on the
other hand argued that there must be a beginning at
(Continued on Page 7)

The KIngl.lon Th.lrlllre whihl eionod in 18! Ion en illy the r~nlr ire nutn oc oupnied hb tile Wanrd Thhenre. In Ihe
Kingston of its day it was considered quite u handsome building.





' RAKSPEER, one; Scrawney, one; Methistoleh,
'B one."
"Tally!" cried three or four men simultaneously
as Mr. Methistoleh's name rang out, and a transverse
mark across some strokes they had been making
on pieces of paper registered the satisfactory fact
that another five votes had been added to those al-
ready recorded for Methistoleh.
The official presiding over this Jamaica election
continued his work unmoved. He with his assis-
tants was counting the votes that had been polled
that day. There had been an election contest in
the parish between three candidates, a very fierce
fight which was now all over save for the counting.
The prize was a seat in the Legislative Council, a
seat that had been held by Mr. Brakspeer a well-
known local personage, for fifteen years.
But now as the counting of the votes proceeded
it became more and more apparent that Mr. Brak-
speer would come in last of all the three in this
election race. He was three hundred votes behind
Mr. Scrawney, and far, far more than that behind
Mr. Methistoleh, who, already beaming with certain
triumph, and animated by copious drinks of no
light and innocuous liquor, was boasting about
what he would accomplish as soon as he took his
seat in the island's supreme Council-which would
probably be nothing.
At least, those who had opposed him hoped that
it would amount to nothing. For, they argued, if
he did do anything the public would surely pay the
piper. A reflection which showed that they were
rather well acquainted with Mr. Methistoleh.
Mr. Brakspeer knew that he was beaten.
Gradually the crowd that had surrounded him at
eight o'clock, when the counting of the votes com-
menced, bad thinned; now but a few faithful friends
were standing by him, a fe\r friends faithful to the
last. One of these seemed frankly drunk. He had
seen and prophesied the defeat of his candidate
weeks before: and foreseen it, for he said, Brak-
speer had been a fairly honest man as politicians
go, had not promised more than he could probably
perform, and had refrained from speaking in the
Council on questions he did not remotely understand.
This was fatal, of course, especially after a man has
been serving the public for many years. Mr. Robin-
son knew this and said it: the public, he maintained,
had come to regard Brakspeer as a man who could
not or did not talk much, and who therefore kept
silent through folly or subtlety, or maybe both. In-
deed, the rumour had gone around that "he was not
a proper patriot."
Many suspected a sinister subtlety in him.
These said that Brakspeer's reticence had been
prompted by deep-seated plots to benefit his pocket
at the taxpayers' expense. Thus he was a villain;
he was also a man who had no sympathy with the
poorer classes, having never done anything for these
except giving them more assistance than at least
one half of his elected colleagues together, not to
speak of selling them plots of land at a smaller
figure than they could buy them from anyone else in
his parish. He had been willing, too, to listen to his
constituents' complaints, but during the election
campaign which had ended that day it had been
carefully explained by his opponents that this he
had done so as to learn their private business and
to use the information in his own interests. And
Brakspeer, instead of resorting to counter-abuse,
innuendo, rank demagogy; in a word, instead of
adopting the tactics of his rivals, had decided to treat
all that they said about him with contempt, and to
conduct his campaign "like a gentleman."
"Like a gentleman!" his friend Robinson had
exclaimed with disgust when he heard of this deci-
sion. "What is a gentleman doing in politics? And
who made Brakspeer a gentleman anyhow? I am
not a gentleman; he is not a gentleman; none of you
are gentlemen. Who could be a gentleman in Ja-
It should be explained that Mr. Robinson was
speaking to five or six of his friends on the verandah
of his little country house, and that he was, as
usual, a little the worse for liquor. So those whom
he described as non-gentlemen to their faces took
his remark calmly, even though they knew it was
the truth. They realized too that Robinson sincerely
desired Brakspeer to win this election battle, was
probably right in his view of Brakspeer's political
stupidity in resolving upon a decent campaign, and
could always be depended upon to stand by Brak-
speer when many other supporters, seeing him
beaten, would hurry to make terms with the victor,
pretending that they had been (in some myster-
ious secret fashion) all the time on that victor's side.
Mr. Robinson had from eight o'clock been in
the room where the votes polled that day were being
counted. It was midnight now; in another hour the
final result would be known. But none could now
doubt what that result would be.
SRobinson, alone of all his crowd, would not

An Election

Sequel: What

Bralspeer, ar

of Mr. 1

must, though he had be
ly during the past three
he assured himself with
his eyes, when all good
stituency should show i
porters of and believer
greatly strengthened and
he took up again and ag
by the triumphant follow
Every time a "tally" o
Methistoleh, his support
though they had received
Whereupon Robinson w(
stentorian voice-and he
when he liked-
"Brakspeer wins! I
Robinson, declare that B

Scene and Its

happened to Mr.

id the Doings


en expecting it undoubting-
months. This was the time,
tears of self-admiration in
men and true of this con-
themselves unshakable sup-
s in their candidate. So,
comforted by good old rum,
gain the challenge flung out
ing of Mr. John Methistoleh.
if five was proclaimed for
ters would raise a cry as
d good tidings of great joy.
would thunder forth, in his
e could bellow like a bull

Essay, Brakspeer wins! I,
3rakspeer wins!"

The room was crowded. It was the court cham-
ber of the chief parish town which had been im-
provised into a polling station. On the dais where
usually the magistrate sat was a table to which box-
es containing the votes were brought, sealed, one
by one, and solemnly opened in the presence of in-
numerable witnesses intent upo, discovering any-
thing like fraud, and hoping that there would be
something to make a fuss about. Seated behind this
table and facing the others in the room was
the Returning Officer with his two principal assist-
ants. Grouped about these were hrlf a dozen men,
agents of the three candidates, two for each candi-
date. The platform could accommodate no more.
These agents watched closely to see that no vote
belonging to one man was announced as having been
given to another, or to squabble over whether a vote
was spoilt or not. The men in favour of whose can-
didate a doubtful vote had been cast contended stout-
ly that that voting paper was in order, even when a
child could see that it was not. The other agents
frantically maintained that it was "spoilt," adding
uncomplimentary remarks. The Returning Officer
gave his decisions, with deliberation and imperturba-
ble good temper, even slyly, at times, waiting to
see what these agents would say to a paper on which
the three names of the respective candidates had
been carefully marked out by some cynical or con-
temptuous voter who thus wished to express his true
opinion of all candidates, of all elections, and of
local politics in general. In such instances comment
was brief. All the agents voiced the view that the
man or woman, who had. thus marked this paper
could not have understood what momentous conse-
quences hung on this .particular election.
Which was true enough, since .no one living
could possibly have perceived any momentous con-
sequences depending upon this or any other. elece
The room was hot. It was filled almost to
capacity with those who had taken a leading part
in the election contest, and also with idlers and the
curious who dropped in for an hour's diversion, and
then departed to make room for others of a like
interest to theirs. A blue have of tobacco smoke
hung heavy and pervaded the room, and the rank
odour of stale cigar and cigarette stubs assailed
the nostrils. Policemen guarded the entrance to this
room, admitting well-known reputable (or semi-re-
putable) citizens, and speaking sharply to those
whom they regarded as having no sufficient stake
in the country. These retorted impudently, and feel-
ing safe from arrest on such a night as this, accused
the police of being all black. As they themselves
were sable in complexion, this colour accusation did
not seem to be quite relevant to anything.
At a table below the dais sat a number of men
with notebooks or sheets of paper, keeping for their
political chiefs the tally of the votes as these were
announced. There were but half a dozen chairs
scattered here and there, hence most of the specta-
tors were compelled to stand. This meant fatigue
after a little while, while the heat, the odour of
human beings, the smoke, the excitement, the sound
of talking that persisted in spite of the cries for
"order," would have caused a disinterested stranger
to wonder why nearly everyone did not go home
and leave the counting and scrutinising of the votes
to those who were most immediately concerned.
Mr. Methistoleh stood near the table below the
dais, jigging hisbody in the intervals of proclaiming
his intentions as soon as he "should have taken

accept utter'-defeat--one' single moment before hbe '-my-rseat-in- the' House" He was a tall man, very

dark, and of jaunty conceited appearance, He was
now disposed to be kind to Mr. Scrawney, who for
weeks he had publicly denounced as a miserable
miser and an oppressor of the poor-all of which was
true enough; and even to Mr. Brakspeer of whom
the kindest thing he had been able to say was that
"Brakspeer is a wretched old man who is now in
his dotage." As Mr. Brakspeer was only fifty,
this remark seemed to halt at some distance from
truth; but Mr. Methistoleli was barely thirty-five and
so could boast that he was at his intellectual prime.
Mr. Methistoleh had already made up his mind
the vote-counting over, magnanimously to approa"1
the beaten candidates, shake hands with them ab
a token of forgiveness (presumably for having dared
to oppose such a genius), and then to make a
brief speech lasting for ten minutes in which he
would repeat several times that the intelligent citi-
zens of the parish had come forth in overwhelming
numbers to express their unalterable will, and that,
as a result, the best man had won. As only about
one-third of the voters had troubled to go to the
polls that day, it would have been difficult to main-
tain that they had overwhelmed anyone or anything
except Mr. Scrawney and Mr. Brakspeer-and cer-
tainly themselves. The last thing, of course, is a
habit with voters.
"Methistoleh, one; Brakspeer, one; Scrawney,
spoilt vote."
The monotonous voice "proceeded, the tallyists
tallied, the people in the room cheered, Mr. Robin-
son proclaimed that Mr. Brakspeer was winning
in a quite unprecedented fashion. The facts and
figures were passed out to the people in the street,
and these shouted and screamed in transports of
joy, though they would have done exactly the same
if informed that Scrawney or Brakspeer was well
away ahead. For they were mainly non-voters who
maintained a strictly impersonal attitude; during
the day, however, some of them had successfully man-
aged to represent themselves as possessing the suff-
rage, and had been treated to drinks by men in the
service of all the candidates. So they felt that they
had done something in the interests of this election.
And whoever was elected was their man.
Mr. Brakspeer sat quietly amidst ail this hub-
bub. He was a tall, fair mai, with a determined
expression of countenance; a strong face, as one
saw at a glance, on which was stamped the look of
one born to succeed.
He had been successful as a penkeeper, a banana
cultivator and a merchant. He had made money;
but a large part of the last fifteen years had been
devoted to politics, and that had meant far less con-
centration on his own business than most other men
would have thought desirable. What he could have
done much better himself he had employed assist-
ants to do; he supervised, but these assistants com-
plained quite openly that he was wasting his time
on public affairs, time that, devoted to his own ag-
grandisenient, would have benefited both him and
them. They hinted that he would regret it.
He recalled this now. In another hour or so
he would hear the final results of the voting, but
already he knew what it would be as it touched him-
self. He was beaten-badly. Thrown out of the Is-
land's Council. And the only reason he could think
of was that the people had become tired of him and
wanted some man who could promise impossibilities,
create a tremendous temporary enthusiasm, and make
speeches in which there would be plenty of sound
and fury and very little sense. They loved a dema-
gogue. That, he could never be.
"Brakspeer wins," thundered Mr. Robinson
more loudly and more belligerently than ever, as a
fresh announcement proved beyond all doubt that
Mr. Brakspeer was hopelessly out of the contest;
"Braksreer wins!"
Mr. Brakspeer thought to himself: "Perhaps
there is more in what poor Robinson is saying than
he could ever guess. I have lost this election. I
shall now retire into private life. But there is
plenty still for me to do, things that will benefit
myself. I will devote my time to them. I will show
these fellows what sort of man I really am. I am
resolved on that."
"Methistoleh, one, one, one, one, one."
Wild cheers.
Enthusiasm now soaring to "higher pitch.
Derisive shouts as Mr. Scrawney is seen to be
making towards the door. Mr. Scrawney is a fat
man with a mean face, English, thoroughly distrusted
by members of his own race, and not a member of
any class worth thinking about.
Mr. Scrawney knows that he is beaten and is
not minded to stay to hear congratulations shower-
ed upon his successful adversary. But what hurts
Mr. Scrawney more than anything else is that he
wasted money on this detestable election contest
under the impression that he would be the victor.



Scrawney was a large owner of land which in the
course of years he had acquired at beggarly prices.
Some of the land was quite good; this he would
continue to keep for himself, cultivating it sedulously
and making a rich revenue out of it. But the great-
er part of the land was quite worthless, as he had
always known. Hence he hadl made di.tributin.
of the land. entirely at Gulerntment expense. the
principal plank in his programme of reforms. He
belie\ved, he had said. iii th- people having the
land-"Gentlemen, why should one class alone be
proprietors: is that just?" ".N. a thousand tinim-
no!" from an audience vbhich. in the main. wa- ot
disposed to labour on the land or on anything els.''.
"Distribute the land, I say: lIt the people haive ,it
Pay a fair price for it-only a fair price, mark yo'l.
and let the people have it for niothine. I will strive
to bring all this about it you eleit ine as your repr'-
sentative for this parish "
And try he would have done. He w.-.uld never
have ceased trying.
He had hoped that if elki.ted he would easily be
able to sell his hopeless I:rii' -rtierl to the Govern-

by the derisive yells of the Methistolebites; but Mr
Brakspeer would not move He would see this
thing through to the finish. Meanwhile he with.
drew into himself and went on thinking.
He hai been thirty-five when he became a Mnim.
bhr 1of the Legislativ\ Council. He had spent much
time upon publi-c affairs wvastd it. according I:.
iany 1perl'on wih wished him well. But then. from
viry- early youth hre had always been lipssessed of
an amtbition to bie it thie Council. TThat ambition.
and others, he had achieved.
His mind travntllEd back to his hbo.hood. H-H
could recall his mother. a tall. caunt, white wom.in
who had been I-ft' a widow bhen he wbas only two
Happily, she had a bit o:i property, whichib ihe farm-.l
with the aid orf dependable hired persons. and that
kept them fri.m siarving or actual want. But 'he
struggle had b-en bard. He had. ihe fiear-d. be.-n
something of a nuisance to his nlmother. who was too
prosaic to understand his youthful ambitions Ile
recalled now how. one day. when he lhad dug up a

had been approached by some persons of his parish
and urged to stand as the representative of it in the
Legislative C:un:il. he had agreed without any hem-
mlng and hawing. And so fifteen years had' passed.
He flattered himself that he had been a useful
member of the House. had done much for his con-
,rituents and the island. That indeed had been
generally acknowledged. For ten years he had been
popular: he had been much quoted in the Press;
even an Toran of very fleeting existence' had once
alluded to him as '*the palladium of our liberties
and the bulwark of freedom," after which the editor
had crawled r:oundl and touched him for a loan. He
smiled as he recalled this now. Thirty shillings had
not represented. after all, a considerable financial
What had become of that editor? be wondered.
Perhaps h1e had been one of those who had recently
written ano-nynmusly in the daily papers describing
Mr. Methistol-ih as "the man of the hour. the bright
and shining star of our sunkist island firmament."
That was quite probable. Things happened that way.
For in the last three years he had found his


Phrlt.'raph by Henry Turner

meant at a "fair price." which meant every p-inny
he could possibly obtain He would thus benefit
financially and win fame as a firm friend of tla1
people. But that miserable. unprincipled wretch.
as Mr. Scrawney called Methistol~h. had actually had
the effrontery to advocate- that tne (ji\ernment
should not buy lands for distribution but -hould
expropriate the large owners without c:ompensation
and give their properties to the landless, and i by
implication) especially to the worthless. And n;
Mr. Methistoleb did not own an acre. he was terribly
sincere and vehement in his advocacy of this ex-
propriation policy. So were his friends, who w 're
equally landless.
This policy had a wonderful appeal It meant
land for those who would not itilise it and. at the
same time, the pauperising of persons who'e only
claim to the properties they possessed was that they
had either purchased them or inherited then from
fathers who had bought them. and that they were
cultivating those lands, and. apparently, prospering.
Therefore more than a half of those who had voted
that day had rallied to Mr. Methistoleb's battle-cry.
as he had expected that they would. Scrawney. then.
realising that though he had been supported far more
numerously than Brakspeer he too was defeated.
had made up his mind to go home At this moment
he was bowed with weight of financial woe.
He disappeared through the doors, accompanied

snall mango tree to see bow it was growing. his
mother had chased hini away, saying with bitt':-
emphasis that he was a little devil But when sh.e
went to look for him an hour afterwards. and found
him curled up in a corner reading the Bible, she had
gone off loudly proclaiming that he was a child ,of
God. although at the moment he was only readin--
about the battles and tribulations of King Saul. with
whom he took part against David. thinking Sail
imucih the finer character of the two.
He remembered too how his another had saved
t.- send hinm to a good school, how anxious she had
been when he went to Kingston to work in a busi-
ness office. how troubled when he threw up his iob
to embark on planting as the working partner of a
wealthy man who had taken a fancy to him. recogf
nising his ability, and how proud she was when Ihe
had bought on credit from this man a promising
property, and had made good in a year or two All
this had happened before he was twenty-six: and by
then his mother had become more firmly persuaded
than ever that he was a child of God. To make the
balance even. all those who envied and were jealoiiu
of hin were quite convinced that he was loved by
the devil, otherwise how could he succeed as he didl
None of them. of course, had equally succeeded.
To be successful in business and in politics-
that had been his twin aim and goal. So when, at
thirty-five. his worldly affairs in decent shape. he

popularity waning. He was not radical enough. It
was said that he belonged to the moderate party,
and moderation was a sort of disease which, it was
felt. the country should rid itself of as quickly as
possible. To be immoderate was actually to be pro-
pressive in these times.
He. too. had been secretly growing a little tired
of I.political life He was completely disillusioned.
It had seemed to him that public opinion, instead of
beI,,ming more enlightened, had grown duller. And
he doubted the sincerity of most of those with whom
he came in contact Perhaps he was growing too
uld for public life.
'Brakepeer wins!"
He wished Robinson would cease talking non-
sense: but then poor Robinson was drunk. And he
at least was sincere; he had foretold what would
happen tonight, even though he now pretended that
only his candidate. Brakspeer could win.
It didn't matter. He, Brakspeer, had found in-
sincerity everywhere, far greater than he could
ever have imagined. Although trained in business
and used to dikkering, he had nevertheless, at
thirty-five, been still a strong believer in his fellowi
creatures. still disposed to think that men said what
they meant and that truth and all that sort of thing
would prevail. He had lost that old faith now. He



had found too much treachery about him to retain
it. Perhaps. he thought (for intellectually he was
fair), he too had deteriorated, not knowing it. That
must be so, he concluded. Yet he had striven to co
his best, according to his lights.
He saw now that he should not again have stood
for election, ought never to have allowed himself
once more to be persuaded. His political -ands hiad
run out; he should have known this, had in fact u-.~ -
pected it, and \et hall allowed himself to face an
ordeal of ign.:n.iiri.ius defeat!
But it didn't matter; he could take it. And for
the next ten years at least he would work for him-
self, even if they zaid he was -Ilfish and selfcetitr ,I
Henceforth lie iiuld think of lhis own inteirets al:,n',:.
He started up. HeIneviied and general shouriiin
warned him that the c'ountitng was over, and that the
results were about to be declared. He moved tp to
the table, f'.iiowed by the faithful few who had re-
mained by his side.

The Returning Officer read out the returns: Mr.
Methistoleh 1721; Mr. S'ratwney. .'ui: Mlr. Brilk-
Baeer, 437. Methistoleh's friends n-ut frantic. They
screamed themselves hoarse. Th;ee miLn we-pt opein
ly, declaiming that the Lord had ninuifested Himl
self. They had bruiiuht liuior- with then that i nit:.
If their vi.w n i c'irriect, then tile Lord manifested
Himself spirituiiou'ly through their eyes and mouths.
There must be speeches, of i.urse. The fir;i
would be delivered by the successful candidate. lie
was overjoyed. but suddenly, too, he seemed sobered.
The gaze of Mr. Brakspe,.r was stieaily fixed Iupon
"Give it to him, Mr. Meth, give it to him," ad-
vised a y..uig fellow whi wta just uthetn entering
the life olittical by which lie hoped to make an easy
living in the days to come. "'give Brakspeer bell'"
"Go to hell yiuilrself," growled Mlr. Mlethistoleh,
to the young man'. inten-er surpri-e. A wild sui
picion seized him. Was :\letliht,!thi alrai-dy heisl'
diverted from the path of pure democracy and per-
sonal virtilp lralit.i? :' i ,I lie, a vi. Lor now. ab.ut t.:i
allow Mr. Braktpi her's money and position to deter
him from that Iblatant vulgaR'ity without which tin on.?
could be a true i'rLre-':eenltative of what was bist
amongst the pc'-pleC. Surely not' No. a thousand tinlms
no! But Mr. iMethistoleh was uuw speaking. thanking
the Returning Officer for his patience. his courtesy,
his impartiality, and ist furth-all old and conven-
tional stuff. Thcn he turned to Mr. Brakspeer. An.'l
Eo-mehow, lie lould not bring himself rn say that
the chest man had won. Intstead he remarked that he
was about to succeed a gentleman who had worked
well for-his parish, though he had fallen a little
behind the times, and he hriped that no ill feeling.
would be harboured after that niiiht by anyone ,rf
those twho had taken part in this election It wae,
frum the viewpoint of Mr.l Mith's chief lieutenants.
a most disappointing sppeieh. They niittered atmonst
themselves "He think he is a bit man already :
he's playing white." they said.
"What did I prophesy?"" \hispered one of them.
v ho had prophesied nothing
"We aiight have expect ted this." remarked an-
othil-r: "we ctin never tr'i-t our own!"
Henti eforl t they were tm hate lMelthistoleh in
Secret, jealousy being at the hbotrint of this hatred.
Not a man aniii'ontlt them lrit felt that lie himself
Twuuld have made a better lecI--lator. One or two.
indeed. began to wish that Mr Braksipecr had w.in.
The battle was over now: niw I hr-rlefo.re they could
indulge the e-intitiuts that had lheFn gathering and
strengtihenini in their hearts They norer quite pre-
pared to find Methistoleh a traitor merely because.
in this supreme lmonienti of triumph. he had not be.-n
rude to his defeated rippi.nent. But they soon would
have found him a tra.:itr in any case. Such is th.e
fat- of the successful politician.
JMr Brakspeer -eit.nded thle vote oft thanks 1.,
the Returnin g Offi'er. and thanked Mr Mlethistol-h.
for his kindly words Tli-n he hade them all good-
"Not .vet." shouted Mr. Robinson, surfing ui to1
the table, though he had no richt whatever to speak.
"T have h-ien s yint all night Brakspeer wins.
and you all thought me driiink. But I repeat noi.'
that he has w.ili. for lie is tout of that hblasted t'Counc:il
pt last. where hi- wa- wauittg his inie. Thii i-s
the victory of his lf:e: he wius. I say. he wins!"
Saying which, MrI Robinsou offered to fipht any-
one who should \%intnml'e to ,-nt,'adilit himi, a.nd
wruld have hit the quite in- ,ffen-ive Retirninie Of.
ficer had not a dark. quiet meniher 'if Ihe Brak-
speer fa,'tion caimelit hinm irmly and held hin back
Everyhbrdy was soon streantmiu olit into the open
air. At -iglit of Mr Brakspeer the trowd honed.
sonlehow it had become convinced that he had treltt-
ed it shamefully. Whbeni Prl Mlethistoleb appe-re-l
he wa errect-d. with \vociferous cheering. He bow:wd
and bowed. His lieutena.ints Ih-wed allo They didi
niot see why their tcl Ie shoiild inonopolise the hon-

Mr. Robinson wa% s s.ifely tlep)ositedl in his ..ar
and promptly fell asleep Mr. Brakspeer drove
home to his residence sine thirteen miles away.
His two daughters were in b-rl hut his wife was
waiting up for him One glance at his face told her

"It is better so. dear,' she said I am nut sorry
you are out of it."
"Yes: I suppuoe it is all for the bet.," lie said:
"I will tell you at.,:lit it to-morrow. Now we'll "o
to bed."

Mr. Brakfpeer. his wife. and his old friend
Mr. Robilisi were at; lunch at Mr. Brakspeer's
It w f'as four yveari- since the elctilon at wbhih!
Mr. Brakspeer lhal been detested. He lhad very
quickly r',:overeil fr'ini what some ofi his i..pponents
hail described as hi, irrecoverablle downfall. He hal
at once turned all his attention to hii oiwn afdai's.
and in twi, yair-i had made more inUmoey than Iie
had done in the prcedrlnug six. Luck aidled him. iof
course. but there n a-i n o', doubt that his deition t,.
strictly pers.'nal bus ainzas ac:-iunted for a ( roUdi-'lr-
able part of In -; .-u-..ess.
He was in a happy frame of mind today Hte had
just completed a vely remunerative deal, made- more
muney out uf it than mliost other men wo..uld have
done. And.l lie had seen that day. il thie paper?.
-.ime hlihly complimentary re'teni'eci,' to him in the
Leglslarivi C( .uninn l.
Robinson was speaking about that njuo. anil Rob
inison was actually land- surprisilnglyv quite s.iber.
"That fellow. Methistoleb, has been lauding you
to the skies. B.. I wonder what he can want from
'"Why not take a charitable view of the man,
and a more complimentary view of me?" lauehdt
Mr. Braksl-er "Wouldn't that be nicei"
"Nicer. perhaps. butt yi.u don t expect me il.,
you, to think that Methistoleh can lie disint-rertell?
Why shiild lie have hb iome so all of a sudden" And
which of ius are""
"I wish he would leave my husband's name
alone." remarked Mrs. Brakspeer severely. "It i.-
iinlpertinence fur himn t,- mention it "
Mrs Brakspeer had never forgiven the dlif.'at
of Mr. Brakspeer. though she i as situ i-rely glad
he was out of th' C'ouiu11il She detested Mlethistoleh
and tlioked forward to his coming to a bad end pIliti.
call. personally, and in every rther way She al1
ways spoke of him as "that man." and felt that .wirii
his election to the Legislature the end of all dec-nt
politics in Jamaica had arrived.
"Have you read what he said about me?" enquir.
ed her husband with a twinkle in his eyes.
"No. certainly not And I don't want to read
it either What did he say?"
"Oh." cried Robinson. "he praised B.. and praised
himself at the same time. Fed two birds with the
same corn."
"But only wanted to feed himself. no doubt."
scoffed Mrs. Brakspeer
"That's what I think myself." nmuied Rohbinson.
''hut your husband is incliued to take ant.ith-r
*The Christiann view. George." reniiinstrated lMr
Braslpecr in the role of a child of GI'd.
"'\Wher-ievr you talk like thal. I ,uspert you."
said Robinsoni "When a man takes a C'hristiin
view of vhat .imeh'idy else dies, it llans that lie
expects to make v..metlibg out of it "
"But what did thi-i man, MNtipusal.-h. say?" in-
sisted Mrs Brakspeer
"His name is not Mcthusaleb. and I thought y-ou
didn't want to know." replied her husband "Well.
lie said that lie must b-e worth something to his par-
ish and the Councl when he can have succeeded so
able. sio disinterested. si, illustrious a man as myself.
I use his very words This part oif his speech was
applauded too Frankly. I never expected to hear
anything like that said about me these dayt in the
Couniell "
"It is only what you deserve," asserted his wife
with conviction; "but I wish that somebody besid-s
Mackintosh had said it "
"No). it conis liest from hint." said Mr Brak-
speer with conviction.
'"The reason nvhy tie other fellows applauded is
because they have heard you have been doinn re-
markably well fir yourself in business and planting.
B." observed Mr. Rbinson sagely "Men may eui.y
financial sttuces. but they worship it. You have
made mniney. you see. .n they find in ynin virtn.is
which I am surIe you don't pnisess-and as a life-
long friend of yours I icuuht to kniow. Nov. don't
cet ani'ry with me. Elsie"
The family Inauiedl. Mr Rohbinion was free to
:ay just wh:tr e lil:ed about th.i-i. He was a true.
at least
"I hope tl.ht in spite of' what this man lia- bh-,n
saying about you inl the C,'uncil." resumeIed Mli'
Brakspeer to hlir husAiand. "you will never take
any ntic-ie of him. I can never forget his imp-r.
tinence and rudeness durliii the- election "
"But that was a-es ago. Elsie. and in plitii s s
in business it is somletimes- wise to f,-ori'et the pa t "
"I don't and I won't."
"Well-- Buit Mr. Brakspeer ipot no further
For just then the maid came into the dining Iro'r,
and said: "There's a person outside to see vou, sir:
a man
"A man" Well didn't you teeth his name. Jan'-?"
"He say his name is Mleth-something-or-olther.
sir I didn't qiite catch it."

Methistoleh?" asked Mr. Robinson.
"That's it, sir."
"You are not going to see him, darling?" en-
quired lrs. Braksaeer sharply of her husband.
"The idea of his coming here-the insolence of it!"
"I did think that speech meant business-for
Meth." laughed Mr. Robinson. "'But it would have
been more sa2acious for himl to have waited for a
month or two before comitnI in to reap the harvest
of his good wnods."
*Show the Sentleiman into my study. Jane." said
Mr. Brakspeer quietly. "It's all right. Elsie. he's
not going to eat me.
He may be eaten instead." commented Mr.
Robinsin. "Trust yrur husband as a pleasant de-
lourer, Elsie. I pity the lamb. Methistoleh, when
he is fated with the Brakspeer wolfl"

"This ii an unexpectedly h;.nour. Mr. Nlethistolel
i:hs-erved Mr. Brakspeer urbanely. "We actually
haven't met for four years."
Mlethitoleh. who had been seated on the edge
rif his chair, rose as Mr. Brakspeer entered the
study with these polite words. The two men shook
hands. Mr Methistoleh Eyed his host with an un-
.asy expression. He -eenied embarrassed.
S"W' haven't met. IMr Braks.per, hut I have
followed you all the time." lie said.
"Indeed" I never saw you doing that."
"Figuratively I mean. I speak of your marvel.
lousy career. You are admired. Fir, admired, as a man
who by dint of genius causes six bananas to grow
where none grew before. I am enlmetime e srry that
you didn't exert yourself much during that last elee-
lion. If you had done so. nothing could have beaten
.ou. I knew. it all the lime. Mr. Brakspeer; I
.aw that you didn't mind whether you were elected
or not. You just felt. sit. that you would devote
your valuable time to the ciiuntry if you had to, but
that you had done enough. If I hadn't takcn your
rake-I mean if I hadn't perfectly understood the
motions of your mighty mind-I would never have
come forward."
"That is so. Mr. Brakspeer: hut of course I
understand that while some of us must hear the heat
and burden of legislating, others must devote them-
selves to building up the island's wealth. Look at
what you are doing! Your work is more valuable
than that of ten legislators put together. If we
had six men like you in Jamaica. I often say to my
colleagues, this would be a richer and a happier is-
land. I say-"
"But what exactly can I do for you, Mr. Methis.
t:leh?" interrupted Mr. Brakspeer. "You are very
kind. but your time is, like my own. very valuable I
am sure."
"It is. sir, it is. But you musnt have c.een what I
said about you in the Council in Friday-yesterday?"
"I did. and I thank you."
"Well. Mr Braksrerr, it occurred to me this
mntrninig that an Empire-builder like yourself ought
to receive all the help possible from those who bene
fit by your exertions. I said to myself Meth. don't
you think Mr. Brakspeer may need a nice road
through his biggest property. and don't you think
you ought to press the Government to build such a
road. seeing that it will develop a very valuable free-
hold and that the whole parish must accordingly
benefit? I said that to myself, sir, for I am not one
of those men who love to attack private property.
What would we do without landed property,
Mr. Brakspeer, what would we do? It is true I
have none myself, but I can respect it: I believe in
it: I have always believed in it. You know that."
"I seem to remember the time when I thought
you didn't believe in it," said Mr. Brakspepr with
a smile. "but perhaps I misunderstood you. But. as
a matter of fact. I don't need a road through any
property of mine just now. Still. I thank you for
thinking about me as you did."
Mr. Methistoleh's face fell as he heard these
words: lie looked pained, dejected, disappointed, as
must be any patriot who wishes to help his country
and discover;, :hut his aid is not needed. He stared
lu sad and solemn silence at Mr Brakspeer, who
1. :Ked back at him blandly and with a smile.
There seemed nothing more to -ay. The inter-
view was at an end Then inspiration came to Mr.
Methistoleh. Suddenly he said-
"Hare you heard how Mr. Intskip, the Custos. Is
lptting on. sir?"
"I helicve he is very bad." was tile answer; "he'll
hardly live out next week. poor f'll,-w."
"Then. sir. you will be our next Custos; some-
thin tells m e s., "
1 ?" cried Mr. Brak'peer. and something in his
vi.-ice 'autsed Methistoleh to coniclhide that Brak-
Frpeer ihal tiben thinking oif surh an appointment
"Atnd who e-lse?" demanded Mr Methistoleh r-n-
tltusiiastiially, as tllouth he were addressing a public
meeting which had to be deceived at all costs. "Who
so fitted by life and works, by attainment and intel-
lectual perspective? What other man is there in
this parish who so fills the eye or delights the soul?
Wh.. sir. I ask you. who? I demand an answer-I
defy contradiction."
f('Conitin crt ril n Pane oi





A nd IIT I' n-'- itn piI. il-' ;.
Lrd. I a;ni l d.-. in-mid'
HUS sun: the ,- z- It l,..itnif-. : Jamai.i.a. tlj-
.uspe--~i..i.t i rdid.iN Itly in-r : thll at ldetm option li l.i
securtLl f'r l"thrEmill n t>\ln d.l nt.-_r Mnd lp.'., : 'r dt,.t
than roast 1 ,i-f :und ,1111 ktt?..
It Wiv. ilI apptd r tli.i t'l-n the.,- ie th. d h1i I -n
elevated alj.:--. tin.i I-1 1 -.- h'rl rin and pii t --r_-.
and thien lt. rnl- r ill .-iil [.-Ir the li.- i lit .f' t .-
not well a-lquaiiiiti-t l v i,. ii n Ji i Itll i. lan-!iirr l i
ima'iy he x l ir.d -ii Ih 1 [ .11 kiir- IL- '' hI d-iJJ :in -1
end; it [i o.fi. -uTh n ;i htii .1 ihi trail
triple presr-i d in t il h i l na in r a i Di'.r mi- lar.l
and capabi-e i. f I l..i l.: i 1i..r -.ii. [ iit n.- part- f ,[e ti
feet. t(he ar., nd -tl -;, irthl. all thpeli ti.d int a bhir
die and liawkt- ]d ;-.l.t ii : '-- at j v r .y iin iellli
cant price

P ICKINt;S iniude -i,- d --.I p----i lr.an il p...Fr lai- I-
ihef T ie i ., i ti r "t r i iT. ii n -i r .,- t i ...
sweetest. Iut pr- -iinlma ly ir V..ai thiil- .3iavoir i-'.-.;
mattert-i. 1\hi.-n it-1 n. -i'Iro Iad'ui.I v rI i'-.e fr ni p1 liin
to aoup-ri t hi r i l th,- l ,m .ill j nl-. r h1- !1 iI t .h- 'L -
er parts .f tila v I t lit t. <-.'. t i lI nt from an E iil.l,
point ,,- -f h- liti : \.- vas lif iltLh..r advan' t l I,
stewed l eit-f :li t.: :I .I- r1-..a-lt ie-f. .'n.i ti-i 1 tLi.1
prai-tcally th- h :h ti r I -i "l ilf.i ry t i ii;t
had hbe-n .ii.i -I r.- f ni, .-ly .-,.a--td. s ri'.in-
or tenllderhri T -r l; ':tiiil -. triedd i.i.-. f din in I. ,
janiai:a r-4 o.-rii., -- I ,,.. ih.id n.:I.1 1,-" tr-. ,-r i,
offer. ai h v ,, i i Q-::-]1 :L "',,_.ij b, ,i.- :a t '-"
whether ori-in.nlly :i iii.it ....i a f'-ni l To bh- r-.
dpeemn ild fro-nt ithi- e art .i ..- .[' i t' I ,v-. It.i:rti ..i .
either In a lh:r % v r't-:trn 'i i,: .rl ,r hr_.. 1lh.mie fi ll ..i
with spiritil t irithiu .ifi-' : r didain mniire ni.irr.il
food entire-ly. lii1 n i a ili '-li' n i L ai n i-' tIainfaii
ed for but a hli..rt r-., .- tifll- anil I ft' .v tlh: I
the sincer; rf an .111 d''' ,ii4 n%. v r r'ftraint-rd 'rl-i,'t
roast be-f. 1 tr i v-..n fr'i, i I I kin : .:iii thliir r,-turn
to their hit.i-- .nfrt r lht-ir -;ini2!'n \'wasf dione
F OR the vast int-I.ritv -f ordinary Jatian-, p'-re.r-
have lunz b lil.-ied tirnily in r.iast hp-ef. in tc-.ak'.
in slews and in things. ..f that kind. The con.imninm-

Our Elevation to that

Dietary Superiority, and

How we Produce the


lio.i" fii l 'ti i i .i i .ii- ftI, il- 11i l i L -- i i .u I .
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rh..]. li.i, al_- Ih n i1i t1,iT '-U 1 17,l 1 hl) [,b rP' "he
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.1 ,.l ..l llr]':tt [..u t'.,. ._Tl. ] III. : .



MR. CALDER told me that Mr. Cecil Lindo had
decided to keep what might be called a show
herd of Mysore animals to the number of about
two hundred and fifty. These will not be interbred
with any other cattle; but of course, as they mul-
tiply, the excess in number above two hundred and
fifty will be used for ordinary interbreeding, beef-
producing purposes. The Mysore is a small crea-
ture, however formidable-looking the bull of the
Species may be with his enormous hump and great
spreading horns. He seems ferocious, the cows also,
as they run about-tfor the Mysore can move with
singular rapidity-appear to the uninitiated as dan-
gerous and vicious animals, though those who know
them assert that they are nothing of the kind. In-
deed, Mr. Calder suggested to me that we should
walk among a small herd of Mysore and other cattle
collected round a pond near the road that divides
the property in two. Amongst these was a huge
Devon bull, a most kindly looking creature. A few
half-bred cattle were also there, having sought the
shelter of the huge spreading tree near the water.
The surface of the pond was unruffled, the appear-
ance of the scene ideal. I firmly refused, how-
ever, to make any excursion on foot amongst these
Mysore and other cattle; I preferred to take Mr.
Calder's word for their gentleness and sweetness
of disposition. The truth is that I was not at all
sure that they would be gentle and sweet with me,
and I have al-
ways had an in-
feriority complex
where bulls are

LINDO pro-
poses to mix the
Mysore strains
with Herefords,
Devons, Red
Polls, and Black
Aberdeen Angus,
with the object
of producing a
type of animal
that will be
strong, large, not
difficult to fatten,
and producers of
good beef. All
these strains are
already in Ja-
maica; they are
actually on the
Montpelier p r o -
perty. When I
visited that place
they were already
experimenting to
see which of these
different breeds
would be best
suited for differ-
ent parts of the
estate; or perhaps
I should say
which parts cf
the estate would
be best suited to
bringing to the ABERDEEN-ANGUS BULL, "BET
required perfect- PINE PLAINS, (DUCHESS COUNT
ion these differ-
ent breeds, these
mixtures of Devons, Aberdeen Angus and the rest
with the Mysore. For all land is not the same, as
penkeepers and cultivators long since discovered.
One area will give results different from the other,
whether due to the grass grown or to some other
factor or quality. Again some breeds of cattle ore
of a heavier type, a better type for meat production.
But strength and endurance are also necessary, and
in this connection the Mysore claims a very high
place indeed.

HE is a hardy sort of person, though small; hence
his strain will give strength to his mixed pro-
geny; but roast beef or steak, even meat for stew-
ing or soup meat, must not be tough. The judicious
inter-breeding at Montpelier will therefore see to it
that the beef for general consumption shall be easily
eatable and with flavour; and in order to facilitate
the supplying of the market with this suitable meat
Mr. Lindo, after he had purchased Montpelier, pro-
ceeded to acquire the Cold Storage Depot original-
ly erected in Kingston for members of the St. Ann
Penkeepers' Association. This is a fine, well-con-
structed, thoroughly refrigerated building situated in
the eastern section of Harbour Street in the capital.
No sooner had Mr. Lindo bought it than, I am inform-
ed, he received offers for its rental at a highly re-
munerative rent for many years. But he had other
ideas as to its utilization. It is in that cold stor-
age building that meat bred in St. James will be
stocked for the Kingston trade, for shipping and
for other purchasers. Meat thus kept in Jamaica
for even a few hours will be more tender than If
eaten almost immediately after being killed; and
doubtless, if Mr. Lindo had not been able to pur-

chase this ready-made building, he would himself
have constructed a Cold Storage Depot.

SOMEONE has told me that years and years ago
Mr. Cecil Lindo had it in mind to become the
possessor of Montpelier and Shettlewood. This may
or may not be true; I did not get it from himself.
But I do remember that many years ago, as I drove
with him from Vere to Kingston one day, he talked
of the possibilities of cattle breeding and the sup-
plying of beef on a large scale in'this island; so it
is clear that his mind was working in that direction,
although he was then busy producing sugar and
bananas. The cattle industry may have then been
a dream of his. If so, that dream has come true.
It has developed into a material fact, and success
will attend his effort, for there are some men, al-
ways but a few, who achieve success in what they
undertake because of their courage, their foresight,
their capacity.

IT must not be imagined, however, that the Cecil
Lindo meat enterprise is going to swamp any
other. That is not at all its intention. Look at
the facts. I have said that on Christmas Day, 1938,
there were, in round numbers, 3,400 head of cattle
on Montpelier. The breeding herd consisted of 1,100
cows, and of those 800 were being bred for beef.
250 of the pure Mysores, as said before, will be main-

1,050 LBS.

trained as a show herd. About 50 cows will be kept
for milk, but a large yield of milk is not to be ex-
pected from animals with an Indian strain in them;
Indian cattle are small milk yielders, although their
milk is rich. The rest of the cattle was young
stock which would be grown for beef later on, tak-
ing the place of the matured stock that had been
slaughtered for the market. So we find that about
one-third of the cattle will be breeding cows, and of
course there must be bulls, while the youngsters
will take the place of their elders in due time, per-
haps when they are about three years of age.

THE present average age for killing a cow is four
years; but if the Montpelier cattle are big
enough at three years of age, as a result of careful
inter-breeding and feeding, a longer time need not
be allowed for them to become fit for the Slaughter
House. Naturally, as time goes on and pasturage
allows, the Lindo herds will increase. It may be,
too, that either some special feeding will be import-
ed or will be produced in the island, and that will
assist this enterprise. But on any calculation it will
at once be seen that even a property with as many
as five thousand acres in pasture and with some
five thousand head of cattle (which is the Lindo
objective) could not affect the interests of other pen-
keepers, especially when the following circumstances
are taken into consideration.

FIRST of all, there is a steady increase in the con-
sumption of beef in Jamaica. Next, there is the
exportation of cattle which Mr. Cecil Lndo has in
mind and for which he is even now arranging.
Thirdly, there is the breeding of cows in different

parts of the island for milk production, which will
become necessary through the establishment here
of a Condensary to supply the island with condensed
milk, while fresh cow's milk, instead of diminish-
ing in consumption, will also certainly increase.
What we are witnessing at Montpelier, then, is the
development of the beef industry on a larger and
more scientific basis than we have seen it before.
And with this sort of enterprise Mr. Cecil Lndo
is already well acquainted, for he has done som-e-
thing in that direction in Costa Rica.

BUT if less than six thousand acres out :if nine
thousand are set aside for pasturage and o utle
breeding, what becomes of the other three thousand
acres of Montpelier and Shettlewood? Is it rm rely
waste land? It is not. I questioned Mr. Calder
about this; I obtained from him some inter-sting
information. When I visited Montpelier, as many
as a thousand acres of land were rented to tenants
who had been growing bananas but who had un-
fortunately been wiped out by Leaf Spot Disieaie.
The idea, in spite of this, is to lease to good tenants.
probably as many as 350, lands for not fewu:r thln
20 years, each man taking up not less than f-.ur
acres of land, while of course those who feel that
they are in a position to do so can lease a lareer
plot. At the end of this twenty-year period, the ten-
ants will have the option of a renewal of lease for
another ten yea rs;
and we may rest
assured that
when men have
been in pr'-ss-
sion of land for
thirty years, their
descendants, if at
all industrious,
may confidently
expect to con-
tinue in their

STHE pa r s
of the pro-
perty not devoted
to cattle-rakiing
will be rented out
on the custonmar;y
annual tenure.
All the tenants
will be encour-
aged to buiild
houses on their
leased or r -nted
holdings, e e r y
deserving p er;on
being given lum-
ber free of charge.
A large propor-
portion of these
tenants ar e rTf
course employed
on the property
now. They un-
derstand ca t I e-
rearing; the y
also have sonic
knowledge of or-
dinary cultiva-
ER FROM BETHEL FARM INC., tion. This know-
AND AT 15 MONTHS WEIGHED ledge can be im-
proved, the aver-
age Jamaica cul-
tivator being still rather of a conservative disposition
and usually preferring to stick to the production of
one or two exportable crops only. But all can grow
food on their plots of land, on land expressly leased ,r
rented to them on easy terms; while the employment
of many of them in the Montpelier beef-breeding
enterprise will mean wages for them-cash with
which they may purchase the things they require
as necessities or luxuries, pay their taxes and to

THESE people regard themselves as identified
With the great property, as a part and parcel .:
it. So they are, and so Mr. Cecil Lindo regards
them. Otherwise he would not have made arrange-
ments to lease to so many of them land for so long
a term of years. This is the patriarchal system
which works very well in Jamaica so long as both
parties to it act fairly, so long as each considers
the other as a kind of connection. A man who has
a lease of twenty or thirty years knows quite well
that his services on the estate will be desired; the
proprietor who has people living on his property
from father to son and grandson is aware that in
these there will surely develop a sense of co-opera-
tion and loyalty which must be of value to him.

LL this passed through my mind on Christmas
Day of 1938 as my eyes roamed over the ex-
panse of the landscape spread out before me. The
forenoon sun lighted up all the land, the ponds glim-
mered in the golden light, there were trees and trees
and trees everywhere, yet nowhere so thick and close
as to prevent me seeing clearly into the distance. The
hills against the horizon rose to a moderate height.



with cattle pond, to
the right, in the
middle distance. A
park-like scene back-
ed by a long line of

and were all preiii. and one of these was point-el
out to me as C~pse. a properly recently pur,.has-d
by the Governmient for land settlement purpos-'-
There, as tine gei s s..n. will a settlement of frceholdrl
ers spring up, and if it prospers its prosperity will
be an example and incentive to the lepaehuldJers 4
Montpelier Contra l wise. the prosperity t'f th..ie
leaseholders may be an example and incentive to
the people i(t the ni-chin during land-settleme-nt. Fir
thus dne- human cloire-.t develop; mein emiilate and
leain afreani ~ ah uoli-r.

IT vaill not be I:.n, before the hbete hbii ,on l.i:nt.
peilier i- being eaten ill ningston. I think tlliu
is likely toi happen ere these lines rr-ichl li e 'Wye;
,'f tie reader, t' ofPlanters' Pulnch." And the plij
n01id I lysore herd on tlItt ipr-.pr-rty. thie oiiily thin
of It- kind in all the world, will attra'et huidrilsi
if vi\litors who in the winterntimn e ilthon, thii nei-li-
bourir town of Muniteo [Bay. Rast IJ- t' anl st,'k.
rt-rat for sti-ine. soup nim-at. even 'pickings. tfr.oi
Niontpeller. will be taten n St Jalles a-s %ell ai in
the island's capital, and nct only in Jamaica but in

the B:Rlnaman and pr..I)ably 111 Trinidad. It will be
E....d stuff. and all v\er Jamaica better and better
heef will he lrintl'E:d as time goes on. When the
l iigllsli l rt came t., Jamaica they saw our savan-
naihs (c.iverd tiih cattlE. f.ir this is a cattle Coun-
try. The aim of NI,. ('e:ll Lindo has undoubtedly
bL.-n to make it a -ttil Ijetter cattle country, or,
Iather, ti assist Jamaica in producing better and
better cattle than it ever did before, through the
i-tablishmnent of ihis new enterprise at Montpelier
in St. Jamnes.

A Vllt 01 1 III.
WOODEll 0I:< 10'I'
showing the Gotern-
ment muinroadl hic I
rnas through anid
divides t h e great



i : :




THE younger business men of Jamaica do not re-
gard themselves as so young, even if they do
look upon their elders as belonging to the older gen-
eration. Our younger business, men ae-not-.-boysA;
their intelligence is fully developed, their energy at
its best. They are taking the places of their elders,
and the latter admit with admiration that they show
a capacity of which they may not have been thought
capable before its demonstration.

MR. LIONEL DECORDOVA, Manager of Hardware and
I.nmber, Ltd. Mr. deCordova was during the Great War
an officer in the Jamaica Contingent, then served under
his uncle, the. late Leonard deCordova, in the latter's
hardware business for many years. He is a man of
marked ability

They are devoted to their calling, You do not
find their names figuring just now in lists of mem-
bers of public bodies; they do not seek for honorific
positions. Such positions they will take in time;
meanwhile the younger men feel that they must
make good, must do with wholehearted determina-
tion the things they have undertaken to do, must
succeed twice, thrice as quickly as their fathers did.
For this is the day of speed, and the man who has

MR. T. C. S. DRAPER came to Jamaica some years ago
to assume the general management of British Overseas,
Ltd. Under his capable direction the business forges

not achieved -~nimthing in Jamaica when he is thirty
will be considered as not likely to be up to very
much in the future.
It was not so in former days. At thirty years
of age, in the Jamaica of the past, the young man
was still considered as almost a boy where business
affairs were concerned. He had to be counselled
and guided. N,:a. he himself does much of the coun-
selling and EiirIin .



And before he reaches forty his name and his
future are made. He has fully arrived.
Glance for a moment at the names of some of
those younger business men well known in Jamaica.
They are managing large local businesses, some of
them own those businesses. They rise early, are at
their stores and offices betimes; at twenty they may
have thought mainly about sport and enjoyment, ten
years later they are toiling as a former generation
never did-for times have changed. There is more
competition today, there is need for keener thinking.
Yet this competition does not give rise to bitter jeal-
ousy, a deadly rivalry bordering on hatred. It is
better understood now than before that one must
live and let live, and iihat the good man of business
is he who can appreciate the merits of, and be on
personally friendly terms with, his rivals in tlh
same line of commercial endeavour. He will not
fear them.
Whether you talk to Lionel deCordoya or Louis
Kennedy, T. C. S. Draper or Abe Issa, Vincent
Aguilar or Alec Tie Ten Quee, you find the same
spirit. Edward Hanna has it, and so has Cyril Cross-
well. One finds it in Eustace Myers, in Charles
D'Costa, in Arthur Hendriks, in Joe deCordova, in
Herman Taylcr, in Victor Nunes, And one might
mention, did this present opportunity allow, a score
of other names.
Most of these younger men are Jamaicans-Ja-
maica born. Some are from other countries. The
infusion of new blood into the commercial and busi-
ness veins of Jamaica has inevitably done good;

MBR. VINCENT AGUILAR, eldest son of the late Mr. T.
N. Agullar, has admittedly inherited his father's striking
business ability. In addition to the headship of his own
commercial organisation he is a director of some import-
ant local business institutions

it is always so, everywhere, if the men who come are
of the proper stuff. Indeed, if they are not they must
soon disappear: there is always the ineluctable eli-
mination of the unfit from the arena of business.
The unfit tend to disappear because of conditions
and circumstances; they simply cannot survive.
The coming of new men these are usually
but few in these days-never means the unjust re-
legation of local people to subordinate positions
when these people possess ability and energy and
character. It is rather a spur and stimulus to these
and is accepted as such. The Jamaican can measure
himself beside the stranger and feel confident that
he will hold is own. Then, presently, the stranger
ceases to be a stranger and becomes identified with
the country and its prospects and its life. He is one
with the others. In working ior himself he also
works for the country.
(Who is more popular today than Billy Master-
ton? Who does not regard G. J. Kieffer as having
been for years on e of our leading men? Both of
these as do others, work for Jamaica when they work
for themselves.)
Business develops in its ideas and methods. It
no longer requires a great fire to compel, by destroy-
ing structures that should have gone decades before,
the ownerss of stores and offices to erect new buildings
that shall be a credit to city or town in Jamaica. In
these days men will tear down places which their
fathers, or persons of former days, would have con-
sidered good enough for the next one hundred years;
theytear these down to substitute better ones. Young
they tear these down to substitute better ones. Young


mno nalter thlie hiJildin-s at ci::nsidi:rablt expense So
wa toI nlake tlhem airy an.ll ic.:fit:rtanhle. to imprl-e
thell M I:.ret. thlori Is a rI'Cuhlinz If'.wward etnmr-
thing like hibeauty 1If aipp.ar.aln:-. in structure and ar-
lanei-lin-t, and this anibjltiut a ill grow apace. Busi-
letss lKingst.:n look, ent-irely ulifferi-nli today from how
i! looked in llii.. Yuli i:aniin..t now siy of it. as you
might have done bi-e'ort. that year, that the more it
tlihages the more it is, the amtin. It is not the same,

MlH. IN('-.NI LL-\. son 'if llhe lion. Ellie Levy. is hlii
l.iller' in-:-l t t and iinter.al nt I ;- atheerful cnt-opera-
t.',on enable .lii- rll|er to iletore a treat gleal oft lime to
public' u-;ne--

it is entirely different r It ha altered beyond re-
This all-trati.,l is in the ,.u-tlli,)k and spirit of
our .aouncer men al Tlh.\ ar,- not content to
stand par They think in terms I.f lthe future. Thty
ar t under the iitllurnice t' a pr,..'r~:s-ive present.
All thli will ii I iiillly i al's-d iy any resi
Ilc,1t I, Jamaia un i. i ijit iiL..- than thirty years
of a_- C('ha:iii h.ilt taki plla: a. r, ni'? grows up

JH CIil ( ROis EELI. i-. one or o lP .younrc.t or our
rietlr.,i llit;i n Nliin's-.miien. No, 1i 1 liirt.. lel he iammi
nii.n'-'r oe f ilie .John ( rooh n motor ur i..)nlipan .nil ii"t
i.iuved hi-al u irsl rate. Hel is one of King tinn'i "liie-

31"iro ., Imlniilnr i h.l they ',e-'iii I i l nitlnthi nl\i.
iBuI l:nce zL 1 -iii- rll iE ttit' i Kniitln. ur ift MiOn-
ir-2u Ba-. .r i..f e~i.m iothe' Jallial: i':,wn with ePr:r-
getc meni in it r'iturc s tlhait w\-re taken letwani-n
[lirty and l ft'rty yar..- i.. Cl'llnpai 'r thirst with what
.\:iu s:-e tI'd.1.v. Y.:II will be iIr[lp is i: d.
Th:-- chianlce lihave- hbeu l.lr-ely the w.rk i-r
Jami anI a bii li .-: In i. b.th -f tle rild r hen-_ratttn
alnd '-f th.- new\v.



The Life Story o the Banana

S. '\V beatitt'ul are the old customs!" exclaimed
" an edi,:ated young Brahmin one day when
greeted in ihe ancient customary fashion by a
friend who was ,' a lower caste. This friend had
knelt at tt? rh;e'hold of his house and placed the
Brahmin fo:t .li the top of his head. The young
Brahmin ('-l tiim, this was as it should be; he liked
thuse tinl.- hi.nir ir'. ceremonials.
His -freii.l hadI quite other feelings upon the sub-
jet 3althr.n-lih hli dId not express them. He saw tbe
Brahmin's point "-f view, he also saw his own.
Nevertheless I aill be universally admitted that
' ome old custri'- ire not at all unpleasant and may
well b- ..n-ei~veJd amongst these we may include
the Iuniirinirii.e ,f workers on the banana fields of
the L'nliitl Fi it .'mnnpany by the blowing of a large
roilrh sh-.-ll.

THE r.rn..H i a huge mollusc which lives in a shell,
the insid.r ,f which is covered with a layer of
delicate pluk alnd white. Blown through at one end,
a concth-hiell eriit- a deep, hoarse sound that can
be heard [...r miles away. No trumpet equals it for
range, 'eV- Ihe firing of a shot would not carry so
far This nin-t have been discovered long before
thert wa. a banana plantation in Jamaica, for the
bl:winri ..t i.ni h-tllells was a system employed for
calling the u:-rk erk-together in Jamaica over a hund-
red years. a:z. The custom goes back into the dis-
Lant past. ;ual it is almost the only method used in
connectiHn nitthl large scale banana production at
Ihis timen ih.At N.i- employed when Jamaica first began
to export u, t'fruit to the United States. Nearly
everythini- ..iu has changed since then on an up-
to-date buanrniai plantation.

THIS i t, e rai thinly, on lands cultivated by the
linitr-1 Fruit Company, which keeps progress,
improement iand development persistently in view.
The old vay f' planting bananas was to stick the
roots or sluk. rl' in the ground as near to each other
as was ih.:iiclit advisable, the land on which they'
were planted having previously been tilled to a cer-
tain extent hy hand implements,-the hoe principally.
and si..mni~tni- ih fork. Rains were hoped for or
prayer tor. tlheiy iame; they flooded the ground; and
the han.ina;. %whi h is so largely composed of water,
grey: to it: a.,:iiutomed height, bore fruit, and that
fruit was t Liiiland carted away to the nearest port
or railway'siding in drays and carts whose wheels
were innocent of rubber. That system suited fairly
well the -onditi.-lins of those days.

THIS s.sltem is still employed on many of our
Ssmnaller I: ltitations. Often the holes for the suck-
ers lor **r'd-" a; they are more technically termed)
are tn1, shall.~. the ground is not properly tilled or
treated. there i-. either too little water or too much,
and the treei- art- planted too closely together or too
far apart 'xp-riments conducted over a number
of years hlave t ,I.
vinced th- L'nit'.l
Fruit Co (.',linan
thar th wday ...t
pruceldu r. is
wasteful and th.t
it can iIe ~ic eant! "'
improved w i ri
much beIelit [ to
the :culti\ar,..
For iuntanul,, th,-
C o m p n n y .;n, -
tried r I l nr in .
bananau '1k"tr- "
two and a halt
feet a n a rr i ,1 -
line, itl -ii ,, i "
feet apart. unil 1
it round that t'i
ideal di st i a n .
from oneU( sucker(
to the .:,lh tr wi.
abuut th!tree f..-.
(This .4. ,, -
applies t:. t, hl -r-
two sut'.k-r!' ai ,
planted [r. -,,.h
matt. :'.r t h. '
"double i ].k.-r'"
are planted i At.
[be same timni thi-
width lietw-cl -
these r'.n. *:. -%
bananas -as ii
creased t !' in i
eleven ti, ah iii
fourteen fel,
with the I'---riii
that sr.me l r i
hundred anII
eighty trees 31i
now the y elvil ,.

From Infant Tree to Mature

Fruit-Revealing Some of

The Secrets of Modern



an acre of the Company's land, an increase of one
hundred and eighteen trees on the average obtained
but a few years ago.

THIS would not have been possible without an
adequate water supply properly arranged as to
distribution. Flat land is also required for such a
considerable yield of trees and fruit. A great quantity
of Jamaica bananas comes from the hilly regions
of Jamaica today, and these higher lands have to be


treated differently from the lower areas. The hilly
banana plantations, for instance, depend upon rain
and not upon irrigation for their necessary moisture;
then most of the work on them must be done by
hand, since the diesel-driven plough and harrow
cannot be employed on inclines and declivites. But
on all these hill-sides there is more rain than on
the flat alluvial lands of the coastal regions. There-
fore irrigation is far more required on the plains
than on the hills.
BUT the plains have the advantage of permitting
cultivation with mechanical appliances. It is also
infinitely easier to treat the Leaf Spot Disease on
flat land. Therefore on such land the United Fruit
Company, always setting the example in improved
methods of cultivation, have passed from cattle
ploughs to tractors equipped with ploughs and having
their motor power in an internal combustion engine,
the diesel; and this means of preparing the land for
planting enables, for one thing, the subsoil to be
thoroughly broken up, aerated and irrigated.
LONG before the conch-shell can be blown to sum-
mon the banana cutters to take the fruit from
the trees, the land to produce it must be thoroughly
prepared. If the-virgin banana land (of which there
is little left in Jamaica) is overgrown with trees and
underbrush, the underbrush has first to be cleared
away, then the trees are felled and burnt. If the
area has already been planted out in bananas, the
banana stumps and trees still standing when the
time has come to prepare for replanting are chopped
down close to the surface of the earth, the "seed" or
suckers are carefully conveyed by the workers to the
surrounding edges or periphery of the cultivation
and stacked there until the tilling is over and they
can be properly planted. Over these cleared fields
pass the tractors with very heavy ploughs and har-
rows which break up the soil, and turn all the banana
leaves and trunks, or grass and other nitrogenous
material, back into the soil. These same tractors
also operate harrow "subsoilers" which cut into the
soil to a depth ,if between sixteen and twenty-four
inches, properly slicing and disintegrating it. .After,
this the lands are again harrowed and there is now
a well pulverised soil quite free of weeds and really
to be planted out.
OR this purpose of course ox-drawn ploughs can.
be and are also used. (And when hillsides
have to be cleared and planted it is the hoe and the
agricultural fork which are the principal instru-
ments employed, as mentioned above.) Then comes
the "lining"; that is, the laying out of straight rows
for the suckers. A peg is put into the centre of the
spot where the banana sucker is to be planted, and
the holes for these suckers are dug at these spots,
each hole being eighteen inches deep and two feet
square. This ensures straight rows, and if the soil
is poor the suckers are planted at a wider distance
apart than if the
soil is of first-
class quality.
Needless to add,
it is experiments
and experience
that have taught
the United Fruit
Company how
deep to dig, the
right width of the
hole and the like;
S for though the
Banana will grow
if the bed of the
sucker be deeper
or shallower:
wider or narrow-
er, the best re-
sults are only ob-
tained by know-
ing just what to
do to obtain such

EHE suckers
for the Com-
pany's plantations
are carefully
selected. Those
which have small
"eyes" are reject-
ed; only the big
suckers with good
bu lg i n g "eyes"
are used. These
are all planted
by hand, and as
the trees grow,
the ground
around their
roots is kept free



from weeds by hand labour. At one time it was be- damr
lived that this weeding was unnecessary; and water
in some of the Central American countries it banks
is practically impossible to do it. But those with
countries have for the most part virgin soil and a row
heavy rainfall, and in spite of all conditions the plish
banana trees there produce huge stems of fruit. Ne- ploye


glect to weed in Jamaica, and also to plant properly exist;
and to fertilise, means smaller stems of fruit. True It has
it was believed and said for long that there was no in oui
fertilizer that could improve the banana; but this with
theory has been disproved by the experiments of evapo
the United Fruit Company. A nitrogenous artifi- cies t
cial fertilizer (Nitrate of Soda) is now sprinkled thus
around the roots of the growing trees at intervals soil i
of from four to six weeks, and the response of the fruit.


banana to such treatment has durniin the past few
years proved most satisfactory. Much more impor-
tant than this, however, is an adequate supply of
water for the trees. For without water you will not
have bananas.

ON the low-lying lands of Jamaica cultivated by
the United Fruit Company, irrigation is utilised,
the water being supplied from the Rio Cobre or from


wells which tap the
I ground water sour
S the locality. The
canals which carry
rigation water are al<
-- higher ridges of all t
ana farms; from thes
4 canals a system of
channels or canals ti
water to the banana
and from these small
als still smaller ones
laterally into the fiel.
are divided into yet
laterals or sub-canal
running along throu
fields between ever
rows of bananas, or
seventy feet apart fr
another. How doe
SUPPLYING water reach the
roots ? In this way
little canals are
med at some point with earth or tra
r ceases to flow forward and over
s, when it is "worked" by a man, or ir:
a hoe or pole, so that it runs easily along
of trees. This task would be difficult to
but for the superior method of tillage n
d; but the soil surface having been thol
broken up, the irrrig
able to accomplish hi
in good time and e

A NOTHER problem:
constantly to b
in mind and attend
Water, as has been s
a great deal of water:
vitally necessary t
banana. But too much
is also detrimental
maximum of good r
tion. Therefore th
lands, when they
saturated with liquid
to be drained, and f
purpose drains havf
built on the United
Company's St. Cal
farms where natural
age canals, such as
creeks and rivulets,
or are not sufficient for satisfactory dr:
Also been found that certain alkaline sa
r clay subsoil. When-these salts are pera
water they tend by
ration and other agen-
:o come to the surface
rendering the surface
capable of producing
By establishing
s and pumps on the
levels of the irrigated
, however, this excess
is collected, pumped
utilised two or three
Over for irrigation
and the alkaline sub-
remains unaffected.
surface soil is saved
becoming sour, water
ved from seeping to
ea, and a large area of
is irrigated with the
surply of water.

E, fertilizer which up to
ow has proved to be
ost benefit to the banana has been men
does it affect the tree so that the latte
forth a bigger bunch of bananas of st
ty? The fertilizer is in the first place a
directly to the parent tree, which is alre
Suriant growth, but to the follower or
I springs from the root of the tree. F
d Fruit Company's
oyees cut away all ex-
one follower or ratoon
hat it shall be well
shed and to the root
is is the fertilizer ap-
The fertilizer assists
tly in the production of
and numerous leaves,
t is from the leaves of
banana that the fruit
ts its sustenance.

TREE with but few
leaves, and these bat-
or ill-nourished, will
a poor yield. Let the
s wither badly, as they
under the influence of
Spot Disease, and the
of fruit obtained are
worth shipping, if any


are obtained. The fertilizer is therefore applied to
increase the leaf area of the banana tree as a means
of increasing the size of the bunch or stem; but
while a sufficiency of leaf is absolutely, important.
there must not be an over-sufficiency of followers or
ratoons. It is to prevent this that the ratoons are
pruned down to a single tree or "follower"; and
this pruning is resorted to some ten or twelve times
a year by the United Fruit Company. This work i-


undertaken by experienced workers. The need of
pruning and the amount of it to be done were dis-
covered by experiments; and of course the knowledge
and the results thus obtained on the Compary's
plantations have been and are available to all other

FROM what has been written the lay reader, -he
ordinary man, who knows how much Jamaica de-
pends upon the banana, but. who has no technical


knowledge of its cultivation processes, will already
have realized that good and profitable banana plant-
ing is by way of being a specialised business. It
does not mean sticking a root anyhow into the
ground and reaping luscious bunches of fruit for
the market. The banana did grow almost wild at
first in Jamaica after its introduction. But when it




becanie an indu-:try ;anid the- intdust ry grw. hhl;ly
Inltlligent nimthiils icf ulihalition had to be upphdl-d
lo it, andi this i' moiie true t.drlay than even tihr'-
years agt,.

LONi_; years ag:t the Jiuna'1. lbanatia was atlnck. I
hy wliat i: kt-lv.n as Panama [eisons'-. a f'imill-
found in the soi.'l ht thie dtpth of tlirt,-' ie-t an.d



therefore ineradicable This Panama Disease has
steadily reduced the area rf the best banana land.
but its progress ha- to s-oni extent hien .:innter-ed
by better culticatin and also by the uiilisatton
of nev and higher land. But in 1936 another disease
was discovered Alnilong :ome l rof the banana planta-


tions of this country: this
disease had appeared in
Central America, had spread
there with startling rapid-
ity, withering the leaves of
the banana, the source from
which the fruit obtains its
nourishment: and it was
soon seen that unless it
could be checked the ban-
ana industry of those re-
gions was doomed. It after-
wards appeared in Jamaica.
At the beginning of 1937
the United Fruit Company
in Jamaica began the war
against it. This Company
was the first cultivator of
bananas to embark upon
this war against Cercospora
or Leaf Spot Disease; and

it had already demonstrated
el-t-wli-t. that .hi Leaf Spot, which appears in small
whitish -pots o:r hbliches on the banana leaf, could
ii.: prevent-d tfr'm attacking these leaves if the latter
'>.-r. 'r'ay-l. ith a mixture of copper sulphate,
iydrl:te~ Ilni.. and water, this being known as
FBPrdiaux Mimritre

HE dls-ne- 1-eing air-borne, its spores fall on
[lit- IF-an\.. ut ca:lnnot live if these leaves are suffi-
I-,illly.v ,.i:.ver d with Bordeaux Mixture. The appli-
.atrnil .,i tlii nmxtiure, however, is an onerous under-
takina. It is also. costly. But it was recognized by
Hile nit.ed Filit Company that the work would
hlt\ tr. be dlnii- ii Jamaica's banana industry was
Io he -aved. andr it began here to control this dis-
iaseL Iby applyin'-- the already tested Bordeaux Mix-
ture lib-lrally. t-iing cattle-drawn sprayers, each hav-
in,! its ownn l'-ppnrat for agitating and pumping the
mixture xhi:ll was contained in wooden tanks.
But iattlr-drawn apparatus passing between the
banana rrVws tLendl-d to in-
jurei the trie'. C':"nsequent-
ly ireciirll'-e dS Iha d to gaso-
line lra.ltor;i whlilh could
bpI better nlan.-ild Then,
instead; of ,.- n!y .r i spray-
ing "pun-' oi 'oulr and six
nozzles beinir- .iail.hed to
the tnnk i..ntaining the
Bnirdea;ix M111'tlie. sixteen
iiozzle.; ier' : a.li. \-. hence
111O' i I. l zzli-- .11 now
ol:eruat td th.ui Ibefore, a
bheter i -\uVratL.'- ft' pray on
the banana Il-avt has been
obtained, aind the speed of
the irattor hais been in-

OF course, this method of
treatment (an only be
used on. the flatter lands of
lamaira. Handil-praying, for
ihe Inist part. mnu-r be done
up'..' the hill.. Still, the
ar-a t"f flat land planted
':ut in bannana- in Jamaica
is -till ctonside'albl and the
d.-m.ljnstratin n -ivten by the
United Fruit Company has
pointed thie way to other
anild further i--itlLents in
;payil'ne. II has also been
flulnd thai -praying not
only prlt'.tet lr the banana
tit-, aeains (Cr,-.-r.pora, but
i..tc.'l iit n -a.in't another
l.on.--kLown liiniiis which
also withir- the banana
le'nt' This tiineuL. indeed,
i a--risied 1) tllh depreda-
tilI i of I.' ,*r*/ it.7 So by
tlreaiient the banana fronds 200- N
are prD'ottttt(l. the tree is
t'r nelihi-rile tile stems of
fr'iil beItt it no urished,
lar-rr steilis arie obtained ,
andl. ltherei'or:-. h~rtt'r prices.
AT the ecnllllinie of 1939
it was l',iind that an
a\-I'arl:re sileI application
tl 2211 iall.'ns I- Bordeaux
Mixture r-sr ah.'out nine
shillings per ai re. this in-
cluding the iiat-rials used,
the operating t 'csts and
also repairs, hut excluding
depreciation' oft equipment
and the -:ureinutendent's
charges. Expt-rin-itts, how-
ever, are :-eih- continued
with the ioject of seeing
how these io.sts nmay be re- -'
duced while the full efficacy -.
r-1 sprayinle i4 at the same THE SUPPLY WAG
time ntaintained. To obtain

good results at a comparatively low expenditure is,
of course, the desideratum of an organisation like
the United Fruit Company; therefore a progressive
scaling down of the first cost of spraying for preven-
tion of Leaf Spot is an expectation always held in








THERE is no short-term to this operation; that is to
say, banana trees cannot be sprayed once, twice
or three times and then left to themselves. A ban-
ana tree puts out a new leaf every ten to fifteen
days; hence spraying must be repeated at frequent
intervals during the life of the tree. Again, the
tree dies when it has borne its bunch of fruit; and
so the process must be repeated all over again on
its successor: spraying must continue until (if ever)
some permanent cure for Cercospora or Leaf Spot


is found. The disease being very active wherever
the Gros Michel variety of bananas (the present
variety most demanded in the market) is found
there has lately been a lessening of supply with a
consequent increase of price, and this increase of
price will help to meet the increased cost of produc-
tion consequent upon continuous spraying alone. But
there is still another process that must be undertaken.
When the fruit is cut it must be washed before it
can be shipped. Here again the United Fruit Com-
pany has demonstrated how this may be done on a
considerable scale economically. This is touched
upon below.


HE Conch-shell blower blows his conch, the
cutters and headers hear far away the sound
and assemble at the spot from which it comes, and
the harvesting of the fruit begins. The cutter is
an experienced workman who sees at a glance the
grade of fruit that is to be cut for any particular
shipment. Followed by his headers, armed with a
well sharpened machete, he goes into the field
and with a well-directed slanting movement slices
the banana tree almost in two. He then catches the

tip of a leaf or of the ban-
ana stem itself, and pulls
the tree towards him. An-
other swift blow of his
machete and he has severed
the bunch of fruit, the up-
per part of the tree crashes
to the ground, the fruit is
swung away from it by a
dexterous movement of the
hand and is caught by one
of the headers who hoists
it to his head and carries
it away to banana "stands"
at the edge of the field near
the road. There it is piled
with dozens and scores of
other bunches in waggons,
trucks or steam cars and
conveyed away. In some
instances, however, if the
banana fields are far from
the roads, the stems of fruit are wrapped in banana
trash and taken to the banana stands on the backs
of donkeys; removed from these "stands" it under-
goes selection, the smaller stems, or those that are
bruised, or in any way considered unsatisfactory,
being rejected.

UT before the fruit can
be shipped the spray
residues and other foreign
matter must be removed
from it, also any insects
that may have lodged be-
tween the "hands" of the
banana bunch. This is done
in wooden tanks containing
diluted hydrochloric acid,
the banana bunches after-
wards being rinsed in or-
dinary clean water in a
similar tank: each opera.
tion occupies about ten
seconds for each bunch.
Once the washing was all
done by hand, but it has
since been found that it can
be better performed by
mechanical means which WASHING THE FRUI
precisely gauge the time in
which the fruit should remain immersed in the
acid or in the rinsing water. The washed fruit is
then transported to the ports from which it leaves
Jamaica; but before being put upon the ships an-
other process of selection takes place, the remain-
ing damaged fruit, or stems that are too small ur
immature, being finally eli-

SO, steadily, the price of
the golden banana rises,
the cost of the war against
its foes being the primary
cause of this. Faced with
such enemies as Panama
Disease and Leaf Spot, it
is doubted whether the Ja-
maica banana can ultimate-
ly survive; but between its
present stage and that of
its final defeat there will
be a long way to go if the
rearguard action now being
fought is skifully and con-
tinuously conducted. And f '- ,
before the end is in sight
there may be discovered a
banana immune to Panama FRUIT ARRIVING AT
Disease, or some way of
fighting it, and also new ways of combating the
Leaf Spot Disease. The resources of science have
certainly not yet been exhausted.

EANTIME the United Fruit Company, which was
the first in Jamaica to call attention to the new
danger presented by the appearance here of Cercos-
pora, has never ceased to
give on the plantations it
owns in Jamaica demonstra-
tions of what should be
done, and also to undertake
experiments for the im-
provement and cheapening
of methods of prevention
and conservation. It even
maintains an experimental
station, the results of the
experiments of which are
all the time available to the
Jamaica Government. It
has experimented in dust-
ing as well as in spraying
bananas, but it is now gen-
erally recognized that the i
latter method is by far the :
superior; it has spent much..
money in constantly study-
ing the problems of every .FRUIT ALONGSID]

banana disease: it will not weary of this work in the
future. It believes in Jamaica as a source of banana
supply. In spite also of the United Fruit Company's
considerable adaptation of mechanical means to the
purposes of cultivation, its employment of labour, area
for area, is as large today as it was at any former


period of its activities. As its very able and interest-
ing Superintendent of Agriculture, Mr. C. M. Shaw,
remarked to the writer not long ago, "Fewer men may
be required per acre of cultivation today, with
mechanical aids, than would have been required a
few years since. But with an acre in bananas now


yielding many more trees than it did in the past, it
follows that we need as many as or more men now
than we formerly did. For all the cutting, the tree-
by-tree irrigation, the reaping of fruit, and so forth
has to be done by manual labour. And our employees
are better paid today than they ever were be-

BA N .. '- MA -





fr continued from Page 4)
marl.,. slabl had been let, with the name and age of
the man lh..-e remains lay there: "Joseph Bod-
kin. agild 27.' Under this simple statement a few
other 'w'id- had been carved, words which his
wlden had hosen from the Bible, but which would
have IeE-n irottested against as inappropriate by any
memilri 1f her husband's old congregation, or by
any bluthri minister, had one of these but seen them.
But thl tomb) had been built a year after the burial,
whei h,- wa. already but a memory, and only the
brlklay irs .,nd the widow had been present when
the w .'I k wc; done.
Thi .i.r,Js were taken from the 13th verse of
the 1th Ch (a.Lpter of the First Book of Samuel and
read- -
"I saw gods ascending out of the earth."
'The wM..nu, in red paused at the foot of the tomb,
looking doi \ upon it in silent contemplation a long
while. S.,inething of a wind had sprung up, and the
sound )If rt a;- it passed through the trees was waiting
and moui niil. while the rustling of the branches
ovei hllnd resembled faintly the movement of a crowd
in stiffl.v -tarnhed gowns, an unseen crowd, a host of
inviihble n tni -(es that moved incessantly.
li'eseinllvy he dropped to her knees on the bare
earth .ind li n.an to chant slowly in a minor key,
sollnids is-~umin from her lips as if the words, if words
Ihey ari-. lnl ran into one another, thus forming a
lone. ulnhrok. i. low ululation. She bowed her head
upon Ith tnil.. and still the wailing chant went on;
she -pr-ead til her arms upon it, her fingers work-
Ing invill-iv-lvy, her body shivering as though with
ague. and lihad a hand been passed over her face or
form Ii w.,illl have come away wet with perspiration.
It re.in td ;Ia though she were calling, calling, and
that .11 liei energy, all her will, all her soul was in
that rreL-t. terrible invocation. Then, barely per-
crprilld- at lir, t, a strange nerve-racking thing be-
It un-, n- though a mist were rising out of the
tomb. It w\ % as though this mist were forming
itself iteI) a column, which in its turn was taking
hunanuim shape. Suddenly, the circumambient air be-
canm i hilly, i.i.ld, and the odour that came to her
nostiil was the odour of death. The woman must
have f1ll this chill, known what had happened.
For lhe nm, ceased her wailing and seemed to
wait l'e-athles-ly. And now the wind died down,
and the twice branches ceased to rustle. The silence
was of' the prave.
'lhert uanime the sound of a voice speaking, a
curious. iunearthly sound, and a question was asked
as thI.tih iromi nowhere, or rather from somewhere
far. ;tr Itstant. iimmieasurable miles beyond the ken
of n ni:
"Whly hlnt thou disquieted me, to bring me
ThIe wmni:i trembled, but her answer was swift:
"'I have ii:e-d of you."
Sileuc f.-ll once more; it was the woman who
broke it.
'**Y.' llhav ascended from out of the earth like
a god. O in? husband, as some day, long ago, I
thoulit yviu might be called upon to do. As a god.
Greater in death than in life."
"I (nI-, a-I no god, but as an earth-bound spirit.
I am ,in- Ii" lhi having taken my own life, am bound to
the tatrhl. It' Ih scenes where I passed my last days.
I hi'. II... ..her resting place. Why hast thou dis-
quiertld nII '"
"IU(tr .hild. our daughter, is in danger," the
kneeling wa.nan whispered. "Surely you have
wat(ch.t-d 1-i her. Even the dead must have feel-
ing b'. i it ir wn."
'Th,: dt'-.l have no such feelings. Those per-
ished ill thitir dust. You speak to a spirit, to a
thing miiiim.tei al. But you have a certain power
over IbeineL 4ich as I have become, and you know it."
"Y'-, I IInow it. You would have gone from me
years ag... mlnd because I knew that I drove you to
your end. through the spirit of my own father. He
haunt-d rilm. drove you to distraction, though I
never willtd that you should die. He entered into
you. I .-ianne a part of you; took possession of your
life and -,.il. As you will take possession of James
Gordon's "iul if he should seek to injure our child.
That is my i % ll. and for that power my people before
me. and I. haive- given ourselves over to Hell."
1"Whein ,iall this man be haunted?"
"Not yr-t It may be that he will take my warn-
Ing. I want t-, spare my child the agony she must
suffer if hle sees him becoming a wreck, mad, per-
haps endiiiL hIs own life. She loves him. She does
not love me But all my thought is for her, all my
love; let her' le happy and I care not what happens
to me So I would save her from pain until she
must know pain to be saved from still greater dan-
ger. I came tI, tell you this to-night and to prove to
myself that my power to call you or others from the
grave Is what it was, is what the power of my fore-
fathers was I will come again if there is need for
action. But you, a spirit, can still see and act if
needs be without my summons. Will you do this?"
"Only If and when commanded, and then I do

evil and not good. Then only do I obey. You lay
no command upon me to enter into this man, to he-
come as his spirit? You have not sacrificed?"
"No. But at any time I may."
"Then let me go."
The form dissolved into mist, the mist slowly
disappeared, the chill was gone, all around was as it
had been before. The woman rose and tottered away,
swaying as one drunk, as one who had realized the
unimaginable and had stared in the face the utter,
the ultimate terror of life.
And ever in her ears rang the words, "I do evil,
and not good."


AMES awoke the next morning angry and de-
pressed. He had reached home by ten o'clock on
the preceding night, but not until about one had he
fallen asleep. Anger and humiliation had kept him
awake; a sense of loss also, for he must never see
Elma again except accidentally. But there was
something else: a feeling, vague, indefinable, of ap-
prehension. He could not rid his mind of the sin-
ister face of Elma's mother; of the warning she had
spoken with every indication of earnestness. She
looked, he thought to himself, like a woman who
would not hesitate to poison anyone she hated; he
could well understand the dislike which his friend
Hamilton entertained for her. Not that she could
do anything to him; they would probably never meet
again. But she had done enough already; she had
deprived him of one of the things which made his
life in this country pleasant, his friendship with a
girl of a sort he had never met before, a girl whose
society he desired and whose talk and ways interest-
ed him.
The sun was flooding into his room through
open windows; and as the sun rose late on a Nov-
ember morning he knew that he must have slept
beyond his usual hour of six. He rose, washed his
hands and face preparatory to breakfast and bath,
then rang the hand-bell that rested on his dressing
table. In a few minutes his call was answered by
a maid bearing a tray on which there were a coffee
pot, a large cup,.with saucer, a plate of bread, the
butter on which had been made on the property,
another plate containing thin buttered cassava cakes,
and a jug of steaming milk. This meal was to
strengthen him, as it were, prior to his morning toi-
let. Regular breakfast would be served downstairs.
The maid, who was of dark-brown complexion
and good features, was smiling as she came into
the room. She greeted its occupant with a cheery
"good-morning, sah," and proceeded to set her tray
on a conveniently-placed little table. She was in-
telligent, James knew, and an idea which had been
germinating in his mind since that painful interview
of last night took definite form. He wanted to
know something more about the Bodkins than he
did, and he shrank from asking Hamilton for the in-
formation. But this girl might know something
worth-while hearing. What James did not himself
realise was that he wanted to talk to someone, al-
most anyone, about Elma, though discreetly.
"I suppose Mr. Hamilton has already gone out
to ride over the property?" he asked the maid.
"Yes, sah, from six o'clock."
"And it is eight now. I must have overslept my-
"Yes, sah."
"I went for a walk last night; I guess I came
home tired."
The maid said nothing to this. She guessed
where he had been. It was a matter of common
knowledge among the domestics of Charleton, as Mr.
Hamilton's property was named, that Mr. Gordon
went nearly every night to see Miss Elma Bodkin.
Therefore, instead of leaving the room, her setting
of the coffee-table completed, she waited to hear what
more the young master had to say. For though he
always passed a few words with her in the morning,
there was now something in his manner that sug-
gested he wished to go farther than usual.
She wondered if he were making up to her. There
would be nothing strange in this, for she was good-
looking. And he would not be the first visitor here
who had made passes at her, to their mutual satis-
So she lingered, and looked at him expectantly.
Her manner became easier, confidential.
"You know Mrs. Bodkin, don't you, Edith?"
"Yes, sah; she live about here for a long time
now. An' I born here."
Edith experienced a lessening of interest. It did
not seem that the talk was to lead up to herself, as
she had hoped, but to the Bodkins. Still, she would
answer the young master's questions to the best of
her ability.
But James felt embarrassed. Should he talk like
this to a servant? Was it quite a nice thing to do?
And what, after all, did he want to say?
"Miss Elma father was a minister in the church
not far from here," Edith suddenly volunteered; "tme
mother used to know him, but I was a little girl
when he died."

"Ah, yes. He's been dead a long time now, hasn't
he?" asked James, with a very passable effect of in-
"Yes, sah; and," continued Edith, lowering her
voice, "I hear me mother say that people round here
say that his wife put him so."
"'Put him so?' What on earth does that mean,
my good girl? 'Put him so!' And did he stay put?"
"Oh, yes, Mr. James. The people say him went
quite funny, and used to wander about groaning and
saying something was driving him to do all sort of
things he didn't want to do. Then he died all of a
"I am afraid, Edith, you are suggesting that the
poor gentleman went mad. That was dreadful, both
for him and his poor wife."
"But it was she do it, Mr. James." Edith had
once again become deeply interested. True, no
"passes" were to be made at her just now, and that
was disappointing. But she could give information
of a scandalous character, and all in private, about
people whom nobody of her acquaintance liked, and
to a young gentleman with whom she was proud to
hold any conversation. She leaned easily against
one of the tall carved posts of the mahogany bed in
(Continued on Page 23)

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IT('OuiitH t sfi tlow Py -:3 1
which Jim slept, a noter t of friendlines-, lof f tiliar'-
ity, creeping into her voice.
"You mean that his wife dr'uoe him mad.' -.tid
James, sipping his ..offee and enjoying it in spite i
all that had happened last night "Well, perhaps slu-
is disagreeable enough to drive any wieak-mniiijdd manl
mad. But that would nott bIe on purposee. youi klno "
"I don't knno an. thing abouilt it me-telf. i\i'
James; it is only what I hear other peopl,. mostly
old-time people. about here say. I go to a g, lool
when I was a chile. an' I went to Sunlday S hhnoi
too, an' now I go to church whenever I i.au. th...ii.ih
I don't join any yet So I don't hi- er ,:- in ithel e
things, lor you can't lie in religion. aid 'a\ e1l. r
tion, and believe in these things. Yet tht iotl pe
pie whisper an' talk among thliemehlve- and i le.l
i t. An' they all believe it is true. "
"What on earth aie you talkliia aiboii r i' dnemliii-
ed James, quite unable to grasp the nieaiiin'_ of thib
Sudden flow if word- "Wbhat is it iht viint her iut
. shouldn't believe':'
S"They say." and liere Edirlih c nk h-er \iice rt a
whisper. "that Mi.i Bodkin is a obeah i iiwoman. .in
that if you do her anything she ran injure you. Old
Deacon Smart. nho used to belong to her '"isbanl
:. church, say she have a familiar -prit. an' that she
is bad."
"Gracious heaven' What L..rt of iounttry is thi .
Where even deanuiin, bheli-v\e in \wrnitn witl (auiili.ii'
"But it is true. Mr. James." prote.-i d Edith. fo'r-
': getting her recent repudiation of belief in anything
of the sort. on the ground that nr, one who had been
i to school and t, Sunday Schootl sioulidIndIilCe in
Superstition "It is true. Her neither and h--ri
mother people grow up I oi Byebrook. the property
that belong to Mr. Tom. though. of course, he don't
bother with her. Her great gran' mother was a sla,:.
i rh:.. I hear. on dat property. an' wvhetn she %%as Qiuit-
-- young, after -'he 'avt only two children, them uiirn
h: her to death because she kill such a lot of de other
slave she didn't like But her family seem to inherit
her badness, for up till today people sav that Mrs.
Bodkin can 'put y'u so,' an' dat is why I afraidd 'or
As Edith went on talking. she slipped more and
more into the vernacular, which she did her best to
avold when speaking to ladies and gentlemen who

,.: : ::
:.) "

iaine to Mr. Hamilton house. She alvway felt that
a housemlaid of her status must express herself in
giood Englisht. e\vn if that were Ie-s emphatic thani
the ordinary language of her friends.
"Tell me." said James quietltly, "exactly what ia
'put yo:u so.' I ai afraid I don't undei ~land."
"It's like d.i. Mr Janies. Suppoie I "ate y.ou.
,, I I want yuii to, d,: s.inimething you don't want ito 1.:
\eil. I go to a hadl w,,manl. ob,,.ahi .omian--orl i
may be man-an I pay him lots of money, anl' !i
call up a Ehi.ti an' tell dat ghost to li.unt you :ill
you go mud or dead. or do what I want. But if y'ii
know what I done. an"' you are clever. an' 'ave mon-.v.
yiou g-. to another i-obah man or wornian. an' ply
then to t.- k ioff( Ui lioai, an' I-n,- yiou art all right
fur oni? gh,.oa fight de either an' you arl' i'r.e. But a
lit of dose w"ho say they .an pul o(n irr te.:k offt gho.ia
is only a fraud. for de poli:i? catch them all de time
an' put dem in prison: an' don't you -ee dat if thr-m
wa-s o .trn.ln: that .iiildn't hanrpn?"-
"I wo.iuld -eem o. .\es." James replied- gravely.
thliugh much inclined tio laugh.
"Bur it is dif'ere.nt wid \Mrr Bjdkin Nobody
(c..iuld lit co to her to get her d.i anything for them
She 'ave money. an' is stand-off an' proud An' y'u
iinver hear that he. puit choas 1n anyone: only that
she can d. it if -he wtantt. An' Leaic'In Smart swear
she put ichonas on her own 'usbnn: blut he only say so
to pe.'ple iwhe. wouldn't tell h'-r what hin say, for
him afraidd for her"
Antd d:. the people round about here say that

Home of the


PHONE 2516



lMr. Budkin's daughter als.j has the puwer to bewitch
.,tbers"" enquired James laughingly. But Edith took
the iluesti.rn in all seriousnes.
"No. becau-e they never hear anything 'bout
ter. But perhaps her mother teach her: you can't
tell. She's a great young lady, an' educated an' all
l:itt. 5., maybe 1her another wIouldn't let her know
.inyrliiing about dupp.v-which is the same as ghos."
SI know that. at any rate. Edith." laughed James,
hli..re :good liumour had been reot.:redl by the story
li0 had just heard, a quite t'fitaStle'. preposterolls
tal.. i- he described it t:i hiniself. This was an
unimiiinc coiintry. But he had already kept Edith
h-az en:u-ch. and his coffeee nas finished.
He nodded to:'ards the things :,n the table. and
-.IIe pr..ceeded to clear thiin away. She would have
lik- d t-. c...tiiiin' the t'n i voi ration. espei ally --
the i.ahe' tervant_ would ne\cr believe that Fhe had
.inly been talking in that room f'or a quarter if ian
Ii.,iur. Asa rule the never len gained lncer than tivp
iniiiut.-s: nom" .-lie could 2o ah:bout the huuse with a
pr.oud. important lo'.uk. ti, be envied and respected
hy the others as the undoubted favourite of the young
gentleman from England. They would chatter about
her rinimng themselves, bur not a word would they
licathe to Mr. Hamilton. That was one of the things
that were 'not done." James. without knowing it.
hall pur Edith on a higher pr-lestal in that residence
than she had occupied before in spite of her better
-dui.ation and superior nianners.
He bathed. dres-ed in riding tjogs, and rhen w.-nt
down thte ilinine room.

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There was more coffee for breakfast; it had been
grown on the property, had been ground only last
night and boiled this morning: it was fragrant, ap-
petising, and the milk was fresh-drawn from the
cows only a few hours before and scalded properly.
There was broiled saltflsh swimming in butter, eggs
also, roasted plantain, thick toasted cakes made of
white flour, slit in two and flavoured with butter;
there was a tin of sardines on the table, toasted
bread, a deep dish with soaked biscuits-crackers
boiled in slightly salted water, drained, buttered
lavishly, and served to those who liked the delicacy
but needed a good digestion if they would suffer no
There was marmalade. A great slice of Jamaica
honeycomb dripping with honey lay with a knife in
a large dish; there was a fruit-stand piled with
oranges, bananas, pineapple and tangerines. The
plate-mats were of embroidered linen, the cutlery
and glassware were of good quality. The table was
of polished mahogany, and so were the dining-room
chairs. All the furniture in this room, indeed, was of
mahogany, and on the huge sideboard against one
wall there were vases with flowers grown in the im-
mediate vicinity of the house.
James made a hasty breakfast, then called for
his horse. He would ride out to meet Hamilton,

under whom he was supposed to be learning some-
thing about cattle-rearing in the West Indian fash-
ion,.and coffee growing, and banana planting. For
Hamilton had a "mixed" farm or plantation, going
in for two or three things so as never to be too bad-
ly hit if coffee prices should decline, or a hurricane
sweep away his bananas, or cattle become for a time
a drug upon the market.
The house was of two stories, with a fine porch
in front, on either side of which flower beds bloom-
ed and walks were laid out, the whole being sur-
rounded by a hedge of flaming scarlet hibiscus. This
residence had been built of good Jamaica brick and
hard-wood, with a shingled roof painted green; on
all four sides it boasted numerous sash-windows, In-
terspersed with jalousie blinds, little wooden slats
that opened and shut all together and were coloured
a vivid green. The bed-rooms were on the upper floor;
the living-room, the dining-room, a sitting room, a
"library" (from which books were singularly absent)
a "study" where the property's account books were
kept, a storehouse, and a little chamber under the
stairway that led up to the higher story were all on
the first floor. To look after this establishment
Hamilton employed four women and two "boys." The
older of the hvbus as fifty.
The front of the house was about a furlong from

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the highroad that ran turviig towards King-
ston, the island's n.apital, and also westward towards
'Montego Bay, where it merged into that town, to
emerge again as the highway that vent right round
the island. On either side of th. house,. and far
behind it, strel.hed the land farmed by G.-orge
Pimento tree ; crew on this planationI also., tree-
yielding a grEeii berry with tie tInaviur oif' many
spices, and with leaves\' whih:l. whvin irush'.d, gave
forth an aromatic dour. Faill lr I-'f. diudi u -otnme-
what lower ground, the banalnas ~wri plautpil. though
this was not considere-d as- y i any leans tihe bIe-st
loicatioun tor proi'du iup this typ. ofif frt'r;l. i.;r' e
Hamilton had been ,one of thi- first planters in Ja-
maica to believe that Ithe bniainln tt nild gi'rw pro-
fitably el-,ewhere than on ti. i.,lwl:inds. and Ils
belief had been rewarded with f u>:.--.- Sio his ban-
ana farnim, dense. reen. standirnL lik.- a vast forest
of frondEd steUi-s not inli'e ithn lten to twelve
feet high, strer..lied away in the, ilistnno'e as ,n-ll
glanced towards them fronl a ilndow tin the upper
srorey cof the htuse or troml htir.,lhlck It \%as to
tlh- left .If these, as y'Iu lookedl wt,-ia r al. that the
castle prastulres and pens war.- mtluateld, and it was
iin tih'-ir dire i ion th.t Jan.. ; niw Irud'
Jaiei i niyeyd lis earl I .iriting rides in the
cool fresh air of the Janii ia upland counti'yide.
It would not be so pleasaint. h it us,. to think. had
he been compelled to go aboliti,. -, a l'hid maIn. il
the- farnims .tn the I'\el -I litri.l .. tin: country; for
though there one might often see the nmapgitient
sweep of the Caribbean, the sea breaking in white
spray upon a rocky or sanded shurt.. .ur lying list-
less, streaked with blue and green and purple, un-
der a sky of azure and Kleamini cloud, it would he
hot also, sultry, BLeanlinr. especially during the
long days of the summer when the suiin was like a
ball of fire overhead. U'p hri-r. u-iiing the valleys
surrounded hiy nlountaiuni. it t as nt'vr ioppre-isive,
often cool: and the di'p of vale. the ri-.e of hills, the
mellow golden light that poured down froni the
\ault,-d ,laiipy lihPl- ath whli h drifted hure black
vulturn-s. alwyI-. broriclht 1i. him a --uns- of 'altl-tac-
lion and a loite for triplkal lite.
But nihw as he ic.de towar'tls the i':ttriiret some-
thing of Iis ann'.yan- e, his anger, .n the night hbe
tlfr cam.- lhat:- It hinm. He was not it, t-o.Elima
again: and il alingi that flat of her nother'.~ ani
his own deteriiination never to allow hiume-il' to be
Insulted by thie 'v.,muan again, he realised also that
a good deal of lii willingnes, to spend months at
a time in Jamai(a. and to adapt himself t,- condi-
tions as he found them, had been due to the pleas-
ure he had found in the society of a girl who, so-
cially speaking, was miles and miles anay from
hinm-a whole world distant.
He had met her within a few days of his com-
ing to this country. He- had landed at Kingston,
been received on the pie r by Hamniltn. and had that
xery day huirridil utit of the half-ruined city whirh
had not yet recovered from the effects of an earth-
quake and tire of nearly three years before Ham-
ilton had undertaken to -how\v him the siehts. su h
sn they were. -of that parr i .if IItal Janmai'a in whl'h
he lived. He had driven Jamnies abnut. to the lat-
ter'- evident enjoyment, and when Sunday came
ban taken hiun to the Anglican h Iurih in thr near-







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IBL town It was there that James had first met
i James renmemberedi that meeting very clearly a-
he trotted along
The girl bad been presiding at the little organ-
milttig in one of the front benches. he had seenr
her face and figure distinctly. She played well. ex-
oeedingly well. She took her task s.-rioiily. The
choir behind her followed bh-r a- if she \wer' its
q leader; it did not hurry lb-fore ..ir lag behind the
Music; it sang in time. She sang too. which vas
not usual in an organist: it was plain -he did it
to lead the choir. Her voice rani: out. a cl.ar. vi-
brant soprano. above the others Here was one.
thought James. who look eharlge of a s 1riition and1
was instinctively ohbeyed.
The service over. he and Hamilton had gol:.-
into the churchyard. outside ..f which was a -
i. sembled a collection .:.f vehi les. Old two-.earer and
four-seater traps. drawn or the most part by two
' htorses, awaited the hetter-off nommnbers ,of the ci..l
Segregation: but there were one or two nice little hi;-
gies and a couple of motor-cars also: these cars w -re
looked upon by all the people with respect One.
S large, new. and a wonder in tho'-e parts. was his
She had brought it out from England with him. Most
of the folk who had attended service -would walk
Some, but before they set out upon their journey
they paused to gaze at this car. the like of which
they had never seen before Some ..f the children
even timidly advanced and touched it.
S Jame-s was amused He divided the conre.ga-
Stion into three sections- the few whites. wh,-,
walked with an air 'f crave imprtain'e ard wer'-
deferentially treated by monst of the other folk. a
larger sprinkling of person'i with complexi,.ns that
Svaried from dark brown to olive. and the mnaior-
ty, who seemed to his eye-s all black, though. as a
S atler of fact, some were not so The church was
a low stone building, capable of acnmnimodatine
about two hundred people; in the churchyard grew
two or three great trees, and the wooden fence that
ran in front of it was decently maintained. In the
town surrounding the church the couple of streets
that could be seen were lined on either side with
nondescript shops and houses of wood or wood-and-
brick, all dingy in appearance The only other
building besides the church with any pretension. to
size was the courthouse. %Ahich seemed to sym-
Sbolise the might and majesty of established Gov-
While he was glancing at the scene under the
%tropic sun- the dingy buildings. the dusty streets.
i;*"*T *-

the quiet cungreagdll on loikiug uipOin a c.ir as a slit
o.f wonder, the strange faces of different hues., the
< clothes that seteniid to bel.ng to a f ..rnmer perl.,il
ithe rmen particularly wearing hot twe,-d garmt-ruts.
some of whibh must have been made at least twenty .
years before ,. the lparst.n camie oIurt if the chiir-'
and almost imni-diately i-bhind bi tile tall la i.
organist The parson was an Englishman. ilUit
young, and Mr. Hamilton had Iiu oered in ,older t.
speak- to him and to inrruldulce hinm t ., Janie.. Th,
parson had noti..ed. of oiurle. hoth Hamilton ani
James in :hur.bh, and had hastened out as s..Lion a-
le could in the hope of meeting them. It wa- al.:,
with some such hope in her mind. though liy ni.
nieans a str,..n- one. that Elma had waited b-'hinmi
o as to fcilliw her past.jr into tlie yard. Shel tc:..
had seen the young man. and. while playing ani
-inging. had wondered who lie was His face hald
struck her. If only she could mrn-et him
She had managed it. though James never guess.
ed that she had deliberately done so. On pasitu
the group of three men she had liesiated as thh:cii
-he had something to say to the cler.'ymai i H-
tuirnied t: her with th.- w, words
"Oh. Miss Elma. I should like to introduce yi.i
to i ur visitors ,of today. Mr. Hamilton, this is oIr
,,rcanist. Miss Bodkin: Mr. Gordon. Miss Bid:l-iii
I don't know what we should do without her'
"I noticed how she played and how she led the
singing." said James pleasantly; *[ can quite under
standd what a help Miss Bodkin must he to yju "
"Thank you. Mr. Gordon." Elma replied with

- bright mniile. and he said to himself that he liked
the timbre of her voice It wa, soft, and there was
ih. drawl and flatness about it such as one heard
in so many other Jamaican voices.
.Are you in this part of the ,world for l.,ng"'
lie asked, nhi-le the clereyman and Hamilton were
-fill ex..hanging a few words.
"Perhaps. It i quite possible. I am living wlbth
Mr. Hamilton at C'harlert.,n."
"That's pretty near to, where I live." remiarked
Elnma. nly the Charleton reridence i1 a iGreat
H:Ause bhile I have hut a cottage."
Will you let me come sometime to see that ci.,t
trce '" he asked: "I should like to"
"Do come. I anm ure my mother will be elad i,
see .i)iu When are we to expect you""
"If oi-mi.rrowv night ."
SThat would do. splendidly Anybody at Charl,-
ion will tell you the way to where we live. To.
morrow night. then."
She had smiled, shaken hands, and then had ,ot
,iit:. a quite presentable two-seater buggy drawn by
.a cuple of ponies. She had driven off briskly and
v.ilh the air of one who knew how to manage hor.s's
She was a dazzling creature. he thought: much pret-
tier and livelier than the Misses Fullard he had met
the niEht before.
On the following evening he had set out for his
fi'st stroll to the Bodkin home.
t.'ontulltird ut,1 PAtui .liu






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An Englishman in


((Conltlaied fl roAm Poflt j9)
some time or other, and that it was well to bI'ein
at once.
They would take no denial, the salt and watcr
was being prepared, and as Charles saw no: help for
it. he was obliged to consent to take a glass of ruin
and water. under the stipulation that he should mix
it for himself. This, after some hesitation. was
agreed to, and Charles having taken care that the
quantity should not overpower him. took. his '*drink."
as Mr. O'Swilliquer termed it. and, as soon after it
as he could, made his escape from the apartment.
On gaining the open air, the scenery whirh lay
spread out before him in the calm moonlight delight-
ed while it astonished him. Many have written on,'
the scenery in Jamaica. but no one who has seen
its beauties can forbear adding his tribute to the
generall praise
In the light of the moon the sloping ground roll.
Ad away. to rise in the distance into higher hills
which. farther on. towered into mountains The
silver gleam of a little river met the eye: villages
here and there formed patches in valleys and ion
the shoulders of the heights; in some of the huts
of these settlements faint lights glimmered, hut the',
were far away and no sound broke the silence of the
night. Charles was ravished. Much had he heard
of the beauties of Jamaica: now he saw them spread
out before him in all their fascinating magnificence.
and. but for his separation from Lucy. he was delight-
ed that he had left dingy, dusty Kingston so many
miles away.
It was late when he returned to the house. and
he found the party at the point of being broken up.
all the company being in a state which may accurate.
ly be guessed. Charles turned from the scene with
disgust, and was about to seek his chamber, when
Mr. O'Swilliquer, with as much articulation as his
condition afforded him. related how his dear friend.
Mr. Heavisop. was so blind dhrunk that he had
thrownn himself by main force into Charles's bed.
that he then occupied it. and in all probability would
continue to do so till the morning.
This announcement had scarcely been made be-
fore six hands were laid on Charles's person, and as
many invitations to pass the night on different estates
were shouted in his ear.


The successful candidate for the hunr.ur was a
Mr. Bailley. an Enelishman rather the worse for
liquor, hut who was. as all the mountaineers were. as
hospitable and kind to the stranger as if he had hap-
pened to: rc-oguise rin him a father or brother.
'Corme along with me. my boy." said he. --you
shlian't drink more than you have a mind to. and that's
one advantage"-so saying. he reeled out of the
room and down to the front of the hnuse where the
hor-es were standing ready, drawsii. Charles after
him. As soon as the party wiere mounted. Mr
MI'Piunny proposed that they hliould dismount and
"tak a parting drink" This invitation was acceded
to by all except Charles with great alacrity. and after
they had partaken of a strong parting drink. whirn
they metaphorically designated as a nightcap. the
servants were called up to assist in getting then
on their horses-a feat which. bI the combined ans
instancee of the iMnuehold. was admirably perifrmcd
The road which led to the estate of wvhii h Mr. Bail-
ley was the proprietor was one of thiie rough. dan-
gerous icountain roads so frequently met with in
Jamaica. but the horses being left to themselves were
certain ti take those paths which were less perilous.
though. perhaps. less inviting in arpprarance. Thel
conversation was sustained entirely by Mr. Raillev.
a\h. expatiated with eloqarence and at great length
on the folly of intemperance. while he laughed im
moderately at "rthe strar.e figures which the other
fellows ut in their drunkenness "
A r-onm wa.s qr.on put in readiness to receive
Charles It was a fine. cool, apartment. everything
was neat and clean, and Charles slept soundly. and
dreamed of Lucy Ashdale He thought he was about
to be united to her in holy matrimony. The officiat-
ing minister was in the act of putting the important
question. when a figure appeared at either side of
him, bearing a goblet in his hand.
Suddenly these figures assumed the countenances
of Mr. O'Swilliquer and Mr. M'Phunny. and Charles.
looking into the goblet, discovered that the contents
were brandy and water. The minister, indignant at
the intrusion, was about to interfere, when a loud
rocking at the door of his bed-room awakened
Charles from his pleasing reveries, and on jumping
up he discovered that Mr. Bailley was calling to him.
"It is seven o'clock. Mr. Whipmy-had you not
better get npi'" said Mr. Bailley. on receiving his
guest's assurance that he was awake.
Charles did so. and on emerging from his bed
found his host grating nutmeg into two glasses of
mixed hock. which stood ready on the fable Charles
thought it very early to commence drinking, buL a3


he did not wish to offend bis bost by a refusal. he
sipped a little and set the glass down again. He then
requested that his horse might be ordered, and tak-
ing a boy as a guide he arrived once more at the
house of Mr. O'Swilliquer, whom he found at his desk
in the store, looking very fresh and in good spirits.
He received Charles warmly, and after apologising
for the boisterous reception he had met with last
evening, required to know if he would have "anything
to dhrink before breakfast."
After breakfast Charles was initiated into the
duties of his office, which he found by no means ardu-
ous; indeed, his situation would have been very com-
fortable, but that he was anxious as to the manner
in which his proposal might be received by Lucy.
and was desirous to return to Kingston, so that. at
any rate, he might enjoy her society, if not her love.
Indeed there was no society in Mr. O'Swilliquer's
neighbourhood that at all suited his ideas; he could
not join the drinking parties. for he looked upon
them as too degrading, and yet he could not leave
his present situation without having any prospect
of supporting himself.
He was aware, of course, that bie was singularly
fortunate. Had he come out to Jamaica as an ordin-
ary "bookkeeper." on an estate, he would have had
a dog's life. Had he even been employ-ed in a plan-
tation office by a less friendly and considerate per-
son than Mr. O'Swilliquer, he would have been re-
garded and treated as a menial: never would he
have been accepted on a footing of equality, though
obviously a gentleman. Indeed. with another sort
of employer, the fact that he was a gentleman might
have made him the butt of contempt, for many of
the Jamaica proprietors and attorneys were men
of coarse fibre, and young fellows of decent upbring-
ing who came out to Jamaica in those days to fill
subordinate positions often because of their treat-
ment took to drink or died of a broken heart.
But this was a coffee and cattle property, and
its owner did what he could to make the young man's
life a pleasant one. But Charles could not forget
Lucy. And he wondered when his purgatory would
But there was a deliverance at hand of which
he little dreamed. He had been in his new employ-
ment about three weeks, when he wrote a fervent
and impassioned letter to Lucy, breathing a spirit
of love, devotion, and all that kind of thing; then.
several of the storekeepers in the neighbourhood,
having requested him to fetch their letters for them




on the following Sunday (the only post day) from
the Post Office, about five miles distant from his re-
sidence, he deferred until that time the posting of
this important document, not caring to trust it to
a servant. Having on that day obtained the letters
for his friends, he took them according to request to
the house of one who lived in a central situation,
where all the others had met. Charles alighted and
being asked "to take a drink", or a cup of coffee,
chose the latter, whilst the rest regaled themselves
with brandy and water and cigars. It appeared, how-
ever, that the principal business of the meeting was
yet to be gone through. This was an old custom of
that district.
All having taken their seats at a table, the let-
ters were handed over to the chairman, who proceed-
ed to remove from the bulk of letters those which
were superscribed in a female hand, and which were
distributed to those to whom they belonged.
The Chairman then took up the first from the
pile, which he opened and read to himself.
"This, gentlemen," said he, "is to our friend
Burton, and is a dun from his tailors in Kingston.
What is the pleasure of the board?"
Mr. Burton rose and requested the chairman to
state to the meeting whether the letter was written
in an impatient strain.
"They write," said the chairman, "of resorting
to unpleasant measures."
"I move," said one of the company, "that that
letter be thrown under the table. We have been
too much bothered of late with unpleasant measures."
"I second that motion," said Mr. Burton, the
delinquent proprietor of the note, and the motion
was carried unanimously.
The chairman took up another. "This, gentle-
men, is directed- to Mr. Purchase."
'That'-s me," said a gentleman at Charles's right
n.Who's it from?"
"From Taikin, the provision merchant," answer-
ed the chairman-"says he is very much in want
of money."
"So they all say," growled Purchase.
"And begg you will remit the trifling amount,"
continued the chairman.
S"What is the pleasure of the board?"
A motion was put and carried, that Mr. Purchase
do pay Mr. Taikin something on account by the next
Several other duns from Kingston were disposed
of in the like manner before Charles left, which he
,id as soon as he had finished his coffee, having to
deliver to Mr. O'Swilliquer such letters as he had
procured for him.
S As soon as he had done so, he retired to his own
room to read one he had also received, and which
was directed in William's handwriting. He had not
time, however, to throw up the sash and break the
seal before Mr. O'Swilliquer rushed into the room,
laughing and dancing.
"Who'd ha' thought it-ha! ha! here's luck for
you, Whipmy-here's a letter with a black sale."
"A letter with a black seal," said Charles, snatch-
ing it from the old man, and hastily breaking it
open; "what can it mean?"
"Sure the maneing is all in a letter writ to my-
self, Mr. Patrick O'Swilliquer, by one Mr. Ashdale,
and it's me that wishes you all the joys in life, an'
more for the matter o' that."
Let the reader judge Charles's surprise when
he read the following extract from the letter, which
was from his father, and which had been immediately
on its arrival forwarded by his friend William:-
"It is with feelings of sincere pleasure that I
inform you, that your Godfather, Sir George Crusty,
who would do nothing for you while you were in
England, has at his death bequeathed to you the
whole of his property, by which means you are now
master of an income from 800 to 900 a year, ex-
clusive of the estate. You will of course come home
as soon as you can, and enter upon possession."
Mr. Whipmy, senr, had also written to inform
Mr. Prickley of the circumstance, and to request him
to cancel Charles's agreement. Old Prickley, know-
ing of the intimacy which existed between Charles
and the Ashdales, had immediately made them ac-
quainted with the good news; the consequence was
that no time was lost by William in forwarding to
Charles his father's letter, having enclosed in it
another to Mr. O'Swilliquer, announcing to him the
change in the fortunes of his clerk.
Three days after the receipt of this letter Charles
was again in Kingston. His proposal had arrived
before him, and he was the accepted lover of Lucy
Ashdale. One month afterwards they were married,
and a few weeks after that they embarked on board
the Henry Davidson for London, accompanied by
William and his father.
Mr. Ashdale did not like the idea of parting with
his daughter, and had consequently resolved on visit-
ing once more, for the last time, his native land.
They had a delightful passage home, and on the
forty-fifth day landed at Margate. "I am glad I
went to Jamaica," Charles used often to say to Lucy
afterwards. "For there I found a treasure-you."


* a 9 9

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(Cotlniited o irrm Pa 1])

You are very kind. Mr. Methistoleb, but. yuii
know. the Custussbip is in the gift of the Governor.
not of the people."
"The people can insist upon it. Mr. IBrakspeer.
the voice of the people-"
"Had better not be heard too distinctly in this
matt-r." was the decisive comment oft Mr.. Brak.
speech. "Nr-." continued that gentleman thoiichtful-
ly, "no public agitation would do. We must i ule that
out "
"Then what would you sugge-t""
"Well, I don't suppose that any harnm would be
done if you. the elected member of the, parish, up.
proac:hed the Governor and told him that I would
be welcome to the citizens mused Mr. Bral:-
speer: "and perhaps a few other .f our leading par-
ishoners mighl support you-that is. you know, if
they actually Aant me as Custos."
"They dote upon you. sir"
"That is very nice of them. Now let us see:
who should speak tI the Governor? 'Yours'elf. fir-t
and chiefest. of course: then-"
"Sio and so., and So and so. and So and so sug
gested Mr. Mithistoleh with a rush."
"Good names all." agreed Mr. Braksi.pc-r. "You
might approach these gentlemen, and I will see that
a few of my friends also mention the matter usually
to His Excellency."
[" know one or two of the Kingston repnrter-."
said Mr. Methistoleh. bending his mighry brain to
working out the plan of campaign. "I could get
then to write that it is rumoured the Governnr has
it in mind to appoint you Custos of this parimlh. and
how everybody is delighted to ar the new Of
course, we couldn't do that before Mr Inskip is dead.
but that won't be long now. I hope."
"You mean you are sorry. I am sure. and -n am
I. Mr Methistoleb. I wish Inskip could re:c.vc'r;
but that is not possible, I fear. Well, we all hare to
go some time. we all have to go. We are here today
and gone tomorrow."
"Too true, Mr. Brakspeer. too true: and when
a man like me has so many troubles as I have. I
can never feel sure that I won't be gone tomorrow."
"I can well understand that." sighed Mr. Brak-
speer. "I know what your burdens must be. for

haven't I borne them too? I suppose your business
is suffering through your public work: isn't it so?"
"Suffering? Suffering is not the word!"
Which was tru'- enough, for Mr. Methittolel's
business. such as it had been. had long ceased to
suffer, having entirely perished through neglect. It
was dead. But he did not care to say as much just
Well. I know how proud you men in public life
are." said Mr. Brakspeer. *but if I could do any-
thing a little to assist you. I would gladly do
so, you know. You are my able successor in the
Council. and if you realize your wish it is far
more your aish than mine, Mr. Methistoleh and
I become CuIstos of this parish, we shall have to work
together. We must be friends, and a friend in need
is a friend indeed."
"I can assure you, sir." said Methistoleh fervent-
ly. "that when I crossed the threshold of this palatial
residences a little while aco I had not a single
thought. not a solitary idea. of inflicting my financial
cirunmstancesuo upon you Had you not asked me
about my buLiness., with that noble dirinterestedness
that has ever been characteristic of the men born to
lead and cuide us. [ would never have mentioned it.
N':. qir: I think so: muc h r.f this parish that I can
have no thought frr myself Yet only this morning
my wife said to me that a hundred pounds would be
a fortune if we could get it. I said to her: 'let us
suffer in silence focr thb- eood of the country. If I
can only live to sc'e Mr Brakspeer Cilutos. I shall
not have lived in vain '"
"M r. Methistoleh. you must allow me to lend you
a hiindred pounds: I insist on it. I know what you
are olngi to do you are going to) refuse. But is
that the way to treat a friend?"
"I cannot take it Mr. Brakspeer. I may never
he able to repay it "
"But it iFn't much. my good fellow, and this is
not the only time I hope to be able to lend you a
helping hand. Now. don't say nri."
"If you put it that way. how can I say no, sir?
It would be churlish of me."
"Splendid. Mr. Methistoleh!"
"Could you give it to me in banknotes? I. er.
er. I don't like a cheque."
"Neither do I I can let you have about forty

pounds in cash now, and the other sixty you will'get
on Monday. Will that do?"
"Certainly, Custos."
"And if at any other time, you know, Methisto-
leh ."
"Custos, you are the soul of generosity. You
are a true patriot. I have always said so."
"Wait a minute here, then: I shall soon be
Within two months the island, thanks to para-
graphs in the Press, praise in the Legislative Coun-
,il. conversations everywhere, was quite convinced
that Mr. Braksreer would be appointed Cistos of
his parish, and everybody said that the Governor
could not possibly have thought of a better man. The
Member for the Parish openly declaimed that here
again His Excellency was about to show his deep
and abiding interest in a constituency that was the
most loyal in the island. And. sure enough, the peeted happened after Mr. Inskip had been laid it
rest for a sufficiently respectable interval. and Mr
Brakepeer was hailed universally as beiune h-
best Custos ever appointed in the country, the same
having been said of all previous Custodes. He wa-
popular: he had made enough money to he pciloulal.
And when the next general election for the Legisla
ture came round he supported Mr. Methi-toleh. the
chief plank in that gentleman's platform bein:
that no taxes should be paid by landowners large
or small. but that the taxes on merchants and pro
fessional men should be doubled. This was a splen
did rallying cry: it brought Mr. Methistoleh any
amount of support, and he could always point aut
that Mr. Brakspeer was a merchant as well as a
landowner. He won his election. Shortly after, he
felt compelled to admit that, just at that time. it
would perhaps be injudicious to interfere with the
country's system of taxation. Mr. Brakapeer agreed
"Brakspeer wins." Mr. Robinson used to say
some months after all these stirring events: "I have
always maintained that Brakspeer wins. He will
be Custus to the day of his death: Methistoleh will
disappear at the next election even if he advocates
the massacre of every man with more than two
pounds a week. The same man cannot fool all the
people all the time. They like to he fooled by new
men every now and then. I wish I was one of these "

- 2645

~~ ___






(Continued from Page 25)
HAMILTON was not among the cowpens. One of
the lads who looked after the cattle informed
James that the boss had gone to the banana plan-
tations to see about the cutting of some fruit for
shipping. Towards the banana farms, then, James
directed himself.
Mr. Hamilton was on his horse when the young
man rode up.
"Sorry I am so late," said James, "but I didn't
go off to sleep until somretrlnm this morning. Anyhow,
I couldn't have been of much use to you here."
"That's all right, James; we are getting along
fne. Good fruit this."
SJames surveyed, as he had done on so many a
previous occasion, the faces of the labourers about
them. A few weeks ago they had struck him as par-
ticularly ferocious, as the countenances of men who
would not hesitate to hack you to pieces with their
murderous-looking machetes if they were in any way
offended. He had wondered, at first, if these people
could ever smile, could ever be anything other than
malignant. He had learnt since then that the ma-
lignant Negro was the exception, that the ferocious
appearance he had thought he noticed was merely an
impression based on his imagination and his un-
familiarity with these people. He was beginning al-
ready to feel quite at home among them. He
was beginning also to take notice of differences in
their demeanour which might indicate some hidden
Thus it was that he now observed two men, one
elderly, the other young, who went about their
job with a quiet, depressed expression, in marked
contrast to the other workers. They never spoke.
And James noted after a while that the rest of the
labourers treated them with open commiseration.
"Those two chaps look ill," he remarked to
Hamilton, when the banana cutting aid "heading
out" was nearly finished. "Do you know ihat's the
He was always asking questions about -the wel-
fare of the workers, and they knew it. Already it
had got about amongst them that "de young massa
very kine."
"Oh, yes," Hamilton answered casually. "The
older one is the father of a girl of whom the younger
man is the 'sweetheart'-they have one child already.
They believe that somebody hates the girl-a case
of jealousy-and has 'put her so'."
"This is the second time today that I have
heard that word," said James. "You mean that these
fellows believe that the girl is haunted?"
"They are a queer lot. Chock-full of foolish
superstitions. And what is her condition, George,
when she is 'put so'?"
"Would you like to see it?" asked Hamilton.
"When can I see this ghost?"
"You won't see any ghost. I can take you to
see the girl who believes she has one haunting her;
but that is different. She is not a pleasant sight,
I dare say, though I myself have not seen her. But
I have known one or two others like her. I have
felt sorry for them."
"Is it poison or superstition, George?"
"It isn't poison," said Hamilton, preparing to
ride off. "It is, I imagine, what you call supersti-
"Nonsense, in other words?"
"I suppose so. Bat"-they were now trotting
down the banana lane, on their way to the open space
where had been loaded the conveyances for the fruit
-"I myself hate to sit down thirteen to a table, or to
walk under a ladder, and so forth. I fight against
my feeling, but I simply won't do those things. Of
course this talk about putting on ghosts is all foolish-
ness, and yet .. ." 4
"And yet you are not sure, isn't it so, George?
SLord! how residence among primitives can affect a
white man even today."
They reached the Great House, though Hamilton
himself did not call his residence that. Yet the work-
ing people themselves referred to it by the name
it would have borne a century before. There were
many things in regard to which their minds had suf-
fered no change.
They entered the "study" together: a batch of
letters lay on a table there. Half a dozen or so had
come by post, two had been delivered by hand. Both
of these were addressed in feminine handwriting,
one to Hamilton, the other to James.
SJames opened his letter and read it with features
'set. Through the corner of his eye Hamilton noticed
this: James crushed the letter into a ball and thrust
it into one of his riding jacket's capacious pockets.
-He was frowning slightly as he did so.
S"'ihis," said Hamilton, indi'ating the letter
he had opened. "is an invitation from Mrs. Fullard
to dinnerh to-morrow nieht She is asking both of

Message to a man \

who is Not afraid

of living

I OU can smile when people talk about
F I the strain of modern life, because you
f; s are atroug and competent and able to "take
S it:' In many ways, too, life is easier for you
than it was for your parents.
You don't have to wait for things as they
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you otherwise could not afford by paying for them month
by month and year by year...out of income!
But this modern way of living has real dangers against
which Life Insurance is the only safeguard. If, for instance,
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Branch Office:
Corner Duke & Barry Sts.
Kingston. Jamaica.
C. L. Robison, Branch
G. W. Woolner, Asst. Br.
Manager & Br. Secy.
Represenlta fives:
H. E. Burgess.
L. A. Ross.
J. A Finzi.
B. G. E. St. Aubyn.
Ralston Reid.
T. E. Levy.





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us. and she says we simply must come. But I iup-
pose you have other arrangement-''"
"Oh. I can g',." replied Gordon indifferently.
Hamilton was delighted. Would it be possible.
he wondered, to keep James from going to the B'i.
kings tonight as w A-ll? An idea anni intn his ii nd

"We wtre talking, James." he said, "about the
:,rl who believes she has a ghost haunting her. I
promised to let you see her that's easy. Would
you care to go with me to-night to her village?"
"Very good. George; when do we start?"
"After dinner."


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"I'll be ready "
James left the study and went up to his own
room. There he took out the letter he had thrust 4MOTE -- .,ss -yS-Y
into his pocket and read it again. It was. as Hamil- S
ton had already shrewdly guessed, from Elma. It
expressed bitter regret that her mother had heen so,
rude the night before. but Elma asked him to take I %"
no notice of that. "I am go!ng down to Burnbridge '
to a service at the church there. to-morrow night," I' r
she wrote. -*We could meet outside, afterwards, for
a few minutes. Will you come? Do come."
But he had made up bis mind. He would not
go. The difficulty was to get a note to Elma that
her mother would not see. be fancied that if Mrs. 1M"m.E .TO
Bodkin should learn that he was communicating SPAIs
with Elma she might make things unpleasant for .'.-/ \ "'
that young lady. Yet he had to send an answer; h-
simply could not be so rude as to ignore Elma's note.
Casting about in his mind, he thought of Edith.
He summoned that informative domestic and told ____
her briefly that he wanted her to take a letter to NMiss
Elma Bodkin sometime that day. But he was com- ---
pelled to warn her that the matter must be kept
private; that no one must know of it. Edith was
Delighted. She at once jumped to the conclusion that
Mr. James and Miss Elma were lovers and that they
k wanted their lov\e affair kept in the dark. a thing
carefully concealed She alone was to know of it, and
this gave her a feeling of tremendous importance.
She stood, as it were. in the very centre of things.
She promised with an air of mystery that no
one should know that Mr. James had given her tho
letter, and that no one should see her deliver it. She T HE branches of The Bank of Nova
gratefully accepted the halft'rown he handed to her, T Scjtia at Kingston and the other
S and looked forward to being the recipient of othpr principal places of the Island are ful!Y
weildserve lese ^ i ^ ~ principal places of the Island are fNlNy
wvll-deserved largesse in the future
equipped to handle all banking transactions
c I Iin connection with Janiaica trade.
They had ilin.,l early'. they wero now on their n ih Jamaica trade.
way t.) the village where lived the unfortunate girl I -.
who had been "-put so.' presumably by some .jealous .Clean or aTcumentary collection bills are
rivahey w by a parish road. not the main roa: given careful and prompt attention. foreign
They wont by a parish road. not the main road:
riding abreast at an easy pace they could talk. and exchange is bought and sold. exports and
there were many things that James wanted to know. imports are financed by letters of credit.
"'This belief in obeah. George, is pretty pre- Branch at Kingston, Ja. Drafts n Great Britain. Can the
n is it elDrafts on Great Britain, Canada, the
talent, isn't it?" he asked. iu'r Brnirhths in .,aJioo '1'e
"Yes; but not to the dangerous extent it once Io.:aed at United States and foreign countries are
was." said Hamilton. "The churches and education issued at most favourable rates.
have made a difference. yot see: there is morep Black River Fort Antonio
scepticism in regard to witchcraft here than there
was fifty years ago" Brown's Town. Port Maria Enq[irn ar Solifilfcl
"And it is against the law?" Christiana St. Ann's Bay
"Oh. yes the practice of obeah is. I mean. No KINST JAMAICA BRANCH.
law can do anything against a belief." Mandeville Savanna-la-Mar
"Especially when men like you think that there May Pen Spanish Town "v. ToRRIE. Jlanagr.
may be something in it." James slyly observed.
There was no moon. the way they went was Mlontego Bay CABLE AIDRE'S-SCOTIBINK
narrow, with high banks on either side. and with
trees and tree" and yet more trees along the route
But it was not all dark. Incessantly little green.
ish-gold lights flashed among the undergrowth T E BA K O A rA

given for their guidance and illumination; thousands T BAN VA S
of golden lanterns that lent not only light but beauty
to the scene. For a second they gleamed, then died ESTABLISHED 1832
into darkness: gleamed again, and again went out.
And they were always movie: on either side the pathi C)pital t $12,000.0 Reserve $24,0l.0.0l0
seemed to pulse and vibrate with living fire. Resources $300.000,000
"How the fireflies swarm to-night," said James.
who loved to watch them. "Light without heat: I. F. PATTERSON. General ManaI er, Toronto,
cold fire, if I might use such an expression."
,"Very poetical, very romantic." laughed Hamil- Canada.
ton; "but you are romantic. James."
The village was not more than a mile away from
the house; soon they began to come within sight cf
it. Here and there, to the right or to the left of the
wider road into which they emerged, stood a L
thatched hut. with often a scraggy dog or two roam-
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.Contitinaed irom Page .31)
::.fag around it: but all these places were in darkness.
Then the huts becamnl e ioreLI umeroIus antl little
tbetter-class houses appealed, these being situated
'fairly near to one another. many of then of painted
woodd and standing fairly high above htie around oil
wooden posts and pillars. These had railed v\.rand.ihs
in front of them, were either shinr.led or roofed Awitl
:orrugated iron, anit had obviously been contructd'l
for the superior labourers of come nearby plantati.in.
SOf themselves these houses forme-d a sh.,'rt .stre-t.
facing one anlothcr as they did. with a vide anwl
decently kept roadway between them. A couplee iof
small shops were discernible among these building-.
:each with a imiscellani-ous ass-ortmnct of chip eo,'l-,
clothing as well a- enaables. and behind tlhe counters
'oft these tiny emporiums appeared the faces and
figures of patient Chinese, the small retailers of the
',entire country. But otherwise the shops wi-re empty.
'as was the street through which the two men rode
:.towards some spot from whin'h came. louder with
Every moment, the sound of a vast volume of singi

This village hadl obviously been a piat of some
big plantation, had probably been built upon the
Foundations of a slave settlement set up nearly two
Hundred years before 'Who owns this place?" ask-
ed James.
"The Byebrooks Or rather, they did once. Most
SOf the folk now settled here have been paying taxes
On. t heir huts. so the ground they occupy really be-
l:ongs to them now. Byebrook is the largest pro-
:prty in these parts, and is perhaps the most un-
"And who are the Byebrooks. G(eorge? I don't
think I have met any of them."
"There is only one left, an old man who lives hy
:himself in his Great House, a peculiar eccentric sF)rt
Sof character."
"The last of his name and kin. eh?"
"The last of his name, but--
"Old Tom Byebrook has relatives of su rts IMr'
Bodkin is really his niece, his elder brother's daugh'i
ter; illegitimate, of course."
James stiffened at this uewv: it caine to hint
that he was learning a great deal within but a few
"And her father did not acknowledge her?" lie
Asked with ani effort to appear casual, "left her
S"He had given her the farm she still has and sup-
'ported her until she married. I believe he might
h::ave done more for her had she not married a man.
i: a missionary, whom her father did not like: said
:: e was a damned nincompoop. or something of the
i; sortn. But the girl defied her father, so everything
be had went to his brother. And now. James. you
i.know practically all there is to know about Elmn.
j. 'Bodkin's ancestry."
::'Hamilton said this with something of relief. He
had wished to say it before, but had been very sure
.that Gordon would not have relished such unsolicit-
:: ed information.
They had moved slowly in the direction of the

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singing; they had left the little houses and huts
behind them and had come upon an open space of
land, a sort of common backed on north and east by
high, sombre mountains, and lighted up at this mo-
ment by the glare of tlrches that flickered and sent
thick columns of smoke upwards in the thin cur-
rents of air that swept across this spacious clearing.
About the edges of the clearing rose trees, forming
an encircling forest. In the middle of it was assem-
bled a large crowd of people. singing now in a lw,
plaintive tone of voice, though presently the sound
would rise to crescendo and would smite the ears of
people half a mile away. This crowd was of the
village, and also of the neighbourhood; there wr'-
men and women in it who had probably trudged for
miles to-night to be at this ceremony-for a cere-
mony it undoubtedly was. "I did not expect this,"
muttered Hamilton to his companion. "But I am
glad we came to-night. for this is sobethiing you
have never seen "
Within the crowd and encompassed hy it were
a number of men and women clothed in white with
scarlet bands across their chests. Turbans of white
they wore, but one nan was attired in a head-dress
of scarlet that towered high upon his head, and in
his hand he carried a pliant whip as though it were
a sceptre, a symbol of his authority. Tall and thin,

he stood out amongst his followers, beating time with
his rod, singing, swiftly turning his eyes here and
there with an imperious expression of authority.
And by his side, seated on a low box, garbed in pure
white, with fixed gaze, with vacant, staring eyes,
was a girl whose age could hardly have been more
than twenty-two. At this instant her body was rigid.
She appeared as thouIilhl in a trance.
"Mliehtn't these people resent our being here,
George?" James whispered.
Hamilton smiled. "I think they are rather proud
of our being here than anything else," he said; "at
least their leader-they call him the Shepherd-is.
Watch the vain humbug. He is eyeing us at this
very moment and is making his play for our bene-
fit. H., knows we can do him nothing, for he is
breaking no law. All that he openly professes to do
is to pray over an afflicted young woman. This is to,
be rewarded as merely a religious service."
"Bit surely it isn't; it seems more than that."
")f course it is more than that. It is a ceremony
of exorcism. It is something African mixed with
Christianity. It can become pretty bestial too."
The sound of the singing passed from a minor to
a major key, and now the air seemed filled and
pulsating with it. Everyone there had noticed the
two white men upon their horses, and maybe a few






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felt that these white men were incredulous witnesses
of a ceremonial that they themselves regarded seri-
ously. But they sang all the louder, even defiantly.
because of this; they sang the words of a hymn with
which James had been familiar from childhood: it
was "O God, Our Help in Ages Past". It was an in-
vocation to the Almighty for help.
James's gaze was fixed upon the stricken girl.
As he watched, he observed that her rigidity re-
laxed, that her eyes began to roll in their sockets,
until at times only the whites of them were visible
in the glare of the torches held by the singing
men and women so close to her that her every move-
ment could be seen. Then her body shivered. It
was as though a blast of cold wind had struck her.
Her muscles moved, twitched, her arms rose and fell
in spasmodic movement as though her will had lost
control of them, her bare feet stamped upon the
ground, she rocked herself to and fro in an agony,
a frenzy of feeling, as if something were tearing at
her very heart. Suddenly she screamed. Again
and again she screamed at the topmost register of
her voice, as one in utter pain, and men and women
bent downwards and grasped her by the shoulders
lest she should fall from her seat or leap up and
try to fight her way through the surrounding mob.
The singing had ceased; instead of that the moaning
of sympathetic or awestruck people could be heard,
moaning that blended weirdly, terribly, with the
cries of the girl; and words broke out here and there
in supplication and in sorrow.
"De evil spirit is in her now!" called out one
woman: "have mercy, Lord!"
"She is possessed by a devil from hell," cried
another; "let him come forth from her, for she is
"She do noten;, we all know Diana, an' she
do noten. Somebody put her so!" shouted a third;
and at this the clamour rose to deafening pitch.
And all this time the Shepherd was praying over the
frenzied body of Diana, supplicating God to order
"the wicked thing to come out of her and go to its
own place," waving his arms about wildly, foaming
at the mouth. Some of his followers, who had
been waiting for this outburst from the un-
happy Diana, whirled round and round as though
their wild gyrations would shatter and demolish the
power of Evil, until at last, exhausted, they fell in a
sort of fit upon the ground.
"This is disgusting," said James, not realising
that he had spoken very loudly. "Don't these poor
fools see that the girl is only a little mad? They
,are making her worse!"
"It's not only madness, massa," answered a

tall black man standing near to him; "it's wicked-
ness in de land. You don't know."
"Rubbish, man; has a doctor seen her?"
"What's de use, massa?"
"Well, one is going to see her to-morrow. I
don't suppose her father will object if I send one?"
"No, massa; it will be very kine of you; but
it won't do no good."
"We'll see. Will you fetch her father, and, er,
her husband to me?"
The man went off immediately to do as he was
bidden, especially as by this time Diana was becoming
quiet again, and soon would resume her former



rigid posture. In less than a minute her father and
lover were standing beside James's horse.
He explained to them briefly that he proposed
to send a doctor to see Diana the next day: had they
any objection?
No; they had none, though they doubted
whether a doctor could do any good for the girl.
"Do you believe that that fool there with his
red headress can help her?" he demanded impatient-
"No, massa, we don't think so," was his reply.
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S-pretending. But dent come here an' offer to
: help, so what we fe do?"
Before James could make another remark there
was a stirring amone a section of the crowd to the
S. west. Something had attracted their attention
Looking in that direction James saw that a trap
" had driven up, in which two women sat. At a glance
She recognized Mrs. Bodkin and Elma, though the
light on the outskirts of the crowd was none too
S Diana's father saw these newcomers too. Fle
~:.tared in astonishment, and his eyes were suddenly
i:! alight with hope.
"Massa." he whispered to James. "Mrs. Bodkin
could help if she want She is a very wise lady."
S "Her wisdodo doesn't make her an authority on
insanity, my man," replied Jamies shortly He was
wondering wliat on eari could have brought Mrs.
Bodkin and Elina there at that time
But Hamilton easily guessed. Solim .f i te men
who periodically worked for Mrs. B dkin lived in
this village of Byebrook; she probably wished to cut
: aome fruit tomorrow and had driven over to tell
.these work-people that they must be at her fai u
very early the next morning.
K.. Elma had cointe with her mother, probably b)-
cause there was nothing to keep her at home. Her
:.face was like a thundercloud. Mrs Bodkin, as usual,
Looked calmni, self-possessed. grim.
Both of them recognized James and Mr. Hamil-
ton. These gentlemen raised their hats, and Ham-
il ilon noticed at once that Elma and James spoke to
each other wlih some constraint, almost coldly. So
Something had happened between them. What on
Earth could it he?
i Mrs. Budkin sat in her high two-seater survey-
ing the scene befl're her with a look that seemed
tooenimpt. Many of the people about evidently inia-
gined that lshe had come there to see Diana, and
S these had no sort of doubt that, if she wished, she
could make Diana. ii iinal. The Shepherd had re-
Stumed his preahn.b e. his vociferous invocation, but
hardly anyone except his own followers, who were
strangers 1' this district, was paying attention to
him notw. Even Diana's eyes had turned towards
the woman in the two-seater.
James reimemiberi'd his talk with Edith, the
housemaid at C'harleton. only that morning. Clear-
l) these people about here did believe that Elma's
Smother possessed strange powers. Impulsively, he
Decided to ask Mrs. Bodkin to put to the test the
skill with which she was credited. He would igl,''e
lor the present her insults of last night.
SHis reason was perfectly simple and humane.
He was distressed at the suffering of Diana, and just
Then was willing to attempt anything that might
assist the girl.
He walked his horse up to the two-seater. Mrs.
Bodkin, waiting for her workers in the crowd to
come to her. turned her full gaze upon him, a gaze
SIn which there was a cold unwelcome. Elma's heart
'beat quickly. Was this action of James a defiance
of her mother's wishes? If so, James would find in
her an unwavering supporter.
S "Good-evening, Mrs. Bodkin, Good.evening, El-
; ma."
James!" cried Elina softly; but from Mrs. Bod-
'S: kin came only a fiat. "Gord-evening, sir."
i. "Mrs. Bodkin. that girl there seems very ill.
: These inoranut people think she is possessed by a
[.spirit, haunted; I imagine that her mind is unset-
:tied. I want to send her a doctor to-morrow-it is
Scandalous that she should not have some medical
:aid in her condition--but her father evidently be-
:lieves that you can help her more than any doctor.
:Cant you""
"What do you imelan by that, James?" cried El-
ma sharply. honestly astonished.
; "Yes. wliht do you mean, Mr. Gordon?" ques-
.'tioned Mrs. Bodkin calmly.
"Well. if you believe in someone or something,
that helps, doesn't it? I guess Elma has heard
about the power of suggestion. Many cures are
.:.wrought by it. You have heard that?"
"I know it." said Mrs. Bodkin.
S"So if this girl believes you can cure her, and
s ,he is not too far g-rne, you may be able to help
( "Perhaps. Mri. Gordon."
"Well. will youl try?"
Mrs. Bodkin luo.uked fixedly at him for a while,
S.making no nanuwer. Tlihen something like a tiiile,
: lltted over ier fa.cI, ard she slowly descended from
her buggy. s:tavyii to Janiime as she did so, "Please
.-comie with lme."
S Manyo per.d.ii lia;Id ovi heard this conversation.
:.Not a word had been said in it about haunting or
ii ghosts. But ile fIlk in that concourse believed
Ai,:'flrmly that Diana \wa: pe-sessed by an evil spirit.
: or was beint Ihallienrd iy ,one, and that Mrs. Bodkin
:not only knew it hut could. if she willed, free the
ij: patient from her ohbessioin. And Mrs. Bodkin knew
:' what they felt.
They parted respectfully, to make a path for
Accompanied hy Janies she reached the spot
Where Diana cilouched: in a quiet voice, and with-
out giving a balance at the angry 'Shepherd, she said:
i:- "Stand up, Diana."

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The girl obeyed.
Mrs. Bodkin stared Diana in the eyes for about
half a minute, then passed both her hands slowly
but firmly over the girl's body, her abdomen especial-
ly. Then she spoke.
"You know quite well, Diana, that nothing much
is the matter with you. You are going to have a
baby, and that makes you feel queer in the head

sometimes. So you fancy that a duppy is haunt-
ing you, and you like all this fuss to be made over
you-I know you well, Diana; you can't deceive me.
You hear?"
"Yes, missis," replied Diana meekly, for she stood
in desperate fear of Mrs. Bodkin,
"And remember: no ghost is haunting you."
"Not again, missis."




105 Harbour Street, Kingston, Jamaica : Phone 2096

"And not before," sharply corrected Mrs. Bod-
kin. "You had better go home now."
"T'ank you, missis."
"Good-night, Mr. Gordon, and good-bye. Please
don't trouble to come with me to my buggy."
"But, say, I must thank you," said James warm-
ly. "You have shattered a silly superstitious belief
with the exercise of a little commonsense, and you
have helped a poor unfortunate girl."
"I have another girl to help, and I won't forget
that," muttered Mrs. Bodkin, speaking for his ear
alone. "And I wouldn't laugh so much at what you
call superstition, Mr. Gordon. It mightn't always
be a laughing matter."
"But what do you mean by that?" asked James.
"Good-bye, Mr. Gordon."

THREE girls stood on the porch of the Fullard
Great House and looked out upon the scene that
rolled away before them. One, tall, fair-haired, with
greyish eyes and brilliant colouring, glanced about
her with keen delight. A casual glance would
have told anyone accustomed to Jamaica that
she was a stranger, English evidently, and still
quickly alive to all the beauties of the tropical high-
land scenery that surrounded her. The other two,
pretty girls both, with dark hair and eyes, vivacious
manner, but duller complexion than their compan-
ion, fixed their eyes upon the road that led upward
to the house.
They all could see the far-stretching fields of
glittering green which were the banana plantations,
the towering stems, crowned with long, drooping
fronds, that marked the coconut groves. Beyond,
some five or six miles away, was the sea, but the
house was not set high enough for any glimpse to be
caught of that. This land on which Fairfield planta-
tion stood was a plateau which, a mile or so from
the shore, dropped steadily downward to sea level.
But here the ground billowed into low rounded hill-
tops as it went seaward until it merged into a hori-
zon of misty blue.
The lowing of cattle came faintly to the ears cf
the girls, with the cries of the cowboys as they
moved among their beasts. Th-.v saw far away
carts drawn by mules creeping here and there, with
human figures trudging beside them, and men and
women already at their work. Evelyn Brisbane
observed with undimmed pleasure'now as always the
splashes of scarlet on flowering plants among the
varied greenery, ihe undulating landspace bounded

on either hand by mountains looking vague and un-
substantial in the mists that floated about them,
the gleam of streams. one of which flowed near by
the house like rippling silver, to empty itself into
the sea beyond. She saw the great ciebas casting a
mighty shade as they soared upwards. Fan-palms
were dotted about; tiny thatched huts of red earth
and lime, and wattle revealed themselves. These
stood amidst plots of land that even at this distance
seemed cultivated. Evelyn knew that these were the
homes of workers who lived upon Fullard plantation,
and that among them the women folk went about
their morning tasks with leisurely movement.
"Jim is a trifle late this morning, isn't he?"
asked Bertha, the elder of the Fullard girls. "I
think it's already gone six."
It's five minutes to, it my watch is right," said
her sister Helen, glancing at the little watch on her
wrist. "Jim'll be on time. He wouldn't keep Evelyn
waiting for a minute."
Why shouldn't he for many minutes, silly?" de-
manded Evelyn laughing. "And, after all, he in-
vited both of you as well as me to go riding with
"My dear," asserted Bertha calmly, "both Helen
and I are women of the world"-they were twenty-two
and twenty years of age respectively. "If Jim is fall-
ing in love with you, he won't want us to be on the
spot to spoil his love-making."
"What dreadful creatures you are!" laughed
Evelyn; "why, we have only known one another
about two weeks now."
"What difference does that make, my sweet?"
said Helen.
"We are still strangers."
"Do you think that makes any difference,
Evelyn? And do you imagine that we think you
think it does?" asked Helen with all the mature
wisdom in matters of the heart that comes with
twenty years of age. "Why, the night that he came
to dine here with Mr. Hamilton he had no eyes
for anyone but you. Not," she added impartially,
"that he had been anything save polite to Bertha
and me before that; we already knew quite well we
weren't going to hook him. But he took to you like a
duck takes to water, and three times since then you
have gone out riding with him. And he now comes
to dine whenever he is asked, accepts dad's invita-
tions greedily. Do you call that nothing?"
"I am a stranger like himself, and. he knows I
would like to see as much of the country as possible."
Evelyn pointed out. "That may be the explanation."
"It might be. but you know it isn't" retorted
HIelen. "But, you know, he is really a trifle late."

Evelyn thought so herself; she began to wonder
if anything had happened to delay her cavalier. She
was conscious of a twinge of disappointment.
"He's two minutes late, but there he comes,"
cried Helen, pointing to a horseman who could now
be seen riding round a bend of the road that led to
the house. "And Evelyn's blushing like the morning
'Shut up, you little devil," laughed Evelyn,
conscious perhaps that her cheeks had suddenly gone
red. "You Jamaica girls simply don't care what you
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t[elyn." Bertha gaily replied. "And, anyhow, you
ill admit that we don't show any jealousy."
"Incorrigible!" exclaimed Evelyn: aud then the
Ilk ceased, for now James had arrived and was
implng off his horse.
SHe ran briskly up the right-hand ,eini.circuLir
eight of marble-flagged steps; he was clad in bronii
induroy riding breeches, open ne. ked brown shirt
6d short Jacket of the same colour. He wore riding
its. Evelyn was dressed in riding togs also and
i high boots; the habit of riding astride had been
.opted some time before in Jamaica. and unlyv 'ery
Widely now did a lady use a sidesaddle. Jim had a
Hle-brimmed felt hat; she had covered her curled
lies of soft, shining hait with a large jippa-jappa
it made on the premises. She looked lovely in it,
Iith her laughing mouth, her delicate nose with Its
hBdtive nostrils, her gay luminous grey eyes. The
klard girls were garbed in simple morning dresses.
Iy looked at James and Evelyn with appreciative
S"You two not going?' asked James, as he shook
Mpds with them all. "You don't look it."
"One man cannot well be divided among three
ra, Jim," said Helen, "unless he happens to be in
hrkey. And this is not Turkey. Besides. we sus
&t that you will find that two is better company
'an four."
S"Well, now," he began, but Bertha stopped him.
"Say no more in the cause of politeness, Jim
S't perjure yourself. We may be Jamaican., but.
tieve me, we are thoroughly sophisticated "
?.' "You are thoroughly cheeky," Evelyn put in.
! "I am a little late." said Jim. rather relieved
1Lt the Fullard girls had again decided to leai%
tra alone with Evelyn. "It is my boy's fault, b.it
l see that it doesn't happen again. Shall %ve go
SEvelyn nodded and they ran down the steps Her
gre was already waiting, a jacketless black buy
ding at Its head, a broad grin spreading over
face as E1velyn called out to him a cheery "good-
tning." They mounted and rode off, turning
Sto wave to the girls who remained on the high
to see them pass down the road. When they
out of earshot Bertha turned to her sister.
"Think It will be a case. Helen?"
"Looks so Anyhow, it keeps him away from
t Bodkin girl."
eitherr said last night lie had eliard from Mrt
ilton that Jim hasn't been near the B-dkins for
weeks; which is about the time he has known
oyn," continued Bertha. "Nothing could he better.
S a young man like him could have gone to se-
a Bodkin night after night I can't imagine H,-
't low tastes, has he?"
"I don't think you can say that Elma Bodkin
low or common." replied Helen thoughtfullyy, she
quite well, and even lady-like. But. of crui, u,
not a lady and not In Jim's class."
S"ather says Mr. Hamilton was very much dis-
sed at first because Jim used to visit her," mur-
Nd Bertha; "then Jim came here and met Evelyn.
all has been different since. He never seemed
take to us," she added.
"Not his type," answered Helen decisively 'Nor
I sure that he is our type either. Those fell'.,s
Camp now-"
"Oh, they are dears, but so slow," cried Bertha
am sure George is in love with you. .
"And Arthur Is In love with you. my dear. and
know It. You don't happen to be -ecretly engae-,d
.him, do you?"
"Shut up. If it were a secret. I wouldn't tell
my sister. But these officer boys are not well
'you know."
"But we are; at any rate father is, and a father's
is to provide for his children and their hia-
l" said Helen with finality.
"Right," commented Bertha 'So you think that
Is the type that Jim likes?"

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"Yes; and haven't you noticed that there is a
sort of general resemblance between her and Elma
Bodkin, Bertha?"
"Nonsense, Helen."
"It's true. They are both tall; they are both of
a determined disposition-oh, yes, Evelyn has plenty
of strength of character, in spite of her charming
manner. And, somehow, she has sometimes the same
air that I have seen in Elma. I wonder you haven't
noticed it."
"I haven't taken much notice of Elma Bodkin,"
said Bertha indifferently. "I don't think I have even
ever spoken to her."
"Neither have I, but I have watched her in
church. She's good-looking, you know, and seems
ambitious-quite above her class. If she had ever
got Jim properly into her clutches, he wouldn't have
got away too easily."
"No; I suppose not. But she hasn't, thanks to
Evelyn. I am going in now. Coming?"
They disappeared inside, dismissing Elma Bod-
kin from their minds.

James and Evelyn had on three previous occa-
sions gone for morning rides in directions different
from that which Evelyn herself suggested they might
take this morning. They talked as they rode, each
Happy in the other's company, though neither
was as yet at that stage of emotional exaltation
which is known as being in love. Doubtless they
were nearing it. Certainly they found in one an-
other's company a congeniality, a sympathy, a de-
gree of happiness which they welcomed; they want-
ed to be together, they wished for no other to be
with them when they were together; they were sulli-
cient to themselves. But this feeling was stronger
in Evelyn than in James; for though he had kept
away from Elma since that night when her mother
had so clearly intimated that he must, he had not
forgotten her. Again and again her face had come
before the eyes of his mind in the last two weeks
with a haunting poignancy.
He had received three letters from her in that
interval. Each asked him for an explanation of his
absence. Each urged that he pay no attention to
the rudeness of an elderly woman who did not mean
one half of what she said, and suggested that they
meet as far away as Kingston, if even only for one

final conversation. To each of these letters he had
replied with the same argument: that perhaps her
mother was right, that perhaps it was best that they
should not meet, but that he would never forget her.
He sometimes wondered that she should still
have written to him after that first letter of hers
and his answer; yet he knew that he had not wished
to break utterly with her, even when he had refused
to meet her again. But since then he had met Evelyn










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Brisbane, and that had made a great deal of differ-
ence to him. It gave him the companionship he
craved for in a strange country; as Helen had put
it, Evelyn was his type. Yet Elma too had some-
thing that appealed to him, perhaps it was an ele-
ment of wildness, or a suggestion of the exotic in
her. She was to him a new sort of girl, a girl of
deep feeling, educated but passionate, strong but
impulsive too. He missed her even now. He was
aware that he would have missed her more if Evelyn
had not come out to stay for some time with the
Fullard girls who had been with her at the same
ladies school in England and who had long ago In-
vited her to visit Jamaica as their guest. In his in-
most heart he realized that it was Evelyn who was
keeping him away from Elma, and not the rudeness
or the threats of Elma's mother.
Evelyn had suggested that this morning they
ride to the north-east. It was only when they were
well upon the road that Jim realized that they must
pass Mrs. Bodkin's cottage on the way. As they
came nearer to it he found himself wishing that
Elma might be indoors. He did not want her to see
him with Evelyn. He would feel a little embarrassed
at such an encounter. Automatically he set his
horse to a faster pace; he would go by the
cottage quickly and would enquire afterwards
of someone on the road if there were some other
route by which they could return to Fairfield Great
House. Luck was against him, however; as they
came closer to Elma's home he saw her standing in
her little garden, and her face was turned in the
direction of the oncoming horses.
The recognition was instant. He lifted his hat
as the horses cantered by; but in that flash of time
he saw Elma's eyes fasten on the face of Evelyn
Brisbane who, noticing Jim's salutatilln, glanced
quickly at Elma. Elma bowed coldly; itfna second
or two she was behind them "Who is that?"
Evelyn enquired; "she looks a very pretty girl."
"She is the organist of the chief church abunt
these parts," said Jim; "I made her acquaintance
She noticed a slight constraint in his voice; the
skin of his face had tightened. She laughed..
"Not a native flame is she? But of course I
shouldn't ask such a question. Rather inquisitive I
am getting."
"No, not a flame, Evelyn, but quite a nice girl.
Of course, she wouldn't be a friend of the Fullards
or any of the people you are likely to meet at their
"The cottage and the Great' House don't mix,
isn't that it, Jim? This girl friend of yours is poor
"I don't think she is poor, Evelyn, but she is
certainly not in what is called 'society' here. So you
will never meet her."
"I am not so sure of that. I rather think I
should like to. I don't want to meet only one sort
of people while I am here, you know."
"That's what I myself felt," said James; "but,
as you have put it, the Great House isn't exactly on
visiting terms with the cottage."
"So that is that," laughed Evelyn, and turned
to some other topic of talk.

"So that is the girl," thought Elma, after Evelyn
(Continued on Page 4I1)



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('ountiniitd from Pagc .;' I
and Jim had 'ridden by. "That i: tlit cril I rja..e
heard about My (-iJ. h hat a wo..iin iy nim.ther re!
If it hadn't been for her. Jim mighi n>e\c r h:ia% oe-
come friendly with this Evelyn Blishane.'
For Elma knew even the nami ..nif the Fullards'
guest. Elma had not hee'n content that Jim should
disappear out of her life an hei mn..rher w isihd. had
indeed deterninedl ti gel him badc: by h.:.:.k or by

! 1

crook. Edith had brought her Jim's first letter, had
given it to her secretly, had watched her intently as
she read it. Aware of Edith's scrutiny, Elma had
kept her features well under control, and then had
set herself to think. Jim was bidding her farewell.
But if she maintained a sort of link with him, knew
what he did, where he went, that might be of some
help to her. Elma was generous and knew the power
of money. Her mother was not in the house when
Edith arrived; Elma slipped into it and came back
with a present of five shillings for the girl. "Come
and see me whenever you can," she said, as she
gave Edith this present; "but I don't want my
mother to know when you come. Can you take care
of that?" Edith had promised to do so and had been
faithful to her word. She realized that Miss Elma
wanted to know about Mr. Jim, and so, without
pumping, she would tell this young lady all that she
ever saw and heard about him. Hence Elma knew
how often Jim had been up to the Fullards since Miss
Brisbane's arrival and how Evelyn and Jim went
riding together. Yet in writing to the young man
she had never mentioned Evelyn; some instinct
urged her that she must pretend to know nothing
about the English girl.
Now, however, she had seen her with James,
and James knew that she knew. Into her eyes, as
she stood by the gate and thought, crept a look of
bitterness and hate.
Her mother also had noticed the little scene cf
but a few minutes before. She had been standing
near the western side of the cottage when the horses
had cantered by, had observed the polite but formal
greeting of James, had seen her daughter bow cold-
ly in return. A mirthless smile played over her
countenance. This young man had probably met the
girl who would be his wife.

MRS. BODKIN went thoughtfully into her sitting
room, and sat down to wait until Elma should
presently come into it. Mrs. Bodkin had something
to say to Elma, had had it in her mind since, at the
summons of Mr. Thomas Byebrook, she had been
over to Byebrook yesterday to talk to that rather
eccentric but very determined old gentleman. She
had been thinking this thing over for some hours;
she did not quite like it, and yet it fascinated
her, fed her inordinate pride, though she was not
aware that pride was one of th- dominant influences

in her life. She wondered what would be Elma's
reaction to the story she was to hear.
She did not dream for a moment of keeping it
back any longer from Elma, for that would only
have led Mr. Byebrook to tell it to the girl himself.
And then Elma would act promptly, and perhaps,
for ever after, her mother's influence with her would
be utterly, entirely gone. Yet in spite of all this
Mrs. Bodkin was conscious of a vague misgiving and
also of an aching of heart.
Elna paused in her passage through the sitting
room, wrath and rebellion in her face; grief also, the
searing grief of bitter jealousy.
"What is it?" she asked, and her voice was not
pleasant to hear.
"I have some good news for you."
"No news you can have for me can be good; is
somebody I am fond of dead?"
"You know Mr. Tom Byebrook, Elma? He is
really your granduncle. He was my father's
"I know that. But his life or death doesn't mat-
ter to me. I don't even know him. I don't think
le has even seen me."
"Yes, he has seen you, and more than once; he
told me so yesterday."
"Yesterday? How? Where?"
"He sent me a letter by one of his men, asking
me to come to see him at once; that's where I went
in the afternoon. It was the first time I was ever
in that house since I was nineteen."
"And I have never been there at all," said Elma
bitterly. "Byebrook is not for such as I. Your Mr.
Tom Byebrook is white, and I am coloured Oh
God, why is there all this difference between colour
and colour! Why is a man of my own flesh and
blood too great even to speak to me? Is it because
you were -- She stopped abruptly. Even she,
detesting her mother at that moment as she did,
could not bring herself to speak the word that hung
upon her lips.
"Yes, I suppose it is partly because I am a
bastard that Mr. Tom had nothing to do with me.
- I suppose so. He used that very same word to me
about myself yesterday; but said that you at least.
are lawful. Yet I was Christopher Byebrook's daugh-
ter, and he acknowledged me, and you are a Byebrook,
"Little good it has done me. Well, what is it
you are saying?"
"Your granduncle wants to adopt you."'

.Al ySoIW

'n :EREEa
I I in Jh i i

IL L iiu l | ,- LT:




_ __m ~ __




"Me! He wants to mamma, are you making
fun? Do you know what you are saying "
Mrs. Bodkin rose upright out of her chair. Her
doubts and misgivings as to the change proposed
for Elma by old Thomas Byebrook were now sudden-
ly swept away by a flood of fierce pride. Her eyes
blazed. Her voice lifted. "Know what I am saying?
I know what Tom Byebrook has said! And, Elma,
he means it!"

Mr. Tom Byebrook was by way of being a
character. Sixty-five years of age, he was a small,
wiry man with aquiline features, impish humour,
and a candour that was at times indistinguishable
from rudeness. You never knew what he was going
to say; hence those who had dealings with him were
always a little nervous. He said he believed in speak-
ing his mind, which was an excuse for telling people
what they could not possibly want to hear. Some-
times, inevitably, he got back what he gave, but this
never discomposed him. He knew that he was a
Byebrook, and that, in his opinion, was something
beyond and above what anybody else in Jamaica
could be.
His hair had grown short, grey and whispy;
he had a longish, white, waggling beard; his mouth
held an upper and lower set of not very well-fitting
artificial teeth, his eyes were keen and penetrating,
his manner energetic. Yet, in spite of his natural
energy, he had not troubled to make a great deal
of Byebrook. When his brother had died many years
before, without legitimate heirs and intestate, Tom
had inherited his brother's money, and also Byebrook,
a plantation of over eight thousand acres and one
which, had he bestirred himself, might have brought
him an additional fortune. But he preferred to live
a bachelor, not doing very much in the way of cultiva-
tion and development. He grew bananas, kept cattle;
he made out of the property far more than he ever
spent. He never entertained or accepted invita-
tions from anyone. His own tenants, however, and
his workers, as well as the gentry of his neighbour-
hood, always treated him with respect. -Was he not a
Byebrook? And did not that still count for some-
thing even in these democratic days?
The letter he had sent to Mrs. Bodkin, bidding
her come to the Great House at a certain hour, had
had upon her almost the effect of a thunderbolt. He
had not spoken to her for years; he had never ad-
dressed a word to her daughter. Yet he was her
uncle, even if she was illegitimate; and although
she too was of a high and independent disposition
it never occurred to her to treat this summons with
indifference. For she too was proud of the old man,
proud of the blood that ran in his veins and hers.
So, without a word to Elma, she had put herself in
her buggy and had driven up to the Byebrook Great
House. As she passed through the property she had
looked about her and noticed the signs of neglect in
which it abounded.
Tangled bush where there might well have been
green fields of fruit, pasture walls out of which
stones had fallen that had never been replaced,
pimento trees over-foliaged, paths which no one had
thought it worthwhile to clear of fallen leaves and
broken branches. Everywhere the indications of
semi-decay. Yet sometimes she came to a rising in
the ground, and, looking in front of her, could see
a magnificent sweep of undulating land, of wood
and water a small, temporary lake shining
like polished silver in the sun; hills rising one be-
hind the other until they merged into mountains,
lush grass, and trees that bore a white blossom or a
red, as though they were already putting on their
Christmas garments. Horses grazing here and there
and cows that slowly moved as though it were an
effort to live.
She knew this scene, Often her eyes had
travelled over it when she was but a girl. She had


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never I!(ed at Byellbruukl; that hIi'r father hdii lie, r
thiulght it prlp.- r th.it shte h.iull d,, her pi-i.
was wiih her inithl nit. ii l w I ltl thl i:,il of h.
manor. Biut she ihad hb.en i-,nt t, Se-. him -ouiietiiiin,-.
and lie had treated li-" w,-ll, ., ..rdin2 ti, hn- lilghs.
until she hadl flatly lis.'.b-vyed him and in-arri.r l .'
man for whom he- had noti 1' ill I V itl ruitipt. Tih.n
he had cut herI of.f and fr.inm that time to thi- she hl.ia
not bhtn sa-.- unce wiinll tihe ipr-l'lc.t' of ByRebloukl
Veryi- hi.i'tly fiflei' hlii uiti rila',- hl r Cfi her hali
died And th.-n -lie lhad had lie i lpt.ih.ill -nlt s 1--
ventge Living, lie had been ai factor t .i. C-ar. oir .j
bad nel\r isut cimphlttely her awe of himn. LD.?la. bli
could ble made tii .i-rve her ipurpo'e<. Anil -s, wh. ii
she h,.--amin convinced that her hutsljand 'wihed iij
leave ht-r, and lino-w that once he was as.y lie nwi'ld
never retllun. and that her baby Uli'rl TtIJlit be- scUrn.i
heainse of thil desertionin, she. hbu] ?...np in-l, n iii t
to her father's grave in Byebr-..k. and. with hlie aid
of the power, she had inherited froin hvl Ilt.iLt.--'r
people. had called hIs spirit fi'om thlie -IVe. She h.nl
set it to haunt tihe man -he hadi married. her
wish beine-. not to slay that man but t t 'orce. h;il
to remainll with her The .equEl had lih-nt startlih'-'
to herself In a fit of tcrup.ur.liy isanity Elmia's
father had killed him-nelf.
She cann to tlie steps of the ;Gre.t House and
an aged hlack st-r\itor as old a- hit maIte-i mvl -\'d
forward sl.-.Nly tn timeet hei. His head wias prizzl,.d..
his body thin. but puckered feature! lightened ur
with a smile r[ f eli ne ft'i.r he had known hilr sin e
her hirth "NrMorniiii. liss Liza." Ii'- e'.i Iainied 'me
well glad fe see y'u. It does me oile h.es g.iod -"
"'lornilng. Rill the 'i'd master i. ,L hl m,.-?"
"Yes. ITssis. in' himn wnaing fe y'u Him t-ll
me to sen' ty' right up itr himl when y'il o.nme It
ears an' earl nonw ilow since y'ul was here-"
"I ani a stranger here. Bill. Do you knol whhy
busha wants I to see me?"
"Noi. mltsis. an' Ah could i ask him. for hint
would damni me to hell But hinm is a g'-,d man."
the old fellow hastened to add. through a feeling of
loyalty tu the chief \whoul he had always seized
"Him is de greatest white man in dis country, not
exceptioning de Gobernor. I 'meinber when him was
a little buoy---
"William. you ld scoundrel. why the hell
don't you send Mrs Bodlin up to me instead of
keeping her down there talking? Telling her lies.
no doubt. which she is glad to hear. I can't de.
pend upon a soul in this place to obey a simple
order. I--"
But William had already led Mrs. Bodkin up

the oild a te-ps whi-h lh.re and there lacked one jf
ita .:.iiginal miarbll- fl;gstones, while between inter-
-l:i .,- .tli -ler- prani2 little sprouts of grass.
The ,wman ni:.tci:d that the ornamental iron
tail in fr,-'t .of thee hi-h flagged porch was rusty and
l,rkei. that what had been a garden beneath had
l,:,- hi .,ime a wilderness of worthless trees and
v.e'd- The ta-.ade of the huge house itself had not
i-tlnl Iainteid .:r twenty years, the hardwood
nalls ,ft rthe tiPer story were weather-beaten and
tliha.ihy nii ecrn.-equ.:'-n, the stonework of the
I..ncr It..re.v iioked much as it had looked some
nifry years aio:.. The place, indeed, was, in a grim
.,rt ct way, a fit setting for the man who lived in
it Like him it had grown neglected, careless of
j'ip'earani:e,-. Yet lbcau-se of its spacious surroundings
it did n:t laI k a certain dignity. Nor would anyone
have thought rf it a: n retrievably ruined, as hope-
ie s ..f all ri- tirre,?tion.
'SoJ y.,u are here aeain, eh?"
Th-e :liu:e C :anir from the depths of a leather
armchair in a el:oi-my r.o.m.
'You niit for me. Mr. Tom, or I wouldn't have
*'oim-.'" replied Mrs. Bodkin evenly: she knew some-
thinQ about the manners of this sole surviving Bye-
"YoIu nmean you couldn't have come, which is a
dliff-erent thing. WYIll. sit down; I want to talk to
lil "
Mr lBy.hrouk was: lothed in a jacket and trou-
'-r, made 'if .t loth that then went by the name of
Hflour baus." That iF. it was of about the same sub-
'lanme and quality as the material in which flour was
imp-irtedl into the island The suit was indifferently
nimad: it liun,- tipon his spare frame; his shirt was
of a soft coliuired cloth and was open at the neck:
his lhRi-es were stolt. rough, and evidently -of local
make, his s 'cks were on cotton. The old man's hands
were mnottled. as his face also slightly was; his
krc-n eyes were lied upon Mrs. Bodkin with a look
a= though he could read what was passing in her
mind. She returned his gaze calmly, sat down on a
woiden-seatt-d straight-backed chair, and then glanced
-wiftly around.
There wasn't a modern piece of furniture in
this room. Old horsehair sofas, stiff mahogany
chairs with seats which had once been highly polish-
ed and were now as smooth as satin, but not
comfortable, great armchairs with seats and backs
o'f tanned, cracked leather, in which one could rer
'line and leep: twoi or three big mahogany tables
littered with old newspapers; no curtains to the
windows. no flowers anywhere, not a single cushion

-of all this her eyes took a rapid inventory, and
then came back to the old man's face.
"You are short like your father, and like me.
Most of us Byebrooks have always been short."
"Thank you, Mr. Tom."
"What the devil are you ihankimc me for?"
"For admitting that I am a Byebrook."
"Well, so you are, you know, even if you are a
bastard hold your horses, I am not insulting
you," he cried in his high-pitched, rather imperious
voice, as he saw Mrs. Bodkin about to rise at the
sound of the word bastard. "Don't be a touchy
fool. You are a bastard, you know, but I don't think


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there is much in that to be ashamed of in this
country. Besides, you, were my brother's daughter;
he acknowledged you. That's something, isn't it?"
"Is this what you wanted to tell me, Mr. Tom?"
"Now your daughter, Elma, isn't short at all," he
continued, ignoring her question as an impertinence.
"Nor is she at all like her father, -hat preacher
fellow who went crazy. Say, Elizabeth, you know
that people about here used to say that you 'put
him so', don't you? Did you do it?"
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Bye-
brook, to ask me such a question. I am a Christian
woman, and I don't understand what you mean,"
said Mrs .Bodkin with apparent indignation.
"You damn well do understand what I mean.
But we Byebrooks never did care to be asked incon-
venient questions." He paused to peer intently at
her as he said this, and then ~niiltd inwardly. That
expression, "we Byebrooks," had in]'tantly mollified
this dour woman, as he had imagined it would.
"Well, we were talking about Elma. I have
seen her several times, you know, in the town and
here and there, since you brought her back from
boarding school. A very good school you sent her to.
I must say; and you were wise to let her stay there
as long as she could. I like her appevaranne. I am
going to adopt her."
"You are going to what?"
"I said adopt her, and you heard me. Why pre.
tend that you didn't?"
"You forget a lot of things," commented Mrs.
Bodkin. "You talk as if you could do anything: well.
you can't."
"I forget nothing, and I can do what I want.
You mean that Elma is a bit coloured, has a touch
of the tarbrush? But, girl, she is almost white, and
that is about the only good thing you did when you
married that fool parson who could never have made
a decent living for you both. Elma is out of your
sphere altogether. And I can see that she resembles
the Byebrooks; she is a pure Byebrook, you under-
stand ?"
"She resembles me, also, and her father, Mr..
Byebrook," Mrs. Bodkin answered, but without con-
"She's very little like you and her bl- her
father. She has a queenly walk. just as my poor
sister had-you never knew her. Her name was
Grace and she died when she was eighteen. Elma is
the spit of her.
"I have kept an eye on Elma for some time,
though you didn't know it. I even know that a
young English fellow has been going to see her often;
what do you think of him?"
"He is a wealthy gentleman, and she is not in
his class; he doesn't come to see her any more."
"Oh, he doesn't, doesn't he? Does he think him-
self better than my grandniece whom I am going
to adopt? Who the devil is he? He has money?
But Elma will have money too, when I am dead.
And she is lawful, and she is a Byebrook, and- "
"She is coloured. That young man has been
told so already, Mr. Tom."
"Why, of course; everybody here who is white
or coloured must have told him. I know that. But
that won't matter much in these days; it is you that
may be the stumbling block, not being lawful your-
self. Now, how can we get over that?"
"I must remind you, Mr. Tom, that I didn't come


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here to be insulted; and, besides, you seem to have
forgotten one thing. I have not agreed that you
should adopt Elma."
'*And what the devil does it matter whether you
agree or not? How can you prevent it if she is will-
ing?-and she is going to jump at the chance. So
are you. She will live here ..
"In all this mess?"
"It suits me well enough, and it is not a mess,
confound you! Don't forget yourself! But Elma
can fix it up if she likes; I won't object to ibat, so
long as my own rooms are not disturbed and made
beastly uncomfortable.
"There's another thing. I don't want you to
be hanging about here when she is living in my
"Thank you."
"You know I am speaking for your daughter's
good, and you ought to be willing to make some
sacrifices for her."
"I have sacrificed everything for her," replied
Mrs. Bodkin quietly, "even my very soul."
"Ah, what is that?"
"A figure of speech, Mr. Tom."
"Sounded like something else; recalled to me
that people used to say you were an old witch,
though you are not old. Well, I don't suppose your
soul matters much anyhow, so we won't talk of that.

Another thing. Elma will take the name of Byebrook,
and her husband, when she marries, will take that
name too, and the children will be Byebrooks."
"She may never marry."
"I don't see why she shouldn't; and she is going
to marry a white man. Do you understand?-a white
man. Then her children will be white, and there
will be Byebrooks in this country in the future, as
there have always been in the past. I have workPd
it all out."
"And I am to be left alone?"
"I have been alone nearly all my life, my good
woman. so you can't expect me to weep over you.
Besides. I suppose you will see Elma sometimes,
somewhere. What more can you want than that?"
"All the Byebrooks have been selfish, Mr. Tom.
and you are one of them. You are not thinking
of Elma; you are thinking of yourself."
"Mainly of Elma, Elizabeth," and here the old
man's tone became deep and grave. "You forget
that I have seen her more often than you and she
think. I want to do something for her, put her
right on top. Who else can do it?
"I am getting old. She is the last of my race
who is presentable. Her son. "
"Suppose," broke in the woman gratingly, "her
son should be illegitimate like me, what then?"
"He won't be. But even if he was. and he was
a white man's child, by God he would carry on! But
why do you say such things? I have never met such
a contrary woman like you in all my life! No
wonder you couldn't get on with your own father.
Well, we have talked enough: I want you to tell
Elma what I have said."
"I will tell her. But she will be very lonely
up here, and miserable perhaps. She can never
come to care for you much, Mr. Tom, for she is
young and you are old, and you two have never even
"Does she care much for you?"
"I love her: I am her mother; I would give my
life-for her; but I don't think she loves me."
"No wonder. I don't see how anybody could.
But if she doesn't love you, 'as Iantm glad to hear,
she won't miss you much even if she doesn't care
for me. She'll respect me, of course; and she'll be
proud to live in this place as my grandniece and
adoped daughter. What a future fort the girl!"
"I will watch over her even while she is here."
said Mrs. Bodkin darkly, as she rose to go. "That,
at least, I can do."
"At a distance. yes. From your own place. By
lie way, Elma may need some things; I am going
to send her fifty pounds by you."
"It isn't neces Ir.\. I will give her anything
she may reqiiire."
"Well, that saves me fifty pounds. Good-bye.
Elizabeth. I don't know when we shall meet again."
"Gord-b.ve, Mr. Tom, I don't think I ever want to
meet you again."
He watched her pass through the door into the
porch, and disappear from sight, without replying
to this last dig of hers. He felt that he deserved it:
in fact he knew that twenty years ago she would
have flune at him some very fiery words. She had
changed in style of retort as well as in appearance
since then; he could see that she had known trihula-
(Continued on Page. 46)



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Each room or suite is exquisitely furnished in modern style
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SWIMMING in the pool, DANCING in
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(Continued from Page 44)
lion and sorrow, Yet, for her, he had no particular
t-ynpathv. Even her father had never cared for
her much,
He fell to musing. He was very lonely. For
years and years he had been. Then, some six months
ago, he had seen Elma one day in the neighboring
town and had asked who she was; he had learnt
that she was Mrs. Bodkin's daughter just home from
boarding school. From that moment there had been
born in him a desire to get into touch with her; he
saw in the her the form and features of his own peo-
ple only, the walk and manner of his long-dead
sister, who, he remembered, had been the tallest of
:a family of six of whom he was the only one now
living. This girl's complexion was a little different.
That was all.
The resemblance to his sister that the old man
had seen had not been imaginary merely. Elma had
thrown back, in height, in carriage, in manner, to
'that sole Byebrook girl who had long since died of
typhoid fever, and whom all her brothers had wor-
shipped. "This is a true Byebrook," old Tom had
thuught. when he had learnt whbo Elma was.
But for some time he did nothing. He would
leave her some money in his will, of course, he said
to himself; but he was used to his way of living, and
he would not allow any child-as he thought of El-
nma-to come worrying him and disturbing the tenor
of his life. Then, because he had put one or two
of his trusted servants to learn something about
Elma, from time to time he had heard, as had so
many others, of James Gordon's visits to her house,
and this had set him thinking furiously. He did
not admit it to her mother, he did not admit it
clearly even to himself, but he also was perturbed.
A girl like Elma must marry. Did this young man
mean marriage? It did not seem likely. But with
the child there in a humble cottage with her mother
-why, he thought, she was' quite unprotected; and
she was his flesh and blood. Something akin to
panic seized him. He discovered suddenly that he
was far more interested in this grandniece of his,
to whom he had never spoken, than he had ever
And now, decisively, he made up his mind. He
would adopt her. She would be a lady; she would
bear his name. She would inherit all he had; his
land alone represented a small fortune even as

it was. And she would be with him, for he was lone-
ly. Merciful God, how lonely he was!

W ITHIN two weeks everybody had heard of it.
Tom Byebrook, that eccentric and innately
proud, self-centred, cantankerous person, the man
who believed that the Byebrook family was the only
one in Jamaica that amounted to anything and who
so often had such unkind things to say about other

people, had actually taken into his house, and had
adopted, the daughter of his illegitimate niece to
whom he had probably not spoken for twenty
"Wonders will never cease," sighed Mrs. Fullard
one evening, when she and her family and friends
sat in the drawing room of the Fullard home, sip-
ping cocktails prior to going in to dinner. "Who
could think that such an amazing thing could hap-
Mrs. Fullard was a lady of about forty-seven
years of age, faded, of no particular strength of char-
(Continued on Page !)9)



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acter, and decidedly of an intellect vnhich was only
just normal, if quite that. But she wai the daugh.
ter of a cle'rgyuian and indubitably English. Hi'
husband was Jamaican, a short stocky man. sali.lt.
ly swarthy, with an energetic, robust manner; hb:
had begun life as a mere b'ookkueper ion a sugar
estate, but by dint otf application and brain. he had
made a lot of money before e ae was forty. He %as
now well over fifty, had Ieen married for tnvwnty.
five years. and though g'inle personal; hnal on,"e said
that lMies Blurtou had thllil'. htier'selt .v elfl h !;i
married him. these had afterwards come to the con
clusiou that he mrght ha\e done much Ibetltr Than
niarry Nlis- Burtoiu hail he wishli,-d ii- had h>.
primary passions In life One 'was t :anaass nweallth
and that ambition lie had been Iteadily achieinc.
The other \was to make hit two daughters happy. and.
of course, wealthy. :lir hie worshipped the girl
The third waai to get into society, and that end ,'iO
had already been accomplit'hed. He and his family
were received everywIFr,-. gladly received But
there was i.'ue' threshold hicteh they hail ne've- .,-.,--
ed; it was that of the Byehronk Great Hiouse But
then. very few persons had ever been encouraged
to cross that threshold Old Tom ByeT.rork simply
had not want -d anybody's company.
There were some wviho had resented old Tom's
careless aloofness. Now they proclaimed that they
were glad of it. For they were not going to call r.n
Miss Elma Bodkin. or Elma Byebrook, as the ild
man now insisted that she should be named. A
chance of name. they cnitended. could not nitian a
change of 'las.- or of anything else
"He can't expect us to call on that grandniece
of his" said Bertha; "and, even If he did. we would
not. Just fancy! Taking a girl like that entirely
out of her station. It's just a piece of madness"
"It's just what ThIvmas Byebror.k would do."
commented Nlr Fullard.
James Gordon. a guest of the evening, heard, and
felt constrained to put in a word. He had been
Elma's friend. and theoe people must have heard rtf
It. He found himself comparing Elma with all of
them there that evening, and only Evelyn Brisbane
could claim to be something finer. What right had
they to speak in this contemptuous way of a girl
they did not know? Besides, his was a loyal char.
acter. and he stood by all his friends.
"I know Miss Bodkin. or Miss Byebrook. as 1


od-- on



b1 liv.c- 1se is now craled, and I have f..urid her a very
ihl0e -I,'l.' I,.- saiJd ,ijuIl tly. She i- well edUcated
well r-ad Sli' v-.u; i tiniparatively poor. uf cuUirse.
intil i-ery r.e-ently. but does that make any differ-
Lri' c'
"'i-rln r:..".r w'uid iit.1 iimake any dLffre.ncc-.
Jim.' said FI len. "liit orh-ir rhin's iniihlt. yo.ja
lk nl w. H:ia% ...L t:%i:-r ]i1 It[ hk r iitl.[hi-r
"I haiv\ "
And lhat d.., y.'i tl111il; oif Ith lady?" chimed
in Bertha.
SWell, er, er..."
"E';a:tly. J.ii."' i:ligh.d L.'.itl Bertha and Helen
at tAn>.. "Y:'ii n-.d't fy 'iy inre The daugh
te-r l-:,oks pres-ntabll- enough. hut if course we know
n..r bit at.itir her Y,.ii ha%\, n vi-,r scf-rn her., Evelyn;
.li's tall anld--
'Pilt I have '-.--in hter," intterrtrpted Evelyn: "I
Eaw her one lday when I was iiding with Jim"
Evelyn was nerttled at something in Jim's tone
She enutirely apprl,\l'd ot'f his standing up for any.
'one "bh.:.i he- knew: but -he remembered Elma's
face andl fiiire dlitinctlty, had noticed, though but
[i.r a ibrit instant. theI I)aiity -,f the I- n ,. the
_rar oi til.- i.Lhe-' And .lini had heen on ( frilnd-
ly terms with the girl Somehow, Evelyn did not
quite like that. Shli was fi',nrl of Jim. She was cer-
tain that Jim was fond of her. And yet he might
have cone farther than he had in making his fond-
nie.s apparent. Had this .Jamal.3a Erl anything to do
with Iis restialnt?


"Well, would you think we should call on her.
Evelyn?" questioned Helen mischievously.
"My dear Helen, what a question to ask me'
You forget I am a stranger here."
*What do you say. Jim?" said Helen. turning to
"Since you "put it so plainly. I should say yes."
lie answered readily. "But, of course, like Evelyn,
I am a stranger too and therefore not in a position
to gice any opinion"
"And what do you say, Mr. Hamilton," persisted
Helen. who was enjoying herself.
'Horse don't business in cow's fight.'" replied
Hamilton. hoping to find refuge in a homely Jamaica
"But this is not a fight at all. my dear Haiiiil-
tin." interposed Mr. Fullard a little pompously, "and
I am sure that you would never liken my daughters
[n cows."
"God forbid'" cried Hamilton, wishing that he
were a mile away: "I only used a figure of speech."
"Which we all understood," laughed Helen: "and
we understand also that you wish to say nothing
on this matter."
"Dinner is served. ma'am," said the butler, rp-
pearing at that moment at the door through which
'ine passed into the smaller dining room situated '.1
the second story of the house. James Gordon thank-
ed heaven for this interruption. The chances were
that the conversation would not be continued.
He guessed that other such conversations were
taking place in other houses; but that did not car.



I" -_ -- -



,, __



cern him.. He would never be brought directly into
them. He felt sorry for Elma; he knew she was
ambitious; he guessed that she would bitterly resent
this ostracism by the gentry of the neighbourhood.
now that her position had become so different from
what it had been. She would now feel acutely the
gulf between the others and herself, and, from all
that he had gathered, Tonm Byebrook must be a most
disagreeable man to live with.
At about this same time Mr. Tom was sitting
down to dinner with this grandniece, now his adopt-
ed daughter. His old dining room already looked
very different from how it had looked before.
The table and the chairs were polished, new cur-
tains hung at the windows: old silver that he had
not seen for thirty years shone on the table, and
there were flowers in old unearthed vases of real
China. He wore a freshly ironed "flour-bag" suit-
which meant that, in a sort of way, he had dressed
for dinner, a thing he had not troubled to do for
donkey's years. As for Elma, she wore a white
dress high at the neck and with long sleeves; but
it was not the dress she had been wearing that day.
She too had changed, as she had invariably done
even while living at the cottage.
Old William waited on the table, making a not

very efficient butler, but quite good enough for the
simple ceremony of the evening. That a woman
should be in this house, a young lady of Mr. Bye-
brook's blood, but also the daughter of Mrs. Bodkin,
still seemed like a miracle to William. She was slight-
ly coloured, his master was white; yet she was now
the young mistress, though her mother had not been
"lawful." What strange things did happen now-a-
days! Yet William was happy because this thing
had happened: it seemed to him that his old master
had become happier, and he liked and was proud
of this tall, fine-looking young lady. She was kind
to him, too; and all the other servants, at first in-
clined to resent her presence, had now taken to her.
They had feared that certain perquisites of which
they were wont to possess themselves would be for-
bidden them when she took charge of the house;
even William had had his misgivings. But Elma
was very wise; she wished for no dislike, no revolt
on the servants' part. So she had made up her
mind to close her eyes to some little things that
one less well-acquainted with Jamaica manners and
customs, or of a severely disciplinarian character,
might have stopped at once. They didn't matter
much, anyhow, she thought. And she shrewdly guess-
ed that her uncle must long since have known all
about these trifling takings and priggings, which

were now looked upon as a right by those indulging
in them.
"You are not going to have many visitors here,
just yet, Elma," remarked Mr. Tom, as he carved
the piece of roast beef which William had reverently
placed before him. "The aristocracy of this parish
are not going to have much to do with you all at
"I have expected that," she answered shortly.
"And who the hell are they, may I ask?" he con-
tinued. "Who do they imagine they are? That fel-
low Fullard now, and his dolls of daughters as
for his wife, she looks like a dying duck in a thun-
der-storm: and then, who the hell-"
"Don't you think you swear too much, Uncle
Tom?" interpolated Elma very gently; for already
she had come to have a genuine affection for this
curious old man.
"I? I swear too much? You ask me that? Why.
girl, have you begun it forget yourself already?
Who the hell are you yourself--but don't you mind
that, dear; I don't mean it. In fact you are right.
I do swear too much in the presence of ladies; but
then I never meet any ladies now except yourself
You are the only real lady about here. Who the
hell are the others?"
"And you," answered Elma, a wave of pride

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and tenderness sweeping through her, *'"a the kind-
est, sweetest uncle that ever a po.ir A irl c1uli'M hae.
You are a perfect dear."
"Stop talking nonsense, will )Il, I ant nit the
kind of man that can be flattereil. And remninber
I meant what I told you whin you -ame here; you
can invite anybody you like. biut they mniit be peo
pie you won't he ashamed of if yrou mieet them else-
where. Not that I am afraid you ,vill ever make a
mistake. You are the living spit j:f my dead E;ster,
and wasn't she a proud girl! You are right to be
proud. Elma; you are a Byebrook You and I are
going to teach all these hurry-come-ups of the ueigh-
bourhood that. In another year they will be -ating
out of your hand. Their girls will be glad to know
"I am not very fond of girl friends. unu'le. I
don't like women very much. I will never ask the
one or two I know to come here. You wouldn't like
,it, for one thing. nor I either."
"Does that mean that you prefer men? It doesn't
sound quite nice, does it?"
"'You are a man, and you are a better friend to
me than anyone L know."
He noticed that she did not make an exception
of even her mother, but on this he made no comment.
In fact, he was rather pleased that she had spoken
as she had.
The meal continued for a while in silence. Pre-
sently Mr. Tom Byebrook looked Elma full-in the
face and blurted out this question:
"What has become of that young Englishman
that used to go and see you at your mother's
"What do you know about him?" cried Elma,
genuinely surprised.
"I know more than you might think, my good
young lady; why the h-why people should imagine
that I am a dotard who knows nothing I can't ima-
gine. But come. tell me. was he sweet on you?"
"We were just friends: that's all."
"Then somebody put a spoke in your wheel with
him, told him things about you?"
"No; it was my mother who asked him not to
come back."
"Hum. She said something of the sort to me,
but I wasn't sure whether I should believe her--
people lie so much. You like him, don't you?"
"And he likes you?"
"I think so."
"But he has no spunk. Fancy a man caring one
damn what a girl's mother says!"
"He was insulted, and he is a gentleman," replied

Elma. rising to the defen>ei of Jimn, but in her hear:
she felt that the old man had spoken the truth Why
should Jim have minded her mother's remarks, es
specially after she had written to him? But there
was that English girl-she was probably the real
reason why Jim still kept away. Of a sudden Elma
felt utterly unhappy.
"I am not the fool that you think me. girl, or
quite as selfish as people make me out to be. You
must have friends of your own age; I know that I
can see no harm in this young man visiting you. now
that you iare here-and me Noi harm at all."
"He will not come," said Elma dully.
"Oh yes, he will. I myself shall call on Hamil-
ton and him some time, and they will return my
"They may not. Uncle Tom.' she warned hinm.
"May not? May not? Is there anybody about
here who would not be honoured if Tom Byebrook
called on them? Who the hell are they? In my
day. girl. people were proud to set foot in this house.
It is the same today."
She would not tell him that times had changed;
she guessed that he himself knew that already And
she wanted him to do what he had decided. iHe
was. after all. the biggest man in this district: Mr.
Hamilton would be only too pleased if Thomas Bye-
brook actually paid him a visit. She was no fool
She knew that this would be construed as an effort
on the part of her.uncle and herself to get in touch
with James Gordon: Jim might even think that zhe
it was who had urged the old man to call. But that
could not be helped. One could not make. omilett.s
without breaking eggs. She would not allow anv-
thing like sensitiveness to stand in her way. That
was not her style.
Dinner over. she went out to the porrh to think.
She sat there. dreaming. as she had done on more
than one occasion since she came to live at Byp-
brook. It was dull, dreary. lonesome. She had won-
dered whether she would be able to stand this sort
of life: but she had felt much the same when living
with her mother. She had felt then that that life
could not last, and the feeling that there would be
a change to her advantage had steeled her will:
with the natural optimism of youth she had looked
forward to something happening in her favour, and
more than one thing. altogether unexpected, nad
First. Jim had appeared. That had brought her
happiness. True. he had been.eliminated from the
scene by her mother, but she had never thought that
that would be permanent. When she had heard of
Evelyn. and had seen Jim with Evelyn, however.

she had grown desperately afraid; but almost im-
mediately had come this adoption by her granduncle,
a piece of fortune which had altered the whole out-
look of her life. She had position now; her very
name was Byebrook. She would have wealth some
day. And to-night her uncle had himself suggested
that he should call upon Mr. Hamilton and James,
and she felt now that Mr. Hamilton would feel
that this was an honour, even if he knew the reason
ou It. Of course there was still the English girl;
hut James had liked her much when she was only
Elma Bodkin in a country cottage. If Elma Bye-
(Continued on Page .".





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(Continued, from Page 51)
brook could not fight any other woman in the parish
for the man she loved, it would be strange indeed.
The old man had gone to sit on the rear ver-
andah of the house to smoke and think. He was
shortly about to do something which, ten years ago,
would have been impossible to him; which, even a
year ago, he would have considered impossible But
it was worth doing now--4or Elma's sake. How he
had come to care for this child these last few days!
Oil was i* that he had begun to be fond of her from
the first day he had seen her since she had come
to this neighbourhood from school? It didn't mat-
ter; she filled his life now as it had not been filled
for nearly forty years; he was proud of her, he felt
ready to dislike, to hate, anyone who should offend
her. They could say what they liked; she was as
good as they, indeed better, and he would force them
to acknowledge that. He wanted her to be with him,
but he wanted something else also: her happiness.
And still something else: he wanted her to have a
child, even one, and that child must be a boy. He
would live with her and her husband and child; he
would make them wealthy: he was far richer than
anyone imagined. This Englishman might da for a
husband, it he were a gentleman. He had been sus-
picious of him at first, had thought that there was
much in Mrs. Bodkin's objections to this stranger.
But Elma Byebrook was not Elma Bodkin, and he
could see that Elma liked this fellow. Well, he
would look him over, and if he was of the right
sort and would marry Elma-then, when he, old
Tom Byebrook, was dead there would still be Bye-
brooks in the land.

SQO you went to see Mr. Byebrook and his niece?"
Said Evelyn smilingly; "and was the young
lady quite grand and charming in her new surround-
"She seemed to fit into them very well," admit-
ted James. "The old gentleman is a peculiar char-
acter, but very amusing."
"He had never called on Mr. Hamilton before, I
have heard," remarked Evelyn, a trifle dryly.
"That is so; but he came round one afternoon
and insisted that we both must go to see him.
Hamilton was as proud of this as punch. I am afraid
that George is a snob, though he is a perfect dear."
"Was it you or Mr. Hamilton that the old man
really wanted, Jim? It is rather peculiar, isn't it,
that all the years Mr. Hamilton has lived in these
parts Mr. Tom Byebrook has never thought of ask-
ing him to his house; yet just when he gets his
niece to live with him well, how does it strike
James laughed. "It struck me as it does you,
Evelyn; the old fellow knew that I was acquainted
with his niece, and so he asked me to call on them.
A young woman of that age must want friends, you
"Especially you, Jim?"

James looked troubled at this question, and lie
saw that Evelyn was gazing at him quizzically. Biut
she was very much in earnest too: that was easy
to perceive. In the last couple of weeks they had
drawn very closely together, and he bad begun t..
think of her as something very dear to him. In her
eyes he had read a reciprocal feeling. But for tWinr
feeling on her part, he knew she would have consid-
ered it not at all proper that she should exhibit any
curiosity as to his private affairs.
"I feel sorry for Elma-" he began, when she
"Elma? So you call her by her Christian
"*Yes. dear, but she has been only a friend, and
if you could know her I think you would like her
too; she is really a lady."
"Perhaps," was the somewhat cold reply, "but
though I once thought I might like to. I have no
anxiety to know her now"
'I don't suppose you ever will, and I shall see
her but rarely. It is you I want to see often, Evelyn-
to see always. Surely you know that."
"I love you, darling. I want to marry you. You
know now, don't you, that there is nothing and can
be nothing between me and Elma Bodkin?"
There was a whispered "dearest" from her, a

I.- I


swift embrace, and then another and another, and all
the world became roseate for them. To them a thing
perfect and indescribable had happened, and when,
halt an hour afterwards. Helen Fullard found thin
sitting side by side in the little vine-covered arbour tc
the south of the house. a little nook whose interior
was screened by greenery and odorous white flowers
from prying eyes, she took in at a glance that some
thing intimate and definite had passed between them.
As Helen told her sister later that afternoon when
Jim had ridden away. "He was looking as proud and
as pleased as a peacock, and she was all flushed and
happy. I guess he has proposed. I wonder whether
they will marry here or go to England?"
"Why did he not tell us of their engagement
before he left?" wondered Bertha: 'and Evelyn, too,
has said nothing about it "
"I suppose." said Helen scornfully. "that they
think it is romantic to keep it secret for a while.
Why people do such things I can't imagine." Nor
could Bertha imagine either.
The truth was, however, that James had told
Evelyn of his promise to his father. "The pater.'
said lie. "was afraid that I might marry soine girl
out here of whom he might not approve, so I
pledged hint my word that I would let him know,
if I fell in love with anyone in Jamaica which
I didn't think in the least likely-who she was and
all that. So, you understand. darling. that Elma
Bodkin was never in the scheme of a love affair at
all! When dad hears who you are. and sees your
portrait, he'll be proud and delighted: I guess he'll
he running over to see your people at once My pro-
mise was a silly one, but--
"I should love you to keep it." said Evelyn
promptly. "A promise is a promise. Besides. dear-
est. it will be so much nicer to have our engagement
a secret a few weeks: we'll feel that we have it all
to ourselves, even though others may be guessing-
as Helen and Bertha certaiiily will. Those girls
notice a lot!"
"'I hlirlld 'ay :.." iaiughed Jim merrily: "in fact
I believe Ibhy have heet impatiently waiting to hoar
wr are engaged ever since we met "
SIsn't it nond-rful." mused Evelyn happily ,
"that y.o, -hould come from England to far-off Ja-
n::1ca r-d Ili.t I hnould nolle lhre to'o. and meet
you. and that we should become lovers? That is
fate. isn't It?"
It is more wonderful for me than for you," said
James kissing her tenderly. They were both dis-
posed at that moment to find the world full of
wonders arranged especially for their benefit.
When Jim got back to Hamilton later on he
found the older man awaiting him in the dining
room in a state of suppressed excitement. Haniilton
sprang up as James entered the house and called
out to him: I was thinking of sending over to the
Fullards for you."
"Well, is anything wrong?" laughed James. who
at that moment felt that nothing could be wrong.
"Wrong? No Everything is all right. Mr.
Byebrook sent over this afternoon to invite us to
dinner tomorrow. Asked us to excuse the short
notice:" but we don't mind that sort of thing in
the country. I accepted. Jim. in both our names."
"But. George, I don't want to go."
"Don't want to go? But why not?" asked
Hamilton, his face falling.






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Direct Your Inquiries and Orders















*"Why should I? Besides, wasn't it you who
didn't wish me to visit the Bodkins often? Do you
forget that Elma Bodkin is now installed at Bye-
brook. and that only two afternoons ago we were
"But it's different now, Jim. I am going with
you, and there wasn't Miss Evelyn Brisbane here at
that time. and you haven't been going of your own
accord rto -(e any of the Bodkilnsi-3 h. the whole ,
situation is different."
"Well, you go, George. You can make some ex-
cuse for ne "
"It's the fir.t time Tom Byebrook has asked me
to dinner. Jimn. id he especially mentioned you. lie
may be rfflnded if yiu refuse to go "
"'Why should I care if he is offended?"
"He is a funny old fellow. Jim. He is rich and
ccentri,. If he is offended with you, he may be
offended with ime too. You see, don't you?"
"I am damned if I d., Why should you iare
if he is offended with you?"
Haniltuni became confidential. "Well, it's like
this I am doing very well here, but I should like
to extend my operations. Already I owe Mr. Fullard
money-he owns part of this place, as a matter of
fact. and I should like to buy him out. And I owe
the banks money, and they are not likely to lend me
any more. I pay as I go: you know I am not in any
tight place, but one cannot expand without capital,
and a chap like Tom Byebrook has plenty of capital.
and might hlend me something when banks and others
wouldn't. For one thing, he knows me, and he can
tell at a lani:e whether a property is well run or
not In any case. too. it has always been my prin-
ciple to keep in with wealthy people, you never can
know when you may want their assistance "
"You mercenary devil'" cried Jim. with intense
amusement. "And over and above all your business
calculations y:ou are thinking it is a great honour
to dine with Tom Byebrook. And you want to kill
two old Toms with one James Gordon. Very well.
George. I'll go with you: but I suppose that means
asking the old mtan and his niece to dinner here:
and after that. what? More dinners at Byebrook?
Not for me. thank you."
"Sumficent unto the day is the dinner thereof."
said Gr,-rge Hamilton. delighted that Jim was so ac-
commiidatinig "We won't need to put on dinner iac-
kets. Mr. Byebroi'k's letter says so."
Jim had heard from Evelyn that she and the
Fullard- would be spending the following day and
night at C'arrilbbourne. a prope-lrt about ten mills
away. otlerwi-se lh would not so easily have fallen
in with Hamilton's plans. As it wa-. he felt that hii
doing su now ouiild not much nmater
The next night saw them at Byebr.,)l. with
Elma's .ye? gleaming with pleasure, with Mr. Bye.
brook dressed in a newly ironed four-bag suit -he
would wenr no oiher and greeting them with all
the courtesy of a man of birtlh. if wealth and posi-
tion: a different Tom Byebrook than the swearing
old ruffian one might meet about the property any
time of the day.
Theie was a igcest.mll of special attention in
the old planter's manner' v. hlre Jamnes anas conce'rni-d.
He had already -ized up Jim a. a gentlemaii "I
wish I h:ad nme your ifthler whi.n he waj- ,lit h,.re
as a yonig m11a1,." he said as he s hoik hands It
Is always a pleasure to meet you "
Jini had richly gpiiPsed that this iniiiartin toi
dinner had been suggested to her uncle by Elma. yet
he saw that the old man could not have needed much
pressing But this, he was resolved. would be the
last time he would dine here. The old relations bt-
(ween him and Elina. he felt. could never be re-
newed, nor did he feel quite eav' in his mind at
having visited her twice within a week.
After the meal. Mr. Byebrook and Mr. Hamilton
remained in the dining room to talk. Elma suggest-
ing to Jim that they should take coffee on the porch.
Here they could talk without being overheard, seated



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in comfortable wicker chairs which Elma had had
brought from Kingston that week as part of the
furniture with which she was displacing some of the
antiques in the old planter's house.
"We see very little of one another in these day',
Jim," she began. "If my uncle had not specially
invited you, you would never have called to see me."
"Well, you know your mother dosen't want ua
to meet, Elma."
"That wouldn't matter if you wanted to meet
me, Jim. I am not living with my mother now. I
have been adopted by my granduncle. My name is
Byebrook-and I am a Byebrook by blood. You pre-
fer to go to see-someone else?"
"That's not a fair question, Elma. You know I
have always liked you; we have been excellent
friends. But after that night-"
"Wipe out that night-forget it. We have been
friends, you say. You know, Jim, I once thought
you liked me more than you would like a mere
He felt embarrassed. He wished she wouldn't
talk like this.
But she went on resolutely; she had made up
her mind to speak out.
"I thought you were very fond of me. But, of
course, I was nobody then; merely Elma Bodkin
who lived in a little house with her mother, a 3irl
whom the big people of this parish would never
know. It is different now, Jim; very different .My
uncle loves me; in a little while all these peorli
who would like to turn their noses up at me mav
be glad to come to Byehrook-if they are asked. This
place will be mine after my uncle dies: he has told
me so. And yet you, who liked me so much once
that hardly a night passed that you did not come
to see me, you keep away now, and give. as an excu se
some stupid things that my mother said!"
"I have been here twice in a week. And, any-
way, you shouldn't talk like this, Elma."
"We Byebrooks have always been accustomed to
say what we think," she answered proudly.
It was on the tip of his tongue to point cut
that she was a Byebrook now only by favour, and
that she had no right to talk as though he had ever
belonged to her; but he refrained. He knew that
that would be an insult, something utterly unworthy.
In his heart of hearts, too, he felt deeply sorry for
Elma, for there could be no misunderstanding that
she loved him.
And this was partly, perhaps mainly, his fault.
He had gone to her again and again; had he not
done so, this love of hers would never have come lt
the birth.
"You go about a lot with Miss Evelyn Brisbane."
she said suddenly.
"She is a country-woman of mine," he reminded
"And you love her, Jim?"
"You must not ask such questions, Elma."
"But do you love her?"
"Perhaps we had better go inside now," he re-
plied rising: "I don't want to quarrel with you, but
you are being very unreasonable."
"I won't quarrel, Jim, I won't. And I'll not ask
you any questions you might not like to answer. But
I thought, I thought--0. my God, why did I ever
meet you! Why should my life be always a hell?"

W E like to feel that our cus-
tomers are paying us a friend-
ly call when they visit us and
that they regard us in a more hu-
man light than merely as a gro-
cery where they get merchandise
in exchange for money.
In addition to good value, we give
with each purchase a commodity
for which you do not, or could not,
pay. We give consideration.
Your 'next' visit is always more
important to us than any profit we
could make your friendship
is our goal, your patronage only a
means to our attaining it.



PHONE 3703.

She had caught hold of his arm to detain him:
her head wa_ bowed: he knew that she was ween-
ing. A feeling of misery overwhelmed him. He felt
guilty, compassionate. sick to the soul. Yet he could
not tell her about himself and Evelyn: about that.
for the present, lie was pledged to secrecy. And
even if she knew. he thought miserably. it would
imakre no difference to her. She would sweep Evelyn
out of her way without an instant's hesitation if she
could. A thought which showed that he had some
understanudiig of Elma's essential character.
He sat down again, and presently she ceased to
weep. She took herself in hand: looked at him. and
smiled a little. "I am very foolish," she said, "but
you will oume again, won't you?"
He could not say no. Apart from all question
of ordinary politeness. there would have been cruelty
in so bluntly negative an answer. "Of course." he
She dried her eyes-. "Let's go inside" she said.
"you will prefer that. and it will be better for
As they passed from the porch into the house-. a
figure standing below and at a little distance away
among some trees, detached itself fr.im the haddow
of the trees and stole away, walkiue in the direr-
tion of a light buggy drawn by a single horse which

i ....... "..........

had been hitched to a post a quarter of a mile

Mrs. Bodkin had been true to her resolve to
keep a watch over Elma ever since the day that her
daughter had gone to live at Byebrook. This was
not difficult; old William could convey to her any
information regarding the young lady's movements
without thinking fur a moment that he was playing
the spy or betraying the confidence of his master.
The ancient servitor felt that it was only natural
that Mrs. Bodkin should want to know what her
daughter did and how she fared; he had old-fash-
ioned views as to the bringing up of the younger
generation, and, moreover, he stood in awe of Mrs.
Bodkin. He had heard much about her strange pow-
ers. and believed implicitly in them; therefore when
she had found a way of suggesting that he should
let her know who came to see Miss Elma. and where
she went-if he could find out-he had agreed with.
nut a murmur. His means of communication with
Mrs Lrndkin was one of his grandsons, whom that
lady decently rewarded for his pains. Thus Mrs.
Rodkin had been informed that Mr. Byebrook had
visited Mr Hamilton, that Mr. Hamilton and Mr.
Gr-rd,,n had returned the visit, and, that very after-
noon. site had received word that both Mr. Hauilton

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Sand Mr. Gordon bad -been invited to-dinner. As soon
as she get this news Mrs. Bodkin had made up
her mind to see for herself, if at all possible, how
things were going on.
Elma had not once been to the cottage since
her translation to the Great House. Elma bad gone
away in an ugly mood, still bitterly angry with her
mother. It was an estrangement which, given the
disposition of both women, was likely to last. Never-
theless, Airs. Bodkin would have gone to see Elma
but that she knew old Tom Byebrook would never
hear of it. She now hated the old man with the
hitter hatred of jealousy; there rankled in her mind
also a memory of the careless insults be had flung
at her the last time she had talked to him at Bye-
brook. He had called her bastard and had taken
Elma away from her. Yet she could not strike at
him. To do so would be to injure Elma's prospects.
He may have made no will as yet, and though the
mother was angry with her child, sh:- still was ready
to make great sacrifices for her.
When she had learnt that Hamilton and Gordon
would be at Byebrook that night, she had hastened
to the property to spy. Entrance to it was easy; any-
body could pass through the huge swinging gate
into the path that led to the house; like the gates
of many Jamaica rural properties it was never lock-
ed night or day. To tie her pony to a post and pro-
ceed towards the house on foot was nothing; but
what could she hope or expect to see? She could
not guess; yet it happened that while she stood
amongst the shadows and watched and waited, she
had seen two figures, those of a man and a wo-
man. come out upon the porch, remain there for a
little while and then pass inwards again. She had
known who they were. So Elma and James Gordon
were coming together again in spite of Evelyn Bris-
bane! And the risk that Elma now ran was none
the less great because she had been adopted by Tomn
Byebrook. Indeed, concluded this dour. soured wo
man. it was now greater, since there would always
be Evelyn Brisbane to draw Gordon away from
Elma at long last.
Aid Elma-she was head-strong, passionate. de-
termined where her desires were concerned, sweep
ing forward to the brink and beyond of rashness
No one could control her if she made up her mind
to anything; her mother had seen that only too
well. And now she was freer than she had ever
been before. "She is standing on the very edge jof
hell and will plunge into it," muttered Elizabeth
Bodkin to herself as she turned away from the
Great House with an awful resolve in her heart.
She found her conveyance and drove quickly

back to her cottage. Entering it. she lit the lamp.
and once again proceeded to clothe herself in her
robe and turban of vivid scarlet. But on this occa-
sion she took from out of a little box lying at the
bottom of her trunk a long, sinister-looking instrj-
ment. a narrow knife some twelve inches in length,
half of this length being handle, the other half a dull,
bluish blade. She also put some pieces of linen, a
bottle and a small round tin in a huge pocket which
her robe contained. Then she glanced at the clock
in her room. It was time she should set out upon
what she had made her mind to do.
She decided to leave her lamp burning; she knew
that on her return she would require instant light.
With not a backward glance she opened the door
on her backyard, closed it quietly, and proceeded
upon her way.
She pursued once more the path she had taken
sometime before to the tomb of her dead husband.
Arrived at the spot. she knelt, as she had done on
that night when she had summoned her husband's
spirit from the grave. But now she opened her robe,
giving her bare bosom to the cold night air. In her
right hand she clutched tightly the knife she had
brought with her. Then she bowed her head and
Again she went through her ritual at the foot
of the tomb, with sweat standing out upon her fore-
head and with the palms of her hands drenched.
Again she called upon her dead husband by name.
saying now in tones of command, Come. Come, Come!
then lapsing into a language which she alone per-




haps, of all the people in that region of the coun-
try, understood; the language of an African priest-
ess, the "unknown tongue" which the uninitiated
must not know.
She raised her head, drew her body erect: slow-
ly, but with no sort of hesitation, rather with the
firmness of an iron will, she placed the edge of the
knife against her left breast, pressed it slightly and
gashed open a long, hideous, bleeding wound.
Even her strength of character, her courage, her
contempt for suffering, could not prevent her giving
an involuntary shudder as the sharp sting and agony
of that self-infllicted torment pierced her nerves;
nor could she suppress an involuntary groan, while
the blood spurted and dripped upon the stone against
which the lower portion of her body was pressed.
But even while she shuddered she raised her hand
again, and once more the knife descended, piercing
and slicing the other breast.
Was it imagination, or did she really bear some-
thing that sounded like diabolical laughter? There
was some sound, she was certain of that, but it came
to ears distracted, to a mind frenzied, to one at grips
with terrible realities and writhing now as her blood
fell in sacrificial drops and ran in a little streamlet
upon her robe and on the cold tomb beneath. She
was praying. But the prayer was to a god of evil,
to Satan himself as she was well aware; it was a
prayer for aid, one which she knew would he answer-
ed since she was offering sacrifice, the sacrifice of
her own blood.
And now she saw something, the Tbhng she had

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the 4-furrow is over 3 tons. (2) A M Ir.i,,i.l"tractor share
plough turning 5 furrows each 14-in. wide by- 12-in. deep.
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The TRINIDAD TRADING Co. Ltd., NEAL & MASSY Engineering Co.
Port of Spain. Ltd.
(Animal Draught) Port of Spain.
Implements. (Tractor Implements).
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Many years' study of the requirem(nlut of cane growers evnablet us to
offer to-day i)lourghs to meet all needs, from the light steel single furroU\
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been expecting. It came, as it had done before, like a
sort of mist that gathered shape; but it spoke no
word, was as silent as the grave from which it" had
She spoke. "This man, James Gordon, must die,
even as you died. For my only child is in dan-
ger from him. Haunt him from this night onwards,
until he dies: Nothing less will do; for if he goes
away he may return, or she may follow him, and
all my work, all my suffering, will then have been
in vain. Kill him-there is no other way. Haunt
him, drive him mad, make him no longer responsible












for what he does, compel him to do evil, let him seem
mad in Elma's eyes, and in the eyes of those who
know him. But kill him, kill him! There is no
other way."
She ceased, and let fall the knife upon the tomb,
and pressed her hands against her bleeding breasts.
She must staunch these wounds, otherwise she might
bleed so much that she might not be able to totter
back to her home. She had brought linen with her,
and iodine, and a tin of vaseline, had known that
she would need them. But these must not be applied
just yet. There must first be some answer from the
dead, some sign that she had been clearly under-
And once again that curious sound rang out, and
now she was certain it was laughter, the cachinna-
tion of a myriad little voices, a crackling such
as might come from the fires of hell. She had heard
it before, she now remembered, heard it from her
father's tomb one night when Elma was still a babe
in arms. It was the voice and the laughter of souls
forever lost.
Suddenly the vague, grey, nebulous figure, the
mist with a sort of shape that had risen before her,
shone out with a luminosity that blinded her
eyes. But in that swift flash she had seen a face
exactly like that of the man who had been Elma's
lather There was no word from this Thing; but it
bowed its head as though in acknowledgment, and
in obedience to her command. Then the light faded;
and again that sibilant, sinister cachinnation, that
laughter of the lost was heard.
It was over now; she knew that, from this min-
ute, James Gordon would be a haunted man. Plung-
ing her hand into her capacious pocket she drew
out the liniments she had brought with her, and the
linen; she anointed herself and placed the cool cloth
over her wounds, holding it down with strips of ad-
hesive tape.
She wiped the blood from the surface of the
tomb. Then, swaying and shuddering with pain, she
made her way home.
When she got into her room at last, she locked
the door behind her and flung herself prone upon
her bed.
Grey dawn came stealing over the mountains;
presently the land grew bright in the sunlight.
Mrs. Bodkin rose painfully and stripped from her
body the robe of red. She touched her breast; the
cloth upon it was dry and stiff. She got out of bed,
threw her robe and knife into the trunk, locked it,
and then wound a bit of linen around her left arm.

After that she unlocked her bedroom door, went
back to bed, and waited for her servant to call
When the servant knocked and was bidden "come
in," she noticed at once that her mistress was look-
ing ill, saw that the water in the basin, in which
Mrs. Bodkin had washed her hands some hours be-
fore, was red with blood, observed also, as Mrs. Bod-
kin intended that she should, that Mrs. Bodkin's arm
was bound up with linen cloth.
"What's the matter, ma'am?" asked, the maid,
"I cut my arm last uight, a very foolish
accident," replied Mrs. Bodkin calmly. "All my own
fault. I washed it myself in the basin there; I
think it's given me a little fever, but I'll be all right
in a few days."
"Better let me send for de doctor, missis," the
servant suggested.
"Nonsense. Did you ever know me running for
a doctor about every little stupidness? I tell you I
am all right. And don't go talking about my arm,
you hear?"
"No, missis, I won't," the maid promised. But
she wondered at this command.

IT still was early morning. The green of the distant
line of hills merged softly into the glowing blue
of the sky; the trees and grass glistened in the rays
of the eastern sun, the surfaces of the ponds were
silver in the light, there was a refreshing breath of
coolness and an exhilaration in the air.
Mr. Hamilton and two of his sons were on horse-
back among the cattle, the milchers of which had
long since been milked, while some that had been
sold for slaughtering to Kingston butchers had been
selected and driven towards the high road from which
they would be shipped to the city by train.
With Hamilton were the three girls from the
Fullard property, Bertha, Helen and Evelyn, also on
horseback. They had ridden over by arrangement to
see Mr. Hamilton's cowmen bring in a Mysore bull
which he had sold to Mr. Fullard and which had
been reared by Hamilton ever since it was a calf some
six months old. A few of the cowmen and boys of
the property were about.
The Mysore is not a large animal, but hardy,
(Continued on Page 60)



r7\ .. .

Days and weeks of anxiety ha'.e
already become months since thi
fatal first of September when Hitler. .
marched his troops into Poland. i
Morale. ability, and health ar.- ,
closely inter-related. Therefore it .- A- //
really does behove us to make the
most of our leisure, revelling in it, 1
extracting the maximum benefit i \
from it and for this the new clothLs
for fun and sun, surf and shore are'
designed for absolute freedom, con:- I.
bined with a cool air of sophistica- .
tion that makes them irresistibly /


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Mail Order -
Free Tourist
I Branches at



* *r/fmif"






London, England.


Prompt Settlement of Claims Locally.

For Information please Consult

the Representative for Jamaica


No mistakin' it "

Christmas is the time to make merry to take out the
"old-bus" and give her the gas!
When we look back at the changes that have taken place
about us, we are delighted that our Firm has progressed with
the times. Yes-"we are moving and no mistaking il"'
We are moving to make life happier in your home, by
placing the finest products available at your very elbow. The
progress we have made in this direction (I within the short
space of 7 years), is reflected by the Houses of world-wide re-
pute that we now represent.
Among them being:-

ABBOT LABORATORIES (America)- Manufacturers .ir Drugi
BOOKER BROS. (British Guiana)- Ferrol, Ferrol CrOli.ourd an. Limacol
COW AND GATE LTD. (England)- Babies' Food, Mallred Milk. Cond.enied
Milk and Glucose A D.
EVANS SONS LESCHER & WEBB LTD. (Englandi-- Mar',.ifa.lurer of
JACK GOMPERTS (California)- Dried Fruit.
G. B. KENT & SONS LTD. (England)- Manufacturer .f Bruirht.
MACLEAN'S LTD. (England)- Manufacturers of Tocrli.p.i.t. Sr..ina.:l Pow.
ders and Toilet Preparations.
MINARD'S LTD. (America)- Manufacturers of Minar, Linmi'-r.. AriI.'l,.
tic. Athletic Rub, Milk of Magnesia, etc., etc.
ROLLS RAZORS (England)- Manufacturers of Safete lazur,
SHIRBIFFS LTD. (Canada)- Manufacturers of Jelli- ;al.h Jani
STEERS LTD. (Newfoundland)- Cod Fisheries.
SWIFT COMPANIA DE LA PLATA (Argentine)- Cainn-li M~ai.s and Fruilw
TIELEMAN & DROS (Holland)- Canned Hams etc.
J. B. WILLIAMS LTD. (America)- Shaving Creams and LI.ti.joi


(Continued from Page 58)
quick and nimble. It can leap stone fences and run
faster than a man. Smaller than other cattle, and
not dangerous as a rule, it can at times develop an
ugly temper if harassed or annoyed; and this bull,
now four years of age, had long been in the habit
of having its own way. It was of considerable size
for its breed, with high hump, wide-spreading horns,
a proud, disdainful step, heavy dewlap and a glow in
its eyes that caused it to be respected even by the
most fearless of the little black boys who ran among
the cattle in this parish and never troubled to think
that any of them might be dangerous.
It was now to be transferred to Mr. Fullard, and
the three girls had come to see it for the last time
in its old pastures; at least, that was the reason
which Helen had sent for inviting herself and the
others over to Charleton this morning.
They had expected to find Jim with the others
on their arrival. Hamilton made an excuse for
Jim; he was not very well that morning, said Mr.
Hamilton, but he would probably join them in the
pasture at any moment now. Evelyn had stiffened
a little on hearing this, Helen and Bertha had lifted
their brows. Jim should have been the first to come
to meet them. And Mr. Hamilton certainly did not
speak as though Jim were really sick.
The truth of the matter is that Hamilton had
gone himself that morning to call Jim up, to remind
him that the girls were coming over, and Jim had
rasped out that t he- girla- eeol- go to.,helUso far as
he cared, and that he was not getting out of bed one
second before he chose. Hamilton had been startled;
evidently, he told himself, Gordon had been drinking
heavily and had not yet recovered from the effect of
his potations. But where had he got the drink? He
had been temperate enough at Byebrook the night
before, and they had ridden back to their home quiet-
ly and soberly. Then a thought struck Hamilton.
Jim had been for a little while alone with Elma
Byebrook, while he had been talking to Mr. Thomas
Byebrook. Was it possible that the old fascination
which Elma had exercised over the young fellow had
begun to work again? If so, he, Hamilton, would
never forgive himself for having been partly the
cause of this revival of feeling. After all, Jim had
not wanted to go to Byebrook.
Mr. Hamilton's cowmen were not expert at las-
soing cattle, never having been called upon to do so
often.. Their method was to go close to the animal,

of either sex, and cast a looped rope round its horns;
after that, though it might twist and struggle for
a while, striving to break away, it soon gave in and
followed the pull on its head. As a rule even this
means of taking cattle from one place to another
was not adopted, since these creatures were generally
tame and could be driven by a child. But this was
not the case with the Mysore bull this morning.
Whether it was merely in a bad temper, or felt,
through the exercise of some bovine instinct, that
these men about it had designs which might affect
its comfort, it had refused to move when driven,
except once towards a cowman who had fear-
lessly advanced within a few yards of it. It had
made a rush at this man, a thing utterly unexpected.
Happily the cowman had swiftly sidestepped and
then had slipped to the rear of the animal. When
the bull turned in his direction, the cowman had al-
ready placed some distance and some cows also be-
tween him and the angry beast.
And now, pawing the ground, sending forth re-
verberating bellows, shaking its ominous horns, it
presented a splendid picture of anger and defiance.
"Bring a rope," cried Hamilton, and this was at
once produced by one of the men who had a suffi-
cient length of it at hand. "Rope that devil and take
him over to Mr. Fullard's," was Hamilton's next
command, and the looped rope flew at the bull's head
on the instant. It missed, and the brute made a
quick, vicious charge at the man who had thrown
the rope.
That charge halted as the man disappeared from
the bull's vision, but it was now evident to every-
one that it was not going to be an easy matter to
subdue the Mysore. It kept turning this way and
that, pawing the earth, uttering challenging sounds
which were heard in other parts of the stone-separated
pens and were echoed defiantly by other bulls which,
as a rule, never induleed in fight.
Then it stood still for a while, as if in some
uncertainty as to what it should do next. There
were many human beings about it, a few on foot,
some on horseback, and it longed to inflict injury
upon one of them at least; but they all managed to
evade it. It did not hear, nor did the human
beings hear until it was near at hand, the sound of
galloping hooves. But as they glanced in the direc-
tion of that furious sound they saw it was Gordon
riding towards them at full speed, though he could
not possibly have known that there was any trouble
in that pasture. As he reached the scattered group
he took in the situation at a glance. And now it was
at him that the Mysore impetuously hurled itself

with an even greater ferocity than it had exhibited
"For God's sake, Jim, be careful!" -bhouted Hamil-
ton, seriously alarmed.
"Jim, Jim!" screamed the gnl s, all of them re-
membering that James had had no experience of an
angry Jamaica bull.
He heard them, and rapped out a tierce and
blasphemous oath.
"You blasted, so-and-so!" he roared, as with a
swift movement he wheeled his horse away from
the Mysore and sprang out of the saddle. Then he
did a thing which caused the cowmen to yell an
agonised warning to him. and Hamilton and his
sons to spur their horses towards the bull and him.
He rushed at the bull, and grasped its horns. It
seemed to the horrified, terror-stricken spectators
that in another moment his body would be flying
through the air, to fall, broken to pieces, even if the
Hamiltons could save it from being mangled by those
terrible sharp horns.
But James appeared imbued with a giant's
strength. He wrenched at the horns, twisting them
desperately to the right, and the brute's legs slipped
under it and it went crashing to the ground. It
dragged Jim down also, but Jim fell on his knees
purposefully. He continued to bend the bull's head
sideways, relentlessly, but by this Hamilton and one
of his sons were off their horses and gripping at
his shoulder. "It's all right now, Jim." shouted
Hamilton, "my men can tie the creature: stop twis-
ting its head or you will break its neck."
But Jim paid no attention to these words, and
they did not dare pull away his hands lest the bull.
in agony but still with life and vigour, should scram-
ble up and attack the man closest to it Ruthless-
ly, with his eyes flaming. Jim continued to bend
the Mysore's head while the beast's legs beat on the
ground a wild tattoo of excruciating pain. Then
Hamilton lost his temper. "'You fool." he cried. "do
you mean to kill my bull?"
There was an ominous crunching sound. and the
bull's legs slowly ceased to beat upon the earth.
Its body quivered and heaved, but over its staring
eyes a glaze began to gather. It offered no further
resistance; it was past that now. "It is dead," mu.-
tered Mr. Hamilton's eldest son. in a tone of awe
and regret, and looked with wonder at James.
James loosed his grip and rose. trembling: he laugh-
ed aloud, he turned to Hamilton. "I will pay for it."
he panted, "but the killing was fun." He kicked the
carcase at his feet and moved away.
Someone handed him his hat. which had fallen
on the ground. The.cowmen gathered. round the bull



P L .4. T ER S' P f.\ 1 H


C'hari iniqigly iltuated inl
beaut liu i f irl i\atenIie
grounds :.t .ill l-v -ti:, f '
1t l.I1 tt Six iii ft',,Irom f
Kini ilin

Offth r, ir[ti lso i',,
mnrljdar I11n. durachtId iull-

tilighti ll cv uol. '|iliet.
s.eilet and a aL'uriIe
plate fr lth,-e ..ki ;

Faciliti .s [.1

oulf. Linki

r reolea tion

adjoin the

astonished; never had th-e) tsen such a feat before.
never could have expected it from Mr Gordon.
"Lard." exclaimed one of them, "de young masser
strong. My God, him kill de bull wid him own
"Mr. Fullaid will not be glad to hear of this."
ounimeiited Hamilton bitterly. 'He %wanted th;t
Mysure "
"Mr. Fullard can go to the devil," replied James.
careless as to who might hear him
"That's a nice thing for you to say, Jim." cried
Helen indignantly, for she had clearly heard. "My
father won't mind your having killed the bull if he
under-lands that you had to, but why speak of him
like this'. I am surprised at you!"
But Jim paid no attention to her; silently he re-
mounted his horse, and looked at them all as though
they were strangers. He made no effort tc( speak
to Evel. n. His tremendous excitement was passed:
over his eyes there had crept a filmy look. not un-
like ilth glaze over the dead eyes of the Mysore
bull. lHe seemed now as one whuie mind was wander-
"Let'- go hack to the house," said Hamiltl.u
quietly: "you girls promised to have breakfast with
Aind we are hungry," said Bertha, with fori-ti
gaiety. conscrtius that something was wrong, some-
thing not fully accounted for by the incident they
had just witnessed "Let's go."
Mr Hamilton cave some orders concerning the
bulls carcase. the throat was to be cut, and the
meat distributed anionist the workers and tenants
of the property. He knew that they would be v'erv
glad to have it.
It was a silent party that rode to the hous'..
Mr. Hamiltn's sois staying behind to look after
things that needed an overseeing eye. James seemed
sunk in dejection, answering any remark made to him
by the girls in monosyllables. Evelyn tried to talk
to him on his escape from injury, un his wonderful
bravery. but to all this he said nothing. She be-
came seized 1ith panic. Did this mean brain fever
from the sun. or something? Surely Jim was ill'
Surely. prenirl.v. he was not now himself.
Helen and Bertha were puzzled; it came to their
mind, a~ it had first come to Mr. Hamilton's. that
Jim muzt have been drinking heavily. But. if he
bad. roiuld he possibly have mastered the bull'
They reached the house. dismounted: a sound of
joyous barking was heard within, and in a few
seconds Jim's favorite dog. which accompanied him
on so many ,of his walks. and even rides. came bound-
ing out tn meet them. Jim mechanically put out his
hand towards the dog. and then the others saw a
startluig thine The creature. trembling visibly,
whimpering as though whipped, and with the skill
drawn back fromn its teeth. nor in defiance but in
terror. shrank swiftly away from its master. li
tall hung limp between its legs. it backed and backed.
until. in a ipurt of fear. it turned and dashed aw.y.
"Cood Godd." exploded Hamilton. "what on earth can
have happened to that dog?"
Jim said nothing, it was as if he had not
noticed the incident. The faces of the girls were
drawn with wonder.
But the immediate business was breakfast. for
the girls had had hut a cup of coffee and some toast
that morning, and the men but little more The
maids began to set breakfast upon the table, while
the ladies went up to the guest.ro:om to refresh ihem-
selves. Jim slumped inro a chair at the breakfast
table. Hamilton eyed him apprehensively for a
moment, then-
"Aren't you going to wash up before having
breakfast, Jim'" he suggested.
A negative shake of the head was his only
answer. Sadly. with a puzzled frown upon his face.
Hamilton left the room.
A while after they were all reassembled. A maid
filled their cups with coffee, and Jim gulped his down

Swimming. Constant
i, Spring Hotel fresh water
pool 10 mins. walk across
the fields.
Tennis Dancing -
Charming Walks, Motor
Trips to all places of in-
terest in the Island. Own
Within easy reach of
Cinemas and other places
of amusement.
For Brochure and Terms
please write to
Props. Capt. & Mrs. Rutty
Cables. Rutty-Jamaica.
Phone 6105

1I U/ lp A Chair entlemen, and

Let 's lc aA bout


St Their Nara~ for Selling only High Quality
i Mr arliu-iJ--- and Square Dealing has not only
gl uiilnel i'.r rliem an enviable place in JAMAICA
-- Ir IIa.1 made them the Byword of Visitors
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The "IDroof of our goods" is

represent and they

C. C. Wakefield Ltd. "Patent" Castrol Motor Oils.
Continental Products Inc.
Detroit Steel Co. Springs etc.
General Motors Corp. (Foreign Distrib. Div.)

Owens Illinois Glass Co.

Yardley Ltd. Perfumery, Toiletries.
Mennen Co. Talcum Powders, Shaving Preps.
Pepsodent Co. Tooth Paste & Powder.
Gets It Co. Corn Remedies.

Aspro Ltd. 0 Medicinal Preparations.
A. S. Aloe Co. Hospital Equipment.
British Drug Houses Medicinal Preparations.
Bauer & Black 0 Surgical Dressings.
E. C. De Witt Co. Ltd. 0 Pills.
J. C. Eno Itd. Fruit Salt.
The Knox Co. Medicinal Preparations.
The Norwich Pharm. Co. Med. Preparations.
N. C. Polson Ltd. Med. Preparations.
Phosferine (Ashton & Parsons) Ltd. Phosferine
Tonics and Infant Powders.
Sharpe & Dohme Inc. Medicinal Preparations.
Scott & Rowne Cod Liver Oil.

in the NAME of t, FIhlIS we

are Household W e.ls!

Dupont deNemours Co. 0 Fabrikoids
American Radiator & Standard Sanitary Corp.
Chiswick Polish Co. Ltd. Floor & Furniture Polishes
Jeyes Sanitary Compounds Ltd. Disinfectants.
West Clox Co. Watches & Clocks.

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Carr of Carlisle Biscuits.
W. Wrigley (Jr.) Che ning Gum.
Cond. Milk Co. (Ireland) Milk.
Cerebos Ltd. Table Salt.
Oxo Ltd. Beef Cubes & Products.
Strathroy Flour Mills Fine Flour.
Campbell James 0 Fulham Oil 0 Hartogs Pasmans
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boiling hot. He asked for another, but took nothing
to eat. Then he said, "I should like a drink of
whisky, Hamilton."
"So early in the day, Jim?" asked Evelyn, and
this question convinced the other girls that Evelyn
stood in very close relationship to Jim.
"I need it," he replied, and even this answer was
a relief to those who heard it. They had feared
there would be none.
The whisky was passed to him, he drank it
almost neat; it seemed to put life into him for he
began to look about him with more interest than he
had shown since coming into the room. "Jim,"




1840 to 1940




of which we are naturally

very proud

111llllll llllll

said Evelyn, "aren't you feeling well? That struggle
you had with the bull-O, it was wonderful!-must
have taxed your strength. You look ill. Perhaps
you should see a doctor?"
"How many of us are in this room?" replied
Jim with apparent irrelevance.
"How many? Why five, including yourself of
course." It was Evelyn who replied with puzzled
tone and look.
"Five? Only five?"
"Why, of course, man, why don't you count if
you have any doubts?" cried Hamilton.
"I have counted and counted, George, but al-
ways there are six-I am not thinking of the maid.
There are five seated at this table, and there is one
other. But sometimes he is here, and then he is
there, he shifts from one spot to another, and I
cannot plainly discern him. He-it-I cannot say
whether exactly it is a man, though it looks so;
he seems like a mist at times, then he is something
more than that; and when I cannot see him I fancy
that he is within me-do you understand, George?-
inside of me, whispering things in my ear that I
don't quite understand, saying something that I must
follow, though I don't know what it means. Evelyn,
George, am I going mad?"
Jim's voice rose to a crescendo as he asked
this question, and his eyes, now freed of the film
they had observed a little while ago, gazed supplica-
tingly at them. All four sprang out of their chairs.
Evelyn was openly crying as she moved swiftly
to his side. Bertha and Helen were white with
fright. Hamilton crossed quickly over to Jim.
"My boy," he said kindly, "you are not going mad
or you would not have asked that question. But you
are ill. You must see a doctor."
"No. That will not help. I'll be all right in a
little while," muttered Jim.
"Jim, darling, you must see a doctor. The sun,
dearest, has hurt your head: that must be it," in-
sisted Evelyn.
"Evelyn," he answered, looking at her with some-
thing of his old manner, "no doctor can help me; I
feel that."
"Yet you must see one, dear," she replied firm-
"I am sending for one now," said Hamilton,
leaving the room at once.
"No use," muttered Jim, "but I shall be better
in a little while; I know that. Something tells me
By this time Edith had come into the room,
and another of the servants. They had both already
heard of the fight with the bull -one of the

boys in the pastures had run all the way to the
house to tell them of it. They had beard how Mr.
Jim had killed the bull single-handed, and had sworn
awfully before doing so. They regarded this kill-
ing as a preternatural feat: they could think of no
other man who could have done it. But now they
saw the young master sitting in his chair, dejected,
staring into the distance, saying all sorts of funny
things Clearly he waoi mad ... r el-e .
Jim had taught one of the young men on Mr.
Hamiltun's property to drive a motor car; this man
was now sent in the car to fetch the doctor But
hardly had he gone than a quick alteration in the
look, in the demeanour of James began to be per-
ceived His eyes became clearer and clearer: autu-
matically he conimenced to eat: pre-ently be began
to speak in his accustomed tones. to talk as though
he had been saying nothing about a sixth indistinct
person rr presence in the ronim.
Hamilton ,iaw thi- with jy. andl motioned 'he
servants out ,f the room.
"Y'.u know. George.' Jim observed at length
in hi. old habitual manner. "I acted like a fool
when I broke the neck of that poor Mysore bull.
But I was 1so full of the lumtt of fighting that I sim-
ply c(.ll1'in't stop. I don't ?ee how I can ever suffi-
ciently apol:,gise to you and Mr Fullard for what I
"'F.Ather 'onl't mind a bi. .lim.'n rieil Bt-iha joy-
fully Of C.'iirse he'ii undeir-rand "'
"Andii I nd.-rstand too. Jim. In fatr. I think
now that .iin did the right thin.." .aid Mr Hamil-
ton. "That M.Nvl.r. iniiht lihave killed som'o-ne later
on if it had lived "
"I anm -ure of it." Faid Evelyn with conviction.
"Jim vy.-u did what was absolutely rilht"
'I think q.) too." said Helen
"Well. if that ii the general opinion. I am re-
lieved." laiuthd Jim. '"Bit I wonder where I found
the strrnath anrt the couira-ge to attack the brute'
I wouldn't do it at this moment for a thountand
pound- "
*Youi areP not called upon to it agann fortunate-
ly," laueheil Hamilton. who at that moment could
have dsnced with sheer delight This was certainly
Jim once more in his right and normal mind.
Still. you are not very well. you know." added
Evelyn a little anxiously. "Mr. Hamilton has sent
for a doctor-"
"Who will probably tell me that I mustn't drink
whisky early in the day," chuckled Jim. "Contrary
to my custom. I took a strong pull before riding
out to the pastures: I confess that to my shame."
(Continteild on Pane 6i..1




TC here are some things we refuse to do to sell a car. We like sales,
but fair-dealina and the confidence of our customers are desir-
able too. For one thing, we refuse to poison any one's mind
against another make of car. We know what our car is and what it will
do, and we are ready to tell you about that. But to imply defects in
another car is not our business. We have done our utmost to encour-
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economical, lowest priced car. That is claimed for several cars.
Obviously it cannot be true of all. There comes a point where claims
and adjectives and all advertising hysteria disappears in its own fog.
Personally, I prefer facts. We say the Ford V-8 is the best car we have
ever made. We say that our 8-cylinder car is as economical to operate
as any lower number of cylinders. We say that we have always been
known as the makers of good cars and that the many good, well-
balanced qualities of our present car place it at the head of our line to
date. Any one wishing to do business with us on these principles will
find our word and the quality of our products to be A-1. What we
say about economy, operation and durability will stand good anywhere.


_~_ _I



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(Continued from Page 62)
"I thought it was something like that!" exclaim-
ed Helen. "You did look boozed when you rode up.
And a little while ago you were seeing six people
here when there were only five."
"It's a wonder I didn't see rats," Jim replied
grinning; "but you will agree that I have recovered
quickly. I only hope that that doctor will not be in
when your messenger reaches his dispensary,
"I hope so now," Hamilton agreed.
And so it proved.
The girls left in a merry mood a little later, a
happy reaction from their previous depression. Jim
went to his room to sleep. Hamilton passed into
his office; but once there his brow again became
furrowed with thought. Could a couple of drinks
alone have so suddenly wrought such a change in
Jim? Could he have sobered so quickly? Stories
that he, Hamilton, had heard in the past began to
throng his brain; somehow he could not refrain
from connecting the visit to Byebrook last night
with Mrs. Bodkin. But perhaps, he told himself, he
was just a damned superstitious old fool. But was
he? He knew a drunk when he saw one. Had Jim
been drunk?...


perhapsPS, James," said Mr. Hamilton slowly,
r "you had better take a trip to England. Ja-
maica does not seem to agree with you."
"Maybe you are right, 'George," agreed Gordon
listlessly; "but I don't appear to have enough energy
to come to any decision. And what shall I say to
my father if I go back now? He will think me a
"I will write to tell him that you don't keep
your health very well out here, and he cannot think
that is your fault. It will be true enough too."
"But I am quite well."
"Yes, in a way .. but--"
"You mean that I suffer from illusions? Oh, I
know you haven't said so, but you and others look
it every now and then: I have noticed that. You are
all wrong, George. I tell you I know there is at this
moment something in this room besides you and me.
The feeling, the knowledge, is too real to be only

imagination. It comes and goes; it has been so for
the last two weeks. And sometimes this thing is in
me, and sometimes it is without. Sometimes it dis-
appears altogether, sometimes it does not worry me
at all-like now. But it is real. And how can I
know it will not be the same if I am in England?"
"But a change, Jim, will do you good; it will
restore you to your normal self."
"I may take it. But when you talk as you du
you mean to imply that my brain is unbalanced, that
I am not quite sane. I realise that, George. though
you have done your best, like a good fellow, to prei
vent my finding out what you and others think."
They were at the breakfast table; both had
finished eating; this little talk had taken place tu-
wards the close of the meal. They were about to
rise when Hamilton suddenly seemed to make up his
mind about something. He lowered his voice and
said: "No, I don't think that you are at all mail.
Jim, if that is what you mean. But I am wondering
whether whether ... Well, have you lately seen
Elma Bodkin at all?"
"What on earth has that to do with my belief or
'illness' ?"
"Have you seen her?"
"Only once since you and I went to dine at her
granduncle's house."
"Will you tell me, Jim, what happened between
you on those two occasions? I ask as a friend; and.
anyhow, I am old enough to be your father."
"That father stuff always comes in handy."
smiled Gordon. "But I don't mind telling you--in
part. I saw Elma in town-Carlesbad-you know-
only three days ago. She asked me to go and see her
and Mr. Byebrook, and reproached me for not having
been again to the Byebrook Great House since lthe
night we both went there. As for that night-well.
I practically said goodbye to her then. That's about
"Do you think, Jim, that Mrs. Bodkin knows you
have been to see Elma?"
"How can I say, and why do you ask such a
"You hinted to me that night, after we had gone
to see the girl in Byebrook village who believed she
was being haunted, that Mrs. Bodkin had sort of
threatened you, don't you remember?"
"Yes, but that was nonsense."
"I am not so sure that it was. even if I have
become superstitious. I feel now that we should not
have gone to see old Thomas. knowing that Elma
was there-that was my fault entirely. But now I
am going to implore you, Jim. never to meet Elms

again under any circumstances whatever. Maybe her
mother knows you have been seeing her, and that,
perhaps, accounts for much that we cannot explain.
You see, James--my God, boy, what is the matter?"
For James was no longer listening. His eyes
were vacant, he stared before him as might one In a
trance. and his lips were moving, though no sound
issued from them. It was as though he were speak-
ing in inaudible words to someone, something, that
was invisible. He sat at the table, and yet his mind
might be a hundred miles away so far as his im-
mediate cognisance of material things was concern-
ed His face was drawn, his body rigid. Hamilton

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Brown's Town Benefit Building Society

ASSETS 114,632 15 6
RESERVE FUND 16,085 18 6

Investinents received o:n Subscription Shares. Paid Up Shares and De-
[;J.'I It
Shares isstied in four classes:
Class A- 7 year system 2 per mornth. 24 pe-r annum-S S 0
B-- .. 1 d... 16 .. .. --LS 0 0
C- .. .. I1 .. -7 10 0
D[-211 .. 7d... 7 -7 0 n

The Value of each Share at Maturity is 11. Bonus in addition. Paid Up
Shares in class A only-7 down ,ecuurps l'i at eind oof se\eu year.
Bonus in additi',n.
41" per annum Interest is allowed n all dtcp'.-ts accepted.
Loans made on security of Freehold Prop-rty. approved by our Direicors
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Larger Loans, Lower Rates, Liberal Terms.



bad seen him like that hief.ir. He groaned ini
He could do nothing with the young man while
he was in that slate. James might sit there for aln-
other hour or two. taking iintcle of nii one: then qiid-
denly he might hec.omi his usual .-elf once nm:re,
mentally. but weaker physically, as if he had been
through some terribly exhausting ordeal.
Or he might become exubelrantly vilurluti. taking
his hurse and dashing off toi sme wild ride about
the countrysid:-. Hamilton knew that th. servants
were talkinte abhiut all thi-. knew % hat they wn.re
saying. They liked the >i.linn7 master. but did ,not
venture to go near him while he vasi in one of
these fear-in-piriing mood- They whispered among
IhemselvEs that when hij Iips mnived he was speak-
in1 to a ,pirit. a presence in th'- rooiini wli.11
c:uld not be seein bur whn li ias all the more awful
for that. Hi- \tr\v dog. v.lii.h lived hln. would not
go near lini now. The d.- dreaded soinething. It
Instin i. selr it wLhimLpering away while that thing
was n-ith its iasi.i
Hamilton came at unt e to a res-lve. The- id..t
mu'l hav .- be- I in l hi niiiid fii r-'mne tini noI\I it
c .r.L taI.Jli Ied uiltJ swv.'ilt 1i:-te nlliallt'lnll anlli .a- l.in Ife?
left the dining room and ,-i'iril ih i .h.iis e Bit in-
s* ai ad of aiiiniini, L hi-i faiiin .-. .,, Usual. lie riod ',:
the dir'-ction > f il-. Bodkll.in s :. .t : e.
He airiv'ed th.-rit shortly: -'he- Ba.i in thl. hliu-e.
Sh, anie int.u th, hitting IrIOnI 1 ti. iUect hiii.
dressed in he-r work-aiday :la othei. she politely rre.r-
ed him. aske-d hiI-im t, I.e -e-attd He bluntly refuii-l.
"\ hat I ha e t, j -i.-vy iw il inot take Ion'.'" hl
told he r My tri .a.ii- Gt; .'dodn. i; a i k m:in,
Mrs. BA.dki. anid hI- i llI. i' pii:i'li r. I b-lir--i-
thai si hIjvI ,:l- i'vliii-t [1 di'o -ith as
"'I -llpp.i-' y.i kii..w IMr. l1 irmli tllat I ouI .l
bririL yv.ii up fur 'l i.it ,.. '- ;. .
S Y ui :natn.. -. [.i \ .'i .. itiv- i. '.).itne'i.e a 'l
y--,i wV tihl not d i'-' a ; .' ti 1 rak i h .1 ? -.
iTt' (Otll t. Ir v.-llihi i iI i :'_ii. r rl.n13ii ter. No. v I
waul th t-,ll .i j thli I '' 1 ,)'l i nir n:n I1 llln y, ii .shril
in jt r ir in i lif A n_ d rhvl i w \ h t I li..ii .1.\? \., t
arc [ryll ,, t..I P .,.pli- i.l ii, : l iinaip'l"iit are "n ,-
ni,_ th.lr ;..u h, avI --t L .-I .Itn hin and I ani ii-'
y3 l l ;, ro... '| a "1h ia l. ,," ] "'
.Ali l v.'-I, all v I '--:I :i h it,: llat snie r- l
til 'vW nia ii
'* i ii, in r. I ,I : t I i.h.'I.Li, i.- a ii.'' lIel iev in i'll -

Canada and

The West Indies

Better Understanding Encouraged by
Trips of the "Lady" Liners

I T HL 'c-Lillar aiil -rllJ -i !i.:l-Use t hiil ft'rMi 21
li.. ti' V u thllr l "au. i:i N iati,iail St.ailishpi
Opt idliil: i., iu'-ii (rti.iJ a 1ind lii- \\ ,-t intl i ) b-:a,
evderi f if the \li alluahl rnili- a.1'0 !'iclliai Iin-.
tiulii-iiils bietw .-n thli _- uutcril-- i f tihe N.i'Lh alil
St t .lli, retsuIlltin: n muiiiti l i-en-eit. The o ilI'\' .C r-'
vidri h 'y L.iad." i' i rtis f the C'nat ilan Narin n-'l
,Strllii l ipi *n,-n 'iur.,-ze all inteichaItia o-[f visits t-
tlween lieo' lle s Iresiding in the I'e-l:'- vi-e -'alorie:n i. eni
Rblin thini to ret hibttir .i lac idlnt-l ilth eact h oh ,h'
anJ v .i oh ihi- !tany atiria,.t...' tihei- -s, ind,.- ave It.,
offer lth> visits.,r
Si far a il.,-iillnrllll .:e uis icon.I lrit i. it may he -.aid
that the riadtl- hi ir,:en C'anadin and tile 'Westr Indles
ih i:,illnii'mll. ii iary in ithe fullest set6-. biilnu of mn ituall
benicit Thi.' \'e-st Indil.s hteed go',di ofi the lirt.ia-.
ter c'anilda Iha. to offer and Canada rr-quires the kind
l t lilt alid jotlh-i i'ollii ojditi-es p!U(luci el in thie Wi\' E
I' Indies. Til, trade i., funded L upon th-e natural law
iof ?o..lni .ri al devel-piiielit. naun-l the North se-k-
iing ly dir-i, ni-eaun ih..-'se iriduilts 'f the S(ilh n-hihll
:. they d.sire. and the l e.iple of the Soutlh isinig ci.hll
Slmerani to obtain the priodlis of third northern niitgh-
Thb- rilatirn of the Caribbeanu anid :inland *:-
Onie-,s to Caiadan may lbe intci pr'.-tetl Iby statitu ,that
all norther-n cillintrie ., in oi'id r to .allsfy their fu'j
destiny and tIi attain natural develop'ni-tr. require a
southern coumiteiriart. that the suri'(s -- :.f sulh n -
Itnri dle pendls upon obiitiiining in trlad, thbi temlirrnat-
with the ti-opical zone. That is e-xai.ti' whar Ca.i-
ada has Iloiie. so fal as .oniine-rcial ri.-lationi with the
British - The Canada-We-st Indies trade. wiili trad.- ,:a-
misuioner- andi shinp- ,of the tyr.-e operated by the Car
adian Natinnal Steamshil,-. is a prugret-.iv.t Faxample
. o what c-an lle done for mutual b-uefit. With nm.d-
ern methods drlopled hy the WXest Indian- for raising.
paCking ancd nlarketitig th-ir frult and ilthel'r l]r'-
duct.;. and with -nreeii- tiu methods iln rtll part rf
Canada for going after trade .ind silprlying ind pack-
ing thLose products to ul t tropical consumers. the
promise of increased cuminimercial inter.couise hbetwe-a
Canada and the British coloniesi to the south hrieht-
ens yt-ar by year.

obeah? Well, I certainly wouldn't practice it, as
you do. But I am not such a fool as to imagine,
from all that I have heard of you, that you can't be
dangerous. Now I tell you that you will have to
leave my friend alone."
''And you are not afraid for yourself, Mr. Ham-
"No; for your powers are limited, unless you
resort to poison, and you wouldn't venture to poison
me. People like you can harm one person at a time,
though you may pretend to be able to do far more
-the pretence is useful for making money, I ima-
gine. Mr. Gordon is certainly being haunted; there
is every symptom of that. Are you going to call your
wretched spirit off, or are you not?"
"And if I don't?"
"-Then I myself may descend to your level and
pay someone to injure you-or your daughter."
Mrs. Bodkin's eyes narrowed ominously the in-
stant Hamilton: mentioned her daughter. She
stared fixtdly at h'i She saw determination stamp-
ed on his face. And there flashed through her mind
the possibility of his going to old Tom Byebrook, who
had no sort of fear of her, and to whom Elma would
always stick if it came to a question of choosing be-
tween her granduncle and her mother. "Please sit




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down, Mr. Hamilton," she said in a level tone of
voice. "We can talk better that way."
Hamilton sat down. He felt that he was win-
ning the battle.
"I want to tell you something, Mr. Hamilton,"
continued Mrs. Bodkin, who had also seated herself.
"I saw Elma and Mr. Gordon together, with my own
eyes, that night when you and he went to see Mr.
"Well, what of that? Elma came to no harm, did
"No, not then; but a few days ago they met
again in the town."
"I know that. A pure coincidence, my good wo-
"Yes; but this morning Elma sent him a letter."
"A letter! And how the devil do you know
"Never mind, sir; I know it, and that is sufficient.
Did you know it?"
"I can't say I did," confessed Hamilton reluc-
tantly. "Jim would have told me, only he went off
into one of those peculiar fits of his for which I be-
lieve you are responsible. But what was in this
(Continued on Page 67)

. .... ...NI^I^i^B H~iilll~l^


I S l~~1 I "- ~ 'on5e have
..... Indian Cooni expo eP ed bY
WWh est reduce eph those
ehe Brils Oods oP any way
Canada and th erestS o tn ete n anim ted into
aro the a te" rade ienl CIO not com,. h e i d e _uon th" e
eo u ner nier and e soushed iseIpa ente botP
is ana d t a tate c e I de s ae trea eac n l i p Thesh --eipping.
-a n da o itp bI r in the du O stories, I_ or s,
,a re podc .1tpge noS a cnsUm eou. and theh best,
aac h _h as I os e o d s b etw een.. e eare thula a s u tac e t
thic e a ol ers and the hen shedule da locat
rolthe stanePdiel as areCn i Tarade with .
l es as a eld up CanadaUl andga hich these
,ieir sch wiU ,ll no be ereeaeSo. lionts at
. hipment' concerned advice vnay be The Mi( rr bed u hed
Shhs i nidides are ri whoy' adc neneraellY Th leedron a n
jar as thee P .oi ngrej5 o wea trading I eriA
ed a t thre ot satPv .ha pro lered Iw eth
to a4 details to give Is rces a we oAID
S are able their jce aVr as be-
en areGOAnr. i POllelsscabe

a-ab-e to exporters ehe necessIl -
avadable to eihbours -es carb
IT Vf abovelaciltiesare a western neig Busin s be-
] i I% "the above ac d its south "N. -ea both w ays, tandings as .-
W hil- e all e_ e_ d n an m pha~s,7 ny m.sunae us by art inter-
the Do ini strongly dtbus Many misun
we cna the DOt is di t ceu be c\ear~' ,hU a isye
eg -on b o ecanma
pesona e iectivee\Y by their comme.7 A busiesh the Dominion
clone e countries anda theteot' s which"_ pass-
tween count e Peoples serviC tonly shac tha
mingling 0 through steamship that but t
aai dd it is dirable ti\ed both nays,
andatia oni
n be ille
and 'g15 'e tilthatg
aener econ
the hol yes5e5 may I~so nogo'
00 the ny ch way d- ..
AZa ic betain
--.u iO~iS -% way -IA R

. ;' ,
;* .


i possessing some oe en
C-, anada dd these hav degee
addition o s t the yeas to a on
Natural aoed throu oest horpping a
finest A and impro' the saes oorid
equipped am it for shippers. of the wod
ehich places them est to a co ae uce
o axe aess ortes thich which ahileso
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. I










-CaSe. stpas ateat.,P s e s.s5


V (ontinDed from Page 6.5)
letter? And what bearing baa it got upon what I
am talking to you about?"
"I don't know what is in the letter, but I know
Elma. She wants to meet this young man again. and
that is dangerous f'ur her. Don't you understand
that. Mr. Hamilton? Can't you keep your friend
away from my daughter? Don't you see ... "
Hamilton heard the pleading voice with amase-
ment; this was an aspect of Mrs. Bodkin's character

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which he had never suspected. She was begging now.
not bullying. n'rt endeavouring to dominate And =lie
was in deadly earnest. He blurted out-
"Of ciuurse I want to keep my friend away from
Elma. I want him to go back to England"
"That would be best, sir, for both of them. I
thank you."
"But this. this i. er, sickrie- of his. It must cease.
Mrs. Bodkin "
"\\ hen h-e goes it will: and if he goes soon it
can't do him any harm. But if I was. well .eup
pose he was to feel quite better all the time from 'to.
morrow, Mr Hamilton? Do you think you could ;et
him to go a\vay,'
Hamilton perceived that there was truth in the
woman's suggestion: let James become perfectly nor-
mal once more and he would laugh at the idea of
leaving Jamaica so quickly. "I see what you mean."
he admitted.
"G;et him to go quickly." Mrs. Bodkin urged.
rising upright, as though not a minute were to be
lost. "And keep him away from Blma while he Is
here. I only wish I knew what she wrote to him
about this morning."
"So you dcn't know everything, though you have
ao ew devils to help yun," mocked Hamilton morosely;
"and now let me give you a word of warning. You
are playing with fire. It used to be said around
here that you obeahed your husband till be killed
himself. though mayhb you didn't want him to do
that. Be caretin now that in trying to injure Mr.
Gordon you don't injure Elma instead"
"I am helping her; I am saving her: no harrn
c:an come to her." raped out Mrs. Bodkin fiercely.
"You dr your part and I will do mine."
But as Hamilton abruptly left her house a war-
ried Inlak crept into her face. This man was Scorch
by blood. anil again and acaiu she had heard that
the Scotch were fey.
Panic seized her for a moment. Suppose he was
right. suppose she should injure her daughter as
w-ill as rhe man her daughter loved? Yet what could
she do but persist? Surely there was greater dan-
ger to he feared if she should cease in her efforts to
prirettr the one child that she had borne'
She set her lips grimly.
She was resolved to Eo on

would d he come" Time and aeain Elma asked
herself that question. She had written to him to
rome and -ee her to-night; her uncle would have
retired before nine o'clock: she could meet him alone
downstairs, and he would not be bothered to have

to talk to anyone he did not wish to meet. She had
told him all that. Would he come.'
She had despatched the letter very early that
morning; he must have received it within two hours.
He had sent no answer. She had said in her note
that he need send none if he would come himself.
She bad been hearing strange. disturbing things
about hin. He had been acting queerly. But might
not that be because he was torn between affection
for her and the influence of this English girl. Evelyn
Brisbane. might not just a little push impel him

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in her, Elma's, direction? It was boldness on her
part to invite him to come to see her at an hour
when, in rural Jamaica, most persons were thinking
of going to bed. But she despised those who were
always fearing what people might say or think. And
she loved him. That was a sufficient excuse for any-
For half an hour now her uncle had been in bed;
he was sleeping by this. And old William would re-
ceive Mr. Gordon and bring him to her: all the other
servants had been dismissed to their quarters. Jim


need not remain for more than half an hour; but
she had insisted in her letter that he must come.
If he did not, she might find means of going to
Suddenly she stiffened in her chair: she had
been waiting in the porch on the ground-floor of the
Great House. That surely was the sound of a horse's
hooves. William heard it also. Then, in the path
leading from the main gate to the house, a horse
with its rider appeared. William hurried towards
them, and in another couple of minutes, screened


within the porch from the inquisition of prying. In.
pertinent eyes, Elma was in James's arms, each kiss-
ing the other passionately.
"So you have come at last," she murmured
"Yes: I got your letter this morning, and si;d
nothing about it to anyone, as you asked-though
I should have said nothing in any case."
"You destroyed it?" she enquired anxiously.
"Of course."
"And you are glad you have come?"
"Naturally. It's fine to be with you once mnhre.
Elma; just you and I alone. I wonder now how I
stayed away so long."
"I am so glad to hear you say that!" she ex(laim-
ed; "but, darling, you must not speak so loudly. My
uncle-he doesn't know you are here. He would be
vexed if he knew I was meeting you alone."
"But I feel like shouting for very joy," answ-r-
ed James. "I can hardly restrain myself from do-
ing so. I want to shout and to dance; I am lik.? a
man just let out of prison."
"Kiss me instead of making a noise," she laugh.
ed softly. "Let us sit together. See, I have had a
chair placed for you."
"One chair will be enough for us both," he whi3p.
ered, as sitting down he dragged her onto his hkneeq.
He put his arms round her and strained her to him
Neither thing had he ever done before.
She was more than content; she was supri-me
ly happy. This surpassed all her previous hopes
and expectations. She felt certain now that he li.vpd
her; and if there was a change in him--for this she
could not but- notice even then-she thought ii was
all a change for the better. She had observed before
an indication of recklessness in him; but hitherto.
with her, he had always kept it under control. He
had never let himself go. Now he was doing so
as if nothing else in all the world mattered except
herself and him. Her left arm stole round his neck:
she gave herself up to his kisses. She was carried
away by a feeling of exultancy.
But he must not stay too long. She remembered
that. William was old; he might grumble at being
kept out of his bed, and William did not live alone
She was loth to part with James; but there would
be to-morrow night, and other nights also; and the
time would surely come when they would be separat-
ed no more, when he would be master of Byebrook
as well as of herself.
(Continued from Page 70)

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I measured


S But that wi\ s n.thing. I actually
saw a millionth part of an inch being
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We were staying with friends in
Essex and visited the Ford Works at
Dagenham to see how our Ford
"Eight" had been made. It was a
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never knew the first thing about en-

Tom, I think, was most irrn-pren-ed
by the way they do
everything at Dagenham,
from unloading iron ore
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to driving the finished
car out of the works. The Ford
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As a woman who is used to a tape
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.^ ~~ '

One-thirtieth t h e
thickness of a fly's leg is
about one ten-thous-
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times asi nne as the thickness of a
cigarette paper. Yet an error as
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one instrument used for checking
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Johansson gauges are so accurately
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We went right through the ffactory
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Very wonderful it was! It is strange
to think that such vast machines
can be controlled to
such tiny margins
of error


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all over the world.
As we drove off in our Ford, Tom
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have seen to-day would ever buy an-
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And I agree.



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(Continued from Page 68)
"You must go now, dearest," she whispered at
length. r' ea-'
"It is late, Jim; but you can come to-morrow
"I wish I could stay with you all night, in your
own room."
"What is there to be shocked at? Isn't my wish
natural? Don't you feel the same?"
"You shouldn't say such things to me," she ans-
wered sharply: startled, hurt. "You have no respect
for me, Jim; perhaps that is my own fault. I
should not have sent for you, and so given you rea-
son to insult me. You would never talk like this
to Miss Brisbane."
"Wouldn't I though?" He began to laugh loudly
at the suggestion that he would not; but she clapped
a hand upon his mouth and stifled the noise.
Her wounded pride was in-tantlv assuaged by
these last words of his. He had not hesitated to
say that he would have spoken to Evelyn Brisbane

exactly as he had done to her, though he ought not
to have spoken as he nala. Ii nmay 1)t that *he had
been drinking before setting out for Byebrook; she
believed so. It was said that when the wine was
in the truth came out, and perhaias there was no-
thing to be annoyed at if'he -hIl.wed himself. a nor-
mal, virile man. He wanted her desperately; she could
well believe that: she knew she was desirable. He
had said so tii.t, -jt Lfor the first time. It was wrong
but excusable, and he had not meant to humiliate
her. He had spoken, she felt, as men sometimes
did when under the influence of a consuming pas-
sion. And he loved her, he loved her! .. Therefore
when he said to her, as he pressed her to him and
kissed her again and again on her lips, "Shall I
stay with you till dawn?" she did not push him
away in anger but merely whispered: "Don't be silly,
darling, but promise you will come again to-morrow
night." He promised.


"r" ON'T go, Evelyn."
.D "But it's late, darling, and the girls will be won-
dering why I refuse to go home; they have twice

- __ ___


suggested that we should. We didn't come over to
spend the evening, you know."
"Yes, I know; but don't go."
"I will stay a few minutes more; but it's nearly
eleven o'clock now, and we came over at five-un-
"George doesn't mind that."
"He had to give us dinner."
"He liked that."
"Jamaican hospitality, eh?"
"Yes; and George likes you ever so much, Evelyn.
He suspects now that we are engaged. I feel like
telling him."
'\\ltI, there is your promise to your father ..."
"I know. But somehow I don't think that cer-
tain promises matter in some circumstances. It is
not always that one should keep a promise."
"Are you sure of that, Jim? Somehow, I should
have thought-"
"I am sure of it," he replied firmly, "though I
should not have been two days .a ,. As sure as
that I wish you to stay with me now. It is like this,
Evelyn: when you are with me in these days-and
now we don't meet as often as we used to, though
we are engaged-I feel as if you were standing be-
tween me and something terrible, are my guardian
angel in-fact. And the bad angel is whispering in
my ear even now, reminding ine of a promise I.must
not keep."
She glanced anxiously at him, but in the obscur-
ity of the night could not discern his expression.
Was this but lover's talk, or was there not a note
of deep, of hidden meaning in his voice and words?
And he was dwelling on this question of promises.
What ldid he mean"
She f: P rhi i and H' lei haii ,.*n., r. iil;t Mi H-i..
ti ,, i Ihont al't.i.riii a-nil InT ht., .l ur,., Iuth.at tIIyI
I ,..Ir.i 1 Ih.m ii l l .. I Il ,Ir H ii t lo ii.. II hald .lhijiv
d at1i l iul Ij le ri't. rhan t.- i, I'h ,to' prerpare:- iti
thllie ll a ,P:.-li>k m!-ial Tlint h[a il at niri nl t- c ?-,ein-
tni ll rei,..' r R.l. u i t- a l i sniI d had w iorln 'r liE l it
lI,., ,n,-.. -r --., liilL- ri., ail ,- t L 'il li.htt-iiii: 1i l : -i -
. j, ti th .li'' l e .1 I r- liih n il.h <% .In-.m i -n h
I i llI. i i hihtl.l ii t.i lini- Ala ,i i vro c in e diin i
hI. h1 l i, .. -fl r:l.t Il ...t tr, ,, i'lt a lk It hi lls al n 1,
'Hnv. li. ll -d i .rl in lh-e it on .think p ln ii li-

111 i .- lh. ? ., I,.-h "ij'-s u l. -i thi tt Ihe t h.,rl..l
,it by In -, i'i<.- .n th v i-rrin iili t il e il l ir -" .-
ft l l i h,:,i-, Ir i I h i ,.I t',jil-lbl- rattan ,hlu r.
Itidii-0 l,1h i b yi i lI the. r ,htr-. Ihl y l had talk-:d abl, it
tdie llttle I tli ilae ..I' the- d a, .li ?oa l at hbe. rat ry
sky, inhaldn i (h-e sweeiit iscc-nt .f the nihlir.
j.sli mne that pr iiew In Ir 10 ii,= h I. e. ii lheM hard'.
rnr l fMlr that l1 1 \vr I u h,-l I v-, w .n l.rftul :..,uld it :'i,'
ir.t forever Butr even a- thv salt and talked E,-l
v"rn .A iar, hat -,minerbing lay libavy on .Inm'-4 nin,.
Andil n..wv lthei ere tih-se ]ritnaik, of his ablh"lt .1
on inshw nn
"Hove yojli indo a pr.tmiii e yo.ii think you shi.:iiild
not keep. Jim''" sh-le asked quddeinly "Somethi!,'"
Gdil't'etrom rhe e you made to iour father?,
"Ye. Articles, Etc.
I l' ,-n't L k yi.i aih,,ut it if you ( c-annot tell il. :
",it It i, %v.-irryin'l y 'ou i a n't it '"
S I a rWhollin t t-.]l el % bit it.a E-elhn, nrl
rli-,, tll ,,amr thlli" -l_,-- wili[li. I >c n "
i to i l i ?


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(Continued on Page 70)
"So there is something wrong," she said, with
a catch in her voice; "I have thought so for some
time. You have changed, Jim, from what you were
when we first met, and yet the change, I feel sure,
is not of your own will. If you think I can help
you, darling, then by all means tell me what is real-
ly the matter with you."
"Do you believe that one can be haunted,
"Haunted? by a ghost you mean?"
"By something of the sort, something evil any-
"Of course not! Why, that is nonsense."
"So I thought myself;; but Hamilton thinks dif-
ferently, and a lot of other people in this country."
"The rural negroes, chiefly, Jim; but they are
still very primitive."
"And perhaps know more about certain things
than some so-called civilised people. But first let me
tell you of the promise I feel I ought not to keep.
I promised to go and see Elma Bodkin tonight."
"Should I keep that promise?"
"At this hour? It would be madness. And at
any time it would be foolish and wrong," she added
fiercely. "It would be an insult to me, an insult
I could never forgive. I thought you never saw her
a.ny more: that was at least a kind of promise I
understood that you made to me."
"I saw her last night; but you must not men-
tion that to any one."
"You did, indeed! Well?"
"And I said I would see her tonight again."
"She asked you to?"
"A common creature! She shows by that what
she actually is. No wonder Helen and Bertha sneer
at her! But you-how could you have come to pro-
mise her anything, or even to see her and speak to
her? That is not fair to me, Jim, and it isn't fair
to you either. Don't you see?"
"And isn't fair to her, too, I think, Evelyn. Be-
sides, she is not common. Only you don't under-
"I am not interested in her; she is trying to
catch you in some sort of net, she and her mother
and her half-mad uncle! But you-0 darling, I never
imagined you had been seeing that woman again. I
never-" she was rising out of her chair as she spoke,

indignation at the moment dominating her mind. He
seized her arm. "I thought you wanted to help me,"
he said, "you may not be able to do so ten minutes
from now."
She sank back, sobered. What he had just said
might be only too true.
"Go on, Jim," she murmured. "I know that you
are not to blame."
Then he told her the whole story of his friendship
with Elma, of Mrs. Bodkin's implacable attitude, of
how he had come to see Elma again. But he omitted
all that part of the business which would have shown
that Elma had of late been making love to him.
That, he felt, would not have been fair to Elma, and
not excusable in him.
But Evelyn guessed a lot.
"So Mrs. Bodkin threatened you?" she said slow-
ly when he had ceased.
"She did, indirectly; and Hamilton believes she
has strange powers, and there are the peculiar feel-
ings that I have every now and then. They frighten
me: at first I thought I was going mad. They are
not strong tonight. That is, maybe, because you
are with me. You are my guardian angel, you see.
But what may not happen to-morrow?"
"Yes, dearest?"
"You must not only ignore the promise you
made to this young woman-a promise like that
isn't worth while keeping-but you must no longer
wait upon your father's reply to your letter. Wire
him to-morrow and tell him of our engagement,
and let us announce it here tonight. We shall
become openly engaged, darling, and that will put
an end to all this nonsense. Do you agree?"
"I have been thinking something of the sort
myself," said Jim resolutely. "Hamilton and the
girls are on the opposite verandah. We'll tell them
They rose at once, kissed with a thrill of hap-
piness and relief, then quickly walked through the
drawing room to that part of the verandah where
the others sat. "Thought you were never going home
tonight, Evelyn," cried Helen. "Poor Mr. Hamilton
has been pretending that we are still welcome, but
I could see he wanted to yawn, just as Jim wanted
to be alone with you."
Before Hamilton could utter an insincere pro-
test, James broke in:
"Congratulate me, everybody. Evelyn is engaged
to me!"
"You don't say so; I am so glad!" exclaimed
"You guessed it all the time, just as we did,"

commented Helen coldly. "None of us is surpi ,',.-J
But I want to hug and kiss you all the same, Evel'.vi:
for this is just grand."
"We must drink your health at once," insi r ,J
Hamilton. "What a couple you make!"
"If any of the servants are up, let's have ibthl-
in to drink our health also," Jim suggested, "e*ii
if it is not a Jamaica custom."
"Capital idea," agreed Hamilton, who raind!v
thought that this was one of the speediest wE.'s; -
getting the engagement known. And he wanted Mh'
Bodkin and Elma to hear of it as quickly as I'.'--
slble. This would surely be as good as hustling lJim



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out of the island, especially as Jim had already re-
fused to go. Which showed that be did not know
Mrs. Bodkin.
The two men escorted the girls back to the Full-
ard residence, and Helen insisted on their coming
in although it was after twelve o'clock. She want-
ed her father and mother to hear the splendid news
from Jim's own lips that night. Elma heard it the
next day.


THE holiday season, the time of Christmas and
S New Year. saw the people connected with Bye-
brook, Fairfield and the contiguous properties, and
with the villages of the neighbourhood. busy with
their festivities and with preparations for furth.-r
enjoying themselves.
The dances that now took place at Christmas.
tide and New Year were held in fairly spacious roums
in the towns and in open tree-surrouinded spaces in
the villages, and the dancers went to them clad in
garments such as they wore only upon special occ-:i
sions. They subscribed to make these functions, or
paid a small entrance fee to attend. The subscrip-
lion dance was of higher tone than the other sort.
for at them refreshments were provided and good
behaviour insisted upon. And some discrimination
was o.,bserved as to those who were invited or per-
mitted to subscribe. The field labourer and his
wench could not g:o to a dance arranged b.v Irt
small artisan and the higher type of maid in one
of the large hi uses of the town or countryside. Th'rre
Swas a distinction established by manners and posi-
hon. and it was accepted as a matter of course.
There was a dance tonight in Byebrook Villae'
It was Saturday night. and most work had slacken.
ed or entirely ceased from about midday. To ..o
to this reunion by regular road or even riding trail
would have meant for many a considerable walk:
but there were paths called short-cuts leading to the
village, and though these were rough they did cur.
tail the distance from one part of this district to
another. Therefore along these short-ecut' ciante
groups or couples of persons after the duck had fallen.
some of the women carrying on their heads the
finery with which they would bedeck themselves
later, others having sent on before them the special
things that they would wear.
The men did not take all this trouble. They
had dressed themselves at home before setting our.

If the suits they wore were of heavy tweed or of
ancient broadcloth, at least the night wouiild be cool;
indeed, almost cold And if their shoes were heavy
having been purchased to last almost a lifetime)
their wearers were agile dancers who would not rude-
ly tread upon the toes of their more delicately shod
dancing partners.
The festival tonight was to be held in the open
piete o.f land. or comionn. attached to the Byebrook
Village. the same spot where. 'rome little time he-
fore, a girl of the village had sat night after night
to have a spirit or ghost "taken off" her. until Mrs.
Bodkin had contemptuously pointed out the true
reason of her peculiar sensations
This girl was going to the party to-night; she
would not dance nmiih but she would be permittedd
to be present For she was shortly to be married,
a development of affairs which no one had expect-
ed and which at once had raised her social status
remarkably Edith from Mr. Hamilton's house was
also one of the guests. old William's son also; Wil-
Iiam himself had donkey cart to enjoy himself by watching the young-
er people dance, having a few drinks with friends,
and indulging in copious conversation remarkable
fur a repetition of the same remarks and the paucity
of subjects discussed There were people from Mr.
Fullard's place. too. there was a girl who worked
for Mrs Bodkin Byebrook Village was a convenient
social centre upon whbih they all occasionally con-
verged. Those who knew ine another pretty well
assembled this evening for a talk preliminary -
thi wulmen--to dressine fir the idatii-. some gather-
ing in the houses of friends, others beneath trees
in the open. their roif the sky which already shone
bright in rht Iicht of the winter moon.
Edith knew Diana. the girl who was soon
to be married; she knew old William and his son, and
the folk who had conic from Mr. Fullard's place.
And there was Mrs. Bodkin's maid. This maid was
ni ouf the status of Edith and of some of the others;
nor was Diana quite--as yet. But one could con-
de.-c~nd to. he kind and friendly at a function like
this of t. night, especially as this was the season
of goodwill and general jollification.
These well-acquainted persons naturally gravi-
tated towards one another. Edith had a relative
living in Byebrook Village; from the house of this
relative she brought forth three chairs, the largest
and most comfortable for old William. who knew
that. as the chief male domestic and factotum of
.Mr Byebrook. he cit upied a distinctly superior posi-
tion. The other people secured boxes and sat on

them. There was a great tree beneath whose
branches they had gathered. They all had eaten
heartily before setting forth for the village, and were
(Continued on Page 75)

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(Continued from Page 73)
ni .' et hungry again. The dance would not begin
for another couple of hours.
"You must tell me in time when you goin' to be
r.arried. Diana, so that I can get me dress for the
weddinii." said Edith, who thought that by this
timely r-inark she would at once ensure her invi-
tation and intimate that she was prepared to bestow
favour upon Diana. "I am going to give you a pig
for a wedding present."
i"Aind what y'u givin' me, Taa-ta William?" asked
Dliaa. turning to old William and anxious to secure
beforer-and promises of gifts that would be useful.
"iMe blessing," old William assured her ponti-
flially. "an' me prayers "
"T ho!" sniffed Diana, "dat anybody can give.
It is only words."
"Gal." remonstrated the old man with shocked
dignity. "teck care what y'u sayin'! When a ole man
wid vrey hair like me bless y'u, it is something y'u
will 'ave all you' life. Whereas a pig like what Edith
goin' t: give y'u, you can only eat one time, an' it
done Unless y'u sell it and even if y'u sell it; y'u
will use de money. A blessing can't done, it never
finili. but young people can't give blessing: dem is
t 1 bad."
He spoke, however, to persons who were inclined
to be s',mewhat sceptical as to the value of mere
blts-ings and prayers as cnmpnrel with more
material things. And none of them was prepared
to admit that he or she was particularly bad.
De pig is a pig," scoffed Diana, "I can see it
San' hear it when it bawl an' pig can bawl fe true!
But y'u can't see what good a so-so pryer do for
you. so ef y'u can't give me something better than
wr.rds. Taa-ta William, y'u might as well don't give
me noten."
'Very well, den," replied William, highly of-
fended He felt that at his age presents should be
given to. not expected from, him: they were the per-
quisiteA of longevity, a tribute to a sanctity acquired
since the passage of the years had lessened or eli-
minated his more carnal appetites. "But please re-
member." he went on after a pause, "dat it was only
de oder day dat you wanted somebody to pray fe
y'u an' et' it wasn't Miss Bodkin teck off de ghose dat
was plaguin' you' life, you mite a bin dead by now."
"No hose was 'pon me, sah!" exclaimed Diana;
"it was only a superstitionn"

"You didn't tink so at de time," old William
pointed out sententiously.
-'Because I was a fool," retorted Diana, fearful
lest it should be thought that a ghost had really been
haunting her. For if it had been so once, it might
easily be so again, and to acquire the reputation of
being liable to be haunted might interfere seriously
with one's prospects of an early wedding.
"You is a fool still," commented, William, "an'
y'u is also sanctimonious to look at me grey head
an' tell me dat me pryers don't worth noten. An'
how y'u know it wasn't a real ghose 'pon y'u de odder
day? An' how y'u know Miss Bodkin didn't teck it
off, quiet an' widdout mekin a noise so as not to
frighten y'u? When a young female like you can
escoffrey at an ole man like me, anything can happen
to y'u. You is very facety now, all because y'u going
to get married. Teck care! Y'u don't married yet.
Dere is many a slip between de finger an' de ring,
an' mark my words-"
"But I don't mean anything, sah," cried Diana
loudly, now thoroughly cowed and frightened. "I
was only meckin fun when I say you' pryers don't
worth much. Hi, Taa-ta! Don't y'u know me for
long ever since I was little? An' don't you an'
me father is friend's? Den why y'u talk like dis to
me to-night? Why y'u want ghose to haunt me?"
She was now in tears, and this startled William.
He had been thoroughly enjoying himself while ad-
ministering his reproof, and so had said far more
than he had intended. Now, hot being very courage-

ous, and remembering too that he had known Diana
for years, he hastened to compromise.
"Not dat I believe y'u had any ghose," he im-
mediately resumed, "for"-he thought at once of a
useful lie-"Miss Bodkin herselff tell me dat not sech
a ting was on y'u. But in spite of dat, a young
female like you mus' need pryers, for dat is de only
ting to keep y'u out of harm way."
"I want you' pryers," cried Diana fervently.
"I will kneel down an' give dem to y'u, me dear
chile. I look 'pon y'u as me own, an' I gwine to
tell you' intended husbandd dat him is gotten a pearl
of great price and a lily of de valley. Yes, I gwine
to do dat. Noten can stop me!"
"Tank y'u Taa-ta," said the girl gratefully, "An'
y'u say Miss Bodkin tell y'u dat no ghose was on
"Her own word," declared old William, hoping
that Mrs. Bodkin's maid would not repeat his story
to her mistress.
"I wonder if she would say de same about Mr.
Gordon," interposed Edith dryly at this juncture;
"he is still goin' on very funny, ever since that time
he kill the bull. I wonder what Mrs. Bodkin think
of it."
Silence greeted these words, silence for almost
a minute. This unexpected emphasis on Mrs. Bod-
kin's name in a conversation in which ghosts had
figured, and the mention of the young white gentle-
man from England of whose case everyone there
(Continued on Page 77)








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knew. brought then all fate to face. a it were. i wiih
a matter of high consequence indeed. IMr-. Bodkin's
name was not one to be taken in vain. "I 'froil
for her." Diana whispered.
"I don't afraidd for nobody." asserted Wlliamn
stoutly, *'ain' beside,.. Miss Budkin wouldn't do nim
OLt-en. for I know 'er int.e sie born. an' she i- kinoe
it. me Al' her daughter is a great big lady nw. an'.
an .
While the old man searched his mind for some
further observation in Mrs. Bodkin's favour. on':-
of the Fullard people broke in with-
"MI. ,Gordon ever come to Bvehrook again. T.a
La William?'"
"Not since de night him ati Mister Hamiltnli
dine dere. I want on dent."
"Y'u sure. sah?" asked Edith
"In coulre. Nobody canl come to Byebronk an" I
don't know. I mtari know."
"Well. it was in the morning after Ihat night."
continued Edith. careful this evening to speak her
beet and thus constantly to assert her so ial andi
personal superiority. "thIat Mr James begin to rot
very funny The very next morning he kill de--
the row nith him own hands an' since then. ever'.v
low an' then. he behave awful (sometimes I don t
understand it at all. It is all very funy "
"Y'u think st.. MI-is Edith"" whispered an ea-er
The que'tiljn camne iroin Martha, Mrs Bodk i's
maid. whi sat at the outskirts of the circle by tar-.
pernission and not by right of ilaus She. like ill
the rest. ias secretly afraid of MIrs Bodki n: bit her
love of gssip was strong And Mrs. Boiikin was at
the moment far away. and could not hear what nish:t
be said. A mile or two of distance made all the dit-
ference to Marotha
SEdith at onle gira-ped the posib~hlities of Mar
that's presence thti-e Perhaps this girl could tell
them something Edith became important. She
straightened in her chair. Her good-looking, dark.
brown face a.sumced a judicial expression. Shel look-
ed dirretly at Martha as she answered:
"Of course I think so! I say again that it is
very funny. and I don't understand it at all"
"Don't understand' what, Miss Edith?" enquired
old William
The query was ignored 'I are interested in Mr

Gordon. for he was very fond o.f inc.'" Edith went
ion. "then all of a sudden lie justt com,- like this "
"We (lid hear dtlnL e like y'u. Edith." interpooed
one of the Fullard maids. for'gerttmn. o.r not know-
ing. that Edith herself had origially siiup~-sted to
many person- thil- l.ir-.onai atffection rfi:r her on '!he
part of James Gordon.
"Everybody at :Mr. Hamilton's know it." repl,'d
ldith complacently.
"He was goinL to take .'u fur a friend''" enquir.d
another of th.- Lroup. in tones of rt:spec:t
"Ask nie no qull.stion an' I'll tell you no lie."
answered Edith lightly. a manner of riply whirh
caused one ciri to whisper to another hb ide her:
"I her 'u hini was "friendly' wid her." To whi.h
the other cirl whisperedd in return. "Of course "
William again took the centre of the stage Any-
thine referring tI the Byebrook Great House miiut
necessarily concern hini. and lie would lnot all.o.
anyone to forget that for a moment. So Ie repeat.-d
loudly that not once had Mr Gordon been back their' ,
in his certain and infallible knowledge what was
more. Mr Gordon could never be there and he not
know it On that point there i:oild he nni doubt
% ha ever.
'"Bit supple he is there to-night. how ctiild
yolu know it?" asked Edith. a question to which the
Sld man i:ould ind no immediate reply Just then
lie felt that lie disliked Edith very mii h
"I 'member." began Martha. and then stopped.
She w,.ndered if it would be discreet ti continuee
"Ye-s" cried Edith eagerly. "What you remem-

"Nothiig muchh. Mis-s Edith- bnit de ni t li -
t:re de morning Mkliter Gordonk kill il. Ihlll-'
Dat \a, de lap' time he was at ie 'r -at House."
interrupted Willian plsitively. I int inow "
"Yes. Taa-ra you inns' kln'. aL-reed Marthi
Qubmi.sively "Well. dat night a young man I know
and who work at Miss Bodkin see her come back
home from somn.-t here. an' leave de hoi)use -.hortll
after dat
"Yes?" brPathlessly came from all who listeti.d.
These felt at our-e that Martha had some imp,rt.iat
infom'natlion to impart.
Dat same young man notice de nex' morning.
when him was working' near Miss Bodkin dead hue.
ban' tomb. like as if somebody did wipe part of de
tomb clean, an' when I went into Miss Bodkin room
dat same moruin' I see blood in her basin an' :he
say she sick for she cut 'er han'; an' she tell m'-
not to talk about it An' later on we all hear from
Taam who work wid Mister Hamilton how Mister

Gordon kill a cow wid him so-so han's dat same
morning ; an' since den everybody know dat Mister
Gordon go on quite funny, like Miss Edith say. I
don't say dat one ting had to do wid de other,
an' I don't want me name called, for I can't stan'
any trouble; but putting one ting wid another, it
all look funny."
She had recited her piece, and instantly felt
frightened that she had dared to do so. She had sug-
gested dark things about Mrs. Bodkin. In a manner
of speaking, perhaps, she had betrayed that redoubt-
able lady.
(Continued on Page 79)




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BuI nii, one was Iiuv paying any further atten
tion to lier She had v\uchsaf[i- the group sunfi-
strange and maybe -signifi'anrt information. and th,:
were all aeag it di-. .uss it. iMrs. B.,dkin's nmysteri
o)us nielit mli-sion. the tornb. blood. the currlou- aM, r
ion cof Mr. hreonirl tile mnurning after he had gonl.
to Byebriook. vwh.re dwelt Mrs Bodkin's daught.-r
his stran e I,.-b.ii:itur sinie-- all this afforded a thr-l
btha was Conipijpondei d of fear. curiosity and .love. -.
'I andal It %a- Edith \vh.h vole'd tile quittion t!i
the mirindl-' o all
"But hbo,'w iuld Mi Bdkin kohi:w thai Mr t i,
don had vw.iin to Blyebrook. and why should .sh
Old \i\llimi kiin-w' h,.w\ Mrs Bodkilu could kn:owr
he himself had1 sEnt to. tell her of the approaching.
visii. But it wotild niiev-r *uit hill that anyon.-
Bhould guass rth-. nani he (lid not want toi e askr p
anything aliibout it So he hastily IluIrted ijut "A
great 'enalk- like M.lEis Rndkin Iarn sit down ini 'tr
'ou-r an' know lihat we ddin' her.?." a remarlk rlint
alnlm.;r thri-w poor Martha into a fit



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Mr. Gordon and Miss Elma, had been pledged to se-
crecy by both. And she had known from the first
that it was only Mrs. Bodkin from whom anything
was to be kept a secret. And Mrs. Bodkin was a
woman of power. ..
"Y'u think it is Miss Bodkin who do anything to
poor Mr. Gordon?" the voice of one of the Fullard
maids whispered.
"Dat is all nonsense an' superstitionn" cried
William violently, half-frightened to death himself.
He had to be defender of the absent lady, but he
was much perturbed. He could see no reason what-
ever for her objections, if any, to Mr. Gordon, but
he did know that she was keeping watch and ward,
surreptitiously, over her daughter. And it was cer-
tainly peculiar, that Mr. Gordon should have gone so
"funny" the very day after he had dined at Byebrook
and had sat alone-for of course MJilliam had seen
this-with Miss Elma. And then there was that
other night when he had come to the Great House
uninvited by the master. He, William, had been
told to watch out for him, and he had been strictly
charged to say nothing about the visit to Mr. Thomas
Byebrook or to anybody else. These things were all
very mysterious; they puzzled his old brain; there
was more in them than he could understand. He felt
"Mr. Gordon come a lot now to Mr. Fullard,
don't he?" enquired Edith of one of the Fullard
"Sometimes him come an' sometimes him don't.
He came every night for one week lately, then him
stop again all of a sudden. An' he sometimes go on
like him out of his mind," replied the damsel.
"But you say he don't come to Byebrook any
more, Taa-ta William?"
"No, Edith; for when I am dere I mus' know.
Him couldn't come widout I see or hear him."
"That's when you are there, Taa-ta"
"I am dere every night except to-night."
"An' I leave Mr. Gordon at Mr. Fullard house,
tonight," said the maid who had just answered
Edith. "He is dining there; I hear them say so."
"Dere you are," exclaimed Old William trium-
phantly, as though, knowing that he would be at-
tending this dance, he had personally arranged that
Mr. James Gordon should not be able to visit Bye-
brook in his absence.
"It is all very funny," said Edith; "but if it is
Mrs. Bodkin do it, she ought to go to prison."
"What!" ejaculated Old William. "You know
what y'u sayin'?"
"I know full well. The Government make law
to put people into prison for doing wickedness, an'
whosoever do it must take the consequences."
"Miss Bodkin don't do no wickedness, an' y'u is
all fast an' facety to say she do." William affected
an indignation he did not feel, but the circumstances
seemed to call for it. "An' teck care! How y'u know
she not hearing' every word y'u utter under dis big
mango tree to-night? I call y'u all to witness dat
I, Old Taa-ta William, don't say one word against
such a magnifamous lady like Miss Bodkin. I wouldn't
for I don' want no trouble to happenn to me."
"Nor me, nor me," sang out a number of voices;
but some were heard agreeing with Edith that "wick-
edness," if it were taking place, should be punished,
though all save Edith were afraid of naming Mrs.
Bodkin as the author of it.
"You should think of poor Mr. Gordon," exclaim-
ed Edith angrily, directing her remark at William,
and he at once agreed that Mr. Gordon deserved
special consideration. But still he would not in-
culpate Mrs. Bodkin. That would not be loyal and
would decidedly not be safe.
"It is natural dat you should feel as y'u do,
Edith," observed a young man who had hitherto
taken no part in the conversation, "considering," he
went on, rising to the height of the great argument,
"the connections you have herewith established be-
(Continued on Page 80)







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tween yourself an' Mr. Gordon; how-
soever, we 'ave nothing impersonally
to do with therewith, an' will keep
our own counsel."
Having thus delivered himself of
an eloquent speech, which commanded
immediate admiration, he rose to go,
and that was a signal for the disper-
sion of the party. They all scrambled
to their feet, each one-even Edith-
devoutly hoping that Mrs. Bodkin
would not hear of what had been said
about her that night.
There was no one there who did
not secretly agree with Edith: if Mrs.
Bodkin were guilty of having set a
ghost on Mr. Gordon, who was so uni-
versally liked, she ought to be pun-
ished. The Government, they felt,
should know of this thing. But who
was to tell the Government? And
what exactly was to be told? There
being no explicit answer to these un-
uttered questions, all felt that the
matter had better be dismissed from
their minds, and the dance thought of
Yet no one was quite as much at
ease as before the conversation had
taken so serious and so direct a turn.
No one went off by himself or herself:
they clung to one another. Ghosts,
spirits, duppies were abroad, and there
was no telling who might not be the
next victim. As for Martha, Mrs. Bod-
kin's maid, she registered the deter-
mination not to return to Mrs. Bod-
kin's service. For already that lady
might be planning chastisement for a
loose and scandalous tongue. For-
tunately, reflected Martha, her mother
was sick. She would send and tell
Mrs. Bodkin to-morrow morning that
her mother had suddenly summoned
her to her side. She hoped fervently
that some miserable spirit friendly
to Mrs. Bodkin had not overheard her
remarks about that lady to-night.

661T is four days since he was last
I here, and tonight he is looking
wild," said Mr. Fullard. "Something's
very wrong with that young man."
"Something has been wrong for
sometime," replied his wife; "and it
can't only be love."
"Love," scoffed Mr. Fullard; "it is
drink and an unbalanced brain most
likely, and how a girl like Evelyn
can't see that I don't pretend to under-
"But love must have something
to do with it," insisted his wife, who
had a strong streak of sentimentality
in her, and a predilection for romance
that would express itself every now
and then. Her husband, she feared,
saw everything from too hard and
practical a point of view; on his part,
Mr. Fullard always thought of his wife
as ninnyish when she was launched
forth on the boy-loves-girl question.
"A young man in love doesn't stay
away from his intended many days at
a time, when there is nothing to pre-
vent him from seeing her every day,"
he remarked. "And since he came
this evening he has been as restless
as a wasp. However, I suppose we
must pretend that we don't notice any-
"Young people in love don't like
to be noticed," agreed Mrs. Fullard:
"we must leave them alone."
"Which is what I have been doing,
at any rate," said Mr. Fullard dryly.
"Well, let's join the others."
They went into the sitting room
where they found James and Evelyn,
their daughters, and two young men
from the Camp in St. Andrew, young
officers who had come to spend a few
(Continued on Page 81)




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(Continued from Page 80)
day. at Fairrield and who were obviously paying court
to the Fullard girls. Mrs. Fullard smiled genially at
thtse y,.onI- lovers. Four of them smiled pleasantly
in ireiiitri. hit Evelyn's attention was too much occu-
pied for her to notice the look on Mrs. Fullard's face.
A- ...r James, he did not even see the lady of
the jl: ii.i- ter, nor, it seemed, anyone else in that
rol.in1 Hi4 i-yes were fixed staringly in front of him.
as th.,u:gl hi would penetrate material obstacles and
vieialZ- "i.mething or someone far away. Evelyn
wa- tallin.- to him in a low voice but he did not
seen, to h-.r. Yet she continued talking, in the vain
effort tr, c.nrceal his condition from the others.
Th 'I iiiad brought in cocktails, and everybody
took .ite. James mechanically. As he did so, he
seeni-'l t, \ake up. "Let's have a toast," cried one
of thi- ying officers, but before he could say more
Janire h.al aken the cue. "Lead us not into tempta-
tion.' Ie- cr.ed with a burst of laughter which sound-
ed ['..rill :ad artificial to Evelyn's ears, and then
tos-Eld dln i his drink.
lliincr was announced; they went into the din-
me r.,iii :iiid took their places at the table, and here
Janm, hb-'iii to talk, more or less as he usually did,
but ..mnii.uvhat quicker, and perhaps a trifle louder.
He driai!; far more than usual too, and as there was
chjainm'.-ie at dinner he soon became hilarious,
thoulzn iit vulgarly or unpleasantly so. Evelynu
mu, i' -it-rred him like this to seeing him sunk
deep in diection and melancholy, saying nothing,
wi-stiillv eazing before him, even muttering to him-
self Y.I -lie knew that this mood was not natural
and th-t .it any moment it might pass.
Diin'-r over, Mrs. Fullard suggested that they
might taka coffee and liqueurs in the drawing room.
So they tilhd into the drawing-room, and there they
sippedil ::cfflee, and, the men, brandy, the ladies
crenmi die menthe. In the midst of which Mrs. Fullard
uttered remarks about the glorious moonlight they
were haming now, as though such moonlight were
quit an unexpected phenomenon instead of being
somethliug tr which those who lived in Jamaica were
wPll a, i:u-tomed. Her words, however, had their
intended efiect. As soon as the drinks were consumed
the .t.icer- suggested to Bertha and Helen that-
they miielht take a stroll outside, it being so bright
and 'lea:iant there. Mrs. Fullard smiled inwardly:
nothliiin would ever convince her that it was not
she w-ho had brought about this withdrawal into the
open. And as two proposals were actually made that
night. tlie good lady was thereafter immensely
strtn-lthienid in her opinion that she was a remark-
able :.-:,lal tactician, one who could seize the proper
opp,.,rtunity of giving true love its chance openly to
declare itself.
"Shall we go too?" asked Evelyn of James, as
the oitli-rs went through the door.
"Y ." lie replied, but quietly, so that she alone
beard. "I feel stifled here."
Tie.v paIssed down the steps, but turned from the
garden and made their way to the arbour. They sat
do"n. the moonrays stealing through trellis and
vine. ithe cool wind setting the leaves of shrubs and
deli at-- tendrils to a swaying dance. The others were
tuo far away to hear anything that might be said,
even wvrwe it spoken loudly. Beside-s. they were now
intent up..n their own affairs, and indifferent to all
Jl.Iim. darling," said Evelyn quietly, "I have
btcn thinking over what you told me that night at
Mr. lanmilItn's, the night our engagement was an-
nounsr ed."
Ye- '" he answered casually, as though only
polite. .n:,- fc'rced him to say something.
I didn't give much credence to your suggestion
ab,.tr '.rn's being haunted then; it seemed so far-
ret'::hid. 3ut you were positive enough, dear, and
sin,- then I have been talking to other people, and
thintl.,. And perhaps what you say is true."
Does t matter much anyway, Evelyn?"
Iis a n-wer surprised her. He had taken this
thin \c.-ry seriously once.
"Mantter?" she exclaimed; "of course it must mat-
ter a ri-r.a deal if it is true. It may be that your
life i ur stake, and-and our happiness. Do you
care iithing about that?"
"I suppose I do; but I don't think there is much
sen-- in bothering about things you can't help and
you can't cure. We'll just wait and see what
-Thalt may be dangerous," she cried.
"Is- there any harm in living dangerously?"
"Ye. Jim, when you know nothing about the
danger that may threaten. Both of us are strangers
here. and y,,u have fallen under a very peculiar spell.
You hadn't been to see me for some days now, and
now that you are here you act strangely, talk
strangely. and that frightens me. I didn't intend
to say a v.ord about this tonight, but it is all com-
ing out. and perhaps that is best. Jim, let us go
away from here, together. The Fullards are kind;
they will help us to get a special license in King-
ston. and we can be married and can leave within a
few days You have nothing to keep you here, and

even if you had you should leave it. Make up your
mind tonight, darling; that will be best for both of
"I have nothing to keep me here, you say?"
"Am I not right, Jim? There is me, of course,
but I will go with you. So ."
"I suppose you are right, Evelyn. I will think
it over."
"There is nothing to think over. You must
come to a decision now. Otherwise I shall think
that that Byebrook girl has some hold over you.
She is not keeping you here, is she Jim? Tell me
if she is."
"Good God, no!"
"You are sure?"
"I haven't even seen her since we announced our
engagement that night. I have heard not a word
about her except from you tonight."
"Then there is no sort of reason, right or wrong,
why you should wish to stay," she urged. "Will
you go?"
"I suppose so," he agreed with a short laugh;
"I will speak to Hamilton about it tonight: he is
the man, and not Mr. Fullard, who should look after
our special marriage license. He would be angry
if Fullard had anything to do with it."
"Very well, dear; that no doubt is better. And
I shall tell the Fullards of our plans to-morrow morn-
To this he said nothing. He moved restlessly in
his seat, as though he were uncomfortable. She had
noticed that he had not once offered to kiss her,
said not a single endearing word. And even now
he did not do so. A thought flashed through her
mind, and it was as though she had received a keen
and subtle stab in her heart.
"Perhaps," she said slowly, "you no longer love
me. If that is so, why not say it and make an end
of this? That would be better than that you should
continue to act in this way."
There was grief, anger, a sense of outraged feel-
ing in her voice. It recalled him to something like
his normal self.
"I do love you, Evelyn," he protested, and his
voice rang true with sincerity. "You must never
disbelieve that. But, well, I am wondering now
whether you are not making a mistake, not throw-
ing yourself away on me. I am not the man I used
to be, you know. I have gone batty, lost my nerve.
I am-"
'Haunted?' That is what you would say. I didn't
believe it once; I believe it now. So I think we had
better fight this thing, whatever it is, together. If
we love one another, that is all that is necessary.
But we must fly if we don't know what to do while
we are here."
"All right."
"You don't think me bold?" she whispered.
"I think you are an angel," he said, and, for
the first time since they had been together that night,
he kissed her.
She laid her head upon his shoulder; with one
hand he stroked her hair. Both were silent; and
for a little while she was intensely happy. But in
a few minutes his mood seemed to change once
more, and she felt him moving restlessly, as he had
moved before. The hand that stroked and patted
her head twitched nervously; his whole body tremb-








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led. Then he put her head from him, not ungently,
but firmly: "I must go now," he said.
"It is still early."
"I must go."
"Very good, Jim: Mr. and Mrs. Fullard are
still in the drawing room, I think." Her voice was
"I'll steal round the backway upstairs and get
my overcoat. My car is in the yard; I can take it
without bothering anyone."
"You will bid your hosts good-night, surely. They
would think it strange if you went off without a word
to them."
"They bore me, make me sick. But you are
"Do you not feel that I bore you too?" she asked
a little bitterly.
"If you realized how I felt, Evelyn," he cried out
loudly, "you would be sorry. There is hell within
me at this moment!"
"Jim, darling, don't go!" she gasped in sudden
terror. "There is a spare room here which Mrs.
Fullard will gladly let you have. Stay here. And
then to-morrow-"
But he was already marching out of the arbour,
and she was obliged, perforce, to leave with him.
They went up to the drawing room together, and

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there be bade Mr. and Mrs. Fullard good-night. The
latter smiled pleasantly, her thoughts on her own
girls. Mr. Fullard glanced keenly at his face, and
did not like the look upon it. "'I wonder what the
deuce he is up to now?" he thought, and did not offer
a parting drink to the young man. Mr. Fullard he-
lieved that Jim had had quite enough already.
Evelyn went to the car with James. her eyvs
filled with a painful longing to understand, to. real-
ise what was in his mind. In the. moonlight ahhe
saw his racial niuscles jumping; he seemied like oine
fighting some fierce, terrible impul-e. and yet abu.it
to let it have its way. Then the memory of his toast
earlier that evening came swiftly to her mind. an1
as he got into the car she asked him:
"What did you mean when you said before din-
ner, -lead us not into temptation'*"
*Only the devil knows," he laughed recklessly.
"not I."

The moon rode high. Every object touched by
its light stood out with that luminous distinctness
evoked by the tropical moonbeams. The stars were
dimmed in that radiant flood of silver. The nmoun.
tains ere grey-blue and beautiful. trees and shrub-.
ioad and trail. streamlet and stream were all washed
in shimmering light.
In Byebrook village men and women were danc-
ing to the tune of violins and flutes, guitars and
drums. In the Fullard Great House a girl lay prone.
weeping for very fear, and for sorrow because of the
man she loved. In the Great House of the Byebrook
plantation another girl sat by her window in a low
chair, thinking, and her thoughts were wormwood.
On horse-back a man dashed along the highway as
though some fiend drove him to seek relief in reck-
less motion.
No darkness anywhere on such a night. Loveli-
ness exceeding imagination. Even the colouring of
shrubs was thrown into relief by the splendid lumi-
nosity that transfigured the countryside. The cool-
ness of the air was a delight, the stridulation of in-
sects, the far-away occasional lowing of penned, re-
cumbent cattle, fell pleasantly on the ear.
The girl who sat in the low chair by the window
at Byebrook might have been but the one living soul
in all that neighbourhood, so deep was the quiet
about her, so still was she herself.
She had the same thoughts now as on so
many a night of late when she had sat alone,
her lamp glowing faintly, her uncle asleep. On the

last occasion he had been here to see her. Jim had
promised to return the following night. She had be-
lieved his promise. trusted implicitly in it; she had
waited for him with impatience, sending to their
quarters as quickly as she could the domestics who
worked in the house. She remembered her excite-
ment a. the moment when she expected his arrival
drew near, the quickening of her heart-beats, her
anxiety that her granduncle should be sound asleep
Even when the time had passed she had not believed
James would nut come, had imagined that soime
trifling incident had delayed him, and that in a little
while he would appear. She had listened for the
fall of his horse's hlo-ies on the earth. agaiii
uud again had started forward. bending her head
eagerly when she imagined that she heard him, only
to fall back disappointed Then. as the minutes had
crept t,:o an hour. and one hour to two, she had re-
alised that James had broken his word. She was
stunned And when dawn came it found her still
with wide-open eyes, wondering why and how lie
could have failed to keep his promise to her.
But daylight brought hope; perhaps he would
come to her this night since something had kept him
from coming last night. She hoped so, she believed
so; then once again she realized that she had buoyed
herself up with a delusion. Should she write to him?
That, she felt. would be useless now. He had kiss-
ed her, told her that he loved her. pledged himself
to come back to her, yet had not even sent her a
word of explanation. To write to ask him why, to
ask him to come, would be a cruel humiliation. How
should she feel if he ignored her letter, as certainly
he would, if he had finally made up his mind to see
her no more? She would only have humiliated her-
self in vain, had crawled in the dust for nothing.
She would not do that. she could not! He was faith-
less. worthless, and she cursed him in her heart.
Then she heard of his announced engagement.
It seemed to her that she had been expecting this.
It explained fully why he had not kept his promise:
now she felt there was no longer any hope. To her
he was lost forever.
She went about quiet, calm, but with a dated
expression of pain and sorrow in her eyes. She
ceased to laugh.
Her granduncle saw the change in her. though
she strove to conceal her feelings. He offered no
comment, asked no questions. He too had noticed
the keeping away of James and Hamilton from Bye-
brook. though he had warmly assured them that
Ihey would be welcome whenever they chose to pay
him a visit. He had asked them to come, think-
ing of Elma. They had refrained from doing so. in

his own words, he had gone too far. Therefore both
of them could go to hell.
But news had come to him, also, of James's pecu-
liar condition, of his recent strange actions. Per-
haps, he thought, there was a streak of insanity in
the young man. If so, it was much better that he
should never see Elma again.
Elma was now suffering, for the first time In
her life, from insomnia. She loved James now with
a more passionate ardour than before. Yet he had
gone irom her with a promise light aud fickle upon
his lips. That had been the last of him so far as she
was concerned.
Could she have held him? Could she have bound
him to her forever? He had wanted to stay with
her that night to be with her until the dawn .
but that had been out of tbh question. He ought
never even to have thought of it! Yet. she won-
dered, what would have happened if she had let him
stay. if 'he had become his in every way. one with
him in the true sense of that word? Would he have
left her then, abandoned her, cared nothing more
about her? She felt convinced that he would not.
She could have kept him then. and he would have
married her no matter what anyone might say-she
knew him. But the price to pay for that was in-
finitely too much. was not to be thought of. and so
she had let the opportunity pass She had thrown
away her chance The link that would have held
had not been forged.
She knew she bad acted rightly; but at what
cost of suffering!
Listlessly she turned her head towards the win-
dow. Someone was riding down the path. Someone
who had missed his way, perhaps. And most of the
servants were out. at some pleasure festival or other
so this stranger must find his own way out .
God. could that be James!
She had started to her feet and was peering
out into he pace in front of the Great House.
All -of it was aglow with light. In the open was a
man upon a horse, and he it was who had whispered
her name loudly enough for it to come to her ears,
but yet with caution. Her room was to the left of
the Great House as it faced eastwards- her grand-
uncle slept in a large apartment. to the south and
near the rear. He would not bear this call
"May I see you?"
"Wait. I will come down and open the door."
He had dismounted and walked up to the front
door by the time she had opened it: he had hitched
his horse among the sheltering trees He seized her


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In his arms as the door closed behind them. leaving
them in darkness. He kissed her fiercely, pressed
her to his breast; she did not struggle It seemed to
her that a miracle had happened.
"At last. at last." she sobbed.
She grew calmer in a few moments: "wait here
till I get a light." she said, "and then we can sit to-
gether in the porih "
"I have come to stay with you tonight." he said
determinedly. "all night But I shall go with the
"Don't you want me to? I have been longing
for you. longing terribly to see you, to be with you.
for days and weeks. I love you. Do you want mne
to go now?"
"No. Jim: you know I don't. but. but-"
"Why talk like this when we love one another?"
"But Jim "
"Must I go, almost as soon as I have come back
to you for ever?"
"For ever?"
"Do you mean that?"
"I have left everything else tonight for you"
"Yes, that I can puess: I heard where you would
be tonight. I never thought I would see you here"
"Well, then. Elma?"
"Jim. will you marry me?"
"You swear it?"
"Oh. my darling. my darling!"
4 *

The .ky %was tinged with grey, the moon had
sunk below the horizon. there was a stirring of the
trees as though they knew the dawn was near. James
Gordon mounted his horse and rode away. hearing
as he did so from the open window the whispered
word "tonight."


'DITH come to see v'u. Miss Evelyn."
E L Evelyn knew Edith slightly, bad seen and
spoken to her at Mr. Hamilton's place. She wonder-
ed now what this girl should want to see her about.
She was very wretched. For more than two
weeks, ever since the night that Jim had left her
so suddenly, with his reckless exclamation as to
only the de\il knowing what he meant, she had
not set eyes upon him. She had written to him. but
her letters bad been unanswered. She had refused
since then to go with Helen and Bertha to Mr. Hamil-
Ion's it must not be thought for a moment that she
was running after any man.
But she had heard that Jim had been behaving
more extraordinarily than ever: drinking more. riding
about more recklessly than ever. speaking harshly.
rudely, imperiously to the working people who now
and then endeavoured to remonstrate with him.
Evidently they had not resented this; from what she
had heard they had been remarkably sympathetic in
dealing with him. They said they loved him. And
she guessed that they had another reason for their






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tolerance of conduct which in another must have
been regarded as intolerable.
"You can show Edith into this room." she said
to the maid.
Edith came into the little sitting room. which
was Evelyn's den, all flustered Evelyn stood up.
"Well, what is it. Edith?" She asked. "What has
brought you over from Mr. Hamilton's at this tir.ne
of day?"
"Mr. Hamilton don't know I come. Miss Evelyn;
I just come by myself. But I feel I must tell you
quick. Mr. Gordon try today to kill himself"
"What?" almost screamed Evelyn. "what?"
'Yes. Miss Evelyn. I know Mr. Hamilton aill
send to tell y'u or come himself; but I know ihe
don't do so yet. and you should know nma'am. oder-
wise Mr. Jim may try to do It again, an' I think you
Is the only one who can save him. I know he en-
gaged to you, an' I thought .. I thought .... "
"Thank you. Edith. I understand Sit down and
tell me just what happened. But do be quick."
Edith sat on the edge of the chair indicated.
Evelyn fated her, white-faced, lips pressed tightly
together in a stern effort at self-control. Her heart
was beating wildly, her pulses throbbing. But she
felt she must be calm and collected: perhaps. as this
native girl expressed it. she was the only one who
could help roor Jim.
"Mr. Gordon bin going on very funny lately,
miss, an' especially the last two weeks. So funny that
Mr Hamilton tell two of his men to watch him an'
follow him all about; but though they do that during
the day. I know they didn't do it at night-time."
"Because them was afraid, an' in any case lhe
ride about so mad-like that them could never follow
him without he know. and he might injure them if
he knew And then. you know. Miss Evelyn. thiir
'fraid for the ghost that is on Mr Jim."
"I see. Now tell me what happened today. Edith
-for Mr. Jim Is not harmed, is he? I gathered that
from what you said at first."
"No: he is at the house, with Mr Hamilton an'
one of Mr. Hamilton son, an' there is other people.
an' he couldn't leave the place as he like He is
quite well, miss. but it is only God's mercy that he
wasn't dead today."
















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"Tell me how, Edith," said Evelyn quietly, though
her self-restraint meant a terrible effort.
"Mr. Gordon was out nearly all las' night, for
his horse was saddled and in de stable this morning
soon. He get awake in his clothes about eight o'clock,
if he did sleep at all, and I carry in his breakfast.
He look strange an' wild, miss, an' never said a
word to me, an' he only drink the coffee an' didn't
eat a piece o' bread even. Then, afterwards, about
nine o'clock, him went out for a walk, an' Sam and
Ezekiel follow him, but not too close, for they didn't
want him to know them was following him. After he
walk about a mile they noticed he turn down the
way that lead to the very same place that people say
poor Paison Bodkin throw himself down the preci-
"My God!"
"Yes, ma'am; so Sam an' Ezekiel take a short-
cut to dat spot, so dat Mr. Jim couldn't know them
was after him; and when he come to the rock, them
was hiding in the bush, so dat they could almost
touch him. An' they see him fling up his 'ands and
him cry out 'Better this way!' an' he was going to
jump right over when them catch 'old of him an'
cling on to him an' draw him back. Him fight them
hard, Miss Evelyn, but Sam and his friend is strong
men an' them wouldn't let go; an' he soon get ex-
hausted, for him not eating much these last two
weeks, an' they bring him back to the house, an' now
he quite calm, an' I run here to tell you."
"Thank you, Edith, thank you ever so much. I
can never forget this. I will go to Mr. Jim now."
"That's what I wanted to suggest, Miss Evelyn,
and and ."
"Yes, Edith?"
"I mus' tell you this, miss. for y'u ought to
know," insisted Edith, and rapidly she related the
conversation she had had with Mrs. Bodkin's servant
that night under the mango tree before the big
dance. "So you see what it mean, Miss Evelyn," she
concluded with conviction. Evelyn nodded her head.
"Stay here until I come back," she said to the girl.
She went in search of Mrs. Fullard and her
daughters. They were together when she came
upon them. -'Good Lord, Evelyn, what is the matter?"
exclaimed Helen, after one glance at Evelyn's face.
Swiftly, briefly, she told them the story; then
"I have been thinking during the last few days
of going back to England. You know why. I am
going now as quickly as I can; but I am taking Jim
with me."
"Quite right, darling," cried Helen, speaking for
the rest. "But do you think he will go?"
"He must. I am going over to see him now. Can
I have the small buggy?"
"You can have anything you like, dear," said
Mrs. Fullard brokenly. "What an awful thing to
have happened! Do you want any of us to go with
"No, I will go alone. If you would order the
trap for me ..."
"It will be ready in a few minutes," said Helen
rising with decision and leaving the room.
Evelyn went back to Edith and bade her come
along. Edith with remarkable tact abstained from
saying another word. Quietly she took her seat in
the buggy with Evelyn and during the drive to Ham-
ilton's house she never alluded to James Gordon
Hamilton himself came- to the door to meet
Evelyn: one of his servants had told him that Edith
had set off post-haste some time ago for Fairfield.
"It is all right now, Miss Evelyn," said George
in a kindly voice. "Jim is normal and knows what
he tried to do. But his memory does not seem to go
back any farther. All the rest is a blank."
"May I see him, Mr. Hamilton?"
"Certainly; but I cannot leave him alone with
anyone. You see, I can't be sure ..."
"I understand. Yes, you should be with me. I
want to leave for England as quickly as possible: I
am going to Kingston to-morrow to look after the
passage. And I am going to take Jim with me. Mr.
Hamiltoni, he must come-he must!"


I_ _

__ __



Samuel & Co.


Dry Goods Merchants

"Reliability" is the slogan of this

Old and reputable House

and which has gained for it

the confidence of the Public

and that measure of success it


Our Customers can RELY on a

square deal.

They can RELY on being able

to obtain the latest goods of

every description from our ex-

tensive stock of Merchandise

and Footwear.

They can RELY on our goods

being priced at the lowest pos-

sible margin of profit.

They can RELY on getting the

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They can RELY on the greatest

care in filling orders and in


They can RELY on the most

courteous attention.

They can RELY on our appre-

ciation and thanks for past

patronage and we RELY on

a continuance of same.



For the first time that day her voice broke.
George Hamilton laid a:kindly hand upon her arm.
"Don't worry, my dear; he will. He cannot stay
behind if I go too; and I am going."
"Yes. I couldn't allow even a brave little lady
like yourself to undertake all this responsibility; be-
sides, I am the man really responsible for Jim. His
father was very kind to me, Miss Brisblane, and, apart
from that, I love the lad as though he were one of
my own sons."
"Thank you."
"And now, come with me."
He took her into Jim's room, where his eldest son
was sitting. At a nod from George Hamilton this
young man left the room. Jim opened his eyes as
they entered; Evelyn was startled at the change in
his appearance. But she smiled bravely, and he
smiled back, slightly, in response.
"Well, dear," he said, "I suppose you have heard
I have been acting like a madman? You can never
forgive me, I know."
"There's nothing to forgive, Jim; it would be.
strange that two people should talk about forgive-
ness if they love one another.
"And I know you love me, Jim"; she hurried on;
"and I want to tell you that in a few days I am leav-
ing for England-"
"And leaving me here?" he cried, and there was
apprehension in his voice.
"Not a bit of it," broke in Hamilton, and then,
itr er-ttinri all good manners, he added,-"that be damn-
ed for a yarn!"
"It's like this, Jim," he went on decisively, in
the voice of a man accustomed to giving orders. "I
want to go to England too, and you are coming with
me. We shall sail on the same ship with Miss Bris-
bane. You are quite well enough to make the jour-
"I am not physically ill, but perhaps a little
weak," muttered James; "you see .."
"I see only one thing, Jim, and that is that we
are going to England together. What is more, we
are leaving for Kingston today: your car can take
us. Miss Brisbane will follow to-morrow or the day
after. We should be able to leave Jamaica within
five days.
"I will have our things packed at once; that
won't take long. Most of them can be sent on to-
morrow to our hotel. So that is fixed!"
"But your place here, George; your property?"
"I have quite capable sons, Jim, thank you. You
needn't worry about my business. We shall start for
Kingston after lunch; and I am sure there will be
no difficulty about getting a passage on the ship."
James made no reply.
"I shall see you in Kingston, dear," said Evelyn,
who all this while had remained standing. "I will
go now. I am glad there is nothing worrying you."
"It is still here, Evelyn," answered Jim quietly,
"but it is quiescent now; merely a presence which
you cannot see, but I can. Later it may begin again,
as so often, to urge me to desperate things."
"Darling!" she cried.
"By God!" exploded Hamilton.
"Don"t be alarmed, you two, I am going on to
Kingston today. I will leave this country with you.
Perhaps when I leave this place there will be noth-
ing more for me to fear."
"There won't be if I know it even while you are
still in Jamaica," growled Hamilton. "I remain with
you until we are in England. And let me tell you,
young man, that though you had strength enough to
kill a bull single-handed when you were in better
health, you haven't enough strength to cope with
(;iorge Hamilton-nobody on this property has. And
that goes for any damned unseen thing that may be
in this room!
"And now, young lady, you had better say au
revoir, and get back to Fairfield and pack your things.
I will drop a note to the Fullards from Kingston.
Edith materialized with miraculous swiftness;
she must have been lingering outside.
"See Miss Brisbane to her buggy and then come
ha:k to do some racking. And send Agatha to me
at once. The whole lot of you have got to look sharp
now! Jump along, do you hear?"
'Yes, sir," said Edith briskly, and jumped. Under
her breath she muttered: "I 'opes they put dat old
wretch, Miss Bodkin, in jail."


MR. THOMAS BYEBROOK was disturbed. Elma
had been bright and happy for some time, gayer,
more full of joy and laughter than he had ever seen
her; more high-spirited than ever she used to he.
Then all of a sudden she had changed. Now she
moved about like a ghost, speaking softly, almost
mnaldibly, with a strange, frightened look in her eyes.-
'She had grown thinner, he noticed that she hardly
ate though she put up a brave pretence at doing so.
But more than anything else it was the haunted ex-
pression in her eyes that wo.rrird him.
He had seen something like this in her before,
but not to anything like this degree. And after a

while she had thrown off all her care and her de-
pression. The young man she liked had ceased to
visit her: that explained her first phase of despond-
ency. Her return to high spirits could have had, he
argued, nothing to do with James Gordon, since that
gentleman still kept himself away. Therefore -lie
must have got over that jar to her feelings- tie Bye-
brook pride had asserted itself, thought the old nrmn,
as he had always felt confident it would. He said
to himself that Elma had decided to put Gordon out
of her mind, knowing that she was young. pirEty,
and was now a Byebsook in name as well as by bhlid
She knew also, he thought complacently, that tih
world was still before her; she would marry a better
man than James Gordon. And then had come this
pitiful change.
Gordon had left for Kingston with Hamilton:
this they had heard very shortly after the ta, mnoen
had taken their departure. Gordon was i:l. had at-
tempted-so two of Hamilton's men said--o 'enmimit
suicide: too much drink, was Mr. Tom's conter.p-
tuous comment. Then the news came thar the two
gentlemen had sailed for England, and thar Evelyn
Brisbane had left on the same ship. Elma had begun
to droop from the moment she heard about r he .r ung
man's attempt on his own life; when she wa- -old
that he had left Jamaica it was as though she had
been struck a blow that paralysed her sense--. nunih
ed her very soul. He was frightened now even to
look at her.
So she had cared more deeply than he had be-
lieved. -But then,-why had she-appeared so happy
even though Gordon had kept away from Byebrook?
He began to make plans concerning her. He
must take her somewhere: out of the island prefer-
ably. He himself had not been away for twenty years.
But he was by no means too old to travel: perhaps
a trip to Canada when the winter was over would
do them both good. They couldn't go before May:
but meantime he would tell her of his idea.
Then one morning, while they were at breakfast.
her head fell forward on the table. 'She had faint-
No servant was in the room. It would have he-n
easy to call one in: old William was not far away.
But Mr. Byebrook was in the habit of doing things
for himself and in his own way. He promptly :-ized
a jug of water and dashed a little torrent over Elni.m'
head and face. She revived in a minute.
He waited until she seemed quite recovered, he
did not suggest that she should go to bed. This was
weakness in her; she was not showing ti.iraag
"This, Elma. is when we must have a little talk to-
itiher." he said firmly. "Something is wrong with
you; or rather, you are making something worry you
as you shouldn't do. It's that man, Gordon. Now
you have got to forget him-who the h-you have got
to forget him, you understand? And as soon as I
can I will take you for a trip somewhere. I have
been intending to tell you this for some lime "
She looked at him piteously. "Uncle Trim" she
said, "can you lend me a little money? I have some
that I have saved out of the horusekeeping: hut I
may want as much as a hundred pounds more And
I don't want to ask my mother."
"Lend you money? What for? You won't need
to borrow any money from me: you will have all
that you need for the trip. And what the devtil are
you crying for?"
"I am not going on any trip with y.vu. Unr.le
Tuin; I am going away," she replied very softly.
"You must know the truth; but I want only uolu to
know it," she paused for a while, fighting to pro-
vent herself from screaming. "You see-----"
"Don't go into hysterics, girl," he ordered
roughly, and by that he saved her from breaking
down. He had seen in a flash that something of the
sort was imminent.
There was a sound of footsteps in the corridor
leading to the dining room. Mr. Byebrook. his face
stern, savage, set, rose quickly from his chair, went
to the door and yelled out in a strident tone of voice:
"When I want you I will call you, William. I am
making some arrangements with Miss Elma and don't
want to be disturbed by any damn old fool "
"Yes, sah," replied old William, "bitl tie fruli
not on de table yet, so I mus' come and bring it at
'"Go to h-ll'" was the answer and Mr. Byebrook
alammned the door and turned the key in the lock.
William shuffled away well pleased. This seemed to
him a fine return to the old Tom Byebrook manners.
He had really never appreciated the politer methods
which his master had adopted of late. For how could
he, Old William, keep on sending his inferiors to
hell, in Byebrook at any rate, if Mr. Tom abandoned
that salutary habit?
Mr. Byebrook returned to the table, but now
his step was not as firm as it had been a minute
ago, and there was a terrible look of pain in his
eyes. He sat down heavily. "Now tell me what it
it is," he commanded.
"He said he would marry me," muttered Elma
stumblingly; "he-meant it, and I- loved him, and I
didn't want to lose him ."
"You have lost him now."
She moaned, and tears began to steel down her
cheeks. Tom Byebronk took no notice of them.
(Continued on Page 88)




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f ..

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o. .
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(: ne hundred and fourteen
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more by foresight and genius
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over a very long period, he
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This lad was John Wrav.
Falher of Jamaica Rum and
Founder of J. WRAY & NEPHEW
LTD: to-day the oldest and
largest Rum Distillers and
Blenders in the world.




StHE frnm Appf ro


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tO'. e 8 years old)

tOver 5 years old)



* We have an average "Million" gallons of Rum continually AGEING in our Warehouses.

Obtainable tI case
arid in bulk.
Enquiries invited.

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Kingston, Jamaica, British West Indies.

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Recipe Booklet.


$& Nrplew T;tb.


(Continued from Page 84)
"Where did you meet him?" he asked.
"Here? But- "
"He came when you and everybody else were
asleep: late. No one ever saw him. I got frightened,
and began to urge him to let you know, and to marry
me at once. Then he went mad and tried to kill him-
self ... or perhaps my mother-don't you know what
they have said about my father's death?"
"I do, and I believe it."
"i believe it too: James was good; he would
never have harmed me of his own will; I know that.
I am the one to blame for what has happened, and
I have brought disgrace upon you. You can never
forgive it, I know."
She went on with a rush as though this would
be the only time that she could speak.
"But I can and must go away, to Kingston, by
myself. Afterwards, I suppose, I must send for my
mother; she will say that she warned me. This is
the last time I will ask you for anything, Uncle T--
Mr. Byebrook. I am ashamed to have to ask you

now; but what else am I to do? I am afraid to go
to my mother. 0 God, what is the matter, Uncle
Tom?" she cried, springing to her feet.
For the old man's head had sunk in an instant
on the table and his shoulders were shaking. No
sound came from him, but Elma knew that he was
sobbing, and it was terrible to see proud, defiant, ir-
rascible Thomas Byebrook like this.
She knelt at his side, uttering little cries.
"No one will know, no one will 'know," she repeated.
"You can say that I prefer to live in Kingston, that
I am ungrateful-anything. But your name will not
be mixed up in this.
"I wish you could forgive me, Uncle Tom, 0, how
I wish it! But how can you? I am completely
"I'l be blasted to hell if you are!" almost roared
Tom Byebrook, swiftly raising his head. "You? By
God, girl, do you too take me for a fool? Your
mother has been a wretch, yes, and that young man
you are defending-if I could lay my hands on him,
as God lives there would be a gallows for me in a
damned unjust country like this! You have had to
fight against all sorts of forces, and hell is among
them, poor child. But I am Thomas Byebrook, and
I am more than a match even for hell! We'll see."


"Bring your
motoring trouble,
to us, we promise
to do our utmost to II, '"



He is raving, thought Elma in a spasm of terror.
Had he too been driven mad?
But Mr. Byebrook continued speaking, and now
his voice was calmer.
"Today is Saturday. We could leave for Kings-
ton on Monday. There are some things to be done
in the meantime."
"We?" she asked, hardly daring to believe that
she had heard aright.
"Yes, we. You fool; what do you think you could
do alone now? You need old Tom Byebrook now
as you never did before. We can go on Monday,
can't we?"
"Yes, but-"
"It is yes, and no but, my girl. You have been
a fool-no, it is not your fault: you have been a
victim. I wish to God I could kill someone! Get
up from there and sit down. I want to think."
It did not take him ten seconds to think. Al-
ready he seemed to have his plan perfected.
"The Byebrooks have always been courageous
people, Elma," he said.
"Yes, I know."
"Then you must show courage too. Do you think
that you could look bright to-morrow and go to
church with me?"
"I can use rouge and that sort of thing, and I
won't break down: I can promise you that." she re-
plied, puzzled. "I know I broke down a while ago,
but, you see, Uncle, I had to tell you, and I was wild
with fear."
"That's over now. I have not been to church
for years, but I shall go to-morrow. They will see
me and will think the old man is sick and God
knows I am sick enough. But you will be well;
you must be; and we shall say that I am going to
Kingston for my health-not you. Of course I'll have
to come back here every now and then, and you will
come back, say, once, a month hence, for a day cr
two: I think that will be safe enough. But I shall
have no one from my property coming to see me in
Kingston, and nobody else is likely to come: I'll in-
sult anyone who tries to.
"They are all fools here; they'll believe I am
dying when they hear that I have been to church
and am going to Kingston for my health. Most peo-
ple are damned fools."
"And you are doing all this for me, Uncle Tom?
You, you ."
He waited till her sobbing had subsided, and it
was good for her that her head in the meantime was
bowed. For in his face was agony.
"You are nearly white, Elma," he ejaculated.
when again she grew calm.
"Yes, Uncle Tom?"
"You are; and your boy will be white, perfectly
"It may be a girl, not a boy, and it may die even
before it is born, and it will be a bastard," she con-
cluded bitterly.
"It will not be a girl, and it will not be born dead,
and it will be no bastard," he grunted. "I know."
"You mean that I am to marry someone .
before?" she asked, frightened but submissive.
"No; I don't want you to marry anyone that you
don't care for; and that will not be necessary.
I have years yet to live, Elma, and what I am plan-
ning now will happen: we Byebrooks are not easily
beaten. What has happened to us now is a misfor-
tune. Well, we'll turn it into good fortune. So have
courage, girl: I can face anything.
"I suppose you know that our family came to
this island with Penn and Venables when we took
Jamaica from the Spaniards?" he went on.
"I have heard so."
"Since that time we have had many a trouble to
face, but we have done it successfully because we
had courage. I want you to prove that you have the
old Byebrook spirit in you now."
"I will try, Uncle Tom."
"I depend upon you. Now go and begin to pack
what things you want to take away to Kingston at
once: we can send for the rest. And, remember, to-
morrow we go to church; I hope it won't fall on ine,"
he added, with a grim attempt at a joke.
She gave him one grateful look, and left the room.
She knew that it was he who was inspiring her with
courage, and she resolved that she would not fail
He walked slowly to the corridor entrance and
called out to William.
That servitor, entering with a dish of fruit, no-
ticed at once that part of the table was soaked in
water, and that there was water spilt on the floor.
Hastily setting down the fruit, he hurried to
mop up the table. Mr. Byebrook said to him quietly:
"I upset that, William; I am afraid that I am not
very well."
"Goodness, gracious, sah, an' just when y'u was
talking' so good an' strong! What's de matter, Mass
"Nothing much, William; perhaps a touch of ma-
laria. Anyhow, I am going to Kingston on Monday
and will see a doctor there."
"Y'u can see a doctor here, Mass Tom; a very
good doctor."
"I had better try a Kingston man, William; you
see, I may have to remain in Kingston for some time.
Miss Elma goes with me."


_~ ~_ _1~1 __

Sp HON ,


"'Den I better pack tup time belO:ni-'ng tro.. 1M:3
Tom. as we all poin' toigeder. What time me c'in
"I am afraid I can't take you with me. William:
you see-"
"You mean to sey y'u gwminc to, leave me Ijelri'
you, Mass Tum.' But Miss Elma can't look .if'--r
y'u: slte is a female lady. an" all y'u life I be.--
lookin' after v'li Y'in dan't inean wthat y'Li say,
Mass Tom: it don't foundd reao-,nable."
"I an not dying. you know. William: and hbeid,-J.
if I take you to Kiiin stonl with ime. who i.- ti. :-e
that things in ti.-, hlonii L' right ? Therel i- unb-,.lv
else I can leai c in ll lhar b hee: that'-. -vhy yoil unttl.t
William ponde.red this proposition for a niiuti.-.
It was clear to him th.it he could not be done ni'lh
out in Kiniston. But it was equally cliar that he
could not be d-ne without at Byebrook. And he kne'v
no way of being in two places at the same time. Tih.
old master di(, linik ill. he iaw that plainly now.
But his niece would be with him. and thouclh -.he ,vas
but la nvoman she mnt.iht be of some use. He contur.i'
"You promtiie me. Mass Tom. dat 'f y'u gert .r .aly
n:-rse sick y'u will sen' for me?" he askei.J.
"Yes, I promiFe that. William; but I don't think
I an at all dyinr I can't afford to die just iw "
"Dat is true. sah." aer,_ ed William bravely, *f...r
y'u 'ave so many people to look afier who dlelp'eid
in y'u. De'-r is nir:self, an' dere is Misliz Elna. ill
dere is everlyody here. No. y'u can't afford to ri.~l
A look of I ratitutde l1afshd into Toml Byelhr,:ol.'-
eyes "So you think I dou't neglect y.ou f.lk,:.
William?" he asked a trifle wistfully
"You. Alass Tom. you? Well. if anybohlly ,\-i
hab de infermal mnpertinencies to say a tiizg !ik.'
dat. I would cu.s him till him own nodder -wouldl n'
know him. "You. Rah? Why. when-"
"All right. all right, you damned old talkatini
windbag! You get to packing my things. Andl b.,
the way, I am going to church to-morrow."
My Gawd. Mass Tonm. y'u don't tell me y'n fe,-l.
ing so bad as dat? I sending for de doctor at "oin"'
"No, you are not You ntust. remember that Mli '
Elma is used to oiiig to that little church about heri:
she used to play the organ in it. She will want to
visit it before she goes to take care of me in King-
ston. You old fool. I am not dying!"
"Oh, I see." agreed Old William: "but at first I
was frighten fe true when y'u sey you want to g',o to
church; an' I beg y'u. buiaha, not to frighten me 'o
sudden like dat again. le eartht is weak. All iighr,
den. Mass Toni. I will look after everything for y ui
when you is in you' absence. And. so long as y'u talk
strong, an' cuss like a gentleman. I will know ii.tirn
Is loo wrong wid you "
Mr. Byebrook contrived to laugh at this. But 'tie
laugh came only from his lips.


S LMNA sat listlessly by a window which olperned on
a lawn and c*ommnanded a view of lofty mrn.un-
tains sweeping in semti-:ircular form-ation west. e;,,t
and north of the capital city of Jamaica The c:riuk-
led bills were of all shades of green. with tinees -.f

blue above them the sky blazed radiant. and as f'ir
as thll -ye i.ould rea.-h th,, trcpic.al fol'hae spread.
The hbuuse he Ii-r il itl \as isome fu t-lr miles
h[jim IKin2tt...n's Vaterfrtront: it had been leased fur
a year b'y Mr. Thomas Byebrook. He haLd rhrou.lit
Eima up from Byebroo:k about six months before,
and for a we.-k o.,r two they had Ihr-ed it a hotel. Dur-
ing that interval .Mr. Byebrook had i bured himself
to obtain a place that should have no ve.ry near neigh-
boulri and tlhl-hl[i house acCumnmo'Jldathi:n rwas scai':
and the biddinm- fIr it high. h. had su(iceeded in leaI -
ine this place furnished. It (.s.t hnm .a pretty penilr.
But though iMrI. Tom knew well thIb,e V-lu iu of oney,;
he also knew that he Lituit pay for v.hat he wani, i:;
a high price if h e.wanted the thinr Iripenrly enogllh.
On their way t'.I King1stun frmi RByhr.ook he hal
handed toj Elma a wedding ring: "**Yii n muit ala..
wear [his norw,'" he sa il quietly.
'Whose- was it. Uncle Tom?" hle asked.
**M y noiher'-. Somehow. she didl noIt want it
buried with her. she directed that it shoul.i be given
to me. I wonder noi whether she had a isort of pi'-e
nioitilon that I should need it some day."
".\d my namee" akedr Eluia
'"Bye-brook. single or nial'ri'ed Aiy man wh:i
married yoi) wo.-ld have had toi he iknwn thei"ce-
f,,ivar.] as RByih.rook. yoii know. s,. ytoi had berr.'r
be IMs. Byelrook-that is your ri,\n nIine an.ywy.
Ynuiir hu-band is dead. Elmia. th lie's ni:, one in Kiue-
stoin ever to know othlerwivi' -.. And I thiik yvil had
better retinl to Byebrll.ok only ion':- '.fir many yrarns
t;. .:iroe: -.v 'li ~i. d for a day or two next mouth
"But. Uclie Toin. you cannof:t live out oft Bye-
br. ck! That wild kill you."
SIt take- a lot rt kill men like me. Elma. EPut
e'll see. \i needn't cross a streak bhirfore we 4oclll
t', it. And I am not thinking of myself. but of you.
nmy girl yv.m atrc ioing to be a very lonely little wo-
man for some time to comee"
"I don't deserve even that." she said. "fuor I
shall be- lad of it. I want to meet no .one.'
Whern shi removEd t to ile hous'- I.asred hv li. ,
unc.le. s,'v,.ral pi'so.n c':alleJ ,,in her. lbul *-nie -ent Ex.
causes for n-'t se-cine them- she '.a3s 511 she .aid Th-it
sante iline.s was al'4 hler es. 1s.- t."r reitirning ino
call-. N:o.. and thCen :\lI. Byebriuk hliils-lf nitt some
cf these callers, and wias o uinslir-akal.,iy bri'i-u'ie that
tney -w re ,: they ivwouIll ne-ve' r ,:nier i1- lilIe again
To them- the name of Byebriok rn-ant nothiilng wha-r
ever. indeil srome of then look ,care. in ieir inl'ig-
nation. that he should kiio\' that thIb had netcr
heard it. This outraged him: Iir he trr. k cormfmi'rt
fromr reflected tha thathey were all nobhodis anyhrw.:
and as they thought he was a nobody als'.. ain! a
ve-iy luno.uth one at that. the hoijours of murtiald de
migration were equally divided.
As for the servants, they only knew that the un-
happry 'youmtg lady's husband had grine ti England
almost immediately after their nmarriaie and had
died there, and they pitied the youthful widow sin-
cerely H,-r granduncle. they all agreed. was a little
marl. At first they were inclined to resent. even to
the point orf leaving their jiubs, his s.-wearing at them
\inlently: bit when they found that he bade them
rcot t,' niake f-o'ls -,f thenmselver- if they offered to
leave, adding at the same time that they were all
born fools. and tirping them liberally, and as he paid
thret generous wae_.s, they voted him not a bad sort
of old .:ntleniani after all, and came to like him.

It would not be long now, Elma was thinking
this afternoon, when her baby would be born.
At first Mr. Byebrook had wanted to take her to
Canada for that event; but the doctor who was in
attendance on her had shaken his head doubtfully:
he was not certain that she was strong enough to
risk a change of climate. "She is still fretting about
her husband," he explained, "her mind is not at rest,
and it reacts on her body. I would not be responsible
for recommending she should go to a country where
neither of you has a friend."
So that was that, and in Jamaica she must stay.
Her mother knew of her condition; Mr. Bye-
brook himself had seen Mrs. Bodkin on his first brief
return to Byebrook and told her all the truth. The
woman had listened to him in a terrific silence, then,
at the end of the recital, had lifted both lrer arms
to the sky and had doomed James Gordon to all the
torments of the damned. At' the end of which Mr.
Byebrook had suggested that she should curse her-
self as well, since it was probably she who had
brought about this calamity. "If you had only left
them alone all might have been well," he said; "but
you interfered, and this is the result. You have done
evil, and you will never do anything else, my good
(Continued on Page 91)


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S Lazy Days

J o. 'r. mbiiisti t ,t the DL toitr elif i' l.-l- mi'.
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"I must hell Elua." she had teplitid 'teirnly:
'i am her iotth' r."
1 utless y.u want t.. kill hier 'ou will ltave h.er
alone until I send for yuu.' he had i said :..nteni,
tuously. "And don't yu dalre disl..bey me."
This had been ni..iihs agro. Now MNi Bolkiii
was cominie t., KinCsi.n. thei dale i.t hei arnivial
havinre been arraue,-d Iv. Mr. Byelbr-*"k
She had travellel part ..,f the way by bugigy. part
by train. Mr By3bro.:ok had planniicl to meet her at
the railway statlnll : h-. ni 'hed n.i one else to do tliti
And he wanted tj t ialk t h-i' hfl'.ti slite wouldd -.i
HP had Ijuipbht a niutor ,:.ir s.llt e ci-IOnlii t :.
Kingstcon: he dro'.'v in it to the railway iratlon iin:t
Mrs Bodkin. arnmed lh,'r quietly to say nll,., a w j.'
about Elnia wildii, they ,.,l'e dlivine to tile hiti-e.
Iest thh cEhluf.'ur slioull hear and understand., anl
then had laliedl inro a gloomy silei.r-e Iimseilf
Arrived. he haid taken her inio the I.-ioI1 ihe
talld his offi,:. They both selected Itraihltt-bharkii
chairs instead iIf roiker-: both knewv that this nis
a business. iionve'rsation at which ease and i-oifnlrr
might well he disp r -eil with.
I have sent for an English nuriie ifr Elima." le
began abruptly: "'lih arrives the day after to-
"But when Elma's time conies I tius-t be wil!i
her, Mr Tom. Please 'enember that I am her
mother "
"That's what I am remembering all the tinm..
he answered pruffly. "and that is what I want tr talk
to you about. This uiirs.e who will Ilo k after Elmna'i
child. must know nothing about her- nobody here.
knows anything about Elma. except that she is a
young widow from the country who has lately Ir-t
her husband. If you come with too much mother
rubbish into the picture. you'll spoil the whole show."
"I don't understand you "
'You are going to be here bile Elma i- con-
fined. if you must he here, only as Elma's old nurse:
that's what I mean."
"Bad as Elma is. she would not agree to thct,"
retorted Mrs. Bodkin loweringly: "and there are
limits to what I will agree to do. Mr. Byebrook."
'"There are no limits to what I am prepared to do
for Elma and her child." he answered with a quietness

whi..h. being ill strong contrast to his usial volcanic
iiInner. was iiiprel-ive. "And Elma will surely
asree ti.: what htith you and I counsel as best for
her boh,-f-,',r it i- ging to be a boy. You have got
to cI:lnsent to the a rangement I suggest. Consider
this th. English iinurse will get to know some people
of her uvn c(laI .iioat:t here. If she knows you
ai Elma's mother. hie will talk about it; the news
niim spread. and if' it ets to my part of the country,
e irybhody will put two and two together and in the
days to conie Elma's child may be whispered about
a. b a iastard r:, you want that?"
lMi; Bndkin did not answer.
I lau that lis nurse shall remain with Elma
Ir: s.min- time As soon as my niece is strong
-nou-:h I shall lake Iher and the child and nurse to
England: after that -he can select the place she pre-
i'-r tI. Ii\e in1. S:. long as it is not Jamaica. The
tijy isill Imine bLnk to this country only when he
! a yi.-tiune nl .a and, as his name will be Bye-
i l-R.k nl., will know that he is not Elma's son by
-o:nmeine- sbi. hd married abroad? For I have
already taken .ai- to get it known in my part of
Jamaka that nII one marries Elma who does not
take my narnr Tlhe plan is very simple, but its suc-
:..ss depends ..n ~u.:u You understand now?"

".And i _u u l',-re'"
..Ye- **
'I thtucht y:io wiuld. And now we had better
goI in and see Elmna."
They went intO the room where Elma still sat
Ly the window She showed no animation when
her ui.othr entered: she had been informed of this
visit befor-lih nd.
E.-th Mrs Eoillkin and Mr. Byebrook sat down:
Mir Bodkin knew that she it was who must tell
Elma what hail heein arranged.
*ThIe English nirse will soon be here, Elma,"
she said: *bht I will be here too, the day she comes,
and afterwards when but I don't want you to
call me mother or mamma while I am here. That
won't be good for the baby."
"I don't want to lie any more," answered Elma
with something of her old spirit; "and I couldn't
bring myself to call you anything but what I have
always called you. How can that harm anyone?"
"It can." replied Mrs. Bodkin firmly, "and you
should see it"
"I don't."
"I will explain."

"No necessity for that," broke in Mr. Byebrook,
suddenly; Elma can call you what she likes, if she.
insists upon it, so long as she will promise not to
contradict what we both shall say to the nurse and
spread among the servants."
"What is that, Uncle Tom?" asked Elma.
"That you call Mrs. Bodkin mamma because
you lost your mother when you were a baby and she
nursed you. It has just occurred to me that that tale
will go down welll" As your mother will not be here
for long, no one will doubt it."
"Won't people see the resemblance between my
mother and me?" said Elma.
Mr. Byebrook was about to blurt out, "there
isn't a damned bit of likeness in any way," but
checked himself in time. It was Mrs. Bodkin who
There's very little resemblance indeed, Elma:
none that a -tranger could ever notice, esp.-ciilly
v.hen you ur.- sick. We are entirely different in
looks and colour.
"Very well," -said Elma quietly, and something
in her voice warned them that she did not want to
talk any more just then. Both of them left her.
An hour later Mrs. Bodkin went into her daugh-
ter's robni and found Elma still seated by the win-
dow. The girl, she thought. should take somie exer-
cise, should be more lively. This listlessnes- was bad
for her.
She sat down. and Elma fixed her eyes on her
mother's face. Mrs. Bodkin did not like that look.
"Your uncle is right Elma." she began; "it will
be better for all concerned that nobody here know
abou: our relationship.'
"Hasn'i that been settled, mamma?"
"I suppose so. but you will be careful in talking,
won't you?"
"Very well."
'I will be here before your baby is born, perhaps
a week before, and I will go back to the country after
the ninth day. I can't do more than that. Mr. Tom
won't let me."
She waited a while for Elma to say something,
but the girl remained silent. This forced Mrs. Bod-
kin to feel, as she had felt so many times before,
that her own daughter did not like her, and now i
would prefer not even to talk to her. Her heart was
heavy as lead as she went on.
"You must rouse yourself, Elma, instead of sit-
ting down moping and thinking all the time. You
are young and you don't know, and Mr. Tom is an




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old man and can't know, that you are doing yourself
no good. And you're not doing the baby any good
either. You should think of that."
"I am not very well. I simply don't feel like
moving about much."
"But what about the child, Elma?"
"God help him-or her! What a future for it to
face! No father. A mother who has been a disgrace.
A great-granduncle who is old and cannot live long
enough to see it grow up. Better, perhaps, that it
should die before it is born!"
"You say that now, but when the child is born
you won't even think it. You will be ready to give
your life for it, Elma. Besides, your uncle says he
is going to have the child brought up out of Jamaica,
and it will have his name."
"Yes, but-"
"What is it, Elma?"
"Mr. Hamilton has come back to Jamaica, hasn't
"Oh, yes."
"An and Jim? Have you heard anything
about him? You must have. Tell me what you have
."Why do you bother your head about all these
things?" cried Mrs. Bodkin; "don't you know you
are only making yourself sick? Try not to think of
that young man; it's doing you no good."
"Won't you answer my question, or shall I have
to ask uncle? He knows something, but I have re-
trained all this time from saying a word to him about
Jim. But if you don't tell me the truth, I shall find
it out some way. Mr. Hamilton must have said
something. Jim went in the same ship with Miss
Brisbane. Did he get to England well?"
"Perfectly well, Elma."
"Who told you?"
"Mr. Hamilton came to see me, once, after he
came back from England, about three months ago."
"And he told you Jim was completely cured?"
"Yes, I knew he would be."
"How did you know that, mamma?"
"Well, a change would do him good; after all,
he was only drinking and making a fool of himself
a little too much, though"-she could not refrain
from adding bitterly, "he made a fool of you, too."
"Has he married Miss Brisbane?"
"Elma, you mustn't worry yourself about all
that!" gasped her mother. "How could I know what
Mr. Gordon does in England?"
But Elma had seen a tell-tale look on her face;

Mrs. Bodkin's expression had belied her words. And
now she was trembling as with rage suppressed.
"When did they get married?" came the query,
and the woman knew it would be wiser to answer
"Two days before Mr. Hamilton left England,"
she muttered.
"Thank you."
"But I have cursed him; lma, I have cursed
him day and night. No day passes but I curse him.
He will never be happy: his wife will cease to love
him; his conscience will torment him; he-"
"He will be happy; your curses cannot affect him
now," cried Elma imperiously. "You know that;
you know you have already done your worst. He
will forget me in time. He will have children, and
he will never, know that he has one here. He is not
to blame. You are, and I am?'
"Neither is to blame," asseverated Mrs. Bod-
kin fiercely; but immediately took herself in hand
and began to speak calmly once more.
"What your uncle wants to do, Elma, is the best
thing; you will go somewhere else and forget. And
don't fret for your child. Mr. Tom hates me, but
he loves you, and he will be proud of your baby,
especially if it is a boy. And you may go away and
get married: you are very young still, and pretty.
And so long as I live I will look after your child as
much as I can, and will watch over him-"
"No. That you must not do; do you hear? You
must not do it. Leave the baby alone, if it lives.
Uncle Tom will love it and take care of it and so
will I: you must leave it alone. You may injure it,
even though you won't intend to do so. And now we
shall never speak of Mr. Gordon again."
Mrs. Bodkin bore this outburst without a word.
Secretly, she was frightened lest she should already
have excited Elma too much.
"Won't you come for a little walk in the road
with me, after sundown, Elma?" she asked gently.
"No, I don't care to go out."
"Well, if the nurse from England suggests that
you should walk a little, do, my only child, for your
baby's sake if not for your own, don't refuse. She
will know what is best."
"Very well, mamma."
"I'd better leave you now; but don't excite your-
self, Elma."
Saying which, Mrs. Bodkin left the room and
went into her own. And there, with a countenance
contorted with black wrath and grief, she cursed
James Gordon again and again as she had done every

day since she had learnt of Elma's condition. -If only
she could reach him where he was, and his wife, she
muttered, she would give her life to inflict upon them
the tortures of hell which could only end in death.
But now she was powerless, powerless, and it was
Elma who suffered. It was just as that accur~ed
man, George Hamilton, had once predicted it would
But Elma sat alone, silent, while the brilliant!
colouring faded in the west and the darkness cam'
down upon the land. Her head bowed, the ars
streamed slowly from her eyes. She had guessed that
Jim had married Evelyn Brisbane, had long known
that this must happen sooner or later. But tIhe
fact itself was what she had heard at last, and- she
wilted under it. There was no resentment in her
heart towards Jim. He had been half mad in those
last few weeks of his in Jamaica. He had nearly
ended as her father had ended; and she was certain
now as to who was responsible for that. She hated
no one; her vitality had ebbed; she had no en.,rgy
to hate; but only two living people in all the woril
did she love, and one of these she would-never see ani
perhaps never even hear of again.
He would never know that she had a child
would never hear of it from her mother, and not fromi
her uncle. Tom Byebrook, she felt, hated Jim as
terribly as her mother did, but was too proud even
to speak of him. In her uncle and mother Jim had
in Jamaica two unforgiving, relentless enemies
But what had happened wasn't Jim's fault. Sh.e
blamed him now for nothing. She it was who had
called him back to her again and again.
The door opened quietly, and her uncle came
in. He turned on the light.
"Crying?" he asked, and his voice was wonder-
fully gentle. "Well, that perhaps is good for you.
But not too much of it, my girl, for we need all our
strength and our courage. Remember, Elma, we
Byebrooks have never lacked courage; and we mus;
think of the little Tom Byebrook who will so jo,,n
be born."

TH H nurse arrived, a pleasant-faced woman of
S about thirty-six years of age, one who looked
self-assured and competent.
Mrs. Bodkin met her shortly after she had be--u
driven up to the house from the pier with Mr. Byc-
brook, explained to her casually that she had nuim-d





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Elma a- a baby ion Elna's mother's death. mention l
with a smile that Elma had always insisted upiu
calling her mammina. regretted that she could nor stay
with th: young widuw until the birth tof hr child,
but said she would vi'it her before that event. as Mr.
Byebruok wanted her to do so, then tleok bi'r de.
part ure
She arrived rather late that night at her o ni
residtuce. She would eat rino food on arrival. hor
mind was too disturbed.
She sw allowed a (iup of coffee. then pave he-
self over to thl.,unht. Her plan to -'save" Elma hadi
.one awry: yet lhal it been a failure after all.' Jam,'
Cordon had disappeared from the sc.ine and no cne
w;.'o would talk knew what had happened to Elm.L
iMr. Byehrook wa % -ti(ckti tro the eirl. and that wonild
mean everything to Elma.
Her plan had miscarried in part. but not wholl.
And rot so badly. This she repeated to herself with
a grim sort of siatt.factilon. For had she done norh-
inc. she argued, James Gordon would have reimained
In Jamaica. Elmta's- ate would have been known tr,
Sevpliy..ni: the diSLr.ceI might have been too nimu'h
for even Mr. Tom Byebrook to tolerate. So. exsacily

as she had prevented hlr husband from deserting
hers..lf and the baby Elma long ag.:, so now she had
helped to make Elma safer than she would otherwise
have been. After all. she had not failed.
Not that she expected gratitude. Elma had
fi-riely commanded her to leave alone the baby that
was onming-n-her own grandchild. Mi. Byebrook
had treated her as insolenrtly, as brutally. as ever.
They both were fools: she could injure them one by
one e-ven no.w: she had the prowe tr: do it, and she
cglried in that knoiwledee. But she could not strike
at her own child, and to t.uch Tom Bvebrook might
be to injure both Elma anid her baby Hers. there-
f:ire. was a barren power Yet she had it. A more
ruthless woman, she argued to herself. would not
pare those who had wounded her. as she had de-
cided to spare them.

She wac wholly given over to the cult
she believed: her faith in it had arowu
it was part of her lift. She hated Gordon.
would not ultimately suffer through him
be better. though. if Janms should die.
But he was far away
What could she do? Appeal to the spi

in which
but Elma
It would

rit of her

father or her husband once more? Or what? She
knew that these agents of vengeance were power-
less outside the boundaries of their country; besides,
had she not heard from one of them that they were
useless for good, only potent for evil?
But that was untrue: good had come out of their
activities on her behalf, though not exactly as she
had intended and wished. Yet, on the whole, it was
She repeated this to herself with an expression
on her face of unutterable arrogance and pride:
the pride of the bitter fanatic, the arrogance of the
devil-worshipper who believed in her own power.
There was nothing now to do, she concluded at
length, save wait and watch. Elma was saved from
disgrace. But Elma's child might some day need its
unknown grandmother's aid.

There was subdued excitement in the house. The
English nurse, under the doctor, was in supreme
command, and the maids obeyed her without a mur-
mur and with an alacrity they did not ordinarily dis-

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At any moment now the baby would be born.
The doctor was waiting. Silent, stoical to all appear-
ance, Mrs. Bodkin stood in the bedroom and obeyed
the orders of the nurse.
The day had been warm, but now a cooling breeze
came in sweet pun't from the northern hills, bringing
comfort and relief.
The darkness was coming, but as yet light and
colour suffused the sky, and from an open window to
the west Elma might see the country-like scene
that rolled away; the multitude of trees that made
the world one green, and behind them, the still-glow-
ing horizon of blue and saffron and s.ild.
But for this she had no eyes. She l.i.y, her fingers
clutching tbh- lhe.e-. her eyeballs staring at the roof.
Her lips wrr- tigliily set. Even at that moment
there hummed in her brain the so often repeated
words of her uncle: "We Byebrooks have always had
But there came a moment when, strive how she
might, her lips opened in one long wail of pain. Mrs.
Bodkin shuddered, the nurse nodded to the doctor:
"it is over now," she said quietly, and went on with
swift movements with her work.
A new feeling, something never experienced be-
fore, swept through Elma. She heard a faint cry,
which in an instant became sharper and shriller and
persistent. "A noisy little devil," said the doctor
jocularly, addressing Elma. "You have a healthy
son, Mrs. Byebrook."
"Thank God. Uncle Tom will be glad." Then:
"Can I see him?"
"In a minute or two: the nurse is looking after
him. Just lend me a hand here, Mrs. Bodkin, if you
please; yes, that will do. Mrs. Byebrook, you must
keep very quiet."
Elma closed her eyes in assent; she had no wish
to speak any more. The travail and the pain were
over, but she felt weak, terribly, utterly weak. But
when they laid the child in the crock of her arm,
she turned her head and gazed at him with eyes fill-
ed with mother-love, and with a feeling of pride in
her heart. 'Something about the baby's face remind-
ed her of a painting she had seen at Byebrook Great
House. She closed her eyes again.
Presently the doctor went out to search for Mr.
Byebrook. The old man was downstairs, on the lavwn,
pacing nervously about, waiting, wondering, anxious,
tense. He turned quickly as he heard the doctor's
footsteps. The latter spoke at once. "My congratu-
lations, Mr. Byebrook, we have a healthy, sturdy
"I knew it!" exclaimed the old man: "my family
never dies, doctor, we are always born again. A
boy! Could anything be finer than that?
"I could jump for joy, but that would be damn
silly. Can I see him now? And his mother, of
course, is quite, well: a wonderful little woman that,
doctor, more wonderful than you can think. By
God! But can't I go to see her now,-and the boy?"
"Yes; but you must only remain a minute, you
know; and you must, if I may say so, be very quiet."
"Good God, man, do you imagine I am going to
make a noise? Do I look that sort of man? But the













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servant shalI hav. utnioi-e en-riJouL' itf they want it.
as sow',n as Elma is qtite well and istrngi aainin. 'Unt
UE a sirn ie giv\ n!' Fancy that. d.it: ir!-"
By thi they had ri:a:bhed the bediroom door. Th:
doctorr made a gesture. whi;h Mr. Byljebr.ooiK ini.l..
jtood. They t-ntred the iro: ] i v -y rv -ill tl
The old ninl bent donu and ItouchEd Elma's fovit
head wn rh hiIs li -. ihbei rixed hi. gaze ,:in ith i;nfan:
"'A true Byebroi,.k." he ex litin-.ld t.risiari lly. Elm-..
didn' I tll 'you so'"
She snmild in -ynimpatby \iith him. hbut the nurse
nor. interpoied.."You nmlst not talk t.oo niiirh t(. rly
patient. M1r. Byebrliok." she said, an'] da lttid a qius--
tioning glance at the di,' Ic.r.
"Qtite rieht. nurve." aid the droctor: **Mr. Bye-
brook is ;oin. 'tI rltide with tie."
He andl the nutIe walked to the e-astern end ,.',
the room:n and h.-ld a hurried. whisperedd .Iloquv:',
then they ae a:k tam hea bc-dside whireA Mr BR;-
br:,,Ik waas feasting bis eyes upon the child. Elita
lay as if sleepinu. Int as the- ( dttrr bent irr 'e her
she openet-d he- eyes and midtid l wa3ly at him.

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He took the old man bai.k to the lawn and walk-
d i w!rh him s.iome distance frlom the Ihouse. He let
i:.I.I Tom babhbl jvtyfully unitern ilpted.
"Thtr boy has a great ut'ultire. doctor." said Mr.
Byehiook r'r"udly. and \er with a suggestion of rhi!d-
i-hles- He- %\a- actually skirpinz a- he walked
1 am i ure .tf i t." replied tihe d..tor.
"Y..u hav\ been very kind. mnsi attentive; be-
hitl\e e.I. I apprer.,date it. S, dioes Elma. \\T1en she
is stron-el shei will .inig y.tir piraie-. And that
niii'c is' a wondt-r. But she net-dn't have stopped
tie talking a little while ago; I wasn't going to may
n'-thli i word When can I have a little talk with
my I]ee'i l,1ctlor.'"
"'Whii yroui.i plae.IF. MIr. B'vebri:.,k, perhaps the
'.O t'i the liect-' Bi.it yn mIusl l t say l'aL- tLti "
Why. f c'ouise; but--g'r-ar t:d., man. what do
y.ii mean ? Why d,. you speak s,.' gravely? '
-"Yoll Itmust tak-e it calmly. sir y..ur lulee is not
din ne wI:ll."
"-ar ntng?"
"I don't ti nik she is u.ing t, lI\'ei-."

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SDon't thik, think think .. butt iht ans
you are not sure: -le may live, then, though she'u not
ion. well jue-t now: iln'r tliat it':"
I Biipp, se y.ou hal i: tr kl.w thle truth .t
once." said the do. t.i,. with real sympathy Site is
going to die-
**To die? lUnma r--.:n tu die?" Thl- il,-a'tith vW-
asker- very quietly: in, nhoW l there %was a ..ih **.
dignity ab.ilii T.t.m B:., br,..l-: tlhat th,' ... t i.:lr li.-
never nritii.Ed bh-t'f re II'- .:vaie'l v.a.lki-:, He iil:-
ed fixedly iuto ihe l..eL..a! 's f'i..
"She has ei'en cr..'i,.:' \t-akm-r anid w'.-:-akr fW'i
sometime. IMr. B..-ebi..rk: she has litt!- vitality lefr
in her. li -wvill It. I%- i I f'uar she ha- ihe1 n s,,rr'..-A
ing _ver' thl Il.-- Aif hlri husband, andi that has
eapptd hc-r str!'.-ir ih. ;iviu birth to her 'hild is
the last -hl .:k I see in. hr.pe."
"H oiw lone do yvii tliik she v.ill Iat.. di-,tr.r'
S**Foi a few- h:oulr-. iptrhap'. hardlyv I.i- ...- id th.--
"Thank y.u."
"**I .,-uld no..t tell ,t.i tlhi.s Ihefore. Th, nIi r'?-, kl,.v s
it; I suP"p.iose il s. Buodkin knows it nrw. I bhrotiuht
Iyou out herk- to break the newas [t yov raibher Ia kiti-
sily. I fear. You would like to ; e'- her --..na-1"
"Now. itf I may: he iiimay die- in her .slep. -i)iayiii

*Then I wAill see h-r now. Do y..'a think sale
-"She -.anuti kinr.. but -he Umi.y Owes- I dijuiit
r if sbe will "
Plea-.- gpi lIeft'oir me. aIelljl r: I will t','ll.'w v\-iu
In a mirnite or wn- "
Thle d:,:tr ler him The -ky hadi pum'n dIa Ik
and the staris \-v-i-r ruihinrc o iu: the day had disp .-
peared and the nihit hail u)ome with the s-wift t';iii
sition of the tropic:s. Mr. Bye-brook had not no:tiared
this. But the hrlehtnr-ss of bl h b-art had been aril.
denly made black by wan-t he had just heard. A.nl
now he muist act as cimifortel: he whose heart wa.-
weeping though his eyes were shinine-dry.
When he entered the iroom the baby was no 1n1.--
er lying by Elma's side. The nuri-e had it. Onel !.-
tric lamp had been turned on. The light clnw,:d
softly in the midal t oif the expectant -tillness that
pervaded that chamber of the dying.
He stood beside Elma. and rouched her softtly ,:1
the hand. She knew his. toui'h Sh-e opened her eye-
slowly. "Uncle Tom?" she said
'Yes, darling"'
"I know. I am not ening to live: I have kno\r-n
itat rIr somle tille now. You have been so grci.d Io
me .. .

"iY,.u 1Ii stli talk., little girl."
*"It s i..ur la-t talk." she said slowly. "There are
two, male Byel.r.:,oks u:nw, uncle and you have
the eiair:,ge to live and make a man of the new
"I v.iil Il\vt iand di., that, Elma; but you have
cl-..u all the iu'jra-e of our race, more than I
ina\e. ml:1le than inui..s o:f us have ever done. You are
a..nl.-rf!i il. miy eirl nmy wn little girl!"
"*Thank;. dear-est and good-bye ..."
Thlie d.ltr'. lhandd was on his arm with a per-
'iiasiv.- *-ertle pall, he hent over her for the second
time th.t evenctai. hit this time he kissed her on
her lips. She -miled faintly, sighed and closed her
eyeas. Mr. By-br:.'i.'k followed the doctor to a chair.
All night he sat in that armchair with bowed
head. .unly whispering occasionally, "is she still
a-let-pl' Close ul-'n twi., in the morning Mrs. Bod-
kin t.-u-hed him on the arm: "The doctor says Elma
is :.iulng." Mr. Traii y..n had better come now," she
sa.id ,oftrly
"'- -h. a'.-ak- ; '
"Shi- ,ill rnev-r \v..t,:. again."

.."Mis Mil..irgan lih agreed to look after Little
Toan." said Mlr. Byel. -..k to Mrs. Bodkin; "she will
rI..iain f...r at lea-t five ysars; after that I may make
ute- arr.ii-iiameunt Perhaps the boy will go to
C'aiu.da. leriai.ir! ta. En!land, before he grows up and
take: s p-sS e.ls-ilIn of By.chiook."
"i lshiold like Ito: -ee him sometimes, Mr. Tom."
"Yi may-i (.,ie or twice in the next two years.
After thai. I f.-.n't think it would be wise."
"\\bhat is there luwiise ab',.,ut my seeing him after
that. MrI. Tn.m?"
"I am not gain- ta:o argue, Eliza. I am sure I
am d:oim the best th-re is to be done for the boy."
How y-..u hate nme'"
D Do youi loie me. Eliza? Have I any reason to
like you? Do y.ju realise that if you had left Elma
anid Jamea- Gordon alone, she might have been his
wife and alive today?"
"That is ,your idea! Well, don't you realise that
if you had taken some notice of Elma years ago, had
adopted her then instead of waiting so long, every-
thinra might have been different today?"
"'Y.-s. Yes. I rfalirse that! I do not forget it for
a moment--pr-or Elnla! But that doesn't mean that
if I made a mistake in the past I should make an-
I:ther inE- now. I mean what f have said.!
"I siippose so."
'Anlt now I am going to see the best lawyers in

the- city and make a will that shall be fool-proof.
After that, even if I die to-night, Little Tom will
have nothing to worry about."
"There is one thing you seem to have forgotten,
and it is a difficulty. The baby's birth has to be re-
ziistarid, and you will have to say he is illegitimate.
Do you know that?"
"I know nothing of the sort, my good woman. I
am going to register- the birth today: I shall do it
myself. He will be registered as Thomas Byebrook,
and lawful-lawful, do you hear? Even if there were
a penalty of prison attached to that, I would do it.
.But who would question my word?"
"You would dare do that, Mr. Tom?"
"For Elma's and the boy's sake? Yes."
A feeling of respect, almost of worship, sprang up
in Mrs. Bodkin's heart for this strange relative of
hers who would risk a name of which he was inor-
dinately proud, and perhaps punishment too-though
she did not know what sort of punishment it could be
-for the tiny child and its dead mother's sake. it
was true that he was afraid of nothing. She was like
that too. But she hadn't expected him to defy the
law itself; to allow nothing to turn him from his
"Good-bye, Mr. Tom," she said respectfully.
"Good-bye, Eliza."


N the sitting room of a large flat in Whitehall
Court, London, sat a very old man in one of the
deep comfortable armchairs which formed part of the
room's furniture. The summer heat was at its
height, but the old gentleman found it by no means
too warm for him. The sun streamed through the
windows facing the huge black pile of the War Office
building opposite; the old man let its rays play upon
him with patient satisfaction. Evidently he was
waiting for someone, for every now and then he bent
his head forward e-xrE-ctanily.
Presently the door-bell of the flat rang, and in
obedience to the shout of "come in!" a lift boy enter-
ed, announced, ."Mr. Hamilton," and withdrew. He
had been instructed to show Mr. Hamilton in as soon
as that gentlemani should arrive.
Mr. Byebrook rose, shook hinds with Hamilton,
then sank back into his chair, his visitor seating him-
self in front of him. Except that he looked frailer,
Mr. jrybrook presented niuch the same appearance
as fifteen years ago. Hamilto.n, on the other hand,
looked definitely older and thinner. But thi kindii-

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n.iss. shrewdness and strength of his character were
as clearly expressed in his countenance today as they
had been on the day when he greeted James Gordon
at the Kingston pier.
"I saw your name and address in the last West
India Committee Circular, H.imihon. and so wired to
ask you to come to see me," said Mr. Byebrook.
"You will find whisky and soda in that sideboard,
but no ice. You can hardly get ice in London in spite
of what they call the heat! Heat! They don't know
what heat is. But you can ring for ice: you can
always get it in this place at any rate. When did you
"Less than a week ago, and I am not staying
long," said Hamilton, rising to mix himself a drink.
"I won't stay long anywhere now," commented
Mr. Byebrook thoughtfully: "I am eighty, you know."
"You have another ten years at least," said
Hamilton hopefully.
"I doubt if I have one. But let's talk business.
Your son is doing wonders with Byebrook, Hamilton;
he is making it into a gold mine."
Hamilton beamed with pride. Twelve years ago
Mr. Byebrook had suddenly sent for Mr. Hamilton's
eldest son and offered him the position of attorney
of the Byebrook plantation. He had niention.d a
handsome salary and bonus: the young man had con-
sulted his father and then had accepted the offer.
In four or five years Byebrook, having all the capital
it needed for development, had under the management
of Robert Hamilton lost its half-ruined appearance
and was producing great quantities of excellent
bananas. Thomas Byebrook was now growing richer
than had been any of his forebears in the palmiest
days of sugar.
Robert Hamilton's first contract had been for
five years; it had been twice renewed since then.
There were a couple more years of the last contract
to run.
Mr. Byebrook now lived in the old house when
he was in Jamaica;, but in the two years between
Elma's death and the appointment of a competent
attorney he had hardly visited the place. He had
purchased Mountain View in Kingston. There the
English nurse and little Tom Byebrook had lived
with him.
Then he had left with them ,for England,
where the boy was to bW brought up. ,-He remained
as long as he could in England during the warm-
'er months of the year; when it grew too cold he
went back to Jamaica. Without an effort, he was
making more and more money. "Little Tom will
be a very rich man in time," he would often mut-
ter to himself with glee.
"You know I have a nephew, don't you, Hamil-
ton?" asked the old man suddenly.
"You have told me so often," said Hamilton;
"but I have never seen him."
"Ah, yes, I had forgotten-an old man's fading
memory. Of course you haven't seen him. Little
Tom lives in England; he has now entered one of
their posh schools-damned foolish word "posh"; I
seem to have got into the way of using it. He is
always asking me to take him out to Jamaica, and
one day he will go, perhaps before I am dead. But
he will not take charge of Byebrook before he is
twenty-one: he should have left Cambridge by then-

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did I tell you he is going from Harrow to Cam-
"No, I can't remember that you did."
"Well, he is; and, after he leaves what they
call here the 'varsity, though university seems to
me to be a much better word, he will take possession
of Byebrook. I shall be dead by then, but I want
your son Robert to continue in charge of the pro-
perty till Little Tom is of age, and I shail ask my
nephew in my will to continue to ke-ep Robert-in
fact I don't see how he could manage without him
Robert makes fifteen hundred a year now dud has a
house and servants and everything else. He will
make two thousand five years' time. Not bad,
Hamilton, for a young fellow who doesn't risk a
penny of capital. I want you to advise Robert to
stay on at Byebrook after I am dead; while I am
alive, of course, he wouldn't dream of leaving."
Mr. Hamilton smiled to himself at the posi-
tiveness of Mr. Byebrook, at the latter's implicit
faith in the compelling dominance of his wishes so
long as he himself could utter them. He answered:
"I don't doubt that Robert will do what you
want. He is very happy at Byebrook."
"And does well financially, my friend; young
men have more use for money than you and I had
in the old Jamaica days.
"There's another thing. Until Little Tom is
twenty-one I want you and Robert, and two other
good men over here who are connected with Ja-
maica. to be the trustees of Byebrook and of every-
thing else that I shall leave to my nephew. I shall
fix that up to-morrow with a good firm of lawyers.
Then I am coming back to that damned country. ..
I want to die there, Hamilton."
"But why on earth do you harp upon dying,
Mr. Byebrook?"
"I have a premonition, my friend."
The hall-door opened swiftly, no preliminary
ring announcing the new arrival. A fresh, hand-
some boy burst into the room and rushed impe-
tuously up to Mr. Byebrook. Perceiving a strang-
er, he halted and bowed politely. "My nephew,
Little Tom, Hamilton; this is the Mr. Hamilton
you have heard me talk about, Little Tom."
"How-do-you-do, sir?" said the youngster, put-
ting out his hand with a charming smile. "Uncle
is always talking about you and your son, Mr.
"Both of them excellent men, my boy, who will
be by your side when I am gone. Well, what do you
think of him Hamilton?"
"Uncle!" cried Tom.
"I think what you yourself think," said Hamil-
ton, looking with unfeigned admiration at the
sturdy boy- with the strong features who was
still standing. The lad had not yet finished grow-
ing, but one could see that he would not be tall.
Yet strength was in him, and not only strength of
body but strength of character. Already his fea-
tures had assumed a resolute cast; his hair was
reddish, his eyes clear blue, his complexion a heal-
thy white, and even the summer sun had not wither-
ed from his cheeks the ruddy hue imparted by the
English climate. He was as fine a specimen of
English boyhood as could be seen anywhere. His
great-uncle gazed upon him with eyes of devotion,




Commission Merchants







and drew him to perch upon the arm of the chair in
which he sat.
"*A perfect Byebrook. Hamilton." cried the old
gentleman in tones of delight. "Even in .tature he
is like most of his peopl.. This bry will yet do
gri.ear thnli.tc for Jamaica--a nmist Liugrateful c.ountry.
S. I shall be back there very h,,rtly."
"And wvih you were there now. uncl-. Oh yes,
I Lnow You see. Mr. Hainliilni. .iicle ome-. ovr
ev,-ry year to see me,. but he I- always longing fur
Jamainca. 'Yet he w,'n't -.ake lu- ...ut foi e\en a
couple of weeks with him'
"All in good time. Little Tom. all in good time.
Isn't he a perfect ByL-brook. Hamiltron?"
"'Yeq. O yes." mulrmur id Hamuiltlun hastily: bie
v.-ondered how tihe old man could i.l 'tret that the
c.nly maleh Byehroork be had ever mi-t was himself.
But there w.as sonietbhi ei-r in Halilton's, mind.
Old T-omt Ma only the By-h-brook ,.if hnl rec:ollei.tions
in the lad: Hamilton saw sonuithin,, iof Eina in tue
lanrl .rron- miuth and chin. while hi forehead was
Jailles G;or'dni 's.
And the hair .ud the eye1 .il:... There could
be on d(-ubt of that.
But the whole fa'ie wias a tr'irngpe one. e\en io
early, than that ,f Jim. Hamilton noticed that Ito.
He was much shaken. Elma Bybroui-k ior Bod-
kin had guile to Kingston many yeai.s ago with her
grandtinle. only once. about a month aei-ir. had she
come hack to Byebrook. and there she had remained
for less than two day4. Aftir ltiai Mr Byebrijok bad
visited his ereat plantation but rarely until same time
after Robert Hamilton had taken tfll charge of it.
He never -poke of Elma, and no une dared ask him
about ht.r: no one wished to be ignominiously iu-
hilt'-d. Changes had taken place on the property
and in the neighbourhood. old William had died, all
of his children had gone elsewh-re: Edith had some
time since migrated to Kingston; the Fullard girls
had married and long left the island: Mr. and Mrs.
Fullard themselve- were now living near Montego
lu v: gradually the memory of Elma Byebrook had
faded, and no one spoke of her nowa Her mother
still Iv\ed. But she too never mentioned Elma's
name. She v.as still working, had bought land else-
wlherE; and ass farming it, and making money aid
saving it. But she lived alone, more isolated than
she had ever been She did not seem t.o wish it other-
And now everything stood out clearly in Hamil-
ton's mind. Now he understood the sudden depart-
ure of Mr. Tom Byebrook and his grandniece to King-
ston. This child was Gordon's- where was Elma?
Dead? That was possible. indeed probable, for ihe
girl would nevrr have allowed her son to be entirely
separated from her while she lived. And for this
boy old Tom Byebrook had employed Robert Hamil-
ton i.) turn Byebrook into a magnificent plantation.
and this boy was to return to Jamaica at twenty-one
to become one of the lords of the country-the chief
of all of them if he wished to be that. Hamilton saw
it cl.arly. He looked at Mr. Byebrook with a glint
of admiration in his eyes: admiration of the old
man. of his lone determined sil'ncee isto to te boy's pa-
I'-ltace., of his unstwervilig resolve 1I make him a
Byebrook that should eclipse any of those whio bad
horne that name. Aod this lad w:ouild do it too,


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thought Hamilton. Already he had the face and 'yp-
pearauce of one who wxas born to command.

"I thought I shouldd tell you about thie lad and
his resemblance to you. Jim. I said to myself you
might be interested." It was the following day andi
Hamilton was at Jamnit- Gordon's plate II l tlh
"Thank-. ;G-orge." Jitm irelled. "I am sure that
he is miy son "
"Yru knew nothing about him before. I am cer-
lain, Jim "
"No When- I wrote to ask you about Elma you
always said the sauie thing: she was living with
*the old man in Klu iastoii How could I kn ow?"
"I told you all I kniw Imyself at the time. Jim."
"And Elma i, dead'
'I believe s, "
"Because of nie. n',. ldoibi.'
*"I wouldn't put it that way: why assume lthai'"
"Btcause I believe it'
"There i no prooff"
"But the boy lives. what shall I do abhi.nt him?
I have a responsibility ."
"Jim. one reason why I decided to speak to you
about him was this by somi t.hance or other you
might have comei to learn something about him. Anti
then, impulsively, you mieht have decided that it
was your duty to do something for hitn-e-verythin
you could. That would have been disastrous."
"There are no buts. That lad will be much
richer than you are. He is well looked after: he is
happy; he has minore than you could ever give hinm.
He believes his father aI well as his mother is dead.
he may even have been shown his father's tomn "
"But there is no tombb. and I am not dead, Georgr-
You are wandering."
"You don't know old 'lom Bvebrook. What was
to prevent him from having some dying man adopt
his name. and then. when he was dead. having the-
corpse buried and entombed under the new name:
He would do it. Jim: I fancy that something of the
sort is what he has done. That old man sticks at
nothing if he has a serious object in view.
"So I tell you again that the lad is all right.
Only you and I and old Byebrook-and. yes, Mrs.
Bodkin-know the truth. Let it rest with us. Don't
try and dig up the past You have other child-

"Two girls and a boy. yes Poor lma .
poor little lad who does not know his own fatltbr.
George. I cannot trll you how I feel."
I think I understand: but don't talk about -poor
little Tomn'." smiled Hamilton. "If Little Tom heard
you he would probably think you dotty and pity .\ju
for not being a Byebrook: he has all the family pride
iof his greatiuncle. Poor'! He never ctl.ulid be. He is
conscious of no want "
"I cannot tell my wife of this." murmured G, r.
(i. i, as if he were talking to himself
"Ylou could not think of that."

"We are very happy; yet I have no right to be
*For God's sake. man. talk sense!" exploded
Hamilton. exasperated at last.
"I will not tell her, George; but there is one
thing I feel I should do, and I will. But it will not
harm young Tom Byebrook."
"What is it?"
'I shall not tell you, and you are never likely
it know. Indeed, you will never know. even if you
Iive to he ninety."

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| Haberdashery, Hosiery, Fancy Goods,

Enamelware, Tinware, Hardware,

Glassware, Chinaware, Earthenware,



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THOSE who had known Byebrook twenty-five
years ago would hardly have recognized it now.
Gone were the tangles of wood and shrubs, the old
stone fences of the cattle pens, the neglected paths
through the property. On all four sides of the
Great House stretched wide fields, almost forests,
of bananas, an eternal spread of greenery, and where
the cattle was kept the pastures were lush with
grass the long spears of which glistened with a me-
tallic lustre in the rays of the sun.
The Great House had also been transformed.
No weeds grew near it now, no broken flagstones
were to be seen in the steps leading up to the high-
er Forch. The building had been renovated, its in-
terior decorated, its roof renewed and painted; and
below, in the yard, the servants' quarters had been
rebuilt, while, at some distance away, stood a large
two-storied house with red roof and wide railed ver-
andah, the home of the Attorney, Mr. Robert
In the Great House, when he was at Byebrook,
lived young Mr. Thomas Byebrook. He was twenty-
seven years of age.
Fair of complexion, with russet hair, clear, com-
manding blue eyes, slightly aquiline nose, strong,
determined chin, he strikingly resembled one cf
the portraits that hung in his dining room, the
picture of an ancestor who had been a power in the
land over a hundred years ago, and who also had
been named Thomas Byebrook. Mr. Byebrook's great-
uncle had been dead some fourteen years now, but
he had seen and commented upon the boy's growing
resemblance to this forbear of his. This likeness had
made the old man happy in the last few years of his
Young Tom Byebrook was sitting in his office go-
ing over some letters that had just arrived. Opposite
to him sat a man nearly twice his age, swarthy, a
competent looking, self-possessed person whose atti-
tude suggested paternalism where the young man
was concerned. Robert Hamilton. in fact, was still
a bachelor, and -iuce we must bestow our affection
on someone, and since Tom possessed many ster-
ling qualities-not ihe least among which, from Ro-
bert Hamilton's point of view, was his absolute trust
in, his sincere appreciation of, his attorney-Robert
cared for the younger man as though he were a
"Read this, Robert," said Tom, throwing over a
letter to Hamilton.
Robert took it carelessly, began to read it, and
presently a slight frown furrowed his brows.
The letter a- signed "James Gordon," the writ -r
mentioned that he heard much about Jamaica from
his late father, who had died but a few months be-
fore, and had heard about Byebrook also and the
old man who had owned it once. He was coming
out to Jamaica, would like to call upon Mr. Thomas
Byebrook, and would do so shortly after he had land.
ed if there was no objection.
"I don't see why you should have this young
fellow inflict himself upon you, Tom." said Robert
Hamilton a trifle shortly; "he-he has no sort of
claim upon you, and may only make himself a nuis-
ance. I wouldn't answer his letter if I were you."


I For the Home.


"Mly dear Robert. is this your boasted Jamaica
hospitality?" laughed Tomn "Good Lord. man. lhit
isn't like you at all. Besides. there is no need for
me to answer that letter. Just glance at the date.
James Gordon must have posted it a day or [two he-
fore he sailed in the direct boat for Jamaica It hase
come by way of America. don't you see; therefore
Gordon is well on the way to Jamaica now. h'e should
be here within a week."
"Yo:u are right." said Robert dryly. "he ha-n't
given you an opportunity of showing that you don't
want to see him."
"But why shouldn't I want to see him? What
difference can it make whether he cc.-nes here or
doesn't ?"
"01h. well. none I supFose: hiit it doesn't strike
me as quite fair that everybody ic:ring out from
England should lw ant to be specially received by ii
out here."
"Everybordy doesn't. And the truth is I am ra-
ther plea-ed that this Gordon, a hose father kn,m:
(tlar -'Id U'ncle Tom, should want to- viir mni: thor
hhows a pr,.per sort of feeltin. R,lberi. Thi- man's
fathel rmul-t have kn,:,own your father r:-'. no I ciun'e
to think ,f it."
"0. yes. he did; in fact. Tom. I knew th- first

James G.jrdon year? agc.-not much. of course, he
was here only for a short time."
"And wasn't he a decent sort of chap?"
"0, quite, but drank a little too much, you und'r-
stand: that was why he didn't stay longer I think
myself," said Robert deliberately. "that he was never
'jlUIt- sane.'
.Well. I Lop his s...n won't be mad." laughed
Tom, 'but. mad or not, since he has written to 6ie
like this. I suppose I had better go to meet him whi-n
he i.omes. The rjnewpapers must have already pub-
lished his name in their Passenger List Now about
the United Fruit Company's bananas you wanted to
speak to me about-"
'Never mind that now. Tom. I remember that
I have to go aud see alter something I had forgot-
ten The bananas can wait."
"Right.o. Bobble. And don't go around locOK-
ing as though the universe were pressing you down.
:Ir I shall believe you are sickening for something"
Robert Hamilton made his way out of the house
as. ,iui:kly as he could. A blow had fallen on him,
suddenly, unexpevredly. He was afraid lest his
youn, chief should see how deeply he was agitated.
"This is hll." he muttered to himself as he enireil
hie car tu drive away. "this is hell"
Fr Rbr,'l it knew everything about y,.ung T'om

* .^
^ ".,;. ,


The tlnest investment in the world is the money

pur into things tor the home. Things that in-

crease in value the longer you live with them.

Such things contribute an everlasting income of

enjoyment to you and bjild a bright future for

your children. For whether business charts swing

up or down, the investments made in fine furni-

ture for a fine home, continue to pay dividends

of pride, joy and comfort!

"Everything For The Home Beautiful"




127-129 HARBOUR ST.,



at Lowest Prices


101-107 PRINCESS ST.

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Full Text

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