the shipshape miracle by clifford d. simak the castaway was a wanted man--but he didn't know how badly he was wanted! [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, january 1963. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] if cheviot sherwood ever had believed in miracles, he believed in them no longer. he had no illusions now. he knew exactly what he faced. his life would come to an end on this uninhabited backwoods planet and there'd be none to mourn him, none to know. not, he thought, that there would be any mourners, under any circumstance. although there were those who would be glad to see him, who would come running if they knew where he might be found. these were people, very definitely, that sherwood had no desire to see. his great, one might say his overwhelming, desire not to see them could account in part for his present situation, since he had taken off from the last planet of record without filing flight plans and lacking clearance. since no one knew where he might have headed and since his radio was junk, there was no likelihood at all that anyone would find him--even if they looked, which would be a matter of some doubt. probably the most that anyone would do would be to send out messages to other planets to place authorities on the alert for him. and since his spaceship, for the lack of a certain valve for which he had no replacement, was not going anywhere, he was stuck here on this planet. if that had been all there had been to it, it might not have been so bad. but there was a final irony that under other circumstances (if it had been happening to someone else, let's say), would have kept sherwood in stitches of forthright merriment for hours on end at the very thought of it. but since he was the one involved, there was no merriment. for now, when he could gain no benefit, he was potentially rich beyond even his own most greedy and most lurid dreams. on the ridge above the camp he'd get up beside his crippled spaceship lay a strip of clay-cemented conglomerate that fairly reeked with diamonds. they lay scattered on the hillside, washed out by the weather; they were mixed liberally in the gravel of the tiny stream that wended through the valley. they could be picked up by the basket. they were of high quality; there were several, the size of human skulls, that probably were priceless. sherwood was of a hardy, rough and tumble breed. once he became convinced of his situation he made the best of it. he made his camp into a home and laid in supplies--digging roots, gathering nuts, drying fish and making pemmican. if he was to be cast in the role of a robinson crusoe, he proposed to be at least comfortably well fed. in his spare time he gathered diamonds, dumping them in a pile outside his shack. and in the idle afternoons or the long evenings, he sat beside his campfire and sorted them out--washing them free of clinging dirt and grading them according to their size and brilliance. the very best of them he put into a sack, designed for easy grabbing if the time should ever come when he might depart the planet. not that he had any hope this would come about. even so, he was a man who planned against contingencies. he always tried to have some sort of loop-hole. had this not been the case, his career would have ended long before, at any one of a dozen times or places. that it apparently had come to an end now could be attributed to a certain lack of foresight in not carrying a full complement of spare parts. although perhaps this was understandable, since never before in the history of space flight had that particular valve which now spelled out sherwood's doom ever misbehaved. perhaps it was well for him that he was not an introspective man. if he had been given to much searching thought, he might have found himself living with his past, and there were places in his past that were far from pretty. he was lucky in many other ways, of course. the planet was not a bad one, a sort of new england planet with a rocky, tumbled terrain, forested by scrubby trees and distinctly terrestrial. he might just as easily have been marooned upon a jungle planet or one of the icy planets or any of another dozen different kinds that were not tolerant of life. so he settled in and made the best of it and didn't even bother to count off the days. for he knew what he was in for. he counted on no miracle. * * * * * the miracle he had not counted on came late one afternoon as he sat, cross-legged, sorting out his latest haul of priceless diamonds. the great black ship came in from the east across the rolling hills. it whistled down across the ridges and settled to the ground a short distance from sherwood's crippled ship and his patched-together shack. it was no patrol vessel, although in his position, sherwood would have welcomed even one of these. it was a kind of ship he'd never seen before. it was globular and black and it had no identifying marks on it. he leaped to his feet and ran toward the ship. he waved his arms in welcome and whooped with his delight. he stopped a hundred feet away when he felt the first whiff of the heat that had been picked up by the vessel's hull in its plunge through atmosphere. "hey, in there!" he yelled. and the ship spoke to him. "you need not yell," it told him. "i can hear you very well." "who are you?" asked sherwood. "i am the ship," the voice told him. "quit fooling around," yelled sherwood, "and tell me who you are." for the sort of answer it had given was foolishness. of course it was the ship. it was someone in the ship, talking to him through a speaker in the hull. "i have told you," said the ship. "i am the ship." "but there is someone speaking to me." "the ship is speaking to you." "all right, then," said sherwood. "if you want it that way, it's okay with me. can you take me out of here? my radio is broken and my ship disabled." "perhaps i can," said the ship. "tell me who you are." sherwood hesitated for a moment, and then he told who he was, quite truthfully. for it suddenly had occurred to him that this ship was as much an outlaw as he was himself. it had no markings and all ships must have markings. "you say you left your last port without proper clearance?" "yes," said sherwood. "there were certain circumstances." "and no one knows where you are? no one's looking for you?" "how could they?" sherwood asked. "where do you want to go?" "just anywhere," said sherwood. "i have no preference." * * * * * for even if they should land him somewhere where he had no wish to be, he still would have a running chance. on this planet he had no chance at all. "all right," said the ship. "you can come aboard." a hatch came open in the hull and a ladder began running out. "just a second," sherwood shouted. "i'll be right there." he sprinted to the shack and grabbed his sack of the finest diamonds, then legged it for the ship. he got there almost as soon as the ladder touched the ground. the hull still was crackling with warmth, but sherwood swarmed up the ladder, paying no attention. he was set for life, he thought. unless-and then the thought struck him that they might take the diamonds from him. they could pretend it was payment for his passage. or they could simply take them without an excuse of any sort at all. but it was too late now. he was almost in the hatch. to drop the sack of diamonds now would do no more than arouse suspicion and would gain him nothing. it came of greediness, he thought. he did not need this many diamonds. just a half dozen of the finest dropped into his pockets would have been enough. enough to buy him another ship so he could return and get a load of them. but he was committed now. there was nothing he could do except to see it through. he reached the hatch and tumbled through it. there was no one waiting. the inner lock stood open and there was no one there. he stopped to stare at the emptiness and behind him the retracting ladder rumbled softly and the hatch hissed to a close. "hey," he shouted, "where is everyone?" "there is no one here," the voice said, "but me." "all right," said sherwood. "where do i go to find you?" "you have found me," said the ship. "you are standing in me." "you mean...." "i told you," said the ship. "i said i was the ship. that is what i am." "but no one...." "you do not understand," said the ship. "there is no need of anyone. i am myself. i am intelligent. i am part machine, part human. rather, perhaps, at one time i was. i have thought, in recent years, the two of us have merged so we're neither human nor machine, but something new entirely." "you're kidding me," said sherwood, beginning to get frightened. "there can't be such a thing." "consider," said the ship, "a certain human who had worked for years to build me and who, as he finished me, found death was closing in...." "let me out!" yelled sherwood. "let me out of here! i don't want to be rescued. i don't want...." "i'm afraid, mr. sherwood, it is rather late for that. we're already out in space." "out in space! we can't be! it isn't possible!" "of course it is," the ship told him. "you expected thrust. there was no thrust. we simply lifted." * * * * * "no ship," insisted sherwood, "can get off a planet...." "you're thinking, mr. sherwood, of the ships built by human hands. not of a living ship. not of an intelligent machine. not of what becomes possible with the merging of a man and a machine." "you mean you built yourself?" "of course not. not to start with. i was built by human hands to start with. but i've redesigned myself and rebuilt myself, not once, but many times. i knew my capabilities. i knew my dreams and wishes. i made myself the kind of thing i was capable of being--not the halfway, makeshift thing that was the best the human race could do." "the man you spoke of," sherwood said. "the one who was about to die...." "he is part of me," said the ship. "if you must think of him as a separate entity, he, then, is talking to you. for when i say 'i', i mean both of us, for we've become as one." "i don't get it," sherwood told the ship, feeling the panic coming back again. "he built me, long ago, as a ship which would respond, not to the pushing of a lever or the pressing of a button, but to the mental commands of the man who drove me. i was to become, in effect, an extension of that man. there was a helmet that the man would wear and he'd think into the helmet." "i understand," said sherwood. "he'd think into the helmet and i was so programmed that i'd obey his thoughts. i became, in effect, a man, and the man became in effect the ship he operated." "nice deal," sherwood said enthusiastically, never being one upon whom the niceties of certain advantages were ever lost. "he finished me and he was about to die and it was a pity that such a one should die--one who had worked so hard to do what he had done. who'd given up so much. who never had seen space. who had gone nowhere." "no," said sherwood, in revulsion, knowing what was coming. "no, he'd not done that." "it was a kindness," said the ship. "it was what he wanted. he managed it himself. he simply gave up his body. his body was a worthless hulk that was about to die. the modifications to accommodate a human brain rather than a human skull were quite elementary. and he has been happy. we have both of us been happy." sherwood stood without saying anything. in the silence he was listening for some sound, for any kind of tiny rattle or hum, for anything at all to tell him the ship was operating. but there was no sound and no sense of motion of any sort. "happy," he said. "where would you have found happiness? what's the point of all this?" "that," the ship said solemnly, "is a bit hard to explain." sherwood stood and thought about it--the endless voyaging through space without a body--with all the desires, all the advantages, all the capabilities of a body gone forever. "there is nothing for you to fear," said the ship. "you need not concern yourself. we have a cabin for you. just down the corridor, the first door to your left." "i thank you," sherwood said, although he was nervous still. if he had had a choice, he told himself, he'd stayed back on the planet. but since he was here, he'd have to make the best of it. and there were, he admitted to himself, certain advantages and certain possibilities that needed further thought. * * * * * he went down the corridor and pushed on the door. it opened on the cabin. for a spaceship it looked comfortable enough. a little cramped, of course, but then all cabins were. space is at a premium on any sort of ship. he went in and placed his sack of diamonds on the bunk that hinged out from the wall. he sat down in the single metal chair that stood beside the bunk. "are you comfortable, mr. sherwood?" "very comfortable," he said. it was going to be all right, he told himself. a very crazy setup, but it would be all right. perhaps a little spooky and a bit hard to believe, but probably better, after all, than staying marooned, back there on the planet. for this would not last forever. and the planet could have been, most probably would have been, forever. it would take a while to reach another planet, for space was rather sparsely populated in this area. there would be time to think and plan. he might be able to work out something that would be to his great advantage. he leaned back in the chair and stretched out his legs. his brain began to click in a ceaseless scurrying back and forth, nosing from every angle all the possibilities that existed in this setup. it was nice, he thought--this entire operation. the ship undoubtedly had figured out some angles for itself which no human yet had thought of. there were a lot of things to do. he'd have to learn the capabilities of the ship and give close study to its personality, seeking out its weak points and its strength. then he'd have to plan his strategy and be careful not to give away his thinking. he must not move until he was entirely ready. there might be many ways to do it. there might be flattery or there might be a business proposition or there might be blackmail. he'd have to think on it and study and follow out the line of action that seemed to be the best. he wondered at the ship's means of operation. anti-gravity, perhaps, so far considered as a source of power. he got up from the chair and paced, three paces across the room. or a fusion chamber. or perhaps some method which had not been and back, restlessly pondering odds. yes, he thought, it would be a nice kind of ship to have. more than likely there was nothing in all of space that could touch it in speed and maneuverability. nothing that could overhaul it should he ever have to run. it could apparently set down anywhere. it was probably self-repairing, for the ship had spoken of redesigning and of rebuilding itself. with the memory of his recent situation still fresh inside his mind, this was comforting. there must be a way to get the ship, he told himself. there had to be a way to get it. it was something that he needed. he could buy another ship, of course; with the diamonds in the sacking he could buy a fleet of ships. but this was the one he wanted. * * * * * maybe it had been pure luck this ship had picked him up. for any other legal ship would probably turn him over to the authorities at its next port of call, but this ship didn't seem to mind who he was or what his record might be. any other ship that was not entirely legal would have grabbed off, not only the diamonds that he had but his discovery of the diamond field. but this particular ship had no concern with diamonds. what a setup, he thought. a human brain and a spaceship tied together, so closely tied together that their identities had merged. he shivered at the thought of it, for it was a gruesome thing. although perhaps it had not meant too much to that old man who was about to die. he had traded an aged and death-marked body for many years of life. perhaps life as a part of a space-traveling machine was better than no life at all. how many years, he wondered, had it been since that old man had translated himself into something else than human? a hundred? five hundred? perhaps even more than that. in those years where had he been and what might he have seen? and, most pertinent of all, what thoughts had run through and congealed and formed within his mind? what was life like for him? not a human sort of life, of course, not a human viewpoint, but something else entirely. sherwood tried to imagine what it might be like, but gave up in dismay. it would necessarily be a negation of everything he lived for--all the sensual pleasure, all the dreams of gain and glory, all the neat behavior patterns he had set up for himself, all his self-made rules of conduct and of conscience. a miracle, he thought. as a matter of fact, there'd been two miracles. the first had been when he had been able to set his ship down without a crackup when the valve had failed. he had come in close above the planet's surface to find a place to land--and suddenly the valve went out and the engine failed and there he'd been, plunging down above the rough terrain. then suddenly he had glimpsed a place where a landing might be just barely possible and had fought the controls madly to hit that certain spot and finally had hit it--alive. it had been a miracle that he had made the landing; and the coming of the ship to rescue him had been the second miracle. the bunk dropped down flat against the wall and his sack of diamonds was dumped onto the floor. "hey, what goes on?" yelled sherwood. then he wished he had not yelled, for it was quite clear exactly what had happened. the support that held the bunk had not been snapped properly into place and had given way, letting down the bunk. "something wrong, mr. sherwood?" asked the ship. "no, not a thing," said sherwood. "my bunk fell down. i guess it startled me." he bent down to pick up the diamonds. as he did, the chair quietly and efficiently slid back against the wall, folded itself up and slid into a slight depression that exactly fitted it. squatted to pick up the diamonds, sherwood watched the chair in horrified fascination, then swiftly spun around. the bunk no longer hung against the wall, also had fitted itself into another niche. cold fear speared into sherwood. he rose swiftly to his feet, turning like a man at bay. he stood in a bare cubicle. with both the bunk and chair retracted, he stood within four bare walls. he sprang toward the door and there wasn't any door. there was only wall. he staggered back into the center of the cubicle and spun around to view each wall in turn. there was no door in any of the walls. the metal went up from floor to ceiling without a single break. the walls began to move, closing in on him, sliding in, retracting. * * * * * he watched, incredulous, frozen, thinking that perhaps he'd imagined the moving of the walls. but it was not imagination. slowly, inexorably, the walls were closing in. had he put out his arms, he could have touched them on either side of him. "ship!" he said, fighting to keep his voice calm. "yes, mr. sherwood." "you are malfunctioning. the walls are closing in." "no," said the ship. "no malfunction, i assure you. a very proper function. my brain grows tired and feeble. it is not the body only--the brain also has its limits. i suspected that it might, but i could not know. there was a chance, of course, that separated from the poison of a body, it might live in its bath of nutrients forever." "no!" rasped sherwood, his breath strangling in his throat. "no, not me!" "who else?" asked the ship. "i have searched for years and you are the first who fitted." "fitted!" sherwood screamed. "why, of course," the ship said calmly, happily. "a man who would not be missed. no one knowing where you were. no one hunting for you. no one who will miss you. i had hunted for someone like you and had despaired of finding one. for i am humane. i would cause no one grief or sadness." the walls kept closing in. the ship seemed to sigh in metallic contentment. "believe me, mr. sherwood," it said, "finding you was a very miracle." generously made available by internet archive (https://archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 43051-h.htm or 43051-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/43051/43051-h/43051-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/43051/43051-h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/upmazarunifordia00lavarich up the mazaruni for diamonds by william j. lavarre veteran scout boston marshall jones company 1919 copyright · 1919 by marshall jones company the·plimpton·press norwood·mass·u·s·a _to my mother and father_ _foreword_ lavarre is adventuring in the right spirit. his diamond hunting is instructive as well as interesting. he has brought back from the field information which will help others who intend to traverse similar trails. though younger than most explorers he has carefully endeavored to prepare himself for the field by study and travel. he believes in the theory of hard work and preparedness, the essentials of the successful explorer. in these days when there is so much endeavor which seems to be for the acclaim of the crowds and the deification of self, it is refreshing to meet one who seems to be in it for the love of the work and the good which he may open up for others in the field of exploration. william j. lavarre was born in richmond, va., august 4, 1898. his love for the outdoors was demonstrated early, for he camped in the open at the age of ten and as a boy scout a few years later won a contest for leadership of the honor patrol of the new york city organization of the boy scouts of america. he also won sixteen merit badges in the same scout order. he was one of twenty-four scouts chosen from the east to build a trail in maine for the forestry department of the united states in 1914. he has specialized in geology and mineralogy and shown considerable skill in the use of the camera. he is now in the field as scientific assistant and photographer of the rice amazon expedition. his diamond hunting trip was a success. we look forward to his return from the amazon with an interesting experience and a successful exploration. anthony fiala august 11, 1919. contents page chapter i "are you game to try it?" 1 chapter ii "in the land o' mazaruni" 7 chapter iii a fire boat and a native wedding 14 chapter iv jungle days begin 18 chapter v getting acquainted with the natives 22 chapter vi life on the river 29 chapter vii mutiny among the crew 34 chapter viii the glorious fourth 39 chapter ix baboon for dinner 43 chapter x in the indian country 48 chapter xi "uncivilized," but courteous, quiet and clean 56 chapter xii a visit to a native home 62 chapter xiii the snake that disappeared 68 chapter xiv difficulties of jungle travel 72 chapter xv hospitality of the jungle folk 82 chapter xvi cassava cakes and blow-pipes 93 chapter xvii on the march again 101 chapter xviii arrival at the diamond fields 107 chapter xix how the natives hunt and fish 113 chapter xx picking up jungle lore 121 chapter xxi the first diamond! 128 chapter xxii how the precious stones are found 133 chapter xxiii good-bye to the jungle 137 illustrations sketch map _frontispiece_ "jimmy" _facing page_ 4 we worked steadily up the dangerous river 20 a jungle "hotel" 20 once in a while a boat shot past us 46 at times a portage must be made 46 the first jungle indians we saw 52 an indian fisherman 52 "bringing home the bacon" 60 they seemed glad to pose for us 84 jungle huntsmen 84 at fourteen an indian girl must be able to cook cassava 94 a primitive sugar cane press 94 two quick puffs, a flutter, and the bird drops to earth 98 my jungle friends 104 usually our hunters were successful 116 the toucan makes an interesting pet 118 abraham, felling a woodskin tree 122 preparing woodskin bark for canoe 124 finished woodskin canoe with ends open 124 our jungle home 128 an interior view of our "logie" 132 a long tom diamond washer 134 jiggers separating diamonds from gravel 134 up the mazaruni for diamonds chapter i "_are you game to try it?_" "here's a queer looking letter," i said to myself one day early in the spring of 1917. i could hardly make out the postmark. it was something of a surprise to receive a letter from british guiana, as i finally deciphered it, but the contents were even more surprising. the letter was from my friend dudley p. lewis. "i need a partner in a diamond mining venture," he wrote. "are you game to try it out with me? it will be a long trip full of adventures and dangers, but there are diamonds here to be had for the digging." he wrote much more. i became enthusiastic on the moment and was determined to go if possible. i had little trouble in arranging this and wrote him that i would come. on the tenth of may i sailed from new york on the steamship _saga_ to barbados, where lewis met me. he was delighted and quite as enthusiastic as i. he had been in georgetown, british guiana, for a while on other business and had learned about the diamond fields away up the famous, and treacherous, mazaruni river. from barbados we sailed away to south america on the steamer _parima_. i was surprised to find georgetown such a large city, 60,000 inhabitants, and, as the buildings were all one and two stories, one can imagine how it spread out. "can we start to-morrow?" i asked, after we had reached our hotel. lewis laughed. "hardly," he said. "this isn't like a trip back home where you can toss some clothes and clean collars in a bag, buy your ticket, catch your train and be off." i had not given much thought to exactly how we were to travel. but i soon learned that to journey up a great river for hundreds of miles with a score of natives, taking all the food for a six months' stay, was a matter that could not be arranged in a moment. the starting out place for the trip was twenty miles from georgetown at a town upriver called bartica. but as bartica has only twenty inhabitants we bought everything in georgetown. there we busied ourselves with the preparations. it seemed as though there were a million details to look after, and i got an idea of what an explorer is up against, as we had to outfit ourselves about the same as an exploring party would. "we must get lead guns, beads, mirrors and other trinkets," said lewis. "what's the big idea?" i asked. "are we to open a five and ten cent store for the native indians up there?" "not exactly," laughed lewis, "but we must have something to trade with. what use is a silver or gold coin to a native back hundreds of miles in the jungle? he'd rather have a twenty-five cent kitchen knife than a fifty dollar gold piece." the "lead guns" are not lead, as i learned, but the very cheapest sort of cheap guns, manufactured in england solely for trading with semi-civilized and uncivilized people. no live american boy would take one as a gift, but i found that the natives treasured them above everything else they possessed. we were fortunate in finding a dutch captain, a man who has navigated the turbulent waters of the mazaruni for twenty years. and he picked out a skilled "bowman," a native who stands at the bow of your boat, with an immense paddle, and fends it off rocks, gives steering directions and acts generally as a sort of life preserver for the boat. then there was "jimmy." he was a negro, rather undersized and as black as the inside of a lump of coal. he appointed himself our special guardian, a sort of valet, overseer and servant. he looked after our personal belongings, cooked our food, made our tea and devoted himself exclusively to us. twenty paddlemen were also engaged. sixteen of them were quite as black as our jimmy, and four of them were in varying shades from tobacco brown to light molasses candy tint. these latter were of mixed dutch and negro blood. "they are 'bovianders,'" said the captain. "queer tribal name," i commented. the captain laughed. "not exactly a tribal name," he explained. "they live up the river quite a distance and so it is said that they come from 'above yonder.' they have twisted that into 'boviander,' so that the word always means people who live up the river." [illustration: "jimmy"] while we were engaging our staff the captain was getting boats for us. he selected a great fifty-foot boat seemingly as heavy as a locomotive. it looked like a crude craft, made of great thick planks. i soon learned the necessity of such a heavy boat. we also had a small boat for emergency and for little side trips here and there. next came the "eats." we had to take enough food for ourselves, our twenty-two helpers and partly enough for the native indians that we were to employ later. when the big boat was finally loaded properly under the skillful direction of the captain, we had five tons of food aboard and this included no meat at all except salt fish. there was no need to take meat, for game and fresh fish were so plentiful that we were never without them. there was a queer, tent-shaped rig amidships of our big craft. beneath this was room enough for us to stay sheltered during the heat of the day. white men can seldom stand the midday heat in british guiana. packed all about us was the food. jimmy climbed to the top of the pile. the captain took his position aft. the sturdy boviander bowman took his place at the bow with his immense paddle, the twenty paddle men took their places in four groups of five, one group on each side, forward and aft of the cargo. then they shoved off and began their peculiar, noisy paddling. the little town of bartica fell away behind us as we slid out into the broad expanse of the old mazaruni. we were off at last, on our great diamond mining adventure! chapter ii "_in the land o' mazaruni_" eagerly i scanned the waters and either shore, determined that nothing should escape me, that i should see everything and enjoy all that there was to be enjoyed. the captain sat, complacently smoking, at the stern of the boat, the great steering paddle, tied to the stern with thongs, in his hands. he looked as bored as if crossing the street to buy an evening paper. how could he, when there was such glorious adventure, i wondered. but afterwards i realized that twenty years of navigating the river had somewhat dulled the novelty of it for him. with him it was work, and nothing more. to a boy used to paddling our own style of light canoes, the paddling methods of those black men seemed the most awkward in the world. yet they "got there," and i doubt if any crew of white men, without years of practice, could have propelled the heavy craft as easily as they. their method was to bend forward, holding the paddle horizontally and sliding it along the gunwale with a loud scraping noise, then suddenly lean over sidewise and dig the paddle viciously into the water, giving a sturdy backward tug with it, still scraping the paddle against the gunwales. at the end of this stroke they returned the paddle to the horizontal position with a loud thumping noise, sat up straight, then leaned forward and repeated the stroke. they kept perfect time. no varsity crew boys ever worked in unison at the oars any better, and they were forever singing. it didn't matter whether they were paddling twenty feet across a narrow inlet or making an all day pull upstream, they always had music with their paddling. they were crude songs, partly english that was scarcely understandable, partly native dialect and partly something else that may have been handed down to them from their ancestors who were captured in africa so many generations ago and brought over by the early dutch and english slave traders. if the water was smooth and open, with no current, our twenty paddle men would sing as softly as the whispering of a summer breeze. but if there was a current they would sing louder. and the more difficult the paddling, the louder they would sing. in boiling rapids where it took every ounce of their strength and they had to take quick, short strokes to keep going, their voices arose to an almost howling crescendo. soon bartica was lost to view around a point of land. for nearly six months we were to see no more civilization than indian villages here and there, hidden far back from the river bank. as we swung up into the broad river where the current became strong enough to cause the paddlers to use a little extra "elbow grease" they broke into a queer song which i heard so many times after that, that it still rings in my ears. i cannot translate it. i do not know what it means, but imagine that it is some sort of love song to some dusky "lena." this is the way it sounds: "_san, lena, chile, i do love yo'; me know so, hear so, yes! le, le, le, le, le, le, blow, ma booly boy, blow! califo 'ge 'ole! splenty o'gol's for a've been tol' i' th' lan' o' mazaruni!_" we came in sight of another boat. on the mazaruni every boat one sees that is going in the same direction is an "adversary" and every paddler believes that it is his duty to pass it. then you see some fancy paddle strokes, so weird and unusual and grotesque that they are difficult to describe. one would think that they were trying more to awe each other with their paddle gesticulations than with speed. how they race upstream, each determined to get and keep the lead! the captain told me that many lives were lost at rapids because the racing paddlers would give thought only to getting into the narrow passes first and were frequently crashed upon the rocks and overturned. not far from the little town is kalacoon, the biological station where at various times professor beebe and the other scientists take up their intimate studies of tropical life. this station is on a high hill where the mazaruni and essequibo rivers join. it was at this place that colonel roosevelt stopped when he visited the colony. from this point the vegetation on both sides of the river became so dense that it seemed almost like greenish-black solid walls. no huts or signs of human life were visible at first. but finally, with sharp eyes, we got so we could detect a slight opening, a log landing at the water's edge or a faint suggestion of a thatched hut in back of the shore row of trees. it would have been fearfully monotonous but for the fact that lewis and i devised a new sort of game--to see which one could detect the greater number of signs of human habitation. our natives, with sharper eyes, would verify our discoveries. all this was in the boviander section, where the natives come down from "'bove yonder." just before nightfall we reached the foot of the first falls and landed to make camp for the night. before the big boat touched land lewis and i had leaped ashore to stretch our legs. the blacks jumped out into the shoal water and swung the boat into place and made it fast. jimmy began taking ashore our shelters. suddenly he began a frantic search and in despair cried: "no cookum!" "you bet you 'cookum,'" i shouted, "i'm starved." "no cookum! no cookum!" repeated the distracted boy, mournfully. lewis investigated and came back with a long face. "we did a bright thing," he muttered. "what's wrong?" i asked. "left all of our cooking outfit down at the village!" "there's two things to do, go without them or go back and get them," i suggested. "can't go without 'em," said lewis. "then there's one thing to do," i laughed. i was not to be filled with gloom. the prospects of a great adventure were far too joyous. our landing was at the last settlement of the bovianders. these half dutch, half negro natives speak fairly understandable english. i scouted around amongst them, found a good canoe, took three black men and set out downriver. the two paddlers were sturdy boys and, going down with the current, they fairly made that old canoe whizz. it was midnight when we got back to the village. everyone was asleep except the dogs. they greeted us with howls, and many of the men turned out. perhaps they thought they were to be attacked by some savage tribe. but we soon explained, got our cooking outfit, lashed it carefully to the canoe and started back. chapter iii _a fire boat and a native wedding_ there was no speeding up against the current, although the light canoe made better progress than our heavy boats. and then i heard a sound that made me think i was back home. it was the "put--put--put" of a gasoline motor. i was amazed. "fire boat," grunted one of the black men. i hailed it. a dutchman answered and came over to us. it was an ordinary native boat to which he had attached one of those portable motors which may be put on any boat. he was going upstream and gladly took us in tow, much to my delight. otherwise i would not have reached camp until daylight, and the tropical nights (as i afterward learned) are not the sort of nights for anyone, especially a white man, to be out in, because of the terrible dampness and mists as well as insect pests. as we chugged along upriver, my three blacks sitting back and grinning at their luck because they would be paid just the same for the trip although they escaped all of the hard work, there suddenly came across the black water the most weird sounds imaginable. there were shrieks and falsetto laughter, squeaks and tinkles and shrill pipings and heavy stamping. i couldn't imagine what it all meant. "wedding celebration," said the dutchman. "let's put in and see the fun." i stared at the black bank of the river whence came the weird sounds, but could see nothing. finally, as my eyes became accustomed, i caught faint glimmers of light that seemed far inland, miles and miles, i thought. in reality the natives were no more than a quarter of a mile inland, or perhaps less. we found a landing place and, guided by the fearful din and the flickering lights, made our way through the jungle to the higher, dry ground beyond. i had all sorts of visions of great snakes dropping on me and wild jungle beasts grabbing at my heels, but nothing worse than giant mosquitoes came near. we came to the opening and a group of huts. in front of one hut was an improvised porch or platform. the boards were rough, uneven and loosely laid across supports. at one end sat a wrinkled and grizzled old man playing a squeaky fiddle. beside him squatted two younger natives playing flutes. another pounded upon the platform with a cocoanut shell, beating time. we were welcomed with nods and smiles, but the natives could not pause in their festival to do more. they were dancing on that platform. overalls and frayed shirts and rough brogans made up the evening dress of most of the bovianders, but the women were decked out in gaudy skirts and waists. up and down and back and forth over the boards, pouncing and scraping and stamping their feet, they danced and laughed. tallow candles, oil lanterns and here and there kerosene lamps were affixed to hut poles or trees, and by this light the dancers cast amazing shadows over everything, shadows that moved and swayed and intertwined in a most awesome manner. and everyone was talking and laughing at the same time. every fourth word was understandable but there were many dialects and vernaculars. there were cocoanuts to eat and a peculiar sort of cake or bread. we watched the merrymaking for quite a while. the newly weds were cheered by means of peculiar calls when they danced together. i suppose those brown children of the jungle danced all night. we finally grew weary of it all and set out for camp. chapter iv _jungle days begin_ such food as could be eaten without cooking had been served and everyone was asleep except jimmy, who awaited my coming, and tumbled me into a hammock beneath a canvas shelter. i suppose i had slept many hours but it seemed no more than five minutes before i was awakened and crawled out for breakfast. the camp kitchen had been set up, the blacks had already eaten and were getting the boats ready. our breakfast consisted of boiled rice, salt fish and biscuits. the second day up the river was uneventful. there were broad sweeps of water, grand, wide curves and the seemingly endless mile after mile of thick jungle vegetation growing down to the water's edge. that night i had an opportunity to see how such an outfit was handled. we landed in a rather likely spot, not far back from the shore, at five o'clock. some of the blacks brought the kitchen outfit ashore, others cut long poles and put up the canvas shelters. it seems that we took our "hotel" along with us, merely a great canvas cover, and spread it anew at each night's camp. a great pole was placed in the crotch of two trees, about twelve feet above ground, the canvas stretched across this and propped up with shorter poles and ropes. beneath this were stretched two hammocks, one for lewis and one for myself. meanwhile captain peter and the bowman swung their hammocks under the awning of the large boat. our twenty paddlers put up three smaller shelters beneath which they swung their own hammocks. the tropic sun was turning the great mazaruni to a sheet of molten gold, deep blue dusk was falling, this turning to gray, and then the camp fires began to glimmer here and there. the captain and bowman needed no camp fire, sleeping on the boat, but we had our own, and the natives had their own at each shelter. jimmy presided over our fire, made coffee for us and prepared our supper. captain pete and the bowman had charge of the food for the natives. the english laws outline clearly to the last ounce and gramme, just how much food you must give the natives who work for you, to live on. it was interesting to watch captain peter, assisted by the bowman, with their scales, measuring out the rations to our paddlers. the government standard of weekly rations for each man is: flour, 7 pints; salt fish, 1 pound; sugar, 1 pound; rice, three and one-fourth pints; salt pork, 1 pound; dried peas, one and three-quarters pints; biscuits, 1 pound. frequently the men prefer the extra portion of sugar in place of the peas, as the sugar is a delicacy with them, desired above all else. captain peter, through long years of experience, knew just how to divide this weekly allowance into daily portions and the blacks trusted him. in line they would march down to the boat, each with a tin plate, and receive his portion, carefully weighed on the scales, then he would march back to his camp fire and prepare his food as best suited himself. [illustration: a jungle "hotel"] [illustration: we worked steadily up the dangerous river] at the same time each one was given extra tea, sugar and crackers for the light morning meal, to save time in breaking camp. with their pint of flour they baked a cake beside the fire, using the salt from their fish for the seasoning. sometimes boiled plantains were eaten with their supper but these they brought with them as they are not required by the governmental regulations to be furnished them. these plantains are much like bananas, but smaller and really considerably different in taste. then there was game and fish to supply additional meat so that, with the foodstuffs we brought along, everyone fared quite well. as soon as they had eaten and had cleaned their tin plates they crawled into their hammocks and filled their short black clay pipes with tobacco. i must say that it was not a very attractive brand of tobacco, to judge from the odor. that night we gave cigarettes to those who did not have them and after that we sold them cigarette tobacco and papers from our stock at cost. they are extremely fond of them. chapter v _getting acquainted with the natives_ it was at these times, as i soon learned, that there was much amusement to be had with these blacks. i learned of their many superstitions, their ambitions, likes and dislikes and much of the customs of that wild country that could never be learned in any other manner. this i learned both by means of questions and by listening carefully as they talked to each other. their english was about as easy to understand as that of the southern georgia darkey, when they cared to talk it. a "dodo" they told me--and they believed it, too--is a sort of hairy bird-beast twenty feet high which either eats men alive or carries them off to its jungle nest and makes slaves of them. then they would name this or that acquaintance and say, "ah spec' he shuah was et by a dodo, yes suh." caven, one of our paddlers, solemnly assured me that he had seen a dodo. caven looked much like a dodo, or some sort of missing link, himself. he said he was out hunting monkeys and saw one. "he gi' me scar' fo' true," said caven, and he must have seen some weird thing, or dreamed that he did, for his teeth chattered even at the telling of it. these blacks could talk fairly understandable english when it was necessary for them to make themselves clear to us. otherwise they could profess almost absolute ignorance of the language, and among themselves they frequently talked a jargon that would defy any linguist to interpret. our men soon formed themselves into cliques and they stuck to these groupings throughout the long trip. the bovianders kept by themselves; the berbicans (negroes from berbice) by themselves; and the demerarians (who believed themselves to be the salt of the earth) likewise flocked together. we had one barbadian negro. now to a british guiana darkey, a darkey from barbados--one of the leeward islands--is the essence of laziness and good-for-nothingness. i think the british guiana darkey is right. i found that caven and his brother berbicans were really the best of the lot. in every test of strength, bravery, skill and endurance, they led the other blacks. i really did not get my initiation into the mysteries of hammock sleeping in the tropics until the second night because on the first night i tumbled in about three in the morning too tired to know whether i was in a hammock or a feather bed. but on this second night i found myself doubled up like a crescent moon. i twisted and squirmed and wriggled about in my fantastic debut into the brotherhood of hammock sleepers before i discovered that the trick was simple enough, once you got on to it, that of sleeping diagonally across it from head to foot. having made this discovery i arose and got out the victrola we bought in georgetown. it was a small, cheap one, but the best investment i ever made. i don't know what induced me to do this, but with a large assortment of records that machine drove away gloom and dull care through many and many a dreary evening. the blacks enjoyed it immensely, and it seemed strange to be mingling the voices of our opera singers with the screech of monkeys and the howls of red baboons and piping of strange night birds in the tropical jungle. the camp fire died low, at last. fresh lanterns were lighted and the men prepared for sleep. this was no simple matter to them. to me it was the most astonishing sight i had witnessed. they made ready for bed by putting on all of the clothing they possessed. then they wrapped cloths around their hands, feet and necks. some even pulled bags down over their heads and tied them. the "wealthy" blacks had bags for each foot. our empty flour bags became grand prizes to be used for this purpose, which we awarded to the best workers. by the faint camp fire light and flicker of lanterns those natives certainly did look queer, like fantastic goblins, all muffled up. there was little that seemed human about them as they clambered into their hammocks and rolled themselves up, pulling over the flaps until quite lost to view. "does it get so cold at night that we have to wrap up like that?" i asked jimmy. "no suh, dey's feered o' vampire bats. that there is a _part_ protection." i couldn't get the "part protection" meaning of it, and all jimmy would explain was that they had some sort of superstitious "voo-doo" rigmarole performances to keep away the vampires. i was quite excited about it. from early boyhood i had read about the deadly vampire bats that come upon you when you are sleeping and suck your life blood away. secretly i hoped that i would be bitten by one so that i could boast of it when i got back home. the blacks were asleep. by virtue of being a sort of aide-de-camp jimmy was allowed to swing his hammock in a corner of our shelter. he insisted that the lantern be kept burning all night. "no need of it," i told him. "yes suh, they is, mister laver," (which was the best he could do in the way of pronouncing my name). "ef yo' don' bu'n a lantum all night yo' will shuah be annoyed." "annoyed?" i laughed. "uh, huh, annoyed by vampires," he answered, very solemnly. but i couldn't sleep with the lantern light in my eyes and so blew out the light. several times in the night, poor scared jimmy tried to light it, but i yelled at him. neither lewis nor myself was ever bitten by a vampire. sometimes one would alight on my hammock, but fly away without trying to bite me. yet, despite their great care, our blacks were frequently bitten. they would become restless in the night, kick off some of their wrappings and then the vampires would get at them. i have heard that vampires are deadly. i never knew personally of a fatal case. i do know that they always pick out a blood vessel for their biting spot and that they never awaken the sleeper. the more blood they draw, the sounder is the sleep of the victim and the bite does not become painful until the next day. i should say that our crew of blacks must have lost, among them, a couple of quarts of blood during the trip. some of them were quite lame and sore and a bit weakened as a result, but that was all. as near as i can figure it out the vampires prefer the blood from gentlemen of color rather than from pale-faced americans. chapter vi _life on the river_ "daylight! daylight!" it was the stentorian shout of captain peter. he was a human alarm clock. he never failed to awaken at the first gleam of daylight. in the tropics it does not come on with a slow pink dawn as here, but seems to burst through the gray morning sky in a flash. there was a scramble everywhere and all tumbled out of the hammocks. camp fires were lighted, tea was boiling and in a short time everyone was getting into the boat. the natives had our shelters down while we were drinking tea. they came down to the boat with their pots and pans jangling at their sides, and at the captain's cry, "in boats all!" we climbed in, the darkies took up their paddles and began their noisy paddling, singing at the same time. the sun was flaming over the top of the jungle from the distant shore of the river, three quarters of a mile away, and we set out on our journey. lewis and i took seats on top of the canvas where we could see everything. we passed through a wide part of the river full of islands and deep channels and treacherous currents and whirlpools. only a skillful man like captain peter could have guided our boat through the right channels, as some of them contain whirlpools that look smooth enough on the surface but would have dragged even as heavy a craft as our own under without a struggle. some of the islands were a mile in area, some no bigger than a doormat. in and out amongst them we paddled and finally came to a smoother, more open part of the river. "eleven o'clock!" cried captain peter. i looked at my watch. it was just eleven o'clock. "your watch is right, captain," i called. "i have no watch, sir," he replied. "i use god's time." it was a fact, he told time by the sun, and seldom was a minute out of the way. eleven o'clock was always breakfast time. how those black men could paddle up against a strong current towing our smaller boat, from five o'clock to eleven with only a cup of tea was more than i could understand. yet they did it, and worked well and never seemed hungry. at eleven we always went ashore and cooked breakfast, cakes, rice, boiled plantains, salt fish and tea. then we would pile back into the boat again and keep on until just before sunset, trying to make a good landing in time to pitch camp before dark. that long afternoon was tiresome to me. i scanned the deep foliage everywhere in hopes to see many wild beasts and reptiles. i recalled my school geography, with its woodcuts of jungles showing great alligators on the shores, giant boa constrictors writhing in trees, monkeys hopping from branch to branch and queer, bright-colored birds flitting about. this was jungle, surely enough, with such thick vegetation that only crawling things could penetrate it, yet for hours i saw no signs of life there. there were wonderful orchids that would, if they could be brought to new york, sell for fabulous sums. there were queer looking trees, great fronded palms, hanging moss as thick as large hawsers and other growing things that i knew nothing about. in georgetown i had heard tales of giant forty-foot snakes. i never saw one. i did catch a glimpse of a small snake which they told me was deadly poison. he was hanging from a limb over the water. we were paddling close inshore to avoid a current. one of the blacks saw it and in a flash knocked it far away into the stream with a blow of his paddle and kept on paddling, because to him this was a common incident. his eyes were trained to see such things. that night we camped at topeka falls, or just below them, and the roar lulled me to sleep. i discovered that the first part of our trip upriver was not as full of adventures as i had hoped. but adventure came in good time. the routine was the same, night after night, but there were many new things of interest to see, many narrow escapes and considerable trouble in one way and another. at this camping place i stripped and was about to take a swim. "hey, quit that," shouted lewis. "i won't hurt your old river," i laughed. "you won't come out alive, sir," said the captain. "there isn't an alligator or crocodile or whatever you call 'em in sight," i insisted and started to dive. jimmy restrained me. "no go in. fish eatum up," he said. i laughed at the idea of a fish eating me up. the captain tossed a salt fish into the water. there was a swish and a big fish came and grabbed it. i didn't get a very clear look at the fish but he looked bigger than a whale and his teeth seemed altogether too prominent for me to fool with. i discovered that the river was full of "perai," a decidedly savage fish extremely fond of human beings. one of them will devour a man in a short while. i gave up my plan of having a swim and lewis and i satisfied ourselves by sitting on the edge of the small boat and splashing water over each other. chapter vii _mutiny among the crew_ our fifth night was saturday. we did not intend to travel or work on sunday. we selected a splendid camp site. heretofore the blacks had waited and given us the best camping place. but we had been treating them so well that they thought our kindness to them was not kindness at all, but fear of them. and so they started to make _their_ shelter on the best spot. "you can't have that place," i said. "we got it," grinned one of the men. most of the others stuck by him. one or two slunk off. "go down there," i commanded. "we stay here," he declared and stood his ground. i was in an uncomfortable position. if i let them have their way this time there would be no living with them. if i got in a fight--they were, after all, twenty-two blacks to three whites--they could overpower us. suddenly i had a vision of how they would abuse us if i gave in. i could see them grinning at each other, believing that we were afraid of them. that situation would be unbearable. i turned on the black man and pointed with my left hand down the slope. "get down there and stay down!" i commanded. "i won't--" he didn't say any more. my fist shot out and took him under the ear and he went over like a stick of wood. then i wheeled to face the others. i really expected a fight, but the blacks stared at their fallen companion who rolled down the slope, their eyes bulging, and before i had time to bark out a short command for them to get out, they hastily snatched up their belongings and ran down the hill. i stood there a moment, waiting to let my anger cool off a little to make sure that i would not say things or do things unnecessarily severe or that i would regret. then i strode down to where they were grouped and where the first black was dazedly rubbing his chin. when they saw me approach they again dropped their things and started to run away. "don't run. you are all right there," i shouted. they paused and looked at me suspiciously. "we are running this little outfit," i said to them, pointing to lewis, "and we are hiring you to work for us. you know your places. keep them and you will get good treatment, otherwise you will be the sorriest niggers in british guiana. for every wrong that you do, you shall be punished. for every good thing that you do you shall be rewarded. we are treating you kindly because it is the right thing to do, not because we are afraid of you. your punishment for attempting to dispute our authority shall be to sleep to-night without your shelter cloth!" then i picked up their shelter cloth, turned my back on them and walked away. to be quite truthful, i was not a little frightened when i turned my back, fearing treachery, yet it was the only thing to do. i knew that i had to make them believe that i was without fear of them or of anything else, otherwise i would not win their respect or co-operation. meekly they arranged to hang their hammocks without the shelter cloth, seeming to take it for granted that they had this penalty coming to them for the way they had acted. "you acted like a veteran explorer," said old captain peter to me. "you did just right, boy. if you had given in they would not have worked, they would have stolen everything and they would have abused you during all the trip." most of the white men that these native darkies knew had been of a rough sort, adventurous dutchmen and others, who kicked them about and treated them without the least regard until the poor black boys--we call all blacks "boys"--thought that it was the white man's natural way. when we showed kindness to them and full regard for their comfort they mistook it for fear. and, thinking that we were afraid of them, they decided to run things themselves. it did not take them long to learn that american white men are not brutes and that when they worked hard and acted on the square they would be treated with kindness. and i am sure no group of native blacks, as a whole, ever worked more faithfully than this bunch after they had learned their lesson. there are always a few exceptions. one or two became lazy, one or two tried to steal diamonds, later, but we had our own methods of handling them. for the first time in my life i learned by direct experience the value of superiority of intelligence. we white men, being mentally far superior to the blacks, could rule them. had they known their own strength they could have overpowered us at any time. and i recalled that in all of my histories the same has held good. the mentally superior people have ruled the less intelligent. chapter viii _the glorious fourth_ this was our fifth night of camping on the banks of the mazaruni. we were to be two nights here, as we did not intend to travel or work on sunday. by the time we had our shelters erected and this little mix-up with the blacks had been settled, lewis suddenly looked up from his notebook in which he was keeping a sort of journal, and said, "say!" "say it," i remarked, lazily, from my hammock where i was resting. "whoop-ee!" shouted lewis, leaping to his feet. "what's got you?" i demanded. "is it a vampire down your neck or a crocodile up your trousers leg?" "this, my beloved fellow american, happens to be the fourth day of july, in the year of our lord nineteen hundred and seventeen, and the one hundred and forty-first year of our country's independence!" was his reply, whereupon i stared at him a moment and then i, too, leaped up and emitted a war whoop. fourth of july in a far-away jungle! in the british guiana wilds we of course couldn't do just as we would have done back in the united states, but we did the next best thing. while he was getting out some firearms i dug up several flags we had with us and soon the stars and stripes were much in evidence. we rigged a pole in the center of our camp, raised our largest flag and, with hats off, repeated the oath of allegiance. then we ran the colors up on our boats and stuck the smaller flags about in various places. our next move was a bit of noise. "bang-bang-bang-bang!" went our repeating rifles. then we shot our revolvers and finally we improvised a "cannon" out of a hollow log, filled it with blasting powder from our stock for mining, attached a fuse and kept up our firing of small arms until sunset, which was then but a few minutes coming. lewis lighted the fuse. i stood by at the flag and began to lower it. "whang!" it certainly was some explosion. bits of the old log flew in every direction. quickly i lowered the flag, for that final explosion was our "sunset gun." there were some scared blacks in our party. they thought we had surely gone crazy. those who had attempted to assert themselves when we landed were certain that we intended to kill them. but captain peter explained to them that it was our national holiday and that we were celebrating, and this made them feel better. i ordered an especially good feast that night, some tinned fruits and double portions of food for all. then we got out the victrola and i selected all of the old war songs and all of our patriotic music that we had, and for two hours lewis and i made a bluff at singing everything from "yankee doodle" and "columbia the gem of the ocean" to "america" and "the star spangled banner." it was the most unusual fourth of july celebration i had ever experienced and, now that we are having sane fourths at home, i believe we burned more gunpowder away up there in the jungles of british guiana on the banks of the mazaruni than was burned in half the cities at home. chapter ix _baboon for dinner_ sunday we sat about camp, reading and chatting for a while. then we heard the peculiar roaring of the wild red baboons, and the blacks wanted to go into the jungle and shoot some, as these men are extremely fond of the meat. off a party of us went, through the thick jungle and into the more open forests on the uplands back from shore. again i kept my eyes open for the giant snakes i had been told about. but i saw none. finally some of the blacks, circling ahead, came upon some of the red baboons and we heard their shots. hurrying on to get into the fun i heard one howl close to me. finally i made him out, high in a tree. by good luck i got him with the first shot and he came tumbling down at my feet, quite dead and one of the most hideous looking beasts to be found. my appetite was not whetted in the least at thought of eating him. the blacks came back with two more which they had got after a dozen or more shots. the fact that i dropped one the first shot increased their respect for me because it indicated that i was a dead shot. i did not deny it, although the truth was that i was by no means a crack marksman. on the way back i suddenly let out a yell and tried to shake something from the back of my hand. from the feeling i was sure it was a red hot poker, jabbed quite through my hand. what i did see was a small red ant. he had hooked his biting apparatus into the skin of my hand and i had to pull him off. there must have been some sort of poison on him for sharp pains, like needles of fire, darted through my hand and up my arm. it was an hour or more before the pain went away. jimmy hailed our arrival with the baboons with delight and proceeded at once to dress and cook the one i had bagged. both lewis and myself were rather skeptical about eating any. however, we had been without our customary quantity of fresh meat and decided to try some. jimmy boiled some of it with salt pork, seasoning it well. very gingerly lewis and i tasted it. the meat was dark, very tender and, to our surprise, tasted much like rabbit or gray squirrel meat. "i feel like a cannibal, eating baboon," laughed lewis. "darwin said we were related to monkeys, not baboons," i argued. "well, a baboon belongs to the same family. i feel as though i were dining on a distant relative." but we soon learned to overcome such feelings and the meat was really excellent. how the darkies did feast on it! there wasn't an unpicked bone or a shred of it left by the time they were finished. monday, our seventh day on the river, found us in the midst of some perilous rapids and facing some tough propositions in the way of portages. in the shallow waters there was no danger from the perai, or man-eating fish, and the darkies could leap out, fasten a line at the bow and two at the stern and haul the craft up over ledges to still and deep water. but frequently it meant that we were to pile out and lighten the boat by removing the five tons of supplies! twice we had to carry those five tons of provisions and other supplies two or three hundred yards around portages while the boys hauled the heavy boat up the ledges. to make matters worse, there was a drizzling rain. after we got further up the river we had less trouble with rains because they came regularly, morning and night, without fail. we made a camp in the rain and ate beneath our shelters. early in the forenoon of the next day we came within sight of caburi, the largest falls on the mazaruni river. at this point the puruni river joins the mazaruni. it was a big job to unload and carry our provisions and other equipment up over the high ledges by hand, for while it was only a carry of about a hundred yards, it was difficult clambering up over steep ledges of the falls with them. it took us more than half the day just to get over the falls and load again. i had been taking a number of pictures, but i lost many of them because i did not know that the warm water of the tropics would ruin the negatives. the developing tank is excellent at home, but down there in torrid british guiana where the water is always from 75 to 80 degrees above zero in temperature, not even the tanks would save them, the heat of the water softening and ruining the emulsion on the celluloid films. the only way i could do, as i afterwards learned, was to take the pictures and then seal the exposed films in tin boxes and wait until i got back to a cooler climate or to civilization where i could get ice to put in the fluids. [illustration: once in a while a boat shot past us] [illustration: at times a portage must be made] chapter x _in the indian country_ over the caburi falls we found a broad expanse of still water, smooth and, while the current was fairly swift, by no means like the treacherous rapids below. "better navigating now, until almost up to the big bend, sir," said captain peter. the "big bend" was a name to conjure with for lewis and me, for away up the mazaruni were the diamonds, where the river makes a sharp bend and begins to almost double in its tracks. this is due to the hilly formation and the lowlands between the hills. "this is the indian territory," added the captain, whereupon i became instantly alert, for i was anxious to see the real natives of this wild country. our blacks are called "native blacks," but in truth they are no more native to british guiana than are the negroes of the united states native to north america. they all had the same ancestors, the blacks of africa who were brought over in slave ships to be sold. the reason the indians live in the upper reaches of the river was plain enough, for here the water was smooth and navigable for their peculiar light dugouts and their eggshell-like woodskins, canoes made of bark. we had no more than swept around the first great bend in the broad expanse of still water above the falls than we saw a canoe loaded down with an indian family and their possessions. "good!" exclaimed captain. "we will get them to hunt for us and have plenty of fresh meat and good fish. i will call them." then he did a peculiar thing. instead of shouting to them, and they were surely nearly half a mile away, he called in a very low tone of voice, softer by far than he would use in speaking to the bowman on our own craft. "yoo-hoo. yoo-hoo," he said, over and over, a dozen times. "they'll never hear you. let me show you how to shout to them," i said. "no-no," warned the captain. "a great shout will frighten them. their ears are so well trained to every sound of the river and jungle that they can hear almost every sound. a loud noise startles them." "yoo-hoo," he repeated again, in a low tone. the indians heard, turned their heads and studied us and then began to paddle toward us. gradually our boats came together and i studied them eagerly. it was a strange sight to me, the first really uncivilized people i had ever seen. before they got to us one of the men stopped paddling and called, in a low tone: "me-a-ree! me-a-ree!" "me-a-ree!" repeated captain peter. "what does that mean?" i demanded. "it is a form of greeting, sir. it means a combination of 'how do you do?' and 'we are friends.' always use it when you meet the native indians." they talked in low mutterings but the captain seemed to be able to understand them. later they talked in a sort of pidgin english that i could understand fairly well myself. at first i was a bit bashful about staring at them, thinking that they would be embarrassed or consider me rude, and that it might affect their modesty. i laugh now every time i think of that. in the first place, they do not know the meaning of the word "modesty." not that they are immodest, but that they go about with scarcely any clothes, which seems quite all right to them. and as for embarrassing them by staring at them, they consider it an honor to be stared at, to have someone take an interest in them. to me they were a great curiosity. the entire family was crowded in their small canoe, the old grandfather with a gray tinge to his hair although with bright eyes and strong muscles, as his paddling showed; his son, son's wife, their son, who was quite a youth; two younger boys and several babies. then there were several tame parrots, a large blue and yellow macaw that croaked incessantly and a worried little flea-bitten dog much mauled by the babies. and packed in about them in their none too safe canoe i saw a dozen chunks of smoked meat, lying about like so much firewood to be walked over, a dozen or more very stiff and black smoked fish, several baskets of queer vegetables, a bunch of small bananas, bows and arrows, blowpipes and bundles of the dangerous poisoned blowpipe arrows with tips wrapped, fish spears, game spears and a large iron pan which was originally used for washing gold, but used by this indian family--who prized it above all their worldly goods--as a kettle, stove, frying pan and griddle. in the center of the boat on a large piece of wet and noninflammable bark, lay a heap of glowing coals, to be used for their cooking fire wherever they might camp or upon their return to their home. from this i figured it out that matches in the jungle were not to be had for the asking. we gave each man cigarettes, which at once made us friends. the captain began to dicker with the men about securing game for us, and as they talked i made a study of them. one thing is certain, they are not bothered by the high price of clothing. i looked at the big boy, he was about sixteen i should judge--about the age when i got into long trousers and had plenty of difficulties in keeping them pressed, when i worried about the right style and fit of collars and the proper tie to go with my shirt, when collar buttons and scarf pins and cuff links were important to me and i craved silk socks and kept my shoes polished and my clothes brushed. it was a serious matter in those days, as every boy knows, getting up in the morning, getting properly dressed and off to school in time. and i looked at this big boy. he wore a red loin cloth which was about a foot long, suspended from a "belt" made of some wild vine. that was all the clothing that he possessed in the world, all that he needed and i'm sure every boy will envy him his comfort, if nothing more. the men, too, wore loin cloths, red, and about two feet long, tucked into vine belts. [illustration: the first jungle indians we saw] [illustration: an indian fisherman] the women wore smaller loin cloths, called an apron or "queyu." these were decorated with beads and held on by a string of beads instead of vines. the smaller children wore nothing at all. some of the women wear necklaces made of shells, animal teeth or beads or all three. some have bright dried beans for beads and most of them wear strings of beads around their legs just below the knees. the men seemed fairly well built. their light, copper-colored skin was smooth and remarkably clean. their hair was jet black and as straight as that of our own north american indians, and their features slightly resembled those of our indians at home, although not so strong and picturesque. some of them, men and women, are tattooed and also decorated with "beena," done by cutting into the arm and letting the scars heel deeply in queer designs. this "beena," i learned, is believed by them to be a charm against all sorts of evil and, on the women's arms (women mostly use this "decoration"), they think that it helps them to weave hammocks and to make their everlasting cassava bread. the parrots and the dog seemed very friendly, the birds walking over him and making queer, low, croaking sounds, the dog lazily watching them walk over him and now and then wagging his tail. one peculiarity about their talk, the pidgin english, was something like that of the chinese coolies i had met in the west. they substitute the letter "l" for the letter "r" and the letter "b" for the letter "v." they say "belly good" instead of "very good." "so," finished the captain to the head man, the grandfather, "you go hunt some game and shoot some fish for us." "uh huh, me go hunt um. shoot paccu, shoot maam, anything. bring 'long to you bime by." and the indians then paddled off and were lost to view around the curve of the river. "will they do it? will they come and find us?" i asked. "they certainly will, sir. they want the sugar and kerosene and other things we shall trade with them for the game." chapter xi _"uncivilized," but courteous, quiet and clean_ that night we pitched camp on the left bank of the river. while preparing supper i was investigating the forest that circled the little clearing and almost jumped out of my skin when i heard, in soft voices, either side of me, the word "me-a-ree." i am sure i jumped a couple of feet straight up. there, standing right beside me, were two of our indian friends. they grinned at my fright. such good woodsmen are they that they can come upon a person without making a sound. their naked bronze bodies seem to blend with the forest shadows. one of them had two paccu, the large, flat, delicious fish that they shoot with bow and arrow or sometimes spear. the other had a "maam" which is a bush turkey, not as large as our wild turkeys. this he shot with a blowpipe. "me-a-ree," i exclaimed, as soon as i caught my breath. i shuddered to think how easily they might have killed me had they been enemies. a white man hasn't a ghost of a chance with such clever natives if they want to get him, because he cannot travel in the jungle and forests down there without being heard, so keen is their hearing, while they can come right up to him, even when his eyes and ears are strained to see and hear, before he knows their presence. "these are real uncivilized men," i thought, as i looked them over, standing there in the dim, deep forest edge, with bow and arrow and blowpipe, with the fish and bird, their naked bodies almost the color of the trees and shadows. but when i came to know them better i discovered that if uncivilized meant a rude, uncouth, ill-mannered, treacherous, dirty and disagreeable people, then these natives were civilized, for i found them to be real "nature's gentlemen," kind, courteous, quiet and clean. it was father and son who brought the game. they asked for powder and shot for their guns. the father was a sort of chief of their own little tribe and he and his son each owned one of those priceless "lead" guns, the cheap muzzle loaders made expressly for such people. we had plenty of powder and shot and made the exchange. you or i could never get any game with those "lead" guns because they will not carry far, they will not shoot accurately and they frequently miss fire entirely. but the skilled indians are able to stalk the game so quietly that they can almost poke the muzzle of the gun into the ribs of the game before they fire point blank. we entertained them with showing them our modern guns, and with showing them their faces in good mirrors and with victrola music, at which they marveled greatly and chattered excitedly about it. then, as silently as they came, they disappeared into the forest to go to their homes before the night mists should enshroud them. i went down to the water's edge to watch the last gleam of light, fast going, when suddenly there was the most terrific threshing about that i had ever heard. something gigantic, seemingly as big as a mountain, arose in front of me. i thought it must be a combination of crocodile and man-eating fish come out of the water to feast on me. then i thought of something else. "good-night!" the thought flashed through my mind, "that nigger, cavan, told the truth when he described the 'dodo' as a hair-covered bird twenty feet high," and i had visions of being transformed into either a dodo's supper or a dodo's slave. instinctively i threw up my arms to ward off the terrible creature, and fell backward. the "giant" arose and sailed out across the water. it was a toucan--that funny bird with the immense bill that we have seen in our picture books and stuffed and occasionally alive in parks. his loud flapping, hoarse croaking, and the spread of his wings in the deepening twilight made him seem fully as big as cavan's mythological "dodo." i laughed at myself, yet the sudden rising of a ruffed grouse in the deep forests at home will frequently startle a chap quite as badly as this, and i am sure that the poor toucan was more scared than i, for i nearly stepped on him when i approached the river bank. as usual we moved on up the river all the next day and camped at night. and quite as silently as they had come before, the two indians appeared within our camp circle. this time each had a wild boar slung over his back like a knapsack. the beasts' feet were tied together with a small vine. father and son had each killed one with a spear. they were greeted warmly by us and given cigarettes. but they did not seem to care about parting with the game. after a while, being persuaded by the clever captain peter, they agreed to let us have them, but first they must take them to their camp to clean them. i learned the reason afterwards. here was my opportunity to see the indians in their homes, to see how they lived. "will it be all right to go home with them?" i asked the captain. he said that it would and so i turned to the father. "me walkee with you, savvy? me go long-side your home." "no sabbe, no sabbe," said the indian. "i want to walk along home with you," i said, in straight english this time. the indian understood that well enough. [illustration: "bringing home the bacon"] "all li'. you come," he said. although he talked pidgin english, he couldn't understand it when we talked it, but he could understand straight english, except when he didn't want to answer, then he would say "no sabbe," and that settled it, you couldn't get a word from him. they were all like that. i started out with them through the jungle forest. the silence of the place, their footsteps being almost noiseless, was depressing. i tried to talk. "how far?" i asked. "me no sabbe," said the youth. "how long will it take to get there?" i insisted. "little," answered his father. they have no idea of time as divided into hours and minutes, they judge by nights, before "high sun" or noon, and back to "no sun" or evening. chapter xii _a visit to a native home_ their home was not as far away as i had expected. but then, an indian's "home" is easily made, consisting of some upright poles, roughly thatched with long marsh grass. beneath this they place their belongings and they sleep in hammocks at night. the forests are full of little colonies or villages back from the river. they hide well back, along small streams, to secrete their camp fires from river travelers. our friends had moved along by land as we moved by water and this night they joined some other families. there were several of the shelters and a fire burning in front of each around which members of families squatted. this camp was on a wide stream entering the mazaruni, and screened by an island. as i entered their camp the natives jumped up from the fires. remembering the captain's instructions i smiled at all of them and said, "me-a-ree, me-a-ree." they replied with the same greeting. i handed the men presents and at once it was understood that i was a friend. our two hunters dropped the wild boars, squatted beside them and in an amazing short time had them opened and skinned. no butcher at home with clean blocks and keen knives and meat saws ever cut up meat as quickly or as skillfully and neatly as did these men. the women gathered about and helped them in their work. the bladders were given to two of the smaller boys, brothers of the youth. at once they ran to the water and began to float the bladders and have fun with them just as white children would do. the intestines were carefully hung on poles by a hot fire of green twigs, to smoke. these, i was told, were to the indians the "best part of the boar." i took their word for it, politely refusing to taste of some of the smoked intestines they already had on hand. this surprised the people who, i am sure, must have thought that i was all kinds of a fool to refuse such a wonderful treat as that. "take what you want," said the old man, pointing to the dressed meat. i selected the hams, shoulders and ribs, and they nodded and walked down to the water to wash. without a word it was understood that their work was done. the women were to do the rest, even to toting the meat to our camp. quite a number of the indians came back to our camp. the meat was given around to our black men, saving some of it for our own meals. our blacks at once proceeded to build a fire of green twigs and smoke their share of the meat. in our shelter the indians squatted. one of the indians who had heard our victrola pointed at it and made a circular motion with his hand, indicating that he wanted us to make the discs go around. jimmy was delighted to play host and proceeded to go through our selection of records. the flea-bitten dog backed away and howled at certain places during the concert, but one of the parrots, which had come over perched on a child's shoulder, was deeply interested and flew to the victrola, lighted on it, eyed the revolving record sharply, squawked delight or anger at the music and finally hopped down on the revolving record. he was probably the most surprised parrot in the world, for that revolving record yanked his feet out from under him and he fell squawking on his back. the way that old parrot flapped off of the victrola and back to the child's shoulder was a caution, squawking and snapping his beak as if he were swearing, in bird talk. the indians laughed noisily and shrilly, like children, at this. we gave the women some little trinkets and all of them a little food. one young woman looked at my hammock and made up a funny face, jabbering to an older woman who nodded, and without a word to me she took down my hammock and began to unravel it. i decided to say nothing and watch her. when it was all unraveled and nothing but a pile of cords she began deftly to weave it again and when she was finished it was as even and smooth as any hammock ever made. she had seen an uneven place in it, knew that it would not be comfortable, and fixed it. i slept much better in it that night. i gave her a piece of scented soap, which delighted her. with great pride she walked around letting everyone have a smell of it. i saw her again and she had bored a hole through the cake and strung it on her necklace. i have often wondered how long it lasted. as the indians never mind the rain but are out in it just as they are in sunshine, that cake of soap certainly dissolved in time. jimmy served me a goodly portion of the boar meat. both lewis and myself enjoyed it. the meat was a bit stringy, but it was delicious, nevertheless. the night dampness and mists began to settle. without a word the indians silently departed into the forests, to go back to their shelters and sleep in their hammocks. i asked jimmy about the vampires and he assured me that the indians were safe. "vampire bats ain't got no use for injun, suh. reckin they don't admire the taste of 'em." the indians sleep without clothes, other than the mesh-like flaps of the hammocks thrown over them, giving plenty of opportunity for the vampires and also for the really dangerous mosquitoes, which proved my undoing, as i will tell about later. the indians seldom have jungle fever or malaria and if the mosquitoes do bite them there are no bad effects. [illustration: two quick puffs, a flutter, and the bird drops to earth] chapter xiii _the snake that disappeared_ that night cavan remarked that we were now getting into the big snake district. "big snake feller here plenty. sho' he scar' yo'," said cavan. "how long?" i asked. "some like a tall tree, some not so much," said cavan. and then they discussed the snakes, how they encircle wild boars and other big animals and "squeeze 'em inter a pulp an' eat 'em." it was interesting, but i found myself looking out into the jungle and imagining that every branch i could see was a giant snake. that night i was awakened and felt my hair standing up and quivering and prickling at each root, for, hanging down from the tree in front of me, to which was suspended the foot end of my hammock, was a great snake. i couldn't stir at first. he lowered his head and swung it about like a pendulum, finally resting it on the foot of my hammock. then, raising his head, he seemed to see me. in the dim light from a pale moon and a ghastly glow from the coals of our fire i could see the snake's bright eyes and his tongue darting in and out. i tried to shout. i tried to look about and see if lewis was still asleep, to see if he couldn't help me. i tried to call jimmy, to see if he was awake, but couldn't seem to turn my head. the snake slid further down the tree and glided across my stomach. he was so long that much of him was still draped up the tree and over a limb. he raised his head and opened his jaws, as if laughing at my helplessness, and i thought of many things. i thought that it was a silly thing to have ventured off into these wilds. i wondered why i had not been satisfied to stay in a white man's country and not butt into the wild jungles of the indians. i thought of everyone at home and finally decided that no snake was going to finish me that way without one good struggle. i looked keenly at his neck to decide just where his throat was, located it back of his jaws and, as he lunged at me, i let out a terrific yell and clutched both hands in a life-and-death grip around the neck of the great snake. he tried to yank away and his strength lifted me upright from the hammock, his whole body quivered. still i clung on. then he began to writhe horribly and to thrash about, swaying me this way and that. in the struggle i fell from the hammock to the ground, still with my deadly grip about that snake's neck. with my fingers clutched in a death grip about his throat, i felt that i would be better able to defend myself. i must have had this thought during the process of falling, for when i struck the ground with a terrific jolt i found my fingers clutched in the holster of my revolver. instantly i was on my feet, looking this way and that for the snake. there was no snake in sight! where had he gone? i looked about again and discovered that there had been no snake at all! it was the result of my talk with jimmy and cavan the night before about mammoth snakes. the perspiration was dripping from my face. i looked about stealthily to see if any of my companions had witnessed my dream struggles, but all seemed to be sleeping peacefully, so i climbed back into my hammock, yet the dream so upset me that i was unable to sleep any more. however, it was almost dawn. "how did you sleep last night?" asked lewis, when he sat up in his hammock. "bully," i declared, giving him a sharp look to see if he was trying to kid me about my foolish dream, but either he had not awakened or else was a good actor, for he never let on that he knew about it. my arm was sore for days where i bruised it in striking a rock as i landed beneath my hammock. it was the only bad dream i had during my months in the jungle, but it was quite enough. chapter xiv _difficulties of jungle travel_ the next two days our trip was disagreeable because of continued rains, but on the third day we camped at four-thirty close to a "path" that led to the largest indian village. i was determined to visit it and pictured quite a little town. we could see the tall column of smoke from their fires. my companion and i were so eager to get to this village next morning that we did not wait to eat, but, taking a handful of food, set out with one boviander to carry a knife and lantern. for the first time i learned something of the difficulties of jungle travel. we had to slash through vines, wade through bogs of slime and mud, clamber over gnarled roots and stumble around in the most tangled growth of vegetation i ever saw. "if this is a 'path,'" i said to lewis, "i'm glad i'm not in the wilderness." "no go outside path," grinned the boviander. we assured him that we would not, but we could find no trace of a path at all. when we were not in muddy bogs, feeling our way to make sure we would not step into some hole over our heads, or clambering around fallen trees and brush, we were going up short but steep little hills covered with tangled vines. after two hours of this, and being almost exhausted, we came to a clearing. "here it is," shouted lewis. and as if to prove it we heard a rooster crow. eagerly we stumbled out into the clearing and saw the few huts, but the place was deserted. "more further," said the boviander; "someone he die." by this he meant that some member of the village had died. the indians always desert their village when anyone dies in it, and move on to establish another. they will never live in a village where anyone has died. the lonely rooster crowed defiantly at us as we skirted the village to find the "path." having found it we moved on about a mile. "ah, here we are," i declared as i came into an opening. not a soul in sight! "another die," commented our boviander, shrugging his shoulders. "if the death rate is very high we'll never overtake that village," grumbled lewis. up above were tiny patches of blue, bits of the sky that we could see through the thick jungle growth. i saw some smoke and decided that at last we were close to the village. but at the opening we saw but a single "house" or shelter. the indian came forward to see us. lewis had prospected up through this section before sending for me, and when he saw this indian he exclaimed in a low voice, "that's simon." he didn't seem at all glad to find him there, but i had no opportunity to ask him about it before simon, the indian, advanced and, smiling as blandly as a chinaman, exclaimed cordially: "me-a-ree!" he told us that the village was quite a distance on, and offered to lead us there. lewis could not well refuse, as we had now gone far away from our camp and the district was wild and unknown to any of us. but i could see that he was not very well pleased with the prospect. simon motioned to his boy, a handsome, copper-colored youth, to start on with him, and proceeded to lead the way, taking a blowpipe and quiver of the poisoned arrows with him. this, too, troubled lewis. but there seemed nothing else to do, so we followed. on the way lewis told me what was worrying him. during his previous prospecting trip when he went up the river to make sure that there were diamond fields before sending for me, he had found an old indian very sick at one of the villages. this was simon's father. lewis did what he could for the sick old indian, giving him quinine pills, the universal cure-all in the jungle, but the old man died. on this trip one of our men had heard that simon believed lewis had purposely killed his father and that he did it with the "magic pills," as he called the quinine. "they say simon has acted queerly ever since," explained lewis, "and he may imagine that i really did kill his father and start a little 'ka-ni-a-mer' of his own between just him and me." "and what on earth is a 'ka-ni-a-mer'?" i demanded. "just about the same as an old kentucky feud where two families try for years to kill each other off. so you see i'm not extremely trustful of this bland simon injun," said lewis. "and to top it all," he added, "i dreamed the other night that my mother came and warned me to look out as i was to be in great danger." this made me decidedly uneasy and i was determined to keep my eye on simon every minute, staying between him and lewis. the trip to the village seemed long. there was considerable uphill going. every once in a while simon would turn and jabber at his boy, who would instantly look around at us, then reply to his father, who would hurry on faster than ever. they were setting a terrific pace. already wearied with our travels before we came to simon's hut, this was overdoing it just a little. but, worse than that, i got the idea that simon was trying to lose us, to rush on far ahead and then hide and kill us--or kill lewis anyway, with his blowpipe from ambush. i knew that just a scratch from the poisoned tip of one of those slender arrows would finish lewis, or anyone else. "you take my gun," i said to lewis, "and take it easy, while i keep up with him and keep him right in plain sight." lewis is a heavy-built man and it was more difficult for him to keep up the hot pace uphill. i hurried on and got quite close to them. simon spoke to his boy, who turned around and gave a little jump of astonishment to see me so close. he spoke sharply to his father, who turned around. just as he turned around i purposely pulled my revolver from the holster with a great flourish. to these native indians our revolvers are wonderful and fearful things. they regard them with awe and also with fear. that so small a thing held lightly in the hand could deal death is one of the most amazing things they know about. when simon saw this he at once slackened his pace and gave me another bland smile. "me-a-ree. me-a-ree!" he said. "me-a-ree," i replied, but kept my revolver in my hand. after that he slowed up and made no attempt to lose us, but he kept looking back frequently and earnestly to make sure that i was not pointing the deadly "mystery gun" at him. we passed many small platforms lashed to tall trees. i thought they were the "graves" of indians, as i knew that many of our american indians had the custom of leaving their dead on high platforms. but the boviander explained that they were hunting stations. the indians climb up and kneel on these platforms motionless for hours, waiting for game to pass so that they can kill it with blowpipes, spears, bows and arrows or with their crude guns. it was getting late and i had just begun to wonder if we would have to camp in that dismal swamp all night when i heard the sound of a horn. it was some indian call made by blowing on a shell. simon nodded, meaning that it was the village. soon we came into a great clearing. i expected to see a thriving village, since i had been assured that assura was the largest of the indian villages. and it was the largest, yet it consisted of only seven houses, with a-shaped roofs of reeds, and one larger or communal house with a conical roof. three of the mangiest, sorriest looking dogs i had ever beheld, howled mournfully when we came into the clearing, then tucked their tails between their legs and ran away to hide, having performed their duty of warning the villagers of our approach. i was greatly interested, for the villagers did not know that we were coming and i was sure to find them in their primitive life without "putting on" for company. they flocked about us, more curious than we, for we had seen indians and knew something about their customs by this time, but few of them had seen any white men except the dutch and half-breed dutch "pork-knockers," or wandering diamond miners. as usual, they wore no clothes except the red loin cloth of the men and the queyu, or tiny apron of the women. but every garment that we wore was a curiosity to them. i am sure that had we marched in there, wearing no more than a loin cloth, they would not have been greatly interested. but hats, coats, vests, trousers, leggings, shoes--all of those garments were wonderful curiosities to them all, as you may well imagine. there was an all-around exchange of "me-a-rees" and we passed around some cigarettes, whereupon they knew that we were friends. how they crowded about us, children with no clothes at all, and tiny babies that could not walk crawled along over the filthy ground, through spots of black mud and shallow pools of stagnant water, picking up the dirt and animal refuse from the ground and apparently feasting on it. it made us shudder to see them, yet those tiny babies seemed quite contented and quite healthy. at once i wondered what an american mother who dresses her baby in costly flannels and embroidered linens, places it in a hundred dollar baby carriage and wraps it in another hundred dollar fur robe, would say if her pink little darling were to be stripped and left to crawl about through the muck of this jungle clearing to get chummy with chiggers and stinging red ants, big ugly black beetles, mosquitoes and other things! chapter xv _hospitality of the jungle folk_ in pidgin english we made the men understand that we wanted six of them to go up the river with us, some to help us hunt, some to build a "logie" for lewis and myself. they agreed to go, but when we suggested that we start right away, they declined. we must wait another day. they could not set out without a supply of cassava, which is to them what our bread is to us, the staff of life. and they declared it too late to venture into the jungle, so we had to arrange to stay with them over night. this interested me, as the night trip was not to my liking and i wanted to see indian life at close range. among the indians was one called "abraham," who had been with lewis on his previous trip. he was an honest chap, faithful and a hard worker and fond of lewis because of his name. it seems that on his prospecting trip lewis liked this chap and asked him his name. alas, he had none. indians are given names by their medicine men, called "peiman," or by the chief of the colony, at birth, providing their parents can pay enough in indian trade goods. when abraham was born his parents had nothing to give, so he went without a name. this is considered a calamity among the indians, as a nameless one is quite liable, so they believe, to meet up with all of the misfortunes possible to befall a human being. lewis liked him so well that he at once assumed the role of a "peiman" and solemnly bestowed upon him the name of "abraham." for this abraham would do anything for lewis. there was another indian who interested us. he had but one eye, but was almost a giant in build. he always had a jolly grin and as we liked him and found him to be nameless, i gravely assured him that i could bestow names. he begged me to do so. "gi' me call by," he said. "you shall henceforth be called by 'lewis,'" i said, with a dramatic gesture, winking at lewis, who grinned at the joke. soon i had taught him just how to speak the word "lewis" and he was a very proud indian. each "house" consisted of only a reed and palm-leaf roof supported on poles, there being no sides to any of them. the supply of household goods was pitifully small indeed. there were plenty of weapons, a few cassava-making implements, a rare metal dish or tin can and hammocks everywhere. the indian women sit in these hammocks doing their weaving or bead work by day and all sleep in them by night. there was a fire at each hut, made of logs which were arranged like the spokes of a wheel, the inner ends, or "hub" being the fire. as the ends would burn away the logs would be pushed in toward the center and new ones added as the old ones burned up. these fires supplied plenty of heat for cooking and enough warmth for the night chill and they were never allowed to go out. in some places a village is not moved for a year or two, depending upon whether there is a death there, and a fire once started burns steadily on that spot all of the time. [illustration: they seemed glad to pose for us] [illustration: jungle huntsmen] we were tired and wet. we needed food and rest and told abraham this, whereupon he promptly gave up his house to lewis and myself and took his wife and flock of children over to the communal house with the conical roof. we livened up the fire and decided to remove our wet clothes and dry them. we had just about as much privacy as a goldfish, and the villagers flocked about us in great excitement as we proceeded to strip off our outer garments. we stripped down to our flannel underwear and decided to sit about our roaring fire and get dry while our clothes dried. but the natives eagerly asked the privilege of taking our clothes and drying them for us. there seemed no way out of it and i wondered if i was going to be left to travel through the jungle in nothing but underwear. but i should not have feared. they were honest enough. they merely wished to borrow our clothes to strut about in for a while. one big chap had my hat cocked on his head at the "tough guy" angle as if he had worn one all his life. two giggling young women divided my big boots, each wearing one, and marched proudly about, the thong ties dragging. an old man put on my coat. but the trousers were too wet, so they escaped. next morning they were returned, well dried and nothing whatever missing from the pockets. i sat in a hammock, slung close to the fire, drying my wet socks and the legs of my underclothes, watching the women prepare a meal of eggs, venison, labbas and cassiri for us, and grinned at the picture we must have made. "not quite up to the etiquette of polite society at home," i said to lewis. "but we are overdressed, even now," he answered, "according to the style down here." the houses are called "benabs." abraham said he would bring the food over to our benab. this he did. it was smoking hot, heaped up in one big wooden dish, and with it a calabash, or gourd, of cassiri. this was a bright pink liquid, most sickening in appearance. the indians all drank out of the same big gourd and seemed to enjoy it. lewis took a taste. "great," he said. i didn't like his expression when he said it, but was determined to try anything once, so i tasted it. "u-r-r-r-gh!" dud. lewis had his back to me. i could see that he was shaking with laughter. "for two cents i'd pour this pink slop down your neck!" i gasped. the indians looked on and grinned. i did not wish to be impolite, so i said, "yaa! cassiri too much humbug yankee man's stomach!" and i hugged my stomach as if in pain and smiled to assure them of good feeling. they merely laughed. this drink tasted like sour milk, long overripe strawberries, vinegar, pepper, sour yeast, cassava meal and whatever else they might have had left over to dump into it. but the venison was delicious and the labba, which is a sort of pig about the size of a rabbit, was as good meat as i ever tasted. the cassava is not bad at all and so we managed to make out a very good meal. but if i had taken a big swallow of that pink cassiri i am sure my stomach would have burned up or exploded. it came time for us to get some sleep if ever we were to turn in. while we were fairly dry, there was a dampness in the air and we had only our underclothes. but the headman of the village brought out three strips of cotton cloth he had been hoarding in an old canister, another loaned a frayed old shirt he had got in some trade, another contributed a pair of red cotton trousers. my shirt and tunic were dry and with these, divided between lewis and me, we turned in to our hammocks. we tried a fire of glowing coals under our hammocks as did some of the indians, but the smoke was too much for us and we had to move the fire. besides, i didn't want to have any more snake dreams and fall out in a bed of hot coals. i lay there listening to the jungle noises and trying to guess what sort of beast, bird or reptile was making them, when it came time for the indians to turn in. just as the village became quiet and the babies stopped squalling and the kids stopped chattering, there came a native song. "this is a great time to start singing!" i grumbled to lewis. "go to sleep and don't mind it," he advised. "i can't sleep until he stops that fool song," i insisted. "ha-ha," laughed lewis, "you've got some fine little wait coming." he covered himself in his hammock and proceeded to sleep. i didn't understand what he meant at the time, but i learned, for i waited and waited for the singer to stop. but when he got tired, another singer took it up and then another and another. they keep that song going _all night_ every night of their lives. there was nothing for me to do but to remain in my hammock and listen to that terrible singing. the voices were not so bad, nor were they harsh, but there didn't seem to be much melody in what they sang and after you have heard the same gibberish sung over and over and over for about a million times (so it seemed to me) you certainly get good and tired of it. it was no effort on my part to learn the song. i got so that i knew just what the next line would be and i found myself muttering it along with whichever indian happened to be taking his "spell" at singing it. "what does it mean?" i asked many. but the best answer i could get was that it was a "sort of song to keep danger away at night." it also kept sleep away from me for several hours, although i finally did get to sleep in spite of it and did not awaken until daylight had come and the singing had ceased. i always wished that i could get a translation of the song, but i will repeat it as it sounded: "_ip phoo ke na, pagee ko, ip phoo ke na; waku beku yean gee ma ta ne ke, ip phoo ke na pegge ko. ip phoo ke na, ip phoo ke na pagee ko, ip phoo ke na, ip phoo ke na pagge ko, ip phoo ke na, ip phoo ke na._" these indians seemed the most restless people on earth. before i fell asleep i watched them in the big communal hut which was within twenty feet of me. i learned afterwards that when going on a long trip they sit up most of the night and stuff themselves with food. they seemed to be eating all night here, and drinking that pink cassiri. they would wander about inside their shelter, sit in a hammock eating, walk over to the calabash and drink the cassiri and back to the hammock again. "if that's the life of a british guiana indian, then i'm glad that i am not one of them. none of this free and untrammeled child-of-nature life for me," i told lewis afterward. "wonder what they would say if they saw so many of our people back home sitting up until nearly daylight having banquets, dancing the fox-trot and one-step and hesitation and opening wine and smoking and having a regular night of it," was his quiet comment. it was good food for thought. the more i figured it out, the more i wondered just where the line between "civilization" and "barbarity" was drawn. i am sure that they did not injure their health as much with their cassava cakes and fruits, eaten during the night, as so many of our so-called "sports" do with their all night dancing and drinking and smoking and eating of lobster a la king and other fancy and expensive foods. some of them were drinking a black liquid from a gourd. this was "piwarree." "don't drink it," warned lewis. "thanks for the tip, old man," i answered, "but there aren't enough diamonds in south america to get me to touch it." it was the most vile looking liquid i ever saw, yet the indians seemed to enjoy it and it did not appear to intoxicate them, although there was probably alcohol in it, as it was made by a fermenting process. i had seen a number of women who wore a peculiar tattoo mark on their foreheads. i had thought it merely some sort of barbaric adornment, but it seems this was their "trade mark." it indicated that they were piwarree makers. these women, to make this drink, sit in a circle about a fire where cassava cakes are allowed to bake until they are burned through quite crisp and black. each woman chews this burned bread until it is soft and pulpy with her saliva. this she strains through her teeth into a vessel in the center. when the vessel is full the contents are thrown into a large wooden trough and boiling water poured over it. it is allowed to ferment. when quite sour and black it is ready for drinking. chapter xvi _cassava cakes and blow-pipes_ in the morning i expected to start out, but learned that the cassava cakes must be made. the women had started the process the night before. but after that i frequently saw it made and the process is interesting. cassava is a root, something like a large turnip, yet longer and more in the shape of an immense sweet potato. the inside is quite white and somewhat soft, a trifle "woody," like a turnip that we would throw away. these roots grow wild. there is no cultivating necessary, although in some localities they cut away the other vegetation and allow the cassava plants to thrive a little better. a grater is made by driving sharp bits of flint into a board. this is covered with a sort of wax which hardens and leaves only the sharp tips of the flints sticking out. the women peel the cassava roots with dull knives or sharp flints. the root is then grated over this flint grater and the fine particles fall down into a woven frame. next comes the "metapee." this is a most peculiar basket, made solely for the manufacture of cassava flour. it may be pulled out long or pushed in short. it works something like an old-fashioned "accordion" hat rack. when pushed down short it is very large around but as it is pulled out it grows smaller and smaller in circumference. it is a great trick to weave these metapee baskets, for they must be exceedingly strong. the grated cassava is put in the metapee when it is squat down short and large around. one end of this basket is hung from a pole or limb. in the bottom of the metapee is a loop through which a pole is run. one end of the pole is lashed to the ground, at the foot of a tree. the woman now sits on the other end of the pole. this makes a lever and her weight stretches the metapee out into a long wicker cylinder. this squeezes all of the moisture out of the ground cassava root. and here is a most remarkable thing--that juice is a deadly poison! yet the pulp that remains makes a nourishing bread. [illustration: at fourteen an indian girl must be able to cook cassava] [illustration: a primitive sugar cane press] the woman bounces up and down on her end of the pole until every bit of the juice is out. this juice is saved, as the poison can be used by the men. or the juice may be allowed to evaporate and what remains of that, instead of being poison, is good seasoning for food! the pulp is spread in the sun to dry. when dry it is sifted through a basket sieve and becomes rather coarse flour. to this water is added, the dough is kneaded with the fists much as our women knead wheat flour and water into dough. this dough is flattened out into cakes three feet in diameter and half an inch thick and baked on a flat slab, a sheet of iron if it be possible to get it, or on anything handy. the bread is now ready to eat. it is firm, fairly hard, rather crisp and has but little flavor. to me it tasted like refined sawdust. but it is extremely nourishing. it takes half an hour to cook these cassava cakes and, kept dry, they will last a great while. that is why the women baked a number of them to take with them upon the impending journey. it was comforting to have this much certain about the uncertain journey which we were now to take. while the indian women busied themselves making cassava cakes for the journey back to our camp i studied all of the weapons of the men in the village, for they interested me. there were but two guns in the village, owned by the chief and another very "wealthy" native. these were the muzzle-loading "lead" guns. what interested me most of all was the blowpipe. it is really a wonderful weapon. it is a wonder to me that we boys back home did not make similar weapons. i am sure that with a little skill we could have picked off rabbits, squirrels and game birds, although, of course, we would have had to become good woodsmen. of all the weapons to be faced, i believe the blowpipe as made and used by these indians is the most deadly. i would rather face almost anything else. these pipes are from eight to twelve feet long. they are made of two strong reeds, a hollow-stemmed variety that grows in the jungle. they take the midribs of a great palm leaf, dry them, split them up, char one end in the fire to make it hard, and with this force out the little partitions that appear at the joints in all reeds, as in bamboo. then a smaller reed is found that will just slide inside the larger one. they now have a double reed which makes an extremely long yet strong tube. the hole is made through the inner reed in the same manner, and these palm midribs and fine sand are worked inside the inner tube until it is quite as smooth as a rifle bore. the arrows are made from the same palm midribs, split as fine as an eighth of an inch in thickness. while at work mining i hired an indian boy to make a collection of bird skins for me. these boys can skin a bird perfectly and prepare the skin so that it will be like soft, thin kid, without misplacing a feather. i watched this boy make blowpipes and arrows. he dried the palm midribs in the sun a few days and they split readily into as fine arrows as he needed. just how he made the deadly poison with which he tipped them i was not certain. i will admit that we kept clear of that poison just as you would keep clear of dynamite. i know that it was made from crushed leaves and roots and put in a gourd. this poison is called "waurali." as soon as the poison is dried on, in the sun, a string is woven in and out around each end of each arrow until there is a long row of them, and this is rolled around a stick so that there is a solid roll of these arrows, which may be pulled out one by one. the quiver is made of woven grass, the bottom made of some wax that hardens from trees. this roll of arrows is placed, poison tips up, in the quiver and a skin top put over them to keep out moisture. attached to the quiver is a small basket containing loose cotton. when the boy was ready to shoot a bird he would remove one of the arrows, pinch off a bit of cotton from the basket and wrap it loosely around the blunt end. thrusting the arrow into the tube this cotton made it fit just enough to take the compression of air. sighting the bird, the boy placed the blowpipe to his lips, aimed at the bird and gave a sudden sharp puff. the speed of that slender arrow was marvelous. seldom did the boy miss. if the bird was merely scratched, it would fly but a short distance before the deadly poison would get in its work and then it would come fluttering to the ground, quite dead by the time the boy, running after it, would pick it up. sometimes the great tapirs, as large as a hog, would be killed by these slender arrows. their bows and arrows interested me. their bows are longer than most of those used by the american indians, being six feet or more. and these men are generally smaller than the american indians. they have many kinds of arrows for the various game, and they also use a sort of harpoon, a large barbed spearhead on the arrow with a long stout woven cord fastened to it. this is for shooting fish. one day an indian took the fruit of a star apple tree, wove a loose covering for it, hung it in a pool of water at the shore of the river from a limb overhead and waited. i saw a great fish dart for this bait and at the same time "zowie!" went this harpoon arrow. there was a great thrashing about in the water, but the indian calmly hauled in his harpoon and there was a big pacu on it, a very tasty fish when properly cooked. they also use hand spears with a half dozen barbed points branching out and get many fish in that manner. chapter xvii _on the march again_ by the time i had watched the cassava cake making process and examined the weapons in the village and noted almost everything of how they lived, the indians were ready to go on with us. they had been eating all night as i explained. now they took a hasty farewell drink of that pink stuff, cassiri, and took a large mouthful of cassava cake; their baskets were already packed for travel, and so we started. but did they carry their baskets? no indeed! that would have been a disgrace, like a man washing dishes or making a dress for baby. carrying the luggage was woman's work. what did each man have a wife for if not to do his work? the men set off with only their weapons, and the women fastened the heavy baskets to their backs by means of vine ropes around their foreheads. each man carried various objects in his basket, some tools, hunks of smoked meat, some extra loin cloths with perhaps a ragged old shirt secured from some "pork knocker." on top of these belongings was placed a stack of the cassava cakes and covered with palm leaves to keep out the rain, for it showed signs of raining when we set out. the indians went on ahead. the women followed. they had removed whatever garments they owned--some of them had loose garments, merely for style, made of strips of cotton--and traveled only with those little beaded aprons or queyus. we came last, but after a while the women stepped out of the path and let us go on ahead. i think they wanted to watch us, just as we would like to stay behind and watch something curious walking on ahead. we thought we had a hard trip getting to the village, but we were in for the hardest traveling afoot that i ever knew. i called it "land swimming." the mud was literally knee deep. we would put one foot down, then the next one, stand still and pull one foot out with a great effort, step ahead with that, pull the other out with a great sucking sound, and so on. it was only with great endurance that we made this trip through the rain, but even the worst journey must come to an end and finally we reached our own camp. nothing ever looked more homelike than our shelters, our fires and the boats moored alongside. lewis and i made a dash for the boat to get some dry warm clothes. jimmy, glad to see us back, made some hot tea. soon we had on lighter shoes, dry woolen underclothes and dry suits and socks, lay back in our hammocks and drank good hot tea and felt none the worse for our journey into the primitive homes of the indians. we gave the women plenty to eat and made them presents of sugar, rice, salt and tea to take back with them. they were the happiest women you ever saw and chattered among themselves like kids at a christmas tree. then they turned and went back into the forests without a word of leave taking to their husbands, as this toting of their husbands' baskets was all in their day's work. of all the sticky, funny messes i ever saw it was the packs of these indians. the rain had soaked through the palm leaves on top and through the meshes of the baskets at the sides. the cassava cakes had dissolved into a soft, semi-liquid dough. this had run down through the contents of the baskets. nearly every one contained bits of red cloth--an indian's choice possession. the colors had run and there were pink dough and dough-covered arrows and pink smoked meat and sticky, cassava dough enameled shirts. it was a great mess, but the indians scraped the dough together to dry out in the sun the next day and worried not at all, for the cassava dough would all dry and be rubbed off their belongings. while the indians like the white men, they do not like the blacks. they get along with them all right because they have nothing whatever to do with the "me-go-ro-man" as they call them. our blacks, as usual, had their three shelters a distance from ours. the indians built a hasty shelter alongside our canvas one, slung their hammocks, now daubed with dough, and climbed in. jimmy started the victrola, the camp fires burned brightly despite the rain, and the indians sat up and stared open-eyed, at the "hoodoo" box from which came the, to them, weird sounds. they believed that the spirits of the dead were inside that victrola, but when they saw jimmy putting on the records and saw that no ghosts came out to kill them, they lost their fear of it. [illustration: my jungle friends] the plaintive southern melodies seemed to please them most. next in their favor was a weird jazz number. from the wet jungle came the peculiar roar of red baboons. we would have fresh baboon steak next day, if we could spare an hour for hunting. and then from the black, dismal depths of that dripping jungle came the most pitiful sobbing that i ever heard. whether a child or a woman, or a number of them, i could not make out. i leaped from my hammock, wondering what was happening to them, if they were lost, and trying to guess how far into the jungle we would have to travel to rescue them. never had i heard such distress as that weeping and wailing and heartbreaking sobbing. i pictured some helpless women there, perhaps being attacked by wild animals. even if they were indian women, still they were humans, i thought-"black night monkey," said jimmy. i looked at lewis. he smiled and nodded. for a moment i could scarcely believe that such human crying could come from animals. "they always cry all night," lewis told me. "very annoying at first. you'll get used to it. just remember that they are ugly black monkeys, that they like to make that noise, that they are not really crying any more than a dog is crying when he barks, and now go to sleep." no one else seemed to mind it. but i must admit that it kept me awake a long while. i couldn't force myself to think that it was a natural noise made by an animal. i couldn't believe anything could make such a noise unless it was actual crying caused by grief or suffering. finally i fell asleep. chapter xviii _arrival at the diamond fields_ next morning the sun was shining brightly. the indians were coming in from a hunting trip with game. our blacks had finished their tea and crackers, the shelters were coming down and soon we would be on the way up the river. "we ought to make the big bend by to-morrow," said captain peters. those were thrilling words to me, for up just around the big bend in the mazaruni river, which i have already described, lay our diamond fields, and while every inch of the seventeen days' boat trip up this mad, wild river, among the primitive indians, had been one of interest and adventure for me, after all, i was out for diamonds and naturally eager to get to the fields and try my luck at digging up the sparklers. of course i did not expect to pick them up off the ground. "dud" lewis had told me of the process and i had read up on diamond mining before starting, yet i had high hopes of finding wealth there in the gravel of the old river bed. mountains could be seen in the distance rising like temples above the low land. nothing startling occurred that day. i believe i saw more birds than usual, and the banks became less marshy. the jungle seemed to be slightly changing into a trifle higher and drier forest land. it was still thick, almost impenetrable, yet a bit different. on the seventeenth day we came to a small portage. we could not paddle over it, yet it was not necessary to remove all of our five tons of supplies. lightening our cargo about one half, the men jumped out, fastened the ropes astern and the single rope to the bow for the last time on our upriver trip and hauled away with a will. soon we were over, goods repacked and the blacks paddling in still, smooth water, but more vigorously than usual as they, too, were glad to be at the end of their hard journey. seventeen days of paddling a fifty-foot boat made of great planks and laden with five tons of goods, hauling it over portages, is not exactly a picnic, and the men certainly earned their forty-eight cents a day. and so they thumped and scraped their much-worn paddles along the gunwales of that old boat, worn smooth with constant paddling, and they sang their everlasting paddle song with more cheerfulness than they had done for days. finally captain peter spoke something to the bowman while he swung his steering paddle over, and our craft put in shore. we nosed about and found just the site we needed, and proceeded to unload everything, this time to set up our mining camp. a temporary shelter went up to store the goods under, with low hanging eaves to keep out the rain. we had now got into a country where there were no more haphazard rains. we could almost set our watches by the rains, which came regularly every morning about daybreak, for a half hour or more, and again every night right after sunset, for a little while. although these twice-a-day rains were of short duration the water certainly came down in bucketfuls while it was raining. a rack of poles kept our goods from the ground so that the rain could run underneath. our shelters went up for that night, and eagerly i began to study the gravel formation, really not expecting to see any diamonds, but anxious to study the soil and somehow all the time wondering if, by chance, i might not see a diamond in the dirt. every sparkling bit of rock i picked up. lewis laughed good-naturedly at this, but he was quite as eager as i to get at the business for which we had the long, tiresome and really costly trip. we had journeyed 300 miles up the river. at this point the mazaruni had once flowed over the dry land where our camp was located. some convulsion of nature, probably of volcanic origin, had changed the course of the river, and it was in this dry and ancient river bed that we hoped to find a fortune. for tools we had brought along only the simplest kind, good old picks and shovels, and a hand pump. we had plenty of material with us for making the mining apparatus, crude but necessary, but there was a great deal to be done and we decided to get well settled and start in right. first we had to have a permanent home, a "logie," which is much like a bungalow, only more open and quite high and dry. then we had to make good shelters for our three groups of blacks, and also for what indians we would find it necessary to hire. we also had to set up our mine, arrange with indians to hunt a steady supply of food, make a permanent cooking place and get as comfortable as possible so that we could go ahead with our diamond mining without interruption. two beautiful white egrets sailed up the river and, without fear of us at all, proceeded to make a nesting place close to our camp site. i considered this to be a good omen. the wonderful crest feathers on their heads would have brought several hundred dollars in the days before wise lawmakers at home forbade bringing such feathers into the country. "how about tigers?" i asked of captain peter. there had been frequent talk of them. it is true that there is a species of large and ferocious jaguar that haunts the wilds of british guiana and i hoped to bag at least one and take the skin home as a trophy. captain peter smiled. "as scarce as hens' teeth," he said. i wondered where he got that expression. perhaps they use it all over the world. i know that we use it at home in all parts of the country, yet it surprised me to hear this dutchman, who for twenty years had navigated the wild waters of the old mazaruni, say it. it was a disappointment to hear him declare that tigers were scarce. i had visions of stalking one and proudly bringing his carcass into camp. i got a tiger skin all right before i left the country, but there is no glamor of adventure about it. i cannot exhibit it at home and spin yarns of stalking the ferocious jungle beast, for it was an old skin and i bought it from an indian for five dollars' worth of trade articles. the indians get a tiger now and then, but will not journey far afield just to bag them as they are not fit to eat and are extremely dangerous beasts to face, even for the skilled natives. chapter xix _how the natives hunt and fish_ for four long, busy months, we were to delve into that pebbly soil, and during that time i would also learn much of hunting and fishing that was strange indeed. i was especially interested in the manner in which the indians get fish by poisoning them. of course that seems very unsportsmanlike to us at home, but remember that these natives do not hunt and fish for the _sport_ of it, but to _live_. and then, bear in mind that while we have telescope steel rods and artificial bait and ball bearing automatic reels and oiled silk lines and transparent gut leaders, floats, spoons, spinners, rubber minnows, hundreds of artificial flies, nets for landing the fish, gaffs, and every sort of fishing tackle, these indians have not even common hooks and sinkers. spears and harpoon arrows are their only means of fishing, aside from poison. consequently one should not say that they were unsportsmanlike, although i felt that way about it at first. thinking it over i decided differently. they have several means of catching fish by poison and i must say that it is a far better way than that of some of the game hogs in this country who dynamite lakes and rivers for fish, killing far more than they can get, while with the poison the fish not taken soon recover and are as lively as ever. our indians paddled into a small inlet of the river one day where there is quite a deep pool that back-waters in. hauling the canoe out on land they proceeded to fill it with haiarry vines and water. with heavy sticks they crushed these vines. as i looked on with interest, one indian pointed to the liquid and said, "kill um," meaning that it was poison. after the vines were well crushed they tipped the contents of the canoe into the pool and within five minutes a great quantity of fish arose and floated on the surface. they collected the largest and best of these for food and as soon as the poison in the pool had thinned out the other fish recovered and were as well as ever. i was afraid that the poison would render the fish unfit for food but found that it did not affect them at all in that manner. it certainly was an easy way to catch fish and for a party as large as ours, the twenty blacks and the group of indian hunters, it took a lot of fish and game to feed us. probably the most interesting method of catching fish as practiced by these clever indians was by means of poisoned grasshoppers. they made a paste of the leaves of the quanamia, a strong narcotic plant. catching large grasshoppers they filled the stomachs of these insects with the paste and tossed them into the water. the fish would leap up and swallow the grasshoppers, only soon after to turn, belly up, and float on the surface where they were picked up. here we found the game more abundant than ever, which was natural as we were far out of the haunts of blacks and dutch, except for the few "pork knockers," or tramp diamond miners, and there were probably no more than a score all up and down the fields. several kinds of animals were shot, but the favorite food was deer and labbas. the tapirs are like great hogs and their meat is rather tough though nourishing. the labbas also belong to the hog family but are about as big as jack rabbits. small game birds were also plentiful. the maams were the best game birds, about the size of a very small turkey and much like them. the white people call them bush turkeys but scientists say that they do not properly belong to the turkey family. we didn't care what family they belonged to, we found the meat delicious. i do not mean that the game was so plentiful that it came down to us and begged to be shot. but our indian hunters seldom went out without bringing back some meat. it was a cheerful sight to see three or four hunters come marching in, each with a part of a great tapir or deer slung over his back. we were sure of "fresh pork," as we called it, for days. one of our indians had hunted steadily for three days without any success and he was getting decidedly sore about it. he had not seen an animal in any of his wanderings. when he returned empty handed on the third day i tried to cheer him. "how come, buck man?" [illustration: usually our hunters were successful] "no thing," he grunted. "too much sit down," i said. "no sit down!" he protested. "wakwakwak (walk), all tam wak. me no see. how can shoot um me no see?" there was no argument there. if he saw nothing he certainly could bag no game. but this indian was superstitious, as all are. he got an idea that there was black magic in my camera, and it bothered him. "too much humbug," he said, pointing to my camera which i happened to have with me. "you tak picture all tam, put um picture on paper and sho all mans. deer know this and be bexed (vexed) see um picture on paper. run away. how go for catch if no see?" this was a lengthy outburst for an indian. he had reference to my taking his picture as he came into camp with various kinds of game over his shoulders. he believed that the dead game knew its picture was taken and that its spirit warned the living game to keep away because the picture taking was an insult. he did not reason that the game would be warned to keep away from him to save its life, but only to escape the insult of having its picture taken. hence his argument that the game was "bexed" and kept out of sight. "no get um. must catch beena," he said, earnestly. a "beena" is some sort of a rite or charm that the hunters go through in order to give them good fortune or luck or whatever it is they most desire. there is a different sort of beena for each thing. i gave him a half day holiday to "catch beena." being especially anxious to bag deer he was going to "catch deer beena." the sly fellow had hidden away somewhere, just for this emergency, the nose of a deer. beena may bring good luck but i would not care for good luck earned in that manner. this chap heated the nose of the deer on a shovel over coals until it fairly sizzled. then he cut slashes, not deep, but enough to draw blood, on his chest, arms and legs and rubbed that hot, greasy nose into the cuts. he believed that the fat thus entering his body or blood would enable him to get all the deer he wished, as it would give him power over them. that afternoon he went out, and, sure enough, he returned with a big deer. i did not dare photograph it for fear the indian would become frightened or discouraged, and leave. no power on earth could persuade him that it was due to any other reason than his beena that he got the deer. [illustration: the toucan makes an interesting pet] as i explained, i took many pictures but lost the greater part of them through attempting to develop the films in the hot climate. birds of unusual variety, to me, were photographed in plenty. the toucans were interesting birds. they would come quite close to us, and i managed to get a snapshot of one not more than ten feet away, just as he was apparently sharpening his gigantic beak on the shore gravel. i found the indians to be not only interesting but very likable chaps. i formed a strong friendship and they likewise became very friendly with me. i learned much of their language, had them at our logie for guests on a great many occasions and, after a manner, got so that i could talk well with them and learn much of their lives, their ambitions, their joys and sorrows. their language is called "akowoia." the taste of the indians in food i could never learn, such as their terrible drinks, the smoked intestines and the eyes of animals which they cook as a great delicacy. nor am i at all fond of their pastry. it is simply a dough made of flour, salt and soda mixed with river water and fried in much grease in a frying pan. but their cooked fresh fish, their boiled tapir and other game meats are always good, clean and appetizing. chapter xx _picking up jungle lore_ the upper part of the mazaruni river is no place for a white man to take up a permanent abode. only once in a great while has a white man been known to live more than a year in that climate. i have heard of one or two who lived there for several years, but they finally died. it is a strange thing the lure of fortune. such men know full well that no white man can escape death if he stays there for much more than six months. yet each individual seems to feel that he will manage in some way to escape the dread and deadly jungle fever. he is having good luck getting diamonds, he stays on and on for "just a few more, just a few more," so that he may go back wealthy, and then comes the fever and either death or a quick get-away. i could not then foresee the danger that faced me and was to bring a sudden end to my own adventures in the wilds. most white men have to use quinine continually. dud. lewis took quantities of it every day. he took so much that it made him temporarily deaf. i was afraid to take too much of it as i didn't care to become deaf nor did i want the headaches that it frequently caused. of course i took some from time to time, but in small quantities. one great trouble was our lack of fresh water. we had only the river water and it was dangerous to drink that without purifying it. the indians and even the blacks seemed to get along well enough on it and would drink right out of the river. we had "steel drops" with us, a highly concentrated form of iron. one drop in a gallon of water was sufficient to remove the danger of disease from drinking the water. we also used bits of rusty iron. by keeping these in the water it was fairly safe, but it was always muddy. and it was always warm. i learned to get used to it. we used to keep it in jars and pails with a wet cloth over it in order to cool it. [illustration: abraham, felling a woodskin tree] while there were a few poisonous snakes about, they seemed no more plentiful than are the rattlesnakes, copperheads and moccasins in certain parts of the united states, and we had no trouble with them. i never saw any of the big boa constrictors or other snakes, that i had been told about, but presume there were plenty of them in the deep marshlands if one cared to hunt the reptiles. frequently i had seen indians gliding about the river in the most peculiar and frail looking craft i had ever beheld. "make um woodskin," the indians told me. i examined one and it was nothing more than the bark of a tree. not at all like the birch bark used by our indians, nor like rough elm bark, but more like the tough, smooth bark of the basswood or ironwood trees at home. one time i was fortunate enough to see and photograph the whole process of woodskin canoe making. i went with the indians back somewhat from the water to where they had located a giant woodskin tree. these trees start at the base with mammoth trunks, which taper up for fifteen feet or more before they continue as a straight and rather symmetrical trunk. the bark of the tapering part is useless in canoe making and so the indians build a frail platform or foot rest of poles that will enable them to reach the straight, even part of the trunk with an axe. standing there they soon have the tree felled. but before it falls they build a supporting frame so that it will not lie on the ground, because if this heavy tree were resting its weight on the ground it would be impossible to remove the bark. when the tree is down and resting on the frames upon which it fell, the indians arrange poles that will enable them to stand and reach one side. they cut the bark clear around the tree at the length which they wish for the canoe, then they slit the bark in an even line between the two cuts and gradually pry it off, putting in braces until it is wedged open sufficiently to slip off the trunk. two braces are then fitted into this, and it is left to dry; as the drying takes place the ends are drawn up a little. that is all there is to it. the canoe is ready for ordinary smooth water traveling, once it is dry, for in the shrinking the braces are so wedged in that they will never pull out. for smooth water paddling the canoe is left with both ends open. but for rough water, in currents and rapids, it is necessary to stop up each end with a sort of vegetable wax drawn from trees much as we get pitch from pine. this wax hardens and thus closes the ends. [illustration: preparing woodskin bark for canoe] [illustration: finished woodskin canoe with ends open] there were many things to learn before we were quite comfortable. we had learned how to keep our food, how to have the indians hunt and cut wood for us, which was all the work they did. for this they were paid the equivalent of $10 a month each, and clothing and lodging. they wouldn't mine--at least there are few indians who will mine. they would rather have an old red flannel shirt than a peck of diamonds. we learned about keeping iron in the drinking water and we put tin grease cups on all of the supporting poles of our logie, and of all buildings and shelters, to keep out the stinging ants and other insects. these insects were decidedly troublesome and we had to keep constant watch of ourselves to prevent serious trouble with them. there is an especially large mosquito which not only stings fearfully but deposits larvae beneath the skin. it is almost impossible to notice this at the time but it soon becomes a live worm in there, and then a great sore breaks out, caused by the bug so that he can crawl out and grow into a mosquito and sting someone else, and start another bug, and so on. worse than this were the "nail beetles." these chaps bore beneath the finger nails and toe nails. they do this boring so cleverly that frequently one does not feel it at all. they, too, deposit larvae, and the result is extremely dangerous as great sores come up beneath the nails and one is likely to lose not only the nail, but the finger or toe from blood poisoning, if even worse effects from the poisoning do not set in. we used a ten per cent solution of carbolic acid as a preventive. constant watchfulness was the price of freedom from becoming nesting places for 'skeeters and bugs. if we had food in kettles we had to set the legs in cups of oil to keep out the bugs. not far from where our mine is located is the property of the late major john purroy mitchel, former mayor of new york city and later an aviator, who was killed while in training at a southern aviation field. he knew this country well and had had many adventures down through here where he had considerable success in mining diamonds. chapter xxi _the first diamond!_ of course, once landed at the site of our diamond mine, we had to have a comfortable, permanent home. a "logie" it is called here, doubtless a corruption of the italian "loggia" which has as its equivalent in english the word "lodge." strictly speaking, a logie is a building that is partly open at the sides and consists of more veranda than closed in room. ours we had built so that it could be closed in, but except in driving rains the sides were always open. we could screen them to keep out mosquitoes and keep quite comfortable. we selected a site that was a little back from the river, out of the dampness, on a high and dry sloping hillside. we made a little clearing, but with the forest all about three sides to protect us from high winds. instead of driving foundation posts we cut the trees and used the stumps where possible. this slope left a sort of basement where we could store such things as rain might injure but insects could not. [illustration: our jungle home] we did not trust to palms and reeds for roofing but brought tarred roofing paper with us. this was much better, storm-proof, and helped keep insects away as they are never fond of tar. facing the river we had a wide veranda. inside we made good but crude tables and chairs, a desk, and strong supports for our hammocks. the rear end was but a step from the ground, but the front end was some fifteen feet up. it made us a snug and comfortable home for the more than four months we were digging into the gravel of the river banks for "shiners." meanwhile we got busy with our mining. jimmy acted as our cook and personal servant. the captain was an expert in this river life, the indians were chopping wood and bringing in game and fish, the blacks were busy now getting the mine started and later in digging, so that we were a very busy and quite contented colony. diamond mining on the mazaruni is not unlike gold dust mining. the diamonds, like the gold, being the heaviest substance in the gravel, naturally settle down to the bottom when a sieve is twisted about so as to make the water move around and around. the centrifugal force sends the heavy material to the bottom. we started in with pick and shovel. later we built a "long tom," which is a wooden trough through which water runs, there being several compartments and cleats. the gravel is put in at the upper end and carried down by the rush of water. the gravel, being lighter, is carried on down and off, the diamonds are mixed in with tin ore, pulsite and ordinary quartz, all of these being heavy. finally the residue, after the gravel is washed out, is put in a sieve and either "jigged" by hand or by means of wire supports, over a box of water. the soil was made up of loose gravel and also of conglomerate, not quite solid, yet not loose like gravel, and much muscle with the picks was needed to loosen the stuff. once our sieves were ready we could scarcely wait to get busy. gravel was shoveled into the first sieve and one of the blacks, an expert "jigger," took it up and started the peculiar circular motion. "lucky baby," he said. the men who do this work are called "jiggers" and they call the sieves "baby." we watched his every move. around and around the sieve went. he paused. we stretched our necks to see but he merely scooped off the lighter top gravel that his circular motion had forced up, then continued. over and over he repeated this, for about an hour, continually washing it, the water dripping through the fine mesh of the sieve. then it was ready. with a final "swish" of the sieve and another washing, with the last handful of gravel brushed off, the contents, just a few handfuls of material, were dumped on a crude table and spread out with a sweep of the hand. "here's one!" it looked bright enough, but lewis, who had been prospecting there and had seen them mine diamonds, had learned the difference between the dull sparkle of ordinary quartz and the brilliant sheen of diamonds; he took up the particle, pressed it between two knife blades and crushed it. "everything here except diamonds can be crushed by that sort of pressure," he said. "here's one!" i picked it out. it would not crush. "yes. that's a diamond. about half a carat," said lewis. i have that tiny glittering pebble now and hope to always keep it. the first diamond from our mine! we found a few more in that lot, none very large, but all of them of value. none are too small, in fact, to be of some value. we find them in various colors, pure white, which is the average sort; brilliant blue white, the most valuable and rare; pink or rose, also quite valuable; and yellow, not so valuable. also a few green and black. most of the stones we get down there are too small for jewelry, and are used in commerce. drills are made of them and machinery for boring, and for probably a hundred different uses in manufacture. [illustration: an interior view of our "logie"] chapter xxii _how the precious stones are found_ then we settled down to steady mining. we built a shed for our tools, and we got the hand pump out, we prepared sieves for jigging and we made "long toms" and swinging sieves, washing troughs and all the necessary apparatus. if you had happened to come across our outfit it would have seemed very crude to you. rough washing boxes, rough troughs through which we turned water, shapeless holes in the ground partly filled with water, great heaps of worthless gravel, the dismal sucking sound of the old hand pump, and a clutter of boards, pans, shovels, and picks. yet we had one of the few good mines down there. the "pork knockers" have no mines; they journey from place to place up and down the river with pick and shovel and sieve, with a small quantity of food on their backs, and make shelter wherever they happen to be. they generally borrow money for the outfit, river traders bring up food and gin--i am sorry to say that it is generally more gin than food--and these pork knockers, niggers for the most part, exchange their few diamonds for the strong drink and food and keep on. they generally come out at the end of the dry season with enough, or about enough, to square their debts and leave a little over to live on until next season when they borrow again and once more set out. they have to give a certain percentage of their diamonds to the british government for the privilege of mining. we had to pay $25 for every 250 carats, which was not excessive at all, when you figure that 250 carats of diamond are worth around $2,000 these days. we sunk a shaft sixty feet, which was remarkable in that locality as the gravel is loose and washes in with rains. we propped it up with planks but had to keep constant watch of it. finally water seeped through faster than our hand pump could get it out. [illustration: a long tom diamond washer] [illustration: jiggers separating diamonds from gravel] some of the jiggers are so expert that, impossible as it seems, they can jig a baby--to use their own expression--so that the diamonds, heavy as they are, will actually come to the top. they then pick off the biggest ones and then go on jigging as usual. but they do not get away with many. a close watch is kept on the jiggers and if they are caught stealing they are fined a month's pay or more. we had some trouble but not much. these men are bound out to us by the british government and must work. if they run away they are outcasts and cannot get more work to do. on the other hand we must feed them according to the law and work them only so many hours. one day we were watching the results of a jigging from the "long tom" and suddenly there sparkled before us a large, brilliant stone. it weighed more than seven carats! this was the largest stone we found. but all together we cleaned up, in only a few months of actual mining, more than $20,000 worth of diamonds! rough diamonds are mostly of odd shapes. seldom do you find them in the almost perfect form that we find quartz crystals. once in a while i have picked out a small diamond that looked as though it had come directly from a skilled lapidary, so perfect in form it seemed to be. the largest diamond known to have been found in these fields weighed fourteen carats. a pork knocker named "london" found it. he was a giant of a black man, noted for his lawlessness, and greatly feared. he was working for another man at the time and, strange to say, he turned it over. the reason was that he knew he could not sell so large a gem without being caught. there is also much gold in that region, but we did not go after it. having come for diamonds, and finding them in paying quantities, we stuck to it. day after day lewis took his eight or ten grains of quinine. day after day i seemed to get along without it and i feared to take too much. the mosquitoes were there in plenty, the sort whose sting gives one the jungle fever, so deadly to white men, just as, at home, they cause malarial fevers. chapter xxiii _good-bye to the jungle_ i was in excellent health. there seemed no danger at all and i believed that i could stay there three or four months longer. it is a great game, full of fascination. you get a few diamonds to-day. next day less, next day more, next day scarcely any, next day a big one, and so on. always it is "to-morrow we may get a ten carat stone," or "to-morrow we may pull a fistful out of one 'baby,'" and so the temptation is great to stay on and on. at the rate that we were gathering in diamonds it seemed that we ought to pile up about $50,000 in six months. but after we had been actually mining more than four months i was returning from a hunting trip. i had a great burden of deer meat on my back. i walked through bogs where it was almost impossible to pull my feet out of the mud. i was hungry and extremely tired. now that is just when the white man succumbs to the bite of the mosquito down there. one nailed me on the back of the hand but i thought nothing of it. but next morning i hated to get up. i had no strength. i became worse during the day and for several days lay in a sort of semi-stupor, weak and listless. "very bad," said captain peter; "get him back before he dies!" poor lewis broke camp in record time. they bundled me into the boat and i was conscious only a small part of the time. going downriver is far different from coming up. they made the trip to georgetown in a few days and when they got me to the hospital the doctors looked me over and demanded a deposit of $85. "why?" demanded lewis, quite indignant. "to cover funeral expenses. he can't live," they said. but i fooled them and recovered rapidly. lewis and i still own that mine. we came out with a good little pot of money, clean profit. the war took all of the time of both of us--but now that it's over we are planning to go back there some day. with our experience we feel sure that we can make much money, both in gold and diamond mining. we shall take back better equipment, power pumps, and everything this experience taught us we should have. my adventure was satisfactory in every way. i wish i could have stuck it out six months longer. but i think the best plan would be for white men to set up their mines and work them about five months, go back home for seven months, work them another five months, and so on, thus avoiding the great dangers. i am looking forward to the day when i can get back there, meet my indian friends, go tapir and labba hunting with them and, above all, enjoy the wonderful thrill that comes when you spread out the residue of a jigging and pick out, here and there, a sparkling diamond! [frontispiece: lowered the can cautiously by a string] northern diamonds by frank lillie pollock _with illustrations_ boston and new york houghton mifflin company the riverside press cambridge 1917 copyright, 1914 and 1915, by perry mason company copyright, 1917, by frank lillie pollock all rights reserved _published september 1917_ note this book has appeared in the _youth's companion_ in the form of a serial and sequel, and my thanks are due to the proprietors of that periodical for permission to reprint. frank lillie pollock illustrations lowered the can cautiously by a string . . . . . . _frontispiece_ the other boys had been busy "that is our cabin. let us come in, i say" dragged him up, protesting, and rubbed snow on his ears flung the sack into the man's lap _from drawings by harry c. edwards_ northern diamonds chapter i it was nearly eleven o'clock at night when some one knocked at the door of fred osborne's room. he was not in the least expecting any caller at that hour, and had paid no attention when he had heard the doorbell of the boarding-house ring downstairs, and the sound of feet ascending the steps. he hastened to open the door, however, and in the dim hallway he recognized the dark, handsome face of maurice stark, and behind it the tall, raw-boned form of peter macgregor. both of them uttered an exclamation of satisfaction at seeing him. they were both in fur caps and overcoats, for it was a sharp canadian december night, and at the first glance fred observed that their faces wore an expression of excitement. "come in, boys!" he said. "i wasn't going to bed. here, take your coats off. what's up? you look as if something was the matter." "is horace in town?" demanded peter. fred shook his head. horace was his elder brother, a mining engineer mostly employed in the north country. "he's still somewhere in the north woods. i haven't heard from him since october, but i'm expecting him to turn up almost any day now. why, what's the matter?" "the matter? something pretty big," returned maurice. maurice stark was fred's most intimate friend in toronto university, from which he had himself graduated the summer before. he knew macgregor less well, for the big scotch-canadian was in the medical school. his home place was somewhere far up in the north woods, but he had a great intercollegiate reputation as a long-distance runner. it was, in fact, chiefly in a sporting way that fred had come to know him, for fred held an amateur skating championship, and was even then training for the ice tournament to be held in toronto in a few weeks. "it's something big!" maurice repeated. "i wish horace were here, but--could you get a holiday from your office for a week or ten days?" "i've got it already," said fred. "i reserved my holidays last summer, and things aren't busy in a real estate office at this time of year. i guess i could get two weeks if i wanted it. i'm spending most of my time now training for the five and ten miles." "could you skate a hundred and fifty miles in two days?" demanded macgregor. "i might if i had to--if it was a case of life and death." "that's just what it is--a case of life and death, and possibly a fortune into the bargain!" cried maurice. "you see--but mac has the whole story." the scottish medical student went to the window, raised the blind and peered out at the wintry sky. "no sign of snow yet," he said in a tone of satisfaction. "what's that got to do with it?" demanded fred, who was burning with curiosity by this time. "what's going on, anyway? hurry up." "spoil the skating," said macgregor briefly. "well," he went on after a moment, "this is how i had the story. "i live away up north of north bay, you know, at a little place called muirhead. i went home for a little visit last week, and the second day i was there they brought in a sick indian from hickson, a little farther north--sick with smallpox. the hickson authorities wouldn't have him at any price, and they had just passed him on to us. the people at muirhead didn't want him either. it wasn't such a very bad case of smallpox, but the poor wretch had suffered a good deal of exposure, and he was pretty shaky. everybody was in a panic about him; they wanted to ship him straight down to north bay; but finally i got him fixed up in a sort of isolation camp and looked after him myself." "good for you, mac!" fred ejaculated. "oh, it was good hospital training, and i'd been recently vaccinated, so i didn't run any danger. it paid me, though, for when i'd pulled him around a bit he told me the story, and a queer tale it was." macgregor paused and went to look out of the window again with anxiety. fred was listening breathlessly. "it seems that last september this indian, along with a couple of half-breeds, went up into the woods for the winter trapping, and built a cabin on one of the branches of the abitibi river, away up northeast of lake timagami. i know about where it was. i suppose you've never been up in that country, osborne?" "never quite as far as that. last summer i was nearly up to timagami with horace." fred had made a good many canoeing trips into the northern wilderness with his brother, and horace himself, as mining engineer, surveyor, and free-lance prospector, had spent most of the last five years in that region. at irregular and generally unexpected times he would turn up in toronto with a bale of furs, a sack of mineralogical specimens, and a book of geological notes, which would presently appear in the "university science quarterly," or even in more important publications. he was an associate of the canadian geographical society, and always expected to hit on a vein of mineral that would make his whole family millionaires. "well, i've been up and down the abitibi in a canoe," macgregor went on, "and i think i know almost the exact spot where they must have built the cabin. anyhow, i'm certain i could find it, for the indian described it as accurately as he could. "it seems that the three men trapped there till the end of october, and then a white man came into their camp. he was all alone, and complained of feeling sick. they were kind enough to him; he stayed with them, but in a few days they found out what the matter was. he had smallpox. "now, you know how the indians and half-breeds dread smallpox. they fear it like death itself, but these fellows seem to have behaved pretty well at first. they did what they could for the sick man, but pretty soon one of the trappers came down with the disease. it took a violent form, and he was dead in a few days. "that was too much for the nerve of the indian, and he slipped away and started for the settlements south. but he had waited too long. he had the germs in him. he sickened in the woods, but had strength enough to keep going till he came to the first clearings. somebody rushed him in to hickson, and so he was passed on to my hands." "and what became of the white man and the other trapper?" demanded fred. "ah, that's what nobody knows. the indian said that the remaining half-breed was falling sick when he left. the white man may be dead by this time, or perhaps still living but deserted, or he may be well on the road to recovery. but i left out the sensational feature of the whole thing. my indian said that the white man had a buckskin sack on him full of little stones that shone like fire. he seemed to set great store by them, and threatened to blow the head off anybody who touched the bag." "shining stones? perhaps they were diamonds!" ejaculated fred. "it looks almost as if he might have found the diamond fields, for a fact," said peter, with sparkling eyes. canada was full of rumors of diamond discoveries just then. every canadian must remember the intense excitement created by the report that diamonds had been found in the mining regions of northern ontario. several stones had actually been brought down to toronto and montreal, where tests showed them to be real diamonds, though they were mostly small, flawed, and valueless. one, however, was said to have brought nine hundred dollars, and the news set many parties outfitting to prospect for the blue-clay beds. but they met with no success. in every case the stones had either been picked up in river drift or obtained from indians who could give no definite account of where they had been found. could it be that this strange white man had actually stumbled on the diamond fields--only to fall sick and perhaps to die with the secret of his discoveries untold? fred gazed from peter to maurice, almost speechless. "naturally, my first idea was to get up a rescue party to bring out the sick prospector," maurice went on. "but the woods are in the worst kind of shape for traveling. the streams are all frozen hard, but there has been remarkably little snow yet--not near enough for snowshoes or sledges. it would be impossible to tramp that distance and pack the supplies. besides, when i came to think it over it struck me that the thing was too valuable to share with a lot of guides and backwoodsmen. if we find that fellow alive, and he has really discovered anything, it would be strange if he wouldn't give us a chance to stake out a few claims that might be worth thousands--maybe millions. and it struck me that there was a quicker way to get to him than by snowshoes or dogs. the streams are frozen, the ice is clear, and the skating was fine at muirhead." "an expedition on skates?" cried fred. "why not? there's a clear canoe way, barring a few portages, and that means a clear ice road till it snows. but it might do that at any moment." "a hundred and fifty miles in two days?" said fred. "sure, we can do it. i'll set the pace, if you fellows can keep up." "anyhow, i came straight down to the city and saw maurice about it. he said you'd be the best third man we could get. but i had hoped we could get horace, so as to have his expert opinion on what that man may have found." "the last time i heard from horace he was at red lake," said fred, "but i wouldn't have any idea where to find him now. he always comes back to toronto for the winter, and he can't be much later than this." "well, we can't wait for him," said maurice regretfully. "i'm sorry, but maybe next spring will do as well, when we go to prospect our diamond claims." "yes, but we've got to get them first," said peter, "and there's a man's life to be saved--and it might snow to-night and block the whole expedition." "then we'd get dogs and snowshoes," maurice remarked, "but it would be far slower traveling than on skates." "we must rush things. could we get away to-morrow?" fred cried. "we must--by the evening train. maurice and i have been making out a list of the things we need to buy. have you a gun? well, we have two rifles anyway, and that'll be more than enough, for we want to go as light as possible. you'll need a sleeping-bag, of course, and your roughest, warmest woolen clothes, and a couple of heavy sweaters. we'll carry snowshoes and moccasins with us, in case of a snowfall. i'll bring a medicine case and disinfectants." "will we have to pack all that outfit on our shoulders?" fred asked. "no, of course not. i have a six-foot toboggan, which i'll have fitted with detachable steel runners to-morrow, good for either ice or snow. we'll haul it by a rope. but here's the main thing--the grub list." fred glanced over the scribbled rows of the carefully considered items,--bacon, condensed milk, powdered eggs, beans, dehydrated vegetables, meal, tea, bread,--and he was astonished. "surely we won't need all this for a week or ten days?" "that's a man-killing country in the winter," responded the scotchman grimly. "i know it. you have to go well prepared, and you never can depend on getting game after snow falls. besides, we'll have no time for hunting. yes, we'll need every ounce of that, and it'll all have to be bought to-morrow. and now i suppose we'd better improve the last chance of sleeping in a bed that we'll have for some time." he went to the window and again observed the sky, which remained clear and starry, snapping with frost. "no sign of snow, certainly. we can count on you, then, osborne? of course it's understood that we share expenses equally--they won't be heavy--and share anything that we may get out of it." "count on me? i should rather think so!" cried fred fervently. "why, i'd never have forgiven you if you hadn't let me in on this. but we'll have to do a lot of quick shopping to-morrow, won't we? where do we meet?" "at my rooms, as soon after breakfast as possible," replied mac. "and breakfast early, and make all the preparations you can before that." at this they went away, leaving fred alone, but far too full of excitement to sleep. he sorted out his warmest clothing, carefully examined and oiled his hockey skates and boots, wrote a necessary letter or two, and did such other things as occurred to him. it was long past one o'clock when he did go to bed, and even then he could not sleep. his mind was full of the dangerous expedition that he had plunged into within the last hours. his imagination saw vividly the picture of the long ice road through the wilderness, a hundred and fifty miles to the lonely trappers' shack, where a white man lay sick with a bag of diamonds on his breast--or perhaps by this time lay dead with the secret of immense riches lost with him. and the ice road might close to-morrow. fred tossed and turned in bed, and more than once got up to look out the window for signs of a snowstorm. but he went to sleep at last, and slept soundly till awakened by the rattle of his alarm-clock, set for half-past six. he had an early breakfast and packed his clothes. at nine o'clock he telephoned the real estate office where he was employed, and had no difficulty in getting his holidays extended another week. business was dull just then. at half-past nine he met maurice and peter, who were waiting for him with impatience. macgregor had already left his toboggan at a sporting-goods store to be equipped with runners for use on ice. but there remained an immense amount of shopping to do, and all the things had to be purchased at half a dozen different places. together they went the rounds of the shops with a list from which they checked off article after article,--ammunition, sleeping-bags, moccasins, food, camp outfit,--and they ordered them all sent to macgregor's rooms by special delivery. at four o'clock in the afternoon the boys went back, and found the room littered with innumerable parcels of every shape and size. only the toboggan had not arrived, though it had been promised for the middle of the afternoon. "gracious! it looks like a lot!" exclaimed maurice, gazing about at the packages. "it won't look like so much when they're stowed away," replied peter. "let's get them unwrapped, and, fred, you'd better go down and hurry up that toboggan. stand over them till it's done, for we must have it before six o'clock." fred hurried downtown again. the toboggan was not finished, but the work was under way. by dint of furious entreaties and representations of the emergency fred induced them to hurry it up. it was not a long job, and by a quarter after five fred was back at mac's room, accompanied by a messenger with the remodeled toboggan. the toboggan was of the usual pattern and shape, but the cushions had been removed, and a thirty-foot moose-hide thong attached for hauling. it was fitted with four short steel runners, only four inches high, which could be removed in a few minutes by unscrewing the nuts, so that it could be used as a sledge on ice or as a toboggan on deep snow. during fred's absence the other boys had been busy. all the kit was out of the wrappers, and the room was a wilderness of brown paper. everything had been packed into four canvas dunnage sacks, and now these were firmly strapped on the toboggan. the rifles and the snowshoes were similarly attached, so that the whole outfit was in one secure package. they hauled this down to the railway station themselves to make sure that there would be no delay, and dispatched it by express to waverley, where they intended to leave the train. it was then a few minutes after six. [illustration: the other boys had been busy] "well, we're as good as off now," remarked maurice, with a long breath. "our train goes at eight. we've got two hours, and now i guess i'll go home and have supper with my folks and say good-bye. we'll all meet at the depot." neither fred nor macgregor had any relatives in the city and no necessary farewells to make. they had supper together at a downtown restaurant, and afterwards met maurice at the union depot, where they took the north-bound express. next morning they awoke from uneasy slumbers to find the train rushing through a desolate landscape of snowy spruces. through the frosted double glass of the windows the morning looked clear and cold, but they were relieved to see that there was only a little snow on the ground, and glimpses of rivers and lakes showed clear, shining ice. evidently the road was still open. it was half-past ten that forenoon when they reached waverley, and they found that it was indeed cold. the thermometer stood at five above zero; the snow was dry as powder underfoot, and the little backwoods village looked frozen up. but it was sunny, and the biting air was full of the freshness of the woods, and the spirits of all the boys rose jubilantly. the laden toboggan had come up on the same train with them, and they saw it taken out of the express car. leaving it at the station, they went to the village hotel, where they ate an early dinner, and changed from their civilized clothes to the caps, sweaters, and hudson bay "duffel" trousers that they had brought in their suit-cases. they had been the only passengers to leave the train, and their arrival produced quite a stir in waverley. it was not the season for camping parties, nor for hunting, and no one went into the woods for pleasure in the winter. the toboggan with its steel runners drew a curious group at the station. "goin' in after moose?" inquired an old woodsman while they were at dinner. "no," replied peter. "goin' up to the pulpwood camps, mebbe?" "no." "what might ye be goin' into the woods fer?" he persisted, after some moments. "we might be going in after gold," answered maurice gravely. he did not mean it to be taken seriously, but he forgot that gold is mined in several parts of northern ontario. before many hours the word spread that a big winter gold strike had been made up north, and a party from the city was already going to the spot, so that for several weeks the village was in a state of excitement. the boys suspected nothing of this, but the public curiosity began to be annoying. "can't we start at once?" fred suggested. "yes; there's no use in stopping here another hour," peter agreed. "we ought to catch the fine weather while it lasts, and we can make a good many miles in the rest of this day." so they left their baggage at the hotel, with instructions to have it kept till their return, secured their toboggan at the depot, and went down to the river. the stream was a belt of clear, bluish ice, free from snow except for a little drift here and there. half a dozen curious idlers had followed them. paying no attention, the boys took off their moccasins and put on the hockey boots with skates attached. they slid out upon the ice and dragged the toboggan after them. the spectators raised a cheer, which the three boys answered with a yell as they struck out. the ice was good; the toboggan ran smoothly after them, so that they scarcely noticed its weight. in a moment the snowy roofs of the little village had passed out of sight around a bend of the river, and black spruce and hemlock woods were on either side. the great adventure had begun. chapter ii "don't force the pace at first, boys," fred warned his companions. "remember, we've a long way to go." as the expert skater, he had taken the leading end of the drag-rope. his advice was hard to follow. the ice was in perfect condition; the toboggan ran almost without friction on its steel shoes, and in that sparkling air it seemed that it would be easy to skate a hundred miles without ever once resting. for a little way the river was bordered with stumpy clearings; then the dark hemlock and jack-pine woods closed down on the shores. the skaters had reached the frontier; it might well be that there were not a dozen cultivated fields between them and the north pole. here the river was about a hundred feet wide, the long ice road that fred had imagined. comparatively little snow had yet fallen, and that little seemed to have come with high winds, which had swept the ice clear. more, however, might be looked for any day. but for that day they were safe. they rushed ahead, forcing the pace a little, after all, in a swinging single file, with the toboggan gliding behind. in great curves the river wound through the woods and frozen swamps, and only twice that day had they to go ashore to get round roaring, unfrozen rapids. each of those obstructions cost the boys half an hour of labor before they could get the toboggan through the dense underbrush that choked the portage. but they had counted on such delays. not a breath of wind stirred, and the forest was profoundly still. full of wild life though it undoubtedly was, not a sign of it was visible, except now and then a chain of delicate tracks along the shore. evening comes early in that latitude and season. at sunset macgregor estimated that they had covered thirty miles. "time to camp, boys!" he shouted from the rear. "look out for a good place--shelter and lots of dry wood." two or three miles farther on they found it--a spot where several large spruce trees had fallen together, and lay dry and dead near the shore. they drew up the toboggan and exchanged their skating-boots for moccasins. maurice began to cut up wood with a small axe; the others trampled down the snow in a circle. dusk was already falling when the fire blazed up, making all at once a spot of almost home-like cheerfulness. fred chopped a hole in the ice in order to fill the kettle, and while it was boiling, they cut down a number of small saplings, and placed them in lean-to fashion against a ridgepole. the balsam twigs that they trimmed off they threw inside, until the snow was covered with a great heap of fragrant boughs. on it they spread the sleeping-bags to face the fire. they supped that night on fried bacon, dried eggs, oatmeal cakes, and tea--real _voyageur's_ tea, hot and strong, flavored with brown sugar and wood smoke, and drunk out of tin cups. leaning back on the balsam couch, they made merry over their meal, while the stars came out white and clear over the dark woods. there was every prospect now of their reaching the trappers' cabin in two days more, at most. there were only the two serious dangers--a snowstorm might spoil the ice, and macgregor might not be able to hit upon the right place. the boys were tired enough to be drowsy as soon as they had finished supper. little by little their conversation flagged; the chance of finding diamonds ceased to interest them, and presently they built up the fire and crawled into their sleeping-bags. it was a cold night, and except for the occasional cry of a hunting owl or lynx, the wilderness was silent as death. the boys were up early the next morning; smoke was rising from their fire before the sun was well off the horizon. the weather seemed slightly warmer, and a wind was rising from the west, but it was not strong enough to impede them. after breakfast, they repacked the kit on the toboggan. the spot had been home for a night; now nothing was left except a pile of crushed twigs and a few black brands on the trampled snow. the travelers were fresh again; now they settled down to a long, steady stroke that carried them on rapidly. three times they had to land to pass round open rapids or dangerous ice, but about eleven o'clock macgregor saw what he had been looking for. it was a spot where several trees had been cut down on the shore. a rather faint trail showed through the cedar thickets. it was the beginning of the main portage that ran three miles northwest, straight across country to the abitibi river. they had been mortally afraid of overrunning the spot. they boiled the noon kettle of tea to fortify themselves for the long crossing. then they unshipped the runners from the toboggan, put on their moccasins and snowshoes, and started ashore across a range of low, densely wooded hills. the trail was blazed at long intervals, but not cleared, and it was hard, exasperating work to get the toboggan through the snowy tangle. after two hours they came out on the crest of a hill overlooking a great river that ran like a gleaming steel-blue ribbon far into the north. "the abitibi!" cried macgregor. they had come a good seventy miles from waverley. at that rate, they might expect to reach their destination the next day; and, greatly encouraged, they coasted on the toboggan down to the ice, and set out again on skates. during the tramp the sky had grown hazy, and the northwest wind was blowing stronger. for some time it was not troublesome, for it came from the left, but it continued to freshen, and the clouds darkened ominously. late in the afternoon the travelers came suddenly upon the second of the known landmarks. from the west a smaller river, nameless, as far as they knew, poured past a bluff of black granite into the abitibi, making a fifty-yard stretch of open water that tumbled and foamed with a hoarse uproar among ice-bound boulders. here they had to change their course, for according to macgregor's calculation, it was about fifty miles up this river that the cabin stood. again they went ashore, and after struggling through two hundred yards of dense thickets reached the little nameless river from the west. the change in their course brought them squarely into the eye of the wind, and they felt the difference instantly. the breeze had risen to half a gale; the whole sky had clouded. it was only an hour from sunset, but no one mentioned camping; they were resolved to go on while the light lasted. and suddenly fred, struggling on with bent head against the wind, saw that the front of his blue sweater was growing powdered with white grains. "we're caught, boys!" he exclaimed; and they stopped to look at the menacing sky. snow was drifting down in fine powder, and glancing over the ice past their feet. straight down from the great hudson bay barrens the storm was coming, and the roar of the forest, now that they stopped to listen, was like that of the tempestuous sea. "'snow meal, snow a great deal,'" macgregor quoted, with forced cheerfulness. "let's hope not!" exclaimed maurice. and fred added: "anyhow, let's get on while we can." on they went, skating fast. as yet the snow was no hindrance, for it spun off the smooth ice as fast as it fell. it was the wind that troubled them, for it roared down the river channel with disheartening force. it was especially discouraging to be checked thus on the last lap, but none of them thought of giving up. they settled doggedly to the task, although it took all their strength and wind to keep going. but all three were in pretty good training, and they stuck to it for more than an hour. the forest was growing dark, and the snow was coming faster. then maurice, rather dubiously, suggested a halt. "nonsense! we're good for another ten miles, at least!" cried peter, who seemed tireless. they shot ahead again. evening settled early, with the snow falling thick. the ice was white now; skates and toboggan left black streaks, immediately obliterated by fresh flakes. just before complete darkness fell, the boys made a short halt, built a fire, and boiled tea. no more was said of camping. they had tacitly resolved to struggle on as long as they could keep going, for they knew that they would have no chance to use their skates after that night. it grew dark, but never pitch dark, for the reflection from the snow gave light enough for them to see the road. even yet the snow lay so light that the blades cut it without an effort. the wind, however, was hard to fight against. in spite of his amateur championship, fred was the first to give out. for some time he had felt himself flagging, dropping behind, and then recovering; but all at once his legs gave way, and he collapsed in a heap on the ice, half unconscious from fatigue. macgregor and stark bent over him. "got to put him on the toboggan," declared the scotchman. maurice felt that it was madness for two of them to try to haul the greater load, but without protest he helped to roll the dazed youngster in the blankets, and to strap him on the sledge. the next stage always seemed to him a sort of waking nightmare; he never quite knew how long it lasted. the wind bore against him like a wall; the drag of the toboggan seemed intolerable. half dead with exhaustion and fatigue, he fixed his eyes on macgregor's broad back, and went on with short, forced strokes, with the feeling that each marked the extreme limit of his strength. suddenly his leader stopped. a great black space seemed to have opened in the white road ahead. "another portage!" macgregor shouted in maurice's ear. a long, unfrozen rapid was thundering in the gloom. with maddening difficulty, maurice and macgregor hacked a road through willow thickets and got the toboggan past. again they were on the ice, with the rapid behind them. it seemed to maurice that the horror of that exertion would never end; then suddenly the night seemed to turn pitch black, and he felt himself shaken by the shoulder. "get on the toboggan, maurice! come, wake up!" macgregor was saying. "wake up!" dimly he realized that he was sitting on the ice--that they had stopped--that fred was up again. too stupefied to question anything, he rolled into the blanket out of which fred had crawled, and instantly went sound asleep. it seemed only a moment until he was roused again. drunk with sleep, he clutched the towrope blindly, while fred, who was completely done this time, again took his place on the sledge. only macgregor seemed proof against fatigue. bent against the gale, he skated vigorously at the forward end of the line, and his strong voice shouted back encouragements that maurice hardly heard. the snow was now growing so deep on the ice that the skates ploughed through it with difficulty. still the boys labored on, minute after minute, mile after mile. maurice felt numb with fatigue and half asleep as he skated blindly, and suddenly he ran sharply into macgregor, who had stopped short. there was another break just ahead--a long cascade this time, where snowy pocks showed like white blurs on the black water. "going to portage?" mumbled maurice. "no use trying to go any farther," replied the medical student, and his voice was hoarse. "fred's played out. snow's getting too deep, anyway. better camp here." maurice would have been glad to drop where he stood. but they dragged the toboggan ashore somehow, caring little where they landed it. peter rolled fred off into the snow. the boy groaned, but did not waken, and they began to unpack the supplies with stiffened hands. "got to get something hot into us quick," said peter thickly. "help me make a fire." probably they were all nearer death than they realized. maurice wanted only to sleep. however, in a sort of daze, he broke off branches, peeled bark, and they had a fire blazing up in the falling snowflakes. the wind whirled and scattered it, but they piled on larger sticks, and macgregor filled the kettle from the river. when the water was hot he poured in a whole tin of condensed milk, added a cake of chocolate, a handful of sugar and another of oatmeal, too stiffened to measure out anything. maurice had collapsed into a dead sleep in the snow. peter shook him awake, and between them they managed to arouse fred with great difficulty. still half asleep they swallowed the rich, steaming mess from the kettle. it set their blood moving again, but they were too thoroughly worn out to think of building a camp. they crept into their sleeping-bags, buttoned the naps down over their heads and went to sleep regardless of consequences. fred awoke to find himself almost steaming hot, and in utter darkness and silence. all his muscles ached, and he could not imagine where he was. a weight held him down when he tried to move, but he turned over at last and sat up with an effort. a glare of white light made him blink. he had been buried under more than two feet of snow. it was broad daylight. all the world was white, and a raging snowstorm was driving through the forest. the tree-tops creaked and roared, and the powdery snow whirled like smoke. fred felt utterly bewildered. there was no sign of the camp-fire, nor of the toboggan, nor of any of his companions, nothing but a few mounds on the drifted white surface. finally he crawled out of his sleeping-outfit and dug into one of these mounds. two feet down he came upon the surface of a sleeping-bag, and punched it vigorously. it stirred; the flap opened, and macgregor thrust his face out, blinking, red and dazed. "time to get up!" fred shouted. mac crawled out and shook off the snow, looking disconcerted. "snowed in, with a vengeance!" he remarked. "where's the camp--and where's maurice?" after prodding about they located the third member of their party at last, and dug him out. as for the camp, there was none, and they could only guess at where the toboggan with their stores might be buried. "this ends our skating," said maurice. "it'll have to be snowshoes after this. good thing we got so far last night." "no thanks to me!" fred remarked. "i was the expert skater; i believe i said i'd set the pace, and i was the first to cave in. i hope i do better with the snowshoes." "neither snowshoes nor skates to-day," said peter. "we can't travel till this storm blows over. nothing for it but to build a camp and sit tight." after groping about for some time they found the toboggan, unstrapped the snowshoes, and used them as shovels to clear away a circular place. in doing so they came upon the black brands of last night's fire, with the camp kettle upon them where they had left it. fred ploughed through the snow and collected wood for a fresh fire, while peter and maurice set up stakes and poles and built a roof of hemlock branches to afford shelter from the storm. it was only a rude shed with one side open to face the fire, but it kept off the snow and wind and proved fairly comfortable. fred had coffee made by this time, and it did not take long to fry a pan of bacon. they seated themselves on a heap of boughs at the edge of the shelter and ate and drank. they all were stiff and sore, but the hot food and coffee made a decided improvement. "what surprises me," remarked maurice, "is that we didn't freeze last night, sleeping under the snow. but i never felt warmer in bed." "it was the snow that did it. snow makes a splendid nonconductor of heat," replied macgregor. "better than blankets. i remember hearing of a man who was caught by a blizzard crossing a big barren up north with a train of dogs. the dogs wouldn't face the storm; he lost his directions; and finally he turned the sledge over and got under it with the dogs around him, and let it snow. he stayed there a day and a half, asleep most of the time, and wouldn't have known when the storm was over, only that a pack of timber wolves smelt him and tried to dig him out. they ran when they found out what was there, but he bagged two of them with his rifle." "i don't believe even timber wolves would have wakened me this morning. i never was so stiff and used up in my life," maurice commented on this tale of adventure. "yes, we need the rest," said mac. "we overdid it yesterday, and we couldn't have gone far to-day in any case." "but meanwhile that man at the cabin may be dying," exclaimed fred. "if he's dead it can't be helped," responded the scotchman. "we're doing all that's humanly possible. but if he's alive, don't forget that he can't get away while this storm lasts, any more than we can." "well, it looks as if the storm would last all day," said fred, gazing upwards. the blizzard did last all that day, reaching its height toward the middle of the afternoon, but it was not extremely cold, and the boys were fairly comfortable. they lounged on the blankets in the shelter of the camp, and recuperated from their fatigue, discussing their chances of still reaching the cabin in time to do any good. none of them could guess accurately how far they had come in that terrible night, but at the worst they could not think the cabin more than forty miles farther. this distance would have to be traveled on snowshoes, however, not skates, and none of the boys were very expert snowshoers. it would be certainly more than one day's tramp. toward night the wind lessened, though it was still snowing fast. the boys piled on logs enough to keep the fire smouldering all night in spite of the snowflakes, and went to sleep under cover of the hemlock roof. maurice awoke toward the middle of the night, and noticed drowsily that it had stopped snowing, and that a star or two was visible overhead. next morning dawned sparkling clear and very cold, with not a breath of wind. everything was deep and fluffy with the fresh snow, and when the sun came up the glare was almost blinding. it would be good weather for snowshoe travel, and the boys all felt fit again for another hard day. after breakfast, therefore, they packed the supplies upon the toboggan, unscrewed the steel runners, and put on the new snowshoes. "we'd better stick to the river," peter remarked. "it may make it a little farther, but it gives us a clear road, and if we follow the river we can't miss the cabin." "no danger of going through air-holes in the ice?" queried fred. "not much. an air-hole isn't generally big enough to let a snowshoe go through. we'll pull you out if you do. come along." off they went again. but they had not gone far before discovering that travel was going to be less easy than they had thought. the snow was light and the snowshoes sank deep. they moved in a cloud of puffing white powder, and the heavy toboggan went down so that it was difficult to draw it. without the smooth, level road of the river they could hardly have progressed at all. they braced themselves to the work and plodded on, taking turns at going first to break the road. the sun shone down in a white dazzle. there was no heat in it, but the glare was so strong that they had to pull their caps low over their eyes for fear of snow-blindness--the most deadly enemy of the winter traveler in the north. during the forenoon they thought they made hardly more than ten miles, and at noon they halted, made a fire and boiled tea. the hot drink and an hour's rest made them ready for the road again. twice that afternoon they had to make a long dã©tour through the woods to avoid unfrozen rapids, and once the brush was so dense that they had to cut a way for the toboggan with the axe. once, too, the ice suddenly cracked under fred's foot, and he flung himself forward just in time to avoid the black water gushing up through the snowed-over air-hole. the life of the wilderness was beginning to emerge after the storm. along the shores they saw the tracks of mink. once they encountered a plunging trail across the river where several timber wolves must have crossed the night before, and late in the afternoon maurice shot a couple of spruce grouse in a thicket. he flung them on the toboggan, and they arrived at camp that night frozen into solid lumps. it was plainly impossible to reach the cabin that day. peter, who was keenly on the lookout, failed to recognize any of the landmarks. "we'd better camp early, boys," he said. "we can't make it to-day, and there's no use in getting snowshoe cramp and being tied up for a week." they kept on, however, till the sun was almost down. a faint but piercing northwest breeze had arisen, and they halted in the lee of a dense cedar thicket close to the river. a huge log had fallen down the shore, and this would make an excellent backing for the fire during the night. drawing up the toboggan, the boys took off their snowshoes and began to shovel out a circular pit for the camp. the snow had drifted deep in that spot. before they came to the bottom the snow was heaped so high that the pit was shoulder-deep. it was all the better for shelter, and they cut cedar poles and roofed one side of it, producing a most cozy and sheltered nook. fred continued to pull cedar twigs for bedding, while peter and maurice unpacked the toboggan and lighted the fire against the big log. now that it was laid bare this log proved to be indeed a monster. it must have been nearly three feet in diameter, and was probably hollow, but would keep the fire smouldering indefinitely. fred plucked the frozen grouse with some difficulty, cut them up and put them into the kettle to thaw out and stew. this consumed some time, and it was rather late when supper was ready. a bitterly cold night was setting in. the icy breeze whined through the trees, but the sheltered pit of the camp was a warm and cozy place, casting its firelight high into the branches overhead. snowshoe cramp had attacked none of the boys, but the unaccustomed muscles were growing stiff and sore. by macgregor's advice they all took off moccasins and stockings and massaged their calves and ankles thoroughly, afterwards roasting them well before the fire. one side of the big log was a glowing red ember now, and they piled fresh wood beside it, laid the rifles ready, and crept into their sleeping-bags under the shelter. fred did not know how long he had slept when he was awakened by a sort of nervous shock. he raised his head and glanced about. all was still in the camp. his companions lay motionless in their bags. the fire had burned low, and the air of the zero night cut his face like a knife. he could not imagine what had awakened him, but he felt that he ought to get up and replenish the fire and he was trying to make up his mind to crawl out of his warm nest when he was startled by a sort of dull, jarring rumble. it seemed to come from the fire itself. fred uttered a scared cry that woke both the other boys instantly. "what's the matter? what is it?" they both exclaimed. before fred could answer, there was a sort of upheaval. the fire was dashed aside. smoke and ashes flew in every direction, and they had a cloudy glimpse of something charging out through the smoke--something huge and black and lightning quick. "jump! run!" yelled peter, scrambling to get out of his sleeping-bag. at the shout and scramble the animal wheeled like a flash and plunged at the side of the pit, trying to reach the top with a single leap. it fell short, and came down in a cloud of snow. fred had got clear from the encumbering bag by this time, and floundered out of the pit without knowing exactly how he did it. he found maurice close behind him. peter missed his footing and tumbled back with a horrified yell, and maurice seized him by the leg as he went down and dragged him back bodily. before they recovered from their panic they bolted several yards away, plunging knee-deep in the drifts, and then peter stopped. "hold on!" he exclaimed. "it isn't after us!" "but what was it?" stammered maurice, out of breath. looking back, they could see nothing but the faint glow from the scattered brands. but they could not overlook the whole interior of the camp, where the intruder must be now lying quiet. trying to collect himself, fred told how he had been awakened. "it came straight out of the fire!" he declared. "out of the log, i guess," said peter. "here, i know what it must be. it's simply a bear!" "a bear!" ejaculated fred. "yes, a bear, that must have had his winter den in that big log. he was hibernating there, and our fire burned into his den and roused him out. that's all." "quite enough, i should think," said maurice. "bears are ugly-tempered when they're disturbed from their winter dens, i've heard. he's got possession of our camp, now. what'll we do?" "we'll freeze if we don't do something pretty quick," fred added. in fact the boys were standing in stockinged feet in the snow, and the night was bitterly cold. all looked quiet in what they could see of the camp. "i don't see why one of us hadn't the wit to grab a gun!" said peter bitterly. he turned and began to wade back cautiously toward the camp. the other boys followed him, till they were close enough to look into the pit. no animal was in sight. "perhaps he's bolted out the other side," muttered peter. "who's going to go down there and find out?" nobody volunteered. if the bear was still in the camp he must be under the roofed-over shelter, and, in fact, as they stood shivering and listening they heard a sound of stirring about under the cedar poles of the roof. "he's there!" exclaimed fred. "and eating up our stores, as like as not!" cried maurice. this made the case considerably more serious. "we must get him out of that!" macgregor exclaimed. how to do it was the difficulty, and, still more, how to do it with safety. both the rifles were still lying loaded under the shelter, probably under the very feet of the bear. "well, we've got to take a chance!" declared macgregor at last. "talk about cold feet! we'll certainly have them frozen if we stand here much longer. scatter out, boys, all around the camp. then we'll snowball the brute out. likely he's too scared to want to fight. anyhow, if he jumps out on one side, the man on the opposite side must jump into the camp and grab a rifle." it looked risky, to provoke a charge from the animal in that deep snow, where they could hardly move, but they waded around the camp till they stood at equal distances apart, surrounding the hollowed space. "now let him have it!" cried peter. immediately they began to throw snowballs into the camp, aiming at that dark hole under the cedar roof where the animal was hidden. but the snow was too dry to pack into lumps, and the light masses they flung produced no effect. peter broke off branches from a dead tree and threw them into the shelter, without causing the bear to come out. finally fred, who happened to be standing beside a birch tree, peeled off a great strip of bark and lighted it with a match. "hold on! don't throw that!" yelled peter. he was too late. fred had already cast the flaming mass into the camp, too close to the piles of cedar twigs. the resinous leaves caught and flashed up. there was a glare of smoky flame--a wild scramble and scurry under the shelter, and the bear burst out, and plunged at the snowy sides of the pit on the side opposite fred's position. he fell back as he had done before, but floundered up with a second leap. maurice, who was nearest, gave a shrill yell and tried to dash aside, but he stumbled and went head-long in the deep snow. fred instantly leaped into the camp. the shelter was full of smoke and light flame, but he knew where the rifles lay, and snatched one. straightening up, he was just in time to see the bear vanishing with long leaps into the darkness, ploughing up clouds of snow. he fired one shot wildly, then another, but there was no sign of the animal's being stopped, and the next instant it was out of sight. "quick! stamp out this fire!" exclaimed peter at his shoulder. they tore down the flaming branches and beat them out in the snow. the light flame was easily put out, but it left the camp a chaos of blackened twigs and ashes. "well, we turned him out," said maurice, who had hastened in to help. "did you hit him, do you think?" "i wish i'd killed him!" said fred. "he's ruined our camp. but i don't believe i touched him. he was going too fast." peter had raked the camp-fire together and thrown on fresh wood. a bright blaze sprang up, and by its light they took off their stockings and looked for the dead white of frozen toes. but it was only maurice who had suffered the least frost-bite, and this yielded to a little snow-rubbing. the heavy woolen stockings, and perhaps the depth of the snow itself had protected the rest of them. putting on his moccasins fred then went to look for results from his shots, but came back reporting not a drop of blood on the snow. the bullets had missed cleanly, and the animal was probably miles away by that time. "what do you suppose he'll do for the rest of the winter?" maurice asked. "oh, he'll find some hole to crawl into, or perhaps he'll just creep under a log and let the snow bury him," said peter. "he'll have to look a long time to find another snug nest like this one, though." the big log was hollow, as they had thought, and the fire had burned well into the cavity. they could see the nest where the bear had lain, soft with rotted wood and strewn with black hairs. it seemed a pity to have turned him out of so cozy a sleeping-place. the boys' own sleeping-place was in a complete state of wreck. the cedar roofing had fallen in, and everything was littered with snow and burned brush. the fire had been too light and too quickly extinguished to do any damage to the stores, however, and they were relieved to find that the bear had eaten none of the bacon or bread. probably the animal had been merely cowering there for shelter, afraid to come out. they did not attempt to rebuild the shelter roof, but cleared away the snow and ashes, and sat in their sleeping-bags by the fire. after all the excitement none of them felt like sleeping. they were hungry, though, and finally they boiled tea and cooked a pan of bacon and dried eggs. even after this they lay talking for a long time, and it was between midnight and dawn when they finally fell asleep. this was the reason why it was long after sunrise when they awoke, feeling rather as if they had had a bad night. it was another clear, bright day, though still very cold, and they felt it imperative that they should reach the cabin before nightfall. that forenoon they made all the speed they could, halted for only a brief rest at noon, and pushed on energetically through the afternoon. the cabin could not be far, unless macgregor had mistaken the way. look as he would, he could not make out any landmarks that he could remember; but he had been through only by canoe in the summer, and the woods have a very different appearance in the winter. as the afternoon wore on they began to grow anxious. at every turning they looked eagerly ahead, but they saw nothing except the unbroken forest. it was nearly sunset when maurice suddenly pointed forward with a shout of excitement. they had just rounded a bend of the river. a hundred yards away, nestling in a hemlock thicket, stood a squat log hut. but no trail led to its door, no smoke rose from its chimney, the snow had drifted almost to its eaves, and it looked gloomy and desolate as the darkening wilderness itself. chapter iii there was so grim an air of desolation about the hut that the boys stopped short with a sense of dread. "can this really be it?" maurice muttered. the hut and its surroundings were exactly as the indian had described them. they ventured forward hesitatingly, reconnoitered, and approached the door. it stood ajar two or three inches; a heavy drift of snow lay against it. clearly no living man was in the cabin. "we've come too late, boys," said macgregor. "however, let's have a look." using one of his snowshoes as a shovel, he began to clear the doorway. fred helped him. they scraped away the snow, and forced the door open. for fear of infection, they contented themselves with peeping in from the entrance; a glance showed them that no man was in that dim interior, dead or alive. the cabin was a mere hut, built of small logs, chinked with moss and mud, and was less than five feet high at the eaves. the floor was of clay; the roof appeared to be of bark and moss thatch, supported on poles. a small window of some skin or membrane let in a faint light, and the rough fireplace was full of snow that had blown down the chimney. no one was there, but some one had left in haste. the whole interior was in the wildest confusion, littered with all sorts of articles of forest housekeeping flung about pell-mell--cooking-utensils, scraps of clothing, blankets, furs, traps; they could not make out all the articles that encumbered the floor. "the fellow must have simply got well and gone away with the other half-breed," said macgregor, after they had surveyed the place in silence. "well, that ends our hope of being millionaires next year. we've come on a fool's errand." "nothing for it now but to go home again, is there?" said fred, in disgust. "we've come one hundred and fifty miles to see this camp, and we ought to look through it," said maurice. "we must disinfect the place before we can go in. and there's no chance of our finding any diamonds here," fred remarked. "i want to have a look through, anyway. let's get out the fumigating machine." it was a formaldehyde outfit, consisting simply of a can of the disinfectant with a bracket attached underneath to hold a small spirit lamp. by the heat of the flame, formalin gas, one of the deadliest germ-killers known, was given off. macgregor opened the can, lighted the pale spirit flame, and set the apparatus on a rude shelf that happened to be just inside the hut. they forced the door shut again, and sealed it by throwing water against it, for the water promptly froze. it was not necessary to close the chimney, for the germicidal gas is heavier than air, and fills a room exactly as water fills a tank. as it would take the disinfectant ten or twelve hours to do its work, they hastened to construct a camp, for it was growing dark. it was a rather melancholy evening. the nearness of the cabin, with its sinister associations, affected them disagreeably; and, moreover, they were all tired with the day's tramp, and chagrined and mortified at having come, as peter said, "on a fool's errand." after all their glittering hopes, there was nothing now for them except a week's snowshoe tramp back to waverley, with barely enough provisions to see them through. still they were curious about the cabin, and before breakfast the next morning they burst open the ice-sealed door. a suffocating odor issued forth, so powerful that they staggered back. "good gracious!" gasped fred, after a spasm of coughing. "it must certainly be safe after that!" they found it impossible to go in until the gas had cleared away, and so, leaving the door wide open, they returned to breakfast. afterward they idled about, trying to kill time; it was afternoon before they could venture inside the cabin for more than a moment. it was disagreeable even then, for the whole interior was filled with the heavy, suffocating odor. they coughed, and their eyes watered, but they managed to endure it. as they had seen, the contents of the place were all topsy-turvy. the furniture consisted solely of a rough table of split planks, and a couple of rough seats. a heap of rusty, brown _sapin_ in a corner, covered with a torn blanket, represented a bed--possibly the one in which the trapper had died. in one corner stood a double-barreled shotgun, still loaded. three pairs of snowshoes were thrust under the rafters; several worn moccasins lay on the floor, along with nearly a dozen steel traps, a bundle of furs, some of which were valuable, a camp kettle, an axe, strips of hide, dry bones, a blanket, fishing-tackle--an unspeakable litter of things, some worthless, some to men in a wilderness precious as gold. the last occupants had plainly left in such a desperate hurry that they had abandoned most of their possessions. why had they done it? the boys could not guess. the heavy formalin fumes rose and choked them as they poked over the rubbish. but they found nothing to show the fate of the prospector and the surviving half-breed, or even to tell them whether this was really the cabin they were seeking. "throw this rubbish into the fireplace," said macgregor. "burning is the best thing for it, and the fire will ventilate the place. there's no danger of germs on the metal things." "these furs are worth something," said fred, who had been looking them over. "there are a dozen or so of mink and marten--enough to pay the expenses of the trip." they laid the furs aside, and cramming the rest of the litter into the snowy fireplace, with the dead balsam boughs, set it afire. in the red blaze the hut assumed an unexpectedly homelike aspect. "not such a bad place for the winter, after all," maurice remarked, casting his eye about. "i shouldn't mind spending a month trapping here myself. what if we did, fellows, eh? here are plenty of traps, and we might clear three or four hundred dollars, with a little luck." "here's something new," interrupted peter, who had been grubbing about in a corner. he came forward with a woodsman's "turkey" in his hands--a heavy canvas knapsack, much stained and battered, and rather heavy. "something in this," he continued, trying the rusty buckles. "why, what's the matter, fred?" for fred had uttered a sudden cry, and they saw his face turn deathly white. he snatched the sack, tore it open, and shook it out. a number of pieces of rock fell to the floor, a couple of geologist's hammers, a pair of socks, and a couple of small, oilcloth-covered notebooks. on these fred pounced, and opened them. they were full of penciled notes. "they're his!" the boy exclaimed wildly. "they're horace's notebooks! i knew his turkey. horace was here. don't you see? _he_ was the sick man!" for a minute his companions, hardly comprehending, looked on in amazement. then macgregor took one of the books from his hand. on the inside of the cover was plainly written, "horace osborne, toronto." "it's true!" he muttered. "it must really have been horace." then, collecting his wits, he added, "but he must be all right, since he's gone away." "no!" fred cried. "he'd never have gone away leaving his notes and specimens. it was his whole summer's work. he'd have thrown away anything else. he must be dead." "he was vaccinated. he's sure not to have died of smallpox," peter urged. fred had collapsed on the mud floor, holding the "turkey," and fairly crying. "he had the diamonds on him. that half-breed may have murdered him, and then fled in a hurry. things look like it," said maurice aside to peter. "yes, but then horace's body would be here," the scotchman returned. "i don't understand it." "they can't have both died, either, or they'd both be here. so they must both have gone. but no trapper would have left these valuable pelts, any more than horace would have left his notes." "there's something mysterious here," said fred, getting up resolutely, and wiping the tears from his eyes. "horace has been here. something's happened to him, and we've got to find out what it is." "and we'll find out--if it takes all winter!" macgregor assured him. they searched the hut afresh, but found no clues. they now regretted having burned the heap of rubbish, which perhaps had contained something to throw light on the problem. during the rest of that afternoon they searched and searched again throughout the cabin, and prowled about its neighborhood. they dug into the snowdrifts, poked into the brushwood, scouted into the forest in the faint hope of finding something that would cast light on horace's fate. all they found was the trapper's birch canoe, laid up ashore, and buried in snow. at dusk they got supper, and ate it in a rather gloomy silence. "we've nothing to go on," said macgregor. "i can't believe that horace is dead, though, and we must stay on the spot till we know something more definite." "of course we must," maurice agreed. "i shouldn't have asked it of you, boys," said fred. "i'd made up my mind to stay, though, till i found out something certain--and it would have been mighty lonely." "nonsense! do you think we'd have left you?" maurice exclaimed. "aren't we all horace's friends? the only thing i'm thinking of is the grub. we have barely enough for a week more." "what of that?" said peter. "we have rifles, haven't we? the woods ought to be full of deer--plenty of partridges and small game, anyway. we must make a regular business of hunting till we get enough meat for a week, and we must economize, of course, on our bread and canned stuff. then there are sure to be whitefish or trout in the nearest lake, and we can fish through the ice. lucky the indians left their hooks and lines. and we can trap, too." "boys," cried fred, "you're both bricks. you're solid gold--" a choke in his voice stopped him. "a pair of gold bricks!" laughed maurice, with a suspicious huskiness in his own tones. but the thing was settled. it turned colder that night, and the next day dawned with blustering snow flurries. their open camp was far from comfortable, and with some reluctance they moved into the cabin. a good deal of fresh snow had drifted in, but they swept it out, brought in fresh balsam twigs for couches, and lighted a roaring fire. the hut was decidedly homelike and cozy, and a vast improvement on the open camp. the smell of formaldehyde had gone entirely. the light from the skin-covered window was poor, but that seemed to be the only drawback, until, as the temperature rose, the roof showed a leak near the door. snow water dripped in freely, in spite of their efforts to stop it, until maurice finally clambered to the roof, cleared away the snow, tore up the thatch, and covered the defective spot with a large piece of old deer-hide. in the afternoon it stopped snowing; macgregor and fred, with the two rifles, made a wide circuit round the cabin, but killed no game except half a dozen spruce grouse. not a deer trail did they see; probably the animals were yarded for the winter. without being discouraged, however, peter set out again the next morning, this time with maurice. fred, left alone, spent most of the day in cutting wood and storing it by the cabin door, and the hunters did not return until just after sunset. they were empty-handed, but in high spirits, and had a great tale to tell. five miles from camp, maurice and peter had come upon the fresh trail of a moose, and had followed it nearly all day. toward the middle of the afternoon, however, they were obliged to give up the chase and turn back, for they were fully fifteen miles from home. on the way to the cabin they chanced upon a well-beaten deer trail that they felt certain must lead to a "yard." it was too late to follow it that day, but they determined to have a great hunt on the morrow. killing yarded deer is not exactly sportsmanlike, and is unlawful besides; but law is understood to yield to the necessities of the frontier, and the boys needed the meat badly. the next morning they were off early. it was clear and cold. a little wind blew the powdery snow like puffs of smoke from the trees, and the biting air was full of life. it was impossible to be anything but gay in that atmosphere; even fred, oppressed with anxiety as he was, felt its effect. the fresh snow was criss-crossed here and there with the tracks of small animals,--rabbits, foxes, and squirrels,--and now and again a spruce partridge rose with a roar. these birds were plentiful, and the boys might have made a full bag if they had ventured to shoot. it was nearly noon before they reached the deer trail. they followed it back for some twenty minutes, and came down into a low bottom, grown up with small birch and poplar. fred had only the vaguest idea what a deer yard was like; he half expected a dense huddle of deer in a small, beaten space, and he was consequently much startled when he suddenly heard a sound of crashing and running in the thickets. macgregor's rifle banged almost in his ear. maurice fired at the same instant. something large and grayish had shot up into view behind a thicket, and had departed with the speed of an arrow. peter fired again at the flying target, and fred caught a single glimpse of a buck, with antlered head carried high, vanishing through a screen of birches. "hit!" shouted macgregor, and he ran forward, clicking another cartridge into his rifle. they had walked right into the "yard." all round them the snow was trampled into narrow trails where the herd had moved about, feeding on the shrubbery. with a little more caution they might have got three or four of the animals. they found the buck a hundred yards away, dead in the snow. it was no small task to get him back to the cabin, for he was too fat and heavy to carry, even if they had cut him up. they had to haul the carcass with a thong, like a toboggan, over the snow. the weather changed, and it was beginning to bluster again when they arrived, dead tired, to find the fire gone out and the cabin cold. but they rejoiced at being supplied with meat enough to last them for perhaps a month. chapter iv that night they heard the timber wolves for the first time, howling mournfully a little way back in the woods. no doubt they had scented the fresh carcass of the deer, and probably there would have been no venison in the morning if they had not had the wisdom to carry the carcass into the cabin. peter opened the door quietly and slipped out with a cocked rifle, but the wolves were too wary for him. not one was in sight, and the howling receded and grew fainter. but they heard it at intervals again during the night--a dismal and savage note, that made them feel like making the fire burn brighter. "they must have followed the trail where we dragged the buck home," said maurice. "good thing they didn't happen to strike it before we got back." "oh, they'd hardly venture to attack three of us," replied peter. "i almost wish they would. we could mow them down with our repeaters, and you know there's a government bounty of ten dollars a head on dead timber wolves. we might make quite a pile, and besides the skins must be worth something." "might set some traps," fred suggested. "no use. the timber wolf is far too wise to get into any steel trap. that's why so few of them are killed. but say, boys, why couldn't we manage to ambush 'em?" "how?" maurice demanded. "well, suppose i shot a couple of rabbits to-morrow night and went through the woods dragging them after me, so as to make a blood trail. any wolves that happened to cross it would certainly follow, and i'd lead them past a spot where you fellows would be ambushed, ready to pump lead into them." "sounds all right," said fred, "but suppose they overtook you before you got to the ambush?" "oh, they wouldn't dare to attack me. they'd keep me in sight, stop if i stopped, and turn if i turned, waiting for a chance to take me at a disadvantage. a shot would scatter them, anyway. the only trouble would be that they'd scatter so quick when you opened fire that you wouldn't be able to bag more than one or two. and i don't suppose the same trick could be worked twice." they discussed the matter all that evening and grew so enthusiastic over it that they determined to try it the next night. there was no hope now of diamonds, and the expedition had cost them nearly two hundred dollars. a few wolf bounties and pelts, together with the furs found in the cabin, would cover this and perhaps leave a little profit. it was cold and cloudy the next day, and they waited impatiently for evening. the moon would not rise till nearly midnight, and it was necessary to wait in order to have light enough for the proposed ambush. they sallied out toward eleven o'clock, and shot three rabbits, which peter attached to a deerskin thong. selecting an open glade, maurice and fred established themselves in ambush under the thickets, while peter started on a wide circle through the woods, trailing his bait, in the hope of attracting the wolves. fred and maurice waited for more than two hours, nearly frozen, stamping and beating their arms, listening for the hunting cry of the wolf pack. at the end of that time peter reappeared, tired and disgusted. the wolves had failed to do their part, and had not picked up the trail. still he was not discouraged, and insisted on trying it again the next evening. this time fred and maurice stayed in the cabin to keep warm, listening intently. at the first, distant howl they were to rush out and ensconce themselves in a prearranged spot, a quarter of a mile up the river, which peter was to pass. they kept the two repeating rifles, while mac carried the double-barreled gun, loaded with buckshot, which they had found in the cabin. half a mile from the shanty peter shot a swamp hare that was nibbling a spruce trunk, and a little way farther he secured another. these carcasses he tied together with a deerskin thong as before, and trailed them in the wake of his snowshoes. this time he intended to make a longer circuit than on the preceding night. he dragged this bait across a hardwood ridge and down into a great cedar swamp on the other side. in hard weather all the wild life of the woods resorts to such places for shelter, and here the wolves would be hunting if there was a pack in the neighborhood. but he found few tracks and no sign at all of wolves. after traveling slowly for two or three miles, mac sat down on a log to rest, and as the warmth of exercise died out, the cold nipped him to the bone through the "four-point" blanket coat. he got up and moved on, intending to return in a long curve toward the cabin. he did not much care, after all, whether he started any wolves. it was too cold for hunting that night. the dry snow swished round his ankles at the fall of the long racquets. he still dragged the dead hares, which were now frozen almost as hard as wood, but not too hard to leave a scent. he had reached the other side of the swamp when his ears caught suddenly a high-pitched, mournful howl, ending in a sort of yelp, sounding indefinitely far away, yet clearly heard through the tense air. he knew well what it was. the pack had struck a trail--possibly his own, possibly that of a deer. he would very soon learn which. thrilling with excitement, he walked on slowly, turning his head to listen. again and again he caught the hunting chorus of the wolf pack, far away, but still perceptibly nearer. he was just then in the midst of a tangled stretch of second-growth timber, and he hurried on to reach more open ground. as soon as he felt convinced that the pack was following him he intended to turn back toward the river. he kept moving on, however, and at last came to the river before he expected it. he was still more than a mile above the point where the ambush was to be set, and he paused on the shore and hearkened. far away through the moonlit woods he heard the savage, triumphant yell, much nearer now--so much so that he felt that he might as well make for the ambush at once. he felt suddenly alone and in peril; he longed earnestly to see his companions. he started down the river at a swinging trot, still listening over his shoulder, when the ice suddenly gave way under his feet, and he went down with so swift a plunge that he had time for only a shuddering gasp. he had stepped on an airhole lightly crusted over with snow. he went down to his neck without touching bottom, and the black water surged up to his face. it was the gun that saved him; it caught across the hole, and he clung to it fiercely. as the current fortunately was not rapid, he was able to draw himself up and out upon the ice. but he found himself unable to extricate his feet. the long-tailed snowshoes had gone down point foremost, and now were crossed under the ice, and refused to come up. he dared not cut them loose, for in the deep snow he would have been helpless. growing fainter at every moment, he struggled in the deadly chill of the water for four or five minutes before at last he succeeded in bringing them up end first, as they had gone down. when he staggered back stiffly upon the snow the very life seemed withdrawn from his bones. his heavy clothing had frozen into a coat of mail almost as hard as iron plate. there was no sensation left in his limbs, and he trembled with a numb shuddering. long forest training told him what must be done. he must have a fire at once. he would have to find a dry birch tree, or a splintered pine that would light easily. his benumbed brain clung to this idea, and he began to stumble toward shore, his snowshoes sheets of ice, and his clothes rattling as he went. but with a hunter's instinct he stuck to his gun, tucking it under his icy arm. he could see no birch tree, and the bank was bordered with an impenetrable growth of alders. he dragged himself up the river, and each step seemed to require a more and more intolerable exertion. he could not feel his feet as he lifted and put them down; when he saw them moving they looked like things independent of himself. he had ceased to feel cold. he no longer felt anything, except a deadly weariness that was crushing him into the snow. he went on, however, driven by the fighting instinct, till of a sudden he saw it--the birch tree he was seeking, shining spectrally among the black spruces by the river. it was an old, half-dead tree, covered with great curls of bark that would flare up at the touch of a match. he had matches in a water-proof box, and he contrived to get them out of his frozen pocket. he dropped the box half a dozen times in trying to open it, opened it at last with his teeth, and dropped it again, spilling the matches into the snow. snow is as dry as sand at that temperature, however, and he scraped them up, and tried to strike one on the gun barrel. but he was unable to hold the bit of wood in his numbed fingers; there was absolutely no feeling in his hands, and the match fell from his grasp at every attempt. this is a familiar peril in the north woods, where dozens of men have frozen to death with firewood and matches beside them, from sheer inability to strike a light. mac beat his hands together without effect. he began to grow indifferent; and as he fumbled again for the dropped match he fell at full length into the snow. a sense of pleasant relief overcame him, and he decided to rest there for a few minutes. the snow was soft, and he had never before realized how warm it was. his shoulders were propped against the roots of the birch, and with a hazy consciousness that game might be expected, he dragged his gun across his knees and cocked it. then, with a comfortable sense of duty done, he closed his eyes. curious and delightful fancies began at once to flood his brain, fancies so vivid that he seemed not to lose consciousness at all. how long he lay there he never knew. but he grew alive at last to a vise-like pressure on his left arm that seemed to have lasted for years, and which was growing to excruciating pain. he opened his eyes with a great effort. there were savage, hairy faces close to his own, pouring out clouds of steaming breath into the frosty air. something had him by the arm with such force that he almost felt the bones cracking, and something was tugging at his leg. the nervous shock aroused him as nothing else on earth could have done. a tingle of horrified animation rushed through his body. he was on the point of being torn to pieces by the wolf pack that had trailed him, and the powerful stimulus of the new peril called out the last reserves of strength. he made a convulsive start. his frozen hand was on the trigger of the shotgun, and both barrels went off. at the sudden flash and report the half-dozen wolves bolted incontinently--all but one gray monster that got the full force of the buckshot and dropped in its tracks. macgregor staggered to his feet, full of terrible cramps and pains in every muscle. but his head had cleared somewhat. he saw the dry birch tree and again tried to fumble for a match. almost by sheer luck he succeeded in striking it. the birch bark caught fire and flamed crackling up the trunk. the dry trunk itself caught and burned like a torch. macgregor rubbed his face and hands savagely with snow. they hurt intensely, but he welcomed the pain, for it showed that they were not frozen. he was beginning to feel a little more life when he heard the creak and flap of snowshoes, and saw fred and maurice hurrying up the river toward him. "what's the matter?" they shouted, as soon as within hearing distance. "we heard the shot. see any wolves?" mac tried to shout something in answer, but found that he could not speak distinctly. "i see you've bagged one," cried fred, rushing up. "why, man, you're covered with ice! what's happened to you?" "been in the river," peter managed to ejaculate. "get my moccasins off, boys--rub feet with snow. afraid--i'm going--to lose toes!" with exclamations of sympathy the boys got his frozen outer clothing off,--broke it off, in fact, from the caked ice,--removed his moccasins and socks, and rubbed his feet with snow. several of the toes had whitened, but they regained color after some minutes' rubbing, and began to hurt excruciatingly. peter squirmed with the pain. "but i don't mind it," he said. "rub away, boys. i certainly thought i was going to lose part of my feet." perhaps the solid cake of ice that had instantly formed over his heavy socks and moccasins had actually protected them from freezing. at any rate, he got off much more easily than he would have thought possible. the attack of the wolves had left little mark on him, either. he had a few light lacerations on his hands and face, but for the most part the beasts seemed to have laid hold on him where the thick, ice-caked cloth was almost like armor plate. and no doubt the arrival of the pack had saved him from death by freezing. fred dragged up the carcass of the fallen wolf and skinned its head and ears for the government bounty. the rest of the pelt was so terribly torn with buckshot as to be worthless. "your scheme didn't work, mac," he remarked. "it did work. it worked only too well," macgregor protested. "it's the best scheme for catching wolves i ever heard of." "you don't want to try it again, do you?" "well--that's a different thing!" he admitted. "no, i don't know that i do. but if i hadn't gone through the ice we would probably have bagged nearly the whole pack." after thorough snow friction mac considered it safe to approach the fire by degrees. the ice thawed off his clothing, but left him wet to the skin. it was certain that he ought to get back to the cabin and dry clothing as soon as possible, and he thought he would be able now to travel. it was less than two miles. it proved a painful two miles, but he reached the cabin at last, where his companions put him to bed in one of the bunks, covered him warmly, and dosed him with boiling tea. it was then growing close to three o'clock in the morning. naturally they did not get up as early as usual for breakfast. macgregor's feet were sore and somewhat swollen, but there was no longer any danger of serious trouble. he had to remain in the cabin that day and was unable to put on his moccasins, but he was much elated at his luck in getting off so lightly. it was snowing and stormy, besides; none of the boys went out much, except for the endless task of cutting firewood. they lounged about the cabin and discussed the problems that perplexed them so much--whether horace had really discovered any diamonds, and what had become of him, and how and why--until the subject was utterly worn out. maurice then made a checkerboard, and they played matches till they wearied of this amusement also. the next day they had to fall back on it again, however, for the weather was still stormy. during the afternoon it snowed heavily. mac's feet were much better, and he wore his moccasins, but judged it unsafe to go out into the snow for another day. in the midst of the storm fred and maurice cut down a couple of dead hemlocks, and chopped part of them up for fuel. it was amazing to see what a quantity of wood the rough fireplace consumed. "if we had acres of diamond beds we couldn't afford such fires in town," maurice remarked. the next day the weather cleared, but turned bitterly cold. in the afternoon maurice ventured out to look for game, and came back about four o'clock with three spruce grouse and a frost-bitten nose. the boys were all standing outside the cabin door, when fred suddenly started. round the bend a sledge had just appeared on the river. it was drawn by six dogs, coming at a flagging trot through the deep snow; four men on snowshoes ran behind and beside it. for a moment the men seemed to hesitate as they caught sight of the hut. but they came on, turned up the shore, and drove straight to the cabin at a gallop. three of the _voyageurs_ were plainly french canadians, or possibly french half-breeds, wiry, weather-beaten men, dark almost as indians; the fourth was big and heavily built, and wore a red beard that was now a mass of ice. all of them wore cartridge belts, and four rifles lay on the packed sledge. "_bo' jou'_!" cried the dark-faced men, as they came within hailing distance. "_bon jour_!" maurice shouted back. he was the only one who knew any french, and he knew but little. he was searching his memory for a few more words, when the red-bearded man came forward and nodded. "didn't know any one was living here this winter," he said. "trapping?" "hunting a little," said macgregor. "unharness your dogs and come inside. it's a cold day for the trail." "you bet!" said one of the french, and they made no difficulty about accepting the invitation. they rapidly unhitched the dogs, which had sat down, snarling and snapping in their traces; then they unpacked the sledge and carried the dunnage inside the cabin. they were a wild-looking set. the french canadians were probably woodsmen, shanty-men or hunters, apparently good-natured and jovial, but rough and uncivilized. the anglo-saxon, who seemed to be their leader, was more repellent, and when he took off his _capote_, he revealed a countenance of savage brutality, with small eyes, a cruel mouth, and a protuberant jaw, framed in masses of bricky red hair and beard. "i don't much like the looks of this crowd!" maurice whispered in macgregor's ear. "rough lot, but they'll be away in the morning," answered peter. in the north it is obligatory to be hospitable, and the boys prepared to feed and entertain the party as if they were the most welcome guests. at the usual time they prepared supper. the four newcomers ate enormously. during the meal the red-bearded man explained that his name was mitchell, that he was "going north with these breeds," as he rather vaguely put it, and that they had run somewhat short of provisions. luckily, they had food for the dogs; one of the "breeds" presently produced six frozen whitefish and carried them outside, where he gave one to each dog with much dexterity. the fish were bolted in a twinkling, and the unhappy brutes began to look for a sheltered spot where they could sleep through the sub-arctic night. after supper the french, stuffed to repletion, lay back and engaged in an animated conversation in a dialect that seemed to be a mixture of french, english, and ojibwa. they laughed uproariously, and seemed thoroughly happy. but mitchell said little, and continually examined the interior of the hut with keen, restless eyes. the next morning the visitors showed no anxiety to be off. they fed the dogs, lounged about, smoked, and stayed until dinner time. after dinner mitchell announced that the dogs were tired, and would have to rest that day. it is very unusual to take a day off the trail for the sake of the dogs, but the boys made no objection, although secretly much annoyed. the presence of the strangers inspired them all with uneasiness. besides, they could not continue their search or speak freely of it. the next morning the strangers said nothing about moving on. they sat about the fire, and evading a suggestion that they help to cut wood, played cards nearly all day. "what's the matter with them? are they going to stay here all winter?" said fred, in great irritation. certainly the dogs needed no more rest. they pervaded the place, trying to bolt into the warm cabin whenever the door was opened, and spending much time in leaping vainly but hopefully at the frozen carcass of the deer, swung high on a bough in the open air. the prodigious appetites of the newcomers had not diminished in the least, and the carcass was rapidly growing less. the boys thought that at the least their guests might help replenish the larder, and the next morning macgregor proposed that they all go after deer. "no good to-day," said mitchell gruffly. "snow's coming. you boys go if you want to. we'll mind camp." that was the last straw; there was no sign whatever of storm. peter went out of the cabin to consult with his friends. "they think we're greenhorns from the city, and they're trying to impose on us!" he said angrily. "if they don't make a move by to-morrow morning, i'll give them a pretty strong hint." all the same, fresh meat had to be procured, and after dinner macgregor and maurice took the two rifles and went back to the deer yard to see if the herd might not have returned. fred stayed to watch, for the boys disliked to leave their guests alone. the quartette were playing cards as usual, and fred presently began to feel lonely. after hanging about the hut for a time, he went out to pass the time in cutting wood. it was very cold, but he much preferred the outer air to the smoky atmosphere of the shack, and he soon grew warm in handling the axe. he spent nearly the whole afternoon at this exercise, and it was after four o'clock when he finally reã«ntered the cabin. he opened the door rather quietly, and was astounded at what he saw. the card game had been abandoned. the shanty was in a state of confusion and disorder. blankets and bedding were strewn pell-mell; the contents of the dunnage sacks were tossed upon the floor. everything movable in the place seemed to have been moved, and a great part of the moss chinking had been torn from one of the walls, as if a hurried and desperate search had been made for something. and the object of the search had been found. the four men were bent together over the table, watching intently, while mitchell took something from a small leather sack. they were all so feverishly intent that fred tiptoed up close behind them unobserved. mitchell was shaking out little lumps from the sack; each was wrapped in paper, and each, when he unwrapped it, was a small pebble that flashed fire. fred's heart jumped, and he gasped. the diamonds! horace had really found them, then! the sack seemed to contain a large handful--it was appalling to think what they might be worth! and then it flashed upon the boy with increased certainty that his brother must be dead, for otherwise he would never have left them there. mitchell looked up and round at that instant. at his explosive oath, the frenchmen wheeled like a flash. for a moment there was a deathly silence, while the four men glared at the boy with scowling faces. fred realized that not only the possession of the stones, but probably his life, hung on his presence of mind. "those things are my brother's, mr. mitchell," he said, with an outward coolness that astonished himself. "he hid them in this cabin. i don't know how you came to find them, but i'll ask you to hand them back." his voice broke the spell of silence. one of the french said something in the ear of another, and then dropped quietly back toward the corner where the men's four rifles stood together. but mitchell swept the pebbles together back into the bag. "your brother's?" he said. "why, i bought 'em myself from a gang of ojibwas down on timagami. rock crystals they call 'em, and i reckon to get ten or twelve dollars for 'em at cochrane." he spoke with such assurance that fred was taken aback, and did not know what to say. then his eye fell on one of the scraps of paper in which a stone had been wrapped. he leaned forward and picked it up. "did you put this on it?" he exclaimed indignantly. "look! it's my brother's handwriting. 'october second, nottaway river, near burnt lake,' it says. that's where he found it. and look at that!" he swept his hand round the devastated cabin. "what did you tear the place to pieces for if you weren't hunting for something?" "they're mine, anyway," retorted the woodsman, slipping the precious bag into his pocket. "them papers was wrapped round 'em when i got 'em." "impossible!" said fred. "i tell you--" "shut up!" said mitchell suddenly, with a snarl. a sense of his peril cooled fred's anger like an icy douche, and he was silent. there was death in the four grim faces that regarded him. he had no doubt that the men would murder for a far less sum than the value of that sackful of precious stones. for an instant he thought hard. he was entirely unarmed, and the men's rifles stood just behind them. he would have to wait for reinforcements. it was surely almost time for maurice and peter to be back, and they must be warned of the danger before they entered the cabin. "all right," he said, with sudden mildness. "if you can prove that the stones are really yours, i'm satisfied. the sack looked like my brother's, that's all." mitchell gave a contemptuous grin. the canadians lighted their pipes again. fred felt that they watched him closely, however. he lounged about the cabin with assumed nonchalance for a quarter of an hour, and then ventured to go out on the pretext of bringing in a fresh log for the fire. but once outdoors, he put on his snowshoes and rushed down the trail to intercept his friends. chapter v in deadly fear of hearing a shot or a shout from behind, fred did not stop running until he was out of sight of the cabin. he knew the direction from which the hunters would be sure to return, and he posted himself in ambush, in a spot whence he could keep watch in front and rear. fortunately, he was not pursued. fortunately, too, he had not very long to wait there, for it was bitter cold. in the course of half an hour, he discerned two black specks crossing a strip of barrens to the north. fred ran to meet them. the hunters had no deer, but each of them carried a great bunch of partridges. "what's the matter? is the camp on fire?" shouted macgregor, as fred dashed up. he had to stop to regain breath before he could gasp out an account of what had happened. "the diamonds!" maurice exclaimed. "but, don't you see, this makes it certain that horace never left that cabin alive!" fred said heavily. it looked like it, indeed, and no one found anything to say. macgregor's face had grown very grim. "anyhow, horace risked his life for those stones,--perhaps lost it,--and we 're not going to let those wretches carry them off," he said. "besides, the diamonds are the least important thing. those fellows have got our cabin, grub, ammunition, everything. we're stranded if we don't get them back." "we must take them by surprise," said fred. "i'd been thinking that we might come up to the cabin quietly, throw the door open suddenly, and hold them up." "they have four rifles," suggested maurice. "yes, but they won't be ready to use them," said the scotchman. "it's the only way." he threw open the chamber of his rifle, glanced in, then fumbled in his pockets. "lend me a couple of cartridges, maurice." "don't say you haven't any! i used the last of mine on those partridges." "then we're done!" peter exclaimed, and he struck his hand furiously on the breech of the empty repeater. "not a shot between us." they looked at one another hopelessly. "come, we've got to do something--or starve in the snow," said peter, at last. "we'll hold them up, anyhow--with empty guns." "but suppose they fire on us?" fred asked. "at the first move any one makes toward a gun, we'll jump for him. the cabin's too small to use rifles in, and if it comes to a rough-and-tumble, why, we'll just have to keep our end up. but i don't think it will come to that. we'll have them bluffed." certainly it seemed a long chance to take, but, as peter said, it was better than starving in the snow. they laid down the partridges, and began to move toward the cabin. "take the axe, if it's by the door, fred," macgregor advised. "you'll go first, and open the door. we'll aim over your shoulders. and remember, at the first hostile movement, jump for them with clubbed rifles and the axe." they went on, rather slowly. the cabin came in view, with no one in sight, and they made a dã©tour through the hemlocks so as to get as close to the door as possible without showing themselves. "now for it!" muttered macgregor. with hearts beating tumultuously, they burst out from the evergreen screen. but they had taken only two or three steps, when the cabin door opened a few inches, and four black rifle barrels were thrust out. "_halte-lã _!" shouted one of the canadians. the boys stopped in their tracks. they could see nothing of the men within, nothing except those four ominous muzzles in the streak of firelight that shone through the crack. "what do you mean?" cried macgregor boldly. "don't you know who we are? put those guns away, and let us in!" he ventured another step, but a second voice roared from the doorway, "stop!" it was mitchell. peter stopped suddenly. the hoarse voice bellowed again, "git!" "what's the matter with you?" peter persisted. "that is our cabin. let us come in, i say." [illustration: "that is our cabin. let us come in, i say"] "git, _i_ say!" mitchell repeated. "after this, we'll shoot on sight. i give ye till i count three. one--two--" "back off. we 're caught!" peter muttered. they backed away slowly. when they were at the edge of the thickets, mitchell shouted again:-"when we're gone, you can come back! now keep away for your own good!" the cabin door closed as they stepped back into the undergrowth. macgregor's face was black as he tucked the useless rifle under his arm. they were all boiling with rage and mortification. "if we'd only turned those scoundrels out yesterday!" peter muttered. "we couldn't foresee this," said maurice. "those fellows evidently knew that the diamonds were here--or strongly suspected it. they must have heard of it from your sick indian, or from the third trapper. they must have been astonished to find us on the spot." "very likely," said fred, "but the present question is what we're going to do to-night." "we must make the best camp we can in the snow," remarked maurice. "i don't see how we'll cut wood without an axe," said peter. "it's going to be a savage cold night. we have no blankets, either. lucky we shot those partridges." but when they came to the spot where they had dropped the partridges, a fresh disappointment awaited them. the famished sledge dogs had found them. there was nothing left of the fourteen grouse except a litter of feathers and a few blood-stains on the snow. their night was to be supperless as well as cold, it seemed. darkness was already falling, with the weird desolation that the winter night always brings down on the wilderness. it had been always impressive, but now, as they faced the night without food or shelter, it was appalling. destitute of an axe, they would have to make a camp where they could find fuel, and they scattered to look for it. it was rapidly growing too dark to search, but fred presently came upon a large, dead spruce, lying half buried in snow, but spiked thickly with dry branches. he was breaking these off by the armfuls when the other boys came up in answer to his calls. they trampled down the snow, gathered birch bark and spruce splinters, and laid the kindling against the big back log. maurice set about pulling twigs for a couch, in case the temperature permitted them to sleep. "how about matches? i haven't one on me," said fred, in sudden anxiety. macgregor discovered four rather damp ones in his pockets; maurice had a dozen or more, but the snow had got into his pocket, and wet them. they used up five matches in lighting the fire, but finally the birch bark flared up, curling, and the spruce twigs began to crackle. they were sure, at any rate, of a fire, and this little success raised their spirits wonderfully. they started at once to bring in all the loose wood they could find; but it proved to be little, for snow covered everything except the largest logs. however, they counted on the big spruce trunk to burn all night. without an axe, it was impossible to build any sort of shelter; so they sat down close beside the fire, and huddled together to escape the cold, which was growing hourly more piercing. in spite of all their efforts, the fire was a poor one. the spruce trunk proved rotten and damp, and merely smouldered and smoked. the dead branches went off in a rapid flame, and they had to economize them to make them last the night out. that was a terrible night. the temperature must have gone far below zero. a foot away from the fire, they could hardly feel its warmth; their backs and feet were numb, and their faces smoked and scorching. two of the boys were tired with a long snowshoe tramp, and all of them were hungry. macgregor's feet were still far from being in a condition to stand further exposure; they would have frozen again easily, and he kept them as close to the wretched fire as possible. sleep was out of the question, for they would have frozen to death at six feet away from the fire. they sat with their arms round each other, as close to the blaze as possible, and turned now their faces and now their backs to the warmth. fortunately, there was no wind. about midnight a pallid moon came up behind light clouds. far in the woods they heard strange, lugubrious noises, moans, hootings, and once a shrill, savage scream. now and then they talked, but they were too miserable from the cold to say much. in spite of the cold, they grew drowsy. fred could have gone dead asleep if he had allowed himself to. he got up, stamped, and engaged in a rather spiritless bout of wrestling with peter. then they all straggled off to try to find more wood. finally, that night of horror wore itself away. the light of a pale, cold dawn began to show. feeling twenty years older, they scattered to bring wood again. they built up the fire to a roaring blaze that gave some real warmth. "aren't those fellows likely to make off the first thing this morning, and take all our outfit with them?" said maurice. "they're almost certain to. we must keep watch on the cabin," said fred. "we must hope they don't," added peter. "we'd have to follow them--follow them till we dropped or captured them. for they'd be taking away our lives with them." in view of this danger, they sent maurice at once to reconnoiter the place, which was not more than a quarter of a mile distant. he was gone nearly half an hour, and on his return reported that smoke was rising from the cabin, but that there were no signs that the men intended to depart. and he had had a stroke of luck. a couple of partridges had flown up and perched stupidly on a log, so close to him that he had been able to knock one of them over with a cleverly thrown club. in less than a minute that partridge's feathers were scattered on the snow, and it was cut up and roasting on sharp sticks before the fire. too ravenous to wait until it was thoroughly cooked, the boys began to eat it, but maurice made a wry face at his second mouthful. "no salt!" he remarked. the half-cooked flesh was nauseous without salt, and hungry though they were, they got it down with difficulty. it did them good, however, and they all felt more capable of facing the situation. "the first thing we must do," said peter, "is to find a better camping-place, put up some sort of shelter, and gather plenty of wood." "why, you don't expect to live like this long?" cried fred, looking startled. "it's hard to say. you know we're fearfully handicapped. our only chance is to get those fellows off their guard, for if we strike once and fail, we'll probably never get another chance. we must lie low, and make them think that we've gone away, or that we're dead. we'll put our new camp half a mile away, or more, and one of us must keep watch near the cabin from sunrise to sunset." it sounded disheartening, but they could think of no other plan. eventually, maurice went to stand guard, while fred and macgregor searched for a camp-site. they could not find what they wanted. dead timber in any quantity was scarce. at the end of a couple of hours fred went to relieve maurice, and found him walking round and round a tree in order to keep from freezing. "i thought i might get a chance to collar the axe," said maurice, with chattering teeth. "but they've carried it inside. they've taken in the rest of the venison, too, and they've even got the dogs inside the shanty. afraid we'd shoot them, i suppose." maurice tramped off to aid peter in his search, while fred stamped about in the trees. no one was in sight about the hut, but after a long time one of the french canadians came out and went down to the river with a pail for water. it made fred's blood boil to think of the warmth and comfort in that cabin, from which they had been so treacherously turned out. he puzzled his brain to devise some plan of retaliation, but he could think of nothing except setting fire to the place, and that would destroy the supplies of friend and foe alike. his feet grew numb, and he adopted maurice's plan of running round in a circle. he fancied that his ears and nose were frosted, and he rubbed them with snow. a long time passed; he wondered what had become of his companions. it was nearly noon when maurice hurried up with his face full of consternation. "the fire is out," he said, "and we've used the last match!" chapter vi at this crushing news, fred left his post and went back with maurice, who explained what had happened. they had found a good camping-ground, where wood was abundant, and had tried to light a fire. but the remaining matches proved to have been badly dampened; the heads were pasty or entirely soaked off. one by one they fizzled and went out. as a last hope, maurice had hurried back to their night camp for fire, only to find that the wet log had smouldered down and gone dead out. the spot was about two thirds of a mile away, south from the river. a great windrow of hemlocks and jack-pines had fallen together, and afforded plenty of wood. on one of the logs sat macgregor, with his elbows on his knees, and his chin in his hands, the picture of despair; and at his feet was a litter of bark and kindling, and a dozen burnt matches. they all sat down together in silence, and nobody found a word of comfort. it was a brilliantly clear day, but the temperature had certainly not risen to zero, and a slight, cutting wind blew from the west. the sun shone in an icy blue sky, but there was no heat in its rays. "if we only had a cartridge," said fred, "we might make a fire with the gun flash." they all made another vain search of their pockets, in the faint hope of finding a cartridge or an overlooked match head. "if we don't find some way to make a fire before sunset," said macgregor gloomily, "we'll have to attack the cabin to-night. i really don't believe we could live through a night without fire, with nothing to eat, especially as we had no sleep last night." "surely if we went up to the cabin, they'd give us some fire," maurice protested. "they wouldn't let us die in the snow." "that's just what they count on us to do," said the scotchman bitterly. no one said anything about renewing the guard on the cabin. nothing seemed to matter much--nothing except the cold. the morsels of half-raw food they had eaten that morning did not keep them from being ravenously hungry again, and an empty stomach is poor protection against arctic cold. like the rest of them, fred was heavily clad, but the cold seemed to find his skin as if he were naked. he began to feel numb to the bone, lethargic, incapable of moving. then he realized his danger, forced himself awake, and tried to think of some expedient for making a fire. flints could not be found under three feet of snow. a burning-glass--if they only had one! it should have been included in the outfit. and then an idea flashed upon him. he jumped up suddenly. "wait here for me, fellows!" he cried. he rushed off toward the river, and came back in a few minutes with a piece of clear ice, almost as large as his palm, and an inch or two thick. he slipped off his mittens, and began to rub it between his hands, so as to melt it down with the heat of his skin. "see what it is? burning-glass!" he exclaimed. "but you can't make a burning-glass of _ice_!" said maurice. "why not? anyhow, i'm going to try." but before he had worked the ice long, he had to stop, for his hands seemed freezing. while he beat and rubbed them, maurice, incredulous but willing, took the lump of ice, and shaped it down while the heat lasted in his hands. he then passed it on to macgregor, who in turn handed it to fred again. he finally succeeded in melting and curving it roughly into the proper shape. he tried it on the back of his hand. an irregular but small and intensely hot spot of light concentrated itself there. "i do believe it will work!" peter cried. they hastily collected a handful of fine, dry hair moss from the fir branches, and peeled filmy shreds of birch bark. fred brought the "glass" to bear on the little heap. his numbed hands trembled so that he could hardly hold it still. for some time there was no result. then a thin thread of smoke began to arise. the boys held their breath. the hair moss suddenly sparkled and flamed. a shred of bark caught. peter interposed a large roll. it flared up. "hurrah! we've got it!" cried macgregor. "fred, you've saved our lives, i do believe." they piled on twigs, branches, and heavy lumps of wood, and soon had a brisk fire going. better still, they were now assured of having always the means of making one--at least, whenever the sun shone. the magical influence of the fire gave back to them a little of their cheerfulness. they warmed themselves thoroughly, and then started to have another look at the outlaws, and to see whether they could find any small game. for now that they no longer suffered from the cold, their stomachs cried loudly for food. leaving the empty rifles by the fire, they armed themselves with clubs and poles for hunting, and had good hopes of being able to knock over a partridge or a hare. but the grouse seemed to have turned wild. they saw only two at a great distance. no hares showed themselves, nor could they find any trace of porcupines on the trees. skulking within sight of the cabin, they perceived one of the frenchmen carrying in logs of wood for the fire--some of those that fred himself had cut. mitchell stood by, smoking his pipe, with a rifle under his arm. fred fancied he could smell frying venison as the door was opened. plainly the outlaws were on the alert still. the boys crouched, unseen and unheard, among the hemlocks; but if they had been armed, they could easily have picked off the two men at the door. and they had come to such a state of rage and desperation that they would very likely have done it. they found no comfort in the fact that the robbers showed no inclination to leave the place. the boys were perplexed at their staying, but probably the men had no reason to hurry, and, finding themselves comfortably placed, had decided to remain where they were while the extreme cold snap lasted. in spite of the cold, the boys remained on watch for some time after the men had gone indoors. suddenly peter laid his hand on fred's shoulder, and nodded backward. a deer had come out of the thickets within thirty yards of where they lay,--a fine, fat buck,--and stood looking uneasily, sniffing, and cocking its ears in their direction. then, without showing any particular alarm, it walked on, and passing within twenty yards of them, disappeared again. they had to let it go; it was perhaps the cruelest moment they had lived through. deer might be out of the question, but if they were to keep alive, it was absolutely necessary that they should find something, and they separated in order to look for small game. in the course of an hour or two they all straggled back to the camp fire, half frozen and empty-handed. macgregor indeed had seen a partridge, but his muscles had been so benumbed that he missed his throw. after warming themselves, they made another expedition--all but maurice, who had neuralgic pains in his face, and who remained by the fire. but again peter and fred came back without game. the sun had set by this time, and it was hopeless to try again. a hungry night was inevitable, but they tried so to arrange matters that at any rate they would be warm. they gathered all the wood that they could break off or lift. then with their snowshoes they dug down to the ground, heaping the snow up in a rampart behind them, and piled in balsam twigs, and trusted that in this pit they would be able to sleep. it grew dark rapidly, and the wind rose. the fire, flaring and smoking, drove smoke and sparks into their faces until their eyes streamed. it made the leeward side of the fire almost unbearable, whereas the windward side was freezingly cold. the temperature was perhaps not quite so low as the night before, but the gale made it far more disagreeable. regardless of smoke and sparks, they had to sit as near the fire as they dared, or risk freezing. sleep was impossible. all three of them were faint and sick with starvation, but the plight of maurice was the most wretched. his neuralgia had grown agonizing; his face was badly swollen, and he sat with his head buried in his arms, and his inflamed cheek turned to the heat. much as they sympathized with him, they could do nothing to relieve him, except to try to keep up the fire. this task caused them endless trouble. the high wind made it burn furiously fast, and the small branches they had gathered were licked up like magic. they had thought there was enough fuel for the night, but soon after midnight fred and peter were foraging about in the deep snow and the storm for a fresh supply. toward morning their endurance broke down. they piled on all the rest of the wood, and went to sleep huddled up by the fire, reckless whether they froze or not. fred was awakened from a painful and uneasy slumber by peter's shaking his arm. "your ears are frozen," the scotchman was saying. "rub them with snow at once." while asleep, fred had fallen back beyond the range of heat. it was broad daylight, and snowing fast. the fire was low. all of them were covered with white, and maurice was still asleep, sitting up, with his head fallen forward on his knees. never in his life did fred feel so unwilling to move. he did not feel cold; he hardly felt anything. all he wanted was to stay as he was and be let alone. but macgregor insisted on rousing him, dragged him up, protesting, and rubbed snow on his ears. fred was very angry, but the scuffle set his blood moving again. his ears were not badly frozen, but the skin came off as he rubbed them. they bled, and the blood froze on as it ran, and made him a rather ghastly spectacle. [illustration: dragged him up, protesting, and rubbed snow on his ears] maurice was awakened by the disturbance, and sat up stiffly. he declared that his neuralgia was much better. they built up the fire again, and sat beside it, shivering. fred felt utterly incapable either of action or of thought, and even his hunger had grown numbed. maurice obviously felt no better, and macgregor, who seemed to retain a little energy, looked at them both with a face of the gravest concern. presently he rose, put on his snowshoes, took a long pole, and started away with an air of determination. maurice and fred remained sitting by the fire in a sort of lethargy, and exchanged hardly a word. macgregor was gone almost an hour; then he came back at a run, covered with snow, and carrying a dead hare. he skinned the animal, cleaned it, cut it into pieces, and set it to roast. at the odor of the roasting meat, the boys' appetites revived, and they began to take the fragments from the spits before they were half cooked. the scorched, unsalted meat was even more tasteless and nauseating than that of the grouse, but they all bolted it voraciously, and washed it down by eating snow. almost immediately afterward they were taken with distressing cramps and vomiting, which left both maurice and fred in a state of weak collapse. macgregor suffered least, perhaps because he had eaten less incautiously. he alone bore the burden of the rest of that day. he brought wood, kept the fire up, and propped fred and maurice up on piles of hemlock branches. there were some small pieces of the hare remaining, and he finally made the boys chew them, and swallow the juice. it seemed to do them good; at any rate, the nausea did not return. then the scotchman spoke. "look here," he said, "we've got to do it this very night--get back into the cabin, i mean. we've gone almost too far now, and by another day we'll be too weak to move." "but how'll we do it, peter?" asked fred weakly. "there's only one way. we'll wait till after midnight, when they'll be asleep, and then burst in the door, aim our rifles at them, and get hold of their guns before they can recover their wits." "they'll have the door barricaded. we'll be shot down before we can break in." "i know it's a long chance, but we're living by a succession of miracles as it is. it can't last, and i'd as soon be shot as frozen to death. i'm most afraid of the dogs. they'll make an awful uproar, and probably spring at us as soon as we get in." as far as fred was concerned, he felt ready for the attempt, or rather, perhaps, that it made no difference what he did. maurice also assented, but their force seemed a pitifully small one with which to oppose four able-bodied, well-armed men. it was then late in the afternoon. peter began to work energetically at gathering wood enough to last until they should try their desperate chance, and fred and maurice tried to help him. it had stopped snowing and had cleared. the night promised to be intensely cold. suddenly, faint and far, but very distinct, the sound of a rifle-shot resounded through the trees. they listened, and looked at one another. "one of those ruffians has gone hunting," maurice remarked. "so he has," said peter. "and see here," he added, with a suddenly brightening face, "this gives us a chance. let's ambush that fellow as he comes in. we'll knock him down and stun him. that'll make one less against us, and we'll have his rifle and cartridges. perhaps he'll have something to eat on him. boys, it doubles our chances." the plan did look promising. at any rate, it would, if successful, give them a firearm. the shot must have been fired fully a mile away; but they put on their snowshoes at once, and hastened in the direction of the cabin. the light was failing fast as they stopped about two hundred yards from the hut, trying to guess just where the returning hunter would pass. it was very still, and they would be able to hear his footsteps for a long way. but they waited for nearly half an hour, and the woods were dusky when at last their strained ears caught the regular creak, crunch, and shuffle of snowshoes in the distance. they were posted too far to the right, and they had to run fifty yards in order to cross the man's path. there they crouched behind the hemlocks, in great fear lest their enemy had heard their steps. but in another minute they caught sight of him. the man was alone, muffled in a great _capote_, carrying a rifle over his shoulder, and something on his back--possibly his game. his face was indistinguishable, but he looked like one of the french canadians. on he came with a steady stride, now in sight, and now concealed by the thickets. he passed within ten feet of the ambush where the boys crouched palpitating. "now! tackle him!" macgregor cried. chapter vii the three boys plunged at the man together. he stopped short, and made a motion to lower his rifle; but he was too late. the boys had fastened on him as wolves fasten on a deer. he uttered a single, stifled cry; then they all went down together in a mass of kicking snowshoes and struggling limbs. the hunter's efforts were feeble, and the boys had no trouble in over-powering him. fred pinioned his arms, and maurice sat on his legs. macgregor peered into the man's face. "why, this isn't one of that gang!" he cried. it had grown almost dark. fred bent forward to look at the man. "it's my brother!" he cried. "it's horace!" "what? it can't be!" cried peter and maurice together. they let go their hold on their prisoner in order to look closer. "i declare, i believe it is!" said macgregor, stupefied. it really was horace osborne, but he was almost unrecognizable in his muffling _capote_, long hair, and a three months' growth of beard. he had no idea who had thus attacked him, and he was in a towering rage. "what do you mean by all this? who are you, anyway?" he exclaimed, sitting up in the snow. then he looked more closely at his brother, who was trying to say something, inarticulate, half laughing and half crying. "fred!" he cried, in amazement. "is that you? what on earth are you doing here? who's that with you? peter macgregor--and maurice stark!" "we thought you might be dead!" fred cried, and peter and maurice cut in alternately:-"heard you were sick with smallpox--" "came up to find you--" "came in on skates, and--" "a gang of outlaws turned us out of the cabin--" "found your diamonds." "i don't half understand it all," said horace, "but i see that you fellows have acted like good friends. we can't get in the cabin, you say? well, you've a camp somewhere, haven't you?" they started for the camp in the snow, and on the way fred gave his brother a somewhat incoherent account of what had taken place. "you fellows certainly have acted like friends to me--like brothers, rather!" said horace. "i'll never forget it, boys!" and he shook hands with them all round. "not a bit!" said maurice, in embarrassment. "we were hoping that you'd let us in on the ground floor of a diamond mine. fred says there was a whole bagful of diamonds that you had hidden in the cabin. what do you suppose they're worth?" "if they're all diamonds, perhaps a hundred thousand dollars," replied horace. "gracious!" gasped maurice, and said no more. but fred's attention had been fixed on the pack that his brother carried. "what have you there, horace?" he asked. "grub. bacon, hardtack, tea, cold boiled beans. why, i never thought of it, but you must all be as hungry as wolves. well, there's enough for a square meal here, anyhow, and to-morrow we'll find some way of getting those rascals out of the camp." they built up the camp-fire, and horace got out his provisions, together with a couple of partridges he had shot late that afternoon. but macgregor, as medical adviser, refused to let them eat as much as they wanted. a little tea and a few mouthfuls of meat were all he permitted them to have; he promised, however, that they should have a full meal in a couple of hours. he took the same ration himself; but horace ate heartily. "but where have you been since you left the cabin?" fred asked. "at a lumber camp on the abitibi, about forty miles from here," horace replied. "i've been convalescing." "if we'd only known that there was anything of the sort so near," remarked peter, "we'd have made for it ourselves." "i stumbled on it by chance. however, i'd better explain in detail. as you seem to have heard, i came sick to this trappers' shack. i'd been in an indian camp a week before, on the nottaway river, where they had had smallpox, but i've been vaccinated four or five times, and never dreamed of danger. i didn't know what the matter with me was, in fact, till the red spots began to appear. "of course the trappers were badly scared, especially after one of them caught the disease and died. i can't tell you how sorry i was for that death. i suppose i wasn't to blame, but i felt somehow responsible. "the indian cleared out, and i couldn't blame him. but i couldn't afford to let the third man go. i was over the worst of it by that time, but i was as weak as a kitten, and could hardly feed myself. if he'd deserted me i should have died. i offered him any sum of money if he would stick to me, and told him that i'd shoot him if i saw any sign of his making off. "i couldn't have aimed straight enough to hit him at a yard just then, and i suppose he knew it. anyhow, he disappeared one morning before i was awake. he didn't take much with him except his gun and ammunition. "i was gaining strength fast, and i was able to stagger about a little. i could get water, and there was some grub in the shack. i knew that i must get out at once, lest snow should come. i stayed four days; then i took what grub i could carry, my rifle and a dozen cartridges, and started. i left all my specimens, notebooks and everything, for i didn't dare to carry an ounce more than i could help." "but the diamonds? they didn't weigh many ounces," interrupted maurice. "i struck for the abitibi," went on horace, paying no attention to the question, "and i was so weak that i couldn't make much speed. i had been out five days, and my grub was pretty nearly gone, when i stumbled into the lumbermen. they treated me like real samaritans, took me in and fed me, and i've been there convalescing ever since. day before yesterday i started back here to get my things. i had to travel slowly, for i'm not overstrong yet, and i was hurrying on to get to the cabin to-night when you pounced on me." "if you had only taken the diamonds with you!" fred lamented. "i did," said horace. he looked at the boys with a smile, and then went on:-"those stones, my boy, that you saw in the cabin aren't diamonds. they are quartz crystals and rather curious garnets, worth a few dollars at the most. here are the diamonds!" he took a small leather pouch from an inner pocket; the boys jumped up in excitement to look. from the pouch he took a small paper package, unfolded it, and revealed nine small lumps, which ranged in size from a small shot to a large pea. they looked like lumps of gum arabic, but their edges and angles reflected brilliant sparks in the firelight. "those little things? are they diamonds?" cried fred, in some disappointment. "little things? why, if they were all perfect stones, they'd be worth a small fortune. unfortunately, the biggest has a flaw in it that you can see even without cutting it, and some of the others are yellowish and off color. it will take an expert to say what they 're worth. but the great triumph is to have found diamonds up here at all." "yes, and there must be more where these came from," said maurice, brightening. "if you've discovered the beds--" "i haven't, though," horace returned. "three of these stones i bought from a camp of ojibwas. the rest i found in the gravel of the creek-beds, mostly along the nottaway river, but none of them within a quarter of a mile of another. whenever i thought the gravel looked promising, i sifted some of it. but i didn't find a trace of the blue soil that always forms the diamond-beds; if there are diamond-beds up here, they must be somewhere beyond the region that we have explored." "but they must be here somewhere," cried peter, "and there must be more diamonds where you found those! i'll certainly come up here next summer and try my own luck." "i've thought of doing so myself; that is, if this lot turns out to be any good. but getting back to town is the present problem, and we've got to consider how to recapture the cabin and your outfit of supplies." "but not before we eat again," said fred. macgregor, who was as famished as any of them, consented, and they prepared such a banquet as the three castaways had not seen since they left the cabin. it almost exhausted the supplies that horace had brought, but it did them all a great deal of good. with a new feeling of being able to grapple with the problem, they settled down to consider the question of war. "we might set fire to the cabin," fred suggested, "and try to capture the fellows when they rush out." "out of the question," declared peter, "for, even if it worked, the provisions would be burned up. i had thought of stopping up their chimney during the night. the smoke would suffocate them in their sleep, and we could go in and drag them out insensible." "i am afraid it would waken them first," said horace. "we'd have them coming out with rifles. now i'd been thinking that if we only had some of your formaldehyde fumigator we could get them under control very easily." "so we could. a can of that stuff let through the roof would put them into a dead stupor without waking them. the only risk would be that of killing them all outright. there was a can of it left, too, but it's in the cabin." "no, it isn't!" cried fred. "i put it outside in a hollow tree, so as not to have the stuff in the house. i could get it in ten minutes." "fred, you're a diamond yourself!" peter exclaimed. "if it's as you say, we'll have them out of that cabin in a jiffy." "shall we try it to-night?" maurice asked. "why not? it's nearly midnight, and they must be asleep," said horace. "i've no fancy for spending another night and day shivering here in the snow. besides, we're out of grub." after some consultation, they put on their snowshoes and tramped off toward the cabin. it was intensely cold, and very still and clear; a brilliant moon had come up over the pines. fred easily found the hollow tree in which he had hidden the disinfectant, and came back with the apparatus. there was an unopened tin of formaldehyde complete with its little lamp almost full of spirit. for some time they reconnoitered the cabin cautiously. a faint glow shone through the skin window, but no sound either of man or dog could be heard within. it would not be possible to introduce the fumigator through the door or window, and if it were lowered down the chimney, the draft would carry the gas out again. but maurice recollected the hole he had patched in the roof; it could easily be opened again. he volunteered to set the "smoker" going. this was really the most dangerous part of the undertaking, for a slight sound might bring out the ruffians, who would probably shoot without much hesitation. maurice took off his snowshoes, and carrying the fumigator, plunged through the drifts toward the cabin. twenty yards away the party watched him from the thickets; horace kept the door covered with his rifle. the snow had drifted so deep that maurice climbed easily to the roof, crawled up the slope on hands and knees, groped about, and began to scrape away the snow. a moment later, he drew out the deer-hide patch, peered down the hole, and then waved his hand reassuringly toward the woods. he struck a match, lighted the spirit lamp, and then lowered the can cautiously by a string about a yard long. in another minute he was back with his friends. "they're dead asleep," he said, joyfully. "i could hear them snore. the formaldehyde began to smell strong before i let it down. how long shall we leave it?" "we don't want to kill them," said horace. "no danger," peter remarked. "the draft from the big chimney will keep clearing the air. i'd leave it till all the stuff is vaporized--say, a couple of hours. the only thing i dread is that some one may wake up; but then, he wouldn't know what the smell was, and the spirit flame is so pale that it's almost invisible." they watched the cabin intently. all remained deathly quiet. it was very cold as they crouched there in the snow. horace kept his rifle ready, but finally his vigilance slackened. they walked about to keep from freezing, talked in whispers, and still watched the silent hut. suddenly horace clutched fred's arm. "look!" he cried. "the cabin's on fire!" chapter viii a thin stream of smoke was rising from the hole in the roof of the cabin. from the chimney volumes of vapor had suddenly begun to pour out into the moonlight. the dim glow at the window now and then flared up brightly. "that spirit lamp must have set fire to something. those men will be burned to death. come, we must try to get them out!" horace cried. they rushed together to the cabin door. it was barricaded on the inside; they battered it with kicks and blows for a good half-minute, and at last it yielded. a gush of smoke and suffocating fumes burst out into their faces, and the boys staggered back. the inside of the cabin appeared to be all in flames, but it was so obscured by smoke that they could see nothing clearly. with the opening of the door the fire seemed to burn more fiercely. it seemed impossible that anything could be alive in that place; but fred shut his eyes and dashed blindly in. he stumbled over the body of a dog, and kicked it outside the door. choking with the smoke and the formaldehyde fumes, he took another step, and his foot struck something soft; it was the body of a man. fred stooped and tried to pick the body up by the shoulders. suddenly through the smoke peter appeared at his side, and helped him; together they got the man out and laid him down on the snow. he was one of the french canadians, apparently lifeless. "is he dead?" gasped fred to macgregor, who bent over the prostrate form. the medical student peered under the man's eyelids, and felt his wrist. "no," he said, "he'll come round all right in the fresh air. it's the smoke more than the gas." horace came out at that moment, dragging mitchell's limp body. the red-bearded ruffian was alive, but unconscious; the boys placed him on the snow beside his companion. then all four of them rushed into the cabin together, and succeeded in getting out the remaining two french canadians. "now the dogs! we must get them out!" cried peter. that was not hard to do, for the animals were lying close to the door. the strong draft from the door to the chimney had by this time cleared the atmosphere a good deal, and the boys saw that the fire was burning chiefly among the couches of balsam boughs. the spirit lamp must have scorched through the cord by which it hung, and dropped into a heap of dry twigs. the boys had no means of putting the fire out; the immediate need was to rescue the provisions. they rushed in again, and each dragged out an armful of supplies. they took a breath of fresh air, and then hastened in again. fred was reaching for a slab of bacon, when suddenly something exploded almost under his hand. he jumped back, almost fancying he had been shot at. _crack! crack! bang!_ went several other reports in quick succession, and this time he realized what it must be. "run! the ammunition's going off!" he shouted, and rushed for the open; as he ran, however, he caught up the piece of bacon. some of the rifle cartridges were exploding, one by one, and then two or three together, and suddenly, with a tremendous bang, a whole box seemed to go off. then the firing ceased, and after a short interval, the boys set to work again to get out more provisions. the cabin was stifling now from powder smoke, but they got what they could lay their hands on--a bag of flour, a quantity of canned stuff, a kettle, a rifle; soon a great heap of rescued supplies lay on the snow outside. the flames, unable to ignite the solid logs of the cabin, were now dying; evidently they would soon burn themselves out. mitchell at this moment gave signs of returning life. he opened his eyes, stirred, and began to cough violently. they placed him in a more comfortable position, and at the same time took the precaution of tying his wrists and ankles securely with strips of deer-hide. the man seemed dazed; he looked at the boys in amazement, and did not utter a word. two of the french canadians were also reviving, and the boys tied them up in the same way. the fourth was in bad shape, and it took vigorous rubbing to restore him to consciousness: if he had been neglected a little longer he might have died. they laid the captives out in a row on a pile of hemlock branches, and lighted a roaring fire to keep them from freezing. horace then went through mitchell's pockets, and recovered the sack of stones that fred had seen. he poured the glittering crystals into his hand, while mitchell looked on in black disappointment. "my friend," said horace, "you've taken a vast amount of trouble, risked committing murder, and almost lost your own life for these pebbles. here, i'll give them to you." he poured the crystals back into the pouch, and then flung the sack into the man's lap. [illustration: flung the sack into the man's lap] the outlaw looked utterly bewildered. "ain't them diamonds?" he exclaimed. "fool's diamonds," horace replied. "maybe you can get five dollars for the lot. if they were real diamonds, you might be a millionaire now." mitchell was evidently convinced, for he swore bitterly. "i'm curious to know," horace said, "how you came to hear that you might expect to find diamonds hereabouts?" "one of these breeds," said mitchell sullenly, "got it from a brother of his down by hickson that a prospector had died here with a pocketful of shiny stones that he'd picked up. i've prospected some myself. i thought what these stones likely was, and i got together this crowd, and--" "we know the rest," said peter. "you came on the same false scent that we did." then he turned to horace, and whispered, "what in the world are we going to do with these fellows?" horace wrinkled his brows in perplexity, and shook his head. "i don't know," he said. but whatever they did, they must first of all sleep. the fire in the cabin had indeed burned out, but the place was so charred and smoky as to be uninhabitable; so they built a huge camp-fire of logs on the snow. here they all passed the night,--there was not much left of it,--and peter, fred, and maurice took turns in staying awake in order to watch the prisoners. the next morning the boys prepared a great breakfast from the recaptured provisions. they released the right hands of the captives, to enable them to eat; the men showed no hostile spirit. mitchell only was sullen, as usual; the three french canadians chattered gayly; they had quite recovered from their suffocation. four of the dogs were lively, too; but one was dead. after breakfast the boys inspected the cabin, and carried out the rest of the supplies. most of these were badly damaged. all the blankets had been destroyed; the rifles were charred about the stocks, but could still be used; the kettles and tinware were not much injured; but the boys found only one box of cartridges that had not exploded. mitchell's dog harness was burned to pieces. both the sledges had been left outdoors, and were unhurt. as they looked over the outfit, the boys discussed their plans. they agreed that they should start for home at once. they were all anxious to have the diamonds appraised, and there was not the slightest reason for remaining. but the question what to do with the prisoners perplexed them. they could not take them along, could not leave them bound, and did not dare to set them free and restore their weapons. finally, however, the boys found a way out of the difficulty. they divided the provisions and ammunition into two equal parts, and loaded their toboggan with one of them. peter then cut the four men loose. "we'll treat you better than you did us," he said. "we're leaving you half the grub, and there are some old deerskins here from which you can make a new dog harness. we'll carry your snowshoes with us for two miles down the river, and leave them there. we'll carry your rifles three miles farther, and leave them in a conspicuous place, too." then the boys set out on their homeward journey. one of the frenchmen immediately started after them in order to pick up the snowshoes and the rifles, but the boys soon left him far behind. they saw no more of any of the outlaw gang, although, for fear of an attack, they kept watch for the next two nights in camp. none of the boys were in condition for fast travel, and the question of supplies was a serious one. horace thought it best to make straight for the lumber camp where he had been so kindly received, and they reached it on the third day. here they spent a couple of days in rest and recuperation, and were lucky enough to be able to buy enough beans, flour, and bacon to last them to the railway. again they set off, and, after four days of hard tramping in bitter cold weather, they heard the whistle of a train, faint and far away through the trees. they all yelled with joy. it was like a voice from home. they began to run, and in a short time they came to iron rails running north and south through the snowy forest. following up the line, they found themselves at ringwood, three stations north of waverley, where they had gone in. the next train took them down to that point, and they went back to the hotel, recovered their suit-cases, and put on town clothes again. it seemed a long time since they had passed that way before, and collars and cuffs were hard to wear. a great many curious eyes followed them about the little hotel. "find any gold?" the landlord asked them, in an offhand manner. "no," said maurice. if he had inquired about diamonds, the boys would have been puzzled what to say. for the last time they packed their dunnage sacks on the battered toboggan, and shipped it to the city. they traveled on the same train themselves, and were in toronto the next morning. the boys parted with hearty farewells--maurice going home, macgregor to his rooms, and horace accompanying fred to his boarding-house, where he intended to find quarters for himself. "and now for the great question!" said horace, when they were once indoors. "are the diamonds worth anything, or are they not? i can't think of anything else till i find out." "why, i thought you were sure--" began fred. "so i am--in a general sort of way. but i'm not a diamond expert, and i may be deceived. it's just possible that the things may not be real diamonds at all. "but don't worry," he added, seeing his brother's startled face. "i'm pretty sure they 're all right. but i'm going to take them at once to wilson & keith's and get them appraised. they're the best diamond firm in the city, and they'll treat me honestly." horace dressed himself very carefully, took his little sack of jewels, and departed. he was gone fully three hours, and fred waited in almost sickening impatience. at last he heard horace's step on the stairs, and rushed out to meet him. "what luck?" he cried eagerly. "s-sh!" said horace, drawing him back into the room. "it's all right. they're diamonds!" "hurrah!" fred shouted wildly. "they were awfully keen to know where i got them, but of course i wouldn't tell, except that it was in ontario. they would have bought the lot, i think, but i wasn't anxious to sell at once. they wanted me to make a price, and i wanted them to make an offer, and both of us were afraid, i guess. however, they're going to take care of the stones for me and think it over." "we must tell the other boys!" exclaimed fred. "can you make the slightest guess at what the stones are worth?" "hardly--at present. maybe a thousand or two. three of them are too small to be of any use at all, too small to be cut. the biggest has a bad flaw in it; it could be used only for cutting up into what they call 'commercial diamonds,' for watch-movements, and such things. yes, give peter and maurice the news, certainly, but do it by word of mouth. don't 'phone them. you don't know who may be listening. "and be sure to warn them to keep the whole affair the closest kind of secret. wilson & keith are going to exhibit the stones in their show window, and you've no idea what an excitement will be stirred up. we'll all be watched. people will try in every possible way to find out where we got them. the newspapers will be after the story, and there'll be all kinds of underhand tricks to trap us into letting out something. not that it would do much good, for none of you know enough to be dangerous, but we don't want a dozen parties going up the nottaway river next spring. we 're going there ourselves." fred promised secrecy, and presently found that his brother had hardly exaggerated the sensation caused by the little pile of dull stones on a square of black velvet in the jeweler's window, labeled "canadian diamonds." the newspapers were unremitting; horace gave them a brief and circumspect interview, and thenceforth refused to add another word to his statement. he was besieged with inquiries. he had all sorts of proposals made to him by miners and mining firms. one group of capitalists made him an offer that he thought good enough to consider for a day, but he ultimately rejected it. fred had his share of glory too, as the brother of the diamond finder. it leaked out that maurice and peter had also been on the expedition, and they were so pestered with inquiries and interviewers that it seriously interfered with their collegiate work. but by degrees the excitement wore off, for lack of anything further to feed upon. the diamonds were withdrawn from exhibition, and the jewelers at last made up their minds to offer horace seven hundred dollars for the lot. it was rather a disappointing figure. horace took his diamonds to montreal and submitted them to two jewel experts there, who advised him that they were probably worth little more, in their uncut form. the cutting of them might develop flaws, or it might bring out unexpected luster; it was taking a chance. returning to toronto, he announced that he would take eight hundred and no less; and after some arguing wilson & keith consented to pay that price. the boys had a grand dinner at a downtown restaurant that night to celebrate it. it was far from the fortune they had hoped to gain, but they still had great hopes of discovering that fortune. "it's more than enough to cover the expenses of your trip into the woods this winter, and our next trip in the spring, too," said horace, "for of course this eight hundred is going to be divided equally between us." "not a bit of it!" protested mac. "you found the stones. they're yours. we won't take a cent of it, will we, maurice?" "i should think not!" maurice exclaimed. horace tried to insist, but the two boys stood firm. at last he persuaded them to agree that the expenses of the expedition should be defrayed out of the diamond money. as for their coming trip next season, the matter was left to be settled later. there was plenty of time to think of it, for it would be months before the woods would be open for prospecting. chapter ix nearly the whole winter was before them, but it was none too long a time to consider their plans. horace had found diamonds, it is true, but they had been found miles apart, one at a time, in the river gravel. this is not the natural home of diamonds, which are always found native to the peculiar formation known in south africa as "blue clay." nobody had ever found a trace of blue clay in ontario, yet horace felt certain that the blue-clay beds must exist. they were the only thing worth looking for. to poke over the river gravel in hopes of finding a chance stone would be sheer waste of time. hundreds of men had done it without lighting on a single diamond. horace was a trained geologist, and that winter he spent much time in study, without saying a word even to fred as to what he was meditating. he pored over geological surveys, and went to ottawa to consult the departmental maps at the legislative library. by slow degrees he was working out a theory, and at last, one february evening, he came into his brother's room. "just look at this, fred, and see what you think of it," he remarked casually. it was a large pen-and-ink map, skillfully drawn, for horace was a practiced map-maker. "it's the country of the abitibi and missanabie rivers," horace explained. "these red crosses show where i found my diamonds--see, in the whitefish river, the smoke river, and another river that hasn't any name, so far as i know. right here is the trappers' cabin where you boys found me. my bones might have been up there now but for you, old boy!" and he thumped fred's back affectionately. "if you hadn't come along when you did i'm pretty certain our bones would be there, anyway," said fred. "well, let's hope we all saved one another. but see, most of these diamonds were found many miles apart. they didn't grow where i found them. they must have been washed down, perhaps from the very headwaters of the river. now look at the map. do you see, all these three rivers rise in pretty much the same region." "so they do," said fred, his eyes fixed on the paper. "then you think--" "the stones were probably all washed down from that region. the blue-clay beds, the diamond field, must be up there, somewhere within this black circle i've drawn." fred's heart began to throb with excitement. "but some prospector would have hit on them before now," he said. "i doubt if any prospector has ever gone in there. they say it's one of the roughest bits of country in the north, and no mineral strikes have ever been made in that region. i've never been up there myself. it's up in the hills, you see; the rivers are too broken for a canoe, and the ground is too rough to get over on foot, except in the winter. the ojibwas hunt there in the winter, they say, and i dare say there's plenty of game." "but if it's so rough to get into, how can we travel?" "oh, often those bad places are not so bad when you get there. i'd like to see the place i couldn't get into if there were diamonds there! we'll get into it somehow, for the diamond-beds must surely be there if they're anywhere. but there's no doubt it'll be a rough trip." "rough? what of that?" cried fred. "if your theory is right we'll make our fortunes--millions, maybe! of course you'll let me go, won't you? and maurice, and mac?" "i couldn't manage without you. but mind, not a word to anybody else!" they telephoned the other boys that day, and in the evening a meeting was held in fred's room, like the previous time when the first expedition had been so hurriedly planned. but this was to be a different affair, carefully thought out and equipped for all sorts of possibilities. "of course you'll both be able to go?" said fred. "i certainly will," answered peter. "i've lost so much time this winter already, with our other trip, and then having my mind on the diamonds and dodging newspaper reporters and things, that i've got hopelessly behind. my laboratory work especially has gone all to pieces. i'm bound to fail on next summer's exams, anyway, so i'm going to let it slide and make the trip, on the chance that i'll make such a fortune that i won't have to practice medicine for a living at all. how about you, maurice?" "i wouldn't miss it for anything--if i could help it," maurice replied. "i don't know, though, whether i can afford it." maurice's parents were not in rich circumstances, and horace hastened to say-"i'm paying for this expedition, you know, out of the diamond money. there'll be plenty, and some to spare." "well, it isn't exactly the cost," said maurice, "but my father is awfully anxious for me to make an honor pass next summer. i couldn't afford to fail, and have to take another year at the work. i don't know, though,--i'll see. i'd be awfully disappointed if i had to stay out of it." under the circumstances they could not urge him to say more. as for horace and fred, they had very few family ties. their closest relatives were an aunt and uncle in montreal. the trip was quite in the line of horace's profession, and fred did not mind resigning the post he held in the real estate office. the firm was shaky; it was not likely to continue in business much longer, and he would be likely to have to look for another position soon in any event. as they had feared, maurice was obliged to announce his inability to go with them. his professors thought that an absence of two months would be a handicap that he could never make up. in the eyes of his parents the expedition was no more than a hare-brained expedition into the woods, that would cost a whole year of collegiate work. to his bitter disappointment, he had to give it up. fred and macgregor at once began to train as if for an athletic contest. they took long cross-country runs in the snow and worked hard in the gymnasium. they introduced a new form of exercise that made their friends stare. they appeared on the indoor running track bent almost double; each carried on his back a sack of sawdust, held in place by a broad leather band that passed over the top of his forehead. thus burdened they jogged round the track at a fast walk. they were the butt of many jokes before the other men at the gymnasium discovered the reason for this queer form of exercise. it had been horace's idea. he knew that there would be long portages where they would have to carry the supplies with a tumpline; and he also knew that nothing is so wearing on a novice. fred and peter found it so. strong as they were, they discovered that it brought a new set of muscles into play, and they had trouble in staggering over a mile with a fifty-pound pack; but they kept at it, and before the expedition started, fred could travel five miles with a hundred pounds, and big macgregor could do even better. as soon as the ice on toronto bay broke up, they bought a large peterboro canoe, which horace inspected thoroughly. he was a skilled canoeman; fred and peter could also handle a paddle. when the ice went out of the don and humber rivers, the boys began to practice canoeing assiduously. the streams were running yellow and flooded, and they got more than one ducking, but it was all good training. they decided to start as soon as the northern rivers were navigable, for at that early season they would escape the worst of the black-fly pest, and the smaller streams would be more easily traveled than when shallow in midsummer. besides, they all felt anxious to get on the ground at once. but although the streams were free in toronto, in the far north winter held them locked. it was hard to wait; but not until may did horace think it safe to start. since maurice was not going, the boys decided to take only one canoe. it was impossible to say how long they might be gone, but horace made out a list of supplies for six weeks. it was rather a formidable list, and the outfit would be heavy to transport. they carried a tent and mosquito-bar, and a light spade and pick for prospecting the blue clay, besides horace's own regular outfit for mineralogical testing work. for weapons they decided upon a 44-caliber repeating rifle and a shotgun, with assorted loads of shells. it was not the season for hunting, but they wished to live on the country as far as possible to save their flour and pork. fish should be abundant, however, and they took a steel rod with a varied stock of artificial flies and minnow-baits. it was warm weather, almost summery, when they took the northbound express in toronto; but when fred opened the car window the next morning, a biting cold air rushed in. rough spruce woods lined the track, and here and there he saw patches of snow. it was almost noon when they got off at the station that was a favorite starting-point for prospectors. here they had to spend two days, for horace wished to engage indian packers to help them portage over the height of land. as it was early in the season, they had their pick of men, and obtained three french half-breeds, who furnished their own canoe and supplies. the boys' canoe and duffel sacks had come up by freight. all was ready at last. the next morning they put the canoes into the water; the paddles dipped, and the half-dozen houses of the village dropped out of sight behind the pines. the first week of that voyage was uneventful, except for hard work and considerable discomfort. it rained four days in the seven, and once it snowed a little. they were going upstream always, against a rushing current swollen with snow water. sometimes they could paddle, more often they had to pole, and frequently they were forced either to carry, or else to wade and "track" the canoes up the current. the nearer they came to the head of the river, the swifter and more broken the stream became. at last they could go no farther in the canoes. then came the long portage. in order to reach the head of the missanabie river, which flowed in the opposite direction, they had to carry the canoe and over six hundred pounds of outfit for about twelve miles, across the height of land. here they camped for one night. at daylight next morning they started over the long portage, heavily burdened, and before the first hour had passed they were thankful that they had brought along the half-breed packers, who strode along sturdily under a load that made fred stare. it is only fair to say, though, that the half-breeds were almost equally surprised at the performance of the boys, for their previous experience with city campers had not led them to expect anything in the way of weight-carrying. thanks to their gymnasium practice, however, fred and macgregor were able to travel under a sixty-pound load without actually collapsing. the trail was rough and wound up and down over rocky ridges, through tangles of swamp-alder and tamarack, but continually zigzagged up toward the hills. it was a chilly day; the streams had been rimmed with ice that morning, but after a few miles the boys were dripping with perspiration. that was a killing march. if it had not been for their weeks of hard training the boys could never have stood up under it, and they had all they could do to reach the topmost ridge of the height of land by the middle of the afternoon. fred slipped the tumpline from his head, slung the sixty-pound pack on the ground, and sat down heavily on the pack. "that part's over, anyway!" he gasped. "there won't be anything much rougher, old boy," replied horace, as he came up and threw off his own burden. staggering through the underbrush, slipping on the wet, mossy stones of the slope, came a queer procession. in front was a bronze-faced half-breed, bent double, with the broad tump-line over the top of his head, and a mountainous pack of blankets and food supplies on his back. behind him came two more half-breeds, each with a heavy pack of camp outfit. macgregor brought up the rear; he carried a peterboro canoe upside down on his shoulders, and steadied it with his hands. they all sat down on the top of the hill to rest. the three white boys, although trained athletes, were pretty well at the end of their strength; but the half-breeds seemed little the worse for their labor. they were on the top of the height of land, which divides the flow of the rivers between the great lakes and hudson bay. behind them was the long, undulating line of hills and valleys they had just crossed. before them the land fell away sharply. in the clear may sunshine they could see for miles over the tree-tops until the dark green of the spruce and tamarack faded to a hazy blue. a great ridge showed a split face of gray granite; in the distance a lake glimmered. about two miles away to the northwest a yellowish-green strip showed here and there through the trees. it was a river--one of the tributaries of the missanabie, which was to take them north. the descent on the other side of the ridge was almost as hard as the ascent had been. the northern slope was wet and rocky; in the hollows were deep banks of snow. the rocks were loosened by the frost, which made the footing dangerous. but it was only two miles now to the river, and they reached it in time to camp before dusk. the next morning they paid off the half-breeds, who returned over the ridges southward. the boys were left alone; the real expedition had begun. the work now looked easy, but dangerous. the river was narrow, swollen; its tremendous current, roaring over rocks and rapids, would carry them along at a rapid pace. they would have to do some careful steering, however, if they did not wish to upset. as the most skillful canoeman, horace took the stern; macgregor sat in the bow, and fred in the middle behind a huge pile of dunnage. for a quarter of a mile they shot down the river; then they had to land and make a fifty-yard carry. another swift run in the canoe followed, and then another and longer portage. it was like that for about fifteen miles. then they caught sight of wider water ahead, and the little river poured into a great, brown, swift-flowing stream a hundred yards wide. it was the missanabie. during the rest of that day they ran over forty miles. the current carried them fast, and the river was so big and deep that it was seldom broken by dangerous rapids. the country grew lower and less hilly; it was covered with a rather stunted growth of spruce, tamarack, and birch. ducks splashed up from the water as the canoe came in sight; and when the boys stopped to make camp for the night they found at the river's edge the tracks of a moose. it was wintry cold in camp that night, and there was ice in the pools the next morning. shortly after sunrise the boys launched the canoe again, and it was not much more than an hour later when a sound of roaring water began to grow loud in their ears. with vast commotion and foam a smaller stream swept into the missanabie from the southwest. "hurrah! i've been here before!" cried horace. "it's the smoke river. up here real work begins." "and up here," peter said, gazing at the wild, swift stream, "is the diamond country." chapter x the mouth of the smoke river was so rough that the boys could not enter it in the canoe; and the dense growth of birch and willow along the shores would make portaging difficult. "we'll have to track the canoe up," horace decided. they got out the "tracking-line"--a long, stout, half-inch rope--and attached one end of it to the bow of the canoe. peter macgregor harnessed himself to the other end, and started up the narrow, rocky strip of shore; horace waded beside the canoe in order to fend her off the boulders. fred, carrying the fire-arms and a few other articles that a wetting would have ruined, scrambled through the thickets. the water was icy cold, but it was never more than hip-deep. fortunately, the very broken stretch of the river was only a hundred yards long; after that, they were able to pole for a mile or so, and once indeed, the stream broadened so much that they could use the paddles. then came a precipitous cascade, then a difficult carry, and then another stretch of poling. they had gone about five miles up the river when horace, who had been watching the shores carefully, pointed to a tree and gave a shout. it was a large spruce, on the trunk of which was a blazed mark that looked less than a year old. "it's my mark," said horace. "i made it last august. right here i found one of the diamonds." "we must stop and do some prospecting!" cried fred. "no use," replied his brother. "i prospected all round here myself, and for a mile or so up the river. i didn't go any farther, but i've a notion that we'll have to go nearly to the head of the river to find the country we want." on they went, shoving the canoe against the current with the iron-shod canoe poles. they had all been looking up the kind of soil in which diamonds are usually found, and now they closely observed the eroded banks on both sides of the river. according to horace's theory, the river, or one of its tributary streams, must cut through the diamond-beds of blue clay. but as yet the shores showed nothing except ordinary sand and gravel. two miles farther the river broadened into a long, narrow lake, surrounded by low spruce-clad hills and edged with sprouting lily-pads. it was a great relief to the boys to be able to paddle, and they dashed rapidly to the head of the lake. there, rapids and a long carry confronted them! they had made little more than fifteen miles that day when finally they went into camp; they were almost too tired to cook supper. and they knew that that day's work was only a foretaste of what was coming, for from now on they would be continually "bucking the rapids." the next day they found rapids in plenty, indeed. they seemed to come on an average of a quarter of a mile apart, and sometimes two or three in such close succession that it was scarcely worth while to launch the canoe again after the first portage. it was slow, toilsome work; they grew very tired as the afternoon wore on, and shortly before sunset they came to one of the worst spots they had yet encountered. it was a pair of rapids, less than a hundred yards apart. over the first one the water rushed among a medley of irregular boulders, and then, after some ten rods of smooth, swift current, poured down a cataract of several feet. huge black rocks, split and tumbled, broke up the cataract, and the hoarse roar filled the pine woods with sound. "i move we camp!" said fred, eyeing this obstacle with disgust. "let's get over the carry first and camp at the top," peter urged. "then we'll have a clear start for morning." fred grumbled that they would certainly be fresher in the morning than they were then, but they unpacked the canoe, and began to carry the outfit around the broken water, as they had done so many tunes that day. once at the head of the upper rapid horace began to get out the cooking-utensils. "i'll start supper," he said. "you fellows might see if you can't land a few trout. there ought to be big fellows between these two cascades." it did look a good place for trout, and mac had an appetite for fishing that no fatigue could stifle. he took the steel fly-rod, and walked a little way down the stream past the upper rapid. fred cut a long, slender pole, tied a line to it and prepared to fish in a less scientific fashion. as his rod and line were considerably shorter than mac's, he got into the canoe, put a loop of the tracking-rope around a rock, and let himself drift for the length of the rope, nearly to the edge of the rough water. hung in this rather precarious position, he was able to throw his hook into the foamy water just at the foot of the fall, and had a bite almost instantly, throwing out a good half-pound fish whose orange spots glittered in the sunlight. peter meanwhile was fishing from the shore lower down. the thickets were farther back from the water than usual, and he had plenty of room for the back cast. he was kept busy from the first, and when he had time to glance up fred seemed to be having equally good luck. but at one of these hurried glances his eye caught something that appalled him. the looped rope that held the straining canoe seemed to be in danger of slipping from its hold on the rock. he shouted, but the roar of the water drowned his voice. he started up the bank, shouting and gesticulating, but fred was busy with a fish and did not hear or see. horace was cutting wood at a distance. and at that moment the rope slipped free. the canoe shot forward, and before fred could even drop his rod he was whirled broadside on into the rapid. instantly the canoe capsized. fred went out of sight in the foam and water, and then macgregor saw him floating down on the current below the rapid. he was on his back, with his face just above water, and he did not move a limb. mac yelled at him, but got no answer. fred had not been under long enough to be drowned. he had evidently been stunned by striking his head against a rock. then mac realized the boy's new and greater danger. fred was drifting rapidly head first toward the second cataract, and no one could dive over that fall and live. the rocks at the bottom would brain the strongest swimmer. mac instinctively dropped his rod and rushed into the water. the strength of the swirling current almost swept him off his feet. it was too deep to wade, and he was not a good swimmer. he could never reach fred in time. they would go over the fall together. fred was more than thirty feet from shore. mac thought of a long pole, and splashed madly ashore again. he caught sight of his fishing-rod, with its hundred yards of strong silk line on the reel. fred was now about twenty yards above the cascade when mac ran into the river again, rod in hand, as far as he dared to wade. he measured the distance with his eye, reeled out the line, waving the rod in the air, and then, with a turn of his wrist, the delicate rod shot the pair of flies across the water. mac was an expert fly-caster. the difficulty was not in the length of the cast; it was to hook the flies in fred's clothing. they fell a yard beyond the boy's body. mac drew them in. the hooks seemed to catch for an instant on his chest, but came free at the first tug. desperately mac swished the flies out of the water for another cast. he saw that he would have time to throw but this once more, for fred was terribly near the cataract, and moving faster as the pull of the current quickened. mac waded a little farther into the stream, leaning against the current to keep his balance. the line whirled again, and shot out, and again the gut fell across fred's shoulders with the flies on the other side. with the greatest care mac drew in the line. the first fly dragged over the body as before. the other caught, broke loose, and caught again in fred's coat near the collar, and then the steel rod bent with the sudden strain of a hundred and fifty pounds drawn down by the strong current. mac knew that the rod was almost unbreakable, but he feared for his line. the current pulled so hard that he dared not exert much force. fred's body swung round with his head upstream, his feet toward the cataract, and the current split and ripped in spray over his head. the lithe steel rod bent hoop-like. there was a struggle for a moment, a deadlock between the stream and the line, and mac feared that he could not hold it. the light tackle would never stand the strain. mac had fought big fishes before, however, and he knew how to get the most out of his tackle. with the check on the reel he let out line inch by inch to ease the resistance; and meanwhile he endeavored to swing fred across the current and nearer the shore. as he stood with every nerve and muscle strained on the fight he suddenly saw horace out of the corner of his eye. horace was beside him, coat and shoes off, with a long hooked pole in his hands, gazing with compressed lips at his brother's floating body. there was not a word exchanged. under the steady pull fred came over in an arc of a circle, but for every foot that was gained mac had to let out more line. his legs were swinging already within a few yards of the dangerous verge, but he was getting out of the center of the stream, and the current was already less violent. inch by inch and foot by foot he came nearer, and all at once horace rushed forward, nearly shoulder-deep, and hooked the pole over his brother's arm. at the jerk the gut casting-line snapped with a crack, and the end flew back like a whip into peter's face. but horace had drawn fred within reach, had gripped him, and waded ashore carrying him in his arms. "i'll never forget this of you, mac!" he ejaculated as he passed the medical student. fred had already come half to himself when they laid him on the bank. he had not swallowed much water, but had been merely knocked senseless by concussion with a boulder. "what's--matter?" he muttered faintly, opening his eyes. "keep quiet. you fell in the river. mac fished you out," said horace. fred blinked about vaguely, half-attempted to rise and fell back. "gracious! what a head i've got!" he muttered dizzily. they carried him up to the camp, put him on the blankets and examined his cranium. the back of his neck was skinned, there was a bleeding cut on the top of his head and a big bruise on the back, but mac pronounced none of these injuries at all serious. while they were examining him fred opened his eyes again. "fished me out, mac? guess you saved my life," he murmured. "that's all right, old fellow," replied peter; and then he gave a sudden start. "the canoe!" in the excitement over fred's rescue they had entirely forgotten it. it had drifted downstream. if lost or destroyed they would be left stranded in the wilderness--almost as hopelessly as castaways at sea. without another word mac began to run at full speed down the bank in the deepening twilight. if the canoe had drifted right down the stream, he might never have overtaken it, but luckily he came upon it within a mile, lying stranded and capsized. by the greatest good luck, too, it was not ruined. it had several bruises and a strip of the rail was split off, but it was still water-tight. the next morning fred was fairly recovered of his hurts, but felt weak and dizzy, so that not much progress was made. during the whole forenoon they remained in camp. horace went hunting with the shotgun and got a couple of ducks. none of them felt much inclined for any more fishing in that almost fatal spot. on the following day, however, fred was able to take his share of the work again, and the party proceeded. that day and many days after were much alike. they tracked the canoe up long stretches of rough water, where two of them had to wade alongside in order to keep it from going over. they made back-breaking portages over places where they had to hew out a trail for a quarter of a mile. at night when they rolled themselves into their blankets they were too tired to talk. but the hard training they had undergone before they started showed its results now. although they were dead tired at night, they were always ready for the day's work in the morning. they suffered no ill effects from their wettings in the river, and their appetites were enormous. the supplies, especially of bacon and flour, decreased alarmingly. although signs of game were abundant, they did not like to lose time in hunting until they reached the prospecting grounds; but a couple of days later meat came to them. they had reached the foot of the worst rapid they had yet encountered. it was a veritable cascade, for the river, narrowing between walls of rock, leaped and roared over fifty yards of boulders. the portage led up a rather steep slope. the three boys, each heavily burdened, were struggling along in single file, when horace, who was in front, suddenly sank flat, and with his hand cautioned the others to be silent. "s-s-h! lie low!" he whispered. "give me the rifle!" macgregor passed the weapon to him, and then he and fred wriggled forward to look. eighty yards away fred saw the light-brown flank of a doe, and beside her, partly concealed by the underbrush, the head and large, questioning ears of a fawn. the animals were evidently excited, for as horace lowered his rifle, not wishing to kill a mother with young, they bounded a few steps nearer, and stood gazing back at the thicket from which they had come. the wind blew toward the boys, and the roar of the cataract had drowned the noise of their approach. suddenly there was a commotion in the thicket, and two young bucks burst from the spruces and dashed past the doe and fawn toward the boys. at the same instant the lithe, tawny form of a lynx leaped out. it struck like lightning at the fawn, but the little fellow sprang aside and bounded after its mother. the lynx gave a few prodigious leaps and then stood, with tufted ears erect, glaring in disappointment. it had all happened within a few seconds, and the deer were disappearing behind some rocks and stunted spruces fifty yards to the right before the boys thought again of their need of meat. at that moment, one of the bucks wheeled at the edge of the tangle behind which the other deer had passed. for an instant he presented a fair quartering shot. "shoot quick!" whispered macgregor, excitedly. as the repeater in horace's hands cracked, the buck whirled round in a half-circle, leaped once, and fell. fred uttered a wild shout, slipped the tumpline from his head, and ran forward. he was carrying the shotgun and held it ready; but the buck, shot behind the shoulder, was virtually dead, although he was kicking feebly. the lynx had vanished; there was no sign of the other deer. only the rush of the water in the river-bed now disturbed the forest stillness. the dressing of the game was no small task. it was late in the afternoon when the boys had finished it and had brought up the rest of their outfit to the head of the cataract. "buck rapids" they named the place. there was enough meat on the deer to last them for the next week at least. the slices they cut and fried that night, although not tender, were palatable and nourishing. the weather had been warmer that day, and for the first time mosquitoes troubled them. the boys slept badly, and got up the next morning unrefreshed and in no mood to "buck the river" again. "why not stop here a couple of days and prospect?" mac suggested at breakfast. the proposal struck them all favorably. it was the real beginning of the search for fortune. fred in particular was fired with instant hope, and immediately after breakfast he set out to explore the country north of the river; he intended to make a wide circle back to the smoke river and to come homeward down its bank. he carried a compass, the shotgun, and a luncheon of cold flapjacks and fried deer meat. horace went off to the south; macgregor remained in camp, to jerk the venison by smoking it over a slow fire. it was a sunny, warm day. spring seemed to have come with a bound, and the warmth had brought out the black flies in swarms. all the boys had smeared themselves that morning with "fly dope" that they had bought at the railway station, but even that black, ill-smelling varnish on their hands and faces was only partly effectual. great clouds of the little pests hovered round them. fred struck straight north from the river, and then turned a little to the west. he examined the ground with the utmost care. the land lay in great ridges and valleys, and he soon found that prospecting was almost as rough work as fighting the river. in the valleys the earth was mucky with melting snow water; on the hills it was rocky, with huge boulders, tumbled heaps of shattered stone, slopes of loose gravel; everywhere was a tangle of stunted, scrubby birch and poplar, spruce and jack-pine. after half an hour he came upon a small creek that flowed from the northwest. with a glance at his compass, he started to follow it. for nearly three hours he plodded along the creek, digging into the banks with a stick and examining every spot where there seemed a chance of finding blue clay; but he found nothing except ordinary sand and gravel. at last, disappointed and disheartened, he turned back toward the smoke river. after a mile or so he stopped to eat his luncheon, and built a smudge to keep the flies away; then he proceeded onward through the rough, unprofitable country. but if he did not find diamonds, he came on plenty of game. ruffed grouse and spruce partridges rose here and there and perched in the trees. he saw many rabbits, and there were signs where deer or moose had browsed on the birch twigs. once, as he came over a ridge, he caught a glimpse of a black bear digging at a pile of rotten logs in the valley. the animal evidently had not been long out of winter quarters, for it looked starved, and its fur was tattered and rusty. the moment the bear caught sight of him, it vanished like a dark streak. fred found no trace that afternoon of blue clay, or, indeed, of any clay, but he happened upon something that caused him some apprehension. it was a steel trap, lying on the open ground, battered and rusted as if it had been there for some time. scattered round it were some bones that he guessed had belonged to a lynx. apparently the animal had been caught in the trap, which was of the size generally used for martens, had broken the chain from its fastening, and had traveled until it had either perished from starvation or had been killed by wolves. although rusty, the trap was still in working condition, and fred, somewhat uneasy, took it along with him. some one had been trapping in that district recently, perhaps during the last winter; was the stranger also looking for diamonds? with frequent glances at his compass fred kept zigzagging to and fro, and finally came out on the river again; but he was still a long way from camp, and he did not reach the head of the cataract until nearly sunset. horace had already come in, covered with mud and swollen with fly bites. "what luck?" cried fred, eagerly. his brother shook his head. he had encountered the same sort of rough country as fred; and to add to his troubles, he had got into a morass, from which he had escaped in a very muddy condition. then fred produced the trap and told of his finding it and of his fears. the boys examined it and tested its springs. horace took a more cheerful view of the matter. "the ojibywas always trap through here in the winter," he said. "the owner of that trap is probably down at moose factory now. besides, the lynx might have traveled twenty or thirty miles from the place where it was caught." in spite of the failure of the day's work they all felt hopeful; but they resolved to push on farther before doing any more prospecting. the next morning they launched the canoe, and for four days more faced the river. each day the work was harder. each day they had a succession of back-breaking portages; sometimes they were able to pole a little; they hauled the canoe for hours by the tracking-line, and in those four days they traveled scarcely thirty miles. on the last day they met with a serious misfortune. while they were hauling the canoe up a rapid the craft narrowly escaped capsizing, and spilled out a large tin that contained twenty-five pounds of corn meal and ten pounds of rice--their entire stock. what was worse, the cover came off, and the precious contents disappeared in the water. about fifteen pounds of graham flour and five pounds of oatmeal were all the breadstuffs they had left now, and they had to use it most sparingly. but they were well within the region where horace thought that the diamond-beds must lie. on the map it had seemed a small area; but now they realized that it was a huge stretch of tangled wilderness, where a dozen diamond-beds might defy discovery. even horace, the veteran prospector, admitted that they had a big job before them. "however, we'll find the blue clay if it's on the surface--and the supplies hold out," he said, with determination. the next morning each of the boys went out in a different direction. late in the afternoon they came back, one by one, tired and fly-bitten, and each with the same failure to report. the ground was much as they had found it before, covered with rock and gravel in rolling ridges. nowhere had they found the blue clay. they spent two more days here, working hard from morning to night, with no success. the next day they again moved camp a day's journey upstream; that brought them into the heart of the district from which they had expected so much. the river was growing so narrow and so broken that it would be almost impossible for them to follow it farther by canoe. if they pushed on they would have to abandon their craft, and carry what supplies they could on their backs. but they intended to spend a week here. they set out on the diamond hunt again with fresh energy. a warm, soft drizzle was falling, which to some extent kept down the flies. horace came back to camp first; he had had no success. he was trying to find dry wood to rekindle the fire when he saw fred coming down the bank at a run. the boy's face was aglow. "look here, horace! what's this?" he asked, as he came up panting. in his hand he held a large, wet lump of greenish-blue, clayey mud. horace took it, poked into it, and turned it over. then he glanced sympathetically at his brother's face. "i'm afraid it isn't anything, old boy," he said. "only ordinary mud. the real blue clay is more of a gray blue, you know, and generally as hard as bricks." fred pitched the stuff into the river and said nothing, but his face showed his disappointment. he had carried that lump of clay for over four miles, in the conviction that he had discovered the diamond-bearing soil. macgregor came in shortly afterward with nothing more valuable than two ducks that he had shot. the boys were discouraged that evening. after the rain they could find little dry wood. it was nearly dark before fred began to stir up the usual pan of flapjacks, and "mac" set himself to the task of cutting up one of the ducks to fry. they were too much depressed to talk, and the camp was quiet, when suddenly a crackling tread sounded in the underbrush. "what's that?" cried horace sharply. and as he spoke, a man stepped out of the shadow, and advanced into the firelight. "_bo' soir_! hello!" he said, curtly. "hello! good evening!" cried fred and mac, much startled. "sit down. grub'll be ready in a minute," horace added. hospitality comes before everything else in the north. "had grub," answered the man; but he sat down on a log beside the fire, and surveyed the whole camp with keen, quick eyes. all the boys looked at him with much curiosity. he was apparently of middle age, with a tangled beard and black hair that straggled down almost to his shoulders. he wore moccasins, mackinaw trousers shiny with blood and grease, a buckskin jacket, and a flannel shirt. he was brown as any ojibwa, and he, carried a repeating rifle and had a belt of cartridges at his waist. "hunting?" he asked presently, with a nod at the deerskin that was hanging to dry. "now and again," said horace. "well, ye can't hunt here," said the man deliberately, after a pause. "don't ye know that this is a government forest reserve? no hunters allowed. ye'll have to be out of here by to-morrow." chapter xi the boys were thunderstruck at the stranger's assertion. they knew of several forest reserves in northern ontario where timber and game are closely protected, but they had never heard of one in this district. "i guess you're wrong," said horace. "there isn't any government reserve north of timagami." "made last fall," the stranger retorted. "i ought to know. i'm one of the rangers. we've got a camp up the river, and we've been here all winter to keep out hunters and lumbermen." horace looked at him closely, but said nothing. "prospecting's allowed, isn't it?" fred blurted out. "prospect all ye want to, but ye can't stake no claims." "where's the limit of this reserve?" asked mac. "ten miles down the river from here. ye'll have to be down below there by to-morrow night. or, if ye want to stay, ye'll have to give up your guns. no guns allowed here." "i suppose you've got papers to show your authority?" mac inquired. "'course i have. they 're back at camp. oh, ye'll get all ye want. why," pointing to the fresh hide, "ye killed that there deer out of season. ye've got the law agin ye for that." "it was for our own food. you can kill deer for necessary supplies." "not on this ground. now ye can do as ye like--give up your guns till ye 're ready to leave, or get out right away. i've warned ye." the "ranger" got up and glanced round threateningly. "if you can show us that you're really a government ranger, we'll go," horace said. "but i know the commissioner of crown lands; i saw him before we started, and i didn't hear of any new reserve being made. i don't believe in you or your reserve, and we'll stay where we are till you show us the proof of your authority." "i'll show you _this_!" exclaimed the man fiercely, slapping the barrel of his rifle. "you can't bluff us. we've got guns, too, if it comes to that!" cried fred. "i've give ye fair warning," repeated the man. "ye'll find it mighty hard to buck agin the gover'ment, and ye'll be sorry if ye try it. ye'll see me again." turning, he stepped into the shadows and was gone. the boys looked at one another. "what do you make of it?" peter asked. "is he a ranger--or a prospector?" "they don't hire that kind of man for government rangers," replied horace. "and i'm certain there's no forest reserve here. why, there's no timber worth preserving. he's a hunter or a prospector, and from his looks he's evidently been in the woods all winter, as he said. perhaps he belongs to a party of prospectors who found a good thing last fall, and got snowed in before they could get out." "hunters wouldn't be so anxious to drive us away," said fred. "they must be prospectors. suppose they've found the diamond fields!" they had all thought of that. there was a gloomy silence. "one thing's certain," said horace, "we must trail those fellows down, and see what sort of men they are and where they 're camped. we'll scout up the river to-morrow." they all felt nervous and uneasy that evening. they stayed up late, and when they went to bed they loaded their guns and laid them close at hand. but the night passed without any disturbance, and after breakfast they set out at once to trail the ranger. they followed the river for about four miles, to a point where the stream broke through the hills in a succession of cascades and rapids; but although they searched all the landscape with the field-glass from the top of the hills, they saw no sign of man. beyond the ridges, however, the river turned sharply into a wooded valley. they struggled through the undergrowth, found another curve in the river, rounded it--and then stepped hastily back into cover. about two hundred yards upstream stood a log hut on the shore, at the foot of a steep bluff. a wreath of smoke rose from its chimney, but no one was in sight. talking in low tones, the boys watched it for some time. then they made a dã©tour through the woods, and crept round to the top of the bluff. peering cautiously over the edge, they saw the cabin below them, not fifty yards away. it looked like a trappers' winter camp. it was built of spruce logs, chinked with mud and moss. a deep layer of scattered chips beside the remains of a log pile showed that the place had been used all winter. presently a man came out of the door, stretched himself lazily, and carried a block of wood into the cabin. it was not the man they had seen, but a slender, dark fellow, dressed in buckskin, who looked like a half-breed. in a moment he came out again, and this time the ranger came with him. there was a third man in the cabin, for they could hear some one speaking from inside the shack. for some moments the men stood talking; their voices were quite audible, but the boys could not make out what they were saying. the two men examined a pile of steel traps beside the door and a number of pelts that were drying on frames in the open air. "these aren't rangers. they're just ordinary trappers," mac whispered to horace. "they've certainly been trapping. but why do they want to run us out of the country?" in a few minutes both men went into the cabin, came out with rifles, and started down the river-bank. "they may be going down to our camp," horace said, "and we must be there to meet them. we'd better hurry back." the boys started at as fast a pace as the rough ground would allow. owing to dense thickets, swamps, and piled boulders, they could not make much speed. in about twenty minutes fred heard a sound of falling water in front, and supposed that they were approaching the river. he was mistaken. within a few yards they came upon a tiny lake fed by a creek at one end and closed at the other by a pile of logs and brush. curious heaps of mud and sticks showed here and there above the water. horace uttered an exclamation. "a beaver pond!" he cried. "that explains it all." in a moment the same thought flashed over fred and macgregor. the killing of beaver is entirely prohibited in ontario; but in spite of that, a good deal of illicit trapping goes on in the remote districts, and the poachers usually carry their pelts across the line into the province of quebec, where they can sell the fur. naturally, the trappers had resented the appearance of the three boys in the vicinity of the beaver pond; the men had no wish to have their illegal trapping discovered. it was the first beaver pond the boys had ever met with, and in spite of their hurry they stopped to look at it. they came upon two or three traps skillfully set under water, and one of them contained a beaver, sleek and drowned, held under the surface. apparently the men intended to clean out the pond, for the season was already late for fur. after a few minutes the boys hurried on. they met no one on the way, and they found everything undisturbed in camp; they kept a sharp lookout all day, but no one came near them. on the whole, they felt considerably relieved by the result of their scouting. the lawbreakers had no right to order them off the ground. for their own part, the boys felt under no obligation to interfere with the beaver trappers. "if we meet any of them again, we'll let them know plainly that we know how things stand," said mac. "we'll let them alone if they let us alone, and i don't think there'll be any more trouble." it rained hard that evening--a warm, steady downpour that lasted almost until morning. the tent leaked, and the boys passed a wretched night. but day came pleasant and warm, with a moist, springlike air; the leaves had unfolded in the night. the warmth brought out the flies in increased numbers. they smeared their skins with a fresh application of "fly dope," and with little thought for the fur poachers, started out again to prospect. all that day and the next they worked hard; they saw nothing of the trappers, and found nothing even remotely resembling blue clay. the condition of their footwear had begun to worry them. the rough usage was beginning to tell heavily on their boots, which were already ripping, and which had begun to wear through the soles; they would hardly hold together for another fortnight. but the boys bound them up and patched them with strips of the deerskin, and kept hard at work. in the course of the next two days they thoroughly examined all the country within five miles of their present camp. on the evening of the second day they finished the last of the oatmeal, and horace examined the remaining supply of graham flour with anxiety. "just about enough to get home on, boys," he said, looking dubiously at his companions. "but we're not going home!" cried mac. "the flour and beans'll be gone in another week, and we're a long way from civilization. can we live on meat alone, mac?" "pretty sure to come down with dysentery if we do--for any length of time," admitted the medical student reluctantly. there was silence round the fire. "we didn't start this expedition right," said horace, at last. "i should have planned it better. we ought to have come with two or three canoes and with twice as much grub, and we should have brought several pairs of boots apiece." he thrust out his foot; his bare skin showed through the ripped leather. "make moccasins," mac suggested. "they wouldn't stand the rough traveling for any time." "what do you think we ought to do, horace?" asked fred. "well, i hate to retreat as much as any one," said horace, after a pause. "but i know--better than either of you--the risk of losing our lives if we try to run it too fine on provisions. at the same time i do think that we oughtn't to give up till we've reached the head of this river. it's probably not more than ten or fifteen miles up." after some discussion they decided that macgregor and fred should make the journey to the head of the river, carrying provisions for three days; that would give them one day in which to prospect at the source. meanwhile, horace was to strike across country to the northwest, to the headwaters of the whitefish river, about fifteen miles away. the next morning, therefore, they carefully cached the canoe, the tent, and the heavy part of the outfit, and started. they were all to be back on the third evening at the latest, whether they found anything or not. fred and mac made a wide dã©tour to avoid the hut of the trappers. they had a hard day's tramp over the rough country, but reached their destination rather sooner than they expected. the river, shrunk to a rapid creek, ended in a tiny lake between two hills. the general surface of the country was the same as that which had already grown so monotonously familiar, except that there was rather more outcrop of bedrock. nowhere could they see anything that seemed to suggest the presence of blue clay, and although they spent the whole of the next twenty-four hours in making wide circles round the lake, they found nothing. the following morning they started back, depressed and miserable. if horace's trip should also prove fruitless, the chances of their finding the diamonds would be slim indeed. the smoke river made a wide turn to the west and north, and they concluded that a straight line by compass across the wilderness would save them several miles of travel, and would also give them a chance to see some fresh ground. they left the river, therefore, and struck a bee-line to the southeast. the new ground proved as unprofitable as the old, and somewhat rougher. the journey had been hard on shoe leather; fred was limping badly. late in the afternoon the boys stopped to rest on the top of a bare, rocky ridge, where the black flies were not so bad as in the valleys. they guessed that they were about four or five miles from camp. the sun shone level and warm from the west, and the boys sat in silence, tired and discouraged. "i'm afraid we're not going to make a million this trip, mac," said fred, at last. "no," peter replied soberly. "unless horace has struck something." "it's too big a country to look over inch by inch. if there really are any diamond-beds--" "oh, there must be some. horace found scattered stones last summer, you know. but of course the beds may be far underground. in south africa they often have to sink deep shafts to strike them." fred did not answer at once. he had taken out the field-glass that he carried, and was turning it aimlessly this way and that, when mac spoke suddenly:-"what's that moving in the ravine--see! about a hundred yards up, below the big cedar on the rock." "ground hog, likely," said fred, turning the glass toward the rocky gorge, through which ran a little stream that lay at the base of the ridge. "i don't see anything. oh--yes, now i've got 'em. one--two--three--four little animals. why, they're playing together like kittens! they look like young foxes, only they're far too dark-colored." mac suddenly snatched the glass. but fred, now that he knew where to look, could see the moving black specks with his unaided eye. just behind them was a dark opening that might be the mouth of a den. "they are foxes!" said mac. "it's a family of fox cubs. you're right. and--and--why, man, they're black--every one of them!" he lowered the glass, almost dropping it in his excitement, and stared at his companion. "fred, it's a den of black foxes!" chapter xii "black foxes!" cried fred. "mac, give me the glass!" "black, all right," macgregor said. "four of them, black as jet. see the fur shine! i can't see the old ones. there, i believe i saw something move just inside the burrow! anyhow, all the cubs are going in." he handed the glass to fred, who raised it to his eyes just in time to see the black, bushy tail of the last cub disappear into the hole. "black foxes!" he said, in an awed whisper. "four of them! why, mac, they're worth a fortune, aren't they?" "and probably two old ones," said the medical student. "a fortune? rather! why, in london a good black fox pelt sometimes brings two or three thousand dollars. the traders here pay only a few hundreds, but if i had a couple of good skins i'd take them over to london myself." "but we haven't got them. and we've no traps." "one of us might watch here with the rifle for the old ones. i could hit a fox from here, but the bullet would tear the skin awfully." "yes, and it's too late in the spring now for the fur to be any good, i'm afraid," said fred. "not first-class, that's a fact," mac admitted sadly. "but what can we do? we can't wait here all summer for the cubs to grow up." "let's go down and take a look at the den," fred proposed. "better not. if the old foxes get suspicious they'll move the den and we'll never find it again. i think we'd best go quietly away. this is too big a thing for us to take chances on." they took careful note of the spot before they left, and in order to make assurance doubly sure, mac blazed a tree every ten paces or so until they struck the river again. they had followed the river downward for about two miles when they saw the smoke rising from their camping-ground. hurrying up, they found that horace had come in already. he had brought out the supplies and was frying bacon. "what luck?" cried fred, forgetting the foxes for a moment in his anxiety to hear the result of horace's trip. "none," said horace curtly. he looked tired, dirty, and discouraged. "i went clear to the whitefish--nothing doing. but what are you fellows grinning about? what did you find at the head of the river? you haven't--it isn't possible that you've hit it!" "no, not diamonds," said mac. "but we 've found something valuable." and he told of their discovery of the black foxes. "but the problem is how to get them," he finished. "the only way i can see is to shoot them at long range." "shoot them! are you crazy?" exclaimed horace, who was even more stirred by the news than they had expected. "never! catch 'em alive! they're worth their weight in gold." "alive! i never thought of that!" exclaimed fred. "why, their fur is no good now. besides, suppose you did get a wretched thousand dollars or so for the pelts--what's that? why, down in prince edward island a pair of live black foxes for breeding was sold for $45,000." "gracious!" gasped fred. "down there every one is wild about breeding fur. a big syndicate has a ranch that's guarded with watchmen and burglar alarms like a bank. their great trouble is to get the breeding stock, and they'll pay almost any price for live, uninjured black foxes. if we could manage to catch this pair of old ones and the four cubs without hurting them, they ought to bring--i'd be afraid to guess how much! maybe a hundred thousand dollars! kill them? why, you'd kill a goose that laid golden eggs!" "that's right! i've heard of those fox ranches, of course," said mac, "but i didn't think of them at the moment. a hundred thousand dollars! but how on earth can we catch them? we might dig the cubs out of their den, but we couldn't get the old ones that way. if we only had a few traps!" "why, there's that trap i found in the woods!" exclaimed fred suddenly. they had all forgotten it; they had dropped the trap into the dunnage, and had not seen or thought of it since. now, however, they eagerly rummaged it out, and examined it critically. it was badly rusted, but not broken. mac knocked off the dirt and rust scales, rubbed it thoroughly with grease, and set it. when he touched the pan with a stick the jaws snapped. the springs were a little stiff, but after they had been worked several times and well greased, the trap seemed to be almost as good as new. "we should have three or four of them," said peter. "having only one trap gives us a slim chance. but suppose we do get them, what then?" "why, we'll have to have some sort of cage ready in which to carry them; then we'll make all the speed we can back to toronto," replied horace. "and give up the diamond hunt?" cried mac, in disappointment. "what else can we do, anyhow?" replied horace. "the flour is almost gone and we're almost barefoot. and see here, boys," he went on, earnestly, "i hate to admit it, but i'm afraid my calculations were wrong on these diamond-beds. i thought it all out while i was coming home from whitefish river. somewhere up here in the north there must be a place where those diamonds came from--but i'm beginning to believe it isn't in this part of the country. you see, the geological formation is all different from the kind where diamond matrix is ever found. those stones i picked up may have been traveling for a thousand years down one creek and another. they may have come down in the glacial drift. i was altogether too hasty, i see now, in assuming that they originated in one of the rivers where i found them. "they may have come from a river a hundred miles away. or perhaps from deep underground. we should have made a study of the geological structure of this whole north country, the direction of the glacial drift, and everything. then we should have come in here prepared to travel a thousand miles and stay all summer, or for two summers, if necessary." "hanged if i'll give it up," said mac stubbornly. "however," he added, "we must certainly try to catch these black diamonds, and we can keep on prospecting at the same time." they uncached their outfit, pitched the tent again, and prepared supper; meanwhile they talked of the foxes until they reached a high pitch of enthusiasm. even mac admitted that the black foxes bade fair to be as profitable as a small diamond-bed would be. as for fred, it was almost with relief that he let the diamond hunt take second place in his mind. the continual strain of labor and failure had robbed the search for the blue clay of much of its fascination. early the next morning they paddled up the river to the point where mac's blazed trail came down to the shore, and set out to reconnoiter the den. after half an hour's tramping across the woods they reached the rocky ridge; through the field-glass they scrutinized the lair, which was about two hundred yards away. not a hair of a fox was in sight, but the burrow looked as if it could be opened with spade and pick. horace thought they ought to do that first of all; in that way they could capture the cubs before there was any possible danger of the old foxes' moving the den. on their way back to camp, mac stopped at a marshy pool and cut a great armful of willow withes. "it's lucky that i once used to watch an old willow worker making baskets and chairs," he said. "i'll see if i've forgotten the trick of it. we've got to make a cage, for we'll need one the instant we capture one of those cubs." he made a strong framework of birch, with bars as thick as his wrist, which he notched together, and lashed with deer-hide. then he had the framework of a box about three feet long, two feet wide, and two feet deep, through which he now began to weave the tough, pliable withes. he did not altogether remember the trick of it, and he had to stop frequently to plan it out. he worked all that afternoon, and continued his labor by firelight. he did not finish the cage until the middle of the next forenoon. it was rough-looking, but light, and nearly as strong as an iron trunk, and had a door in the top. all that remained for them to do now was to catch the game. they ate a hasty luncheon, and carrying the cage, the trap, the axe, the spade and pick, two blankets, and the guns, started back along mac's blazed trail. so great was their eager hurry that they stumbled over roots and stones. clambering down the ravine, they cautiously approached the foxes' den. the opening to the burrow was a triangular hole between two flat rocks. from it came a faint odor of putrid flesh. the ground in front was strewn with muskrat tails, small bones, and the beaks and feet of partridges and ducks. from the rocks fred picked off two or three black hairs. the boys looked into the dark hole and listened intently. they could not hear a sound, but they knew that the cubs, at any rate, must be within. mac cut a sapling, trimmed it down and sharpened one end of it; with that as a lever the boys loosened the rocks at the entrance of the burrow, and rolled them aside. the burrow ran backward and downward into the ground, but there seemed to be nothing in their way now except earth, gravel, and roots. horace picked up the spade and began to dig; occasionally he had to stop to cut a tree root or pick out a rock. meanwhile, peter and fred stood close behind him, ready to stuff the blankets into the hole in case the occupants should try to bolt. they uncovered the burrow for about four feet; then they had to dislodge another rather large stone. there seemed to be a large, dark cavity down behind it. when they stopped to listen, they could hear a slight sound of movement in the darkness, and a faint squeaking. "they're there," said horace; "not a yard away. now who's going to reach in and pull 'em out?" macgregor volunteered at once; he crept up to the hole and cautiously thrust in his arm. there was a sound of scrambling inside and a sharp squeal. mac, with a strained expression on his face, groped about with his hand inside the hole. when he withdrew his arm, there was blood on his hand, but he held by the neck a little jet-black animal with a bushy tail, as large as a kitten. "open the cage--quick!" he cried. fred held the door up, and mac dropped the cub in. for a moment the animal rushed from side to side, and then crouched trembling in a corner. "nipped me on the thumb," said mac, examining his hand. "they've got teeth like needles. but the old one doesn't seem to be there now, and i can easily get the rest." he fished the second out without being bitten, and caged it safely. but his hold on the third cub could not have been very secure, for the little creature managed by struggling frantically to squirm out of his hand. it turned over in the air, landed on its four feet, and darted swiftly away. the boys shouted in dismay. fred flung himself sprawling upon the cub; but it evaded him like lightning, and bolted into the undergrowth. it would have been useless to pursue it. the boys were greatly chagrined. "it was my fault," said peter, in disgust. "but it can't be helped now, and there's another to come out." he had trouble in getting hold of the last of the cubs. twice he winced with pain as the animal bit him, but at last he hauled it into view. it was a little larger than the others; it scratched and bit like a fury, and nearly broke away before they got it into the cage. the boys gathered round and gloated over their prizes. with their glossy jet coats, bushy tails, prick-eared faces, and comical air of intense intelligence, the cubs were beautiful little creatures; but they were all in a desperate panic, and huddled together in the farthest corner of the cage. "if we can only get them home in good condition they should be worth fifteen thousand," said horace. "but i'm much afraid they won't live unless we can get the mother to travel with them. but now that we have the cubs it should be rather easy to catch her, and maybe the father, too." they set the cage back into the hollow made by the ruined burrow, and laid spruce branches over it so that it was well hidden. then they wrapped the jaws of the trap with strips of cloth so that they would not cut the fox's skin, and set it directly in front of the cage. finally they scattered dead leaves over the trap. the cubs themselves would act as bait. "a fox never deserts her young," horace said. "she's sure to come back to-night, probably along with her mate, to carry off the cubs, and we've a good chance to catch one or both of them." it seemed dangerous to go away and leave that precious cageful of little foxes at the mercy, perhaps, of the beaver trappers; perhaps prowling lynxes or wolves. however, the boys had to take the risk. as to the trappers, they had seen nothing of them for so long that they had little fear of them. they went back to camp and tried to pass the time; but they could talk of nothing except black foxes. fred conceived the idea of using their stock to start a breeding establishment of their own, and macgregor was elaborating the plan, when suddenly he stopped with a frown. "is it so certain that the parents of those cubs are black?" he asked. "i've heard that black foxes are an accident, a sport, and that the mother or father is very often red." "that's something that naturalists have never settled," replied horace. "some think that the black fox is a distinct strain, others that it's merely a 'sport,' as you say. however, when all the cubs in the litter are pure black, i think it's safe to assume that the parents are black also." it was scarcely daylight the next morning before the boys were hurrying along the blazed trail again. shaking with suppressed excitement, they approached the ravine of the foxes. when they came in sight of the den and the cage their anticipation was succeeded by bitter disappointment. the trap was undisturbed. nothing had been caught. the cubs were still in the cage, as frightened as ever. but they found that one at least of the old foxes had visited the place, for the dry leaves were disturbed; there were marks of sharp teeth on the willows of the cage, and inside the cage were the tails of a couple of wood mice. unable to get her cubs out of the cage, the mother had brought them food. it seemed too bad to take advantage of her mother love, but as horace remarked, all they desired was to restore her to her family; once on the fox ranch, she would be treated like a queen. they put the cage farther back and piled rocks round it, so that it could be approached only by one narrow path. in the path they placed the trap, and again covered it carefully with leaves. the cubs had to be left for another night, and the boys had another hard day of waiting. none of them had the heart to try to prospect. macgregor went after ducks with the shotgun; the others lounged about, and killed time as best they could. they all went to bed early, and before sunrise again started for the den. it was fully light when they came to the hill over the ravine, and as they sighted the den, a cry of excitement broke from all three of them at once. from where they stood they could see the cage, and the crouching form of a black animal beside it, evidently in the trap. and over the beast with the dark fur stood a man in a buckskin jacket, with a club raised to strike. chapter xiii fred and mac, who were carrying the guns, fired wildly at the man at the trap; they took no aim, for their only purpose was to startle him and to keep him from killing the fox. when the shots rang out, the man straightened up, saw the boys rushing down the hill toward him, and dropped his club. stepping back, he picked up his rifle, and as they dashed up, held it ready to shoot. fred gave a whoop when he saw that the animal in the trap was really a black fox; moreover, it was the mother fox. her black coat was glossy and spotless. horace turned to the man. "let that fox alone!" he cried. "that's our fox!" "yours? it's my fox!" retorted the man angrily. "why, that's my trap!" "i don't believe it; we found it in the woods. anyway, you can have the trap if you like, but the fox is certainly ours. we've been after her for some time." "me and my pardners have been after this fox all winter," declared the trapper. "now that we've got her we 're going to keep her--you can bet on that." he made a movement toward the fox. "none of that!" cried mac, sharply, and snapped a fresh cartridge into the rifle chamber. "you would, would you?" cried the trapper, and instantly covered peter with his gun. fred had reloaded the shotgun, and he covered the man in his turn. so for a moment they all stood at a deadlock. "put down your guns!" said horace. "a fox pelt isn't worth killing a man for, and this pelt's no good, anyway. it's too late in the season. we're going to take this fox away with us alive. stick to your beavers, for you can't steal this animal from us--and you can bet on that!" he added, with great emphasis. "you might shoot one of us, but you'd have a hole in you the next minute," said mac. "you'd better drop it, now, and get out!" the trapper glared at them with a face as savage as a wildcat's. for a second fred really expected him to shoot. then, with a muttered curse, the man lowered his gun. "you pups won't bark so loud when i come back!" he snarled. then he turned, and started away at a rapid pace. "bluffed!" fred exclaimed, trembling now that the strain was over. "he's gone for the rest of his gang!" mac cried. "quick, we've got to get out of here!" "yes, and far away, too," said horace, "now that we've caught the mother fox. we should never have got the male, anyway. let's get this beauty into her box." the black fox was indeed a beauty, but there was no time to admire her. snarling viciously, she laid back her ears and showed her white teeth. her hind leg was in the trap, but did not appear to have been injured by the padded jaws. horace cut two strong forked sticks, with which the boys pinned her down by the neck and hips. fred opened the jaws of the trap; mac picked the fox up firmly by the back of her neck, and in spite of her frantic struggles, thrust her into the cage. horace and mac then seized the box, one at either end, and started toward the river; fred carried the guns and kept a sharp lookout in front. the cage of foxes was not heavy, but it was so clumsy that the boys had hard work carrying it over the rough ground. after stumbling for a few rods, they cut a long pole and slipped it through the handles in the ends of the cage. after that they made somewhat better progress, although even then they could not travel at a very rapid pace. "if those fellows have a canoe," panted mac, "they'll be down the river before we can get to camp!" "you may be sure they'll do their best," said horace. "these foxes are probably worth ten times their winter catch. we'll have to break camp instantly and make for home as fast as we can." they went plunging along through the thickets, and up and down the rocky hills; it was well that the cage was strong. after more than an hour of this arduous tramping they heard the rush of the river. "we'd best scout a little way ahead before we go any farther," horace declared. they set down the cage, crept forward to the river and reconnoitered the bank. their canoe was where they had left it, concealed behind a cedar thicket, and no other canoe was in sight up or down the river. horace swept the shore with the field-glass. "nothing in sight," he reported. "we may have time to pack our outfit and get off, after all. possibly those fellows haven't a canoe." they quickly launched the canoe, and put the cage of black foxes amidships; fred sat behind it in order to hold it steady. horace took the stern paddle, and peter the bow. the river ran swift and rather shallow, but there were no dangerous rapids between them and camp. they swept down the current, and in a few minutes the tent came in sight. horace took up the glass again, but he could see no sign of the trappers. they paddled on, intending to land at their usual place, but when they were scarcely twenty yards from the tent, fred uttered a suppressed cry. "look! a canoe--lower down!" he spoke barely loud enough for his brother to hear him. he had caught a glimpse of the bow of a birch canoe, which was thrust back almost out of sight behind a willow clump below the campground. "run straight past!" horace commanded, instantly. "dig in your paddle, mac!" the canoe shot forward, and at doubled speed swept by the tent. as they passed it a man rose from behind a thicket and yelled hoarsely:-"stop, there! halt!" _bang!_ went a rifle somewhere behind them, and then the rapid _crack! crack! crack!_ of more than one repeater. a bullet clipped through the sides of the canoe, fortunately well above the water-line. another glanced from a rock, and hummed past them. as the boys whirled by the ambushed birch canoe, fred snatched up the shotgun, and sent two loads of buckshot tearing through its sides. "that'll cripple them for a while!" he cried. _bang!_ a better-aimed bullet dashed the steering paddle from horace's hands. the canoe swerved, and heeled in the current. horace snatched the extra paddle that lay in the stern, and brought the craft round just in time to prevent it from upsetting. as the paddle that had been hit floated past, fred picked it up; it had a round hole through the handle. the canoe was a hundred yards from the tent now, and was going so fast that it offered no easy target to the men behind, who, however, still continued to shoot. another bullet nicked the stern. glancing over his shoulder, fred saw the three trappers running down the shore, and firing as they ran. but in another moment the canoe swept round a bend in the river, and was screened from the trappers by the wooded shore. "keep it up! make all the speed you can!" cried horace. down the fast current they shot like an arrow. as they went round another curve, they heard the roar of rushing water ahead; a short but turbulent rapid confronted them. there the river, foaming and surging, dashed down over the black rocks; the shore was rough and covered with dense thickets. the boys remembered the hard work they had had making a portage here on the way up; but there was no time to make a portage now. "down we go! look sharp for her bow, mac!" horace sang out. the rush of the rapid seemed to snatch up the canoe like a leaf. fred caught his breath; the pit of his stomach seemed to sink. there was a deafening roar all around him, a chaos of white water, flying spray, and sharp rocks that sprang up and flashed behind. then, before he had recovered his breath, they shot out into the smooth river below. six inches of water was slopping in the bottom of the canoe, but they ran on without stopping to bale it out. for over half a mile the smooth, swift current lasted; then came another rapid. it was longer and more dangerous than the other, and the boys carried the canoe and the foxes round it. they would not risk spilling the precious cage, and for the present they thought that they had outrun their pursuers. for another mile or two they descended the river, until they came to another carry. they made the portage, and stopped at the bottom to discuss their situation and make their plans. they had escaped the trappers, indeed, and they had the foxes; but except the canoe, a blanket, the guns, and the light axe that mac had at his belt, they had nothing else. "i guess this settles our prospecting, boys," said horace. "what are we to do now? shall we go on, or--" "or what?" fred asked, as his brother stopped. "i hardly know. but here we are, without supplies, and at least a hundred and fifty miles from any place where we can get them. we all know what a hard road it is, and going back it'll be up-stream all the way, after we leave this river." "do we have to go back the way we came?" "well, instead of turning up the missanabie river when we come to it, we might go straight down it to moose factory, the hudson bay company's post at the mouth; but if we did that, these foxes would never live till we got back to toronto. it would be too long and hard a trip for them." "that settles it. we don't go that way," said mac. "surely we can get home in ten or twelve days the way we came, and we ought to be able to kill enough to live on during that time." "how many cartridges have we?" asked horace dubiously. macgregor had nineteen cartridges in his belt, and there were six more in the magazine of the rifle. fred had only ten shells in his pockets, and the shotgun was empty. they had left the fishing tackle at camp, but luckily they had plenty of matches. "if we can get a deer within the next day or so, or even a few ducks or partridges, we may make it," said horace. "but i've noticed that game is always scarce when you need it most. now if we turned back and tried to recover our outfit, we should certainly have to fight the trappers, and probably we'd be worsted, for they outmatch us in weapons. one of us might be killed, and we'd be almost certain to lose the foxes." "trade these foxes for some flour and bacon? i'd starve first!" said fred. "so would i!" cried macgregor. "but we won't starve. we didn't starve last winter, when we hadn't a match or a grain of powder, and when the mercury was below zero most of the time, too." "well, we'll go on, if you say so," said horace. "it's a mighty dangerous trip, but i don't see what else we can do." "forward it is, then!" cried fred. "and hang the risk!" exclaimed mac, springing up to push the canoe into the water. "do you think those men will really follow us, horace?" asked fred. "sure to," replied his brother. "it'll take them a few hours to patch up their canoe, but they 're probably better canoemen than we are, and we'll have to work mighty hard to keep ahead of them." fred was more optimistic. "they'll have to work mighty hard to keep up with us," he said, as they launched the canoe. going down the river was very different from coming up it. the current ran so swiftly that the boys could not add much to their speed by paddling; all they had to do was to steer the craft. the water was so high that they could run most of the rapids, and stretches that they had formerly toiled up with tumpline or tracking-line they now covered with the speed of a bullet. toward noon fred became intolerably hungry; but neither of the others spoke of eating, and he did not mention his hunger. mac, in the bow, put the shotgun where he could easily reach it, and scanned the shores for game as closely as he could; but no game showed itself. they traveled all day without seeing anything except now and then a few ducks, which always took wing while still far out of range. at last they came to "buck rapids," where they had shot the deer. the river there was one succession of rapids, most of which were too dangerous to run through. it was the place where, on the way up, they had made only four miles in a whole day; and they did not cover more than ten miles this afternoon. when they came to the long, narrow lake on the lower reaches of the river, the sun was setting. they were all pretty much exhausted with the toil and excitement of the day. "i vote we stop here," said mac. "there'll be a moon toward midnight, and we can go on then. we ought to get some sleep." "i'm too hungry to sleep," said fred. "well, so am i," mac admitted. "but we can rest, anyway." so they drew up the canoe and lighted a fire, partly from force of habit and partly to drive away the mosquitoes. they carefully lifted the fox cage ashore. "we've nothing for them to eat," horace said anxiously, "but they ought to have water, at any rate." the difficulty was that they had nothing to put water into. mac made a sort of cup from an old envelope, and filled it with water, but the animals shrank away and would not touch it. feeling sure, however, that they must be thirsty, the boys carried the cage to the river, and set one end of it into the shallow water. for a few minutes the mother fox was shy, but presently she drank eagerly; then the cubs dipped their sharp noses into the water. the boys spread their only blanket on a few hemlock boughs and lay down. although they were so thoroughly tired, none of them could sleep. fred's stomach was gnawed by hunger; he was still much excited, and in the rush of the river he fancied every minute or two that he heard the trappers approaching. they lay there for some time, talking at intervals, and at last mac got up restlessly. he threw fresh wood on the fire, in order to make a bright blaze; then from an old pine log close by he began to cut a number of resinous splinters. when he had collected a large handful of them, he went down to the canoe, and tried to fix them in the ring in the bow of the craft. "what in the world are you doing?" asked fred, who had got up to see what peter was about. peter hammered the bundle of splinters home. "if we don't get meat in twelve hours we won't be able to travel fast--can't keep up steam," he said. "there's only one way to shoot game at night, and that's--" "jack light," said horace, who recognized the device. "it's a regular pot-hunter's trick, but pot-hunters we are, and no mistake about that. i only hope it works." chapter xiv here where deer were plentiful and hunters scarce, mac's jack light should prove effective. sportsmen and the law have quite properly united in condemning killing deer by jack light; but the boys felt that their need of food justified their course. after adjusting the torch, mac cut a birch sapling about eight feet long, and trimmed off the twigs. bending it into a semicircle, he fitted the curve into the bottom of the canoe, close to the bow; then he hung the blanket by its corners upon the projecting tips of the sapling, and thus screened the bow from the rest of the canoe. as it had already become dark, and the shores were now black with the indistinct shadows of the spruces, fred and horace set the canoe gently into the water. when it was afloat, mac lighted the pine splinters, which crackled and flared up like a torch. "you'd make a better game poacher than i, horace," he said. "you take the rifle, and i'll paddle." horace accordingly placed himself just behind the blanket screen, with the weapon on his knees. mac sat in the stern, and fred, who did not want to be left behind, seated himself amidships. "keep a sharp lookout, both of you," mac said. "watch for the light on their eyes, like two balls of fire." the canoe, keeping about thirty yards from shore, glided silently down the long lake. the "fat" pine flamed smoky and red, and it cast long, wavering reflections on the water. once an animal, probably a muskrat, startled them by diving noisily. a duck, sleeping on the water, rose with a frantic splutter and flurry of wings. then, fifty yards farther, there was a sudden splash near the shore, then a crashing in the bushes, and a dying thump-thump in the distance. horace swung his rifle round, but he was too late. the deer had not stopped to stare at the light for an instant. a jack light ought to have a reflector, but the boys had no means of contriving one. unspeakably disappointed, they moved slowly on again. they started no more game, and at last reached the lower end of the lake. here mac stopped to renew the torch, which had almost burned out. then they turned up the other side of the lake, on the home stretch. no living thing except themselves seemed to be on the water that night. the shore shoaled far out. once the keel scraped over a bottom of soft mud. lilies grew along the shore, and sometimes extended out so far that the canoe brushed the half-grown pads. suddenly fred felt the canoe swerve slightly, and head toward the land. horace raised the rifle. fred had seen nothing, but after straining his eyes ahead, he made out two faint spots of light in the darkness, at about the height of a man's head. could it be a deer? the balls of light remained perfectly motionless. without a splash the canoe glided closer. fred thought that he could make out the outline of the animal's head, and clenched his hands in anxiety. why did not horace shoot? suddenly a blinding flash blazed out from the rifle, and the report crashed across the water. there was a splash, followed immediately by a noise of violent thrashing in the water near the land. fred and mac shouted together. with great paddle strokes, mac drove the canoe forward, and at last horace leaped out. the others followed him. the deer was down, struggling in the water. it was dead before they reached it. horace's bullet had broken its neck. "hurrah!" fred cried. "this makes us safe. this'll last us all the way home." it was a fine young buck--so heavy that they had hard work to lift it into the canoe. far up the lake they could see their camp-fire, and they paddled toward it with the haste of half-starved men. without stopping to cut up the animal, they skinned one haunch and cut off slices, which they set to broil over the coals. a delicious odor rose; the boys did not even wait until the meat had cooked thoroughly. they had no salt, but the venison, unseasoned as it was, seemed delicious. the food gave them all more cheerfulness and energy. the prospect of a hard ten days' journey did not look so bad now. at any rate, they would not starve. "i wonder if the foxes would eat it. they ought to have something," said fred, and he dropped some scraps of the raw venison into the cage. as he stooped to peer more closely at the animals, he made a startling discovery. during their absence on the hunt, the mother fox had been gnawing vigorously at the willow cage, particularly at the rawhide lashings that bound the framework together. she had loosened one corner, and if she had been left alone for another hour, she might have escaped with her cubs. it gave the boys a bad fright. mac refastened the lashings with strips of deer-hide, and strengthened the cage with more willow withes. but the boys realized that in the future one of them would have to stand guard over the cage at night. the foxes refused to touch the raw meat. "i didn't expect them to eat for the first day or two," said horace. "don't worry. they'll eat in time, when they get really hungry." "let's get this buck cut up," said mac. "it'll soon be moonrise, and we must be moving." in order to get more light for their work, they piled pitch pine on the fire; then they hung the deer on a tree, and began the disagreeable task of skinning and dressing the animal. when they had finished, they had a good deerskin and nearly two hundred pounds of fresh meat. they would gladly have slept now, but the sky was brightening in the east with the rising moon, and there was no time for rest. no doubt the trappers were on their trail, somewhere behind them. hastily the boys loaded the foxes and the venison into the canoe, and as soon as the moon showed above the trees paddled down the lake. they soon found that the moonlight was not bright enough to enable them to run rapids safely, and they consequently had to make frequent carries. between the rapids they shot swiftly down the current, but the river was so broken that they made no great progress that night. northern summer nights are short, and soon after two o'clock the sky began to lighten. by three o'clock the boys could see well, and they went on faster, shooting all except the worst stretches of rough water. shortly after six o'clock they came out from the smoke river into the missanabie. "stop for breakfast?" asked mac. "not here," said horace. "we must be careful not to mark our trail, especially at this point. they won't know for sure whether we turned up the missanabie or down, and they may make a mistake and lose a lot of time. a canoe doesn't leave any track, and we mustn't land until we have to." now the hard work of "bucking the river" began again. the missanabie had lowered somewhat since the boys had come down it, but it still ran so strong that they could not make much progress by paddling. their canoe poles were far back on the smoke river, and they did not dare to land in order to cut others, for in doing so they would mark their trail. straining hard at every stroke, they dug their paddles into the water; but they made slow work of it. the least carelessness on their part would cause them to lose in one minute as much as they had gained in ten. a stretch of slacker water gave them some respite; but then came a long, tumbling, rock-strewn rapid. "we'll have to portage here," said mac. "it'll be a long carry," horace said. "we'd lose a good deal of time over it. i think we can track her up." mac and horace carried the cage of foxes along the shore to the head of the broken water, and fred carried up the guns. returning to the foot of the rapid, they prepared to haul the canoe against the stream. luckily the tracking-line had always been kept in the canoe. horace tied it to the ring in the bow, took the end of the rope and, bracing himself firmly, waded into the water; macgregor and fred, on either side, held the craft steady. the bed of the river was very irregular. sometimes the water was no more than knee-deep; sometimes it reached their hips. the water was icy cold, and the rush and roar of the current were bewildering. once mac lost his footing, but he clung to the canoe and recovered himself. then, when halfway up the rapid, horace stepped on an unsteady stone and plunged down, face forward, into the roaring water. as the towline slackened, the canoe swung round with a jerk against macgregor, and upset him. fred tried to hold it upright, but the unstable craft went over like a shot. out went the venison and everything else that was in her. fred made a desperate clutch at the stern of the canoe, caught it and held on. as the canoe shot down the rapid, he trailed out like a streamer behind it. he heard a faint, smothered yell:-"the venison! save the meat!" almost before he knew it, fred, half choked, still clinging to the canoe, drifted into the tail of the rapid. he found bottom there, for the water was not deep, and managed to right the canoe. by that time macgregor had got to his feet, and was coming down the shore to help fred. they were both dripping and chilled; but they got into the canoe, and poling with two sticks, set out to rescue what they could. they must, above everything else, recover the venison, but they could see no sign of it. some distance down the stream they found both paddles afloat, and they worked the canoe up and down below the rapid. on a jutting rock they found the deerskin. finally they came upon one of the hindquarters floating sluggishly almost under water. they rescued it joyfully; but although they searched for a long time, they found no more of the meat. they had left the axe in the canoe, and it was now somewhere at the bottom of the river. they could better have spared one of the guns, but they were thankful that their loss had been no greater. "if we had left the foxes in the canoe," said fred, "they'd have been drowned, sure!" horace had waded ashore, and now had a brisk fire going. fred and macgregor joined him, and the three boys stood shivering by the blaze, with their wet clothes steaming. "we're well out of it," said horace, with chattering teeth. "the worst is the loss of the axe. it won't be easy to make fires from now on." once more the problem of supplies loomed dark before the boys. they had nothing now except the haunch of venison, which weighed perhaps twenty-five pounds; unless they could pick up more game, that would have to last them until they reached civilization. however, they were fairly confident that they could find game soon, and meanwhile they could put themselves on rations. "we've marked our trail all right now," said mac. "these tracks and this fire will give it away. we may as well portage, after all." their clothing was far from dry, but they were afraid to delay longer. none of them felt like trying to wade up the rapid again, and so they carried the canoe round it. at the head of the portage they cut several strong poles to use in places where they could not paddle. they soon found that without the poles they could hardly have made any progress at all; and even with them they moved very slowly. about noon they landed, broiled and ate a small piece of venison, and after a brief rest set out on their journey again. by five o'clock they were all dead tired, wet, and chilled, and mac and fred were ready to stop. horace, however, urged them to push on. he felt that perhaps the beaver trappers were not many miles behind. after another day or two, he said, they could take things more easily, but now they ought to hurry on at top speed. just before they were ready to land in order to make camp, three ducks splashed from the water just in front of the canoe. fred managed to drop one of them with each barrel of the shot gun. thus the boys got their supper without having to draw on their supply of venison; but the roasted ducks proved almost as tough as rawhide and, without salt, extremely unpalatable. but they were all so hungry that they devoured the birds almost completely; they put the heads into the willow cage, but the foxes would not touch them. for three hours more they pushed on up the river, tired, silent, but determined. at last it began to grow dark. the boys had reached the limit of their endurance, for they had had no sleep the night before. they landed and built a fire. it was hard work to get enough wood without the axe, but fortunately the night was not cold. exhausted as the boys were, they knew that one of them would have to stand watch to see that the foxes did not gnaw their way out of the cage, and that the trappers did not attack the camp. they drew lots for it; macgregor selected the short straw and fred the long one, and they arranged that mac should take the watch for two hours, then horace, and lastly fred. the mosquitoes were bad, and there were no blankets, but fred seemed to go to sleep the moment he lay down on the earth. he did not hear horace and mac change guard at midnight, and it seemed to him that he had scarcely done more than close his eyes when some one shook him by the arm. "wake up! it's your turn to watch!" horace was saying. half dead with sleep, fred staggered to his feet. moonlight lay on the forest and river. "take the rifle," said horace. "there's not been a sign of anything stirring, but keep a sharp eye on the foxes." horace lay down beside mac and seemed to fall asleep at once. fred would have given black foxes and diamonds together to do likewise, but he walked up and down until he felt less drowsy. the foxes were not trying to get out, and he saw that they had gnawed the duck heads down to the bills. he sat down against a tree, close to the cage, with the loaded repeater across his knees. for some time the mosquitoes, as well as the responsibility of his position, kept him awake. every sound in the forest startled him; through the dash of the river he imagined that he heard the sound of paddles. but by degrees he grew indifferent to the mosquitoes, and his strained attention flagged. drowsiness crept upon him again; he was very tired. he found himself nodding, and roused himself with a shock of horror. he thought that he would go down to the river and dip his head into the water. he dozed while he was thinking of it--dozed and awoke, and dozed again. then after what seemed a moment's interval he was awakened by a harsh voice shouting:-"hands up! wake up, and surrender!" chapter xv half awake, fred made a blind snatch at the rifle that had been across his lap. it was gone. the sky was bright with dawn. ten feet away stood three men with leveled rifles. horace and mac were sitting up, holding their hands above their heads and looking dazed. "i said you pups wouldn't bark so loud next time," remarked one of the newcomers. it was the man that had pretended to be a ranger. with him was the slim, dark fellow whom they had seen outside the trappers' shack, and the third was a tall, elderly, bearded man, who looked more intelligent and more vicious than the others. none of the boys said anything, but horace gave fred a reproachful glance that almost broke his heart. it was his fault that this had happened, and he knew it. tears of rage and shame started to his eyes. he looked about desperately for a weapon. he would gladly risk his life to get his companions out of the awkward scrape into which his negligence had plunged them. but the ranger had taken the boys' rifle, and the half-breed had picked up the shotgun. with a grin of triumph the trappers went to the fox cage, peered at the animals, and talked eagerly in low voices. the boys watched them in suspense. were they going to kill the foxes? presently two of the men picked up the cage and carried it down to the river. the light was strong enough now so that fred could see the bow of a bark canoe drawn up on the shore. they put the cage into the canoe. then the half-breed laid his rifle and the stolen shotgun beside it, and paddled down the river. the other two men lifted the boys' peterboro into the water. "you aren't going to rob us of our firearms and our canoe, too, are you?" cried horace desperately. "you might as well murder us!" "guess you won't need the guns," said the third trapper. "you've got grub, i see, and we durstn't leave you any canoe to foller us up in." the two men pushed off the peterboro and followed the birch canoe down the river at a rapid pace. in two minutes they were out of sight round a bend. there was a dead silence. fred could not meet the eyes of his companions. he turned away, pretended to look for something, and fairly broke down. "brace up, fred!" said his brother. "it can't be helped, and we're not blaming you. it might have happened to any of us." "if you'd been awake you might have got shot," said mac, "and that would have been a good deal worse for every one concerned." but fred was inconsolable. through his tears, he stammered that he wished he had been shot. they had lost the foxes, they were stranded and destitute, and they stood a good chance of never getting out alive. "nonsense!" said mac, with forced cheerfulness. "we were in a far worse fix last winter, and we came out on top." "the first thing to do is to have some grub," added horace. "then we'll talk about it." looking with calculating eyes at the lump of meat, he cut the slices of venison very thin. there was about twenty pounds left. they roasted the meat he had cut off, and ate it; then horace unfolded his pocket map and spread it on the ground. they were probably forty miles from the height of land. it was twelve miles across the long carry, and at least forty more to the nearest inhabited point--almost a hundred miles in all. there was a chance, however, that they might meet some party of prospectors or indians. "it's terribly rough traveling afoot," said horace. "we could hardly make it in less than two weeks. besides, our shoes are nearly gone now." "and that piece of venison will never last us for two weeks!" cried macgregor. "oh, you can often knock down a partridge with a stick," said horace. "if we only had a canoe!" mac exclaimed, with a burst of rage. "i'd run those thieves down if i had to follow them to hudson bay!" they all agreed on that point, but it was useless to think of following them without a canoe. the boys would have all they could do to save their own lives; a hundred-mile journey on foot across that wilderness, without arms and with almost no provisions, was a desperate undertaking. "well, we've got no choice," said horace, after a dismal silence. "we must put ourselves on rations of about half a pound of meat a day, and we'll lay a bee-line course by the compass for the trail over the height of land." he marked the course on the map, and the boys studied it in silence. the sun had risen by this time, but the boys were not anxious to break camp and start on that journey which would perhaps prove fatal to all of them. they lingered, talking, discussing, hesitating, reluctant to make the start. fred had not contributed a single word to the discussion. he had barely managed to swallow a little breakfast, and was too miserable to join in the talk. he knew how slim their chances were; he imagined how the party would struggle on, growing weaker daily, until-if only they had a canoe! if only they could run the robbers down and ambush them in their turn! and as he puzzled on the problem, an idea--an inspiration--flashed into his mind. he bent over, and studied the map intently for a second. "look! look here!" he cried, wildly. "what fools we are! we can overtake those fellows--catch 'em--cut 'em off before they get anywhere--and get back our grub, and the foxes, and the canoe--everything--why--" "what's that? what do you mean?" cried horace and mac together. fred placed a trembling finger on the map. "see, this is where we are, isn't it? those thieves will go down here to the mouth of the smoke river, and turn up it to their camp. they didn't have much outfit with them; so they'll go back to their shanty. it's about fifty miles round by the way they'll go, but if we cut straight across country--this way--we'd strike the smoke in twenty-five miles, and be there before them." "i do believe you've hit something, fred!" mac exclaimed. in fact, the smoke and the missanabie rivers made the arms of an acute angle. between twenty and thirty miles straight to the northwest would bring them out on the former stream somewhere in the neighborhood of "buck rapids." "let's see!" calculated horace hurriedly. "they can run down to the mouth of the smoke in a few hours from here. after that it'll be slower work, but they'll have the portage trails that we cut, and they ought to get up beyond the long lake by this evening. can we get across in time to head 'em off?" "we must. of course we can!" fred insisted. "it's our only chance, and you both know it. we never could get home with our boots gone, and with the food we have, but this venison will last us across to the smoke." "patch our boots up with the deerskin!" cried mac. "we'll ambush 'em. we'll catch 'em on a hard carry. only let me get my hands on 'em!" "then we haven't a minute to lose!" said horace. "let's be off!" cried fred, springing up. first of all, however, they repaired their tattered boots by folding pieces of the raw deerhide round them and lashing them in place with thongs. it was clumsy work at the best; but mac rolled up the rest of the hide to take with him, in case they should have to make further repairs. horace consulted the map and the compass again, and picked up the lump of venison, which, with the deerskin, constituted their only luggage. in less than half an hour from the time fred had hit upon his plan they were off, running through the undergrowth on the twenty-five-mile race to the smoke river. none of them knew what sort of country the course would pass over. the map for that part of the region was incomplete and no more than approximately accurate, so that the boys were not at all sure that their guess at the distance to the smoke river was correct. but they did know that now that they had started on the race, their lives depended upon their winning it. fred took the lead at once, tearing through the thickets, tripping, stumbling. "easy, there!" called horace. "we mustn't do ourselves up at the start." fred slackened his pace somewhat, but continued to keep in front. for nearly a mile from the river the land sloped gently upward through dense thickets of birch. then the birches thinned, and finally gave way to evergreen, and the rising ground became rough with gravel and rock. the slope changed to undulating billows of hills, covered with stone of every size, from gravel to small boulders, and over it all grew a stubbly jungle of cedar and jack-pine, seldom more than six feet high. it was a rough, broken country, and the boys had to slacken their pace somewhat; to make things worse, it presently began to rain. first came a driving drizzle, then a heavy downpour, with a strong southwest wind. the rocks streamed with water, and the boys were drenched; but the heavy rain presently settled again to a soaking drizzle that threatened to continue all day. through the rain they struggled ahead; sometimes they found a clear space where they could run; sometimes they came upon wet, tangled shrubbery that impeded them sadly. they kept hoping for easier traveling; but those broken, rocky hills stretched ahead for miles. at last the trees became even more sparse, and the boys encountered a whole hillside covered with a mass of split rock. over this litter of sandstone they crawled and stumbled at what seemed a snail's pace. they were desperately anxious to hurry, but they knew that a slip on those wet rocks might mean a broken leg. a rain-washed slope of gravel came next; they went down it at a trot, and then encountered another hillside covered with huge, loose stones. they scrambled over it as best they could, and ran down another slope; then trees became more abundant, and soon they were again traveling over low, rolling hills clothed in jack-pine scrub. with marvelous endurance fred still held the lead. he went as if driven by machinery, with his head down and his lips clenched; he did not speak a word. he was supposed to be the weakest of the party, but even macgregor, a trained cross-country runner, found himself falling farther and farther behind. at eleven o'clock horace called a halt. the rain had almost stopped, and the boys, lighting a small fire, roasted generous slices of venison. there was no need of sparing the meat now. either plenty of food or death was at the end of the journey. no sooner had they eaten it than fred sprang up again. "how you fellows can sit here i can't understand!" he exclaimed, nervously. "i'm going on. are you coming?" mac and horace followed him. the land seemed to be sloping continually to lower levels; the woods thickened into a sturdy, tangled growth of hemlock and tamarack that they had hard work to penetrate. they presently caught a glimpse of water ahead, and came to the shore of a small, narrow lake that curved away between rounded, dark hillsides. they had to go round the lake, and lost two or three miles by the dã©tour. as they hurried up the shore a bull moose sprang from the water, paused an instant to look back, and crashed into the thickets. it would have been an easy shot if they had had the rifle. round the end of the lake low hills rose abruptly from the shore. after scrambling up the slippery slope of the hills they reached the top, and saw ahead of them an endless stretch of wild hills and forests; there was not a landmark that they recognized. horace guessed that they had come about fifteen miles. mac thought that it was much more. they agreed that they had broken the back of the journey, and that if their strength held out, they could reach the smoke that day. "suppose we were--to find the diamond-beds now!" said mac, between quick breaths. "don't talk to me about diamonds!" said horace. "i never want to hear the word again." on they went, up and down the hills, through the thickets and over the ridges; but they no longer went with the energy they had shown in the morning. with every mile their pace grew slower, and they were all beginning to limp. fred still kept in front, with his face set in grim determination. about the middle of the afternoon horace came up with him, stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, and looked into his face. fred's eyes were bright and feverish. his face was pale and spotted with red blotches, and he breathed heavily through his open mouth. "you've got to stop!" said his brother firmly. "you're going on your nerves. a little farther, and you'll collapse--go down like a shot." "i--i'm all right!" said fred thickly. "got to get on--got to make it in time!" but horace was firm. first they built a smudge to keep off the flies; then they made fresh repairs to their shoes; and finally they stretched themselves flat to rest. but in spite of their fatigue, they were too highly strung to stay quiet. they knew that a delay of an hour might lose the race for them. after resting for less than half an hour, they got up and went plunging through the woods again. they believed now that the smoke river could not be more than five or six miles away. from every hilltop they hoped to catch sight of it, or at least to see some spot that they had passed while prospecting. but although all the landscape seemed strange, they doggedly continued the struggle. the sun was sinking low over the western ridges now; toiling desperately on, they left mile after mile behind, but still the smoke river did not come into sight. at last macgregor sat down abruptly upon a log. "i'd just as soon die here as anywhere," he said. "you're right. we'll stop, and go on by moonrise," said horace. "grub's what we need now." "why, we're almost at the end! we can't stop now!" fred cried. "we won't lose anything," said his brother. "the trappers will be camping, too, about this time. if we don't rest now we'll probably never get to the smoke at all." staggering with fatigue, he set about getting wood for a fire. mac and fred helped him, and when they had built a fire they broiled some of the deer meat. fred could hardly touch the food. horace and macgregor ate only a little, and almost as they ate they nodded, and dropped asleep from sheer fatigue. fred knew that he, too, ought to sleep, but he could not even lie down. his brain burned, his muscles twitched, and he felt strung like a taut wire. leaving his companions asleep, he started to scout ahead. he went like one in a dream, hardly conscious of anything except the overwhelming necessity of getting forward. his course took him over a wooded ridge and down a hillside, and at last he came upon a tiny creek. stumbling, sometimes falling, but always pushing on, he followed the course of the creek for a mile or two; suddenly he found himself on the shore of a large and rapid river, into which the creek emptied. furious at the obstacle, he looked for a place where he could cross the river. it was too deep for him to wade across it, and too swift for him to swim it. he hurried up the bank, looking for a place where he could ford it, and at last came to a stretch of short, violent rapids. he was about to turn back when he caught sight of axe marks in the undergrowth. some one had cut a trail for the carry round the rapid. he stared at the axe marks, and then at the river. suddenly his dazed brain cleared. he recognized the spot. he recognized the trail that he himself had helped to cut. he had found the smoke river! chapter xvi fred never quite knew how he got back to camp after he had found the river. he found his companions still sound asleep, but it did not take him long to rouse them and to tell them the news. "i couldn't see any tracks on the shore. i don't think any one has passed," fred said. in less than a minute the boys, wild with joy, were hurrying through the woods again. it was almost dark when they reached the river; peering close to the ground they examined the trail carefully, to make sure that the trappers had not already passed. the heavy rain had washed the shores, and no fresh tracks showed in the mud. the men had not been over the portage that day, and they could hardly have passed the rapids without making a carry. they had evidently camped for the night at some point below, and would not come up the river until morning. after piling up some hemlock boughs for a bed, the boys lay down, and dropped into a heavy sleep. now that the strain was over, fred slept, too. in fact, for the last quarter of an hour he had hardly been able to stay on his feet. in the gray dawn horace awakened them. they were stiff from their thirty-mile race of the day before, and their feet were swollen. hot food--especially hot tea--was what they longed for; but they were afraid to make a fire, and they had to content themselves with a little raw venison for their breakfast. horace thought that they could make their ambush where they were as well as anywhere else. the portage was about thirty yards long, and the narrow trail passed over a ridge and ran through dense hemlock thickets. if the trappers came up the trail in single file, carrying heavy loads, they could not use their rifles against a sudden attack. the boys armed themselves each with a hardwood bludgeon; then they ensconced themselves in the thickets where they could see the reaches of the river below--and waited. an hour passed. it was almost sunrise, and there was no sign of the trappers on the river. the boys grew nervous with dread and anxiety. the tree-tops began to glitter with sunlight. it was almost six o'clock. "could they have gone some other way?" asked fred uneasily, staring upstream. at that very moment macgregor grasped his arm and pointed down the river. two small objects had appeared round a bend, half a mile below. they were certainly canoes, making slow headway against the stiff current, but they were too far away for the boys to make them out plainly. minute by minute they grew nearer. "the front one's a peterboro!" said mac. "there's one man in it, and two in the other. i think i can see the fox cage." without doubt it was the trappers. the young prospectors slipped back through the thickets, almost to the upper end of the trail, and concealed themselves in the hemlocks. "above all things, try to get hold of their guns!" said horace. for a long while they waited in terrible suspense. they could not see the landing, nor at first could they hear anything, for the tumbling water of the rapids roared in their ears. after what seemed almost an hour, stumbling footsteps sounded near by on the trail, and the bow of the peterboro hove in sight. a man was carrying it on his head; he steadied it with one hand, and in the other grasped a gun--horace's repeating rifle. when he was almost within arm's reach, mac sprang and tackled him low like a football player. the trapper dropped the gun with a startled yell, and went over headlong into the hemlocks--canoe and all. horace leaped out to seize the gun that the man had dropped. before he could touch it, the second trapper rushed up the trail with his rifle clubbed. fred struck out at him with his bludgeon. the blow missed the fellow's head, and fell on his arm. down clattered the rifle, discharging as it fell. the trapper made a frantic leap aside, and disappeared into the bushes. as fred snatched up the rifle, he caught a glimpse of the third trapper, the wiry half-breed, hastening up the path. "halt! hands up!" shouted horace, raising the repeater. the man stopped, fired a wild shot, turned and bolted back toward the landing. fred and his brother rushed after him; they reached the landing just in time to see him leap into the birch canoe, which still held the fox cage, shove off, and digging his paddle furiously into the water, shoot down the stream. "after him! the canoe! quick!" shouted horace. they dashed back. the man that fred had struck was nowhere to be seen. macgregor had pinned his antagonist to the ground, and seemed to have him well subdued. "never mind him, mac!" fred cried. "pick up that canoe in a hurry! one of the scoundrels has got away with the foxes!" all three of them seized the canoe and rushed it down to the landing. there they found the shore strewn with articles of camp outfit where the men had unloaded the canoes. "load it in, boys!" cried horace. "take what we need. we're not coming back." they pitched an armful or two of supplies into the canoe. fred's shotgun was there, and several other articles that the boys recognized as their own. the rest was a fair exchange for the outfit that they had abandoned in their tent. they shoved the canoe off. the half-breed had gained a long lead by this time. he was nearly a quarter of a mile ahead, paddling frantically; he did not even stop to fire at the boys. but there were three paddles in pursuit, and the boys began to gain on him noticeably. more than two miles flashed by, and then the roar of rapids sounded ahead. "got him!" panted mac. "he'll have to land now." round another bend shot the birch canoe, with the peterboro three hundred yards behind, and now the broken water came in sight. it was a long, rock-staked chute, and the boys thought it would be suicidal to try to run it. but the half-breed kept straight on in mid-channel. "he's going to try to run through!" horace cried. "he'll drown himself and the foxes!" the boys yelled at him; but the next instant the man's canoe had shot into the broken water. for a moment they lost sight of him in a cloud of spray; then they saw him half-way down the rapids, going like a bullet. with incredible skill, he was keeping his craft upright. the boys drove their canoe toward the landing, and still watched the man. when he was almost through the rapids, they saw his canoe shoot bow upward into the air, hang a moment, and then go over. shouting with excitement, they dragged the canoe ashore, picked it up, and went over the portage at a run. far down the stream they saw the birch canoe floating on its side, near the fox cage. they had just launched the peterboro at the tail of the rapids, when they saw something black bobbing in the swirling water. it was the head of the half-breed. he was swimming feebly, and when they hauled him into the canoe, was almost unconscious. he had a great bleeding gash just above his ear, where he had struck a rock; but he was not seriously injured. the boys paid little attention to him, but hastened to rescue their treasure. when they came up with the birch canoe, they found that the fox cage had been lashed to it with a strip of deerskin, and, to their great relief, that the foxes were there, all four of them, alive and afloat. they got the cage ashore as quickly as possible. the foxes were dripping with water, but looked as lively as ever. to all appearances, the ducking had not hurt them. the canoe itself had not come off so well. it had a great rent in the bottom, and horace stamped another hole through the bow. then the boys examined their new outfit. from their own former store they had a kettle, a frying-pan, a box of rifle-cartridges, and a sack of tea. they had taken from the trappers' supplies half a sack of flour, a lump of salt pork, two blankets, and two rifles. the half-breed had recovered his wits by this time; sitting on the bank, he glared savagely at them. "you'll find your partners waiting for you up the river," horace said to him. "we've got what we need, and you'll find the rest of your kit on the shore where you unpacked it. as for your rifles--" he picked them up and tossed them into six feet of water. "by the time you've fished them out and mended your canoe i guess you won't want to follow us. if you do, you won't catch us napping again, and we'll shoot you on sight. _savez_?" the half-breed muttered some sullen response. the boys loaded the fox cage into the peterboro, got in themselves, and shot down the river again in a fresh start for home. they left the trapper sitting on the rock, glaring after them. now that the strain was over and the fight won, the boys felt utterly exhausted. they kept on at as fast a pace as they could, however, and reached the missanabie river a little after noon. there they stopped to cook dinner. once more they had hot, black _voyageurs'_ tea, and fried flapjacks, and salt pork. it seemed the most delicious meal they had ever eaten; but when they had finished, they felt too weary to start up the missanabie, and reckless of consequences, they lay down and slept for almost two hours. then they continued their journey with double energy, and made good progress for the rest of the day. they were entirely out of fresh meat, and had nothing whatever to give the foxes, but fortunately mac shot three spruce grouse that evening. they dropped the heads of the birds into the cage; the foxes devoured them with a voracity that indicated that the trappers had fed them nothing. early the next morning horace by a long shot killed a deer at the riverside. it was a rough journey up the missanabie, but not nearly so hard as the trip up the smoke river had been. for eight days they paddled, poled, tracked, and portaged, until they came at last to the point where they had first launched the canoe. the "long carry" over the height of land now confronted them. it is true that they had by no means so much outfit to carry now, but, on the other hand, they had no packers to help them. they had to make two journeys of it, and, as a further difficulty, one of the boys had to remain with the fox cage. as they reached the top of the ridge on their first journey, macgregor turned and looked back over the wild landscape to the northwest. "somewhere over there," he murmured, "is the diamond country." "shut up!" exclaimed horace, in exasperation. "i never want to hear the word 'diamond' again," added fred. they left the foxes together with the rest of their loads at the end of the "carry," and fred remained to guard them, while peter and horace went back for the remainder of the outfit. while they were gone fred noticed that one of the cubs was not looking well. it refused to eat or drink; its fur was losing its gloss, and it lay in a sort of a doze most of the time. plainly captivity did not agree with it. horace and peter were much concerned about its condition when they came back. none of them had any idea what to do; in fact it is doubtful if the most skilled veterinary surgeon could have prescribed. "the real trouble is their cramped quarters, of course," said horace. "we must get home as quickly as possible, and get them out of this and into a larger cage. some of the others will sicken if we don't look sharp." they made all the speed they could, and, now that they were fairly on the canoe route south of the height of land, they felt that they were well toward home. it was downstream now, and portages grew less and less frequent as the river grew. they did not stop to hunt or fish; the paddled till dusk, and were up at dawn. they felt that it was a race for the life of the valuable little animal, and they did not spare themselves. two days afterward, late in the afternoon, they came to the little railway village that had been their starting-point. the cub seemed no better--worse, if anything. there was a train for toronto at eight o'clock that night. the boys hurried to the hotel where they had left their baggage, and changed their tattered woods garments for more civilized clothing. there was time to eat a civilized supper, with bread and vegetables and jam,--almost forgotten luxuries,--and time also to send a telegram to maurice stark. they carried the cage of foxes to the hotel with them, for they were determined henceforth not to let the animals out of their sight for a moment. the unusual spectacle of the three boys with their burden attracted much attention, and when the contents of the cage became known, nearly the whole population of the village assembled to have a look. the crowd followed them to the depot, and saw the foxes put into the baggage-car. they had secured permission for one of them to ride with the cage and stand guard, and the boys took turns at this duty. the other two tried to snatch a few hours of rest in the sleeper; but the berths seemed stifling and airless. accustomed to the open camp, they could not sleep a wink, and were rather more fatigued the next morning than when they had started. it was still four hours to toronto, but they reached the city at noon. macgregor was standing the last watch in the baggage-car, and as fred and horace came down the steps of the pullman they saw maurice stark pushing through the crowd. "what luck?" maurice demanded anxiously, lowering his voice as he shook hands. "did you find the--the--?" "not any diamonds," replied fred, with a laugh. "but we brought back some black gold. come and see it." they went forward to the platform where the baggage was being unloaded. macgregor was helping to hand out the willow cage. it looked strangely wild and rough among the neat suit-cases and trunks. "what in the world have you got there?" cried maurice, peering through the bars. fred and horace were also looking anxiously to learn the condition of the sick cub. "why, he's dead!" exclaimed fred, in bitter disappointment. "yes," said mac; "the little fellow keeled over just after i came on guard. i didn't send word to you fellows, for i knew there was nothing to be done." the rest of the family were alive and looked in good condition. the boys had already decided what they would do immediately, and, calling a cab, they drove with the foxes to the house of a well-known naturalist connected with the toronto zoã¶logical park. he was as competent as any one could be, and he readily agreed to take care of the foxes till they should be sold. naturally, however, he declined to be responsible for their safety, and horace at once attempted to insure their lives. no insurance company would accept the risk, but after much negotiation he at last managed to effect a policy of two thousand dollars for one month, on payment of an exorbitant premium. he was more successful in getting insurance against theft, and took out a policy for ten thousand dollars with a burglar insurance company, on condition of a day and night watchman being employed to guard the animals. it was plain that the foxes were going to be a source of terrible anxiety while they remained on the boys' hands. horace at once telegraphed to the manager of one of the largest fur-breeding ranches in prince edward island, and received a reply saying that a representative of the company would call within a few days. the man turned up three days later, and inspected the foxes in a casual and uninterested way. "we'd hardly think of buying," he remarked. "we've got about all the stock we need. i was coming to toronto just when i got your wire, and i thought i'd look in at them. what are you thinking of asking for them?" "fifty thousand dollars," said horace. the fur-trader laughed heartily. "you'll be lucky if you get a quarter of that," he said. "why, we bought a fine, full-grown black fox last year for five hundred. your cubs are hardly worth anything, you know. they 're almost sure to die before they grow up." "professor forsythe doesn't think so," replied horace. "well, i'm glad i saw them," said the dealer. "if i can hear of a buyer for you i'll send him along, but you'll have to come away down on your prices. you might let me have your address, in case i hear of anything." "it doesn't look as if we were going to sell them!" said fred, who was not used to shrewd business dealing. "perhaps we can't get any price at all." horace laughed. "oh, that was all bluff. i saw the fellow's eyes light up when he saw these black beauties. he'll be back to see us within a day or two." sure enough, the man did come back. he scarcely mentioned the foxes this time, but took the boys out motoring. as they were parting he said carelessly, "i think i might get you a buyer for your foxes, but he couldn't pay over fifteen thousand." "no use in our talking to him then," replied horace, with equal indifference. that was the beginning of a series of negotiations that ran through fully a week. it was interspersed with motor rides, dinner parties, and other amusements to which the parties treated one another alternately. the prince edward island man brought himself to make a proposal of twenty thousand, and horace came down to thirty-five thousand, and there they stuck. finally horace came down to thirty. "i'll give you twenty-five," said the furbreeder at last, "but i think i'll be losing money at that." "i'll meet you halfway," replied horace. "split the difference. make it twenty-seven thousand, five hundred." both parties were well wearied with bargaining by this time, and the buyer gave in. "all right!" he agreed. "you'll make your fortune, young man, if you keep on, for you 're the hardest customer to deal with that i've met this year." the dealer went back next day to the east, taking the foxes with him, and leaving with the boys a certified check for $27,500. it was not as much as they had hoped to clear, but it was a small fortune after all. "comes to nearly seven thousand apiece," fred remarked. "not at all," remonstrated maurice. "i don't see where i have any share in it." "oh, come! we're rolling in money. you must have something out of it. mustn't he, horace?" they knew that maurice really needed the money, and it was not by his own will that he had failed to go with the expedition. in the end he was persuaded to accept the odd five hundred dollars, but he refused to take a cent more. the remainder made just nine thousand dollars apiece for each of the three other boys. "i've lost a year's varsity work," said peter, "but i guess it was worth it. nine thousand is more than i ever expect to make in a year of medical practice. besides, we know there are diamonds in that country. horace found them. why can't we--" "shut up!" cried fred. "take his money away from him!" exclaimed horace. "i don't want to hear any more of diamonds." "--and why can't we make another expedition," continued peter, "and prospect for--" but fred and horace pounced on him, and after a violent struggle got him down on the couch. "prospect for what?" cried fred, sitting on his chest. "ow--let me up!" gurgled mac. "why, for--for more black foxes!" the end the riverside press cambridge . massachusetts u . s . a dr. tomlinson's books the american boy will never tire of reading tales of the early colonial days and especially of the desperate encounters and struggles of the colonists with the natives of the forest. dr. tomlinson has read widely and has collected a mass of incident through family tradition and otherwise, which he has skillfully incorporated in the historical frameworks of several exceedingly interesting and instructive stories. he has the knack of mixing history with adventure in such a way as to make his young readers absorb much information while entertaining them capitally. his historical tales are filled with an enthusiasm which it is well to foster in the heart of every healthy-minded and patriotic american boy. the plots are all based upon events that actually occurred; and the boy heroes play the part of men in a way to capture the hearts of all boy readers. dr. tomlinson shows scrupulous regard for the larger truths of history, and the same care that would naturally go into a book for older readers. the boys of old monmouth a story of washington's campaign in new jersey in 1778. a jersey boy in the revolution this story is founded upon the lives and deeds of some of the humbler heroes of the american revolution. in the hands of the redcoats a tale of the jersey ship and the jersey shore in the days of the revolution. under colonial colors the story of arnold's expedition to quebec; of war, adventure, and friendship. a lieutenant under washington a tale of brandywine and germantown. the rider of the black horse a spirited revolutionary story following the adventures of one of washington's couriers. the red chief a story of the massacre at cherry valley, of brant, the mohawk chief, and of the revolution in upper new york state. marching against the iroquois an exciting story based on general sullivan's expedition into the country of the iroquois in 1779. light horse harry's legion a stirring story of fights with marauding tories on the jersey pine barrens. the camp-fire of mad anthony this story covers the period between 1774 and 1776 and follows the adventures of the pennsylvania troops under "mad anthony" wayne. mad anthony's young scout a story of the winter of 1777-1778. the champion of the regiment an absorbing story of the siege of yorktown, with noah dare, so well known to tomlinson readers, for hero. the young minute-man of 1812 the young hero joins the garrison at sacket's harbor, is sent on an expedition down the st. lawrence, and takes part in mcdonough's victory on lake champlain. the young sharpshooter the experiences of a boy in the peninsular campaign of 1862, under mcclellan. the young sharpshooter at antietam deals with lee's invasion of maryland in 1862, relating further exciting adventures of noel, the young sharpshooter. prisoners of war the experiences of the heroes of "the young sharpshooter" and "the young sharpshooter at antietam," during the course of the war from antietam to appomattox. each volume, illustrated, crown 8vo, $1.35 net. houghton mifflin company boston and new york books by arthur stanwood pier "some of the best boys' stories of the time carry mr. pier's name on the title page. his boys of st. timothy's books have always been popular with young readers. they are wholesome, lively, entertaining tales of schoolboy life and sports."--_detroit free press_. the jester of st. timothy's illustrated. 12mo, $1.00 net. the crashaw brothers illustrated. 12mo, $1.25 net. the new boy illustrated, 12mo, $1.25 net. harding of st. timothy's illustrated. 12mo, $1.25 net. grannis of the fifth illustrated, 12mo, $1.25 net. houghton mifflin company boston and new york luck at the diamond fields by dalrymple j. belgrave published by ward and downey, 12 york street, covent garden, london. this edition dated 1887. luck at the diamond fields, by dalrymple j. belgrave. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ luck at the diamond fields, by dalrymple j. belgrave. story 1. a tale of the kimberley coach. chapter one. the coach to the diamond fields was just starting from the beaufort west railway-station, and the passengers who were destined to travel over hundreds of miles of burnt-up veldt together, to be jolted over water-courses, choked in dust-storms, and suffer the many discomforts and annoyances of south african travel in each other's society, were eyeing one another distrustfully. the feeling uppermost in the minds of several of them was that they were very likely to become not a little tired of one another before they reached the iron town of kimberley. with one or two exceptions they were old residents on the diamond fields, returning after a trip home to europe or to the colony, and therefore they knew each other very well, at least by sight. their acquaintanceship as a rule made them look forward with all the more distaste to the idea of spending some days in the same coach. there were ten passengers, and kate gray, a soft, refined-looking english girl who was travelling by herself, and whose black dress suggested that she was equally alone in her journey through life, shrunk into the corner of the coach with a half shudder, and thought that her fellow-passengers were a singularly unprepossessing lot. she had tried to make light in anticipation of the annoyances in store for her; but now they were forced upon her, and she felt uncomfortable and out of heart. she had lived for two years in south africa, and though she had had great sorrow, none of those rougher experiences of colonial life had come in her way which it now seemed likely enough that she was destined soon to meet with. she was the daughter of a retired army officer, who, believing much in his business capacity and power to make money, had put his all when he left the army into an ostrich farm in the cape colony, and had taken his daughter out with him. their life had been a pleasant one enough for some time. the farm was a pretty place. they were not very far off capetown, and they had pleasant neighbours within reach. unfortunately the farm was not suited to ostriches. the wretched birds refused to thrive and increase. they showed a wayward ingenuity in hunting poisonous plants and shrubs, on which they succeeded in committing suicide. colonel gray, when his birds died, borrowed money and bought more; then they died, and he bought sheep, which did the same. then he died himself--more of sheep and ostriches than anything else; and after his death it was found out that he had lived long enough to ruin himself, and to leave his daughter without a penny. she at first thought of going home, but the long list of girls placed as she was, who advertised their willingness to teach, or act as companion only for a home, made her think that she was fortunate to be out of england. then she heard of some cape dutch people up country near the diamond fields who wanted an english governess, and she took the place. she was plucky and capable, as well-bred english women are as a rule, and she had determined to think little about the discomfort of the journey, but as she noticed one of her fellow-passengers, a peculiarly aggressive specimen of the diamond field jew, trying to stare her out of countenance, with an impudent leer of admiration in his coarse face, she realised that her position was an unpleasant one. this gentleman was a rather well-known character at kimberley--a certain mr joe aarons, who had bought many stolen diamonds during his sojourn on the fields, and was represented to be very rich and prosperous. unfortunately for his fellow-travellers, mr aarons, in the circle in which he moved, was considered a neat humourist, and already he had made one or two remarks which gave his audience a foretaste of the comfort he would likely be to them. two meaner jews, men of the aaron type, but less distinguished characters, appeared to be highly delighted at joe's wit; and so was the only other representative of the fair sex, a lady known on the diamond fields, where she kept a canteen, as mother hemp--the prefix being added to her name rather in a spirit of sarcasm than affection. probably this good lady had realised that it was quite useless to expect the arts of her toilet to withstand the strain of a coach-journey of almost a week, so she had not even taken the trouble to start fair, and already the coating of paint and powder was cracking and curling away from her yellow old cheeks, which looked curiously shrunk. also, to be more comfortable on the journey, she had packed away her false teeth. the rest of the company, however, looked upon mr aarons with anything but favour. a big, important-looking man, mr bowker, the great kimberley claim-owner, who was just returning from the cape house of assembly, felt somewhat disgusted at the idea of having to travel up to the fields in the company of mr aarons. he had perhaps had in his time a little more to do with that person than he would like every one to know, and he was afraid that he might become too familiar on the journey. then there was a young gentleman who was going to practise in the high court of kimberley, and who having had the advantage of three years of home education, was horribly disgusted with the land of his birth to which he had returned, and lost no opportunity of railing at all things connected with africa. a colonial attorney, on his return from a trip home as he called it--though in england he was strangely abroad--made up the aristocratic element. the two other passengers were river-diggers, partners, and in a way great friends, though men of somewhat different character, and curiously unlike experience. one of them, jim brawnston by name, was as good a specimen as one might wish to meet with of the south african born anglo-saxon--a brawny giant, of about twenty-eight, with a bushy beard, a pleasant honest look in his light blue eyes, and a laugh like a lion's roar. in his time he had followed most of the callings which are open to a cape colonist who has a disposition to rove about rather than to settle down anywhere. he had been a digger when the diamond fields first broke out, then had gone a trading trip up country, then had taken a turn at transport riding, and had for a time returned to his old business and become a digger on the banks of the vaal. kate thought, as she caught a glance of the face of the other, a man some half dozen years older than his companion, that he was the most interesting of her fellow-travellers. though his get-up was rough enough--he wore a flannel shirt, a pair of bedford cord trousers, and an old shooting coat, which, though an expert would recognise it as having been the work of a good maker, was curiously faded and worn--kate felt certain that he was an english gentleman. and there was an expression in his tanned face and sad-looking eyes--eyes which seemed to tell that he had had in his time a good deal of trouble--which made her feel that his presence in the coach would make the journey less distasteful to her. he was listening with an expression of grave amusement to the two limbs of the law as they swaggered about england, what they had done when they were at home, where they had been, and whom they had known. his expression altered to one of anger and disgust when he caught some of aarons' conversation, and noticed how horrified and frightened kate looked. "surely she can't be travelling with that old hag," he thought to himself, as he looked at mrs hemp. "and are you going up to the fields, my dear?" said that lady to kate, with a sham smile on her evil old face. "we two ladies and all these gentlemen; well, we must look after each other, and keep them in their right place." "i am in my right place sitting next to you, ain't i, miss?" said aarons, with a look of insolent admiration, which made her feel extremely uncomfortable. jim brawnston had always found that his partner george darrell avoided woman's society, and seemed to have a deep-rooted dislike to the sex, but to his surprise on this occasion he interfered. "i think you had better change places with me, you will be more comfortable," he said to kate, with a look at aarons which expressed a good deal. the latter seemed to be considerably surprised. "sit where you are, my dear," he said; "you're in very good company where you are, and i'll look after you." however, the young lady changed places without paying any attention to him, and as they settled themselves down, there was a crack of the whip and a yell from the driver, and the horses started off at a gallop. darrell took his seat next to aarons, and after he had settled himself down, he turned round to his neighbour. "you hound, if you open your lips to speak to that lady i will throw you out of the coach," he whispered to him. the jew replied, with a choice collection of bad language, that he would talk to whom he pleased. "who are you, with your damned side? i dare say you 'aven't got a couple of pound in the pocket of your ragged coat; who the--" joe said, and then pulled up and stopped--there was something in the other's expression he didn't like. darrell had no more to say to him, but leaned back in his seat and smoked his pipe. he wondered whether or no he had not made a fool of himself in interfering. well, it would have annoyed him all the journey to have seen her sitting near that greasy-looking brute of a jew, he thought to himself; she seemed a good deal happier sitting next to jim brawnston, and talking to him brightly enough. the woman didn't live who would not be perfectly reassured by that kindly giant's honest face. it was a pretty face enough, darrell thought; it reminded him of days long past before he left all he cared for behind, and became the hopeless wanderer he was now. "she looks as if she has had a good deal of trouble; what can she be going up to the diamond fields by herself for? if she had people there they ought to look after her better than that," he thought. as he looked at her, another face rose up before his memory, which had once intoxicated him by its beauty till he threw his life away for it--the face of the woman in england who called herself by his name, and had a right to do so. he had seen no refined woman for years, and there was something in kate's face which brought old memories back. yes, he had made a mess of it and spoilt his life--that was the burthen of his thoughts as the coach made its way across the sandy veldt, and the sun got up and scorched them, and the dust-clouds gathered together and choked them, and the stones on the road threw them up and down till all their bones ached. "well, i do declare he ain't much company; seems mighty proud, and i dare say he ain't got a penny to spend. i knows his sort, and don't like 'em," said mrs hemp to mr aarons, after she had addressed several remarks to darrell and got no answer. joe aarons scowled at darrell and made no reply. when his interests were not at stake he seldom felt very keenly about anything, but he did long to pay the other out for the treatment he had received from him, and for supposing that he, mr aarons, the well-known kimberley diamond-buyer, who was worth his fifty thousand pounds, insulted a girl who was travelling up by herself and couldn't be of much account, by talking to her. he felt mad with anger as he looked at him. how he would like to pound in that face which had borne a look of such unaffected contempt for him, and hear that cold insolent voice cry out for mercy! darrell paid little attention to him, and sat gloomily wrapt in his own thoughts. mrs hemp addressed various remarks to him which he did not listen to. the english girl in the front seat talked to jim brawnston. "queer tastes that girl must have," aarons thought to himself; "talks to that digger chap who's as rough as they make 'em, and looks at me when i say a word to her as if i were dirt," and he looked at the diamond rings on his coarse dirty hands, and wondered at that to him unknown specimen of humanity, the english gentlewoman. some hours after sunset the coach drew up at one of those squalid roadside canteens which in south africa are dignified by the name of hotels. the days one spends in south african travel are bad enough, but the nights at the worst of all bad inns are far more wretched. a blanket in the open air under the marvellous star-lit southern sky is something to look back to with pleasure, though the chill half hour before daybreak is not so very pleasant at the time. but those hotel bedrooms are things to shudder at, not to see; they open up to one's mind new possibilities of dirtiness. then there is the evil-smelling dining-room, where the table has a historic cloth supposed once to have been white, which bears the grease and stains of long-forgotten meals, which generally consist of lumps of mutton and hard poached eggs served on the same plate. if the master of the house is a dutchman, he will most likely be full of dull, brutish insolence; if he is an englishman, he probably will be drunk. the waitress will be a filthy hottentot woman; while as one eats in the inner rooms one will hear noisy natives getting drunk off cape smoke just outside. it was at such a place as this that the coach stopped for the night, and discharged its passengers for a few hours' enjoyment of the accommodation it afforded. a meal had been served, and those passengers who were able to secure beds had retired for the night. darrell was smoking and reading by the dim light of a flickering oil lamp in the living-room. jim brawnston was stretched upon the floor in a sleep from which he would not easily wake. the jews were listlessly fingering a dirty pack of cards; nobody had cared to play with them, and they had not thought it worth while to play with one another; while the landlord, who was not very sober, was laughing hoarsely at some not over pleasant stories they were telling. "do you know there is a lady in the next room?" said darrell, who had thrown his book down and walked up to where they sat. "lady? do you mean mother hemp, or the other girl?" said aarons, and his brutal nature found vent in a sentence of houndsditch sarcasm. his words were coarse enough to have aroused a milder temper than darrell's, whose face turned pale with anger as he heard them. aarons' sentence was not quite completed, for before he finished it darrell's long left arm had swung out from his shoulder, and his fist had come down with a crash on to the jew's jaw. the others saw that if they joined in they would be four to one, so they made a rush at darrell, the landlord swearing that he'd be damned if he'd see a gent who'd behaved like a gent in his place, ordering drinks and paying for them, hit like that. he looked at jim brawnston's sleeping form, and reassured by the sound of a deep snore, he joined in the fight, aiming a blow at darrell's head with a bottle. the latter was not quite as cool as a man ought to be who is fighting four men at once. instead of keeping on the defensive, he only thought of inflicting as much punishment as possible upon aarons, and pressed on to strike him again as he staggered back from the first blow. this gave the landlord a chance of getting at him from behind, and he succeeded in pinning his arms, and preventing him from hitting out. a savage gleam came into the jew's eyes; he saw that his enemy was in his power as he forced back darrell's face with his left hand so as to get a good blow at it with his right. "now, my broken-down swell, you're going to learn not to give your betters any of your damned cheek," he was saying with a tone of triumph in his voice. the whole group had been too busy to notice a bedroom door which led into the living-room open, and a figure dressed in white glide up to where brawnston lay sleeping. kate, as she tried in vain to get some sleep, had heard the row from the beginning. it was not a pleasant scene for a young lady to take part in, but she had heard enough to tell her that the man who had been foolish enough to begin the fight on her account was likely to suffer more than he deserved. she had not understood aarons' brutal remark, and would have been better pleased if darrell had not answered it so forcibly, but she knew the blow she had heard through the door had been given on her account. as she opened the door she saw brawnston's sleeping figure close to it; near him on a table there was a jug of water; she dashed it over his face as the quickest way of waking him. the experiment had succeeded admirably. he had woke up with a start, saw the fight which was going on, and in a second was in it. it did not take him long to knock two of the jews out of time, while the landlord, seeing how things were going, took up the position of a non-combatant. "leave him to me," darrell cried out as he tried to close with aarons. there was a look in his partner's white face which made brawnston know that he meant mischief. a few seconds' struggling and then darrell's long, lithe fingers were round the jew's throat, and as he tightened them there was an ominous twitch round the corners of his mouth. "stop it, man, or you'll kill me," the jew gasped out as he felt himself choking. if he had been a good judge of expression, and had been in a position to take stock of darrell, he would not have been much reassured at the effect his suggestion had. brawnston didn't interfere; he was contemplating in a dreamy way the two other men whom he had knocked down. it looked as if a crisis had come in joe aarons' history, but just then a cool hand clasped darrell's wrist, and on looking round he for the first time saw that there was a woman present at the not very pretty scene that was taking place. "stay, leave him alone, you'll kill him!" she said, rescuing darrell from himself and his savageness as she had rescued him just before from his enemies. he will never be likely to forget the little figure with her glorious brown hair sweeping over her shoulders, and the half-frightened, half-disgusted look on her face. he felt rather more ashamed of himself than he had been for some time, so he let go his grip on aarons' throat, who fell back a limp mass upon the ground. "i am sorry that you should have been disturbed by this sort of thing; extremely sorry," he said to her as she disappeared through the door again. "what a brute she must think me, as bad as that cur," he said half to himself, half to brawnston, glancing at aarons. "by jove!" he added, "he looks rather queer." "he's all right; it will be a rope that will break his neck," said brawnston, as the man on the ground began to move. the other two men began to pull themselves together, and after a good deal of bad language from the defeated party, the incident came to an end, and every one turned off to sleep; darrell thinking to himself that his endeavour to prevent the lady passenger's sleep from being disturbed had been singularly unsuccessful. the next morning when the coach started, several black eyes and damaged faces bore witness to the disturbance of the night before. aarons was badly marked, and seemed by no means to have recovered the rough handling he had received; for he was much less cheerful than he had been, and his conversation for some time was confined to a few muttered vows of vengeance against darrell. jim brawnston, too, had the satisfaction of being able to admire the colour he had put on to the faces of aarons' two friends. the treatment seemed to have been very beneficial in taking the insolence and noise out of the patients who had been subjected to it, and in consequence the journey became much pleasanter; and after all it was not so bad as it had promised to be. brawnston had plenty of stories to tell of south african adventure. after darrell expressed his remorse at having been to a certain extent the cause of the unseemly broil of the night before, and had been forgiven by kate, as he was soon enough, a sympathy that became stronger every day grew up between them. it was on the fourth day of their journey that the coach had outspanned at a farm-house by the roadside, and kate and darrell were sitting under some trees in the garden of the farm-house, by the edge of a cool shaded pool of water. there is a certain charm about those south african farms which most travellers in the country must have experienced. one seems to have never before enjoyed seeing trees and the soft green of vegetation until one has travelled for miles in the desert. the few bright flowers and the patch of waving maize are more grateful than in a country of fields and trees the most carefully tended garden could be. one of the team of mules which had been inspanned at the last station had turned sick, and the guard of the coach, careless of the remonstrance of the other passengers, who were in a hurry to get to their journey's end, had prolonged their outspan for some hours to give the sick beast time to get round. neither darrell nor kate were indignant at the delay or were in a hurry to start. they had only known each other for a few days, but already they felt as if they were old friends. those long days of travelling across the stretches of desert veldt can be pleasant enough. there is something in the atmosphere and surroundings of the country that makes one forget the past, and feel careless of the future; it has the same effect upon one's mind as the sea has. one gets the feeling of rest and distance, and begins to fancy that one has little to do with oneself, as one was once in other lands that seem so far away. there is nothing to be met with that reminds one of the rest of the world. the strings of laden waggons slowly wending their way over the veldt to the distant diamond fields, give an idea of carelessness about time, and worry, and the world in general. the sleepy looking farm-houses, where there is none of the thriving bustle of other lands--and everything suggests progression only at ox-waggon pace--help to carry out the idea. in those days darrell had learnt almost all that there was to learn about this companion's history, but had in return told her very little about himself, though she had gathered from what he said that he had seen a good deal of life, had lived most of his life in good society, was a gentleman, but for some reason or other, so she fancied, the memory of his past life was painful to him, though she was sure that his story had not been discreditable. as they sat in the shade looking at the group of passengers collected round the sick mule, and listening lazily to the voice of the member of the legislative assembly, who was denouncing the guard for not inspanning at once, the same thought was in both their minds--their journey would soon be at an end, and very likely they would never see each other again; for the farm she was going to was sixty miles from kimberley, while he was going to the vaal river diggings. one thought had been for some time in his mind. why should his whole life be wrecked because of that act of folly in his youth? did not the thousands of miles that separated him from england break the shameful tie he loathed? who need ever know that george darrell, digger, of red shirt rush, vaal river, was the same man as darrell of the lancers, who like a fool made his good old name shameful by giving it to the woman he had married. he cursed his folly as he remembered himself little more than a boy marrying a woman years older than himself, who, wild as he was then, was as much his inferior morally as she was socially. it was the life he had been leading which had left him weak enough to become drunk with that woman's coarse beauty, he told himself, as he cursed the folly of that one sin, for which fate never forgives a man, which he had committed. she did not want anything more from him. he had settled all he had on her before he left england for ever; she had got all she married him for, and would not bother him any more. why should he not forget all about her and his old life? "yes," he said, partly answering something she had said and partly continuing his own thoughts, "there is something in this country that gets rid of old memories, hopes, and ambitions. four or five generations of it have turned the descendants of knightly french huguenots into the dull brutish dutch boers one meets here, who have not two ideas in their heads beyond eating and sleeping, and are far less civilised than the kaffirs. yes, it's a good country to forget in." "i hope not," she answered; "i don't want to forget my past; i have plenty of happy memories." as she spoke a sad look came into her eyes. "you have a past you can look back on with pleasure; i can only curse my folly when i look back," he said bitterly. for a second or two he was silent, struggling with himself. why should he suppose that she would take any interest in hearing the shameful secret of his life?--but something told him that he had better tell it. then without leading up to it, he told her the story of his marriage, and about the woman in england who was his wife. very clumsily he told it, but he felt all the better when he had got it out. at first when she heard his story she realised how much she had begun to care for this man whom she had known only a few days; then she felt angry with herself for feeling so much interested in his history, and determined that he should never know that she had not listened to it with perfect indifference. "what a fool i was to think that she would care; i might have saved myself the trouble of telling her my private affairs," darrell said to himself, when, having listened to him with ostentatious unconcern, she made some excuse to leave him and go to the coach. when he came up some ten minutes after he found that she had left the party. the people to whose farm she was going had been to kimberley, and on their way back they had come round to meet the coach. she was to go with them, and had got into their waggon. the horses were inspanned to the coach; he had only time to say good-bye when they started off. would they ever meet again, he thought, as he looked back over the flat at the waggon, until it became a white speck on the horizon. -----------------------------------------------------------------------chapter two. a year had passed since kate said good-bye to george darrell. her life seemed to her to be divided into three volumes--her early life, the journey up to the diamond fields, and her present life at jagger's drift. the last volume seemed likely to be dull enough. day after day passed without any strange face coming or any incident happening. the family consisted of mr van beers, a good-natured old dutchman, who slept a good deal, and had very little to say for himself when he was awake; his wife, who had never time to attend to anything but the children, of whom there were about a dozen, the eldest a boy of fourteen, the youngest an infant in arms. taking it altogether, kate's life was a fairly happy one, for though it was dull, there was very little to trouble her, and it was free from many of the little vexations which would be her lot at home. one drawback of it was, that she had too much time for thinking, and her thoughts curiously often went back to the incidents of the journey up, and she often in her mind's eye saw the face of george darrell as it looked when he blurted out the secret of his life. from that day she had never heard of him; little news ever came to jagger's drift, and none would be likely to come of such an obscure person as george darrell, digger, of red shirt rush, vaal river. that digging she had heard was up the river some sixty miles off. many a time she had looked up stream and wondered how he was faring, and whether he still ever thought of her. the homestead at jagger's drift was a large, one-storied house, with a garden running down to the river. on the other side the house fronted a long flat, stretching far away to a range of low hills in the distance. a dozen or so of wood waggons would pass every day on their way to the diamond fields, but there was little other traffic. across the river was gordon, a place which some speculative people fondly believe is destined to be an important centre in the future. it had for reasons known to the authorities at capetown, and to no one else, been chosen as the seat of the magistracy for a large district, and there was a magistrate's house, a jail, and some police tents; while a court-house was being built. there were also two canteens, in one or the other of which in turn the spare population collected and listened to the proprietor of the establishment as he cursed his rival. the new government buildings were to be on a grand scale, quite up to what gordon was destined to become in the future, according to the estimate of the most sanguine believers in it. "they mock us with their damned buildings," was the opinion often expressed by jack johnstone, the civil commissioner's clerk, as he looked at the new erections with a malevolent eye, for he had applied persistently and in vain for an increase of his salary, and he looked upon all other expenditure of government money as a personal insult. "blessed if they haven't brought a lot of white convicts over here to muddle away at that cursed place," he said to mcflucker the canteen-keeper one afternoon, as, with a pipe in his mouth, he stood outside the latter's store, and looked towards the hated erection, where some kaffirs and white men were working listlessly as convicts do work. "that's not a lag's face, i'd have bet; if i had seen it anywhere else i'd have sworn that fellow was a gentleman and an honest man; he looks it, though he has got a broad arrow stamped on his shirt," he said, as he noticed one convict, a tall man, who looked very unlike his companions. "but i dare say he is the biggest scoundrel of the lot," he added. just then kate gray, who had come across the river with some of the young van beers, walked past the building. johnstone, as he watched her with a good deal of admiration, noticed that she was also looking in the direction of the tall convict who had attracted his attention. to his surprise he felt almost certain that he saw their eyes meet with a glance of recognition. she seemed to start and almost pause for a second. the convict pushed his hat over his eyes, and stooped over his work as if he did not wish to be recognised. "by jove, i'd have bet those two know each other, or have seen each other before, but it must be only a fancy though--it isn't likely," johnstone thought to himself, as he took off his hat and shook hands with miss gray. after they had talked for some time about the few subjects for conversation that their life at gordon afforded--the health of mcflucker the storekeeper's wife, the date of the return of the magistrate at gordon, who was away on leave, and the fact that the river was rising--miss gray turned the conversation to the subject that had interested them both. "who are those men working at the court-house,--the white men i mean?" she asked, as johnstone thought, with considerable interest. "they are gentlemen who are working for her gracious majesty without pay, and receiving their board and lodging gratis." "you mean they are convicts. what sort of offences do you suppose they have committed, and where do they come from?" "they have come from kimberley, and they may have committed any offence, but it's long odds that they have bought diamonds--that's their special weakness on the fields." "bought diamonds!--why i should have thought that was just what diamond-diggers wanted people to do." "bought diamonds that the kaffirs have stolen from their masters' claims, i mean; those men, however, have probably made a mistake, and been caught by the police. when the police see that the wily illicit diamond-buyer is well on the feed they throw one of their flies, and send him a kaffir with a diamond to sell. if the fish rises to the fly and buys, they strike, find the diamond, and haul the i.d.b. up before the court, when he gets five years. it's a pretty sport is trapping i.d.b.'s, and these are most likely some of the many fish who have been caught." "what a wretched mean business it seems to be, but i'm sure he could not have been trapped." "hallo, so you talk about him as `he,' do you?" thought johnstone. "you mean the tall convict; i was looking at him just now, and wondering what his history was. well, if he has a long sentence, if i were he, i'd make a bolt for it. the convict-guards are always more or less asleep, and i'd chance their shooting straight. i suppose it would not be much good though, one could never get away across the veldt without a horse." "if he had a horse do you think he would get off? where could he get to?" "sixty miles north he'd be out of the reach of the police, in stellaland, where there is a lot of rough work going on, and any one who had plenty of pluck would find men who would welcome him as a comrade, and care very little whether he had a broad arrow stamped on his shirt or not." "ah, well, perhaps he is used to being a convict, and does not care to escape," kate said, for she felt that perhaps she was unwise in showing so much interest in the convict's fate. "perhaps he is; don't know that it matters whether one is a convict or not, if one has to live in this country. certainly, being in their infernal civil service is next door to it," johnstone answered, as he walked to the river-side with them. as he returned after seeing them cross, he wondered where kate could have seen the convict before. that they had met he somehow felt certain. he was right; kate had recognised george darrell, her fellow-traveller in the coach, in the convict. he had had a run of bad luck since they had parted. first of all his old partner, jim brawnston, had been obliged to leave him, as one of his brothers had died, and he had been wanted on his father's farm in natal. then for a long time he had found no diamonds. after a bit, however, his luck seemed to have changed, and diamonds began to turn up on his sorting-table. the queer thing about those diamonds was, that they were unlike river stones, and much more of the appearance of the stones found in the mines. the diamond-buyers to whom he sold seemed, he thought, to look at them and him rather queerly when he brought them out to sell. he did not, however, trouble himself much about this. while he was working at his claim, not over rejoiced at the slight turn of luck he was experiencing, as he had hardly any ambition to make money, one day a conversation took place in the office of the head of the police in kimberley, which would have opened his eyes if he had heard it. there had been a good deal of what is called illicit buying down the river for some time. persons who had bought stolen diamonds, and wished to dispose of the diamonds advantageously, had taken to get men who pretended to be river-diggers, to profess to have found them in their claims, and sell them advantageously. stolen diamonds are rather awkward property to dispose of, as dealers have to keep registers by which diamonds can be traced back to the diggers who first found them; so it was an advantage to give a diamond that had been stolen a fictitious history. the head of the police had determined to put a stop to this practice, and had sent a man down the river to see what was going on. the information he had received had surprised him a good deal, and at first he hardly believed it. "what, darrell of red shirt rush in this? why, i should have thought he was straight," he was saying to one of the detectives, who had come in to see him with another man. "it ain't the first time, sir, you've thought that about a party we have found to be pretty deeply in the trade; now this man here sold darrell as many as half-a-dozen diamonds which we can swear to, and which we can prove he has sold again; is not that so, seers?" the detective said, turning to the ill-looking, undersized man who had come in with him. "yes, sir, he has bought 'em off me; he has been buying for this last twelve months to my knowledge, and working off illicit stuff from his claims," the man answered, his eyes as he spoke wandering about furtively, looking anywhere except into the face of the person he spoke to. "well, i suppose there is no doubt about it. it's high time some one was made an example of down the river; you and sergeant black had better go down and trap darrell, with this man seers," the head of the police said after he had talked for some time. "look here," he added, calling the detective on one side, "that fellow is an infernal scoundrel, and are you sure he is not humbugging us?" "well, sir, white traps mostly are infernal scoundrels, but what he says is right enough about darrell. what object should he have in telling us what was wrong?--besides, i don't think he would try and fool me," the detective said with a grin, which expressed considerable satisfaction with his own astuteness. two evenings after this conversation, the man seers came into darrell's tent, pretending that a mate of his was ill, and he wanted to be given some brandy. darrell knew the man by sight, having seen him lately hanging about the diggings, and had not been much prepossessed by his appearance. he was civil enough to him, however, telling him he had got no brandy, and listening to his description of his mate's illness. the man talked away for a few minutes, and then went to the opening of the tent, gave a shout, and then in a second, to darrell's astonishment, two men, one of whom he knew by sight as a kimberley detective, made their appearance. in a twinkling they had handcuffed him, searched him and the tent, and found a diamond in a pannikin near his bed. darrell's protestations of his innocence went for very little, and in the course of another twenty-four hours he found himself a prisoner in kimberley jail, awaiting a trial for buying a diamond illicitly. on his trial it was proved that seers had been searched before he went into the tent, and had no money upon him; when he came out he had ten sovereigns in his possession. the detectives were able to swear to the diamond found in darrell's possession as the one they had given seers before he went into the tent. the case seemed to be exactly like the ordinary cases of trapping that come before the courts at kimberley almost every week. the judge who tried it expressed his opinion that it was one about which he had not the slightest doubt as to the prisoner's guilt, and sentenced him to hard labour for five years. the crime of buying stolen diamonds is considered on the fields one of the most heinous of offences, those who are convicted of it being seldom allowed to escape without a severe punishment. after darrell had done some of his sentence in the kimberley jail, he had been sent with some other convicts to work at gordon, so that was how it came to pass that kate recognised her travelling companion in the tall convict. when she got back to the homestead she found that a young van beers, a son of the old farmer, had arrived from kimberley. jappie van beers was not a very pleasant type of the young boer, but by no means an uncommon one. he was a noisy braggart, who might be heard wherever he went, shouting out in his broken english about himself and his belongings, and bragging about his shooting and riding, his horses, dogs, and guns. he sometimes would express violent anti-english sentiments, but for all that he imitated the people he professed to hate, and it was not at all difficult to see that he was half ashamed of being a dutchman. he owned some very good claims in the kimberley mines, and had made a good deal of money on the fields. when he was at the homestead he gave himself great airs, for he did not think it necessary for him to show much deference to the old people, since he was so much richer than they were, while their homely dutch ways of life afforded him opportunities for the expression of considerable contempt. what made him more odious to kate was, that he had taken it into his head to pay her an amount of attention that was very embarrassing to her. the truth was, that jappie van beers had fallen head over ears in love with the pretty governess at his father's house. he had contrasted her very favourably with the heavy, shapeless-looking dutch young women whom his cousins and brothers chose for their wives, and had determined that she should be mrs jappie. on the occasion of his last visit to the homestead she had snubbed him most unmercifully, and she hoped that in future he would keep at a distance. there was something in his manner as he shook hands with her that told her he had got over any discomfiture he might have been made to suffer before. "ah, miss gray, you're looking very well and pretty, though you seem to be just as proud as ever. well, i have a little bit of news for you. i have met an old friend of yours on the fields; a friend of mine who knows you. he came up in the coach with you; he told me all about your goings on when you came up in the coach," he said to her after they had shaken hands. kate looked extremely uncomfortable; the last subject she wanted to talk about was that journey and its incidents. jappie van beers appeared to derive a considerable amount of satisfaction from her embarrassment. "yes, miss, my friend aarons told me about you," he continued; a malicious grin coming across his stupid heavy face. "is that person a friend of yours?" kate asked; her expression showing that she did not think any the better of jappie for his choice of friend. the other looked a little put out. the truth was, that when he was in kimberley he associated with a good many of the worst characters in the place, not because he was one of them, but because it suited their purpose to flatter him, and allow him to be as insolent and boorish as he pleased. "well, i know him to speak to, and he told me about you, and he gave me a message for you. `tell her,' he said, `that she is likely to see her old sweetheart again, if she looks amongst the men working on the roads at gordon.' then he told me how you went on when you travelled with this darrell, the thief whom they trapped at red shirt rush. aarons gave me a paper and said that perhaps you would like to read about the trial, and see what he had done." jappie was surprised to see how little attention she paid to his chaff; but she took the paper from him very eagerly and turned over the pages until she came to the report of the trial. the report was short. kate felt sure that darrell was the innocent victim of a conspiracy, and the idea came at once into her mind that somehow that conspiracy had been carried out by the man who took care that she should learn how successful it had been. "yes, this seems to be the same man i came up with in the coach, but i don't know why your friend should take so much trouble to let me know about it," she said, making an effort to speak as if she had read the report with little interest. jappie, feeling that his chaff had fallen rather flat, became silent, and contented himself with staring stupidly at her. she read and re-read the report. five years of that degrading slavery-five years working with kaffirs and white men who were more degraded than kaffirs!--it seemed to her that he never would be able to survive his term of punishment. "well, miss gray, you're angry with me because i just chaffed you," said jappie, flicking his whip against his boots and looking half ashamed of himself; "i will tell you something that will make you forgive me. i have brought my little white horse, which you may ride. i know you like riding; and you can ride down to the river in the mornings with me and see the lines pulled up as you used to. i brought the little white horse because i knew you liked to ride him, and i will take out kedult; he is the best horse in the colony. i won a race with him the other day at cradock, and beat all the imported horses." a morning ride with jappie did not hold out a very pleasant prospect, but as he spoke there flashed vividly upon kate's memory a sight that she had noticed day after day the year before, when she used to go out in the morning with the children to see the lines pulled up. it was the sight of a party of convicts and convict-guards on the other side of the river; the former working, filling water-barrels, the latter listlessly watching them. this recollection made her determined to go out for those rides, however unpleasant they might be, and instead of refusing jappie's offer, she accepted it with an enthusiasm that flattered and delighted him. the next afternoon darrell was at his task at the court-house, with two or three ill-looking white men and a gang of kaffirs, who appeared not to take their punishment much to heart. watching them were two white convict-guards armed with carbines, who lounged about listlessly, finding their duty very tedious, and some zulu police armed with rifles and a collection of assagais, who looked as if they would deal out death and destruction, if not to the fugitive, certainly to some of the bystanders, should there be any attempt at an escape. every now and then darrell looked across the flat towards the river, where he had seen kate go the day before. she had recognised him, he knew. what did she think of his disgraceful position?--but what should she think? she had only known him for a few days, and in that time she had learned more to his disadvantage than otherwise, he thought to himself. for once the long weary afternoon's work had some interest;-should he see her again, he kept wondering? at last he saw her coming from the river-bank. he watched her, though he tried to look down so that their eyes should not meet. as she passed she took a hurried glance at the convict-guard, who were paying little attention to the prisoners. the white men were thinking of the hard luck that gave to them such a dreary dead-and-alive lot in life. the zulus as they clutched their weapons were back again in their imagination at some scene of savage bloodshed, and were happy. then she for a second managed to catch his eye, and as she did so she threw a crumpled-up piece of paper to him. he snatched it up, and half hiding behind part of the building he unfolded it, and read the few words written on it. "you have a friend; look out for a signal to escape when you are at the river to-morrow. i know you are innocent." as he read this he felt a new man. he had even in his miserable position felt depressed to think that he had not a friend in the world. but here was some one who believed in him. then he remembered that she would be likely to get into some trouble if she were mixed up in any plot to secure his freedom. but he had no means of warning her; he could only wait and wonder what the letter meant. at seven o'clock next morning, darrell was marched as usual to the river-bank to carry water up to the magistrate's house and the public works. drearily and hopelessly he laboured at the wretched work of filling the water-carts. what did that note mean, he kept asking himself? how could that english girl in a strange country help him? perhaps she was acting for others, he thought, and the only part she took was to give him notice. if so she might not run any great risk of getting into trouble. but this theory had to be put on one side. who was there in the country, or for the matter of that in the world who would take the trouble to help him? he looked at the distant range of hills far away across the river; if he could only get there he would be free and safe, for not only was it native territory, but it was in a disturbed state, and there were bands of men collected together there, one or two of whom he happened to know who would welcome him as a comrade very heartily. the men worked at their tasks slowly enough; the convict-guards thought that they might just as well hang about the river-bank looking after convicts, as be anywhere else engaged in the same dreary work, so they did not hurry them. after he had worked for some minutes, darrell saw two figures on horseback across the river; he recognised one of them as kate, the other was a young dutchman he had seen ride towards the farm a day or two before. he looked at their horses, and he coveted the one the dutchman was on. it was a good horse anywhere, and looked as if it were just suited for the country. if he were on it and had a fair start, he would save the colony the cost of his board and lodging, and show his enemies a clean pair of heels. of course he remembered the letter, but he felt sure the young boer would never be induced to help him. after they had ridden along the river to a place about a hundred yards down stream from where he stood, he saw the man dismount and leave his horse to be held by his companion. darrell began to feel a thrill of excitement as he watched him go down to a boat, get into it, and drop some way down stream. he watched how the stream of the river ran, and he guessed how it would carry any one who jumped in from where he was, across to the point where kate was with the horses. the dutchman had almost crossed the river, and was pulling up a fish on a line he had rowed up to. darrell took in the situation, and his heart beat, and he felt a longing for liberty as he first looked at the good horse on which he could secure it, and then at the convict-guard near him who was yawning sleepily, as he sat with his carbine in his hand. just then he saw kate hold her handkerchief above her head and wave it. it was the signal, and he knew how good a chance he would have if he obeyed it. there was no time for delay, and in a second he had taken a header from the bank and was swimming for life and liberty. for a minute or so there was some wild shooting, as the guard aroused by the splash took a hurried shot at him, and the zulus let off their guns recklessly. the sound of the shots startled jappie, who had been intent on pulling up his fish. for a second he stared stolidly, and then as the convict came to the other side, hitting just upon the spot where the horses were, he saw what his object was. "allah macter, but he is going to take my horse. hi! miss gray, gallop the horse away; keep away from him, he's going to take the horse." the guards on the other side had ceased firing, as they were afraid of hitting kate and the horses. kate did not make any attempt to get away from the convict; in fact jappie felt certain that she was doing her best to help the fugitive. jappie yelled and gesticulated, but it was no use. to his disgust he saw the convict come up the river-bank, jump into the saddle, and give a shout of triumph, and then go off across the veldt. above all things, jappie valued and swaggered about his horse. he had won one or two races with him already, and hoped to win more, and he was never tired of boasting and bragging about what he hoped to do with him. "o the skellum!--o the scoundrel!--there is not a horse in the province that can catch him, and there is no one ready to follow him," he shouted out to no one in particular as he splashed clumsily across the river against the stream. for once he thought of kedult's pace and staying powers without much satisfaction. when he had got to the other side he stood shouting and yelling to the convict-guards, and watching darrell growing smaller in the distance. it was something of a relief to him when he saw two troopers of the border police cross the drift. they had saddled up when they heard the alarm of the escape, and were starting in pursuit. jappie ran after them, and shouted out some directions to which they paid very little heed. "ah, they will never catch him on kedult; he will ride the horse to death first," he despondently said as he watched the troopers ride across the flat. kate began to realise that she had probably got herself into a good deal of trouble, for the part she had taken in the escape was pretty evident. she did not know what offences she might not have committed, still she felt that she would gladly do it again, and chance whatever punishment she might have to suffer, rather than have to see darrell suffering his degrading punishment. certainly he would be a fugitive and an outlaw, but that would not be so bad for him, and he would have a better chance of proving his innocence than if he were a prisoner; so she hoped. "well, miss gray, so you have played me a nice little trick, letting that skellum steal my horse. that was your doing. you think yourself very slim to be able to fool me into leaving you with my horse, so that you could let your sweetheart have it to get away on; but you have made a mistake--i am going to go to the magistrate, and he shall know what you have done. you will find yourself in prison very soon for stealing my horse and helping a prisoner to escape," said the young boer to kate, when he met her at the door of the farm-house as she rode back. he was half crying about the loss of his horse, and desperately angry; and yet, as he looked into the pretty english girl's face, a very different idea to that of revenge suggested itself to him. there was something he cared for even more than his horse. "look here, miss, you have lost me the best horse in the country, but i forgive you, because you're such a pretty girl. no dutch girl would do what you have done; they would be ashamed to; but i like girls who have plenty of pluck. be my sweetheart instead of that skellum's, whom you will never see again, and i will say no more about what i saw. look, i am rich; i have some of the best claims in the mine, and have ten good farms. i think there is no girl in the colony who would not marry me, and i offer to make you my wife--a poor little english girl, whom i could send to prison if i thought right. come, i have lost my horse and won a frow, for you must marry me or go to prison--which will you do?" to emphasise his declaration he threw one of his clumsy arms round her neck and tried to kiss her. her answer came in a way that surprised him. she dodged away from his grasp, and as he came forward again she slashed him twice across his face with her whip, and then ran away into the house, leaving him standing in the yard listening to the laugh of a kaffir servant who had witnessed the scene. "all the worse for you, missy," he cried, almost blubbering from the pain and from his anger. "you shall suffer for this, and for stealing my horse." then catching sight of the kaffir's grinning face he relieved his feelings by cutting that unfortunate son of ham across the back with his ox-hide whip till he yelled with pain. somewhat calmed by this he walked down to the boat and went over to gordon, determined to let the law of the land revenge his wrongs. it turned out that his threat was not an idle one. already the inhabitants of gordon were discussing the part she had taken in the escape of the convict. one of the guards noticed her give the signal, and his evidence was confirmed by jappie. johnstone, who had been acting as magistrate, cursed his fate which obliged him to commit kate to take her trial at kimberley. but the affair was a serious one, and became more serious when the next day the border police came back without having found their man. "it's a beastly duty to have to discharge, particularly for such a pitiful screw as one gets from this cursed colonial government. but i had to do it on the evidence," he said to her when the inquiry was ended, and she was duly committed to take her trial, and circumstances allowed him to resume his non-official way of looking at things. "you need not be nervous, however; jury won't bring themselves to convict you," he added, to reassure her. the case created immense excitement at kimberley. from the first public feeling was with the prisoner. jappie was considered to show great vindictiveness, and the story of his having been an unsuccessful suitor to the prisoner somehow got abroad. he had got his horse back too, it having been sent to him from stellaland, and this, in the opinion of the public, made the animus he showed all the more vindictive. when the day of the trial came on, and the prisoner was seen in the dock, public opinion expressed itself most unanimously in her favour. the crown prosecutor's arguments were very cogent, and the judge's summing up dead against the prisoner; but the jury gave their verdict without ever turning round in the box. it was _not guilty_. "there ain't such a crowd of pretty girls in this camp that we can afford to shut 'em up in prison," was the opinion expressed by the foreman as he partook of champagne at the expense of a sympathiser with beauty in distress. in the mean time george darrell found himself secure in stellaland. after riding all day he had pulled up with his horse dead beat, at a house which had once been used as a store some miles on the other side of the river which marked the border of griqualand west. the house was inhabited by some white men, who constituted themselves into a body which somewhat resembled the free companies some centuries back-nominally fighting for the kaffir chief, but really pretty much for their own hand. "hullo, who the devil is this?" exclaimed one of these warriors, who was sitting on the bench outside the house as darrell came up. "hullo, he has got 'em on--he has got 'em all on," said another of the company--a gentleman who in the course of his varied career had been a singer in a london east end music-hall, and now sang the songs of houndsditch in a strange land--as he saw the fashion of darrell's garb. "look here, it won't do; it will bring the peelers on us." "he's a good fellow; i know him--worth a dozen of you," said a black-haired, handsome, devil-may-care-looking young fellow, known as black jamie, who acted as the leader of the company. "it's darrell, who used to be working down the river. i heard he was `run in' some time ago,"--and getting up, he came forward and shook the new arrival heartily by the hand. it was lucky for jappie that black jamie had a high opinion of darrell; for it was on that account he was induced to give in to the other's wish that the horse should be sent back by a kaffir to his owner--a proceeding which was thoroughly repugnant to the feelings of himself and the honourable company he commanded. he let darrell have his way, however, and then sent him on with some kaffirs to their huts, where the police, even if they crossed the border, would not care to follow him. a day or two afterwards, when danger of pursuit was over, darrell was enlisted as one of black jamie's troop in the service of mankoran, the chief of the bechuanas. -----------------------------------------------------------------------chapter three. "so it seems that the cape colony was very nearly saving us the trouble of looking after poor tom gray's girl," said the rector of morden, warwickshire, to his wife, who sat opposite to him at the breakfast-table, as he put down the newspaper he had in his hand. the warners of morden rectory were distant cousins of kate, and the rector had been her father's greatest friend at college. when they had heard of his death they had written out offering kate a home, for they were kindly people, and as they only had two boys of their own, they thought she would not be in the way. "poor girl, it was very foolish of her to make herself so notorious; however, i like the way she writes. i should not say there was anything sly about her," answered mrs warner. kate gray had, in answer to their invitation, written to them, telling of the trouble she had got into, and confessing that though the jury had acquitted her, she really had helped the convict, whom she believed to be innocent, to escape. "it is sensible of her to send the newspaper report of the trial. after all it's just the sort of thing her father would have done at her age," answered the rector; and his thoughts went back to his old friend, with whom he had got into many scrapes in their old christ-church days. mrs warner was inclined to take rather a more serious view of the affair, but for all that she agreed with her husband that it would be best to have their cousin home to stay with them; and so she was advised to come home as soon as she could, and forget all about her adventure at the cape, in the pretty warwickshire village. she was glad enough to accept their offer, for though she had become a heroine at the cape, she found that heroines were rather at a discount as governesses, and that it was difficult to see what she could do with herself there. so two years from the day of her trial found kate quite at home at the rectory, and happy enough in her new life. "the watsons are going to bring a friend with them to tennis, i forget his name," said mr warner to his wife one day at luncheon. "he seems rather a pleasant sort of man. i met him at coventry the other day; he comes from the diamond fields, where he made some money. i wonder whether you ever met him out there, kate?" kate looked troubled. it occurred to her that more people were likely to know a young lady who had stood in the dock in a criminal court than she knew; and in consequence she did not feel over comfortable at the idea of meeting any one who came from the diamond fields. the others understood her embarrassment, though they tried to persuade her that there was no reason for her fears. "people who have known one another at the ends of the earth would never tell tales. i should say that rule would be kept for mutual convenience," said mr warner, who, like many an untravelled englishman, believed that the goings on of those living in distant lands were, as a rule, such as they would wish to keep dark at home. however, kate showed so much apprehension of a meeting with a man who might remember the trial, that they did not dissuade her from keeping away and avoiding it. so it happened that in the afternoon she was sitting in a school-room by herself, waiting securely there until the visitors had gone away again. she had heard them arrive, and heard a voice in the hall which she knew must belong to the watsons' friend from the cape, and it had seemed somehow to be familiar to her ear. she sat with a book before her, reading very little, and thinking a good deal of the events of two years before, which now seemed so far off--of the long journey across the veldt, of the scene at jagger's drift, and then of her trial at kimberley. what had become of the man for whom for some motive she could hardly fathom she had risked so much? likely enough he was buried under the south african sand, or perhaps he was taken again, and was working out his sentence. again his figure came back to her mind, dressed as he was when she last saw him, in coarse canvas shirt and trousers decorated with numerous broad arrows and other government marks. just then she heard her aunt's voice from the garden, shouting out to some one in the hall. "second door to the right, as you go in, you will find the rackets; no, left i mean." whoever was being spoken to did not hear the last words, for instead of going into the room where the rackets were kept, he opened the door of the room she was sitting in. it seemed to her as if her thoughts had taken bodily shape, for there stood the man she was thinking about. he seemed to her to be dressed as he had been when she had seen him last, for his flannel and soft hat had much the effect of his convict garb. "at last i have found you, and i have been trying to find out where you were for the last year," he said. -----------------------------------------------------------------------"i thought you were still looking for the rackets, and came to show you where they were kept. i need not introduce my cousin to you, as you seem to have made each other's acquaintance," said mrs warner, as she came into the room some ten minutes afterwards. "yes; we were old friends in south africa," answered darrell. "i hope you will persuade her to come and play tennis. do you know you were the cause of her staying away? she was afraid of meeting you because of that foolish business of hers about a convict's escape, which i suppose you must know all about," said mrs warner. "yes; i know a good deal about it, for i happen to be the convict. don't be alarmed, though--i am quite a respectable person now, for thanks to miss gray, i have proved my innocence and got a pardon." mrs warner looked somewhat dubiously at her guest. the hero of kate's adventure was the last person she had ever expected to entertain in her house. ex-convicts, even when they have not escaped, but have duly served their sentences, are not thought desirable acquaintances; on the other hand, her guest was perfectly well accredited and she liked his looks. altogether she was inclined to think kate less foolish than she used to do; and she did not attempt to prevent her from being persuaded to join the rest of the party in the garden. darrell did not play tennis that afternoon. sitting on a low garden-chair he told kate his history since the moment she had seen him lose himself in the distance as he rode for his liberty. his life in stellaland had been full enough of adventure, but nothing had happened that had any particular effect on his history, until one day when he was sitting with some of his companions at the house he had first seen them at. he was feeling rather sick of his life, although he liked the excitement and adventure of it, and he was willing enough to fight for mankoran, who was being left in the lurch by the english, to whom he had always been loyal, and attacked without any cause by boer freebooters who wanted his land. he was getting rather tired of the lawlessness of his companions, who cared more for what they could make than for the justice of their cause, and were not too particular about whom they took plunder from, so long as they could get hold of it. as he sat smoking his pipe, and wondering what would be the end of his life, a man drove up to the door in a cart, and giving the reins to a kaffir who was with him, got out and walked into the store. darrell recognised the man at once. he was the man seers who had trapped him. at last he had a chance of finding out something about the plot of which he had been made a victim. seers walked into the house, and then started back in no little terror, for he found himself in a nest of hornets. there were two other men besides darrell whom he had helped to get into trouble when he was acting for the police. they were both inside, and as soon as he saw them seers ran back and jumped into his cart before darrell could stop him. the man seers had recognised was an american, who they called colerado joe--one of the most reckless ruffians of their band. as he caught sight of his enemy he made a rush for him, but was too late. then he ran back to the house for his carbine, and followed by the other man, who was also armed, began to fire at the cart. three shots were fired, and one of the horses fell down dead. colerado joe with a yell ran up to the cart, which had come to a stop. things looked like going pretty hard with mr seers. he had been hit pretty badly, but his condition did not commend him to the pity of his enemies. "guess we'll hang him at once, before the others turn up. it's more our affair than theirs; eh, pat?" the american said to his friend. the other took pretty much the same view, and they were both somewhat entertained by the ghastly terror of seers. just then darrell came up. when seers saw another of his victims appear on the scene he felt his position hopeless. darrell, however, was by no means inclined to allow the mouth of the man who had given false evidence to be closed for ever. he stuck to the point that seers' life should be spared, and after the matter had nearly ended in a fight, he was allowed to have his way. "well, that carrion ain't worth fighting about. if you want him you can have him, but he won't be much use to you long," the american said, as he turned away, followed by his mate. darrell picked up the wounded man, took him to the house and looked after him. the wound, however, which he had received, turned out to be a fatal one, and when seers became satisfied that he was not going to recover, he made a clean breast of it. "you have a nasty bitter enemy in kimberley, i don't know whether you know it--that fellow joe aarons. he has a down on you, has joe. he knew my game--that i was working for the detectives--and he came and offered me a hundred if i'd trap you. i had been sent down the river to look after what was going on down there, and it didn't seem a very hard job, so i went in for it. you found a little just about the time you were run in. well, that was--thanks to me. i put those diamonds amongst the gravel you were washing. they were police stuff, and the police knew you sold 'em. when it actually came to trapping you, it wer'n't so easy. but, lord, those police, when you have done a bit in their way, get to believe in you wonderful. i worked it; bless you, i hid the coin that i swore you give me near the tent, and after i had slipped the diamond down, i got out the money and then i hollored out for the police. the clearest case he had ever seen, the blessed beak said. well, it were clear like the three-card-trick is clear. it wer'n't fair, and i am sorry for it, only that joe aarons shouldn't have come down with his hundred. i always had a weakness for a lump sum. it was the only time i ever went wrong while i was working for them. but bless yer, as soon as i began to do a bit of buying again on my own account, they are down on me, and i, like a fool, cleared for this country. i'd have done better to have stopped in kimberley and done my sentence. i see that as soon as i come across that devil colerado," the man said in a husky, quavering voice. darrell managed to get a border magistrate to come up and take the deposition before seers died. with this evidence he easily got his sentence quashed. after that he had gone back to the river, where he did fairly well, and putting what he made at the river into some claims in one of the mines, just before a sudden rise in their value, he managed to make a fairly good thing of it. "i have to thank you for everything. i should still be wearing convict's clothes if it had not been for you. i have felt ashamed of myself when i have thought how i rode off and left you to get out of the trouble you might have got into how you could. i never could hear what happened to you after the trial. i have been longing to thank you," he said, when he had come to the end of his story. "my trouble was not very great," she said; and she began to think that it would have been better if she had never met him again. she remembered their last conversation. "i have wanted to tell you something. you remember when we last talked to one another on the road up to the fields. that story i told you of is all over; the person i told you about then is dead." their minds both went back to that conversation on the veldt, and they took up their story as it had been left off then. before it was time for darrell to say good-bye, they had settled how it was to end. story 2. kitty of "the frozen bar." some years ago there was at kimberley a very popular house of entertainment, called `the frozen bar,' which had been in existence since the early days of diamond-digging, and had become one of the institutions of the fields. from a mere bar it had grown into a hotel-bedrooms having been put up in the compound behind it, and a dining-room opened for the use of its boarders. still the old name--which had been a happy thought in the old days when ice was unknown and yearned for on the fields--was retained. so far as it was possible for an iron house under a blazing south african sun to be kept cool, it justified its name. ice, when the ice-machines had not broken down or the ice-manufacturers gone on the spree, was very plentiful there. hot brandies and sodas were never served out. and it was always refreshing to see its proprietress, pretty little kitty clay, who was always cheery and bright, however trying the times or the weather might be, and would look fresh, clean, and cool even in the misery of a diamond field dust-storm. `the frozen bar' was used by men who as a rule did not care to frequent common canteens and rub shoulders with the people who were to be met with in such places. bad characters fought rather shy of it. for instance, jim paliter, the gambler and sharper, who was always lurking about to look for some unwary one who would first shake the dice for drinks, and afterwards to while away the time throw for sovereigns, never made it his hunting-ground. his self-assurance was proof against a good deal, but kitty's quiet way of letting him know that his room was preferred to his company was too much for him. i.d.b.'s, as that section of the kimberley public who live by buying stolen diamonds are called, did not care to use it, unless they were prosperous and in the higher walks of their trade. it was situated near the kimberley mine and the diamond market, and all day long it did a roaring trade. the crowd who thronged its doors was representative of kimberley, for it contained men of many different races and types. men came there dressed in every description of costume, from moleskins, flannel shirts, and slouch hats, to suits of london-made clothes sent out from home by west end tailors. you would see the rugged, weather-worn faces of men who had been diggers all over the world wherever the earth had yielded gold or precious stones, and the dark, hungry-eyed, bird-of-prey-like faces of jews who are drawn to the spot where men find precious stones as vultures are drawn to a corpse. it was in the afternoon, just after luncheon, that the place would be most crowded. then kitty would be in her element, taking money, though more often `good-fors,' answering questions, chaffing, and laughing over the news of the day--the latest scandal or the best joke against some one--and making comments upon it, very often more humorous than polite. poor, cheery, big-hearted little kitty, the best woman in the world--so many a man said, and with some reason. maybe she used to laugh merrily enough at stories she ought not to have listened to, and the remarks she made were perhaps not over womanly, still no one could deny that she had a tender woman's heart. in the early days of the fields, when hardships were greater, and the ups and downs of life were more marked, there were many who had good reason to be grateful to her. she had been a friend in need to many a man who from illness or accident had been pushed down and was likely to be trampled upon in the fierce struggle for existence in the first days of the rush to the new diggings. there were generally boarding at the `frozen bar' one or two men for whose custom the other licensed victuallers did not yearn--men whom kitty had known in their brighter days, and whom she would not go back upon because they were down on their luck and out of a billet. she was nearer thirty than twenty, and her life had been rather a hard one, though it had left very few traces on her bright little face, and her troubles had not made her laugh less cheery or her smile less kind, though perhaps they had caused that dash of cynicism which sometimes showed itself in her talk. she had begun life as a ballet-girl in a london theatre, had travelled half over the world with a theatrical company, and at cape town had married a diamond field man who had taken her up to kimberley. her husband, whom she had never cared for much, turned out anything but a satisfactory one. but her married life did not last very long. less than a year after her marriage, a middle-aged female arrived on the diamond fields and laid claim to her husband, and as she was a person of great determination, and was able to prove that she had married him some years before in london, she carried him off in triumph, leaving kitty to find out whether or no a bad husband was better than none at all. kitty would probably have answered this in the negative, for she was very well able to take care of herself. she started `the frozen bar' and prospered there, and if she had only been good at saving money would have become quite a rich woman. one evening there were several men lounging in the bar listening to kitty's chaff and stories, when some one started a subject which made her look a good deal graver than usual. "so your friend jack is back again in the camp," one of her customers had said. "jack--which jack? there are a good many jacks on the fields, you know," kitty answered; but with a note of trouble in her voice which suggested that the other's words had conveyed some news to her that she was sorry to hear. "jack douglas, i mean. he has let his prospecting job down the river slide, and he is back in the camp again, and he has been back for a week, and been on the spree all the time." "how that chap has gone to the bad! i remember him when he was quite a decent fellow, and to-day i saw him with some of the biggest thieves in the camp--jim paliter, ike sloeman, and all that gang." "mark my words, we shall see jack douglas run in for i.d.b. some of these fine days; he is going that way pretty quick," another man said; and there was something in his tone and expression as he spoke which irritated kitty into showing a good deal of feeling. "why do you talk about my friend jack? i don't have friends, only customers, and when they have spent their money and gone to grief there is an end of them so far as i am concerned. but he used to be your friend jack once upon a time; why don't some of you fellows try and give him a help instead of pointing at him, and saying he has gone to the bad?" she said. "oh, he is no good; he has gone too far to be helped,"--"it's all his own fault,"--"he will never do any good here, he ought to clear out," were the answers to kitty's suggestion. the men, though they talked slightingly enough of jack, looked, one or two of them, half ashamed, for jack had been a popular man on the fields in the old days when he owned claims and was not badly off, and the men who discussed his fate so coolly had once been glad enough to be his friends. "clear out indeed! where to? to the devil for all you care. that is so like you men; that is how you stick to a friend." "listen to kitty; why, she seems to be quite sweet on jack douglas. look out, kitty, he would not be a good partner in the business; why, he'd precious soon drink up the profits," said a little jew who had been listening to the conversation though no one had been speaking to him. an angry flush came across kitty's face. for once, she could not think of a neat retort, and she answered, showing that she was hurt. "look here, mr moses or abrams, or whatever your name is, suppose you keep your advice till it's asked for. i never spoke to you when i talked about people helping jack; no one expects one of your sort to help a man, and jack would not care to take any help from you." "don't know about not wanting my help; he is glad enough to be helped by some very queer people," said the little jew as he walked out of the place, grumbling out something about never coming in again. "douglas may be a fool, and he may have gone to the bad, but i hate to hear a little cad like that sneering at him," said kitty; and then feeling that she had perhaps made rather a fool of herself she changed the conversation, and in a minute was laughing at some rather pointless story, chaffing another man about some joke there was against him, and seeming to be in the wildest spirits. "what good fun that woman is; such a lot of `go' in her," said one of the men who had left the place to another as they walked home together. "i don't like to hear her," said the other, a man whose ideals were somewhat higher, though his habits of life were even more irregular than those of most men on the diamond fields. "she is such a good little woman--a deal too good to talk as she does." these men would have been surprised if they had seen the woman they were talking about whom they had left in such high spirits. the place was empty, she was leaning with her elbows on the bar and her shapely hands covering her face, sobbing as if her heart would break. yes, she thought, she was a fool to have cared anything for him or any other man. were they not all either hard, selfish, and heartless, or reckless, prodigal, and hopeless? with all her knowledge of the world she lived in, she had made what her experience told her was the most hopeless of mistakes a woman can commit, for she had let herself care a great deal too much for jack, the ne'er-do-well and loafer, whose fate his old friends had been discussing. what they had said was probably true, she thought; it was no use doing anything for him. she had tried to help him. she had found some money to send him on a prospecting trip down the vaal--not because she believed in the new mine he was prospecting, but because she thought it would be a good thing for him to get away from kimberley--but here he was, having left his work to look after itself, back again in the camp at kimberley, enjoying its pleasures such as they were. yes, they were right, there was not much chance for him: his associates were about the worst lot in the camp. he seemed to be going the road which has taken so many a kimberley man to the prison, yet she couldn't leave him to travel it. ah, what a fool she was, she thought. she had forgotten to call her boy to shut the place up though it was late, and she hears a step at the door. at once she wipes her eyes and looks herself again. he was a man of about five-and-twenty. once he must have been very good-looking, and even then his face had some of its old grace about it. now, however, it told a very ugly story plainly enough. it was haggard and worn with drink and dissipation, and he had a reckless, defiant expression as if he refused to show a shame he felt. even for the diamond fields his dress was rather careless. one of his eyes was discoloured, while on his cheek he had marks of a more recent cut. any one who knew colonial life could sum him up. an englishman well-born, who has gone to the bad; a type of man to be met with all over the colonies, the man who has been sent abroad so that he should not disgrace his people at home. there are openings for such men abroad, so their kind friends at home say, and so there are;--canteen-doors, the gates of divers colonial jails, and then one six feet by two, not made too deep, the job being badly paid for. staggering up to the bar he asked kitty how she was, and called for a drink. there was rather a sharper tone than usual in her voice as she told him that it was too late and that she was going to close. "you had better go back to the `corner bar,' that is more in your line than this place, isn't it?" she added. "all right," he said, "i will clear out. i suppose i am not good enough for this shanty. so good night." "stop," she said, changing her mind as he turned to go away; "you needn't be in such a hurry; i want to ask you something. what are you doing--where are you staying now?" "staying? oh, anywhere. i slept on the veldt last night; i am going to sleep at old sloeman's place to-night. he is a good sort, is old sloeman--don't turn his back on a man because he is down on his luck. i am going to work with him." mr sloeman was the owner of some claims in one of the mines which nobody else had ever made pay, but in which, without doing much work, he professed to have found a great many diamonds. he also was the proprietor of a canteen of more than shady reputation, and had an interest in one or two kaffir stores. some people were unkind enough to suggest that the diamonds he professed to find in his claims were bought at his canteen, or at his stores, from kaffirs who had stolen them from their masters' claims. mr sloeman was notorious for the kindly interest he took in likely young men who were out of work. he gave them a billet in one of his stores, or in his canteen, or as an overseer to work in those wonderful claims. curiously enough a large proportion of those young men had attracted the attention of the detective police, and had found their way to the prison charged with buying stolen diamonds; but mr sloeman himself prospered. "stop, jack, you are not going up there to-ight. one of my rooms is empty, you can have that. i wouldn't go up there to-night," said kitty. jack said he would go--he was expected there. "stop, jack, you're not so bad that you can't talk sense. you know what old sloeman means, and what his game is. you have always been straight, whatever they can say of you. don't have anything to do with that old thief!" "yes, and a lot of good being straight has done me. old sloeman is a good deal better than the lot who turn their backs on me, and, thief or not, i am going to work with him?" jack said as he turned to leave the place. kitty gave a look at him as he lurched to the door, and then determined that she would have her way. "well, jack, have a drink before you go. i am sorry for what i said just now. we will have a drink together," said kitty, as she took down a bottle of whiskey and some soda-water. jack did not refuse--he seldom did refuse such an offer. "well, that will about finish him. it seems a shame, but he shan't go up there to-night, and that will settle it," she thought to herself as she more than half filled a tumbler with whiskey. "that is rather a stiffish drink," he said as he finished it. then he had another, and forgot all about going up to sloeman's, and kitty called her kaffir boy to shut up the place and put jack to bed in the spare room. the next morning, when she was at her breakfast, her kaffir servant came running and showing his white teeth. "the _baas_ i put to bed last night, him plenty bad this morning, missis." "take him this, he will get all right," said kitty, giving him some brandy in a glass and a bottle of soda-water. "that won't hurt him, though he will have to knock it off and pull himself together, for this child is going to look after him," she added to herself. very soon the kaffir came back. "the _baas_ he drink the brandy and throw de soda at me. i think him going mad," he said, rubbing his head. kitty was not much alarmed; she had seen a good deal of that sort of thing. she wondered whether it would be any good, if it were possible to persuade jack to become a good templar. she felt afraid that it would not be very easy, and that he would shun the rejoicing there would be over him. he wanted some one to keep him straight, she thought, and woman-like, she began to believe that one of her sex could do it. after some time jack came out of his room. he had a blank stare on his face and said nothing, but walked into the street without his hat on. he was evidently queer, very queer, kitty thought, as she led him back to his room and then sent her boy for the doctor. "he is in for a bad go of fever; rather a nasty case--typhoid symptoms; knocked his constitution to bits with drink," said the doctor. "he will want a lot of looking after. he had better go to the hospital--the free ward--the paying wards are full; not that they would be much in his line if they were not," he added. "i think he had better stay here, doctor," answered kitty. "i will see after nursing him; you know, doctor, nursing is rather my forte." "no one can see after him better than you, my dear," said the doctor, who knew kitty well. "i fancy, however, he won't be a very profitable boarder for you; but that's your look out." "oh, that is all right," said kitty. "come and see him again soon, doctor; remember i sent for you." the doctor said he would come round again soon, and drove off--thinking what a good little woman kitty was, and wondering whether there was anything more than pity in her feeling for that ne'er-do-weel jack douglas. "i trust she don't care for him, for i am afraid there would be only trouble in it for her, however it turned out," he thought to himself. the doctor was right; it turned out a very nasty case of fever, and for weeks it looked very black. for a time `the frozen bar' lost its popularity. kitty was always afraid that her customers were making too much noise, and in fact she showed that she would be more pleased if they had kept away from her establishment altogether. she was very seldom to be seen behind the bar, and when she was, there was none of her old brightness and fun about her. the old merry, almost reckless, look had left her, and there was a more tender and soft expression in her face. she spent most of her time in a room behind the house--the coolest and best bedroom she had. its late tenant, one of her most solvent boarders, had been somewhat disturbed and a good deal affronted at being moved out of it, but kitty was determined to have it for the sick man, who for weeks was tossing on the bed in delirium. for a long time he did not recognise her or know where he was; he was a boy at school or a cadet at sandhurst again. then the delirium left him and he knew her, though he hardly seemed to ask himself where he was or how she came to be looking after him. perhaps the hours that poor little kitty spent nursing him as he got better were some of the happiest in her life. then he was never happy when she was away from him, and he used to watch her as a sick dog watches its master. he seemed so different, so much more like what he had been once, and so unlike what he had become on the diamond fields. when he grew stronger and able to talk about how he became ill, tears came into his eyes when he thanked her for her kindness. "if it had not been for you i should have gone up to old sloeman's place at the west end, and if i had not died there should have become one of his lot," he said. "how good you have been to me!" as he grew stronger she began to think that he knew her secret, and there was something in his face which seemed to tell her that he felt something more than gratitude for her. then she hardly ever came near him. he did not want any more nursing, she thought. it was the first day he had got out of bed; she had been talking to him about himself in her old cheery manner, telling him that if he choose to pull himself together there was no reason why he should not succeed and do as well as any one else, when what she had been half expecting for some time came. "hers was the only influence," he said, "which could keep him straight. he knew she cared for him. if she would marry him he would be able to keep away from drink." then she told him the truth. yes, she did care for him, and would marry if he wished it. but first of all he must show her that he could reform; he must swear off drink, and what was more to the point, keep off it too. she wasn't any great shakes, she knew, but she wasn't going to marry a man who was always on the drink. she knew too much to do that, she said. he promised that he would reform, and it was agreed that they were to wait for a year and then they were to be married and leave the diamond fields, and go to some other colony. he was no great prize, this shattered invalid, who was far more likely than not to return to his old ways. but kitty, for all that, had a hard struggle with herself not to take him as he was, instead of waiting and perhaps losing him altogether. "no, she would not marry him there, it wouldn't be fair to him," she said; "she would wait till he was the man he was before he ever took to drink, and then if he cared to marry her she would be the proudest woman in the world." then she talked over a plan she had for him. she had bought some claims in the dutoitspan mine, and he must work them for her. she said she was sure the ground would turn out well, and they would make lots of money. he promised that he would turn over a new leaf, and he said and thought too that she was the kindest-hearted and dearest little woman in the world; and he felt eager to begin work, and show her what a splendid specimen of the reformed character he was going to become. that is how jack douglas, who had utterly gone to the bad in the opinion of most men who knew him, got a start again. of course their claims ought to have turned out well, and they ought to have found a big diamond which would have made their fortune all at once. but kitty's belief in the claims proved to be rather unfounded: some weeks they paid expenses, some they did not. jack douglas ought at once to have become a reformed character, but he did not. more than once work was at a standstill in their claims for days, and he had to come to kitty, shamefaced and haggard, with a sad story of transgression to tell. but she persuaded him to try again, and did her best to keep him straight, and at last he became stronger and better. men began to think that he had some chance, he had been steady for a long time. kitty was going to succeed in making something of him. he began to take some pride in himself, and at the end of twelve months he was a better man than he had been for years. at that time there was an outbreak of kaffirs and griquas on the border of the province, and troops were raised on the diamond fields. there was plenty of military enthusiasm. times were bad, and the diamond fields answered to the call for men to serve their country at five shillings a day. store-keepers who could supply uniforms, and transport-riders who had waggons and oxen, came forward to help their country in its hour of need at a considerable profit to themselves. for douglas, the chance was just what he longed for. kitty did not try to prevent him from going out, for she thought it was the best thing he could do. she knew all his history now. how he had got into some trouble at sandhurst, and had been sent abroad by his stern old uncle, who had determined not to leave the family acres to one who, he thought, was certain only to bring disgrace upon his family. she thought it only natural that he should wish to volunteer and take the chance of showing that there was something in him. when the diamond field horse left the camp she went out to see them off, and felt proud of her lover, as she saw him ride away in his troop. "he won't come back a trooper," she said to herself, "if there is much fighting to be done." she was right about his not coming back a trooper. when there was any work to be done, he was in the thick of it, and he had some opportunities of showing that soldiering was a trade he was fit for. promotion, such as it is, comes quickly in a colonial corps, and when he came back he had a commission. he came back a new man, proud of and confident in himself. for years his life had been all down the hill, and until kitty had stretched out her kind little hand to help him, every one had been content to speculate as to how long it would take him to get to the bottom. perhaps he would have hardly cared to think how much she had done for him. she was so fond of him and proud of him, it was only natural, he thought, but still it was gratifying. he was very pleased to see her again, and her bright little face and cheery manner were very charming to him. he, of course, was conscious that he was going to marry beneath him. still he had a notion that he would get on better with kitty than any one else he had ever met. though he was a gentleman of very excellent family, he was not a very refined person, and kitty's peculiarities of manner were not drawbacks in his opinion. the day for the wedding had been almost settled when the troubles in zululand began. jack must needs go to it. it was too good a chance to miss, and kitty had to make up her mind to wait. so she said good-bye to him, and he went off to join a corps of irregular colonial horse as a captain. she stopped at kimberley and looked after the `frozen bar.' she was terribly anxious when the first bad news came from zululand, and until she heard that he was all right. but she tried to be brave and be thankful that he was having a chance of distinguishing himself. she prospered fairly well, though she began to encourage a class of custom which was not very remunerative. the warriors who had served with jack in the diamond field horse took to frequenting the bar. they found that if they only talked enough about jack, and told stories that redounded to his credit, kitty would take the cards they signed for drinks in lieu of ready money without murmuring, and she would listen to these stories, somewhat to the neglect of gentlemen of the diamond market who, if their lives were less romantic, paid with greater regularity for what they had to drink. there was a good deal to do in zululand for the irregular horse, and when there was anything to be done, jack was in his right place. he was on the zlobani hill on that fatal day on which so many of the light horse were killed. there were a good many brave deeds done that day, comrade risking life to save comrade in that wild rush from the kaffirs who had again out-manoeuvred their white foes. jack was cool and collected on that day, as he usually was in danger. as he rode down the hill for his life he heard a shout behind him. a young guardsman, who had come out on special service, had come to grief; his horse had been killed and the kaffirs were almost upon him. how jack got through the kaffirs and managed to get away with the man he took up he hardly knows, but he did, and he brought him back to safety. it happened that the youngster whom jack saved was the son of a great english statesman, and heir to half a county; and this was all the better for him, for nothing now-a-days gets much of a price unless it is well advertised: and the brave deeds of soldiers (as some men have learnt to their profit) are no exceptions to this rule. as it was, jack's deed was much written about by special correspondents, and when the news came home, much talked about in london drawing-rooms; and in time the news came out to south africa, that jack was to be made a v.c. when the news came to kimberley, some one lent kitty a packet of english papers so that she could read what they were saying about jack at home. she had taken them and one of jack's letters and had gone up the garden, as a desolate bit of land was called where some trees had been planted, and some feeble attempt at gardening had been made; she wanted to be by herself to think it all over. she read all about jack in the papers, and learnt that he was the nephew of the general douglas, who was a distinguished officer in the crimea. the report said he had been at harrow, but was silent about his career at sandhurst. the papers were full of him, and every one at home seemed to be proud of the brave young colonial soldier, who at the peril of his life had saved the high-born boy, about whom everybody was glad to have an excuse for talking and writing. his picture was in two of the illustrated papers. there was a leader about him in one of the dailies. of course kitty thought the latter a very beautiful piece of writing, and wondered what all the classical quotations meant, and who the long-named persons to whom jack was compared were. and this was the man who loved her--this hero, this brave soldier. how she wished she was different from what she was!--a lady who would be fit for him, not a poor half-taught woman, who had lived a hard life amongst rough, coarse people, and had got the little education she had from the bits of plays she had learnt and the novels she had read, and the queer side of society which she had seen. well, if she was the finest lady in the world, she thought, she would not be worthy of him. cynical little kitty, who was so well able to sum any one up at their right value, and whose estimates were seldom too favourable, had at last set up an idol which she bowed down before and worshipped none the less reverently because her experience ought to have taught her that it was made of rather poor clay. she had been sitting some time thinking over her past, and wondering what her future would be, torturing herself by doubting whether he really did care for her, or could care for her, and reading over his letter again and again, when she heard jack douglas's name spoken by some one. she was sitting on a bench by a cactus hedge; there were two men on the other side who were talking about him, as a good many people in kimberley were. "i know all about him," one man said; "he comes from the same part of the country that i do. he would have had his uncle, general douglas's property, only he got into some row at sandhurst, and his uncle said he had disgraced himself, and turned him adrift. my people tell me that the general intends to have him back again and forgive him, he is so pleased at his getting the v.c. so he'd be all right, only he has been fool enough to have got engaged to some woman out here. what's her name? that woman who keeps `the frozen bar.' "by george, what a fool! not that she isn't a jolly little woman in her way, but one wouldn't care to introduce her to one's people at home as one's wife," said the other. "yes; i spoke to him about it when he was here last, but he didn't take what i said over well. i fancy he knew he was making a fool of himself and was sick of it, though it didn't matter then, as there wasn't much chance of his uncle ever making it up with him," the other man said, and then they began talking about something else, little knowing who had overheard, and what a nasty wound their words had made. kitty sat still where she was, listening to the two men's voices. for some minutes she felt numb and stupid, knowing that she was wounded terribly, without knowing how or why. then she began to realise what the scrap of conversation she had overheard meant. "he was making a fool of himself, he could not get out of it," that is what his friends were saying about him, she thought to herself, and it was true enough too, at least the first proposition was, she told herself. he had talked of his early life to her once or twice, but always as something that was past and gone, and which had nothing to do with him as he was then. now, however, she knew that he could go back to it if it were not for her. he had got to choose between giving up his chance of returning to it and giving her up; that was all. she could remember something in his manner when she last saw him which she did not quite understand then; now she knew what it meant--he knew he was making a fool of himself. now, when he had distinguished himself he would feel this all the more. she alone was keeping him from the life he was born for. now when he knew what he was giving up, what would he do? would he come back to her out of pity or duty or a sense of honour, or would he desert her? no, he never should do that; she would never give him the chance. if he married her how often he would repent it!--how often he would think of what he had given up for her! "yes," she thought to herself, as she walked back to her house with all the gaiety and happiness taken out of her life, "she saw her way." some weeks after ulundi had been fought and the war was over, jack douglas was sitting in an arm-chair at the crown hotel at maritzburg, reading a letter from england. it was from his uncle, the general, and was to the point, as the old gentleman's letters usually were. he had heard of jack's gallant conduct, and was very pleased. he was content to let bygones be bygones and receive him again. he was to come back and live at the hall, and he would have the place eventually. the general went on to say that he had met with some one who knew of jack at kimberley, and had heard an absurd story of his intending to make a disgraceful marriage with a barmaid. if he intended to do that he need not answer the letter; otherwise he had better come home as soon as the war was over. jack read the letter over and over again with a troubled expression on his face. he did not like to give kitty up. he was bound not to. he remembered, and it was not a very pleasant memory, all she had done for him, and what he probably would have been if she had not again and again helped him up after he had slipped down. if it had not been for her a broad arrow would as likely as not have been the decoration which he would have gained. then what a jolly, cheery, bright little woman she was, and how devoted she was to him! he wouldn't give her up, be hanged if he would; he had plenty of money in his pocket, was thoroughly pleased with himself, and every one thought him a very fine fellow, so he would do what he liked. he would write the general a fine, manly letter, full of generous feeling, telling him that he would not give up the woman who had done so much for him. he sat down and wrote away, and then read his letter over. there was a little too much tall talk in it; it was the sort of thing that would make his uncle very angry. jack tore it up. then as he began to write another letter he seemed to see the other side of the question. how much he was giving up--a fine old place, as good a position as a man could want, and instead of that he was to end his days in south africa or in some other colony. his v.c. would not be much good to him unless he stuck to colonial soldiering, which was a poor life. no; he would put off writing the letter. then he remembered that he had not heard from kitty for some time. she used to send him every week a funny, ill-spelt letter, in which all the gossip and news of kimberley which found its way to `the frozen bar'--and there was very little that did not--was told very humorously. he would walk to the post office. on his way he met several men he knew who were in high spirits because they were going home. "wasn't jack going home too?" they asked. "what, going to stop in that forsaken country! by jove it seemed a pity too, after he had scored so." however, they were too full of their own affairs and the good time they intended to have, to trouble themselves much about him. jack, as he parted with them, felt he wished he was going with them. it was useless to try not to regret it. he was giving up a great deal for kitty. he was a fine fellow, and as an honourable man there was no other course for him to take, but it was a thousand pities things did not arrange themselves better. there was a letter from kitty: but curiously enough it was dated from capetown. at first, as he read it, he hardly could understand it. "dear jack,- "it is all a mistake there being anything between you and me. we don't suit. your people would have nothing to do with me, and you had better go home to them, now that every one must be proud of you. you would break down as a returned prodigal if you had to answer for me as well as yourself. don't answer this letter, for i am sick of the country, and before you get this shall have cleared. kitty." it would be difficult to describe jack's feelings as he read this letter again and again. at first he felt mortified to think that kitty could have persuaded herself to give him up. then through the matter-of-fact wording of the letter he saw the real state of the case, and knew that she was giving him up, as she thought, for his good. he would follow her, and tell her that he refused to be released from their engagement, and tell her that after all she had done he cared more for her than he did for england, or position, or anything else. yes, that would be the right thing to do, he told himself, only he remembered that he did not know where she was, so he could not answer her letter or go to her. well, it was not his fault; if she would give him up he could not help it. after all, the strongest feeling he experienced was one of relief. he had got out of it. he would answer his uncle's letter and say nothing about kitty. what a lucky thing it was that he had put off writing! he did not, however, write by that mail. he went home by it himself, instead. when he got home he was welcomed most cordially. his uncle considered that he had atoned for the disgrace he had got into, and felt that he could once more take a pride in his nephew, and think with pleasure of his representing their family, and owning the old place when he was gone. every one in the county agreed with the old general, and jack was made much of and looked upon as a hero. his uncle gave him some horses, and he had plenty of hunting and shooting, and generally had a good time of it. of course he sometimes thought about kitty, but when he did he half confessed to himself that not for her or any one else would he give up the life he was enjoying so much, and go back to south africa. besides, he did not know where she was. he might have found out, however, for she was at kimberley, and was still the proprietress of `the frozen bar.' she had never gone farther than capetown; something told her that she would not have much difficulty in defeating any attempt jack might make to find out where she had gone to. a list of passengers of a steamer bound for home told her that she need not take any more trouble on that score. he had taken her at her word, and had wasted very little time in making up his mind to do so. then she went back to `the frozen bar,' for the treaty she was making for its sale was not concluded--and she is there still. she has made a good deal of money, and lost the greater part of it speculating in shares. and it is to her bad luck that some people on the diamond fields attribute her being a little more hard and bitter than she was. still, she is good-natured and kind-hearted, and ready to help people who are in trouble, though she is not likely to have a more tender feeling than pity for any one. the other day she saw jack's wedding in an english paper. he married a lady of good family and some property, who was fascinated by his good looks and his reputation as a hero. he is prosperous and respected, and he has almost forgotten all about the days when he seemed to be such a hopeless ne'er-do-well. story 3. diamond cut diamond. it was a delightfully cool evening, after a hot dusty day on the diamond fields, and mr moses moss, attorney-at-law of kimberley, south africa, was sitting under the verandah of his house, smoking a cigar, and sipping a cool drink as it was his custom to do before turning in for the night. as he smoked his thoughts turned to his prospects and his position, and on the whole they were of a somewhat cheerful and self-satisfied character. it was only a few years since he had hurried away from england a broken man. he had found the temptations to overstep the boundary which separates sharp from malpractice too much for him, and his conduct had attracted the meddlesome attentions of the incorporated law society, who had made itself very disagreeable indeed to him. the time he had spent on the diamond fields, however, had done wonders. he was worth a nice little sum of money; and as an attorney and money-lender he had got together a very lucrative connection. on the diamond fields he had remembered his english experiences. they had taught him the good old maxim, that honesty was the best policy, and this had been the golden rule of his life, which he had always acted upon so far as compatible with the practice of an attorney whose clients happen, as a matter of fact, to be men of somewhat shady characters. however, he kept always on the windy side of the law, although the temptations to go just a little crooked were very strong. there were at that time many diamonds to be bought, for very reasonable prices, by persons who were content to buy under circumstances which the law punished with great severity. mr moss had come to the conclusion, however, that dealing in stolen diamonds was too risky a business to follow. he used to make it his boast that he hardly knew a rough diamond when he saw one, and he said that he never wished to have any dealings in them. indirectly, of course, he--like every one else on the diamond fields--lived by diamonds. his clients as a rule were in what was called the illicit. but he could not help that, he said. of course he was happy enough to defend any one who had got into trouble for buying stolen diamonds. then if any one came to him to borrow money it was not his business to ask questions as to what the money was wanted for. the money was generally wanted at once, and gold rather than notes or cheques was in request. but those circumstances did not suggest anything to mr moss, or if they did, he kept his thoughts to himself. he was too busy in considering the large percentage he could charge and the security he could get to bother himself about matters that did not concern him. he did not wish to be told anything about what his clients thought of doing with the money they came to him hurriedly to borrow. when on one occasion a man who wanted a hundred pounds in gold at once was indiscreet enough to blurt out something about having a chance to get hold of a `big un' for that sum which was worth ten times the money, mr moss was very much hurt at being asked to share any such guilty knowledge. he certainly did not go so far as to refuse to entertain the loan, but he took care to ease his conscience by charging an extra twenty per cent. some people said that mr moss in a way avenged the claimholders who suffered from the depredations of the illicit diamond-buyers, and that he preyed upon them as they preyed on the mining interest, and there is no doubt a good share of the price of many a stolen diamond got into his clutches. it was characteristic of the sources from which he acquired his money, that the very house in which he lived should have once belonged to one ike hart, who in his day had been a very notorious buyer of stolen diamonds, and had flourished wonderfully until he bought one diamond too many, which happened to have been sent him by the police. he had had the advantage of mr moss's professional assistance at his trial and advice about his private affairs. mr hart had been convicted, and had been sent to do a sentence of hard labour on the capetown breakwater, and mr moss had become possessed of his house. ike hart was said to have sworn that he would be even with moss, and to have declared that he had been robbed. however, mr moss felt satisfied, as he reviewed his career, that he had never done anything that the law could take hold of. if in one or two cases he had grabbed somewhat greedily at his clients' property, those clients were out of the way of harming him, and there was not the slightest chance of his being made to disgorge any of the plunder he had got together. mr moss's house stood back from the road in a good-sized garden--if you could call a place a garden in which nothing grew but a few cacti and a mass of straggling tobacco-trees--which was separated from the road by a high, corrugated-iron fence. as mr moss smoked in his verandah, he began to think that amongst the bushes at the end of the garden he could distinguish a form of a man stooping over the ground. at first he felt nervous; then he became curious, as he made the figure out more clearly. it certainly was the figure of a man, and he seemed to be digging for something. "what was he after? what could he hope to find?" mr moss asked himself. he would find out that for himself, he determined. so he got up, and slinking along very quietly in the shade of the fence, he crept up close to the man who, for reasons best known to himself, had visited his compound at night. the man went on working without noticing him. he was digging into the ground with a broken bit of spade, and seemed to be very intent upon what he was about. close to where the man was digging there was a water-barrel, and mr moss got behind it, and watched his visitor with considerable interest. when mr moss called to mind who the former owner of the premises was, he began to have a suspicion of what his visitor was looking for. he remembered that there had been some talk of ike hart's having several big diamonds hidden away when he was arrested. the man dug for some time, then scratched about with his hands in the hole, then measured from the wall with a tape-measure, and then set to work again. all of a sudden he threw down the spade and picked something up. mr moss's heart gave a jump when he saw this. the man had picked up a bundle of rag in which something seemed to be wrapped. the stranger unfolded it, and as he did so mr moss sprang from behind the water-barrel, and placed his hand on his shoulder. "who are you? and what's that you have found in my garden? come, drop it, or i will call the police," mr moss said, for the other was an undersized, slight man, and he did not feel very much afraid of him. "leave me alone! keep your hands off, or i will make a hole in yer!" the man answered. as he spoke the attorney saw that he had something in his hand which glistened rather nastily in the moonlight. "put up that knife, or i will shout out; there is a policeman at the corner of the road, most likely, and they can hear me at the house across the road," he said. "leave me alone, then, and i will clear out. i don't want to have nothing to do with you," the man said; and he gave a wriggle away. "give me what you have just taken from my garden, then," said mr moss; "it belongs to me--i saw you pick up the--" "hush! you fool!" the man said, interrupting him. "maybe there is a peeler outside in the road, and they would hear that word if they were within half a mile of us." "look here, my man, you don't think i'm going to let you take away what you have just found--you haven't got a prospecting licence to look for diamonds in my garden, so just give it up, and i will say nothing about what i caught you at." "you bet you won't, but it happens the diamond is mine. the party who planted it there left it me; that party was poor ike hart, who died the other day in capetown jail, that's where i've just come from. when poor old ike saw he weren't going to live to get out, he manages to tell me about this. he was a pal of mine, was ike, and he thought he'd do me a good turn. i've tramped up here from capetown to get this big 'un." "see here, my man," said mr moss, "i don't want to be hard on you. you say you have a right to the diamond because ike hart gave it you--i say it's mine because it's in my garden. suppose we compromise the matter; come into my house, and we will talk it quietly over." "i don't mind going into your house, gov'ner, but keep your hands off me, or you'll have more than you like," the little man said, emphasising his remarks with a gesture with the knife, which made the attorney feel uncomfortable. "now, gov'ner, what's yer game? if you won't speak first, i will. come, you've got into this by seeing what you have seen, and i don't mind speaking out fair. what do you say to halves?" the man said, after he had sat down in a chair in mr moss's sitting-room. "there's enough for us both, seems to me. ike hart told me he could easily have got eight thou, for it, and he intended to have taken it home if he hadn't been run in." "eight thousand! you're talking nonsense. hart was not such a fool as to think that; but let's have a look at it," mr moss said, as he got a glance at the stone which the other held in his hand. "no, you don't, gov'ner," the man said, as mr moss stretched out his hand for the diamond. the attorney thought for a minute or two. for a second the idea flashed across his mind that it might be a police trap. he had never bought a diamond illegally before, and the laws against having rough diamonds in your possession unless you could account for them, and were either a licensed dealer or buyer, were very strict. if he kept the diamond in his possession, instead of giving it up to the crown, he would be committing a criminal offence, for which he would be liable to a severe punishment. he did not believe that the police would try to trap him. besides, he was impressed with his visitor's manner, and thought that he seemed to be anxious to keep the diamond. moss looked at the diamond, and thought that it was the biggest stone he had ever seen, and he began to long to get it into his possession. he did not, as he said, know much about diamonds, but no one could have lived a few months on the diamond fields without knowing that such a stone as the one he saw was worth a great deal of money. ike hart was probably right; it was likely enough that he could have got eight thousand for it, and that it was really worth much more. as mr moss looked at it, a reckless greed came over him, and he determined that he would have it. "well, i suppose we needn't quarrel; your offer is a fair one, we will go halves; and as you know me and i don't know you, i will have the diamond and will give you your share when i sell it; i dare say i can dispose of it more advantageously than you can," he said, smiling blandly at his visitor. "dare say you can, gov'ner; but i sticks to it till i get the pieces for it," was the answer. and nothing that the attorney could urge would shake his determination. mr moss generally had in a safe in his house a large sum of money in notes and gold. the people who came to borrow from him often preferred money to cheques on bankers, and they would often pay well for change. at that time it happened that he had a thousand sovereigns tied up in canvas bags in his safe, which he had procured for a customer whom he had reason to believe would come to him the next day. so after he had in vain tried to persuade the other to trust him with the diamond, he determined that he would then and there buy him out; and he hoped that the sight of the gold would be more than the other could stand, and that he would be induced to sell very cheap. mr moss opened the safe, eyeing his visitor somewhat mistrustfully as he did so. "well, it happens i can buy the stone from you at once. i happen to have a hundred pounds--it's a good bit of money to pay for one's own property, for that diamond is my property; but there, it's your luck. now hand it over, and let's have a look," moss said, as he held out his hand for the stone. the little man put the stone down on a piece of white paper on the table. "hands off, gov'ner," he said, emphasising his words with a motion with the knife; "put down the pieces alongside, and we will say if it's a deal." moss got out a bag containing a hundred sovereigns, and opening it he put it down on the table. "it ain't a deal, gov'ner, it wants a lot more than that lot to buy my diamond. bless yer, ike hart told me what it was worth. it's worth twenty times that to me, and a lot more to a gent like you," the little man said, but moss noticed that his eyes glistened at the sight of the gold, and he looked at it hungrily. however, when moss declared he had no more money, the man put the diamond back in his pocket and made as if he intended to go away. moss determined that he would get hold of the diamond. what did a hundred pounds more or less matter? that stone was worth a fortune. he determined he would not miss it. if he could only summon up courage to snatch up a revolver that was on the top of his safe, he might get hold of the diamond without paying for it. the little man's eyes followed his. "look 'ere, gov'ner, don't yer try that game on. if yer was to reach, i shall have to stick this into yer, and may be we would be both sorry when it was too late," he said. moss knew that he daren't carry out the little idea that had come into his mind. if he got the diamond he would have to pay for it, so he took down another bag; then he shut up the safe to show that no more money was forthcoming. but it was no good. "four thousand sovereigns ike said any of the big illicit buyers would give me for it," the little man said. moss began to think that they probably would, and he began to feel afraid that the prize was going to slip away from him. then he took down another bag, and after that another, and another, until he had offered all the money he had. then at last the man seemed to be unable to stand the sight of so much money. "well, it's cruel to let a stone like this go for that lot; but there, if you've no more pieces, and 'olds to your claim to the diamond, anythink for a quiet life. it's a bargain--lend me something to put the stuff in." there was a black travelling-bag in the room, and into this the contents of the canvas bags were poured. the cheerful clinking of the sovereigns was anything but grateful music to mr moss; it seemed like giving away the money, for if he had only chanced to find the diamond first it would have been his for nothing. his visitor, however, listened as if the sound was a pleasing novelty to him. for all that, as he slouched out with the bag in his hand, he grumbled out something about having thrown away a fortune, and it was enough to make ike hart turn in his grave for him to have let the stone go so cheap. when he was left alone mr moss thought that under the circumstances he might indulge in the luxury of another cigar, and another glass of hollands. as he smoked he thought of the wonderful diamond he had bought, and what he could do with it. it was a wonderful stone indeed, he had never seen a bigger, and the colour seemed good enough. a thousand pounds was a good lot of money to venture in a business a man knew so little about as mess did about diamonds; still he felt very confident that there was a good deal more to be made out of it. the worst of it was that the law would prove a terrible stumbling-block to him. he began to feel quite nervous when he thought that if the police only knew of his having the diamond in his possession, they could seize it, and haul him off to the jail. for the first time he had gone wrong about a diamond, and laid himself open to the very stringent penalties which are imposed upon the unlawful possession of diamonds. he knew that by the ordinance he would be bound to give up to the police the diamond that had been found in his garden. however, he thought he knew a trick worth two of that. after he had smoked for some time a plan came into his head, which, as he thought over it, seemed to be excellent. he invented a history for the diamond that had come into his possession, which would enable him to deal with it boldly and openly. it should make him famous as the man who found the great moss diamond. the newspapers should all write about him, and he would show his wonderful gem at windsor castle. then the money that he would sell it for--that was the pleasantest thought of all, and mr moss wove all sorts of blissful visions of the future as he looked into the smoke of his cigar. jobling's sell is a not over prosperous digging on the banks of the vaal river. who jobling was, and what his sell might have been, are now rather matters of legend than history, so long ago do the days seem when the place was first rushed, though, as a matter of fact, it is considerably less than twenty years ago. the story goes that jobling was a wily speculator in strong drinks, and other necessaries, who, having laid in a stock of brandy and groceries, repaired to the spot afterwards named after him, and managed to promote a rush to it by spreading false news of many diamonds having been found there. it is said that jobling got into rather hot water for this, and was sentenced by a jury of diggers to be dragged through the river as a punishment for having created a bogus rush. but just at the critical moment when the sentence was going to be executed some one found a diamond. then several other good diamonds were found, and it turned out that jobling, whatever his intentions might have been, really had been a great benefactor. it is certainly a matter of history that jobling's sell was a wonderfully paying place in its palmy day, before it was more or less worked out. old hawkins, who had wandered all over the world as a gold-digger, but had for some reason or other taken root at jobling's, was the only digger who remained on there from the old days. the rest of its population were men who went there for a spell, after having tried other digging on the river, and soon gave it up. hawkins liked to talk of the big diamonds he had seen found there. or he would walk along the banks and point out where the big hotel used to be, and where the gambling saloons stood in the days when jobling's sell boasted of all the properties of a prosperous mining camp. those days were over, and the thirty or so diggers who formed the camp only made enough to live on. one saturday afternoon a knot of them were collected at the solitary canteen which supplied the wants of jobling's sell. they were not drinking more than was good for them, for money was scarce, and the host, though he swaggered to strangers much about the future in store for `jobling's,' did not back up his faith by showing any willingness to score up drinks to its present population. "say, boys, have you heard about old mick hawkins's luck?" said a big man with a black beard, jack austin by name, who was lounging at the bar. "no,--what? has he found anything big?" asked another man. "well, he has found a man who is flat enough to give him a ten-pound note for his claim. it is a kimberley jew who has made that investment," answered austin. "never met with that sort of jew, and i have seen a good bit of them in one country or another," said another man, who was believed to have had a very varied experience of life, before he found himself digging on the banks of the vaal river. "well, it's a solid fact; hawkins showed me the ten-pound note, and he would be here now spending it, only the new proprietor of that claim of his has promised him five pounds a week to work for him." "things are looking up at last, boys," said the proprietor of the canteen. "i told you they would soon recognise the splendid openings for investment there are down the river. what will you take, boys? have a drink with me just for luck." no one refused the offer, though the enthusiasm the landlord expressed was not shared by the others. after they had emptied their glasses, some one suggested that they should go round to hawkins's claim, and with that intention they lounged out of the canteen, and strolled along the bank in that direction. "stop, boys, and watch 'em; why it makes quite a picture. did you ever see such a fool?" said austin, holding up his hand and pointing to an opening in the thorn trees and underwood, through which they could get a view of the hawkins's claim. the claim was one which had been almost worked out in the days when the place was first rushed. hawkins, a grizzled old fellow, was seated with a pipe in his mouth, watching two kaffirs picking away at the side of the claim, filling buckets with the gravel, which another kaffir was carrying across to the sorting-table, at which the new proprietor of the claim was seated. that person was no other than our old friend, mr moses moss. he was got up as a digger, wearing a red flannel shirt, and a very broad-brimmed hat, and he had put on, though there was no particular use for them, a pair of long boots. "looks as though he was going to find a diamond every minute; he will tire a bit of the game before long," jack austin said, as he watched the new arrival on the river. "the doctor ordered him an open-air life, so he gave up his practice. he was a lawyer in kimberley, and down he comes here to dig. did any one ever hear of such a thing?" "hullo, by god, what's his game now? what's he up to? blessed if i don't believe he has found!" another digger said, as to their surprise moss suddenly threw his hat into the air with a tremendous shout of triumph. "hullo, mate, what are you up to now? what do yer think you have got hold of?" growled out old hawkins, as he came up with his pipe in his mouth. "a diamond!--a wopping big diamond! oh, hurrah! hurrah!" mr moss cried, executing a dance of triumph. the other men crowded round moss, eager to see what he had found. hawkins looked rather mortified. it was somewhat annoying that a diamond should have been found in his claim the day after he sold it. his expression, however, changed a good deal when the other handed him the diamond. "say, did you find this just now; it's a mighty rum thing to find in a claim; why--" hawkins was grumbling out, when austin gave him a kick, and motioned to him to keep quiet. "magnificent diamond, sir; the finest stone that ever has been found. did ever man see such luck? here you come down just for a lark, and find a fortune; but there, luck is one of the queerest things out!" jack austin said. "well, i _am_ lucky, i don't mind owning it; but there, boys, come and have a drink, every blessed one of you, to celebrate the biggest diamond that ever has been found down the river, which you just saw me find," mr moss said, and the diggers seemed to fall in with his humour willingly enough, following him without any more pressing to the canteen. jack austin might have been noticed to wink slightly at the proprietor of the canteen, before the diamond was shown to the latter. his enthusiasm when he saw it was unbounded. "knocks the komnoor into a cocked hat. i always said we would show 'em all the way, some day. what's it to be, sir, champagne--i've got a case in stock?" he said, and in a few second she was opening a case, and getting out some bottles. the wine was some which the canteen-keeper had bought at a sale in kimberley. it was a remnant which had failed to please the not over critical taste of the fields. he had bought it very cheap, and had kept it by him, knowing that on any extraordinary occasion, when a demand arose for it on the river, its want of quality would not matter. as the wine was being got out, jack austin touched the lucky digger on the shoulder. "beg pardon, sir, but about old hawkins; what are you going to do for him? it's a bit hard on him, seeing a stone like this found after he has just sold his claim." "hard! bless me no--a bargain is a bargain. i bought the claim for good or bad." "well, that's true enough; but he might make himself a bit nasty about it. you see it's rather a rum start your finding a stone like that in the ground you were working, and hawkins might get talking, and people are apt to be a bit uncharitable." mr moss looked a little uncomfortable. the man was right. hawkins ought to be put into a good temper, and after some little talk he took out a cheque-book and wrote out a cheque for fifty pounds, for austin had suggested that it would be as well to give it to hawkins at once, before he began to talk. hawkins took the cheque, looking very stolid. soon after he got it he hurried away, and might have been seen tramping across the veldt towards kimberley, where he changed it. when the glasses were filled, jack austin called to the company to drink to the health of mr moss, the lucky digger, who had just found the big diamond. "he has just given our friend hawkins another fifty, on account of the claim in which it was found. so you see he is a generous man, besides being an honest digger, and a jolly good chap," jack said. mr moss was much struck with the thirstiness of the river-diggers. the news of the find had very quickly travelled down the banks of the vaal, and men from various other camps looked into the canteen. when they finished the champagne they set to work at the brandy, and then at the square gin, and the cape smoke. nothing seemed to come amiss to them. there was one peculiarity in their manners, which somewhat amazed mr moss. they had a curious way of bursting into laughter about nothing at all, as far as he could see. they did not show any envy, but to a man were full of a generous wish to drink with the fortunate finder. their estimate of the value of the diamond was somewhat vague. one said fifty thou, another laughed at the idea of fifty thousand buying it, and seemed to have quite a contempt for such a paltry sum of money; though he would have had to have searched a long time in the pockets of his trousers before he could find sixpence. "a hundred thou, more like, that's what it's worth," he said, pretty confidently. "nice chap he is, to talk about a hundred thou. i think i have spent about enough money on that lot," moss thought to himself. he hated spending money, but still he thought that the more delighted he appeared to be about his find, the more genuine the find would seem to be. when the stock-in-trade of the canteen was just giving out, a man from kimberley, whom moss knew, came into the canteen. he was a diamond-buyer, of the name of jacobs, and moss rejoiced to think that at last he would be able to get a good opinion as to the value of his find. "well, moss, what's this i hear about your having turned digger, and found all at once? you have wonderful luck; show us the stone," the new-comer said. "well, you can have a look at it, though i don't suppose it is much in your way," moss said, as he gave it him. "my eye, it's a big 'un!" said the diamond-buyer, and then his expression changed. "what on earth is your game?" he asked. "who are you trying to get at?" "what's my game? why i want to know how much that is worth. you won't buy it yourself, i know, because you're only a small man; but what do you put its price down as?" "well, about half-a-crown, may be more, may be less; it's a pretty clever sell too," was to the astonishment of moss the answer he received. "why, moss, you don't mean to say any one has been fooling you with this." "fooling me! what do you mean? don't play any tricks with me, for i can't stand it. do you mean to tell me that ain't a diamond?" "diamond, of course it ain't a diamond!--not a real one, that's to say, it's a sham 'un. i have never seen one before, but i have heard of 'em before. joe aavons, who you know of, got them made for him at home somewhere, and he has sold one or two of 'em at night to illicit diamond-buyers." the man's face told moss that he was in earnest, and a roar of laughter from the diggers confirmed him. "well, mate, how about the big diamond; is it fifty or a hundred thou, that it's worth?" jack austin said, and the others gave vent to the suppressed merriment of the last few hours in a yell of laughter. it was too bad, moss thought, to treat him like that, after they had got him to pay for their liquor. it was terrible for him to think of the money he had lost, if his purchase turned out to be worthless. "yes, that is one of joe aavons' diamonds. i'll bet little dick starks has been working 'em off for joe, and they say they have made a lot of money out of them." "look here, what is dick stark like?" moss asked, rather eagerly. "he is a little chap, with a cast in one eye, and red hair. he is a pretty sharp customer, is dick." moss recognised the description only too well as that of the man whom he had seen find the diamond. without saying another word he left the canteen. the next day old hawkins took possession again of his claim; for mr moss was never seen more at jobling's sell. the story, however, very soon followed him back to kimberley, and the circumstances under which he was persuaded to pay a thousand pounds for the diamond became well-known; for messrs. aavons and stark, who were much elated at their success, told their particular friends, who repeated the story. mr moss never quite got over it; and though he never had any more transactions in diamonds he ceased to boast about his honesty, or even make any allusion to his knowledge of precious stones. story 4. the farm boschfontein. chapter one. "if we could get hold of one of these mines between us, we would show them how to work it, i guess. we wouldn't fool around the camp trying to float a company and let a lot of local men into the thing. we'd go straight home and give the british public a turn. couldn't you fancy yourself as the south african millionnaire chairman of the great diamond mining company, with a house in belgrave square, a country house with a blessed big park round it, the favourite for the derby in training at newmarket, and the best of everything that money could buy, eh, timson?" "don't, hardman, don't! i can't bear to think of it. the chances some of 'em here have had and the way they have thrown 'em away! if i had only been in their place i'd have done something for myself, but i came here too late." "too late be blowed! there are as good fish in the sea as ever came out, and there are as rich mines lying unworked and undisturbed as any that have been found, that's my opinion. how do we know that there is not another mine as rich as kimberley on which the grass and bush are growing, and the spring bucks are playing? we may be sitting on just such a mine now, for all you know." "by jove! it's enough to make a fellow wild when he thinks of the fortune that may be waiting for him to be picked up; but what's the good of thinking of it? no one has found a diamond mine that would pay to work since kimberley was opened." "what of that? they have found a dozen places such as we have seen to-day, where there are diamonds in small quantities. mark my words: sooner or later they will drop on to a place which will make the kimberley mine pretty sick, and if we could only get hold of such a mine, you with your knowledge of business and the city of london, and me--well, i know my way about--what couldn't we do with it?" as he spoke, mr bill hardman glanced at his companion, and an ominous smile played across his swarthy face. his words had evidently told with a good deal of effect. the two men were on their way home from an expedition from kimberley, to a mining camp in the orange free state. so it was not surprising that as they smoked their pipes under the shade of their cape cart, after an excellent luncheon, their conversation should turn to the topic which in griqualand west exercised men's minds most, diamonds and diamond mining. bill hardman was about forty-five, and there was something about him which suggested that he had knocked about the world a good deal. he was not a bad-looking man, but every now and then an expression came into his face which gave one an unpleasant impression, and suggested that he might be rather dangerous, either as a friend or an enemy. for years he had been a well-known character on the diamond fields, and there were many stories told about him which bore witness rather to his astuteness, than to his integrity. he called himself a digger, but no one could remember his owning a claim or doing any work. the calling to which he devoted himself in the early days of the fields was that of an exponent of faro, roulette, poker, and other games, more or less of chance. afterwards, when what was called the company mania broke out, rotten scrip and a rigged share market gave him more scope for speculation, and he became a comparatively respectable member of society. but notwithstanding his respectability, many of those who knew most about him would have considered that mr timson was not very prudent in choosing him for a companion. the latter was a young man of about twenty-five; his get-up, sleek, fresh-complexioned face and plump figure had a very english look, and he seemed as if he would be far more at home eating at a luncheon bar in the city, than picnicking on the south african veldt. though he had not been very long in south africa and knew little of the country, he believed very much in himself and in his business knowledge, and had a very great contempt for the people he found himself amongst. he had brought out a few thousand pounds with him and had done very well in his speculations, doubling his capital again and again, which was not difficult in those days of wild speculation, when every investment was going up. about that time people on the diamond fields had gone mad on the subject of new mines, even old hands who had seen place after place reported to be very rich turn out a failure, were again taking the fever for prospecting, while men who had just come out from home were simply delirious with it. to a new hand there is a singular charm in the idea of a new mine, and mr timson found the fascination of this form of speculation simply irresistible. mr hardman also had turned his attention to prospecting, and on this common interest the two men had struck up a very intimate acquaintanceship. "yes," said hardman, after they had smoked in silence for some time, "the place we saw to-day may be payable, but there ain't much to be done with it. what one wants is to get on to a mine on private property, with no reservation of minerals to the crown, so that one could get the whole mine into one's hands." "fancy that, now, buying a farm for a few hundreds on which there might be a mine worth millions and millions. but we have got to find it, and without the owner or any one else knowing anything about it!" said mr timson, as much to himself as to his companion. "right you are, smarty! we have got to do that. it's well enough to talk as one smokes one's pipe; but it's a hundred to one, one never gets such a chance. for all that, mind you, the chance may come; that's what living in a mining country means. there is always the hope of a big fortune for the man who knows how to make the most of his luck." mr timson listened to the other, and began to indulge in a delicious day-dream of what he would do, and how he would live if he were the owner of a diamond mine, with hundreds of pounds a day to spend. if it were only possible, he thought--possible! it was possible, he declared to himself, as he thought how fortunate he had been already. he was half asleep and half awake when he was woke up by hearing a strange voice inquiring the way to pneil, a digging on the vaal river some twenty-five miles off. the new-comer, who was on foot, was a tall man with a long beard; he was dressed in tattered clothes, and had on an old hat which had seen many years' service. he looked travel-worn and tired; as timson looked at him, he noticed a peculiar scar on his face and a curious droop in one eyelid. hardman told him the distance. "it's a long stretch and a sandy road; you had better sit down and take a drink," he added, pouring some beer out into a glass as he spoke. "it's a long time since i had a glass of beer," the stranger said as he emptied the glass. "how's that? been sworn off?" asked hardman. "no, nor much need to. i've been living where you don't get many chances of taking too much to drink; a hundred miles beyond the tati gold-fields. i've tramped it down and had a pretty hard time of it." "well, you'd better take a rest and have something to eat," said hardman, as he pushed a plate and some cold meat towards the stranger, who, without any more pressing, accepted the other's hospitality, and after he had made a good meal, filled his pipe and smoked for some time without joining in the conversation, the other two going on talking about diamonds and new mines. at last he broke in: "have they worked out the new rush, the colesberg kopje, as they called it?" "colesberg kopje, did you say? why, that's the kimberley mine. no, it's not worked out and won't be in our time," answered hardman. "you mean they have abandoned it 'cause they have found a richer place?" "abandoned it! not they; there is no place one third as rich as kimberley mine!" "ain't there though, mate; you mean they haven't found one yet," said the stranger. "well, i'd have thought some one would have tumbled on to it by this time!" he added, more to himself than to the others, though mr timson heard him and pricked up his ears. "i suppose they don't go prospecting much now-a-days?" the stranger asked after a second or two. "there is a bit of it being done just now," replied hardman; "but they haven't come across a second kimberley yet." "so they go out prospecting still. well, i suppose men will always keep on at that game. i have done a good lot of it in my time. i'd have been a happy man with a home of my own instead of the miserable devil i am now if i had only let it alone." "so you broke yourself and lost your money prospecting! well, others have done pretty much the same," said hardman. "lost my money! no, i found as rich a place as you want to come across and got plenty of diamonds, but they cost me dear." "you found as rich a place as one wants to come across, did you?" said mr timson, who was all attention. "whereabouts was that, now?" the stranger did not answer his question, and for some time sat wrapped in his thoughts, which seemed to be gloomy enough. then, with the air of one who could only get relief by telling his story, he spoke: "i say that prospecting trip cost me dear, and so you will say when you have heard my story. i must tell it, though it's not the sort of tale most men would pan out to two strangers; but i must speak out, for i have done nothing but think over this for eight years, and feel that i should be easier in my mind for making a clean breast of it to some one or the other before i die. prospecting! well, i've done about as much of prospecting as any man. they called me the demon prospector in australia and new zealand, and well they might, for i have found three payable gold-fields in my time. i did more good to others than to myself, though, for i could never stop in one place long, and would often turn my back upon a certainty to wander away after that wonderfully rich gold field i was always dreaming of. still i did not do so badly, and before i came over to this country i had made a little money. and i had what was better than money--a home of my own and a wife, not the sort of wife many a digger with his belt full of gold-dust picked up in those days, but an english girl who had not been long out from home. she had come out with her father, who had collected the little money he had, and gone to try for a fortune in the land of gold. he lost his money, as a new chum will lose his money, and died leaving her alone. i don't believe she only married me for a home; once she really cared for me--but you find this yarn a bit long, don't you?" he said, looking at mr timson, who was not in the slightest degree interested in his domestic history. "about the place where you found all those diamonds, where was that?" said the latter. "let him _rip_ and he will come round to it; don't pump him too much or you'll spoil a good thing," whispered hardman. "go on, mate," he added, "i like to hear you." "well, we were married in sydney a few months after her father died, and we lived there for a bit, when i heard of the diamond fields breaking out in this country, and nothing would do for me but i must come over here. we got up here some months before the dry diggings were found, and i tried my luck at the river where all the diggers were then. i chose pneil, where there were a good many men doing fairly well. i put up a stone shanty amongst the trees near the river, and we were fairly comfortable and happy enough. i found pretty well, and began to believe that my old restless spirit had left me, for i didn't seem to want to go prospecting, but was willing enough to stop on there. after a bit the dry diggings were found and many of the diggers left the river for them, but still i stayed on at pneil. then i heard of the new rush being opened, and how men were finding sackfuls of diamonds. i went over and saw the new diggings, and after that i could not be contented at the river. i had noticed the lay of the ground of the dry diggings, and i felt sure that there must be lots of spots where diamonds were to be found in quantities. then the old instinct came over me and i longed to go off prospecting. at last i felt i could stay where i was no longer. my wife didn't like my leaving her by herself, for the other women at pneil were not much company for her, and she had very few friends. about the only person she seemed to care to speak to was a man who had come over with us from australia, who was staying at the other side of the river helping to keep a canteen. he was an educated man, one of the broken-down gentleman kind, and could make himself agreeable enough, but i never liked him very much. he was no good and would never do any honest work. he had come to grief in the old country by gambling, and was just turning from a pigeon into a rook, but there was something about him that women found very fascinating. well, to cut my story short, i went off prospecting. i would stay away a week or so at a time. looking back now it seems to me that after the first time my wife didn't seem to mind my going so much. at last, after trying in one place and then another, i did find the sort of place i was looking for. it was out yonder," said the prospector, as he stretched out his brown hand and pointed in the direction of a ridge of hills in the far distance. mr timson's eyes glistened with excitement. he had never heard of any diamond mine being found in that direction. "yes, sir," continued the stranger, "if the new rush is as rich as the place i found, it is a deal better than i ever heard it was. i was working out yonder myself, but i found diamonds every day. i kept putting off going back to get kaffirs to work for me, for i didn't like the idea of the secret of the place being let out, and half thought i might keep it all to myself. after about a month i had over two hundred carats of smaller diamonds, besides a thirty, a fifty, and a sixty carat stone. then i thought it was about time to go back and see the missis again and tell her my luck, sell my diamonds and get some kaffirs to work for me. i cannot tell how i felt as i tramped back to the river. at last i had struck something really rich and made my fortune. how the boys would wake up when they heard, as they sooner or later would, i suppose, that i had found a place twice as rich as the famous new rush. but diamonds would be down to nothing at all when my secret was known and people knew how plentiful they were if you only looked for them in the right place, so i determined to keep it quiet until i had made my fortune, which would not take me long, i thought. then i would be able to take my missis home to england, and she would live the life she was fit for and be as fine a lady as any of 'em at home. "as soon as i got to klip drift i sold my diamonds. i got about five thousand pounds for them. then i went into a canteen to get a drink. there were one or two men there who knew me, and i thought that they stared at me rather oddly. `where's the count?' i asked the man behind the bar, for that was the name they called the broken-down gentleman chap i told you of, and it was the bar he kept. "`don't you know about it then?' asked one man, and the others stared at me very queerly. "`know about it? about what?' i asked. "`oh nothing; only he has cleared,' the men answered. "the men looked at me, i thought, as if they expected me to break my heart about the count's having cleared, and i couldn't make out their manner at all. i said i was off across the river to see the missis, and left the place. a man i knew pretty well followed me and put his hand on my shoulder. `it's no good going across, for you won't find the missis there,' he said. `where is she?' i asked. `she has cleared, too; gone off with the count,' was his answer. i turned round on him, half inclined to knock him down to show him i didn't like that kind of joke, but there was something in his face which told me that he wasn't joking; then he told me that it had been going on for a long time, and that every one had been talking about it, and about a week ago two or three saw them start off together, `and a good job for me, he told me, was what most of them said.' at first i wouldn't believe it, but it was true, though: she was gone, and i began to see how i had fooled away my happiness by leaving my wife to go prospecting and letting that damned scoundrel steal her from me. it wasn't many hours after i heard the news that i was off on their track. they had gone up north to some gold-fields which broke out about then. it was some time before i came up with them, for they kept dodging about, first living in one place and then in another, and once or twice i was at fault and could hear nothing of them. at last i got to a new camp on the gold-fields where i heard the count was; he had started in at his old trade, gambling, and was keeping a faro bank. i had not been many minutes at the hotel before i heard all the boys talking about him and the run of luck he had struck. then they began to talk of the pretty woman he had with him; you can guess that made me feel wild. i don't know how i behaved that night, but i stopped in the bar of the hotel drinking and longing for the time to come when i had planned to have my revenge. "i was the last to go to bed, and then i did not sleep, but waited till about three o'clock, when i knew the camp would be asleep. then i stole out and walked along the creek to a canvas house which had been pointed out to me as the one they lived in. the place was quiet enough; i can remember now how a dog tied up to a waggon barked at me and how savage i felt with it, and how i laughed to myself as i knocked it over with a stone i hurled at it. when i got to the house i looked through the window. i saw them, they were asleep. i had a bowie knife on me, and i cut the rope with which the door was tied. no--i can't tell you the rest." "well, you killed him; he's injured you, but it's rough killing a man when he's asleep," said bill hardman. "him! i killed them," said the prospector. "when she woke up and saw what i had done to him, she screamed and cursed at me; the devil came into me, and i stabbed her again and again. it would have been better for me if i had been caught red-handed, and strung up, as i should have been then and there; but i got away. since then i have never got the sight i saw before i rushed out of their place into the open out of my head. i have hardly seen a white man to speak to since that day, for i wandered away up country and have lived amongst kaffirs; but now i feel i must tell it to some one." "well, and now what are you going to do? go back and work at the place you prospected?" asked hardman. "work at the place! what good are diamonds and money to me? no, i have not come back for that. i have come back to see the place where we were happy together once before i got the prospecting fever and left her, and then--well, what should a man do who has no hope and is sick of life and not afraid of finishing it? there, i have told you my story, and now i will say good-day, and good luck to you. if it goes against your conscience not to tell the police that a man has confessed murder to you, for i suppose there are police on the fields now, tell on, and make a clean breast of it." having finished speaking he got up to walk away. "stop, don't go yet, sit down and have a talk; tell us more about the place where you found those diamonds. can you tell us exactly where it was?" said timson, his voice quavering with excitement, for all the time the prospector had been telling the conclusion of his story he had been thinking of the wonderful diamond mine the other had spoken of. "where is the place you said you found so well at?" he added as the stranger sat down and lit his pipe again. "what! you want to strike my luck, do you? i wouldn't put a pick in there again for all the diamonds there are in the coast of the earth." "well, if you don't like to work the place yourself, it seems a pity that no one else should," said timson, who, though he had some other weaknesses, was not superstitious. "you see, i don't believe much in luck, except the luck of getting hold of a good thing when you know how to work it." "look here, mate, i am an old digger, and it goes agin' my ideas of right to try and worm out another digger's secret; but if you let us into this thing, we will work it with you fair and square," said hardman. "i don't want you to work it with me or for me, but i don't mind telling you where it is. see here," said the prospector, pointing in the direction of a distant range of mountains towards which he had been gazing for some time, "do you see that little hump-backed hill standing out by itself? well, it's about four hundred yards to the north of it. you will see my old working still, i should say. now, mates, i am off to pneil, for i want to see the old place again, and then--" "stop, let us talk it over. you had better work the place with us," said hardman; "we will forget all about what you have told us, or try to." the stranger's only answer was to wish them good luck at their prospecting, and refusing to listen to hardman's persuasions, he started off on his lonely walk. "i don't like letting him go off in that state of mind; he means finishing himself, i saw it in his face, i have seen men look like that before," said hardman as he watched the tall figure striding over the long flat into the distance. "certainly one pities him; but if what he has told us is true, life can't be much comfort to him, and it's just as well, if he is going to do it, that he should kill himself before he lets out to any one about that place. what do you think of that part of the story; do you believe it?" answered mr timson. "believe it! well, i don't know. it's a queer story, but i ain't one of those sharps who always disbelieve any story that's a bit out of the common. i believe it well enough to mean finding out whether or no it's true. what do you say?" "ah! that's just what i think. it may be true, and if it is true--" "if it is true, or near true, we are in a pretty big thing, for the farms out there ain't on crown land, and there is no reservation of minerals. of course we must keep what we have heard quiet and try and learn a bit more. there's millions who wouldn't believe the yarn we have heard, but i ain't one of 'em. if you ask me what i think, well, i think it's true," said hardman, and then he shouted to his kaffir to outspan the horses so that they could continue their journey to kimberley. all the way they talked of the strange story they had heard, and the more they talked of it the more hopeful mr timson began to grow, and the more splendid were the castles in the air which he built on the foundation of the wonderful diamond mine he was to acquire a part possession of. -----------------------------------------------------------------------chapter two. a few days after their conversation with the prospector, messrs. hardman and timson were again on a prospecting expedition. this time they had sought the prospector's hump-backed hill, and they had come to it after a journey of about forty miles. sure enough, about two hundred yards north of it, they found marks of old working and a hole which was almost filled up by sand. mr timson's excitement before he reached the spot had begun to cool a good deal. perhaps there was nothing in the tale he had heard. the man might have been mad, or have been hoaxing him, or exaggerating, he kept thinking to himself. bill hardman had not taken much trouble to reassure him. all he said was that it was good enough to look into, though it was long odds against its being as good as they hoped, and he professed to be quite prepared to find their trip turn out to be waste of time, though at the same time something seemed to tell him to try the place. they had come out in an ox waggon, professedly on a shooting trip, and had brought with them a small washing machine, picks, shovels and other tools for digging and prospecting; they had also taken out two or three kaffirs who were accustomed to work in the mine. the sight of the old workings had a considerable effect in raising the hopes of mr timson. "that bears him out, anyhow!" said hardman; "it seems to be the sort of hole a man working by himself could make in a month." "how soon shall we know whether it is any good?" asked timson. "working on the small scale as we shall, it may take us days before we find a diamond, however rich it may be. we will first get some twenty loads of ground out and then we will wash. there is no house near here, and we might work for six months without being disturbed, so we needn't fear that, though if the man who owns the farm found we were prospecting, he'd pretty quick get an interdict, as those cursed lawyers call it, from the high court and clear us off," answered the other. in a very short time work began, bill hardman opening a bottle of champagne to drink `luck' to the venture, as the first pick was put into the ground. there is a strange excitement in working in new ground which is very fascinating to any one of a speculative turn. mr timson thought of the scripture story of the man who knew of treasure hid in a field, and sold all he had to purchase that field. let him but once satisfy himself that there was a diamond mine under his feet and he would show no want of enterprise in making the best use of his knowledge. hardman said very little. when a few days' work would tell them what they wanted to know, it was no good prophesying. he professed to like the look of the ground, it reminded him of the top stuff in the kimberley mine, and mr timson was a good deal impressed with his favourable opinion. but the hours passed very slowly, and mr timson kept fidgeting about, looking into the shaft the boys were digging, and sorting handfuls of the earth they had thrown out, as if he expected that diamonds ought to be found every minute, much to the amusement of his companion, who pointed out that, however rich the place might be, they were likely enough to find nothing before they washed the ground. hour after hour the kaffirs worked on stolidly, though lazily, and as the shaft that they were sinking deepened, timson's spirits began to sink. he was breaking up a lump of ground when he heard a shout from hardman-"we've found here a diamond! look at it! it's true--that yarn we heard was true. it's a ten-carat stone! i saw it glisten as tom picked down some ground. tom would have jumped it if i had not been too quick. wouldn't you, you black thief?" "nay, boss," said the kaffir, grinning and showing his white teeth, "the boss is a good boss and i'd no jump his diamond." timson looked at the diamond, a white stone of about ten carats in weight, and he felt that his fortune was made. the kaffirs talked to each other in their own language about the diamond. "they think it is a rich place and there will be lots of diamonds for them to steal," said hardman. the next day another diamond was found in the picking, and mr timson began to feel most hopeful as to what the result of washing the stuff would be. "if what we know is found out, we shall never be able to buy at a reasonable price," he said, as they smoked their pipes after supper on the night before the day on which they intended to wash. "nobody does as yet, and even we don't know much," said hardman; "wait till we have washed." their washing machine was a small one, only able to get through about thirty loads of ground a day. in the afternoon they began to take out of the machine the heavy deposit which had been left after the earth and lighter gravel had been washed away. hardman filled a sieve with this stuff, and worked it up and down in a tub of water so that the action of the water should work the diamonds to the bottom of the sieve. "now, what luck?" he said, as he turned the sieve upside down on the sorting-table, at which timson had taken his position. it was an exciting moment, for the stuff on the table was the result of a good many loads of ground, and if the place was any good, they might hope to find several diamonds in it. mr timson trembled with excitement. there was a second or two of suspense. then he saw one diamond, then another, and another, and hardman, who was looking over his shoulder, found two or three more. the next sieveful was equally good, and the result of the wash up was that the ground was proved to be marvellously rich. after that timson suggested that they had better sink in some other place and find out how large the mine was, but hardman did not agree to this. they had found out enough to know that whoever owned the farm owned a fortune, and they had better make the best use of their information and try to purchase the farm from its present owner before any one else found out what they knew. so the machinery and tools were packed up in their waggon, and the party started back again to kimberley. hardman undertook to find out about the land where the mine was situated, and until he could obtain that information, mr timson was to take care not to breathe one word of their secret. it was an exciting time for the latter gentleman. he thought to himself that perhaps they had been watched by some one who would claim a share in their prize, or give information to others who might bid against them for the land, or perhaps the man who owned it might come across the traces of the fresh working and that might arouse his suspicions. come what might, thought mr timson, he would become the part owner of that wonderful mine. so far as they could judge, it was of greater extent than the kimberley mine, and the work they had done made it appear to be three times as rich. if he could purchase the farm for a small sum, all the better, but he would not be afraid of risking all he had to get possession of it. of the prospector, he could hear no more. he had probably wandered away into the veldt and destroyed himself. mr timson did not care much what might have happened to him so long as he did not tell his story, or rather, so much of it as related to the diamond mine, to any one else. it took hardman about two days to obtain the information he required. it was fairly satisfactory, and he came to his friend in very good spirits. "it's the farm boschfontein, there is no doubt about that, and it belongs to a dutchman, by name ziederman; and it's the worst farm in the province, i am told," he said, coming up to timson, who was standing on the stoep of the hotel, and taking him on one side. "ziederman! where does he live, and what kind of a man is he?" "well, he is a pretty crude sort of a dutchman, and his house is on the farm, about an hour's drive from the mine. if we go over and see him, and tell him that we think of keeping a store where the road runs past it, and want to stock the farm, he will think he has got hold of two fools, and be glad to sell," was the other's answer. the next day messrs. hardman and timson started off to interview mr ziederman, the unconscious owner (they hoped) of the mine. the boschfontein homestead where he lived was one of those low, whitewashed mud houses with which travellers in south africa are so familiar. mr timson could see it miles away across the long flat over which they were driving. it was a poverty-stricken looking place, and as they neared the house there was no sign of any stock about. "looks as if boschfontein had about broke him," said hardman; "he'll be glad to sell, you bet!" mr timson felt that in an hour or so he would know his fate, and as he gazed at the mean-looking dutch farm-house, visions came before him of the house in london and the country place he would soon be the owner of. "wonder how hardman will do as a man of property? he's a smart chip, but not quite one of us," he thought to himself. as they came near to the house they saw mr ziederman sitting on a chair on the stoep of the house, staring after the manner of a dutch boer into the far distance at nothing at all. when their cart drove up he turned round and stared at it, but no gleam of intelligence came into his face; he evidently was, so mr timson thought, a very crude specimen of the dutchman. it would be very tedious to narrate all the conversation which took place after the two had got out of their cart, and had shaken the grimy, flabby hand which mr ziederman held out to them. gradually, and with very much caution, mr hardman approached the subject of the purchase of the farm. would mr ziederman care to sell it? they wished to set up a store and canteen, and would like to have the farm for keeping stock on, was the question which, after much fencing, he asked. "yes, i will sell the farm. ten thousand pounds, and you may have boschfontein, but for not one dollar less," answered mr ziederman, looking as stolid as ever. "ten thousand pounds, mein herr! you are joking. the farm is not worth one twentieth part of that," said hardman. mr timson tried to look as if he were more surprised than disappointed. "never mind, the farm is worth more than that. i know something that you perhaps know and perhaps don't know. there are diamonds on my farm." mr timson began to feel that all his hopes were going to be dashed to the ground. "diamonds, mein herr! there are no diamonds out in this direction, and me and my partner don't want to have anything to do with diamonds, they ain't in our line; we want to keep a store and raise stock." "then you don't want to buy the farm boschfontein, because the farm boschfontein has diamonds," answered ziederman. "see here, i will show you something," he added, as he went into his house and came out with something in his hand; "see what my herd boy found near the _kopje_ yonder," he said as he pointed in the direction of the mine. it was a ten-carat white diamond he had in his hand, and one of the partners felt something out of heart when he saw it. it was useless to try and persuade ziederman that the stone was not a diamond. "yes, i always knew there were some diamonds on my farm, but i would not say anything about them, for i knew diamonds bring english diggers on one's farm; but i said to myself, `if i ever sell boschfontein i will get plenty of money for it.' i want ten thousand pounds!" he said as he lit his pipe again, looking as if he did not care whether he sold the farm or no. "if you like to buy it for the money, well; if not, i will have it prospected, and then i will sell it for what it will bring." hardman touched timson on the shoulder and they walked away from the house together. "see here," he said, when they were out of hearing of ziederman, who sat smoking with a placid expression on his face, "what can we do? i can only raise two thousand pounds. i don't like to let the thing slip from me, though, and once let him have the farm prospected and find out how rich it is, what we know is worth nothing to us." "maybe he will take less," said mr timson. very little could be got out of the boer. somehow or the other he seemed to have hit upon ten thousand pounds as the price the farm was worth, and he would take no less. then the two had another conversation. curiously enough timson could just raise eight thousand pounds, mr hardman had two. after all, thought mr timson to himself, he would have four-fifths of the mine instead of only one-half, so perhaps it would be all the better for him that ziederman had stuck out for his price. at last, after much conversation, the bargain was struck and they drove home, it having been agreed that ziederman should come into kimberley a few days afterwards, and having given transfer of the farm, receive the ten thousand pounds. "well, we are going our piles on it, eh, partner?" said hardman as they drove back to kimberley; "but i don't mind owning that i feel pretty confident. lord! i am sorry for the kimberley people; it will just about bust up their mine when we open ours." -----------------------------------------------------------------------chapter three. mr ziederman arrived at kimberley on the appointed day. transfer was duly given, and the ten thousand pounds were paid over to him. timson could not help feeling rather a twinge as he parted with his money. it did not leave him more than a few hundred pounds, still he was very pleased with his bargain; he had bought the farm, he hoped, for very much less than one hundredth of its value, and had got the best of mr hardman, who would only have a fifth share. the next day the news was all over the camp. it created a good deal of excitement, and at eleven in the forenoon, an hour when splits and other drinks, long and short, are in much request, quite a crowd of the leading citizens of kimberley dropped into the bar of the queen's hotel, where mr timson was to be found at that hour, reading the local morning paper and criticising the manners and customs of the place. on this occasion there was a look of unusual importance about him, and he was laying down the law more authoritatively than he generally did. he had just been discussing the value of claims in the kimberley mine, and chuckling to himself as he thought how startled the claimholders would be when they heard of his discovery. "well, mr timson, so i hear you have been speculating in farms," said a man who was standing at the bar. "i don't know why people should interest themselves in my affairs so much," answered timson; "but i don't mind owning that i have bought a farm called boschfontein." "you're going to make your fortune farming?" said the first speaker, a digger who had dropped in on his way from the mine to get a drink and to interview timson. "i don't know about farming, but i don't think i shall do so badly with boschfontein," answered timson, who, now that he owned the property, thought there was no reason why he should not have the pleasure of bragging about his wonderfully good bargain. he noticed that his listeners were not impressed, there was something like a smile on their faces. "how much did you give bill hardman for boschfontein?" asked the first speaker. "bill hardman! i never bought from bill hardman, i bought with him, he has a small share in the speculation. so he has been telling you about it, has he? well, i suppose he won't make less than four or five hundred thousand pounds, though he only has one-fifth of it. yes, you may laugh, but you won't laugh when the place up there is shut up, as it will be when i work the diamond mine on boschfontein." "here, barman, drinks; open some champagne for mr timson; he has gone in for a spec with bill hardman, and they have got a diamond mine on boschfontein which will shut the kimberley mine," cried the first speaker. mr timson was no admirer of the prevailing custom, a survival from the early days of the diamond-digging, which demanded that good fortune of any sort should be celebrated by a reckless expenditure in champagne. still he felt that the occasion was a special one, and after having in vain tried to catch the barman's eye, and prevent him opening more than one bottle, he made no remonstrance. "well, gentlemen, we will drink to the health of the boschfontein mine," he said, "though i am afraid it will prove rather a bad business for some of my friends here. three carats of diamonds to a load is a pretty good average, and the mine is as big as kimberley; it will revolutionise diamond mining, our mine will." "bill hardman found that mine, i'd bet," said another man who had just come in and stood listening to timson. "why, boschfontein's looking up. it wasn't as rich as that last time." "look here," said the digger, taking up a dice-box which lay on the bar, "we will throw for this wine, and mr timson shall stand out. no, it's a shame letting him in, he has been let in enough. how much did you pay for boschfontein?" "what do you mean?" asked timson, who began to feel nervous and uncomfortable. "let in! some of you will only wish that you had been let in in the same way when we begin to work the new mine. bill hardman ain't the sort of man to be taken in so easy." then he told them how he had learnt the secret about the mine and became possessed of the farm boschfontein. the others listened to every word of his narrative, no one ordered drinks nor even lifted their glasses to their mouths while he spoke. when he had told them all, and described the finding of the diamonds and the subsequent purchase of the farm boschfontein, there was a burst of noise, every one beginning to shout or laugh, expressing with much vigour of language their admiration for the smartness of bill. "look here, what was the prospector like? wasn't he a tall man with a long beard, and a scar across the left side of his face, and a droop in one eye?" asked the digger. "yes, that's the man," answered timson. "i'd have sworn it; it's tom raven; he was in camp the other day. now, look here, young man, you'd better try and find your friend, bill hardman, not that there's much chance of your coming across him; now that they have got your money they'd be off. i dare say you never heard of raven's rush, that was on boschfontein. there isn't a show of a mine there; but tom raven and bill hardman, who have always been more or less partners, won it at cards off a dutchman. it's about as bad a farm as there is in the country; but they meant working it off somehow, so they started a mine there, any one to have a claim for two pounds down. it took for a bit; but as no one could find diamonds there except bill and tom raven, people cooled off it, and there was some talk of starting a prosecution for fraud, as some one split as to where they got the diamonds from they found there, and that's why raven, against whom there was most of a case, cleared off. ziederman is a long, stolid-looking dutchman; he is not such a fool as he looks, is that dutchman--`slim pete' they call him--he has always been more or less in with the firm of hardman and raven." "look here, you're trying to fool me, ain't you? you don't mean to tell me that the man who told me how his wife ran away and how he killed her wasn't genuine!" said timson. "genuine! it was a pretty bit of play-acting, made up by the two of 'em. tom was always clever at a yarn." mr timson did not say another word. something seemed to tell him that the suspicions of the others were well founded; anyhow he would interview his partner and do his best to get back some of his money. however, hardman was not so easily to be found. he was not at the hotel where he boarded, nor at the billiard-room he usually patronised, nor at any of his other haunts, and none of his associates had seen him. all day long mr timson was making fruitless inquiries; but though he could hear nothing about hardman, every one could tell him a good deal about the farm boschfontein. every one laughed when they heard his story, and with the exception of one or two men who had formed little plans for the disposal of his fortune, no one sympathised very much with him. there was no doubt about it that he had a case against mr hardman and the men who helped to swindle him; but he might just as well have had a case against the man in the moon. for some time mr timson cherished a faint hope that the mine might be a genuine one, so he spent a little more money in having it well tested. but the charm was gone when mr hardman had vanished. there was no appearance of diamond bearing ground on the farm boschfontein, so experts declared; and what was more to the point, there was no appearance of diamonds. mr timson is still the owner of the property, and has not found it very remunerative. the only consolation he has is, that many of the men who laughed at him when he made his unfortunate purchase, invested their money in speculations which seemed at the time very hopeful, but resulted in their becoming the owners of nicely-engraved diamond-mining scrip which, though useful for papering a spare room with, is now even less marketable than that desirable property, the farm boschfontein. story 5. luck--an episode in a digger's life. there are few more hideous parts of the world than the country known as griqualand west, celebrated, as the school books have it, for its diamonds. in that weary land the traveller may go on day by day outspanning at evening in just the same dreary waste of veldt in which he inspanned at morning, until he almost forgets that the world is not one endless series of rolling, burnt-up flats with ridges of table-topped hills in the distance, the last just like the one before it. still there are spots on the banks of the vaal river which runs through this territory that have a soft beauty of their own, all the more fascinating because of their contrast with the desert ugliness of the country--places where the traveller longs to settle down and live the rest of his days doing some slight work well paid by kind nature, forgetting the troublesome, distant world. moonlight rush is perhaps the fairest of these silent river nooks. there a wooded gulley, gay with flowering bushes, and shadowed by wide-spreading trees, runs down to the waters of the vaal river. one can rest under the shade of those trees and forget how cruelly the sun beats down on the veldt, and as one looks at the vaal, which flows at one's feet in a noble reach, one no longer thinks of the arid discomfort of the plains. the place is quiet enough now, but once it had its day. the night it was rushed will be always remembered by those who came to seek their fortunes on the banks of the vaal in the early days of diamond-digging. to this day men talk of how the news about the quantities of diamonds that had been found at a new place spread like wild-fire around the river camps, and how diggers, as soon as they heard it, snatched up their picks and shovels and rough provision for a meal or two, and left their camp fires, eager to get a claim in the new diggings, where they were at last to strike a fortune. its history was like that of other river camps, only the diamonds found there at first were more plentiful, and are said to have been of better average quality; but they became fewer and fewer, and the diggers, party by party, either left for the new dry digging, which afterwards became the wonderful diamond mines of south africa, or wandered away to other river camps. and at last the place was quite deserted, and the rock hares sported over the grass-grown claims, and the snakes, who had found the place too lively for them, sneaked back to make their homes in the ruined hovels put up by sanguine diggers who had believed in the future of moonlight, and had shown their faith by plunging into building to the extent of houses built with boulders and thatched with rushes. still, from time to time diggers, who had found well at moonlight in its palmy days, or had heard of the wonderful stones which had been found there, came back to try their luck either in sorting the _debris_ for the gems which the greedy diggers in those good flush times threw away in their haste, or in working the less promising ground which was left untouched. but since those old days no one had done much. diggers had lingered on there, and persuaded themselves into believing in it because they liked the place; for the charm of nature has a strange influence over many a rough mind which knows little of culture or art jargon. but most of them, after working for months, had to tell the diggers' oft-told tale of "we are not making tucker, let alone wages," and had to drag their small stock-in-trade of tools off to some other digging, or had given up the river as a bad game, and had gone to work as overseers for wages in the mines. one night, a year or two ago, there were only two tents there--almost hidden in the bushes by the river-bank. though it was long past the time when men who have to work hard all day and to be up betimes are usually asleep, it was lit up. its tenant was stretched across the tent on a mattress. by his side there were several tattered, well-read volumes--`vanity fair,' `elia,' some of bret harte's books; and whyte melville's `bones and i,' and in his hand he had a crumpled home letter. his name was charlie lumsden, and he was about thirty years old. for the last ten years, more or less, he had belonged to the noble army of diggers who are recruited from all classes of society, and form a distinct class of their own. he was also an english gentleman of good birth and gentle breeding, as any one would guess from a first glance at him, and be sure of after a few minutes' conversation. he was not reading, though it was so late, but thinking, and had been thinking for some time, far more seriously than he often did. it was perhaps an orthodox occasion for a little self-retrospection, for it happened to be the last night of the old year. charlie, by chance, for he had been living a solitary life in which men are apt to forget dates, had remembered this, and he was seeing the new year in, as many a man may well do, thinking over the years of his life he had lived, and what he had managed to do with them. he has not much reason to be satisfied with the past, or to be over sanguine about the future. where will he be this time next year, and what sort of a year will it be for him? he wonders. well, pretty much the same as the last year or two. last year he was at `bad hope,' digging with his old chum, jack heathcote, who has just left him, and given up the off-chance of the river for the certainty of some pay in the mounted police. they were finding fairly well, but their finds melted away before the claim was worked out, at least most of them did, though there would have been something left if they had not been fools and had that spree at kimberley races. last new year's day he was up-country hunting for gold near the crocodile river. he found pretty well too, and would not have done so badly if his mates had not gone down with fever. maybe he will have another turn at it. after all, it wouldn't much matter, he thinks, if next time he is tempted to trespass on tom tiddler's ground fever should catch him, and keep him as it caught his chums. yes, now he sees what a mess he has made of his life. ten years before he had just left school, and was going up to cambridge, where it was hoped that he would do wonders in the way of taking honours and getting fellowships. now he was a digger, just like old david miller who worked near him, though he was not half as good with a pick and shovel as the old man who could hardly read and write. then he remembered the year he had spent at cambridge. well, he had a jolly time enough there; but what a young fool he was to have run up all those ticks, and to have got into those scrapes, which when he looks back to them seem so childish. what a mistake he had made in living with the fast, noisy lot instead of the steady-going set, who were just as good fellows after all. how well he remembers that supper party which was so fatal to him. it had been in a rich fellow-commoner's room, and a good many bottles had been emptied, and they were just ripe for mischief, when one of the party suggested the brilliant idea of having songs, and a camp fire on the college grass plot. they had proceeded at once to carry out the suggestion; their host, who was placidly intoxicated, blandly approving, at the sacrifice of his household gods in defiance of college discipline, when it was proposed that his chairs should be used for firewood. the fire was lit, and the fun round it was fast and furious until the college tutor made his appearance, as he naturally did. the dons were only too glad to make a clean sweep of the rowdy lot in the college, and about ten of them were sent down the next morning. some of them got over their misfortune very easily. the man who suggested the bonfire is a popular preacher, and the giver of the supper party is a county member. poor charlie unfortunately was the earthern pot between the brazen ones, and that college row ended in his leaving england for south africa, with his passage paid and fifty pounds in his pocket. well, and he would have had a good chance on the fields if he had only been wise. what a lot of diamonds he used to get in that half-claim of his, in number five road. the other day it was sold for over ten thousand; but he had been sold up and had to let it go for a few hundreds after he struck a bad layer. he would have been able to have worked through the bad layer though if he had saved the money he made first, instead of throwing it away playing faro in those gambling saloons that were so fatal to many a digger's fortunes. after he sold his claim in the mine he lived the roving hand-to-mouth life of a river-digger, with very little capital beyond his pick and shovel, and his reputation with the store-keepers of being a straight man, who would always pay when he found. not a bad life either he would think at any other time, for the bohemianism of a digger is ingrained in him. he liked the free and easy life, the absence from restraint or dependence on any one else. but he was out of spirits. he had not found for months; he missed his old partner, and he had no boys working for him. in fact he would find it very difficult to pay them any wages if he had, so he can get through but very little work. that night, memories of the old days and his old life came crowding into his mind, and he longed to be in england again, and to see well-remembered places and faces. the crumpled letter by his side was from home--from his sister in england. she told him that she had been staying at the little village in somersetshire, where he once went with a reading party, and that she had met the parson's daughter there, who had asked so much after him. how well he remembered that reading party. does the message in his sister's letter mean that she still cares for him? she has not married yet then. that boy and girl engagement was perfectly absurd of course, but he knows that they were quite in earnest while it lasted, and after all if he had taken his degree instead of being sent down in disgrace, they probably would have been married. for a minute or two he pictures himself as a staid curate or vicar dressed in decent black garment, instead of in moleskin and a flannel shirt--with a vicarage house to live in, instead of a tent. probably she got over it as easily as he did. he was broken-hearted when he got her sad little letter, saying that it must all come to an end, and that her father would not hear of it. he got over it wonderfully soon though. with his sea-sickness his love-trouble left him in the bay. she probably had got over it too, and could laugh at it as he did. but as he smokes and thinks, he realises how much happier his life might have been. how wanting it is in real happiness; why how long is it since he has spoken to any woman more refined than the barmaid of the vaal hotel? should he ever shake the dust of africa off his boots and go home, or should he be buried there as many a chum of his had been. it is no good going home dead beat to loaf on his relations; no, it would be better to stay in the country for ever, or to land without a sixpence in some other colony. what bad luck he has always had. the men who make money may say what they like, but it is almost all luck after all, he thinks, as he contrasts his position with that of many another man, just as thoughtless and reckless as he, who has made a fortune and gone home with it. maybe the very next shovel full of gravel he washes may turn his luck, and he thinks of all the big diamonds that have at one time or the other been found down the river. "bosh, what's the use of thinking," he said to himself as the end of the candle, which has been growing shorter and shorter, fell down to the bottom of the bottle into which he had stuck it, and he was left in the dark to knock out the ashes of his pipe and to curl himself up in his blanket. it was still enough at moonlight rush, and in a few minutes he was asleep and dreaming a queer medley of english and diamond-field scenes. as he slept and dreamt he heard a cry for help, repeated again and again. at first it seemed to fit in with what he was dreaming about. but he heard it again after he woke up, and then he formed a pretty notion as to what it meant. "it's poor old david come to grief," he said to himself, as he sprang up and ran out of his tent. old david miller, who lived in the other tent at moonlight rush, was a taciturn old fellow, who always worked by himself and seemed to look upon the world in general with surly indifference. he had been digging all over the world since gold was first discovered in australia, and had spent a good many years on the banks of the vaal. he dug by himself without employing kaffirs, but he got through a fair amount of work, as the high bank of boulders which he had broken up and dragged out of claim at moonlight bore witness to. so far as charlie knew he had found little enough to recompense him for his toil. he was not, however, much given to talk about his own affairs, though for him he was very friendly with charlie--often coming round to his claim and growling about south africa and its inhabitants, and contrasting the country with others in which it had been his lot to live. he was owner of a rickety little tub of a boat, in which, on the rare occasions on which he yearned for more of society and civilisation than he could get at moonlight, he would cross over to the other side. the object of these voyages was a canteen that was some miles down the river. old david, a sober man enough as a rule, used at intervals to go on the drink somewhat seriously. he believed, as a good many men of his class do believe, that an occasional bout of drinking was good for the system, and brightened a man up for his work like a change of air. besides, he probably liked it. so now and then he used to indulge in one of these bouts. at other times he took nothing but tea--looking upon strong drink as a medicine that was wasted if not taken in large quantities. sometimes these bouts would last for days, sometimes for a much shorter time. when he had taken what he considered was enough, or as more often was the case spent all his money, he would start off from the canteen, stagger off to the river, and get into his little tub of a boat and navigate himself across in it. the voyage always seemed beset with considerable danger, as the little boat, which the old man had made himself, was a very crank craft, certainly not fit to carry old david after he himself had taken in such a large cargo of whiskey. charlie knew that the old man had started on one of his expeditions that afternoon, for he had come to his claim and asked him to come with him, showing an amount of hospitality and a wish for society which was unlike him. it was likely enough that he had gone to grief and got swamped. the river was swollen with recent floods, and flowing rather strongly; so charlie looked forward to rather a longish job, particularly as he remembered that the old man had told him he could not swim a stroke. it was a dark night for south africa. again and again, as he ran along the bank peering into the river, he thought he saw something in the water, but the object turned out to be a snag, or a mass of weed. at last he made out a paddle floating down; then he came to an upturned boat, and then he saw, or thought he saw something rise and sink again. in a second he was in the water, and when he got about to the spot where he thought he saw the object sink he dived for it. as he dived he felt himself caught in a mass of vaal river-weed, which clung round him like a net, and seemed to drag him down in its deadly grip. at first he struggled wildly to get free, and the more he struggled the more entangled he got. after a little time, however, and before it was too late, his presence of mind came back, and humouring the weed rather than struggling against it, he managed to get free. then he reached the body he had dived for, and came up with it to the top of the water. he had hard work enough to get it to land, and he began to feel terribly done with his struggles to drag it along through the weeds, and to keep free from them himself. at last he got it up the bank, dragging a tangled mass of weeds out with it. then he lay exhausted and out of breath for some seconds before he was sure what it was that he had fished out from the bottom of the river, and recognised old david miller in the object covered with weed and slime by his side. he remembered that he had a bottle of cape smoke in his tent, so he went and got it, and having taken a pull at it himself, he tried to force some down the old man's throat. a dozen conflicting directions for recovering half-drowned persons occurred to him, and without being sure of whether he was doing the right thing or not he did his best to bring back life to the body he had rescued. he felt fearfully alone, for he and the old man were the only inhabitants of red jacket, and even the nearest kaffir huts were some miles off. the old man must have been for some time in the water before he got him out, and charlie soon began to see that his help had come too late. the heart did not beat, and the life was not to come back, and when the sun rose its grey light lit up poor old david's dead body. "poor old chap! he has growled his last growl at south africa, and seen his last year out in the country," charlie said to himself, as he looked at him. then he carried the body into the tent, and lit a fire. he had always thought that poor old david would come to grief some day in that little boat of his. well, the old fellow hadn't much to live for. charlie thought that if any of the kaffirs came down to the river in the morning he would get them to watch by the body, and that he would walk down to one of the larger river camps where there was a magistrate, and report the death. before, however, he left the place he ought to see what property old david had when he died. there would be little enough most likely--a few tools, and some blankets and perhaps a diamond or two, as a result of all the work he had done. maybe a few coins, but there were not likely to be many after his visit to the canteen. charlie did not find much in the tent. the body was clothed in a pair of cord trousers and a woollen shirt. round his waist there was a digger's belt. charlie took it off, and opened it. there was a purse in the belt, in which there were two small all-coloured diamonds, worth a pound or two, but no money. there was something else in the belt besides the purse--something tied up in a piece of a handkerchief. charlie gave a start as he felt, and when he undid it and saw what it was, he stood holding it in his hand and staring at it in a dazed, stupid way. it was a diamond--such a diamond as diggers may dream of, but few have ever seen. it was about the finest stone he had ever seen, he thought. "what luck--what queer luck," he said to himself, as he looked at the dead man and then at the diamond. "it was just like luck giving poor old david a turn like that. poor old fellow! he has never wanted more than a few pounds, and has often enough been without them; and just before his death he had come across this splendid prize." no wonder the old man had looked rather queer that afternoon before, when he had come round to charlie's claims and asked him to come over the river to the canteen, and have a drink with him; charlie had wondered at this unwonted hospitality, though he had refused it. the diamond explained it, however; there was plenty of occasion for it. then, as charlie stood with the diamond in his hand, the thought came into his head, what would happen to the diamond now that the lucky digger who had found it had gone to where there is no more luck? he remembered that old david once told him that he had neither kith nor kin whom he knew of. well, the stone would probably go to the government, or to enrich lawyers who would reap the rich harvest of actions over it. perhaps some peasant at home would be found, who would be proved to be old david's next-of-kin, though he would have as little to do with the old man as if he had lived in another world. he remembered that some days before they had talked about digging together. if they had only come to terms then, he would have had his share of this find. why it would be absurd to let the diamond do no one any good. had he not done his best to save the old man and risked his life, and nearly lost it amongst the weeds? would it not be throwing away his good luck if he did not keep the treasure-trove which was his by natural right if not by law? how much that stone meant to him. it must be worth many thousand pounds, as much money as any diamond. with the money he could get for it he could go home, not as an unsuccessful prodigal, but as a prosperous man come back to live the pleasant life of an english gentleman. the sight of the diamond, and the knowledge of the lot of money it was worth, seemed to make charlie realise how sick he was of the hopeless, wandering life he was living, and how he longed for civilisation and refinement again. if he only had some money he could go home and have another chance. a few more years of the life he was leading and he would be fit for nothing else, and even if luck came to him it would be no use. as he was thinking he looked up and saw some kaffir women from the huts standing by the river. he shouted to them, and bargained with them to stop and watch by the body, for he did not like to leave it by itself, unprotected, and then he set out to walk across the veldt to the nearest camp. before he started he put the purse with the two small diamonds into one pocket, and tying the big diamond up in his handkerchief he put it into the breast-pocket of his coat. he was bound for a place about six miles off, where he could report what had happened. on his way he had to pass the roadside canteen where old david had spent his last evening. the proprietor of it had just opened the place, so he went in and ordered some breakfast. as he ate it he told the landlord of the fate of his guest of the night before. the landlord did not seem to waste much pity upon old david. "what, he got drowned, did he? i always told him he would some day, and i advised him not to cross last night, but he was a bit queer in his temper. he wanted me to stick up a drink, but i said it was against the rules. and then he talked a lot about being worth more than i was, and being able to buy up me and my canteen; but none paid much heed to him. i 'spect he ain't left a very big estate behind him?" "no, he hasn't, poor old chap! here are his finds--they are not worth much," charlie said, as he showed the landlord the two small diamonds. then he wondered whether he looked like a thief, as he thought of what he had stowed away in his breast-pocket. he finished his breakfast and had something to drink afterwards, for he felt as if his nerves wanted settling. just as he was going to start a man, dressed in the uniform of the mounted police, came into the bar, and came up to charlie holding out his hand. "a happy new year to you, old boy! where are you off to this morning?" he said. the new arrival was charlie's old friend and partner, jack heathcote. jack was as good a fellow as ever lived, and as true a friend, but for the first time since he had known him charlie did not feel best pleased to see him. "what's the matter, charlie?" jack added, as he noticed a rather downcast look in his friend's face, "you seem a bit down on your luck." "i have had rather a trying night of it," answered charlie, and he told how poor old david miller had upset and got drowned the night before, and what a near thing he had had of it amongst the weeds trying to save him. but there was one part of the story which he kept to himself. he did not say anything about the big diamond, though he produced the two little ones, and asked jack as he was going into the camp to report the death, and give them up to the authorities. "all right; i will tell 'em about it, and give these up to the magistrate. they ain't worth much; but poor old david hadn't much better luck than you and i," said jack. "come, cheer up, old fellow; after all the old man hadn't much to live for, and you did your level best to save him. let's have a split, and drink good luck to the new year. it is about time you and i had a turn of luck, but it never comes to honest men in this cursed country. well, may we get out of it somehow or the other before the next new year's day; may you find a `big un,' on which you can go home," he said, when their glasses were filled. "who can tell? luck is a queerish thing," charlie said, as he emptied his glass. "so it is--not that i know very much about it, for it has not troubled me much. well, good-bye," said jack heathcote, as he left the canteen and jumped on his horse, which was tied up outside. charlie stood for a second or two watching his friend ride away. "a happy new year! well, i shall have it if money can make one happy. that streak of luck you talk about has come in my way after all. i shall be able to clear out of the country as soon as i like. honest men! well, it don't do to be too honest," he said to himself. then he wondered what his old partner jack heathcote would have said if he had heard about the big diamond. of course he would have said that he was right to stick to it, and would have been a fool if he had thrown away such a chance. he didn't feel quite certain about it though. jack was rather a queer fellow in his way, and though he did not go in for preaching, had some very decided notions about right and wrong. he had half a mind to tell his old friend, with whom he had lived as a partner for years, and from whom he had hardly had a secret since he had known him, of this good luck and ask him to share in it, but on second thoughts he knew that he had better not do that. jack heathcote had reined in his horse, some hundred yards from the canteen, to light his pipe, and charlie for a second or two watched him, unable to make up his mind. "no, by jove, i won't ask him to have a share, and i won't ask him what he'd do if he were in my place. i know. hi, jack heathcote, jack. stop i say," he shouted at the top of his voice, as he ran up to his friend, waving his hat. jack saw him and waited for him to come up. "well, what's the matter?" he asked wondering, as he noticed a strangely excited look in his friend's face. "there is something else you ought to have, jack; it is this," charlie said, and he took the big diamond from his pocket. "it's over three hundred carats, i should say, and about the best stone in the world. old david must have found it yesterday, for he had it on him when i pulled him out of the river. take it to the camp and give it up, and let me be rid of it, for it's safe with you; and, jack, don't think too badly of me because i have so nearly been a thief." "charlie, there's about ninety-nine men in a hundred who would think you a fool," jack said as he took the diamond, and then gave his old friend's hand a grip. "i wonder who this thing belongs to now?" "don't know, don't care; not to me, anyhow; it's a niceish stone, ain't it?" he answered, and then the two friends parted, the one to startle the diamond fields by the tale of old david miller's luck, and, as a good many men thought, of charlie lumsden's egregious folly, and the other to work with very ordinary luck as a digger at moonlight rush. story 6. a dear lesson. some years ago every one on the diamond fields had heard of mr smythe's parcel of diamonds. buyers, brokers, and diggers were constantly talking of that wonderful collection of gems. no one had ever seen it, and some persons refused to believe in it. smythe would not be such a fool, they said, as to keep a lot of money locked up in diamonds. but those who knew most about smythe believed in his diamonds; in fact, some men knew of stones which he had added to his collection. in this case rumour had exaggerated wonderfully little; for, as a matter of fact, mr smythe's parcel existed, and was little less valuable than it was reported to be. for some years the price of diamonds had been low, and smythe had determined to hold; but he did not keep ordinary stuff, only picked stones of extraordinary quality. whenever he bought a parcel, he would select any perfect stone there might be in it, and ship the rest. it was his opinion that diamonds would go up, and that he would realise a great profit when he brought his wonderful parcel home. in the mean time he could afford to be out of his money; for he was a fairly prosperous man, as he had some claims in the mine that brought him in a good deal, and had done very well diamond buying and digging. though mr smythe was a very good man of business, he was in his private life by no means free from little weaknesses, and they were not all of them amiable ones. it was harmless, if not commendable, for him to be very careful of his get-up and appearance, and to dress with as much care on the south african diamond fields as he would have done in pall mall. no one would have any right to blame him for dyeing his twisted moustache black, and making a very game struggle against the ravages of time; nor did he hurt any one by his habit of continually bragging and boasting of the position he held and the people he knew `at home'--for this is a weakness common to many worthy and respectable dwellers in the distant parts of our empire. but he had one failing which was rather mischievous: although he was by no means a young man--for he was nearer fifty than forty--he was as vain as a girl, or rather as a vain man, and he was convinced that he was so attractive and fascinating that the other sex found him irresistible. he loved to pose in the character of a don juan, and though his past successes were his favourite topic of conversation, he took care to let it be known that, if he cared, he could continue these little histories up to the present time. in fact, he had gained the reputation of being a man very dangerous to the domestic peace of his neighbours, and he took no little pride and pleasure in having such a reputation, and was careful to maintain it, even sometimes by rather unjustly damaging the fair fame of some of the ladies who had the privilege of his friendship. it was his custom every year to vary the monotony of diamond-field life by making a little visit to the coast; and, from the hints and suggestions he would give when he came back, it would seem that when on his travels he was always on the watch for an opportunity to get up the flirtations he delighted in carrying on. it was on one of those trips that he became acquainted with captain and mrs hamilton. captain hamilton was supposed to have lately sold out of the army, and, from what he said, he seemed to be possessed of a nice little capital, which he hoped to double in some colonial venture. he didn't care what he went in for--farming, diamond-mining, gold-digging. he didn't care much what it was, so long as it paid. soldiering, he said, was a bad game for a married man, and he intended to double his capital before he went home; for england was no country for a man to live in who had not some thousands a year. mr smythe did not at first take very kindly to the captain, who seemed a dullish, heavy sort of man, and cared to talk about very little besides betting and sport. but mrs hamilton quite made up for any defects in her husband. she was an extremely pretty young woman, so young-looking that she might have been hardly out of her teens, with a half-mischievous, half-demure manner, which our friend found very fascinating; and it is needless to say that he came to the conclusion that she had fallen in love with him; for it was his idiosyncrasy to believe that he was irresistible with all women. certainly she was a woman whom any man might fall in love with--a brown-haired, blue-eyed little thing, with a delightfully neat little figure, and always becomingly dressed. "begad, she's a devilish nice little woman! i must persuade them to come up to kimberley. hamilton would do well there, though he's a stupid oaf a fellow," said mr smythe to himself, as he gave his moustache a twist, looking at himself in the glass, and putting on a mephistophelean grin on which he prided himself. accordingly he suggested it to hamilton that he had better make his home on the diamond fields, as it was the best place for a man of energy and capital. captain hamilton at once fell into the trap which this artful schemer had laid for him. "dare say it was as good a place to go to as any other," said he. it seemed to him it was a beastly country; while mrs hamilton was so enthusiastic in persuading her husband, and so anxious to go to the fields, that mr smythe put the most flattering inference on her support. so it came about that captain and mrs hamilton were mr smythe's fellow-passengers from capetown to the diamond fields, and, more or less under his auspices, settled amongst the queer community who toil for wealth in that land of dust and diamonds. they took one of those little iron houses in one of the principal streets in kimberley, in which at that time the most prosperous citizens sweltered in the summer and shivered in the winter. from their first arrival, we all took a good deal of interest in the hamiltons. it was never mr smythe's habit to be over-careful not to compromise the ladies he admired; and there was from the first a little scandal about mrs hamilton, and a good many stories told about her. captain hamilton became a very interesting person, when the fact that he was possessed of some little capital which he wished to invest was well-known, and a good many plans were made for his safely investing it. there was little mo abrahams, who came up to him, and told him how a few thousands would turn the victory mine, lately known as fools rush, into one of the grandest mining properties in the world; and the captain seemed to be much struck with the advantages of the speculation, and thanked mo for giving him such a chance; but he did not settle to go in for it at once, though he freely admitted that, in mo's words, nothing could be fairer between man and man than the terms suggested. "we must have another talk over it," he said; and mo went off rejoicing. after mo went away, bill bowker, that fine specimen of the rugged honest digger and pioneer of the fields, came up to the captain, and, with much bad language, which it was his rugged honest custom to use, asked him what that little jew wanted. "excuse me, sir," he said, "but he be going to let you in with that swindling mine of his. the place was salted before they washed up; and i know where they first got the diamonds they found there. i don't like to see a gentleman like you let in. now, what you want to go in for is digging in a established mine, not for a wild-cat speculation;" and the rugged honest one went on to urge upon the captain the advantage of investing his money in some claims that were in that portion of the du toits pan mine, which had somehow gained the name of the graveyard, on account of so many persons having buried their fortunes there. captain hamilton was very much obliged to his kind friend, though he said that he refused to believe that mo was not _bona fide_; "over sanguine, perhaps, but means well," he said; "still, i think that what you mention would just suit me. we must have another talk about it." thus the captain for some time did not settle how he would embark his fortune, but treated with every one who came to him, almost always entertaining the highest opinion of the suggestions made to him. in the mean time, the owners of valuable mining properties were constant in paying him the greatest attention, and he was asked to share so many small bottles of champagne that the bar-keepers looked upon him as a perfect godsend, and dated the revival of prosperity on the fields from his arrival. as the captain had a good deal of spare time on his hands, he was able to indulge in some of the pastimes in which he excelled. after some little time he was recognised as a very fine billiard-player. at first there were one or two young men who thought they could beat him, and it was a costly mistake for them; but the captain explained he was only just getting back his form, and so accounted for the great improvement which could be noticed in his play, after he had got a little money on. at cards he was very lucky: a fortunate whist-player, a good ecarte-player, while he had wonderfully good luck, when several times he was persuaded, protesting that it was not at all in his line, to sit down to a game of poker. however, though his card and billiard playing did not lighten his purse, they compelled him to neglect his wife more than was wise, perhaps. night after night, while hamilton was at the club, the dangerous mr smythe would be sitting smoking cigarettes in jenny hamilton's little sitting-room. perhaps, though people did talk a good deal, there was not much harm in it; and jenny hamilton, though she did look so young, was, perhaps, pretty well able to take care of herself. still, she became far more confidential with her friend mr smythe than it was wise for a young woman to be with such a very fascinating man. certainly, when she told him all her grievances against her husband--how he neglected her, and was always at billiards or cards, leaving her all by herself, how he drank too much, and was generally rather a disappointment--she was taking a course which seemed rather indiscreet. but it was not only about her own affairs she would talk; she took the greatest interest in all he had to say about himself, and would listen to his stories of english society with never-failing interest. she would encourage him to read poetry to her, for, though his education had been rather commercial than classical, he fancied that he could read well. "ah," she would say, "how nice it is to be fond of poetry and art! now, jack cares for nothing but billiards, cards, sport, and drink; not even for me, i am afraid." then she would change the conversation, and talk about smythe's affairs. "was it true," she would ask, "that he had such a splendid collection of diamonds? she was so fond of seeing them. couldn't he show them to her?" smythe made rather a favour of this, for he said that no one had ever seen his diamonds! still, of course, he would show them to mrs hamilton, only she must come down to the office to see them. mrs hamilton didn't altogether like that; she would sooner he brought the diamonds up to the house. however, she said she was determined to see them, and she would constantly return to this subject. on one occasion, when mr smythe called, he found hamilton at home instead of at the club, and so he did the next time after that; and, rather to his annoyance, he found the captain had taken to stop at home. he used usually to sit in the verandah, smoking, paying very little heed to his wife or her friend. still, mr smythe found him a good deal in the way, and began to look upon his presence in his own house as little less than an intrusion. "_do_ you know that jack is fearfully jealous of you?" said pretty mrs hamilton to him one evening. "some one has said something to him, and since then he has never left me out of his sight." "that's very stupid of him!" said mr smythe. "yes, it is very silly," she said; "but i'm afraid you're a dreadful man! anyhow, jack thinks you are, for he has taken to stop at home all day looking after me." "when is he going to get something to do? if he had more work and less drink he wouldn't take fancies into his head." "i don't know," she answered. "i'm afraid he will go away to some other place. won't that be wretched?" she said. "wretched, my dear! of course it will," said mr smythe; and he would have said a good deal more, only the smoke of his cigarette made jenny choke; and then her husband came into the room, scowled at his guest, helped himself to some whiskey, and left it again. "by the by," said jenny, when he had gone, "i've never seen those diamonds: now, you know, you promised i should." "you must come to the office and see them," he said. "i don't like to bring them up here, unless he's out, for i don't like any one to see them but you." "yes, i know that it's a great privilege for me to see them, though i don't know what harm it can do for a poor little woman like me to see diamonds she can't hope ever to have; you must bring them up here, and show them to me when he's out of the room." "no, i can't do that; he is always in and out. you must come to the office." "you wretch," she said, "you want me to go to your office by myself, but i won't; it wouldn't do at all. besides, do you know, he never lets me out of his sight for a minute; he hardly ever sleeps for long, and he gets so fearfully violent, i think it's the whiskey he takes. do you know, the other day i thought he would strike me." mr smythe was a good deal impressed with this information, and he looked with no little awe at the culprit, who fidgeted in and out of the room with no particular object. though he despised the man, he felt a good deal afraid of him. "by jove," he thought to himself, "suppose he took a fancy to go for me--the brute looks pretty strong!" "if i was you," he said, "i'd give him a strong sleeping draught; he is a misery to himself and every one else, like this." "i only wish i could," she said. "he gets more nervous and cross every evening; but he won't take anything." "well, i'd make him; i'd put a dose into his whiskey-and-water, which would send him off fast enough. i'd tell you what to give." for one second jenny seemed to be thinking the matter over. then she answered,-"oh, i wish you would; i would--i'd do it to-morrow; and then you could bring up the diamonds to show me, and we should be alone. now, write down the stuff i am to get." mr smythe knew a little about doctoring, so he wrote out the quantities of a drug on a leaf of his note-book, and gave it her. "now promise to bring up the diamonds to-morrow, and we will look at them when we are alone and he is asleep." "all right," he said; "but i don't think they will interest you, and i hardly like bringing them out; but i can't refuse you anything, my dear." just then captain hamilton came in again, and, as he seemed inclined to stay, mr smythe took leave of his host and hostess, the latter giving him a look which seemed to say "don't forget." "by gad, she is a plucky little woman, and dead gone on me! why, i believe, if i told her to, she'd put a drop of prussic acid in his whiskey!" said mr smythe to himself, as he swaggered down to the club from hamilton's house. that evening he was in very great force, and his anecdotes and epigrams were unusually brilliant. every one understood the point of what he said, and knew to whom his hints referred; and his toadies told him that he was a bad lot, a very bad lot, for they knew that this sort of reproach was the most grateful flattery to him. "what an insufferable cad that little brute is! hope he comes to grief soon," was the remark of one man who probably didn't like him. the next evening mr smythe opened his safe, and took out his parcel of diamonds. after all there was no danger in taking them as far as the hamiltons' house, though they were so valuable, for the hamiltons lived in one of the principal streets in the town. it was rather a silly whim of the little woman, he thought, being so set on seeing the diamonds; but he knew enough of the sex to be aware that she was determined to have it granted. the diamonds were in a large snuff-box. there were about a hundred diamonds weighing from ten to fifty carats each, and they were worth about 20,000 pounds. something seemed to prompt him to put the diamonds back into the safe; but on the diamond fields men get used to the idea of carrying about stones of great value; and then he thought of jenny hamilton's bewitching little face, so he put the diamonds in his pocket, and started off for her house. the house stood in what was called a garden, though very little grew there. on either side it was only a few yards from the house next door. as smythe walked up to the door jenny hamilton came out to meet him. "hush!" she said, holding her hand up to her mouth; "he is asleep! i've given it him; i put it into the whiskey-bottle, and he took it all." she beckoned him to follow, and they both went indoors into the sitting-room. from the next room they could hear the heavy breathing of the captain. "now, have you brought them?" she said. "yes; i've done what you told me to do," he answered. "let me show you them." "stop," she said first; "let me see if he is fast asleep." she went into the next room and came back again. "he's fast asleep, poor old boy," she said. smythe thought that he never had seen her look so pretty. she was dressed very prettily; had a very brilliant colour on her cheeks, which became her; and her eyes glittered with excitement. they sat down, and he poured the diamonds out of the box on to a sheet of white paper, which looked grey contrasted with some of them. "and these diamonds are worth twenty thousand pounds! how good to bring them!" smythe thought that he never had seen such a pretty little face as hers was, as she looked at the diamonds with a longing glance; but he was rather surprised when she looked up into his face and said, "give them to me." of course he had no intention of doing any such thing; the idea was simply absurd, considering their value. and smythe didn't half like this eccentricity of his pretty little friend; still she looked so pretty that smythe could not feel angry with her. her face was close to his--she was looking up at him; he stooped down and kissed her. just then he heard a step behind him, and as he turned round, his head struck against something hard: it was the muzzle of a revolver, which hamilton was holding. hamilton was wide awake, and there was a very ugly grin of triumph in his face. "well, you're a nice young man, you are, to drop in friendly of an evening! hush! don't speak out loud, or i'll blow your brains out at once," said the captain. jenny hamilton didn't seem to be one bit disconcerted. she had snatched up the diamonds, and she was turning them over, watching their sheen with evident pleasure. mr smythe, however, felt anything but at his ease. the situation was a very strange one, for if he shouted out "murder!" he would be heard by his neighbours on both sides, who were only separated from him by a few feet of open space and a few inches of tin wall. one of them was a young diamond-buyer, with a taste for comic singing, who had just returned from a trip home, and was entertaining his friends with the cream of the melody of the london music-halls, and as he stood shivering with fear, with the revolver held up to his head, smythe could hear the chorus of one of the songs of the day. he had never cared less about comic singing. but though help was so near he felt completely in the power of hamilton, who looked very resolute and reckless, and seemed to be quite in earnest. personal courage never was mr smythe's strong point, and now for a minute he felt too startled to think; in fact, he only had sufficient sense left to make him restrain his inclination to shout out for help. after a second or two he began to feel more assured. it seemed so unlikely that he should be murdered in the middle of the town, within calling distance of several men; only the revolver was real enough. when a man is holding a revolver up to your head, you have the worst of the position. he mayn't care to shoot; but, on the other hard, he may; and, whatever the ultimate consequences may be to him, the immediate consequences to you are sure. in a half-hearted way for one second smythe thought of resisting, and he made a movement with his hand towards his pocket. "keep your hands up; you'd better," said the other. smythe obeyed him, and sat holding his hand above his head, looking very ridiculous. "you'd better take that from him, jen," said hamilton; and jenny hamilton put her hand into her dear friend's pocket and deftly eased him of his revolver. a gleam of hope came into mr smythe's heart. after all, he thought, people don't commit homicide without reason; and he saw that he had not to deal with an outraged husband, but with a pair of sharpers. he certainly began to wish that his diamonds were in his safe at home; but he knew they were difficult property to deal with, and hoped to get off without making any great sacrifice. "what the devil do you mean by this, captain hamilton?" he said, trying to put on an air of unconcern he didn't feel. "surely it's a poor joke to steal into your own drawing-room, and hold a revolver up to the head of a man you find calling on your wife." "i don't set up for being a good joker," said the captain; "but my jokes are eminently practical, as you'd learn if the police of london, new york, and 'frisco told you what they know of jack hamilton." "well, you'd better say what you hope to make out of this," said mr smythe. "i intend," said the captain, "to make a job for the crowner's inquest of you, and those diamonds for myself." "don't talk nonsense, man; you won't frighten me, i'm not so easily fooled. why, if i don't turn up, a dozen men will know where to look for me; besides that, they will hear you shoot next door. why, if you shoot, you'd be hung." "you've no call to bother your head about me. i can play this hand without your advice," said the captain. "see here: first i shoot you; then jen puts the diamonds away; then i give myself up to the police; jen confesses; i take my trial, like a man, and show that i shot you because i found you here alone with my wife, after you'd got her to drug my liquor. see here: the whiskey-bottle in the next room is drugged. jen has got the paper you wrote out. the chemist she got the stuff from can be found, and you've taken care to let every one know what your game is. what do you think a jury would do to me? you'd have to look a long time before you'd get one who would find me guilty of murder. hung! why, i shall be looked upon as the vindicator of the sanctity of domestic life. guess they'd get up a testimonial for me." then mr smythe realised the awkward position in which he was placed. the man seemed to be in earnest, and there was a determined look in his cruel hard face which made smythe believe that he dared do what he said; and if he did, it was true that he would be in very little danger of being punished. smythe could remember a somewhat similar case, in which a jury had endorsed the popular verdict of "served him right," by finding a prisoner, who had killed the man who had wronged him, not guilty. he could hear the words of the song which were being sung next door, and he knew that if he shouted out murder he could summon help, but he daren't shout out. help was near, but the revolver was nearer. "stop," he said, catching at a last straw; "you don't know that some one can't prove i had the diamonds with me!" "i'll chance that," said hamilton. "you see, no one has ever seen the diamonds but us." as hamilton said this jenny left the room with the diamonds in her hand, and then came back again without them. smythe felt that he had seen the last of the stones, which were likely to cost him so dear. "spare me! for heaven's sake, spare me! what have i done that you should kill me? keep the diamonds, and let me go." "that won't do, i am afraid," said hamilton; "you might change your mind, and try and get the diamonds back. of course i don't want to shoot you, but it's the way to play my game." then mrs hamilton, who had come back into the room, spoke for the first time. "what's the good of all this talk, jack? make haste and get it all over." just then, in his extremity, an idea came into smythe's mind, and again he began to hope. "stop," he said. "why kill me? i have money in the bank. spare me, and i will write a cheque for five hundred." "it's risky for me," said captain hamilton. "still, a little ready comes in handy. i will take a thou." with a very shaky hand smythe wrote out the cheque for the amount asked for, the captain still holding the revolver up to his head. smythe handed over the cheque. "now i can go, i suppose?" he said, making for the door. "not yet," said the other. "get the paper, jen. now write out a note to me, enclosing the cheque for a card debt," he added, as his wife took down some paper and placed it before their guest. smythe wrote the letter he required. "that will do. now write to jen, sending her the diamonds." "what am i to say?" said smythe. "what are you to say? why, you don't want me to write a love-letter to my own wife--it's more in your line than mine; but make it pretty sweet, for i don't know but that the old plan isn't best after all." smythe had written love-letters to other men's wives before, but never under similar circumstances, with the husband witnessing the performance with a loaded revolver in his hand, nor had he ever made such a very expensive present. it was some time before he could pull himself together sufficiently to write, and one or two attempts were condemned by his severe critic, who said,-"no, that sort of slush ain't good enough. put a little more sugar in it. why, damn it, man, i thought you were so good at it!" at last the right sort of note was written. "that will do. here, what do you think of it, jen?" said the captain, passing the note across to his partner. "why, i think it a dear little note; it's a beautiful note; the prettiest note i ever got. what a darling man you are to give me such a present, and yet what a wicked wretch you are to write like that to me!" and mrs hamilton looked at her correspondent, who was regarding her with no very loving glance, and then burst into a peal of silvery laughter. the captain seemed to take up the joke. "why, hang it, man," he said, "but you're a generous big-hearted fellow. there are some men who wouldn't care about their wives taking presents from such a gay cuss as you, but i know you mean no harm, old fellow;" and the captain gave him a slap on the back with his unoccupied hand, which made him start with terror. "no," he continued, as his visitor made as if he was going, "you sha'n't go yet. stop and drink, stop and drink," he repeated, with a warning gesture with his revolver. mr smythe sat down at this pressing invitation, and took one or two glasses of brandy-and-water. he felt that his nerve was altogether gone, and that he was obliged to obey the other. at last hamilton let him go, and opening the door for him, took a noisy leave of him, that the neighbours must have heard; and then he lurched home in such a state of brandy and shock that he could hardly realise his loss before he tumbled into bed. the next morning he did not wake up until it was late, past ten o'clock, and then he, by degrees, remembered the events of the night before. "was it a dream?" he thought; and he went to his safe, and found out that it was no dream--the diamonds were not there! what could he do to get his diamonds back? was his first thought. he could think of nothing, for he remembered the letters he had written, and already it was too late to stop the cheque, for he knew it would have been presented as soon as the bank opened. then he began to think that the best thing he could do would be to keep his sorrows to himself, for no one would believe his story; and the people who lived next door to the hamiltons would have heard captain hamilton let him out of his house, and would never believe that anything of the sort had happened to him that evening. so mr smythe did nothing, and he was not surprised that evening to hear that among the passengers by the coach to capetown were his friends the hamiltons. he never saw them again, nor did he wish to. they were last seen, some time ago, in paris. hamilton was the same stolid, heavy-dragoon looking man, and jenny hamilton was as young and charming-looking as ever; and they seemed to be very prosperous, so they probably did well with smythe's diamonds. story 7. a vaal river heiress. part one. the general, as he had been called since diamond-digging first broke out on the banks of the vaal river, inhabited a hut built of rough stones and thatched with reeds near the river-bank at red shirt rush. he was the owner of some claims, and he had worked at red shirt since he came up to the vaal from the colony to try his luck as a diamond-digger; and when other diggers went hither and thither to new places on the river, or were attracted by the rich diggings which afterwards became famous as the south african diamond mines, the old general worked on at red shirt as if he were quite satisfied with the rewards that fortune thought fit to bestow upon his labours there, and would laugh at the men who were attracted elsewhere by glowing reports. he could hardly be said to be contented with red shirt--certainly if he were he expressed his content peculiarly, for he seldom talked of the place without an uncomplimentary epithet; but he probably was imbued with the gambler's belief in the doctrine of chances, and hoped his luck would change, while he was too discontented with the results of every move he had made in his life to care to make any more. he was generally supposed to be the unluckiest man down the river, and his bad luck was a very favourite subject for discussion and exaggeration at the canteens and places where diggers congregated. his former history, and the reasons which led him to take to diamond-digging, were subjects which afforded scope for imaginations which found life down the river, when finds were few and far between, barren of topics of interest; and certainly his appearance and manners seemed to show that he was much out of place in the community he found himself in. he was an aristocratic, reserved man, from whom years of rough life had not taken the unmistakable stamp of the military officer. it was generally believed down the river that the general's relations at home were very great people, and he was looked upon as a man with a history. luney white, the vaal river poet, whose contribution to the diamond field newspapers caused quite a furore down the river, many bets being made, and much fighting and drinking being occasioned, by the difficult question of what they were all about, and what he meant by them at all, retailed, on the pretence of having heard it from an army officer at capetown, a story that the general had allowed the suspicion of a terrible murder to rest upon him so as to shield the really guilty person, a lady of exalted rank, and was, at present, a fugitive from justice in consequence of his noble conduct. luney's story rather took for a day or two, until some one remembered having read just such a tale in a book the poet had borrowed from him--a circumstance which threw doubts, not only upon the veracity of the story, but on the originality of their poet's genius, which, up to then, they had believed in. the general's real name was hardly known, and he was never spoken of by it, though it was to be seen on a tombstone in the barkly cemetery, which was put up to the memory of constance, wife of john stanby, of red shirt rush, vaal river. he was the father of a golden-haired little girl of seventeen, who had grown up from a child on the banks of the vaal. his story had not really been a romantic or remarkable one. like many another man of good old family but no money he had gone into the army. after serving for some dozen years he had got into the clutches of the jews by backing a bill for a brother officer. for some years he fought against his debts, but in the end he was obliged to surrender his commission to his enemies, and leave the service. then, when his affairs were sufficiently hopeless, he fell in love with and married a girl who had not a penny, and, after having tried in vain to get something to do in england, went out to the cape and was attracted up to vaal river when diamonds were first found. though he was under fifty, he had become a grizzled, old-looking man, broken in spirits by persistent misfortune; and yet he was a strange mixture, for at times he was as sanguine as when he first put a pick into the soil of south africa. those who said that he never found exaggerated his ill-success, though not perhaps his ill-luck; at long intervals a few ill-looking, off-coloured little diamonds had turned up on his sorting-table, which, if they were to be considered as a recompense for all his weary work, were fortune's insults added to her injuries; but nevertheless kept up in him a curious sort of hope, which through all his bad luck he retained, notwithstanding his bitter grumbling against south africa in particular, and all things in general. to himself constantly, and to others when he met any one he cared to speak to, he would inveigh bitterly against his luck. first of all he would wish that he had never gone into the army; then he would curse the fate which had made him choose the particular branch of the service he had gone into; then he would curse the day he had left the service; and then he would collect every malediction he had made use of and every other he knew, and fire one withering sulphurous volley at fate, which had made him a digger on the vaal river. these explosions would seem to do him much good, for after one of them he would generally seem much relieved, and as likely as not in a few minutes would be talking about what he would do when he found, as he felt sure he would find when he had got the top stuff off his claim, or got into the lime layer which he would strike in another ten feet, or started into the new ground he was going to work in a month or two. there were two diggers at red shirt with whom the general was on intimate terms--charlie langdale and jim heap. the former was a light-hearted, cheery youngster of about twenty-two, in many respects a typical river-digger. he was restless and unable to take kindly to any work which entailed obedience; had a rare gift for getting into any mischief that was going on, while he possessed very little reverence for his seniors and those who thought themselves his betters; on the other hand, he was superior to many colonial youths in that he did not lie as a rule, nor boast overmuch, and could speak a few sentences without swearing hideously. the first time the general had seen him he was holding his own against a big irish digger who was trying to bully him out of a claim he was working; and the nonchalant way in which he laughed at the irishman's threats, and put the right value on them, impressed the general so much in his favour that he at once struck up an intimacy, and the two became great allies. the other, jim heap, was an old australian digger who had settled at red shirt, where he had become a fixture; for besides having some claims, he had become the proprietor of a store, which his wife looked after for him. he was a favourite confidant of the general, who would explain to him his theories about diamonds, and show him why he felt certain he would soon find and be able to leave the country--theories which jim heap would listen to gravely enough, though he did not believe in them one bit; but, as he would say to charlie, what was the good of putting a damper on the old man's hopes? his life was bad enough as it was, but would be unbearable if he did not go on hoping that he would soon make his pile, and be able to take his little girl home to england. sometimes, however, he would offer him advice, which the old general-who, though he considered diamond-digging a hateful occupation into which he had been forced by a malignant fate, believed himself to be as good an authority as any one on the subject--would greatly resent. charlie langdale also would sometimes venture on the same subject, and one morning, as he sat after dinner smoking under the trees near the general's house, he had greatly aroused his old friend's anger by criticising his way of working. "what! say my drive is dangerous!" the general had burst out, after he had listened to charlie for some time, "and i shan't get anything in that ground i am driving into! i should like to know what you mean by talking to me about it. why, if i don't know something about river digging, i'd like to know who does. i have been digging since they first found diamonds in this cursed country, and have stuck to the river all the time, and never left it for the new rush when all the others did. a lot i have got for it so far. well, it's a long lane that has got no turning; and there is connie, perhaps she wouldn't be as well as she is if we had left the river and gone to kimberley," he added. "by jove, yes, you're right, it's healthier here than at kimberley, and she couldn't look better than she does, could she?" charlie answered, with a flush of admiration coming across his bright young face, as he looked round and saw a golden-haired, blue-eyed girl, whose bright beauty was unharmed by the pitiless south african sun and climate, which often enough makes sad havoc of a woman's looks. the sight of connie, however, made charlie go back to his subject, regardless of the general's wrath. "i don't like the look of that drive, don't like those boulders that are above you; why don't you leave it alone and go into fresh ground? i think it dangerous, so does jim heap; he told connie that you ought not to work in it; and she is wretched about it every time you go to the claim." "it seems to me that every one thinks they can interfere with me--you and connie, and then jim heap, who thinks no one understands anything about digging but himself;" and the general drew in his breath to prepare for a burst of eloquence anent jim heap, when his daughter came up, and, feeling that he couldn't do justice to the subject in her presence, he went into the house choking with indignation. "i wish some one could persuade him to give up that work. but it's no use, he thinks he is a greater authority about digging than any one else," connie said, guessing from her father's suppressed indignation that charlie had been broaching the question of the dangerous state of his claim. "yes, i wish he would go into fresh ground. i never believed in those claims of his, they're too near the river." "you will never get him to do that. you know that years ago he saw a big diamond found in the claim next to where he is, which looked, he said, as if it were chipped off a much bigger one, and he is as sure in his own mind as he is of anything that the other bit is somewhere about near where he is working." "well, i dare say the claim is safe enough, and i hope he will come across the big 'un, which is going to make his fortune," said charlie, who was always ready to look at the bright side of things. "it was only the other day he was saying that it was about time he found, as you were growing too old to be living at red shirt." "poor old dear, he is always troubling himself about me, and says i am growing up a perfect savage, without any accomplishments and very little education, and shall have terribly hard work to make up for lost time when i get home. well, i'll back myself to cook, set a line for fish, nurse any one who's down with fever, and sort for diamonds, against any one on the river; these are accomplishments enough for red shirt, and that's where i shall be all my life, so far as i can see. he was talking the other day about sending me home, and staying out here himself; but that's absurd, isn't it?" charlie did not answer. the idea of red shirt rush without connie was miserable enough, for all his good sense told him that the general was right. connie ought not to be growing up in a digger's camp, with little education that was not of a very practical character. "why don't you say that i couldn't be improved, charlie? you're not half polite. i suspect you're comparing me with some of those fine ladies you have met at kimberley. come, i bet i know about as much out of books as they do, for i have read all the old man has, and they are a good mixed lot. besides, if i want educating ever so much, how could i go home and leave him by himself? he is wretched enough as it is, and i couldn't bear to leave him--besides, i don't want to say good-bye to all my old friends." charlie's heart gave rather a jump--he wondered whether he were one of the friends she would most mind saying good-bye to. he didn't believe much in the general's sanguine expectations being realised, and thought that connie was likely to stand in need some day of a stronger protector than her father; and her words gave him a feeling of hope, and he determined that he would speak out. just then, however, the general's voice was heard calling for connie, and the interruption disconcerted charlie, who turned off a sentence he was beginning and determined to put it off for another day. his heart failed him, and he thought that the old general would not like it, and that connie might take it amiss; so knocking the ashes out of his pipe he said good-bye to connie, and walked up the bank to where he was working, although he longed to stay and talk to her, and there was not the slightest reason why he should not have done so. on his way to his claim he passed the ground where the general was working. it was a claim which had been partly worked in the old days, before the new rush, as the kimberley mine was then called, was found, and had been deserted before it had been worked out. after its former owners had abandoned it and had gone to try their luck at the new diggings, the general had worked it down to the bed rock, some thirty feet deep, and was driving into the side of the claim towards the ground where he had seen the diamond found. charlie stood for a moment or two watching him at work. the drive certainly did not look very safe; the old man was working near a mass of rock which jutted out over him. the ground into which he was driving was the only part of the adjoining claim that had not been worked out, its former owners having thrown their stones and rubbish there, and so had been unable to get at it easily when they had worked out the rest of the claim. the weight on the natural surface of the ground made the place where the general was driving into look all the more awkward. "i say, that's rather a nasty-looking boulder you are working under, isn't it? it would flatten out any one in the drive pretty well if it were to slip," charlie shouted out to the general, who had crawled out of his drive for a minute. "slip! bosh! suppose the moon were to slip. nothing but dynamite would move that boulder! perhaps you would like to teach me how to work the claim," the elder digger growled out in response; and then he crawled into the tunnel, and charlie went on, knowing that it was useless to remonstrate any more, and hoping that it would be all right. "well, youngster, you've come back to work at last; you're a pretty sort of partner! been down at the general's? you're always loafing down there--it makes me laugh to see how that little bit of a girl fools you," a big dissipated-looking man, who was lying on the ground smoking a pipe, said as charlie came up to the claim. this was his partner, bill jeffson, and as he heard his voice charlie thought to himself that one of the first steps he would take towards turning over a new leaf would be to break with mr bill, so he answered him rather shortly, and told him that he had better mind his own business. "that's it, quarrel with an old chum, i suppose. i ain't good enough for you now you've got to know the old general. i don't know what's come over you: you can't take a joke, you never go on the spree, and you put on no end of frills just because you know that poverty-stricken old dead-beat and his daughter," jeffson growled out as he got up, stretched himself, and lounged into the claim, while charlie settled down at the sorting-table. several hours had passed without anything happening to vary the dull monotony of the work, when charlie suddenly sprang up with an exclamation of surprise. "hullo! what's up? have you found one?" jeffson called out. "found one! no. i heard some one cry out; there it is again. it's from the general's claim," said charlie, as he started to run, leaving his partner, who was never over much interested in other people's affairs, to lounge after him. after charlie had gone a little way, he met connie, who, with a white startled face, was running towards him, crying loudly for help. "go back and get picks and a crowbar. you have one. it's father; he has had an accident; the ground has come down. i will go and bring some other men," she gasped out; and then she ran past him towards the claims where jim heap and some other diggers were working. the first glance charlie got of the claim to which he ran, after he had shouted to his partner to bring the kaffirs with their tools, told him what had happened. jim heap's prophecy turned out to be true! the drive had fallen, and it was blocked up by a mass of boulders and earth. of the poor old general nothing could be seen; but it was not hard to guess where he was, and charlie began to dig madly with his hands into the fallen earth and throw some of the loose stones on one side, a cold sweat running down his face as he realised the terrible fate that had come to his old friend. he had not been at his work long before better help arrived. jeffson with the kaffirs set to work with their shovels; and jim heap, who at once took in the situation, and, giving the others directions, set to work at the fallen ground, looking up as he did so at connie, who, having followed him back, stood watching them. "don't take on, my dear. i have seen men come out all right from worse places than this, and be none the worse for it," he said to her; but his tone was not quite as hopeful as his words. she did not answer him, but watched them, speechless and tearless, with an awful look of misery on her white set face. she had not long to wait in suspense. after the work had gone on for some time, she heard a murmur from the men, which told her there was little ground for hope. the boulder under which he had been working had shifted, and her father was lying with the life crushed out of him underneath it. they tried to get her away before they moved the boulder and dragged out the lifeless body, but she would not go, and stood watching them, and followed the men who carried it back into the house without saying a word or even shedding a tear. "poor girl! it's a terrible bad business for her. i'll send my missis to her; she will sit up with her and try and comfort her--not that any one can do her much good, poor little lass," the old digger said, with something like a tear running down his weather-beaten old face. and then he went to his tent to send his wife, a devonshire-born woman, whose kindly nature had not been hardened by years of rough life on australian and south african diggings, to share poor connie's sad watch. on the following day the poor old general was buried at barkly, and there was not much work done at red shirt rush, for most of the diggers followed their old comrade, whom they liked and respected for all his crotchety temper and reserved manner, to his last resting-place. for years there had not been so many men from the river camps in that sleepy little township. it was remarked that the great majority of them left barkly quite sober, and that there were not more than three fights and no general disturbance. this exemplary conduct was caused partly by a sense of the sadness of the poor old general's death, and more by the memory of poor little connie's piteous face as she stood by the side of the grave. when the funeral was over, connie, who, in the first shock of her sorrow, had thought nothing about herself, began to realise how friendless and homeless she was. jim heap had borrowed a cart and a pair of horses, and driven her and his wife over to barkly, and on the way back he somehow guessed what she was thinking about. "maybe, miss connie, there are some of your relations at home you ought to write to about this; but until you hear you must stay with us, if you don't mind living with plain people in a rough place that ain't fit for a lady like you. while we've a roof over our heads, you need not trouble about finding a home. you know, miss, how proud we should be to have you with us; the missis and me have talked that over already." "how kind you are to me! i don't want to leave red shirt rush; all my friends are there, and every one seems so kind to me; but i shall be a burden to you. i must try and get my own living somehow," poor connie answered. "burden to us? don't talk of that; why, you talk as if you haven't got anything of your own; why, there's those claims which are worth a good bit of money maybe, and there is a heap of stuff the general got out of it which hasn't been sorted yet." connie remembered how now and then in her father's lifetime jim heap had expressed a very different opinion about the value of the ground which had cost her so much, but she did not say any more. another person who thought about connie's future was charlie langdale. there is no need to say how he would have planned it, and the day after the poor old general was buried--it was a sunday morning--he was strolling along the river-bank thinking over his plans for the future. he would give up the river, he thought, and go to kimberley and try and get a sub-managership or something of the sort from one of the companies which would give him a fixed income. regular work and wages up to that time had had very little attraction to him. he liked working on his own account down the river with no one to order him about, and the gambling uncertainty of river-digging was just suited to his happy-go-lucky disposition; but he thought that he would not mind how irksome the work he got to do was, so long as it would give him a prospect of marrying connie. if she would only give him just a glimpse of a hope he would ask for no more, till he had shown what sort of stuff he was made of, he declared to himself as he tried to weigh his chance, and went from the depths of despair to hopefulness and back, as he tried to recall the occasions on which he might possibly have shown her how much he cared for her. he had walked along the bank thinking over this question until he had come to the old general's claims, and, looking at the trees by the little house, he thought of the last time he had stood under them talking to her, and had almost made up his mind to tell her. well, he would have to wait a bit now. poor girl, it would not do to talk to her till she had got over the first of her sorrow. then he walked into the claim, and stood near where the accident had happened, and as he thought he scratched with a stick he had in his hand amongst the loose gravel which the party working to rescue the general had thrown out. by chance he looked down at his feet, and found himself hitting with his stick at something that looked very different from the other pebbles. he was too intent on his thoughts to pay much heed to it, though in an absent way he was looking at it. suddenly he gave a start, and picked it up; it was a big white diamond! -----------------------------------------------------------------------part two. the diamond was just such a stone as the poor old general used to describe when he talked of the one he expected to come across--such a stone as he argued that the one he saw in the next claim years before had been chipped. the old man's theory was rubbish, charlie had always believed, but there, sure enough, was a diamond that bore it out. it must have been dislodged from the ground that had fallen, and when he met his death the general was very near the prize he had somehow always expected to find. charlie examined the diamond carefully; he had never seen so large a stone of the same quality before. he could not estimate its value, but it was worth a good many thousands, he believed, for it would probably be one of the finest stones in the world. "hullo! what have you got there? show me. put it in your pocket and hurry away from this place; remember we're partners, old man; come, look slippy, we don't want any one to see us mouching about here," charlie heard a voice say in his ear, and looking round, he saw his partner, bill jeffson, who was staring with big eyes at the diamond, and in his amazement at seeing it had dropped a bottle of `cape smoke' on the ground without even using one word of bad language. "what do you mean? what's our partnership got to do with this diamond? it's not found in our claim." "that's it, you darned fool! it's got to be found in our claim; that's the only place you can find a diamond in legally if one wants to stick to it." "stick to it. why, this belongs to the general, and i am going to give it up to jim heap." "stop, you ain't going to give that diamond up to jim heap! you're mad! stop! man alive, how can the diamond belong to any one except the first man who finds it? these claims are abandoned." charlie paid no heed to the other, who was trembling with excitement and greed, but pushed past him and walked in the direction of jim heap's house. bill jeffson stood for some seconds watching him, thinking what he could say or do to get some share in the diamond he had seen; then he ran after him, and caught hold of him by the arm. "look here, charlie--now don't get riled with an old chum. look here, now let me put it to you--ain't you making a mistake? why don't you stick to the diamond? you say it belongs to the old general's girl. well, you're sweet on her, and want to marry her, so it won't hurt her if you do stick to it; she'll get her share, and it will be all one to her; while if you give it up see where are you--why, you lose the diamond and her too. you don't suppose that she would marry you if she had a fortune of her own, and that diamond means a fortune, mind you. she is a lady by birth, mind, and has relations in england who are as fine people as any in the land, so i've heard; and though they won't put themselves out about her now--she would only be a trouble to 'em--it would be a different story if she were a bit of an heiress. why, every one would cry shame, and say you were standing in the girl's light and preventing her taking her proper place. now, look here, you say you found that diamond in our claim--you and i can settle about my share-and then you will have something to go on when you ask the girl to marry you. now think it over, and don't act in a hurry;" and mr jeffson looked inquiringly into his partner's face to see if his persuasion was taking any effect upon him. mr bill jeffson, when he looked back to the incident, as he often did, with feelings of the most bitter disgust at his bad luck and charlie's weakness of conduct, always consoled himself with the reflection that he showed the greatest diplomacy in the way he put it, and felt sure that charlie was struck by the force of his argument. however, his ingenuity was wasted, for charlie turned round and told him to clear off or it would be the worse for him, and, without saying a word more, went on towards jim heap's. it was true enough, charlie thought to himself as bill jeffson's words came back to him, that diamond, if it was worth as much as he thought it must be, would make a good deal of difference to connie. it was one thing for him to ask her to marry him when she was without means or friends, but it would be different now she had plenty of money and the means of going home and living the life that was suitable for one of her birth. the old general, if he had lived and had found the diamond, would have principally valued his good luck because it would have given him the means of sending connie home; and he would have been right to have done so. red shirt rush was not a fit place for her, and its inhabitants, who lived dull sordid lives, and whose only ambition was to be successful in their grubbing for diamonds, were not fit society for her. yet charlie felt doubtful whether he was fit for any better life than he was leading, and if he persuaded her to marry him he would keep her down to something like it. should he leave it to her to decide? was not he somewhat premature in settling whether or no it would be for her good to marry him when he had no reason to believe that she would accept him? but jeffson's words came back to his mind. people would say that it was a shame if he persuaded a girl--she was only a girl--into such a disadvantageous marriage; it would be taking advantage of her want of knowledge of the world. and as he saw that, as a matter of honour, he ought not to ask her to marry him, he began to feel more confident of his chances with her, and he felt it all the harder to give them up. he had hardly come to any decision when he arrived at jim heap's house. jim heap was standing at the door, and he came out to meet him, and began to tell him about connie, who was knocked up by the grief and shock of the last few days, and was in bed in a feverish state. charlie listened to him, and then told the story of his find, and showed jim heap the diamond. "bless me! if this start don't beat anything i have ever seen, and i have been digging since gold was first found in australia, and seen one or two queer freaks of fortune! fancy, now, the old general was just getting on to the bit of luck he was always talking about, when he was killed! seems something like fate in it all, don't it? well, i suppose you are right; this diamond belongs to connie right enough. i was telling her she was a bit of an heiress, as she had got that ground--not that i thought it was worth anything, but i wanted to cheer her up, and make her think that she wasn't under any obligation that she couldn't pay for in coming to me; but it turns out that she is an heiress after all." "i suppose she will go home now, as that's what her father would have liked?" said charlie. "go home? i never thought of that; but now you say so it's pretty clear to me that would be right. she has some relations at home, and now she has money they will be civil enough to her; and that stone means money. nobody knows what a big stone like that is worth--it's 250 carats, i'd like to bet; and now things are a bit brisker, i guess some of these big dealers would give as much as twenty thousand pounds for it, and make fifty per cent, out of their money." "twenty thousand pounds? yes, you bet it's worth all that," said charlie; and as he looked at the diamond he thought how it was fated to blast all his hopes. jim heap, he saw, was at once of the opinion that it was best for her to go home, and every one else would think so too. she was lost to him unless he did an unfair thing. "poor girl! it won't take her grief away," said jim; "and maybe she won't like leaving us all 'cause she has never known any better place; but, after a bit, she will know what a good turn you have done her in finding this big 'un for her. it's lucky that one or two men i know on this digging didn't find it instead of you, my boy, or connie would have been none the richer for it. will you come in and give it her yourself? she is asleep now, but i will tell my missis to wake her up; it's something worth being woke up for." "no, don't wake her up--let her sleep, and you tell her about it when she is better. maybe it will only excite her now; you had better keep it," charlie answered, and he walked back to his tent to sit by himself, and think over his future and connie's, and how the wonderful find he had made that afternoon would alter it. by the next day the news of the find was all over the camp, and spread up and down the river, and to kimberley, where it excited much interest amongst buyers and dealers, who discussed the news of the find, and discounted it and speculated as to how much such a diamond would be worth, and who could afford to buy. connie was one of the last to hear the news, for, as the day went on, she got worse, and the next morning charlie met the barkly doctor coming from jim heap's with rather a bad report to give of her. she had an attack of fever. there was a good deal of it about down the river that year, and her trouble and the shock she had sustained had made it worse, and it would be some time before she could be told of her good luck. "it seems hard that her father shouldn't have lived to see his luck turned, poor old fellow!" the doctor said to charlie; "but his daughter will be able to go home now and be educated; that's what he always talked about. i remember his saying that he felt troubled to think that she was growing up out here, and he had hoped to have made something out of his claims before." "yes, she will be able to go home, of course; that's what she ought to do," charlie answered, with something of regret in his voice; "but the place will seem strange without her." "yes, the old general and pretty little connie were quite features in the place, weren't they? they introduced an element you don't often see in a digging; but they were both out of place, if you come to think of it; and it's a good thing that, thanks to you, she can get out of it. it would have been a pity if she had married some river-digger, and lived all her life away from civilisation and out of society. it's bad enough for a man, but it's worse for a woman." charlie was inclined to think the doctor a conceited ass, who gave himself airs because he was a professional man, and had come out from home, and thought the country where he made his living not good enough for him. still, he had said what every one else was saying, that connie ought to go home. there was no doubt about it; he ought to give up all his hopes of winning her. that big diamond had made all the difference; she belonged properly to a different world from the one in which he would have to live his life, and it would be mean and treacherous to the memory of his old friend, her father, if he hindered her from going back to it. he cursed the chance, which had thrown all his plans out of gear, and wished that his partner, bill jeffson, had found that diamond, or fate had not placed it in the general's claim in order to mock him. he wondered whether connie really did care for him; how sweet the idea of working for her and protecting her had been! now she did not want his work or protection, and the best thing he could do would be to clear off. the idea of going away took hold of him; it seemed to him that flight was the bravest course he could take. there was some fairly good news from the transvaal gold-fields just then, and he thought he would go up there. that morning, as he was working at his claim, his partner, who had been across the river, turned up in a state of irritation which he appeared to think praiseworthy and just. "you're a clever chap you are!" he snarled out, after he had looked with disgust for some time at charlie working in the claim; "but you're too clever by half; they are all talking about you at the canteen over the river, and a precious fool they think you, though they say you acted very straight. when i told 'em that your game was to marry the girl, and get the diamond back that way, higgins, the law agent, said that it wasn't likely, and that he believed the law would prevent it, 'cause she was a minor, and would be made a ward of the court, and that it would be a shame if she were to marry the likes of you, and that of course she would go home; and every one agreed with him except luney white. why, higgins, he said that he doubted whether you would get a farthing for having found the diamond, as the high court, which will have to administer the estate, won't have any power to grant it. there won't be as much as a drink stood over that diamond--think of that now--the best stone ever found down the river; and not so much as a glass of square face or cape smoke stood over it. oh, it makes me sick!" charlie told him that if he ever said anything about his wanting to stop connie going home he would give him the worst thrashing he ever had in his life, for it was a lie. of course she ought to go away from red shirt, and he knew it, and he seemed so much in earnest that bill jeffson thought it prudent to lurch away, comforting himself with the reflection that his words had left a sting, and that charlie would be punished for his foolishness about the diamond. ah, it was the same story all round; every one said she ought to go home; he must either stay there and see the last of connie without telling her how much he loved her, or go away somewhere, and of the two alternatives the latter seemed to be the easier. he waited till he heard that connie was better, and then early one morning he turned his back on red shirt, and set off to walk across the veldt to kimberley. jim heap, when he had heard of his intention to start off at once, could not understand it. "there's nothing sticking out up there for a man without capital, and there is nothing to hurry off there for; i should have thought that you'd have waited till miss connie was well enough to see you; i don't think she will take it over well you're going off like this without saying good-bye; she'd like to say that, let alone saying thank you for finding it for her." "there's no reason for her to thank me, it didn't give me any trouble to pick it up; and as for saying good-bye, you must say that for me. tell her that i hope she will go home, as the old general always wished her, and that she'll be happy. i'd better clear off these fields at once." "you haven't been doing anything wrong--not been on the cross in any way? that bill jeffson hasn't been letting you in or getting you to go in for anything shady?" jim heap asked, for from experience a sudden necessity to leave a place was associated in his mind with a desire to get away from the jurisdiction of criminal courts. "no, don't think that of me; i haven't been doing anything that's mean or dishonest, but i ain't sure i sha'n't if i stay here," charlie said, and, shaking jim heap's horny hand, he left him in a state of considerable bewilderment. jim heap was right about connie taking his sudden departure rather badly. when she was told the two pieces of news, she seemed far more surprised and hurt at charlie's having left without saying good-bye to her than she was rejoiced to learn that she was the owner of one of the largest diamonds in the world, and seemed to think that the good luck had come too late now that her father was dead and could not rejoice over it. she did not say much about charlie, but jim heap and his wife both thought that she was a good deal hurt about it. after she had first expressed her surprise at his having gone she rarely mentioned his name. she wanted some share of the price of the diamond, which sold for 20,000 pounds, to be given to him for finding it, but as she was a minor that was impossible. to the plan of her going home she made no objections, for though she looked forward to a change of life without much pleasure, she knew it was what her father would have wished; and one day, some weeks after the diamond was found, a crowd of diggers gave her a last cheer as jim heap drove her across the veldt to barkly, where she was to meet the wife of the clergyman there, who was going home and had arranged to take her under her protection, and duly introduce her to her father's relations; and nothing was left of the general and connie except the house in which they used to live and the claims where the big diamond was found; though their memory will live and their story will be told so long as diamonds are dug for on the banks of the vaal river. after some months, charlie came back from the gold-fields on foot, for he had found, as jim heap prophesied, that there was nothing much sticking out for him up there. he came back with empty pockets and worn-out boots, but he did not seem sickened of the chances of digging, or had not the energy to try anything else, for he turned to his old occupation again. fortune thought fit to do him a good turn, as it did to many others down the river that year. the vaal that winter became unusually shallow, and the diggers who went to work in its bed, as they do when they can get at it, found very well. when the river came down again, charlie had found a nice lot of diamonds which he sold for eight hundred pounds, and, rather to the surprise of every one who knew him, he announced his intention of going for a run home. maybe he would never have another chance, he said, and he would like to know a little bit more of the world than south africa. the truth was that he felt a longing to know something about the world in which connie would live; not that he supposed there was any chance of his seeing her--he did not want to see her, he told himself. so he took his passage home, and in a few weeks found himself in london. after a few weeks of the round of theatres, race meetings, and sight-seeing, which colonists generally go in for, he began to feel half tired and bored with it all. the feeling of being alone in a crowd chilled him, as it does those who have always lived in a small community, and he began to feel something that was very like home-sickness. he was delighted when he came across any one he had known on the diamond fields, even finding himself pleased to talk to men whom at the mine he had rather disliked and avoided. he was in this state of mind when he met one brown, a man whom out there he had always looked upon as an ass. mr brown was equally lonely and in want of a companion; he was about to set out on a continental trip; and though he doubted whether charlie was not a little too colonial to be a desirable travelling companion, still he thought that it would be better to get him to go with him than travel by himself, so they agreed to travel together, and started for the regulation rhine and switzerland trip. mr brown's misgivings as to charlie were confirmed by his conduct. he hadn't got the mind for travel, and took nothing in. he was all very well on the diamond fields, but he ought to have stopped there, was the opinion expressed to himself of charlie after they had travelled together for two days. on the rhine steamer his disgust reached a climax. charlie showed his hopeless ignorance by saying that the rhine reminded him of the vaal river, and he seemed to take more interest in that grovelling fancy than in anything he saw. he refused to listen to mr brown's stories from murray about the castles and islands he was passing by, nor did he seem to care to have the special beauties of the scenery pointed out to him--for mr brown had a nice taste for nature-but he sat silent and stupid. to tell the truth, his thoughts were far away amongst old familiar scenes. he seemed to see the hut by the river, to hear the swish of the diggers' cradles and kaffirs jabbering at their work, and connie's silvery laugh as she ran along the bank to her father's claim. that scene had come back to his mind twenty times a day since he had left africa. "did you see that pretty girl who got in at boppart? you don't see that sort of woman in africa. there she is, sitting opposite, next to that white-haired old buffer. oh, what a fellow you are! you won't take an interest in anything," mr brown was saying when charlie woke up from his day-dream, and looking across the deck he saw connie sitting opposite. she was at the same time wonderfully altered, and yet her old self. the battered old straw hat and the old bright-coloured frock bought at the barkly store in celebration of one of the general's meagre finds, which charlie remembered so well, were replaced by soft deftly-made garments, and she had grown even more beautiful than she promised to be; but charlie knew her at once, and as he saw her she looked round, and a joyous look of recognition came into her face. in a second he was shaking hands and was being introduced (as mr langdale, who was a great friend of ours in south africa, and who found my diamond for me) to a white-haired gentleman and an elderly, somewhat grim-looking lady, who eyed him rather dubiously, as if they were inclined to doubt whether acquaintances made on the diamond fields were very desirable ones; but neither connie nor charlie troubled themselves much about them. "what made you go to the gold-fields without waiting to say good-bye to me?" connie said to him when they were able to talk without being overheard. charlie looked rather uncomfortable, and began to tell some story of a party who were going to start and would not wait, when connie interrupted him. "if i thought you had had no better reason than that i should forgive you; as it is, i don't think i shall unless you tell me something i want to know. you remember the day of the accident;" and a tear came into her eyes as the terrible memory of her father's death came back to her. "well, you remember on that day we were talking together under the trees, you and i: you were just going to tell me something when i was called away. can you remember now what it was you were going to say?" of course he could remember, and once for all the heroic resolutions he had made and tried to act upon utterly broke down. "i suppose i must tell my cousins about this," connie said, after they had talked for some time, as she glanced in the direction of the gentleman and lady she was travelling with, who were regarding them with looks of surprise and disapproval. "they are my guardians, and perhaps they mayn't like it; but they know i always have my own way, and i think you might have known that too." she was right, they didn't like it; but she in the end had her own way, and some twelve months after their meeting a digger of red shirt, who was reading a tattered english newspaper at the canteen, came across an advertisement of the marriage of charles, son of the late charles langdale, of the griqualand west civil service, to constance, daughter of the late john stanley (late captain --th light infantry), which after much debate was interpreted to mean that charlie had married the old general's daughter after all. story 8. a duel at "poker." nobody on the diamond fields quite knew the beginning of the ill-feeling between dr gorman and mr bowker. it had existed, as far as any one could remember, from the early days of the fields, and had been increased and intensified by a hundred matters of grievance. it is only in a small community, where there is not much change of thought, and where a fresh face is not very often seen, that bitter personal hatred can grow luxuriantly, and the rancorous ill-will between those two men had become part of themselves, adding a sort of enjoyment to their lives, and influencing many of their actions. men knew and counted upon the fact that one of them would oppose the other in every possible way, and those who were on bad terms with the one could always reckon on the support and friendship of the other. it was as much owing to their being respectively directors of the long hope and the new colonial mining companies, as to anything else, that the disastrous litigation, which eventually swamped both companies, broke out and was carried on to the bitter end. it was owing to some one suggesting to bowker that it was the cherished ambition of dr gorman to represent kimberley in the house of assembly, that the former first took to politics, and began that distinguished public career which we at the diamond fields believed was attracting the attention of europe, while the latter, who had no more ambition to become a member of the legislative assembly than to be a bishop, when his enemy issued his address, at once came forward and began to canvass the constituency on his own account. that election was memorable in the annals of the diamond fields for years, and was fought with a spirit which a journal that made a good thing out of it said was creditable to both parties, and bore witness to the healthy vitality of the diamond fields. money was thrown about with a splendid recklessness, and some men, who had the foresight to put their kaffir workmen on the register, made a good thing out of the rise in the value of free and independent voters. there was no other candidate who stood a ghost of a chance while there were two seats, so the fight between the two was only for the honour of being senior member, but it was none the less brisk on that account. bowker won, and then both parties got up petitions against each other's return on account of gross bribery and corruption, and succeeded in turning each other out. from that day they were the prominent leaders in local politics, in fact they helped to form the two parties who became the guelphs and ghibbelines of the diamond fields. bowker was supposed to own the `assagai,' a satirical journal that had a stormy existence for some months, and the doctor was believed to have found the money for the `knobkerri,' and to have imported its editor, a broken-down london journalist, whose power of invective, until he matured the incipient delirium tremens he brought out with him, was the terror of mr bowker and his party. when the former journal devoted a series of articles to the doctor's former life, and to the incidents connected with the suspicious death of his half-aunt, bowker was believed to have inspired the attack; while the biography of bowker, giving a graphic account of his being tarred and feathered on the ovens gold field in australia, in connection with a charge of petty theft, which sent up the circulation of the `knobkerri' to a figure never before or afterwards reached by a newspaper on the diamond fields, was put down to the doctor. bowker, who achieved a great reputation in colonial politics by his command of language, saying "that he recognised the contemptible handiwork of the medical assassin's dastardly brain." the enmity between these two men increased with the prosperity of the diamond fields, but did not go down with the shares when the bad times came. through good times and bad the feud between them became more bitter. when things were at their worst, the one felt that the other's bad fortune made up to a certain extent for his own. when things began to mend, bowker felt that his satisfaction at finding himself on the breast of the wave of returning prosperity was diminished by seeing his old enemy floating in with him. but with bowker's shares the doctor's house property rose in value, and when at length the latter, having become weary of the dust of the fields, determined to shake it off his feet for ever, and return home, he felt that the knowledge that he was leaving bowker behind him a prosperous man, who in a year or two would follow him with a larger fortune, spoilt much of his self-satisfaction. bowker, on the other hand, heard with considerable chagrin of the other's intended departure; he felt that in a way he would miss him, and thought that life would be dull now there was little chance of seeing his enemy come to grief, and now it seemed certain on the whole that his career on the diamond fields might be summed up as a successful one. one evening some days before gorman was to leave kimberley, he was with some of us in the card-room of the club. we had been playing some mild game of limited loo. we were discussing whether we should go on playing or leave off, no one taking much interest in the game, when bowker came into the room with a look in his face which showed that he had been taking a fair amount of drink. at that time he was not on speaking terms with gorman, but for all that, as he came into the room he stared more at him than any one else, and seemed to speak to him when he asked what game we were playing. "limited loo! call that a game! no one has got the pluck to play now-a-days. now i wouldn't mind having a bit of a gamble to-night, but i ain't come down to limited loo," he said with a loud laugh, and a sneer at the doctor. "what do you want to play?" gorman said, speaking to bowker, rather to the surprise of those who were present. "well, i'd play a game of poker if any one would sit down who knew how to play, as wasn't afraid of the game," bowker growled out. "i know how to play, and i'm not afraid of the game either, mr bowker," the doctor answered quietly enough, but with a note in his voice that some of us believed meant mischief. the rest of us did not offer to join in the play, from the first we fancied it would be a pretty warm game. it was anything but a friendly one, for it seemed to be rather a duel than a mere gamble, and we felt sure that when the two men sat down at the table, each one promised himself that if he could manage it, the other should look back with considerable regret to that little game of poker. the two men were a great contrast to each other. bowker was a heavy, coarse-looking, bull-necked man of over six feet high, with a straggling yellow beard growing over his huge red cheeks and jowls. gorman was a slight, dark man, clean shaven except a twisted moustache, with a pair of sharp black eyes. both men occasionally played high, though they were not habitual gamblers, and the lookers-on expected to see some sensational playing. "what do you say to making the blind five pounds?" said the doctor, as he sat down and smiled at his opponent. "thought you weren't afraid of the game! but you know what you can afford," the other answered. "ten if you like," said the doctor, and then the game began. for some time the luck ran with provoking evenness; both parties backed their hands with considerable freedom, but after a couple of hours' play neither had lost or won very much. it happened that they both had a considerable sum in notes, which first collected before one player and then went across to the other. we watched the money pass from player to player, and waited for the more serious period of the game, when one party would have come to the end of his ready money, and play on credit would have begun. after a bit they increased the amount of the blind to thirty pounds, then to a hundred. first one player would be some hundred pounds to the good, then the other would get a turn of luck which would wipe it out again. for a long time they played without what is called a meet occurring; that is to say, when one happened to hold a good hand, the other generally held nothing. "hanged if the rent of gorman's buildings mustn't be going up a bit, since you're man enough to play that game. what do you put your pile at?" bowker had said, when the other had suggested the last increase of the blind. "gorman's buildings are worth about as much as twenty thousand pounds' worth of stock in the long hope company, are not they, brown?" the doctor said, turning round to a share and estate agent who was looking on at the game. "gorman's buildings would fetch twenty-five thousand to-morrow, and we all know the market price of long hope," brown answered. "well, play away and hold your jaw. i ain't afraid of you and your damned shanties," bowker answered. after this change of remarks neither party said another word, except about the game. we, as we looked on, realised that there was more than mere gamblers' greed in the savage hard look in their eyes. they were anxious to ruin one another, rather than to win money; the hatred of a dozen years seemed to find a vent in that game. the amount that bowker held in the long hope company was known to be about equal to the price put upon gorman's buildings, a row of offices near the mine; so the terms on which they met were quite fair. as hour after hour passed the game went on, neither party winning or losing much, but each in turn being to the good. they were both fine players, the doctor the more cautious of the two, while bowker had on the whole the best luck, which carried him through one or two attempts to win by sheer force of bluffing. as the doctor looked into the mask of red flesh opposite him, he for some time found nothing there to give any clue as to the sort of hand his opponent held; but in the small hours of the morning he began to notice that every now and then the veins in his face would seem to swell, and his breathing would become harder. the luck just then was rather in the doctor's favour, and after he had won several stakes he was able to diagnose his opponent's symptoms of intense excitement pretty satisfactorily. when bowker had a strong hand he would back it without showing these signs, but when he was in doubt, and backing his hand for more than it was worth, they would appear. "you had better not try that on again, it's not good for your health, and worse for your pocket, you will find, my friend," the doctor said to himself, as he dealt out the cards, determined that before long he would utilise the piece of knowledge which he fancied he had acquired. for some time after that, however, bowker got hand after hand that there was no resisting, and the doctor's winnings were reduced to nothing. it was getting on into the morning, but the club was still kept up, and several members stayed on watching the sensational game played out. at last the doctor took up a hand of three knaves, a king, and an ace, doubled the blind, and then changed the king and the ace, getting a queen and another knave. he had four knaves, but he had the best possible four, for he held a queen and had thrown away a king and an ace. unless bowker held a straight flush (that is to say, a sequence of the same suit) he could not hold as good a hand. bowker had taken one card, and his heavy coarse face showed no sign. the betting went up at first gradually, then by leaps and bounds till it came to a thousand pounds. there was no limit to the amount that could be staked, but the game of poker played on the diamond fields only allowed a player to raise the amount at one time to double what had already been staked. "make it a thousand, that's a good bit of your street," bowker said coolly enough. "two," said the doctor. "four," answered bowker. the doctor began to wonder whether after all bowker might not have a straight flush, but just then he felt sure that he saw the signs in his face he had noticed before. "eight," said the doctor, and there was an expression in his bright eyes that meant danger, as he looked into the other's face. bowker stared at his hand for some seconds, before, in a husky voice, he said-"sixteen. that's about all your shanties are worth," he added, seeming to gain courage. "how much did you say, brown--twenty-four thousand five hundred? make it that; that's the amount of my street and your shares, bowker," gorman said, and we all noticed the tone of malice in his voice, which had kept calm and emotionless all through the play. for a second or two bowker did not answer. he looked like an elephant which had received its death-wound, so a man who had just come down from the zambesi said. "twenty-four thousand five hundred. well, i will make it up to that and go." then he stopped, as if he realised he had about got to the end of his tether. not only the doctor, but every one in the room, felt pretty sure that he had a bad hand, and that the finish of the game had come. every face was turned to bowker; the lookers-on wondering what he would do, and how he would take his bad luck. for a second he seemed to be trying to think. then a dazed look came into his face, and he half stood up, and then fell heavily forward, bringing the table down with him. there was a paraffin lamp on the table, which smashed as it fell, and in a second the cloth and table was blazing. there was a rush forward of the men looking on. bowker was lifted on to a sofa, and a doctor, who on his way home from a case had dropped into the club, seeing it open, began to attend to him. "by jove! the place will be burnt down!" some one cried, and some men rushed out of the room to get water, while others tried to put out the fire with rugs. gorman stood holding his cards in his hand, looking first at his opponent and then at the blazing card-table. "well, how are we going to play this out? this is a damn pretty thing," he said. he did not care about bowker's state of health, nor did he care whether the building were burnt down or not. "see here, where are his cards? we have got to see this out. twenty-four thou, is no laughing matter. he never raised, so we had better show our cards. what's he got?" gorman said, as he stood with his cards in hand. the fire was put out. bowker was on the sofa looking rather bad, but the doctor seemed to be perfectly careless about everything except the stake he felt sure he had won. "never mind about the game, man, now; maybe the poor fellow will never get round," one of the men who was looking at bowker said. "beg pardon, but i do care about the game; it's all very well his going into a fit, but that don't alter the fact that we've got to play this out. where are his cards?" "you want to see his hand, do you? well, there you are," some one said, holding up a charred mass which was all there was left of the cloth that had been on the table, or the rest of the cards, except the four knaves and a queen which gorman held in his hand. gorman looked at it for a second, and then with an oath he threw his own cards on to the floor. "four knaves and a queen, and i had at first an ace and a king. so i must win with them." "the question is, what had bowker? he don't look like telling you, and nobody else knows; besides, the game has not been played out. it's a draw," said one of the on-lookers, and this speech brought a murmur of consent from the others. gorman gathered up his cards and showed them to the company. then he said no more, but watched bowker, who seemed to be coming to. "look here, what was your hand?" he asked, when the latter seemed to be sensible. bowker, however, did not answer the question, and it was some months before he could be induced to talk about that game. until gorman left the fields his mind was a blank on the subject. the story went, however, that he was induced to tell in confidence the story of that night's play to a particular friend. he had held three aces and two kings. not a very good hand, but one worth backing for a little. gorman, however, had taken him up, and instead of throwing up his hand, he had determined to bluff. he had originally held a queen, so he knew that gorman could not hold four of aces, kings, or queens. he could remember getting to the end of his tether, and finding gorman sticking to him like grim death; and then he could remember no more. it was only after gorman had left for england that this story was told. some people shrug their shoulders and laugh when they talk of that fit which bowker had, and they say that under the circumstances it was the best thing he could have done. but the doctor who attended him knows it was real enough, and so does gorman, who saw it coming on. story 9. "a whiskey drinker." the `queen's hotel,' kimberley, was doing a roaring trade. the bar was one dense mass of thirsty men, struggling to get served with splits and other drinks. the large dining-room, out of which the tables had been taken, was crowded. people from all parts of the colony were there. dutch africanders from the western province, englishmen from the east; colonial soldiers; officers of the cape mounted rifles, and mounted police officers from the frontier; merchants from capetown and port elizabeth, and visitors from every part of south africa. besides these visitors there was every sort of diamond-field man represented. the honest digger--the expression is considered out there the correct one to use, though if it be your lot to have much dealing with the mining element of south africa you will wonder how it came into vogue--with his broad-brimmed hat and big beard and bad language is making himself conspicuous as he generally does, wherever he be. the diamond-buyers, licensed and unlicenced, gentlemen of the jewish persuasion for the most part, given as a rule to wearing much of their stock-in-trade on their hands, and indulging in that shiny smartness of dress so dear to the race; the latter, the unlicenced and unlawful dealers in diamonds, wearing in their eyes that restless uneasy look that is peculiar to those classes who are liable at any moment to find themselves involved in an embarrassing and one-sided misunderstanding with the police. there were merchants, speculators, lawyers, doctors, and civil servants there. about some men who took rather a prominent position there was the unmistakable betting man's look; and they gave one the idea that they would be at home in the ring at any english race meeting. the occasion was the drawing of the lotteries for the forthcoming races, and as times had been good, and money was plentiful, sovereigns were flowing in very quickly to the men who were giving out the chances. i was looking on smoking when i recognised a slight, good-looking man who was taking a ticket in the lottery. his name was jack harman, an ex-officer in the army, who had been a digger on the diamond fields, had married and settled in the colony. "how is it you're up here?" i said to him as i shook hands with him. "a married man like you ought not to be wandering about the country." "you're right--wish to goodness i was at home, for the missis is ill; but i have to look after my horses up here." "well, i suppose your horse marmion is a certainty for the cup, eh?" i said. "up here they think the race is over." "all i can say is, that it isn't, i wish it were, for it's a rich prize, and goodness knows i want the money badly enough." just then a dark-bearded man pushed past jack harman, and as he did so gave him a look of recognition which the latter answered by a blank stare. "who's that?--who's your friend?" i asked him. "that is one of the blackest-hearted scoundrels unhanged; he is a sort of fellow you read about in a book; solomon muzada is his name, and he is one of the greatest enemies i have. do you know that brute wanted to marry my wife; it's an infernal cheek because there is a touch of the tar-brush in him. dutchman, jew, and nigger--it's a nice breed, isn't it? of course she wouldn't look at him, and since our marriage he has been our enemy. there was a mortgage on laurie's kloof, on which i ought to have paid the interest, but didn't; well he has bought it, and by jove he is going to sell us up. he has sworn he will make a bankrupt of me, and i believe he will do it. do you hear that? i have drawn a horse storm drum. by george, that's a rum thing!" he added, as he caught something which the steward of the races, who was managing the drawing, had shouted out. "look here, are you going to do anything about the races, because don't make any bets till you have seen me. i must see about the selling," he said as he went off. a steward had got upon one of the tables, upon which a desk had been put, and was about to sell the chances. anglo-indians or south africans need no explanation of a selling lottery, but to some englishmen an explanation may be given. after the lotteries have been drawn the chances of the different horses are sold by auction; any ore present is allowed to bid, but in perhaps the generality of cases the owners of horses buy the chances, this being the best way of backing their horses to win a good amount. the highest bidder has to pay the amount of his bid twice over, once to the owner of the ticket that drew the horse, and again he has to pay it into the pool. the latter money, of course, he gets back again, together with the amount collected for the tickets and the prices paid for the other chances if the horse whose chance he bought wins. after the chance of some outsider had been sold for a few pounds the steward, who was acting as auctioneer, shouted out that the next chance to be sold was marmion. "gentlemen, captain harman's marmion, and three hundred and four pounds in the pool." the sporting division began to make calculations in their betting-books, and to be all on the alert to learn what those who knew most about it thought of the horse's chance. i watched jack harman carefully. "poor beggar, he wants money badly! i hope he will be able to buy marmion's chance cheap," i thought to myself, as i noticed the expression on his face. as i looked away from him i saw solomon muzada, the man jack had told me about; he also was watching jack, and i believe, from the devilish smile that was playing round his coarse, thick lips, that he too read the expression i saw. "captain harman's marmion, three hundred and four pounds in the pool," the steward cried out, and the bidding began. some one bid twenty pounds, some one thirty, thirty-five, forty, fifty, sixty, a hundred; then the bidding steadied, and went up a pound at a time till a hundred and fifty was reached. "that's all it will go for," said a bookmaker near me; "it's buying money to give more." he was wrong though; a hundred and ninety was reached before only two bidders were left--one was jack harman, the other was solomon muzada. "going at one hundred and ninety, three hundred pounds in the pool," said the steward. "ninety-one," cried out jack harman. "ninety-two," snarled out solomon muzada. "three." "bah! what's the good, i bid five," said muzada. jack harman seemed to be doing a sum in mental arithmetic then, he shrugged his shoulders and walked away, letting marmion's chance be knocked down to solomon muzada. "see, that is done to spite me; he'd do anything to prevent me winning any money, the brute! i'll sell him though. if mr muzada thinks i keep horses in training to win money for him he makes a mistake," harman said, as he came up to me; then raising his voice he turned to muzada, who was standing near: "well, what do you expect to make by this? you're pretty clever to buy a horse against an owner, but you'll find if it wasn't worth my while to pay for the horse's chance it wasn't worth yours." "ah! this is the captain who is such an honourable gentleman, and he says he will humbug me, and not let his horse win because i bought the lottery," muzada sneered; "but i tink the honourable captain can't afford to throw away the stakes, so that's why i buy marmion's chance." "you think i can't afford to lose the stakes--well, you will find out whether i can afford that; all i say is, that you sha'n't win money by my horse." "your horse! well, he won't be your horse long, you will have to sell him after the race. you're a nice man to own horses--a beggar like you; you will be sold up soon after the race is over. i will buy your horse then." "that depends on others as well as you, for the horse will be sold by public auction; but stop, since you have bought the horse's lottery you had better buy him now at once, you shall have him with his engagements for fifteen hundred pounds, he is worth more to you than to any one else." muzada looked eagerly at harman as he made this suggestion. he had set his mind on buying marmion after the race, and he thought he might as well buy him before. he could not quite understand why jack was willing to sell to him. the price mentioned seemed not to be very much, considering that the horse was sure to win the race the next day; so some of the purchase money would come back. "don't be a fool, the horse is worth more than that," another owner of race-horses whispered to jack. muzada heard the whisper, and that determined him; after haggling for some time about the price he came to terms with jack. "what have you done that for? it seems to me you would have done better to have secured the stakes before you sold the horse," i said to jack, after the sale had been completed. "i don't think marmion is going to win that race; it was not certain before, it certainly isn't now," jack answered, somewhat to my mystification. "why, what's to beat him?" i asked; "what can?" "there is one that can beat him if he liked, and that's the horse that i have drawn--storm drum." i looked at jack in surprise. storm drum was owned by a kimberley canteen-keeper, who had bought him after the races the year before. he had gained an evil reputation by his savage temper, and had never started for a race without distinguishing himself by some display of vice. on one occasion he had shown a tendency towards indulging in the luxury of human flesh, having taken a large bite out of the leg of a jockey riding another horse. "surely you don't mean that you believe that brute can have a chance?" i asked incredulously. "it's all chance. if he took it into his head to try it would be a certainty. you needn't tell me all you know about him, you seem to forget that he was in our stable; he belonged to markham of port elizabeth, and i won a race on him in natal, and have ridden him often enough. he was a better horse than marmion, in fact he is the best horse that ever came out to this country, only he is such an untrustworthy brute." i shook my head. jack harman knew a good deal more about racing than i did, still i could not help feeling that his anger with muzada was making him act rashly; and i was still more of this opinion after i had been present at an interview between them next morning. muzada was standing at the bar of the `queen's hotel,' swaggering about the good bargain he had made with jack, and the folly of the latter in selling out of pique, when jack came in. some one asked him if he was going to ride in the kimberley cup the next day. "yes, i am; i ride storm drum," jack answered. muzada burst out laughing. the horse's eccentricities were so well-known, that he thought with pleasure how the man he hated was certain to look ridiculous. "so, captain, you are going to ride; how much will you bet that you ever get round the course?" said muzada, talking to jack in his free and easy way, which i knew made my friend's blood boil. "come, you had better put your pride in your pocket, and ride for _me_," he added, as it occurred to him that this would annoy jack. "thank you, but it is bad enough that you should own a thoroughbred horse, let alone that a white man should ride for you," jack answered with a glance at the other's dark skin, which was full of meaning. muzada looked for a second or two as if he were thinking of hitting jack, then thinking better of it he pretended not to understand the allusion. "well, who would like to back captain harman's mount? i will bet ten to one against storm drum, even though this famous gentleman jockey does ride for pat brady." "how much will you lay it to?" jack asked. there was a gleam in muzada's eyes as he heard this question. "to a good deal more than you can afford to pay," he answered, thinking to himself that jack was going mad. the idea of storm drum's having any chance of winning the race seemed too absurd to be entertained for a minute; and muzada thought that jack had realised that he was likely soon to become ruined, and had become desperate. jack harman said nothing, and i whispered to him a warning not to do anything rash. "come, i have some money to give you for marmion, after we have settled the bills i hold; well, i will lay you ten to one to that." "that's four hundred pounds. well, i will take four thousand to four hundred," jack answered in the same quiet voice. muzada looked a little surprised; he evidently thought that jack was mad with annoyance. the idea of winning what he had every reason to believe was jack's last four hundred pounds in the world was very sweet to him. there were one or two men present, who were fairly good judges, and their expressions seemed to tell muzada that they thought jack was mad. "it's a bet," he said, as he wrote it down in his book. "why on earth have you thrown that money away?" i asked jack, as i followed him into the street. "it's not thrown away yet," he answered; "and i never could get as much money bet against the horse by any one else; he only does it because he knows that if i lose it will about break me." "well, why should you be broke, why not keep your money in your pocket?" i insisted rather wearisomely, for it was not much use lecturing my friend when the mischief was done. "look here, i am going to win on storm drum. take my advice and take ten to one or eight to one for the matter of that. you see, it's like this," jack said, as he noticed my expression, "these races are my last chance of winning some money, so as to prevent that black scoundrel from selling me up. when i married i hadn't much of my own, as you know, and though my wife owned the farm and the homestead, it was mortgaged a good bit. instead of paying off the mortgage we have let matters go from bad to worse, and have taken things easily enough until we found that muzada had been quietly getting hold of all the paper i had put my name to, and of all the charges on our property. it was just the revenge that would please him, to make us beggars, and show my wife that she had married a spendthrift, who had wasted all she had and brought her to ruin. muzada knew that i trusted to winning a fair stake with marmion, and he came up here to prevent it. he would spend a good deal of money to stop me from winning enough to keep his claws off laurie's kloof. well, i have determined to do my best to disappoint him. i have always had a sort of presentiment that some day or the other storm drum would surprise every one, and when i drew the horse in the lottery and no one bid the chance so that it was knocked down to me, the idea came into my head that my only chance of saving laurie's kloof was to trust to that uncertain gentleman. imprudent you may say, well perhaps it is, but let me tell you this, that i know more about the horse than you do, and something tells me that it will be all right, and mr muzada will find out to his cost that he has burnt his fingers in meddling with my affairs." i could do nothing but hope for the best, but i found it very difficult to feel much confidence in my friend's scheme coming off successfully; and that evening i watched muzada and noticed that he was in a high state of delight, and was counting beforehand on the discomfiture of the enemy. racecourse scenes are like one another all the world over. the crowd at the grand stand was composed of much the same materials as the crowd at minor meetings at home. the principal difference probably would be, that on the colonial racecourse people know much more about one another than they do at home; and there is strong personal interest felt in the result of the races. the story of jack harman's having sold the horse to muzada was well-known to every one on the course, and to a certain extent rather decreased the confidence felt in the favourite winning, though it was not easy to see what horse could beat him. jack harman had been a digger on the diamond fields before he married and settled down in the colony, and a good many of his old friends invested a sovereign or two on the chances of the horse he had elected to ride, but very little hope was felt as to his chance. the local bookmakers, who had many a time won money from those who had put their trust in storm drum's good breeding, were anxious enough to lay odds against him again, although they had heard the story of harman's sensational bet. pat brady, who owned storm drum, was a short, thick-set, good-humoured little irishman, who had often been subjected to a good deal of chaff on account of the way his horse would shut up and refuse to try a yard in public. at last he had sworn never to bet another farthing upon him, and had declared that after the kimberley cup he would sell him for what he would fetch. jack harman, however, seemed to have infected pat with a good deal of his hopefulness. "sure then the captain is going to do the trick to-day; those fellows won't be laughing about storm drum in half-an-hour's time, you'll find," he said to his friends, as the bookmakers joked him about his horse. there were two or three other imported horses as well as marmion, and one colonial-bred one who was thought to have a chance. i found myself standing on the top of the grand stand, next to muzada, when the horses had gone down to the post, and i noticed with some pleasure that that gentleman did not seem to be enjoying himself very much. he was evidently thinking of the money he stood to lose on storm drum. "laid ten to one against him did you? well, if he tried it would be odds on him, but it's more than ten to one he don't try," a well-known colonial racing-man named langford, whom i had just seen laying two hundred to fifty on marmion, was saying to muzada, as he looked through his race-glasses at the horses getting together at the starting-post. "how is he behaving now--him?" said muzada, with a scowl on his ugly face. he was not over comforted at the other's remarks. after all jack harman had not made such a bad bet, and he didn't like the way the horse was being backed by one or two others; nor was he pleased to hear that pat brady had recovered that confidence in the gay deceiver which of old cost him so dear. "he is behaving himself wonderfully well; wait a bit though, and he will come out in his old character." "why, man, you look nervous," said the other; "never fear, your horse is sure to win." muzada looked gratified. "i think the captain will find he has humbugged himself this time; i think he'll have to walk down to the colony after the race," he said. "they're off--it's a good start," said langford, and we put up our glasses. jack harman went straight to the front. "who's that leading?" "storm drum." "storm drum has bolted!" they were crying out. "devil a bit bolted. jack thinks that to win at all he must take the lead and keep it, and, by jove, he's right," said langford. "but i have never seen him go like that before." "how about storm drum now?" shouted out some one, as he came past the stand leading by twenty lengths. "ah, then, who's got the laugh this day?" pat brady cried out. "there's lots of time for him to come out with his old tricks, but if he don't they won't catch him," said langford. muzada snarled out a sentence hideous with blasphemy. "even if he wins his bet the triumph will have cost him something," i thought, as i looked at his ugly face, and saw how sick he looked as storm drum came along, the gap between him and the other horse rather increasing than decreasing. "it's a race! marmion wins!" shouted some one, as for a second the favourite looked dangerous. "not a bit of it; storm drum has the lot of 'em settled," said langford as he put down his glasses; "he is on his good behaviour for once, and he has made fools of us all." as storm drum came past the post, an easy winner, men began to remember how they had always said he was the best bred horse in south africa, and better class than anything else out there, and generally to be wise after the event. muzada was not able to take his losses so philosophically. he got into a rage, swearing that he had been robbed, that marmion had been got at, and that the whole thing was a swindle. nobody sympathised with him very much, and even those who had lost their money found some consolation in his disappointment. "so, you see, i was not so rash as you thought; but then i happened to know something about the horse that no one else knew," said jack harman to me that evening. "when tom markham owned him we found out that he could not be depended upon, and after he had let us in once or twice we determined to get rid of him. one day, however, at cradock races, a man came up to us and said he thought he could tell us something about the horse. he had been employed in a stable at home, where blue peter, storm drum's sire, was trained. blue peter was just such another customer as his son, till somehow it was found out that he had a weakness for strong drink. his favourite tipple was whiskey, irish whiskey, the older and better it was the more he liked it--it seemed to put heart in him, and after he took to drink he won race after race for them, and our informant suggested that the taste might be inherited. well, we determined to give his idea a trial, and before storm drum started for the race he won in natal, he had his half bottle of whiskey. it seemed to agree with him, for he went right away and won. a few weeks after that markham went to grief, and had to bolt to south america, and storm drum was seized by his creditors. one or two men owned him before he came to pat brady, but they all burnt their fingers with him; for no one knew of his family failing, and as a good templar he didn't turn out a success, but i always remembered what he could do if he liked, and when muzada interfered with me i thought how i could sell him if i put storm drum on his good behaviour. well, it came off all right, but i didn't enjoy that ride; every moment i was afraid that the brute would stop dead, but thanks to pat's whiskey, he had won the race before he remembered himself. it's the last bet i shall make in this country. i shall go back and look after the farm, and the missis, and the kids, now that i am out of muzada's clutches again." jack harman was as good as his word, and there is no steadier husband or better specimen of the colonial farmer than the ex-hussar. he lives happily at laurie's kloof, and prosperous and well to do. story 10. jumped--a tale of the kimberley races. chapter one. it was in the flush times on the diamond fields; the days afterwards remembered, in the bad times which came so soon, with so much wondering regret. in those days every one had made money out of shares and confidently hoped to make much more. shares and companies were talked about morning, noon, and night; and what more delightful topic for conversation could any one wish to have? for then almost every one held shares, and those shares, independently of what they were in or where the ground possessed by the company was situated, went up every hour, so that, except when a public benefactor did some thing unusually criminal or eccentric, so giving the diamond field public a subject for much interesting talk, no one discussed and no one wished to discuss anything else. for a short time, however, when the mania was at its very height, shares became a subject of secondary interest, and as the topic of interest the kimberley races took its place. with a characteristic unanimity and zest the public of the four camps began to talk, think, and speculate about the races. one would only hear scraps of conversation relating to weight for age, the rules of racing, and the performances of the imported horses, as one passed the open doors of bars and canteens. the sporting division scented the carcase from afar, and thought with glee of the abundance of money there was in the camp and the enthusiasm for sport which had come over the public. the big event of the races was the diggers' stakes, a handicap, for which the weights were out, and very little admiration was expressed for the wisdom of the stewards who had made it. what with those who knew something about racing and had games of their own to play, and those who knew nothing about it but, though honest and ignorant, were too self-important to stand aside and refrain from taking any part in it, they had made the handicapping a farce. men said there were only two horses in it which had any chance-mr musters' our boy, and mr saul gideon's the pirate. they were both of them imported horses, and the former had won a race or two in england; both were four-year-olds. besides these there was one other imported horse, captain brereton's kildare, and a good many colonial horses. kildare was said to be lame, and the handicappers had not given the colonial horses a chance; in fact it was hardly a handicap at all, as two favourites carried not much more than weight for age. that evening mr saul gideon had come into the claimholders' club in kimberley with a glare in his hard black eyes and a twitching of his claw-like hands that might well have warned any one who knew him that he was dangerous. mr gideon was a sport, not a sportsman--anything but that--but certainly a sport. in any pastime on which money could be risked by way of wagering he took an interest. before the law put down those institutions he had, with great profit to himself, kept a gambling saloon. when prize-fights occurred every now and then, just over the border of the free state (the p.r. is or was an institution on the diamond fields), he had much to do with getting them up, and sometimes would have much to do with settling their issue in a peaceable and humane manner before the men went into the ring. in fact there were few sporting frauds on the diamond fields but saul gideon had a finger in the pie. he probably only just could tell the difference between a dray-horse and a racer, but he was satisfied he was clever enough to hold his own and win money at racing, and perhaps with reason, for success such as he coveted requires rather a knowledge of men than of horses. the claimholders' club was crowded with men who were talking about the races, and mr gideon had not to wait long before they began to discuss the event in which he was interested, the diggers' stakes. "take moy tip, boys," said dr buckeen, an irish medical man much given to racing, who in his time had done a good deal to maintain in south africa the character which some irish sporting men have gained for themselves at home; "there is only one in it, that's the pirate; never mind about our boy and the race he won at sandown. i know all about it, i was there and saw, and after the race lord swellington, who owned the horses that ran second and third, came up to me and said, `buck, me boy'--all thim fellows call me buck--`buck, me boy,' me lord said, `be crimes, that wore the biggest robbery i ever wore in.'" "but lord swellington wouldn't say `be crimes;' he is not an irishman," said one of the doctor's audience. "'deed he did, though, to chaff me; the old divil is always chaffing me, we are like brothers." "but, doctor, you could not have seen our boy win that race at sandown; you weren't home that year," said another objector. "not home that year?" said the doctor, taken rather aback. "that's all you know about it. but never mind, what i say is that the pirate will win the diggers' stakes." "that's all you know about it, buckeen," said a tall man with a red nose and a squint, who looked as if he were gazing at the bottles behind the bar, though he really was watching mr gideon. "i will take a thousand to five hundred from any one," said buckeen, who liked to talk loudly about bets which no one who knew him would think of taking from him or dream of his ever intending to pay. "not from me, buckeen," said the tall man, whose name was crotty, as he continued to squint hideously while he watched mr gideon. mr crotty was remembering a little battle at the noble game of poker which he once engaged in with mr gideon. on that occasion he--crotty-had been dealt four kings; and as at last they showed their hands after much money had been staked, mr gideon had said, "for the first time in my life, believe me--though i have played since i was a lad in california, in '49--four aces." and as he remembered this little episode in his life and watched mr gideon he hoped soon to be even with him. "bedad, i must go and see after me patients. i am just murthered be the work i have to do in me profession," said buckeen, and he swaggered out of the club. "well, mr crotty," said gideon when the doctor had gone, "what will you do about the stakes?" "even money against the pirate," was mr crotty's answer. "it is odds against my horse. come, i will take two to one," said gideon. mr crotty only shook his head and asked mr gideon to take a drink with him, which offer the other excused himself from accepting on the plea that he had to go and see a man on business. "see you again in a half-an-hour or so," he said, as he left the club to visit several other places where betting men congregated. however, he found there was not much to be done about his horse; betting men, like politicians, like to know how the cat jumps before they commit themselves to any great extent; and there was a tendency to wait a bit before doing much about "the stakes." after half-an-hour mr gideon returned to the claimholders' club, looking more restless and anxious than ever. "will you lay me six to four?" he asked mr crotty, who was still there. "even money," answered crotty, who was a man of few words. for a minute or two mr gideon said nothing, then he gulped down his drink, and clearing his throat, said: "i hate fiddling about with one bet here and one bet there. will you lay me a good big bet at even money?" "i am not a millionnaire, like you diamond-field men," answered crotty, "but i will lay you an even thousand against the pirate." "i will take that," said gideon. mr crotty produced his betting-book and wrote down the bet. "will you double it?" said gideon. "you want to sell me up," said crotty, "but i will double it," and again he wrote in his book. mr gideon felt sure that crotty would go on a little more, but something told him that he had better wait a bit. "i will see nat first," he said to himself; and he left the club, followed by the inquiring glances of most of the men who were present, for the bet he had made was a large one and excited a good deal of interest. when mr gideon left the club he got into a cape cart, and was driven to an hotel near some stables, on the outskirts of the camp. an undersized man, with a look of newmarket about him, which south africa had not erased, who was sitting in the bar of the hotel, got up and went out when mr gideon touched him on the shoulder. mr gideon told him what he had done at the club, and the little man received his news with a long whistle. "you're so clever, ain't you?" he said, as he eyed mr gideon with unconcealed scorn. "you don't look like a blessed infant with that nose on you, but blessed if you don't be'ave like one." "you ought to remember your proper place more," said mr gideon, "and let me tell you something you don't know. see here," and he produced a telegram, "our boy has broken down." "and don't you think crotty knew that? why, i heard it just now," answered the little man, "and a lot it matters; kildare will win these stakes." "he is no good; and he is lame." "lame? a party as knows what he sees saw him striding along at buffelsfontein, where captain brereton has him as sound as a bell." "but my horse can beat kildare," said gideon. "not weight for age he couldn't, if what i hears is true. only just now i got a letter from home about him, from a pal of mine. fit and well, he is the best horse that ever came to this country, and fit and well he is. and your horse don't meet him weight for age, you give him seven pounds; those precious stewards seem to have forgotten all about him," answered nat. "what's to be done? what shall i do for all that money? i can't lose two thou, and it seemed so good. oh dear! oh dear me!" gideon almost sobbed out. "well, it ain't lost yet, guv'nor. kildare might go wrong," said nat lane with an evil grin. "oh, what a blessing that would be. don't you think now, nat, something might be done?" "the captain looks after the horse night and day, nothing could be done on the quiet; but buffels is a very solitary place to keep a valuable animal like kildare. look here, now, suppose you put me on a thou, of that two thou. i might show you how to save that bet, and make a good bit more." after a little haggling mr gideon consented to give nat lane a thou, if kildare was made a dead 'un and the pirate won. "it will have to be done with a rush if it is done at all, but there is a party in camp just now who can do the job if any man can, and i will go and see him," said nat. "it's no good your coming, i will drop round to your place afterwards." mr gideon walked off feeling much out of sorts and out of conceit with himself. his old acquaintance crotty had got the best of him and had known just as much as he did and a little more when he made the bet. when mr gideon left him nat lane walked back into the town, or camp, as it was more often called, though its canvas age was over and it was gradually changing from iron to brick, and turning up a street by the side of the mine, which had already, though kimberley was not ten years old, acquired a very evil reputation, made his way to a canteen known as the red bar. this establishment, which consisted of a room, billiard-room and bar combined, seemed to be doing a roaring business. a perspiring barman was hard at work opening bottles of champagne, spirits, and soda-water, while two very smartly-dressed young women were busy serving the crowd of customers who thronged round the bar, and at the same time carrying on a conversation with a favoured few. the majority of the company had an unmistakable jewish type of face, but there were men of every other white race there. few if any towns three times the size of kimberley could produce such a choice selection of scoundrels as the guests at the `red bar,' and jews and gentiles alike bore on their faces a hunted, a bird-of-prey look which denoted that they were at enmity with the honest portion of society. the most conspicuous figure in the place was that of a tall dark man, whose face might have been called a handsome one were it not for his sinister expression, exaggerated by a scar which reached from his mouth to his eye, and seemed to stand out all the more as the drink which he was taking flushed his face. from the way in which he lounged against the bar, taking up more room than three or four men might have done, though there were many men trying to get up to it to be served, and from the silence which was kept when he was speaking and the laughter and applause with which his not over-brilliant remarks were received, it was clear that he was a man who had managed to gain the respect of his associates. "bill, i want to speak to you; i can put you on to a good job," nat lane whispered into his ear. "right; if there are good pieces in it, for i want some. they cleared me out at faro properly last night," he answered as he left the bar and went out with nat lane. "now, then, what do you want?" he said when they were outside. "it's like this: i can put you on to a good game, for i suppose you're on the same lay up yonder you were always on, and have one or two working with you?" "yes, fire away and speak clear," said bill. "well, brereton has got two or three horses at buffelsfontein, which would be well worth getting hold of; one of them is worth a thousand pounds almost." "that's no good game--too risky, and i couldn't get much for the captain's horse. people who buy racers want to know more about them than i tell when i sell a horse." "that could be managed all right, bill," said nat. "if you only got the horse away there would be a good bit of money to come to you. and i take it you would sooner take a good horse than a bad one any day; besides there are the captain's two horses. i think i know how the job could be done." then the two men had a long conversation, and it was arranged between them that nat lane's acquaintance, whose name was bill bledshaw, and whose place of residence was a kraal over the border in bechuanaland near tawns, where he carried on the fine old-fashioned calling of a cattle-lifter and horse-stealer, should find out when brereton was going to take kildare and his other horses into kimberley, and with a party of his comrades surprise brereton, seize the horses, and carry them over the border. buffels drift was not very far from the border, and there was a place which bill knew of where he could surprise brereton and get the horses. as soon as he had got away with kildare he was to send a messenger back to kimberley, who would let nat lane know that the plot had been successful, and give the confederates an opportunity of betting against the horse, which would be far away when the diggers' stakes was run. bill bledshaw stood out for a good share of the spoil, for it was a very risky job, which would create much indignation against him on the diamond fields and perhaps lead to his arrest; but nat lane managed to dispel his scruples, and before they parted the two worthies had a drink together to the success of their venture, bill bledshaw promising to start the next morning for his head-quarters near tawns, where he could complete his arrangements and see one `long alex,' who would work the job with him. -----------------------------------------------------------------------chapter two. "by jove, no horse in this forsaken country ever galloped like that before," said jack brereton, as he stood outside his house at buffelsfontein and watched kildare leave his other horse, the muffin man, as if the latter was standing still. those horses and his pony nobbier represented pretty nearly all jack brereton's possessions, except the money he had already invested on kildare's chance for the diggers' stakes. after having speculated in claims, diamonds, ostriches, and sheep, he had taken to the more congenial pursuit of putting his capital into thoroughbreds, and so far he had not done very badly in that somewhat risky investment. about eighteen months before, he had bought the muffin man, a colonial-bred racer, with some money he had made in a lucky digging venture. as he rode and trained his horse himself he was not robbed as other owners were, and had won several races at kimberley, cradock, and port elizabeth. he had bought kildare with the money made by the other, having commissioned an old brother officer in england to buy a useful racer that was better than anything in south africa. kildare was an irish-bred horse, and had been sold rather cheaply after his former owner had been warned off the turf for having him pulled in a two-year-old race. it was a shame, so jack's friend said, to send such a good horse to south africa, but he felt bound to do his best for jack. jack brereton was about thirty-five, and though he was as active as he ever was, and seemed to take life cheerily as he always did, his years had told on him more than men would at first think. the last ten years of his life had been spent in the colonies, the five years before that at home in a light cavalry regiment, and very marked was the contrast between them, though the jack brereton of the latter days and the former was outwardly much the same man, a little harder perhaps and more able to take care of himself, but the same light-hearted, happy-go-lucky fellow. the colonies are full of men whose lives have gone all askew--misfits well made enough, one would have thought, but all wrong when they are tried on. jack brereton seemed to be fit for something better than the adventurer and gambler he had drifted into becoming. there was the making of a good soldier in him, only he had gone to grief somehow and had to sell out. he was a good deal more shrewd in his knowledge of character and business than many a man who had succeeded on the diamond fields by sticking to his work instead of drifting from one thing to another as he had done. he was well liked and to a certain extent admired by almost every one, from the administrator of the province downwards, but he never got any appointment, though there were several billets he might very well have filled. sometimes he had been very much down on his luck, sometimes he had experienced a run of good fortune, but he kept his bad or ill-luck to himself and was always in excellent spirits. every one said he was a good fellow, and many half envied his light heart and good spirits. of late he had lived a good deal out of kimberley, looking after his horses, and the visits he paid to camp every now and then were the occasion of much revelry; very late hours being kept at the club, where men would sit up listening to his stories and bantering chaff till long past the usual hour for closing that establishment; but for all that men who knew him best thought they often saw a sad, wistful look in his eyes, and that in his laugh there was an after-sound of bitterness and melancholy. for all his cheeriness he was beginning to get very tired of the life he was leading, and to long to get home again, or to some new country where he could have a fresh start. as he watched kildare gallop he was full of hope and excitement, and he felt certain that he would win the diggers' stakes with him. "yes, captain, fit and well, the other horses won't be very near him. but i wish the race were over and won; they seem to be doing a lot of betting on it at the fields, laying two to one on kildare, but there are lots of takers. the pirate's lot have backed their horse for a lot of money, and won't lose it if they can help," said a rough-looking man with a broken nose and scarred face, who was standing by the side of jack brereton. "they will have to lose it whether they like it or not. it's a pity you can't come back to kimberley with us, i know you would like to see the little horse win." "yes, captain, i'd like it dearly, but i shouldn't be let see the race if i did come back; the man i hammered is so blamed vindictive that he would have me stuck in quod before i was in camp an hour. you see, his being a policeman makes it awkward. no, when you start i will just foot it in the other direction--christiana way--wishing you good luck in the race." "there is twenty pound on for you, tom, if he wins, remember," said brereton, as he followed the horses back to their stables. tom bats was a not very excellent character who had once been in jack brereton's regiment, and for a short time was his soldier-servant. he was not a bad-natured man, but unsteady, hot-tempered, and pugnacious. jack brereton had liked him very well, and he had from the first a wonderful affection and admiration for `the captain.' strangely enough, both of them drifted to the diamond fields, where they met again, and very rejoiced was tom bats to see his old master. on the diamond fields tom did not become a reformed character; he was straight, as the saying there was, and did not buy diamonds or do anything that was dishonest, but was much given to going on the spree and punching heads, and had on several occasions given the police a great deal of trouble. unfortunately, when on the spree he had fallen foul of a policeman against whom he had an old grudge, and had knocked the guardian of the peace about severely, thus making kimberley too warm for him, and obliging him to start off at once for some place of refuge. he had turned up at buffelsfontein, where jack brereton gave him shelter and food for some days, and employed him looking after the horses, for jack was not quite certain that though buffelsfontein was a quiet place some forty miles from kimberley, it would not be worth some one's while to pay it a visit and try and get at kildare. "look 'ere, captain," said tom after jack had left the tables, "i think i had better come back with you to-morrow, it's rather a lonely journey for you to take with such valuable property as the horses, and no one but the kaffir boys with you. i will see you as far as the camp and then turn back again." "no, you shan't do that; what's the good? it's lonely, but it's as safe a road as any high-road in england; no one will harm the horse when i am by looking after him." tom bats felt that this was about true, so he settled to leave for christiana the next morning, when jack and the horses started for kimberley. the next morning jack started for kimberley riding his pony nobbier, kildare and the muffin man being ridden by two little bushmen who were in his service. it was a dreary journey from buffels drift to kimberley, only one or two farm-houses were on the way, and a great part of the road was deep sand through which the horses laboured painfully. jack had arranged for the horses to be put up at a farm-house on the way, so he took the journey easily enough; and as he rode along a little behind the others, he looked at kildare and added up the money which he felt confident that he could win with the brave little horse. kildare was a black horse--not very big. at first sight one would think that he was not quite big enough to hold his own, but any good judge would recognise that he was good enough if he were big enough; and when one saw him stride along one forgot about his being on a small scale. the diggers' stakes would come to about five hundred pounds; besides that jack had about a thousand pounds in bets for that race, for he stood half of the bet crotty had laid gideon. it was hard luck not being able to get odds about the horse, but as several people in kimberley knew how good the horse was, and that the theory of his being lame which, somehow or the other, had got about was false, it was necessary to get this money on the race at the best terms they could. though kildare had been actually backed for very little by either brereton or crotty, for the latter had only bet against the pirate, he was the favourite, with slight odds laid on him, and it would not be easy to back him to win much at any reasonable price. still, there would be his lottery, which would come to some five hundred pounds or so more, and perhaps it would be possible to get a little more money on, but it was a pity that he could not make more of a _coup_. there was another race on the card which he hoped to win with kildare, and he might win one or two minor races with the muffin man. altogether jack hoped, with what he could win and with the price he could get for his horses, which he intended to sell, he would be worth about five thousand pounds after the races. as he watched kildare stepping along he thought that he would like to take him home to england and win a big handicap with him, as he believed he could; but his good sense told him that it would be better to sell the horse on the fields. with the money that he would have after the races he determined he would clear out of the country, and either go home, where he might get something, or to some other colony. it is ill counting your chickens before they are hatched. as jack was thinking what he would do with the money he would win he had come to a place where the road ran between some mountains, and where by the side of the road there was a good deal of thick bush. just there some kaffirs who were coming from the direction of kimberley were passing the horses; they looked as if they had been working in the mines and were going back to the kraals up country, and jack paid very little attention to them. suddenly he was startled by seeing them close round the two horses, muffin man and kildare, and take hold of their bridles. in a second he had whipped out a revolver and was riding up to them, when a man with crape on his face jumped from the bushes by the road and struck him a heavy blow on the head with a knobkerri, which stretched him on the ground senseless. when he came to again he found two white men with crape round their faces engaged in tying him up with a rope, which they knotted in a way that would puzzle the davenport brothers. when they had finished they carried him away from the road along a water-course which came down from the hills. he did his best to struggle, but it was no use for he was helpless. as he was carried along he saw that the two horses and his pony were in the possession of the enemy, and the two bushmen were also captive and were being carried off by some of the kaffirs. "now, then, take it easy and keep quiet, or the rope will choke you," said one of the men as he secured jack to the tree with an elaborate and improved tom fool's knot. "well, you might as well have a smoke, there is nothing like making the best of things," he added, as he pushed a cigar into jack's mouth and struck a light. there was some sense in this, so jack pulled at the cigar. "so long, boss," said the man who had spoken before, and after gazing at his workmanship with some pride he walked away with the other. jack could hear them laugh as they crashed through the bushes, and he thought he heard one say: "what about kildare for the stakes?" then voices were farther and farther off, and he was left alone to himself. of course he began to try and get out of the knots, but there was no doubt about it that the man who tied him up was a master of his craft, and the rope round his neck tightened when he tried to struggle against the knots. then he began to shout out, but that was no use; there was probably no one near, and the echo of his voice seemed to mock him. then he kept quiet and tried to enjoy smoking. he might possibly burn the rope with the lighted end of his cigar, he thought; trying to do this gave him occupation for some little time, but he did not succeed, though he could just touch the rope with the end of his cigar, and at last the cigar burnt shorter, and he was unable to touch the rope with it, and then he began to cough and it fell out of his mouth. then he began to think of the wretched plight he was in. the remark he thought he heard made him believe that the object of stealing the horse was to prevent his winning the stakes; but for all that they would have to pay unless they could prove collusion between the men who had made the bets and the horse-thieves, and that would not be very easy. hour after hour passed, and he began to think that if he were only free he would not mind about anything else, though if he lost all his bets, and lost his horses, he would be without a penny in the world--in fact, he would be hardly able to pay his losses. then he remembered that it was the day the mail-cart passed along that road, and he calculated the time at which it would pass. it was about nine o'clock in the morning when he had been tied, and at about sunset the cart would pass, judging by the time at which it generally left buffels drift. he could not see the road from where he was, and the sand would prevent him hearing the cart as it came along; but as the sun went down and the time for the cart came near, he kept up a shouting, his voice growing hoarser and weaker, as he was afraid, every minute. at last the welcome sound came of some one coming through the bushes, and he heard in dutch an exclamation of astonishment. it was the driver of the mail-cart who had heard shouting, and fortunately, as there was a passenger in the cart who could hold the rein, had got out to see what was the matter. the man was provokingly slow, staring at him stupidly for a little time and expressing his surprise again and again, but at last he cut the ropes and helped jack, who was unable to walk, his limbs being all cramped, to get to the cart. about four hours after they had parted at buffelsfontein, tom bats was taking a spell, having done about ten miles of his journey to christiana. his thoughts were with captain brereton and kildare, and he kept regretting that he was not with them and that he should not be on the racecourse to see the horse win the diggers' plate. though he knew that brereton was very well able to look after himself and his horses, and that when he came into the camp he would have the advantage of sage advice from mr crotty, who was as sharp as most men, he felt somewhat mistrustful. the lot who were backing the pirate would not stick at a trifle. he knew something of mr gideon. once when he had been matched to fight a man for fifty pounds a side, that worthy had tried to drug him when he found he would not be squared, and he would be up to the same sort of game with the little horse, he was afraid. well, he had better be getting on, he thought, as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and filled it up again. just then he saw some men riding towards him, along a road which some miles south cut into the road from buffelsfontein to kimberley. they seemed to be some white men and some kaffirs, all on horseback. as they came nearer tom gave a start, nearly jumped up, but in a second crouched down amongst the bushes. he recognised two of the men, bill bledshaw and long alex; but that was not what alarmed him. what startled him was that he saw that bill bledshaw was riding the muffin man, while one of the kaffirs was on kildare, and another on captain brereton's pony nobbier. it did not take him long to understand what had taken place. captain brereton had been robbed, they had got the horses from him and were taking them away to tawns, where bledshaw's head-quarters were. tom felt very concerned about brereton's fate, for though he did not suppose that bill would harm him more than he could help, he knew that brereton would not let the horses go without a fight unless he were taken by surprise; but even if he were fit and well he would be in a sorry plight, tom bats thought, if he did not get back kildare. "this is master gideon's little game," he said to himself, and he thought it would be worth a trip to kimberley, dangerous though it would be, to have the pleasure of smashing that gentleman's evil-looking face in. there were two white men and four or five kaffirs, so it was useless to show himself and fight for the horses. long alex and bill were both very awkward customers, and were sure to be well armed. about six miles off there was a place called gordon, where there usually were one or two of the mounted police, but before he could get there and give information to the police, bill would have the horses over the border; and tom bats was by no means eager to come across any of the mounted police, for they would most likely recognise him and know about the warrant there was against him. near where tom bats was resting there was a pool of water, and when the horsemen came up to the place they off-saddled, the two white men throwing themselves down on the ground under a tree for a rest. tom bats' heart began to beat, for he saw his chance when one of the kaffirs took kildare and another horse down to the water. he had a heavy iron-bound knobkerri, and clutching it with a grip that meant business he sneaked from the bush he was hiding behind to the water, without the kaffir seeing him. then when he had got close to the water he sprang up, and was on his man with a rush, dealing him one heavy blow with his stick. in a second he had jumped kildare's back and was riding as hard as he could in the direction of gordon. the other kaffirs had seen him, and as he rode he could hear them shouting out and waking up the white men, and turning round he saw that long alex had snatched up a carbine and was pointing it at him, while bill was mounting the muffin man, to give him chase. long alex's bullet whirled unpleasantly near him, but the ground, which sloped down a little, gave him a little cover. there was no saddle on kildare, though his bridle was on, and tom bats, though he had been a trooper in a cavalry regiment, was by no means a finished horseman; still he was able to stick on. long alex had run up to the brow of the hill and there he took another shot, it was a long shot, but this time it hit, and kildare stumbled as tom let the rein fall loose over his head, as his shattered left arm fell helpless to his side. he was not hit so badly that he could not keep on. bill on the muffin man was sticking to the chase, and he waved his hat and gave a yell when he saw long alex's shot had taken effect. tom bats felt himself growing weaker every second, and for once in his life he longed to see the cord uniform of a mounted policeman as he rode on, longing to get to gordon and safety--for the horse, that is to say; as for himself it was by no means a desirable haven. "hullo, that's a nice-looking horse; this looks a queer start, too," said sergeant brown of the mounted police, who was lounging in the verandah of the one store at gordon--the rising township of the future, which consisted at present of a farm-house, a store, and some tents belonging to the police, but which had a market square, a main street, a church street, and several other streets, only the houses had not yet been put up--as tom bats rode up on kildare. "now, then, hold up, man!" he cried out, as tom fell off the horse's back in a swoon when he tried to get off. "by george, though, i think we want this gentleman; there is a warrant out for bats, isn't there, jim?" he said to a police trooper, who was standing by, after he had picked up tom and brought him into the store. "yer right, sergeant, i am the man and there is a warrant; but never mind me, look after the horse--captain brereton's kildare, favourite for diggers' stakes; they got bill bledshaw to jump him, and i have jumped him from bill. look after the little horse; he has been knocked about fearfully to-day," said tom, getting fainter and queerer as he spoke. the sergeant gave some orders about the horse, then looked after tom bats, whom he saw to be a good deal hurt, and when he was revived a little asked him more about the whereabouts of bill bledshaw. it happened that the sergeant took a good deal of interest in the kimberley races, and he at once shared tom bats' suspicion that bill was acting for some one else; so thinking it would be a capital thing if those who plotted to get kildare out of the way were caught in their own trap, he said nothing about kildare having turned up in the letter he wrote to the authorities, while he wrote another letter, to be opened by either brereton or crotty, saying the horse was safe and did not seem much the worse. after he had sent off these letters by a kaffir on a horse he started off with two policemen--all the force he had--to see if he could come across bill bledshaw. -----------------------------------------------------------------------chapter three. "it's all right, now go and back the pirate for what you can get," said nat lane, as he came into mr gideon's house, where that gentleman had been waiting for some hours on the day of jack brereton's misadventure in a fever of excitement. "are you sure he has done it all right?" asked gideon. "certain; i have got this," and nat showed the other a piece of paper on which the words "done the job all right" were written. "that's what we settled that he was to write; a boy just brought it me. now you go and look for clever mr crotty; we ought to have him for a good bit." mr gideon at once started off to make prompt use of his information. first he went to two men who usually worked with him, and were in this robbery to a certain extent, and commissioned them to back the pirate and lay against kildare; then he tried to find crotty, whom he intended to make his chief victim. they had made kildare a very hot favourite. in fact, with the exception of the pirate there was no other horse backed. it happened that mr crotty had gone to the river that day, so mr gideon was destined to be disappointed of his prey, and waited up hour after hour at the club without meeting him, for mr crotty on his return had supper at the house of the men he had gone to the river with, and then had gone straight to bed. after he had been in bed some hours he was roused by a knock at the door of his own house, and opening it let in jack brereton. "they have done us," said jack, as he helped himself to a brandy and soda, the materials for which were on the table. "what do you mean? they have not got at kildare?" "got at him? they have got him," said jack, and he told his story. very furious did mr crotty become as he listened to it; he at once came to the conclusion that mr gideon had something to do with it. however, he saw that it would be very difficult to prove any knowledge, and saw that he would have to pay the bets he would lose. they talked for some hours, but were not able to comfort each other or devise any scheme for getting the horse back. mr crotty took his loss very well, and did not, as many a man in his place would have done, blame jack at all for it. he was a somewhat sharp customer, was mr crotty, by no means scrupulous when he was dealing with outsiders, but he was straight to his friends, and he really felt as sorry for jack as for himself, though perhaps his first feeling was bitter anger against gideon. "well, it is no good stopping up all night talking," he said at last, and he got a mattress and some blankets for jack. in the morning jack was woke up by hearing a cry of triumph from crotty. the letter from gordon had come and crotty had read it. "we have got 'em," he cried as he gave the letter to jack. they were both delighted; the only question was whether the horse would be much the worse for its knocking about. they came to the conclusion that they would chance that, as the note said the horse was all right, and they believed he could win on three legs. "then leave me to deal with mr gideon," crotty said as he dressed; "i will take care to come across him this morning." that morning it was all over the camp that bill bledshaw had jumped kildare, and great was the consternation amongst the backers of the favourite, and the rejoicing of a section of the jews who had backed the pirate. mr gideon was afraid that it would be too late to victimise mr crotty, though for a minute or two as the latter came into the club, looking by no means out of spirits, he felt a little hopeful. "well, how's the pirate?" he said to gideon. "fit as he could be. will you go on laying against him?" answered gideon. "now why are you so keen about backing the pirate this morning? not because you have heard about bill bledshaw jumping kildare?" said crotty with a grin on his face; "but i think we shall sell you by getting him back from bill." mr gideon could not help laughing to himself, the idea of bill's being persuaded to give up the horse or allowing it to leave him fit to run for the stakes seemed too absurd. then the two had a long conversation, which ended in mr gideon laying the other three thousand to one thousand against kildare, and stipulating that the money should be staked by that day, as he thought that he would win about as much from gideon and his confederates as that division would think it worth while to pay. there was a lot of excitement all over the camp when it was known how jack brereton had been robbed. jack had nothing to say but that the story was true; he took his bad luck as he had taken bad luck before, wonderfully coolly, but to his friends--and most `white men' in the camp were his friends--he imparted the advice not to be in a hurry to bet against kildare. "the little horse will win for all that you have heard," he said. as a rule his friends thought that jack did not speak without reason, and a good many of them took the odds which the jews were eager to lay on their horse the pirate. this state of things went on for some days, all sorts of stories going about as to the chances of the missing horse being recovered. mr gideon laughed when he heard these stories. it amused him to think that people could be fools enough to believe that a horse could be got out of bill bledshaw's clutches, and be fit to run in a few days. one morning, a day or two before the races, most of the sporting element of the diamond fields were on the racecourse, watching the horses engaged in the races do their morning gallops. gideon and nat lane were standing a little way from the rest of the company, and had been having a very confidential talk. "altogether i stand about ten thousand to five thousand. some of it i have laid on the pirate, some against kildare; barney and ike sloeman have done half as much again between 'em! where the money comes from i don't know. s'help me, i can't see what they are at--all backing a horse that bill bledshaw has jumped," said gideon. "it's just as well for us that there are some fools," answered the trainer. "do you think any other horse has a chance of beating the pirate? i heard something about may morn." "never mind what you hear; that's may morn; looks like having a big chance, don't it?" said nat, pointing to a horse that was coming round. "hullo! why that's captain brereton and be damned to him. what is that he is on? something that can gallop a bit," he added, as he saw another horse that had just come on to the course. "is that one of yours, mr crotty?" he called out to that gentleman who was standing some yards off. kildare had been brought into the camp the night before, and jack was giving him his first gallop on the racecourse. crotty and jack had determined that they would not try to keep the secret of the horse's recovery any longer, as it would be difficult to do so; and they had already backed it for as much as gideon's friends could pay. even a tyro like mr gideon could see that the game little horse was of a very different class from the plater may morn. "that, mr gideon! why that is captain brereton's kildare; you ought to know the horse. and now what price kildare? what price bill bledshaw?" shouted mr crotty, and he burst into a peal of mocking laughter, in which a knot of men, his and jack brereton's friends, who were standing near him joined. "the little horse is not much the worse for your kind attentions," he added. "curse 'em, but they have done us," said nat lane between his teeth. mr gideon turned pale. the mocking laughter of crotty and his friends maddened him. he was almost ruined, for the money he had staked represented pretty nearly all that he had in the world; his only hope was that still the pirate might somehow win, and this hope was a very feeble one. shout after shout of laughter came from the men on the course, who seemed all to have been let into the secret by crotty, and followed by the jeers of their enemies mr gideon and nat lane got into a cart and were driven back to kimberley. mr gideon and nat lane had several very anxious conversations before the day of the race, but their upshot was nothing but talk. it was impossible for them to hedge, and they could only trust in the chapter of accidents, which, however, did them no good. the story of the diggers' stakes that year was a very simple one. it was rather a procession than a race. kildare won with the greatest ease from the pirate, while the rest of the field were beaten off. good fellows on the diamond fields rejoiced, and for the most part had very substantial reasons for their joy. mr gideon and his friends "the sharp division," as they thought themselves, for once were shorn, and they look back to that race with anything but pleasure. mr gideon paid all his losses, for he was afraid that if he did not an attempt might be made to prove he had something to do with stealing kildare, and was anxious for some time lest bill bledshaw, who was afterwards caught before he got rid of brereton's other horses, should give evidence against him. it remains only to say that tom bats had the pleasure of seeing kildare win. his arm was well enough to allow him to be brought into kimberley, and public feeling was so much in his favour, as the man who had rescued kildare from the enemy, that the magistrate took a lenient view of the charge of assault on which he was brought up, and only inflicted a fine, which in a few minutes was raised for him by subscriptions of those who had backed brereton's game little horse. story 11. a queer race. "who's that man?" asked george marshall of his friend joe warton, a kimberley digger, as a slightly-made, good-looking man, dressed in a well-fitting suit of tweeds, which no colonial tailor could have turned out, walked past them as they were sitting on the stoop of the club. "that man! why he is the hero of the day--our last distinguished visitor, sir harry ferriard. you will hear all about him if you are long on the fields, for every one is talking about him." "sir harry ferriard! why he is the crack gentleman rider and owner of race-horses; the man who won last year's `grand national,' what's he doing up in kimberley, of all places in the world?" asked george marshall, looking through the door of the club at the gentleman in question with some interest. "he is going a trip into the interior, when some friends of his for whom he is waiting arrive. i wish they would come and he were off, for i am sick of the sight of him. since his arrival the camp in general has begun to take an interest in the british aristocracy. the proprietor of the club has procured a big `peerage and baronetage,' which is always in use. sir harry of an evening tells stories of his friend lord this, and the duchess of something else, till one feels sick. little lazarus picked him up coming here in the coach. he likes you to think that he knew him at home, and that he is a fair sample of the pals he made in london. the little cad is as proud as a peacock of his friend sir harry, and is never tired of drawing him out and showing him off." "shouldn't have thought they'd have stood much of that sort of thing here," said marshall. "we have our faults, and perhaps our weaknesses, but i never would have said snobbishness was one of them." "well, we are a very `english community,' as they are always saying in the papers. besides, this fellow ferriard makes himself infernally pleasant to every one, and half the fellows in the camp think they are going to get something out of him. says that he has been turning his attention to the city and financial business lately, and that now he is out here he may as well take a look round and see what investments are sticking out. that makes him popular, you bet. he says he sees that fools' rush might be turned into a company, and floated as a big thing on the london markets. thinks there is a fortune for any one who would buy up the shares in the diddler diamond mining company. he is going to make home capital flow into the place, and every one is to be better off even than they were in the wildest days of the share mania. then he is very friendly to every one--asks you to stay with him at melton the first winter you are in england, before he has known you for an hour. and tells you about the shooting he will give you in norfolk, and his moor in scotland. the men all swear by him, and the women think that there never was any one like him, confound him!" "you don't appear to like him, joe, as much as the rest of 'em do," said marshall, after he had listened to his friend's unusually long speech. "like him! i think him an infernal outsider; but i see he has settled down to play at poker, so i will go down to the shorts', as he won't be hanging about there making himself a nuisance, as he generally does of an evening." "does polly short find him such a nuisance then? looks the sort of man who could make himself pretty agreeable." warton answered by a growl rather than by any articulate speech, and george marshall laughed to himself. it was not difficult to diagnose his friend's case, and guess why he did not particularly ike the new arrival. polly short was the prettiest girl on the diamond fields, and a good many men had been more or less in love with her, but joe warton had begun to be looked upon as the favourite. in fact, the other candidates had almost given up all hope; and joe, though he was not exactly engaged, was supposed to have arrived at a very fair understanding with her. she, though she had not much harm in her, was decidedly fond of admiration; while joe warton, though he was a capital good fellow, was a little heavy in hand; and his great affection for polly sometimes showed itself in fits of jealousy, which were as near surliness as they could be. given a man like the brilliant sir harry ferriard, and let him admire polly as he well might--for she would be an unusually pretty girl, not only on the diamond fields, but anywhere else--it would be easy to understand, so george marshall thought, how the course of his friend's true love should have got a little tangled. "by the by, shall you ride lone star for her gallop to-morrow?" joe warton said to his friend after he had got up. "we shall win the ladies' purse with her again this year, seems to me." "yes, if nothing else is entered that can beat us," marshall, who was a man not much given to express a decided opinion, answered. lone star belonged to joe warton, and had been for some time in training, for the forthcoming kimberley races, on george marshall's farm. he had brought her into kimberley the day before. she was a very nice mare, but of no particular class. warton had, however, won the ladies' purse, one of the minor races, with her the year before, and he had set his heart on winning the same race again that year. "wait till the entries are published and then i will tell you whether we shall win or no. the mare is fit enough as far as that goes, and she's a good bit honester than most of her sex, but she is no wonder," marshall added. "oh, they won't enter anything better than lone star--it wouldn't be worth their while when the winner is to be sold for fifty pounds," warton said as he got up, and saying "good night" to his friend, walked up the street in the direction of the shorts' house. as luck would have it, however, it chanced that he saw a man he knew, whom he wished to speak to, in the bar of a hotel he was passing. so he went in and said what he had to say to him, and was going to leave when a certain mr howlett appeared on the scene--who about the race meeting became an important individual on the fields. he was called in the papers "our leading local bookmaker." he came into the bar, and seeing warton began to talk to him about the races. "is that mare of yours, lone star, going to go for anything this time? you were lucky to win with her last year," mr howlett said, looking at joe in a way that somehow or other annoyed him. "lucky! what do you mean by that?" joe asked; "she won easy enough; what would you like to bet against her winning again?" "well, it's full early to talk about betting, but i shouldn't mind just backing my opinion as i gave it. though it ain't business, i will lay you fifty to twenty-five." it happened from one cause and another that warton was in an half-irritable, half-excited humour--when it's a relief to do anything. he thought to himself that at the start it would as likely as not be odds on lone star, so he took the bet. mr howlett booked it with a twinkle in his eye that annoyed warton. "you're one of the sort who are always in a hurry; take the advice of one who knows a bit more than you do, and wait a bit in future," mr howlett said. the man's manner irritated warton strangely. "like to go on with it, as it's such a bad bet for me?" he said. mr howlett at first said he didn't want to go on with it. it wasn't business to bet before he knew the horses entered. he only had offered a bit of advice to warton which was meant to be friendly, and if he didn't take it friendly he could take it how he chose. presently, however, he appeared to get irritated too by something some one else said, and it ended by his first doubling the bet, and then laying warton three fifties to two against his horse. as warton walked on to the shorts' he was half inclined to think that it would have been better for him if he had taken the bookmaker's advice, and not been in such a hurry. the entries would be published the next morning, and he might just as well have waited before he made his bet. he might have guessed that howlett, though he did seem at first unwilling to bet, was not the sort of man who would throw away his money merely because he got warm in a dispute. when he bet against lone star he must have had an idea of some other horse being entered which could beat her. still warton thought he knew pretty well the horses entered for the race. it was then limited to colonial-bred horses, and he was sure that there was nothing to beat him. the short family consisted of the father, mother, and one daughter--the fair polly. old tom short was a taciturn old gentleman, who spent his evenings sitting in the corner of the stoop of his house, with a glass of whiskey-and-water before him, and a pipe in his mouth--now and then growling out some remark about the wages of the kaffirs, the price of wood, or other subjects connected with the winning of diamonds. he met with his wife during a visit to england, after he made some money on the australian gold-fields. if he had since repented of his bargain he kept it to himself. she in her way was a very fine lady, being the daughter of a bankrupt grocer, but also the half great-niece of a london alderman, who had been knighted. the alderman's picture always hung on the wall in the drawing-room of their house, and mrs short generally found an excuse for referring to it, when strangers were present, at least once in ten minutes. as one looked at polly short one wondered how she could have been the child of her parents, and where she could have got all her beauty and charm from, and the keen sense of humour that gave a mischievous twinkle to her eyes. her love of admiration might have come from her mother, and she had, for all her dainty beauty, a curious look of her rugged old father. but there was much about her which seemed incongruous with her surroundings. when warton came in he thought that he detected a considerable diminution in the cordiality of mrs short's greeting. once he had been rather a favourite visitor, but since sir harry ferriard had come on the scene, he had noticed a decided alteration. "how do you do, mr warton, we 'alf expects sir 'arry would drop in this evening--have you seen him?" "i don't think you will see him to-night, i just saw him setting down to a game of cards," answered warton, whose expression by no means brightened up when he heard ferriard's name as soon as he came into the house. "dear, dear, it's a pity he is so fond of play and gambling. but there, it's a weakness of the aristocracy; they are 'igh spirited, and must 'ave excitement, as i know only too well!" mrs short gave a sigh and looked at the picture. "he won't hurt himself at it, i fancy," warton said with rather a snarl. "from what i hear he has been rather a heavy winner." "well, somebody must win at cards, and i don't see why you should sneer at any one who happens to be fortunate, as if there was anything wrong about it," said polly, resenting rather the tone of warton's remark than the actual words. "you're quite right; i am sure i don't wish to say anything against him, everybody seems to like him very well, and all i know is more or less in his favour," warton answered, feeling somewhat ashamed of himself for having spoken rather unfairly about a man whom he disliked. he did not quite make his peace though, and the visit did not seem likely to be a very happy one. after some time he began to talk about the races. polly had worked the purse in which the stakes for "the ladies' prize" were to be given to the winner, and this was the secret of his being so anxious to gain it. "you will be glad to hear your favourite, lone star, is very fit--i am going to gain that smart purse this year again, i hope," he said after some time. "are you sure you'll win? i don't think you will. do you know, i shall make my bets the other way." "surely you're not going to bet against lone star?" warton said, remembering how pleased she was at his success the year before and feeling a good deal hurt at her words. "sir harry ferriard tells me he is sure to win--he rides for mr lascelles, who has entered induna." "what! has that little--i mean has lazarus entered induna for the ladies' purse? why he told me he was not entering him for anything but the two big races. it's a shame, and a low trick of his," warton said, remembering with anything but pleasure the bets he had just made. "sir harry persuaded him to do it because he wanted a mount in the race. i thought it very nice of him, considering he has won so many races in england, to wish to win our purse here." "yes, and a speech he made about it too," struck in mrs short, smiling encouragingly at her daughter; "he said that he had never coveted any prize so much as the purse our polly had worked, and that he had made mr lascelles promise that if he won he was to keep it. ah! after all it's only the real titled classes that can pay compliments with grace, as well i remember was the case in dear uncle sir peter's time!" "well, after that i can hardly hope that you can wish me success, though i think you might have kept some kindly feeling for old lone star," warton said as he got up to go. "well, you see, you don't ride yourself, and mr marshall rides for you, and he never speaks to a lady if he can help it, so you must allow me to wish sir harry to win," polly said, as she shook hands with him. "of course you may wish who you like to win; and what's more, you will have what you wish for, for lone star won't have a chance against induna," he said, as he left the house. polly watched him go through the garden, and listened to the tread of his feet as he walked away along the road. his very walk seemed to tell how angry and hurt he was. for a minute or two she felt a little guilty and sorry. after all she liked him a good deal. though he was heavy and perhaps a little stupid, and at times by no means sweet-tempered, he was a good honest fellow and perfectly devoted to her. to tell the truth she had been upset by the attentions of her new admirer, sir harry. she was not more silly than most girls of her age, but she could not help thinking that the element of romance which was wanting in joe warton was present in the other. when she looked at sir harry's good-looking face she told herself that he could care a good deal more for a woman than joe could. then he had a title and two or three places in england, and if she married him she would live in london and be in society, instead of living on the diamond fields, and that counted for a good deal with her, as it naturally would with a high-spirited girl who had plenty of ambition and wish to see the world. she knew that colonial girls had married englishmen of family and gone home and held their own there, and she did not see why she could not do it. warton went round to his friend marshall's house, and found him turning in. when he told the latter what he had done about lone star, and what he had heard about induna being entered by mr lazarus, or lascelles, as that gentleman had taken to call himself since he had made money on the diamond fields, he got very little sympathy. "you must have been a fool to have backed the mare before you knew the entries. believed lazarus would not enter induna because he said he was not going to, why he would sell his brother to please his friend sir harry; besides, he is not above a robbery on his own account. and as for its not paying them to enter the horse, and to have to buy it in, why they can back it for a good bit. probably howlett was doing it for them when he laid you those bets," said marshall. "do you think we have any chance? i should like to beat that fellow ferriard." "chance! devil a bit; no race is a certainty till the jockey is weighed in, and it's all right. but this goes pretty near one." warton went off greatly irritated with himself, and very much cut up and pained about polly short's treatment of him. when he got back to his house he sat for some time in a chair outside his house, smoking and thinking over the unpleasant events of the evening. he had half gone to sleep when he was woke up by hearing the voices of two men, who were passing along the road on the side of the reed fence round his garden. "waste my time, do you say? don't see it--why we haven't done badly to-night, or this week either; and one can't be always at business. what's life without sentiment, my dear bill?" "all right, we ain't done so bad to-night, only it's a bit rilin' when one sees a chance of getting up a bit of poker or loo to find that you're hanging after that girl and out of the way." the first speaker spoke in the tones of an educated man and a gentleman. the second voice was a loud, gruff one, and seemed to belong to some one in a lower grade of society. joe warton somehow thought he knew both voices, so he got up and looked over the fence. he found that the men had parted company; one had turned down a road and was out of sight; the other he could see. he was a heavily built man over six feet high, and warton recognised him as a man called mcneil, who had not been long in kimberley. he was rather a rough sort of fellow, who had knocked about the world a good deal. he professed to have come out to look at the mines, and report on them for a syndicate of capitalists at home. he was a good deal at the club, though some members thought him rather a doubtful character. the queer thing was, that joe could not help suspecting that he had recognised in the other voice that of ferriard. he remembered that ferriard, though he was friendly enough to most men, had been rather standoffish to mcneil, and professed some surprise at meeting a man like him in a club, though he had afterwards played cards with him on several occasions, as they both seemed to have a keen taste for play. yet if warton's suspicions were right, the two men seemed to be on the most confidential footing. after all he was not sure. he had no reason to suspect that ferriard was not perfectly _bona fide_ and straight, and because he disliked the man and was jealous of him, he ought to be all the more careful not to spread injurious reports about him. it was no business of his, and he would not mix himself up in it, he thought, as he undressed and went to bed. when the day of the races came, joe warton's chances of winning the ladies' purse did not look any more hopeful than they were when the entries were published; nor had he managed to hedge any of the money he had put on lone star. the public considered that it was a certainty for induna, and it was generally thought that mr lascelles had been somewhat greedy and unsportsmanlike in entering his horse for the minor event, instead of trying to win one of the big ones. however, mr lascelles had joined his forces with some other owners, and had settled to take a share in the stakes they might win, instead of opposing them with induna, one of the fastest horses ever bred in the colony, and one which several good judges thought might at the weights have a chance of beating the imported horses in the two principal handicaps. men grumbled and said that the races were being made a cut and dried affair of, but mr lascelles did not care, so long as he was backed up by his friend ferriard, about whom he swaggered and boasted more and more every day. he liked to think that ferriard was going to ride for him. the race would be reported in the home papers, and there would be a crop of paragraphs about it, and the world in general would learn that sir harry ferriard had sported his, mr lascelles, colours. if joe warton's chances of winning the race looked hopeless, his chances of winning what he cared a great deal more about, namely polly short's affections, seemed to be almost as small. their quarrel had grown more serious during the last few days. the kimberley race ball had taken place, and joe had attended it. he had not asked polly to dance with him, and though he was an awkward dancer enough, generally managing to get her more or less torn and in trouble, she was none the less inclined to be angry with him for taking so little notice of her. at the same time ferriard's attentions had been very marked, and people were canvassing her chances of becoming lady ferriard. a good many of her friends laughed at the idea of his being such a fool as to bring home a bride from the diamond fields, but they did not know as much as polly did, as she sat on the grand stand watching the horses entered for the ladies' purse. the day before ferriard had asked her to marry him, but his proposal had been a somewhat strange one. he had just received a cablegram he said, which made it necessary for him to put off his trip up country and start for england almost at once, and he wanted her to marry him in a week's time and go home with him. now that she had to make up her mind she felt half afraid. it had come so suddenly. though she felt certain that ferriard was in love with her, she felt somehow that she was doubtful whether she did not like her old lover best. as she watched old lone star being saddled, and saw joe warton looking glum and out of spirits, she experienced a feeling of something like remorse. after all old friends were surest, she thought. lone star had not many supporters. the old mare had won a good many races on the diamond fields, and his owner was one of the most popular men there. little lazarus might just as well have run induna in one of the other races, and left the ladies' purse for lone star, and one or two others, who would have had a fair chance. but there is no sentiment about betting, and the bookmakers' cry of "odds bar one, eight to one bar one, ten to one bar one!" met with very few responses. one or two men took the odds to a few sovereigns on the off-chance. people on the diamond fields are as a rule great believers in the off-chance. still joe warton himself said he did not think he could win, and he advised his friends to leave it alone. "beg your pardon, sir, but will you let me have a look through your race-glasses for a second?" said a grey-haired, elderly-looking man, whom joe never remembered having seen before, and who had just bustled into the grand stand, just as the horses were going down to the starting-post. "that black is the horse sir harry ferriard rides, isn't it? blue and yellow cap? thank you, sir, i've seen what i want," he added, with rather a satisfied air, as he gave the glasses back again to warton. "that's the horse which will win," joe said, as he took the glasses. "so they all seem to think, but maybe it isn't one of sir harry's lucky days," the grey-haired man answered, as he bustled away, and warton saw him in a second or two afterwards speaking rather earnestly to an inspector of police, who was in the ring. whatever the grey-haired man had to say, seemed to surprise the latter a good deal. "all right, in the weighing-room after the race. it will be done neatly and quietly, and no fuss; and a very pretty little bit of business it will be," the grey-haired man said, as he bustled away, and he seemed to leave the inspector with something to do, for the latter at once went and spoke to one of the mounted men. joe warton was wondering who the grey-haired man was, when he noticed that after he had spoken to the inspector he passed closed to mcneil, the man whom he had recognised the night before outside his garden. the latter seemed also, so warton thought, to be a good deal interested in the grey-haired man. in fact, he would have wagered, from the expression of his face, that he recognised the stranger. however, joe warton did not bother himself any more about them, for just then there was a cry of "they're off!" he was not long in suspense. "induna wins!" was shouted out before the horses had got a furlong. "lone star is coming up--no, it's no good, she can't catch induna," warton said, as he put his glasses back in their case, for the race was practically over. polly short looked at the race and felt that she was sorry, and that she would give a good deal to see old lone star win and that joe should have the purse she had worked, though she supposed he would not care much for it now. it was about as tame a race as could be seen, but as the winner passed the post, followed by lone star, a somewhat startling incident occurred. the grey-haired man who had borrowed warton's glass, had not gone up to the stand; mcneil also had stopped below and stood just behind him. suddenly he sprang forward, seized the grey-haired man under his two arms and lifted him clean up into the air, at the same time shouting in a voice that could be heard all over the course,-"jim! slim jim! ride like hell! look here! old sharp has come out after you!" "hullo! what's the matter with sir harry? he don't seem to be able to stop the horse. why, he's going round twice--no he ain't! where the deuce is he going?" said mr lascelles, as he saw his horse shoot out from a canter into a gallop, and dash past the paddock at a racing pace. "well, that's a rum way to finish a race! i suppose it's what they do at the club meeting where he rides at home. but i don't see the sense of it." mr lascelles' astonishment increased considerably as he saw a mounted policeman set off in hot pursuit of the winner. "he's gone mad! he can't stop the horse! he's got a sunstroke! he don't know where the winning-post is!" were the opinions shouted out by the lookers-on. "what price against the peeler?" called out some one in the ring. to which there was an answering yell of "any odds!" "he knows where he's going to finish--it's stella land he is making for, and my opinion is he will get there, for none of our men have anything that will catch him," the kimberley inspector said, and he looked at the grey-haired man with grim smile. "where is that man who interfered with me? ah, it's you, is it?" the latter said as he saw mcneil, who was straining his eyes at the race, not on the card, which was now taking place; "so you knew me, did you? i fancy i know you." "know you, old man! i'd have known yer made into soup. glad you remember me, for you've no old accounts against me," the big man answered cheerily enough. in the mean time george marshall, the rider of lone star, had gone to the weighing-room. "i'll weigh in at once, i think; and i fancy old lone star has won this race after all, for sir harry ferriard won't pass the scales unless he loses the race he is riding now, and it's long odds on him for that," he said to the stewards who were superintending there. the rider of induna, sir harry ferriard, _alias_ slim jim, _alias_ captain barton, _alias et cetera_, never did come back to weigh in. he never came back to kimberley at all. mr lascelles never saw his aristocratic acquaintance or his horse induna again. the former turned out to be a well-known criminal, who was wanted by the london police for a heavy bill forgery case. inspector sharp of scotland yard had tracked him out to the diamond fields, and just arrived by the coach in time to get up to the racecourse and see him go down to the start on induna. the inspector does not often speak about that trip to south africa, which he hoped would have been such a successful episode in his professional career. he has a mean opinion of a country where a fast horse enables a fugitive to get away from the police. joe warton won the bets he was in such a hurry to make, and he spent the money in furnishing a house for pretty polly short, who became mrs warton after all. she told him that before the sensational end of that queer race she had determined to give up the idea of becoming lady ferriard, on the chance of making it up with him again, and he believed her. story 12. a compact. it was at the `george hotel' at portsmouth (said gordon, as we paced the deck of the `trojan' on our voyage home) that i spent my last evening in england with my brother. the next day i was to see him off for cape coast castle, where he was going to serve with his regiment in the ashantee war. to-day i can remember the dingy old smoking-room in which we sat till late at night, talking over the home and school days which were over, and our lives, which having always run together, seemed then to be branching far apart. we had no other relations alive; our father had died that year. the old castle in sutherland, in which we had been born, had been sold to a rich london stock-broker, and our old life seemed to have come to an end. my brother, he was the elder, had chosen the army for his profession. he would have little but his pay to live upon, but it seemed to him to be the proper career for one of his race. i had determined to make money; it had been my dream that i would make my fortune in some distant part of the world where fortunes were to be made easily, though i did not quite know how. i was to come back to scotland and settle down there, and we gordons were to take our own place again. a few days after my brother sailed i was to start for south america, the country i had at last determined to be the land where that fortune would be soonest made. my brother had listened to all my schemes; and then we had talked about the campaign for which he was going to start. i think we both thought a good deal of the terrible climate he was going to face, and we became grave as the idea came into our minds that the next day's parting was likely to be a long one. there was a story in our family that both of us must have been thinking of, for while it was in my mind my brother donald suddenly spoke about it. the story was of a compact made between our grandfather and his brother. they were both soldiers, and their regiments were on service, one in spain and the other in america. the agreement was that if one of them were killed, he would, if he were allowed to do so, appear to the other. our uncle was killed in america, and it was always believed most religiously in our family that he was allowed to perform his promise, and that on the day he was killed my grandfather, who was in spain, saw him and knew of his death. it was of this story, as we grew more thoughtful, on that last evening we were to spend together, my brother reminded me. "let us make the same promise; the one who lives will be the last of our name and race, and perhaps it would be as well for him to know it at once," he said to me. we had both become grave and earnest enough, and as we grasped each other's hands and made that promise i think we felt it was not one lightly made. the next morning i saw him off. he said no more about our promise, yet as he stood on the deck of the troopship and i on the dockyard, i think we both thought of it. neither king koffee or the more dire potentate king fever hurt my brother, and he came home well and in good spirits, and got on in the service, and of what fighting there was managed to see plenty. i am sorry to say that, unlike him, i did not fulfil the career i had mapped out for myself. i went to south america and did not succeed; and then tried one country after another, until one day, some nine years after i left england, i found myself in south africa, finishing a long tramp from the gold-fields to the diamond fields. so far that fortune which i had gone out to seek was as far away in the future as ever. i had ceased even to hope for it. i had been a proverbial rolling stone and had gathered no moss. i had tried my luck in canada, australia, and south africa, and had found each country worse than the one i had been in before. my experiences were not very interesting, and they would only make a tale which has already been told many a time before. i had begun to laugh grimly at my old hopes of making a fortune and buying back some of the family property. and yet my ideas had not been so absurd either; i had seen men whose chances did not seem to be much better than mine succeed and make something like the fortune i had dreamt of. still i laughed when i contrasted my life with what i had expected it would have been. certainly there had been plenty of incident in it; but it was a better life to talk about than to live--a life full of long dreary days of rough uncongenial society, and i am sorry to say, of coarse, brutalising dissipation and of degrading poverty brought about thereby. i failed at first from bad luck, and afterwards from my own fault. after one or two failures i came to south africa and went up to the diamond fields. kimberley, when i came there, seemed to be the city of the prodigal son. he was there devouring his substance and getting the worst of its kind for it, and feeding the swine, or rather, minding a bar, which is a good colonial equivalent, and only too ready to eat of the husk he served out. i had little substance to devour, and when i had used it up was not even as lucky as the prodigal, for i got nothing to do at all. from there i went up to the gold-fields in the transvaal, and two years of varied luck in digging ended in my being on my way tramping back. i had not done much towards making my fortune, i had not a penny in my pocket, my boots were worn out, and i had not had a meal for twelve hours, and i was very doubtful as to how or where i should get the next one. i was doing my last day's tramp. far away across the veldt i could see the mounds of earth that had been taken out of the kimberley mine, and as slowly and painfully i dragged across that weary flat they seemed to grow longer every step i took. it was with little feelings of hope i saw the distant view of that most hideous of towns, kimberley. when i left the gold-fields i had thought that i could hardly be worse off than i had been there, and that i would get some work at the diamond mines. but, weary with my long journey, and weak from hunger and dysentery that had come over me, i had lost all strength, and thought that the best i could hope for would be that i should be allowed to crawl into the hospital at kimberley and die there. every step i took pained me, for my feet were sore and swollen. i remember i had been thinking a good deal about my brother and contrasting his career with mine. already he was known as one of the most promising young officers in the army. i had not heard from him for years, for i had left off writing, and he did not know where to write to me. but i had seen by the papers that he had gained the victoria cross in afghanistan. i thought of him and i thought of myself, and cursed my luck then, for i was too weak and out of spirits to fool myself; i cursed my own folly, which i knew had been the cause of my having come down so low. slowly and hopelessly i stumbled along through the sand. "when should i get to kimberley, what should i do when i got there?" i kept asking myself, and i felt too dull and tired out to answer the question. i had very few friends there, and my appearance, ragged, almost barefooted and obviously penniless, would not tell in my favour. "what was the good of walking any faster? i might as well sleep there on the veldt as go on," i said to myself; and then stumbling over a stone, i half fell, half threw myself down beside the road, and lay there exhausted, thoughtless, and almost insensible. i was roused by some one lifting me up and pouring brandy down my throat. "played out, eh? well, take a good nip of this, it will pull you together if anything will, it's eckshaw's number one, the best brandy that comes to this cursed country. where have you come from, eh?" the voice i somehow seemed to remember, and as the brandy revived me i took a look at the good samaritan who had come to my assistance. i knew him; the pleasant voice belonged to jim dormer, and it was his handsome reckless face i saw looking down at me. "i have come from the gold-fields and have had a hardish time of it," i said in answer to his question. "well, i don't know that i'd have done myself up like that to come to this wretched hole kimberley; but you'd better get into my cart--i'll give you a lift in anyhow," he said. of course i was glad enough to accept his offer and to get into his cart, which was drawn up close to where we were, his kaffir boy holding the reins. "let's see, ain't you mr gordon, who used to have claims at old de beer's? thought i knew you. do you remember that day on the racecourse when cockney bill and his pals tried the system of going for the banker at faro and jumping his satchel? that system would have come off if it hadn't been for your taking a hand in the game." i remembered the incident he alluded to, which took place one evening after the races. some roughs had made an attack upon him and his partner, who were keeping a faro table, and i, who had been losing my money to him, came to his assistance. "i haven't forgotten it and shan't in a hurry. `that's the sort of chap i'd like to have with me in anything that wanted good grit,' i said to myself when i saw you in that row," he said. "look here, mr gordon, where are you going to put up when you get to kimberley?" he added, after thinking for some time. "if you like to come to my place i can look after you and give you as good a room as you will get at any of the hotels, and you'll be made quiet and comfortable." it was a good-natured offer, and all the more good-natured from the way he put it; but i hesitated before i accepted it. "ah, you think that stopping with jim dormer won't sound over well, and i don't say you're not right; but times are bad in the camp and there isn't much chance of your getting a billet all at once, so you might stop at my place till you get over your tramp down; but you won't hurt my feelings by refusing, i ain't one of the respectable crowd and don't want to be." he had guessed my thoughts. he was a pleasant, well-mannered fellow enough, but he had acquired rather a doubtful character, and i am afraid to a certain extent deserved it. it would be difficult for any one who wished to do so in a friendly spirit to say how he lived and had lived for the last ten years. he himself would probably admit that he was a professional gambler. his enemies would declare that in the matter of buying stolen diamonds he was not altogether without reproach. this charge, however, was not true, for he preferred winning money from the buyers of stolen diamonds to indulging in such a risky trade on his own account. he never for one moment was able to see that he was one whit worse than the people who belonged to what he called the respectable crowd. he won money from some of the biggest thieves in the camp, so he was called a sharper and an associate of bad characters, while your respectable men got hold of honest men's money with their bubble companies. "he wished he got as much the best of it at a deal of faro as honest mr bowker, the member of the legislative assembly, did when he started the boschfontein mining company. he was too straight to be respectable, that's where he went wrong," he would say to me when i got to know him better; and i believe he thought it. "thanks, you're a good fellow, but i don't like to sponge on you; i am dead broke," i said in answer to his invitation. "dead broke be blowed! no man's dead broke till his neck's broke; and as for sponging on me, one never loses anything by doing a good turn to one of your sort who has good grit. you're looking pretty bad though-dysentery do you say? well, you'd better watch it; come up to my place and i'll put you straight," he said. it was not, perhaps, a very wise thing to do, but beggars can't be choosers, and i was very little more than a beggar, besides i liked jim dormer's cheery, free-and-easy manner. it was pleasant to meet a man who seemed to think something of one although one was unsuccessful and dead broke. so i accepted his offer, and leaned back in the cart, relieved to think that i should have a place to rest in after my long weary journey. jim dormer was on his way back from a visit to a roadside canteen, where a man he was interested in was training for a foot-race. "i am glad i met you; i like a man who has got grit; maybe it will be a lucky meeting for the pair of us," he said somewhat enigmatically. i did not take much thought about what his motives might be, i was too tired. "take a man as you find him; he has been a good friend to me anyhow," i thought as i drove through the well-known street. the town looked dull and depressed; there was a marked change, one could see that bad times were felt more than they were when i left some months before. bars, stores, and billiard-rooms that used to be doing a roaring business were empty. several stores were to let; there was not as much traffic in the streets, while i fancied there was something in the listless gait of the men one saw lounging about which expressed bad times. glad enough was i when we pulled up at a neat iron house where jim lived, and where that great luxury, as it seemed to me then, a bed, was to be found provided for me after i had attempted a meal. a fortnight afterwards found me still staying with jim. the morning after i had arrived at his house i had found myself too ill to get up; and nothing could have been kinder than he was to me, nursing me very carefully and seeing that i had everything that i wanted. when i had become well enough to go out and look for work he did not show much sympathy with my endeavour to find something to do. he had, i found out, a deep-rooted conviction that any attempts to get on in life by what people called honest labour was a vanity and a delusion. to make a pile and clear out of the country ought to be the aim and object of every one, and it was absurd being too particular as to how that pile was to be made, was the doctrine he was always preaching. of all the more generally accepted modes of making a fortune he was most sceptical. digging was a losing game, he considered. even canteen keeping was hardly good enough. "what one wanted," he would say with much candour, "was to go in for one good swindle and then clear off." "you bet what you and i want to do is to get hold of a few thousands, and then say good-bye to the country. don't tell me we can't do it, there is lots of money in the camp, though times may be so bad," he said to me one evening as i was sitting in the verandah after a tiring day spent walking round the mines looking for work. "i was thinking of something in the new mine line; there is a good deal to be done at that, but i hardly care to go in for the game; it's too much one of your respectable man's swindles for me, taking some poor devil's last sov or two, who thinks the new rush is going to turn up trumps: it's always your poor devils who are landed by that sort of swindle, now i only want to catch the big fish." i made some remark in answer to this, more or less commending him for indulging in his conscientious scruples. i am afraid in my then frame of mind jim dormer's peculiar code of morality was very taking. i began to agree with him that every one was more or less of a swindler, and that the more prosperous men were the adroiter scoundrels. tramping about all day looking in vain for work put one in a suitable frame of mind for listening to my friend's notions of things in general and of the diamond field public in particular. "yes, we must get hold of some money somehow. see there, look at that cart," he said, pointing to the mail-cart that was being driven along the road past the house, "there is not less than thirty thousand pounds' worth of diamonds going across the veldt to-night, for that is a good bit less than the average amount they send home every week! thirty thousand pounds, my boy! that would be a good haul, eh?" i watched the cart being driven along towards the open veldt, and i thought of how it was going to travel across miles of desert veldt with only one policeman upon it to guard its precious contents. so far as i knew, that mail, which started on thursday with the week's finds to catch the home steamer, had never been robbed. my friend did not say anything more about the cart, though i noticed he watched it till it was out of sight, and then he smoked in silence for some time. then he returned to the subject, and made some remark about how strange it was that the mail had never stuck up; and we began to discuss how easily it could be done. "nobody would lose one penny except the insurance companies and banks, for the diamonds are insured for more than they will sell for; yes, it's just the thing sticking out; sooner or later it will be done, and then they will put on a stronger guard," he said, looking at me rather carefully as he spoke, as if he wished to see how i took what he was saying. my evil genius led me to grumble out some sort of agreement with what he said. "believe me, i'd like to collar that pool, or take a half or a third share of it," he answered, "then i'd leave this cursed country. and it ain't so tough a job neither. one only has to wait with a string across the road to upset the horses, and as they go down jump on the cart, get the mail-bags, tie up the driver and the guard, and get back to camp, and the next morning at breakfast look as mild as milk while every one's jawing about one's work the night before. it would be a pretty little game to play, eh, my boy? better than going round to those managers and asking for a job as an overseer and being treated like a nigger, and being told to clear off and be damned by 'em." "but there's the policeman; he is armed and would show fight, and i shouldn't like to hurt a chap who was only doing his duty," i answered. "well, nor would i; but i never see that mail-cart pass without wondering who will take the pool; some one will, mind you," he said, and then turned the conversation to some other subject. a week or so more passed and i got nothing to do. at one time i thought i ought not to go on staying with dormer and living upon him, but he laughed away my scruples. "what did it matter? it wasn't as if i was always going to have bad luck. was i ashamed of staying with him?" he would remark when i talked of going away. it always ended in my staying on. i was generally seen with him, i used to get money on for him when he played billiards or shot pigeons or made any other match, and to do some other little things for him; in fact, i began to be identified as jim dormer's pal. very few visitors came to see us at the house. dormer carried on his business down the town in billiard-rooms and canteens; he never asked me to help him at faro or roulette or any of the games he played, nor did he impart to me any of the tricks of his trade. nothing could be kinder than his manner to me; but nevertheless i felt that i was bound to repay him for his kindness, and that i was under a great obligation to him. after some time he once or twice stayed at home of an evening and a man came in to see him. the visitor was not a pleasant-looking person. he had a shifty, half-ashamed expression, and as he sat clumsily playing cards with dormer he looked as if he knew he ought not to be where he was. "who's that? don't like his looks, can't look one in the face," i asked jim one night when he had left. "that! oh, he's a most respectable man, a sergeant in the police. we are thinking of going in for a little spec together, and you ought to be in it too. that's the chap who goes down with the diamond mail. old jacobus the driver is going to be made a little drunker than usual, the policeman is to make a desperate resistance, and to be overpowered by us two, and then the three of us divide the swag, do you see?" though i had not been boarding very luxuriously for some time, i had been drinking heavily. there was always drink to be had at dormer's house and when i went about with him, and lately i had drunk to drown my anxiety. i don't intend to ape the canting cry of the criminal who, when he's convicted of jumping upon his wife, tells the judge that "it's all the drink wot's done it." drink of itself doesn't often make a criminal of a man, but it often enough robs him of all that sense of prudence which men mistake for conscience. if my brain had been clear of alcohol i think i should have refused dormer's suggestion at once; as it was there was something in it that took my fancy. instead of refusing, i began to question him as to how it could be done. his answer was that it would be easy enough. the mail-cart was to be stopped by a rope tied across the road; the guard and the driver were to be tied up--the latter would not be likely to make a very determined resistance, while the former would be our confederate. when we had secured the diamonds we had nothing to do but to get back to kimberley. our confederate would take care not to be able to identify us, and there would be, so jim urged, very little risk of our getting into trouble or failing to secure the rich booty. "it's our last chance of making a good pile in the country; every day i expect that some one else will try the trick, and then they will put on a strong guard. it's the one good thing left in the country," he said; and then he began to talk about the rich prize we should secure without any one except the banks and insurance people being one bit the worse. "i don't know whom to go to if you won't go in for this; there are plenty of men in the camp who would jump at the chance, but they ain't the sort i'd like to trust, but you're good grit and i'd trust you any day," he said; "come, i know you will stick to a pal." for a second or two i hesitated, and then i said i would go in for it, and we shook hands over the agreement. it was on a monday that i had this conversation with him, and it was on the following thursday that the cart was to be stopped. the next day the police sergeant came up to the house to finally arrange his plans. i didn't like the man's looks any better on that occasion. in his presence i began to feel ashamed of myself because i was going to become a thief. it seemed disgraceful to be mixed up in such a business with that shifty-looking scoundrel. dormer's society, on the other hand, made me reckless and in good spirits, while he took care that i had drink enough to prevent my thinking too much. the place we had chosen to make our attack upon the cart was about twenty miles from kimberley, and the cart would pass there about ten o'clock in the evening. an hour before that time jim dormer and i were sitting behind some rocks near the road at that place where we had agreed to stop the cart. we had the rope ready to put across the road when it was time for the cart to pass, while we both had our revolvers, with which we intended to make a great display of a determined attack. "it's no good being too soon with the rope, the cart won't be before its time, and something else might pass," dormer said as he lit a match to look at his watch. "how long have we to wait?" i asked, for i began to feel rather nervous and to wish the time for action had come. "an hour or more before the cart is due here; take a drink," he said, handing me a whiskey-flask. i half emptied the flask and lit a pipe, and listened to my companion, who, to cheer me up, i fancy, began to talk about the time we would have when we cleared out of the country with the nice little pile we would make by that evening's work. dormer's conversation and whiskey had its intended effect, and i got back my careless, reckless spirits. it was not very pleasant work waiting, the night had clouded over an hour or so before, and the flashes of lightning seemed to be terribly near us, while soon after the first flash the storm broke and the rain came down in torrents, as it does on the south african veldt in a summer's thunderstorm. "all the better for us, my lad, just the night for the job," he said as we tried to huddle behind the boulders to get out of the rain. dormer talked away about the delights of paris and london and the time we would have at home, while we both took several more pulls at the whiskey-bottle; for all that the time went slowly, and we began to feel wretchedly uncomfortable. as we sat there waiting for the time to arrive for us to begin our work and to stretch the rope across the road which was to stop the cart, it certainly seemed that my fate was sealed, and that i was destined to become a successful scoundrel or a skulking jail-bird for the rest of my life. looking back i cannot remember that i felt much shame or remorse. i was infected with dormer's ideas of things. what we were going to do would not hurt any individual very much; it seemed to me then that it was a much more harmless thing than the financial robberies which were carried out by men who were considered most respectable persons; and as for the danger of being found out, i didn't see where it came in, i thought, as i took a drink from the bottle. "easy with that bottle, old chap, or you will be hitting some one when you let off your revolver; keep yourself cool, and mind you go straight for old jacob, and see that he don't pull the crape off your face," dormer said to me. then he walked some yards off to take a look at the spot in the road he had chosen for tying the rope across. as he left me a strange change seemed to come over me. the reckless devil-may-care spirits i had been in left me, and i felt a sense of awe as if i knew that something was going to happen. then a feeling came over me that some one was present, and all at once the rocks in front of me seemed to fade away, and where they had been i saw an unearthly luminous mist, and through it i saw a figure dressed as an officer in a highland regiment. i could see that his arms were thrown back, his sword was falling from his hand. there was a rent in the breast of his coat, and in his face was the look of death. i knew him; he was my brother donald; he had grown from a lad into a man, and he was handsome and more soldierlike than when i had seen him last. i remembered our compact, and then i knew that my brother was dead. there was the proud look of one who had earned the respect of his fellow-men in his highbred face. for one instant our eyes seemed to meet, and then as i sprang forward calling to him by name the figure and the mist surrounding it seemed to fade away. "heaven help me," i thought, "i am the last of our race." a flood of home memories, which for some time i had done my best to banish from my thoughts, came back to me. as i touched my face and felt the mask of crape i had on, i realised what i was going to do, and that i was about to become a common criminal. "what on earth are you shouting for? what's the matter with you, man? we'd better be moving and fixing the rope," i heard dormer say as he came back to where i was. i did not answer, but stood irresolute for a second or two. i felt half-ashamed to give up the adventure i had engaged in, but after what i had seen i was determined not to engage in it. "jim, i am going to cut it; i have had a warning not to go on with this--let's give it up." "give it up by--" and dormer gave vent to his surprise and disgust in very strong language. "well, i did think you were good grit; but you can't give it up now. what's come over you all at once?" he was thoroughly disgusted with me; such faith in human nature as remained to him had evidently received a shock. "well, i'd have never thought it of you, you whom i always believed in. come, pull yourself together and do what you said you'd do; it's too late to turn tail now." and then looking into my face and seeing how agitated i was, he asked me what on earth had happened to me. i think, like many a gambler and adventurer of his type, jim had a strong vein of superstition in his nature. when i told him something of what i had seen he was somewhat impressed by it, and on my again expressing my determination to turn back and have no more to do with it he did not attempt to persuade me. nor did he think of doing the thing by himself. he growled out a few sentences of disgust, and sulkily walked after me as i turned and made the best of my way towards kimberley. we kept some way from the road; i hardly know why i did this, but i think it was because i did not wish to pass too close to the post-cart. after about half-an-hour we saw the post-cart driven along, and then jim dormer's feelings became too much for him again, and he burst out into a string of oaths and reproaches. i must say i quite saw how contemptible my conduct must seem to him, and to a certain extent i sympathised with him. suddenly he came to a stop and clutched my arm, motioning me to dodge behind some bushes. i did so, and in a few seconds three horsemen rode almost by where we were. "we are well out of that little trap. did you see who they were? i will swear to two of them being lamb and stedman, the detectives. by george! but i will go back from all i've been saying; that was a straight tip you got wherever it came from to give up this job," dormer whispered to me when they had ridden past. "that hound of a policeman has rounded on us and given information," he added. it turned out afterwards that this idea of his was right. it was pretty clear that we had just been in time in leaving the place where we had agreed to wait for the cart. our plot had been betrayed and a very warm reception had been arranged for us. even as it was we felt that there was some chance of our being arrested, and we were both glad enough when we were got back to kimberley and were safe in our beds. tired though i was, i slept very little, but i lay awake and thought of my brother, whom i was convinced was no more, and of the old home days. i thought more seriously of my degraded life and made more good resolutions than i had done for many a long day. i think i kept them fairly well, though i had a hard time of it for some time to come. at last i got some work to do for a company on the transvaal gold-fields, and since then i have made a living, though i don't know that i am likely to make the fortune i used to dream of. dormer and i parted good friends. "your second-sight seems as if it had been a warning to you to keep straight, and i'd do it if i were you; as for me, well, it's different," he said as we shook hands. he left south africa shortly after this, and i don't know what happened to him. the kimberley newspaper a day or two after had a telegram in it telling of the battle of tel-el-kebir, and when i saw full particulars of it some weeks after i learnt that my brother had been shot when leading his company in that engagement. story 13. a fatal diamond. chapter one. it was a pure white stone of over two hundred carats, and since nature had somehow brewed it ages before it had rested peacefully in its native `blue' as innocent of harm as the meanest pebble near it. no sooner, however, was it unearthed by the pick of one sixpence, a kaffir in the employ of the union diamond mining company of the kimberley mine, than its evil influence began to work. sixpence's eyes glittered as he saw it glisten in the south african sunshine, and then he gave one stealthy glance at an overseer, who was paid to watch over him and keep him from straying from the paths of honesty, and found that he had little to fear from that quarter. the overseer was indulging in a day-dream, and in his imagination was reacting the incident of the previous saturday evening, when he had engaged in four fights, three of which he could quite remember. while he was thus occupied sixpence clutched the diamond, and when he had got it up and hidden it away in the rag he wore round his waist, began to indulge in a delicious day-dream on his own account. he would sell the diamond to a canteen-keeper he knew of, and have one last drinking bout and then farewell to the white man and his troublesome ways. he knew, however, that on leaving the mine he would have to pass through the searching house, and that it would be dangerous to take his chance with the diamond. so he hides it somewhere near where he is working, and when he goes home he has the lump of blue ground, a few yards from which the diamond is buried, photographed in his mind with an instinct strange to any civilised man. that night, an hour after midnight, he steals away from the compound where the union company kaffirs sleep and makes his way to the side of the mine. at the far end of the mine a company was working by electric light, and the brilliant glare in its claims made the rest of the huge pit look weirdly gloomy, and seem bottomless and infernal. sixpence, however, had not much imagination, cared little enough for the picturesque effect. he had no room in his mind for any other picture but that of the exact spot where he had concealed the big diamond. glancing around to see that there was no one about, he turned down a track which led from the reef to the bottom of the mine. without much difficulty he found the exact spot in the claims where he had hid the diamond. then, as he held the stone in his hand and realised that the prize was his, he felt inclined to give vent to his joy in a wild kaffir song of triumph. that bit of a pebble for which the big fools of white men would give so much money and undergo so much toil was his. his last day's work was done. no overseer would again awaken him in the morning and compel him to go to those hateful claims. his future would be made up of days of delicious loafing, watching his wives hoe in the mealie patch, and his cows feed round his kraal, while he would have an ever delightful story to tell to the young men of his tribe, of how he had fooled the white men, and carried off the biggest diamond that ever turned up in their claims. perhaps it was fate, or some wayward influence exercised by the big stone he had found, that made him choose another way to ascend by than that which he had followed when he went down the mine. this brought him up about fifty yards from where he had gone down. it was just as good a path to take as the other, or rather it would have been just as good a path for him to take but for one circumstance. as sixpence reached the top of the reef, and was just starting off at a run, he found himself tumbling over something which when he was on the ground he discovered to be a pair of long legs. those legs happened to belong to one jack enderby, a searcher in the employ of the kimberley mining board. mr sixpence, who did not read the local papers, was unaware of the fact that the mining board, in order to put a stop to exactly the course of proceeding which he was carrying out, had instituted the system of putting men on guard round the reef at night. though the idea was a good one, it was not being carried out in a very satisfactory and efficient manner by the owner of the legs. going on night guard, particularly after one has spent a somewhat convivial evening, is tiresome work enough. mr jack enderby had found it so, and after he had walked about for some time, and grumbled at his luck in having to earn his living in that way, he had settled himself down to smoke a quiet pipe and think over things. he had yawned, stretched himself, looked into the mine, and wished devoutly that the infernal place had never been found at all, or that he at all events had never seen it. and then his thoughts had begun to stray listlessly over his somewhat chequered career, which was perhaps all the easier to follow as it was all downhill. his history was one which he was willing enough to tell any one who would listen to it. "went from eton to the --th hussars; about as lively a lot as any in the service. went the pace as strong as any of 'em for a time, but couldn't last. found myself dead broke when the numbers went up after one derby. had to go after that, and for my sins managed to find my way out to this forsaken hole of a place," was his oft-told tale. at one time he had owned some claims in the mine, but he soon gambled them away. then he lived by his wits for a period, but falling upon bad times had been glad to take the billet of a searcher upon the mining board, which some of the few friends who continued to stick to him were able to get for him. the appointment was grumbled at by some men who cared more about the interests of the mine than about the welfare of jack enderby, and certainly they would have been able to justify their stricture if they could have seen him, for he had found his thoughts soothing, and having found a comfortable place had gone fast asleep. his peculiar way of looking after the interest of the kimberley claimholders, however, was destined to prove as disastrous to mr sixpence as if he had been performing his duty with the most exemplary zeal. sixpence did not know what he was there for, but he realised that all white men were dangerous to a black man who had a big diamond in his possession, and he sprung on to his feet and set off at his best pace. just then, however, jack woke up, saw sixpence making off, and in a second was on his legs and in pursuit of him. sixpence had managed to get about twenty yards' start, and he took a path that led away from the mine to some ground given up to washing machines, depositing-floors, and _debris_ heaps. in that direction he would not be likely to meet with a policeman, and if he got a good start from his pursuer, there would be plenty of hiding-places where he could take cover and dodge behind. unfortunately for him, however, jack enderby had once won the `quarter' at sandhurst, and though he was not improved by the fifteen years that had passed since then, he could still go better than most men, so long as he could keep his wind. mr sixpence soon began to know that he had a good man behind him, and to believe he was outpaced. he would have to use his hands as well as his legs if he meant to keep the diamond, which he had in the pocket of the tattered soldier's coat he was wearing. sixpence meant to keep that diamond, and he gave the heavy iron-bound knobkerri he had taken out with him a savage grip, and had a vision of a smashed white face as he slackened his pace. then, as his pursuer came up, he stopped suddenly, and turning upon him before he realised that he was going to show fight, struck him one blow full on the face. enderby staggered back dazed and half stunned, hardly able to avoid the second blow the kaffir aimed at him. he had nothing in his hands, having left his stick at the spot where he was lying asleep, but it chanced on that particular evening that he had a revolver in the side-pocket of his coat. as a rule he never carried arms, few men on the diamond fields ever do, but as luck would have it, that evening before he went on duty he had encountered in a canteen an intoxicated young gentleman, who was possessed of a revolver, and not having been long on the diamond fields thought it the thing to make a flourish with it, to the great danger of the company present. jack had considered that he would be safer without it, so he had taken it from him. the circumstance turned out to be rather an unfortunate one for mr sixpence. "you blasted nigger! i'll stop that game," jack said, as he felt some blood running down his cheek, and his hand went to his pocket. he fired without taking particular aim, but the kaffir's hands went up, and he fell on his back. "well, it's not your night out, my boy; there is a dead run of luck against you. first of all you must tumble over me as you come out of the mine, and it's long odds against that; then i have a revolver on me, and then when i do shoot i put a bullet through your brain instead of missing. well, we will see what it was you were taking away with you," jack said to himself, as he bent over the fallen man and put his hand into the pocket of the tattered soldier's coat he had on, and then as he touched the diamond he gave an exclamation of surprise. "by the lord, harry, it was worth going to get," he said, as he pulled it out and looked at it in the moonlight. jack enderby was a good-hearted fellow enough as men went, but it is no libel upon him to say that he was far more moved by the sight of the diamond than by the fate which had befallen the kaffir. it was his duty to stop any one whom he found surreptitiously visiting the mine, and when he had a revolver he could hardly be expected not to use it in self-defence. not much trouble would be made about the kaffir's death. he would report it to the police, an inquiry would be held, but the state of his face would show the provocation he had received before he fired. no, there would be no fuss about the nigger, but the diamond-that was a very different matter--that would be something to talk about, when people saw it; and then jack enderby thought to himself that for some time no one should see it. hitherto in the matter of diamonds he had been straight; but he had never concealed from himself that if he got one good chance of getting hold of a big diamond he would make no bones about it. well, the chance had come, and he was not going to be such a fool as not to avail himself of it, he thought, as he put the diamond into his pocket, and like poor sixpence began to think of what he would do with it. in his case, too, it meant farewell to the kimberley mine, and work which he hated. it meant also, if it were as good a stone as he believed it to be, his having that good fling at home, which he had longed for without much hope. as he grasped the diamond a vision of newmarket heath rose up, and he seemed to hear the thud of the horses as they passed the post, and hear the roar of the ring. he thought of the card-room of his club, and the pleasant excitement of _ecarte_; and then he thought of the richmond dinners he would partake of again in congenial society, and realised that he would soon be enjoying all these pleasures again. he remembered that for a wonder he happened to have a little store of ready money, which he had won a few days before on the kimberley races, about twenty-five pounds, enough to get him home if he travelled steerage in the steamer; and what did a little discomfort matter if it were only rewarded by the good time he intended to have. once he was home with the diamond he was safe. on the fields he would only get a small price for it, because of the danger of buying a diamond from a man like himself who had no right to own one; but in england no troublesome questions would be asked. for the present, the sooner he got the diamond hidden away the better, he thought, so he made the best of his way to the little iron house near the mine where he slept, and found a hiding-place for it there. then he went to the police-station. the sergeant of police looked at his face, which was badly bruised from the blow he had received. "he gave you that, did he? no wonder you fired at him. what made him show fight though? had he a big diamond on him?" "no such luck. i disturbed him when he was going to fetch one he had hid," jack answered, and when he looked into the other's face and saw that his story went down all right, he felt a good deal relieved. "poor beggar, i don't know what put it into his head to go for me as he did." he added this as he left the place. people would wonder whether the kaffir had had a diamond on him, but they could never know that he had, he thought. the finest diamond in south africa was now his, and he was the only man alive who had seen it. the inquiry into the death of the luckless sixpence resulted in the magistrate coming to the conclusion that it was a case of justifiable homicide. the crown prosecutor was of the same opinion, and jack enderby was generally considered not to be to blame in the matter. one circumstance was discussed with a good deal of interest: people asked why should the kaffir have shown fight if he had no diamond? some people argued that he was going to get one he had hidden away in the mine, but others, however, more cynically disposed, were inclined to take a different view. it wasn't likely that a diamond would be found on him after jack enderby had sorted him. no, jack had his own notions of what a searcher's perquisites were, so one or two of his friends suggested. jack shrugged his shoulders when he was asked about it. it was just like his luck, he said; if the poor devil of a kaffir had had a diamond on him he supposed he would have been allowed a percentage on it, which would have come in handy enough. as it was he had got a smashed face, and was thought a thief for his pains. there would soon be a searcher's billet open for any one who wanted one, for he was tired of the job and meant to leave kimberley and go and try his luck up at the gold-fields. in a week or two he did clear from the fields without leaving any great gap there or causing people to trouble themselves very much about his absence. -----------------------------------------------------------------------chapter two. strangers, who find themselves for the first time in hatton garden, are probably somewhat surprised when they learn that they are in the principal diamond market of the world. if they turn into the street from holborn they find it a common place enough at first, and towards the other end it becomes mean and shabby, and wears an expression suggestive of anything but riches. the houses seem to suffer from a premature age and mouldiness, and give one the idea of their being occupied by persons who are in anything but a large way of business. from the names on the doors, however, one learns that the majority of their occupiers profess to be dealers in diamonds and precious stones, and those who know about diamonds will inform you that they do deal therein to a very considerable extent, and will have strange tales to tell of the huge quantities of precious stones which the merchant of that dingy thoroughfare have in their safes, and will hold until some long-looked-for turn in the market comes. its population is much given to gather in knots on doorsteps and at the corners of streets. they are as a rule swarthy-visaged, hungry-eyed men, rejoicing in much jewellery, gorgeous raiment, and glossy hats. with very few exceptions--who do not often make fortunes--they belong to the chosen race. the scraps of the conversation which one hears as one passes along the street generally relates to matters affecting the trade. that is a somewhat wide margin, for all public events, from a threatened european war to the death of some dusky potentate, more or less influence diamonds. but most of the talk is of the precious stones themselves and the mines in which they are found--of falls of reef in kimberley, and of the price of glassy stones, cape whites, off-coloured stuff, and boart. many of the men who gather together there are birds of passage who are constantly backwards and forwards between london and the diamond fields, and often enough there are one or two men who have just come back from the cape with a budget of diamond field news which the others are not a little interested in. one morning, about two months after the adventure which ended so badly for sixpence, jack enderby turned into that thoroughfare from holborn. as he did so he pushed a soft felt hat of a decidedly colonial shape well over his face, for he saw two men on the opposite side of the street whom he had known on the fields, and did not wish the recognition to be mutual. taking a quick look at the numbers on the doors, he made the best of his way along the street and disappeared through a doorway on which he saw a name he was looking for, namely, that of mr le mert, diamond merchant. mr le mert was in his office. he was a man of about fifty, who still looked mentally and physically not far past his prime. some people would have called him a good-looking man, and there was plenty of strength in his face. but as he scanned some figures he had scribbled on the back of an envelope, there was rather an ugly gleam in his eye, which became a little more pronounced when his clerk came into the room and said, that a gentleman wished to see him. it changed, however, into one of relief when he read the name which his visitor had written on a piece of paper. "well, jack, my boy, how goes it? you have just turned up from the fields, i should say, from your get up!" he said heartily enough, as he shook hands with his visitor. "wonder what that fool wants of me?" was his inward comment. but though, as a matter of fact, he was not particularly pleased to see jack, he had expected an unpleasant visit from a man who had obtained some very awkward information about a company he had promoted, and was threatening to make things very unpleasant. so it was a relief to him to find it was one with whom he had been pretty friendly in former days on the diamond fields. "well, le mert, so you have become a great swell--one of the great guns of the diamond trade. things are altered a bit, are they not, since the old days?" jack said, after they had talked together for some time. "when i kept a roulette-table at dutoitspan, and you used to punt away the price of yours and your partner's diamonds at it," the other answered, wondering to himself what jack wanted. he had at first been half inclined to suspect that his visitor was in quest of a loan, but his manner struck him as being too independent for that. "i suppose you go in for being quite the straight and upright merchant now?" jack asked, evidently remembering some old diamond field transactions. "well, i don't suppose you have come all this way to inquire into my moral character, or bother me about old stories which nobody would believe, though i should not much care if they did," le mert answered, looking at jack and wondering what his business could be. "no, i came on business. i have a diamond i found, which i thought perhaps you might make me an offer for." "oh, one you found, eh? yes, you were a policeman or something like that out there at the last, weren't you? still you managed to find a diamond which you wish to sell to me. well, let's have a look at it." "i didn't say i had it with me--it's a pretty big stone, just about the largest you have ever seen, and i mean to get a price for it." "well, bring it out; it's no good talking about the price of a diamond before one has seen it. you have it on you, i can see," le mert said, for he had noticed jack's hand fidgeting at his waist, and guessed he had the diamond on him. he was right. jack enderby undid a leather belt, which he seemed to wear next his skin, and he took the diamond out of it. the half-bantering, cynical expression which the diamond merchant's face generally wore left it as he looked at the stone. he was well able to judge how valuable it was, though he did not know the exact price it would fetch. it is not easy to say how much you can get any one to pay for a single stone, but le mert knew that the answer to that question represented the price of that diamond. he had never seen such a gem before, and did not believe such another existed above-ground. for some time he was silent, looking at the stone and thinking what he could do with it if it were his. it happened that just then his affairs were in a desperate condition. he had been a poor man, and had made a large fortune. had over speculated--gone in for one or two rather doubtful transactions, and now he was being pushed very hard, and everything pointed to his having to begin the world again at fifty--a ruined man without money or character. he looked at the prize that fortune had thrown `that fool jack enderby,' whom he had always despised as a man never able to get or keep money. then he thought for a second or two, for what he saw reminded him of something. "that was a devilish lucky shot of yours that brought down the union company's nigger that night, master jack. you ought to put up a monument to that poor beggar's memory, for he did _you_ a good turn," he said at last. jack started and looked at the other as if he thought he was in league with the evil one. "what on earth do you mean?" he said, snatching up the diamond. "don't be so startled, my friend; i read about the nigger in the kimberley paper that came a mail or two back, and now i remember it i understand how you managed to find that diamond, it don't want a very sharp man to guess that much." enderby felt that it was useless to waste any time in trying to argue the other out of his opinion. "look here! the question is not how i got it, but what it's worth," he said rather sulkily. "yes, but the second turns on the first. you have got something worth a good bit of money, but it's something you can't go into the open market and sell. but don't cut up rough! sit down again, and we will talk over the matter. i ain't afraid of buying the diamond from you; there is no cursed diamond trade act in force in this country," le mert said, and there followed a good deal of talk about the price of the diamond, but it did not end in anything definite, for the good reason that enderby did not mean to part with the stone until he was paid for it, and the other had not an available penny in the world beyond five hundred pounds in cash, which he had by him ready for an emergency. it was very aggravating to think of the lot of money he would have made if he had only possessed some thousands. that diamond was to be bought on very good terms, but enderby wanted ready money, and until he had got ready money he did not intend to let it go out of his possession. of course something could be done. it was possible to find buyers for the diamond, who would be content if it were worth their while not to ask awkward questions, but they would want to make a very good bargain themselves, and the commission that would fall to his share would be a very paltry sum compared to what he considered he ought to make out of such a chance, knowing what he did about that stone. "well, it's rather a big thing for me to go in for just now, but we will see what can be done; maybe i will get some one to take a share in it," he said, after they had talked for some time. "by the by," he added, "what are you going to do with it? it's rather a valuable piece of property to carry on you." "i can look after myself, i fancy," jack answered. "i have the six-shooter on me that i had that night, and i mean going about with it and the diamond until i can sell." "why not let me keep it for you? and give you a memorandum--it would be better in that safe than in your belt." "no fear, mr le mert! maybe you're a very respectable diamond merchant, and are worth your thousands, but somehow, remembering old times, i think i would sooner have the diamond on me; you might be inclined to make things rather awkward for me if i wanted it back in a hurry." le mert took this outwardly with great composure, but inwardly he cursed the other's pigheaded suspicion. "by the by," jack said, when the conversation about the diamond was concluded, "you must let me have something to go on with--a hundred or so won't inconvenience you, and will be the very making of me; for i came off the ship with about a pound in my pocket, and when i pay my hotel bill i sha'n't have a rap." le mert thought that a hundred or so would inconvenience him a good deal more than the other imagined, but he intended to keep the state of his affairs a secret, so he produced ten ten-pound notes from his nest-egg, and handed them to the other. jack crushed them up in his hand, and hurried away, eager to spend some of them, and begin to enjoy the good time he had been looking forward to ever since he had put his hand into the pocket of sixpence's coat. when his visitor had taken his departure, the diamond merchant looked at his diminished roll of notes. four hundred pounds was all he had left, and not another penny did he see his way to raise, except what he hoped to make out of the diamond. then he made a calculation or two on a piece of paper, and thought out the situation. here was jack enderby with a diamond that he could not sell for one tenth of its value. he had no money to buy it, while the other would not let it go out of his possession, though so long as he kept it and appeared as the seller there would always be a clue to its real history. -----------------------------------------------------------------------chapter three. twenty-four hours after jack enderby received the hundred pounds he was dressing in some furnished chambers he had taken in jermyn street. those twenty-four hours had done a good deal for him. when he first landed he had felt by no means at his ease. a valuable diamond is all very well, but it is not ready money, and as jack had fingered the few shillings he had left in the pocket of his old pea-coat, he felt anything but confident, and realised that there was something in the atmosphere of london which made want of money worse than it is elsewhere. then it was not very pleasant for the once brilliant jack enderby of the --th to have no better clothes than the colonial rags he was wearing, and to have to walk about the street in them. but the touch of the crisp bank-notes had changed everything, and had acted as a powerful tonic on his system. they enabled him to get into comfortable quarters, and order suitable raiment; and as he dressed that morning he looked at himself in the glass, and felt satisfied that he was not so very unlike the jack enderby of a dozen or so years before. shaved, and with the beard that he had been wearing cut off, his face did not look so very much the worse for wear. there were some streaks of grey in his moustache, and some lines about the eyes, and on his cheek he had the scar of the blow he had received from sixpence's knobkerri, which he would carry to his grave, still it had been paid for pretty handsomely. the last years had been hard ones enough, and he had had a rough time of it, but he had come out all right, and there were not many of his old friends, he expected, who had made as much money off their own bats as he would have done when he sold his diamond. as he ate his breakfast--enjoying his food wonderfully, the tea, toast, and even eggs, seeming better than they did in africa--he glanced at a daily and saw that it was ascot week. why should he not go down? he asked himself. there was nothing to prevent him now, for though he might come across some of the men who were looking for him very anxiously one monday some dozen years before, even if they remembered him they would be appeased when they learnt that he would soon be able to settle with them. he was soon dressed--how strange it seemed to be wearing a black coat and a tall hat again--and was in a hansom bound for the station. as he was paying for his entrance to the enclosure he felt some one touch him on the shoulder, and somewhat to his surprise heard his name spoken by a shabby, horsey-looking man, whose gloomy countenance for a second was lit up with something like satisfaction as he seemed to recognise him. "how are you, captain?" he said; "why i haven't seen you a-racing for this ever so long. you've been letting it alone, and you're right--wish i had; but you must have just one more shy at it this time for the stakes. do you remember how i put you on to the winner at cambridgeshire at thirties to one. well, i've got as good a thing as that for you." jack recognised the man who had kept a public-house in a berkshire village, near where he had been at a tutor's, before he went into the army. there was a training-stable in the village, whose fortunes the publican used to follow very faithfully. he had had one wonderful tip, which he had imparted to jack, and they had both backed it to their profit. "ah, captain, things ain't what they used to be with me by a long chalk. i haven't got the `horse and jockey' no longer; and that bit o' land i had is gone; and now that i knows a good thing, blessed if i can raise enough to back it to win me a fiver; and mark my words, captain, there never was a better thing than revolver for the stakes. now look 'ere, captain, it's putting last year's derby winner in at 7 stone 4--how'd that be, ay? i saw the trial, and i knows what i see, and you know that it's not from knowing too little but too much that i've hurt myself betting." there was a note in the man's husky voice which convinced enderby that he believed in his information. revolver too, he rather liked the name. it was owing to a revolver that he was at ascot and not in south africa. "what can i get about it?" he asked. "they have got it at fifteens on the lists, but they are laying twenties in the ring--there is a price! well, well, one don't know what's in store for one, but i'd lay against there being any worse torment than knowing a real good thing and not having a mag to back it with," the lout said, looking the picture of gloom, but his face lit up with pleasure when jack promised to back the horse and put a sovereign on for him at the odds. and then enderby hurried away to back the horse, the other urging him to make haste and lose no time, as he believed that the horse would be backed for a good bit at the post, and its price was sure to shorten. going up to a ready-money bookmaker whom he remembered as a good man, jack took twenty to one to twenty-five pounds. then he saw another man back the horse for a little, and that made him feel more confident, so he doubled his bet. then he went on to the top of the stand, and smoking a cigar as he looked over the grand stretch of berkshire landscape one sees from it, he thought of the years that had passed since he drove over from aldershot to ascot, a cheery, happy-go-lucky young subaltern. then some shouts from the ring caught his ear, and he learnt that revolver was evidently being backed, for a hundred to eight against revolver was taken by some one near him on the stand. though he would not have much of le mert's hundred left if he lost, he felt curiously confident, and began to have a belief in his luck. it was a capital start for the ascot stakes, and the horses were all together till they were about three furlongs from home, then the favourite looked like winning, but jack, as he caught sight of the horse he had backed, felt pretty confident that he was not done for. then there was a cry of "it's a race!" as revolver came up with a rush. and a grand race it was, and even jack enderby was hardly certain, till the numbers went up, that revolver had won the stakes by a head, and he had won a thousand pounds. yes, there was no doubt about his having got into a streak of luck, he thought, as he travelled back to town that day, having won a little more on the other races, and being altogether some twelve hundred pounds to the good. that evening, enderby and le mert had arranged to dine together, and have some more talk about the sale of the diamond. the latter, as he eat his dinner, began to feel anything but pleased at the turn matters had taken. when he lent the other the hundred pounds he thought the loan would help to make their relations more confidential, and to keep enderby to some extent in his power, and that the latter would spend the money soon enough, and when it was gone be ready to sell the diamond and fill his pockets again. he had not taken into consideration the chances of his gambling and winning. but jack enderby with his pockets full of notes was a very different person from the man who had dodged into the office in hatton garden a day or two before. when le mert mentioned a price he laughed, and asked him if he thought he was dealing with a baby. "look here, i've been thinking over matters, and maybe it's better to wait a bit till people have forgotten that yarn about the nigger. i shall stick my diamond into a bank, and hold on till i get a good offer for it." "and in the mean time how'll you live?" asked le mert. "live! why i have over a thou, and i've my luck." "luck!" snarled le mert. "well, luck! i believe in it, don't you?" le mert did believe a good deal more in what gamblers call luck than he would have confessed. enderby's luck, however, seemed likely to upset his last chance of getting out of his difficulties, and he felt savage enough, though he answered carelessly-"i expect your luck will mean your getting to the bottom of that money in a week or two, and in a year that diamond will be sold, and you will be dead broke, and wishing yourself back again at kimberley searching niggers." after dinner jack announced his intention of going home, and asked the other to come with him and smoke a pipe and drink a glass of grog. he did not feel easy with the diamond on him, he said, while he did not like leaving it at home, though no one except le mert knew that he had in his possession a stone worth fifty thousand pounds. le mert said nothing, his thoughts were busy with his own affairs. things had begun to look as if he must make a bolt for it. what a convenient piece of portable property that diamond would be to take with him, he thought. enderby in his own rooms, with a glass or two of grog on board, did not become much more companionable; on the contrary, he began to indulge in some not very civil pleasantry on the subject of the diamond. "you would like to fool me out of that stone and get your claws on it, wouldn't you? if you were a better plucked one than you are i shouldn't feel so comfortable smoking my pipe and watching you glare at me, though you are the respectable mr le mert, the director of a dozen flourishing companies, and the big diamond merchant; but you'd--soon follow that union company's boy if you tried that game on." le mert growled out something about the diamond not being worth quite as much as jack fancied, but the other paid very little attention to him, and taking another gulp of brandy-and-water, began to follow out a train of thought which something he said had suggested to him with sublime indifference to his guest's feelings. "le mert the millionnaire! hah, hah! you weren't a millionnaire in the old days down at dutoitspan, were you? i can see you now. what a hatched-faced thief you used to look, grinning at one across that patent spring-fitted roulette-table--that was a profitable bit of furniture for you, that was." "yes, it was, or i would not have been able to pay you as good a commission as i did for introducing custom to it," answered le mert, getting up as if he were going away. "sit down, old chap; don't cut up rough because i talk about old times. take another cigar, they are up there, and mix for yourself," enderby said. if he had been able to read the expression on le mert's face he would not have been very anxious for his company. the latter, however, did not go, and took another cigar from the mantelshelf. "hullo! what's that? you don't drink that stuff, do you?" he said, as he touched a little bottle that was near the cigar-box. "drink it, no! i have had a bad tooth, and i have been rubbing my gums with it," enderby answered, as he looked at the bottle the other was holding up. "look here, le mert," he continued, when his guest had sat down again, "why don't you give me a fair price for that stone? you can afford to go in for a spec like that, and make a pot of money out of it." "perhaps i can afford it, but you want too much. i will treat you as well as any one, you will find; we are old friends, and none the worse friends because we know each other pretty well," le mert answered with a peculiar smile. it amused him to think how little the other knew about his real circumstances. for some time the two sat smoking, jack rambling away about the earlier days of their acquaintance, and le mert saying very little. after a little time le mert asked for some more water, and jack left the room to get some from a tap in the passage outside. as he left the room a look of triumph came into le mert's face, and he got up, took up the little bottle on the mantelshelf, and poured some of its contents into the glass of brandy-and-water enderby had just mixed. he had just time to get back to his seat, when enderby came into the room with the water. it would have startled the latter if he could have read the meaning of the look with which le mert watched him as he sat down in his chair, glancing listlessly for a second or two at his brandy-and-water before he lifted his glass to his lips. was he going to sip it, or would he gulp it down as he generally did? le mert was wondering. if he took the former course, then le mert knew that his chances of getting the diamond would vanish, for enderby probably would detect the taste of the laudanum. "you're infernally silent--what robbery are you hatching now?" enderby said, as he sat with the glass provokingly held in his hand, while his visitor's nerves began to jump with excitement. he was not afraid of the consequences being found out, other than losing all chance of the diamond. enderby, if he suspected him of having tried to drug his drink, would most likely treat him rather roughly, but he would do no more. at last the glass went up to the mouth and was tipped up and put down empty, enderby saying that there was a queer taste in the brandy. "queer taste! i don't notice it; and i will take some more," le mert said. "why you remind me of that story of sam gideon, of dutoitspan," he continued, and he began to tell a story. it was rather a long and involved narrative, and required a good deal of harking back and explanations. before he got to any point, le mert stopped. enderby's head had fallen down over his chest and he was insensible. "ah! i thought that would do for you. you'd have sat up drinking brandy-and-water all night, and the only effect it would have had on you, would have been to make you more insolent; but that's done the trick," le mert said, as he looked at the other who was huddled up in a heap in his chair, and going up to him felt for the belt and undid it. then, as he looked at the diamond, and then at the heavy form of enderby lying back in the chair, he laughed to himself. the revolver which enderby had trusted in had not proved of much service to him. when he came to again he would know what the robbery was that he had been hatching. then le mert went to the door. "good-bye, mr enderby. when you wake you will find le mert, the great diamond merchant, a rather more difficult man to come across than you think he is," he said, as he put on the belt and looked at the figure in the chair. a change seemed to have come over the face, and le mert started and went back and bent over it. then he listened at the heart, and turned pale and shuddered; something told him that enderby was not merely stupefied. he tried to think what he ought to do, but a panic came over him, and he was mastered by a longing to get out of the room and away. then he left the room and went down-stairs and out into the streets. the next morning the servant found enderby in the chair, and could not wake him up. a doctor was sent for, and when he came his verdict was that he was dead. the bottle of laudanum on the table near him suggested that he had taken an overdose, and a _post-mortem_ examination bore out this theory. jack enderby, though he looked tough enough, had a weak heart, so it seemed, and the dose, which would only have stupefied most men, had caused his death. the diamond had proved as fatal to him as it did to sixpence, and his run of luck had suddenly come to an end. one circumstance which was thought rather strange, was the absence at the inquest of the man who had been in his rooms the night before, and who must have been the last man to see him alive. this, perhaps, was the reason why the jury found an open verdict, though all the other circumstances pointed towards his having taken too much laudanum by accident. the police, however, when they made inquiries, and found out from a waiter at the restaurant that le mert was the man who had dined with the deceased, thought that his absence was explained. that gentleman was wanted at other places as well as the inquest. he was not to be found at his office or anywhere else, and the accounts of some companies he had been connected with, and what came out about the state of his finances, fully explained his absence. shareholders in his companies and men in hatton garden were vowing vengeance against him, without much hope of ever seeing or hearing of him again. people were asking themselves, as is so often the case after a smash, why they had put any trust in a man of whom they knew so very little which was at all to his credit? at last the police, who were put on his track as a defaulting bankrupt, got a clue which enabled them to say that he had taken a passage in a steamer bound for a south american port, where there was no extradition treaty. his creditors, however, did not give up all hopes of bringing him to an account until they got some news which told them that he had gone further from their clutches than they supposed. the ship in which he had sailed had gone down, and though all the other passengers were saved, he was missing. the ship had been run down by another vessel, and after the collision had begun to sink rapidly. le mert, with several of the passengers, had been in the smoking cabin, and when he had seen that the boats were being lowered he had turned to go down below to fetch something from his cabin. one of the officers had warned him not to leave the deck, and told him that if he went below he would not get up again, but he would not listen, but had rushed down to his cabin. he was never seen again, for the boat had only time to put off and get clear of the ship, before she settled and sank. his creditors wondered what it was he went below to get, and some believed that he had a store of embezzled money. others, however, who heard the particulars of enderby's death, and rumours of the diamond that had been found by the kaffir he had shot, put two and two together and formed a theory, which agreed with the history of the fatal diamond that le mert clutched as he went down in the sinking ship. it had claimed its last victim, and it lies at the bottom of the sea, and is as harmless as it was before it was unearthed. -----------------------------------------------------------------------the end. 