Introduction to the HTML version

ONE of the problems any student of Victorian and Edwardian magazines encounters is the sheer quantity of dross that must be winnowed to find occasional gold. The late 19th century readership was insatiable for the printed word, and to meet this demand many of the stories and articles did seem to be formulaic - whether the formula was as formalised as described below is unclear, what's certain is that there was a certain repetitiveness to their contents. The present editor has repeatedly bought collected volumes of several hundred pages, only to find that there is nothing inside worth bringing to the attention of a modern audience. There are occasional exceptions, of course, but at a guess there are fifty to a hundred stories and articles for every one that's of real interest.

D'Ordel's Pantechnicon shows that the readers of the period weren't blind to their flaws - it's a brilliant parody of the style of these magazines, and some of their authors. For example, "The Missing Lynx" by "D'oothby Boyle" is very obviously derived from the Dr. Nikola stories by Guy Boothby; "For the Royal Rusks" by "Quax Blunderthud" takes its inspiration from William LeQuex. Nearly every issue had a romantic story like "Bunnie," or an informative article like "London's Goldmines," and most magazines began with an art section like "Scragford's Beauties" and ended with humour, though generally not quite as bad as "The Editor's Pig-Tub." This work also parodies the xenophobia and jingoism of some of the writing, to an extent that some modern readers may find offensive; in particular, "Bunnie" contains racial epiphets which would be considered unacceptable today.

D'Ordel's Pantechnicon was published in 1904. The author was Sir Mark Sykes, bart. 1879-1919; a brief biography appears here. This e-text began as a photocopy of the original book, subsequently scanned by Kip Williams, who has very generously made his scans available for this release. Due to the limitations of HTML the layout is not identical - in particular, footnotes have generally been put immediately after the paragraph which leads to them, or at the end of the end of a section of text where that is more convenient. The Greek characters used for the book's motto could not be reproduced exactly as HTML coding; the original lettering is shown to the right. The text includes several passages inside decorative borders - although I've tested it in several browsers, some readers may need to adjust text size to avoid text overlapping the borders.

The book as a whole did not originally have a table of contents, although there is one for the sample magazine - the contents list following has been added by the current editor. The cover is based on a monochrome image, the colour etc. from a description provided by Kip Williams.

I have corrected several minor spelling errors in the original text, and probably added many more errors from OCR etc. Please bring anything you find to my attention.

Marcus L. Rowland, January 2007

SCRAGFORD'S BEAUTIES.—No. VII.

"A Thing, Living, Suffering... Was Flaying Itself Alive Before My Very Eyes"

A Serial Novel By D'OOTHEY BOYLE, Author of IN GRYPULA'S GRIP; THE HUNT FOR A SKUNK; GRYPULA'S ADVENTURES; AU REVOIR, GRYPULA; THE STRANGE EPISODE OF THE BRAZEN FACE; MORE GRYPULA'S ADVENTURES. To Readers of "SCRAGFORD'S FARTHING." Each chapter of this stirring serial contains a full and complete story, which has no reference to the main issue of the novel.

"Uncle and I are always pleased to see you here," she sighed. The words were few and simple, but to me they meant much, and I lapsed into a reverie from which I was recalled by the butler's huge shadow falling between us.

"Have a nobbler of port with your venison," said the Duke. "Buljer is waiting for you."

I drank off the wine, silently toasting the fair lady opposite me. The conversation seemed to flag, and I could not help noticing that the Duke appeared more than usually nervous, and almost as if apprehensive of some great disaster.

"Is there any news in this evening's papers?" queried Ethel, as if desirous of relieving the tension of the moment.

"Not much," I explained, fingering the agate pickle-jar. "I suppose you have heard of the disappearance of Lord Phoenix's renowned diamond links."

Suddenly the Duke uttered a shrill cry and fell forward on to the table, his face buried in the dish of trifle which was before him. Ethel rose to her feet and hastened to lavish tender cares upon her uncle, while Buljer, unmoved, poured him out a stiff go of old Cognac. "Only a passing qualm," groaned the Duke; "my heart is not what it was," and after a short time the conversation resumed its normal tenour. I rose early to leave, fearing to fatigue his Grace, and after having made my professional appointment for the morrow, craved permission to retire on the score of urgent business.

I descended the grand staircase, took my hat from Buljer, who was waiting for me in the hall, and turned towards the door. Sometimes things seem to happen with such lightning rapidity that one is unable to realise or describe them in their proper sequence. All I can remember is that the back of my neck was clamped in an iron grasp, a leathery substance was forced between my teeth, my top-hat was violently crushed down over my eyes, the rich Turkey carpet seemed to slide from under my feet, the floor quivered beneath me, and I felt that I was rapidly sinking. The smooth rumbling of well-oiled machinery mingled in my ears with the throbbing of my carotid artery and the heavy breathing of my assailant as he knelt with crushing weight upon the small of my back. The descending motion ceased with a slight click, and I found myself in complete darkness. I was lifted bodily from the ground and flung heavily off the carpet on to what appeared to be a heap of empty bottles, and I realised that I was in the cellar of Dublin House. While endeavouring to remove the hat, which had probably saved my life in my last fall, I heard the sound of the re-adjustment of the hydraulic machinery. When I succeeded in freeing myself, I was dazed by a flood of electric light, which revealed, though at first but hazily, the massive form of Buljer.

"You infernal scoundrel!" I shouted, tearing the gag from my mouth. The man merely smiled, and, motioning me to be silent with his hand, slowly began to fumble with the stud of his capacious shirt-front. I heard a slight hissing sound and then an awful change took place the memory of which even now causes me to shudder. His face seemed to shrink, and puckered into flaccid folds of empty skin, his vast bosom and shoulders heaved and sank. The knees trembled and the huge thighs seemed to vanish into air, leaving the ample garments that had covered them hanging crumpled and unfilled. The pink and dimpled hands grew withered and clawlike, and ad! that awful face! now creased into a thousand wrinkles, was shrivelling up before me. I felt the cold beads of perspiration coursing down my brow, and heard them splashing on the damp floor, but worse was yet to come. I tried to shut out the fear-some sight, but I could not. The Thing began to move, to raise its arms and writhe as if in dreadful anguish. It clutched at its face, at its chin, and at the loose dead-white skin which hung upon its breast, it fell upon its knees and tore upwards with its dangling claws (now more like tentacles of sinew), at its face. Its face? Merciful Powers! it had none! Where the frightful face had been was a still more awful blank—a blank —now seamed with twisted folds, now taut and throbbing with unutterable agony. Something living—suffering—was flaying itself before my very eyes

"If I were Dublin, I would not employ this butler," I moaned, hardly knowing what I said. *

* Upon subsequent consideration I still think so.

Then at last the tension was relaxed, the fearful blank fell back, empty, the great stiff shirt-front heaved and gaped, and skin and clothes fell to the ground, while from the gaping shirt emerged, calm, smiling, pensive, dreamy, cold, unbending, bitter, pondering — Grypula.

"I fear I startled you, Bunyan?" he murmured as one disturbed in a long reverie. "The disguise, you will admit, was effective?"

"Disguise," I quavered.

"Yes," he continued, "it is my No. 1 confidential upper servant pneumatic," and drawing from his breast-pocket Moloch's diamond reticule he opened it and put in his little finger. The strange denizen realising that its enforced seclusion had come to an end, ran up his arm and fastened its gleaming teeth securely and affectionately in the lobe of his left ear. "Oh! Moloch," he mused sadly, "we cannot have our rubber this evening, as we have a more serious game on foot, but we will play one hand while our friend Bunyan recovers with the help of some of the Duke's Imperial Tokay, which he will find in bin No. 43." So saying he carefully folded the disguise, the discarding of which had so terrified me, and using the shirt-front as a table, produced from his waistcoat-pocket the miniature pack I knew so well, and dealt out the cards for his usual game of treble dummy whist. The Stoat, with his hardly human interest in the game, took up a position on the table close to Grypula's left hand, from which he could administer the savage bites with which he marked his master's revokes.

I staggered to the bin indicated, and snacking off the neck of one of the bottles, from which the dust of ages fell, drank down a stiff nobbler of its liquid gold. I turned towards the strange pair, and noticed that Moloch's sharp canines were firmly fixed in the ball of Grypula's thumb, and that he had just added the ace of spades to the three of diamonds, which were trumps, led by one of his imaginary opponents; he held in his hand the four, seven, and ten of diamonds.

"Grypula, you have revoked," I observed.

"Moloch has already told me so," he retorted, and added, " My dear Bunyan, I see you have recovered. I was present at the treading out of that wine in 1604. The fourth Henri, had he not been a recluse, would have been a martyr."

This extraordinary man was almost always surprising me in some way or another. I sometimes could hardly believe that this calm, pensive individual who was sitting on the floor of a Duke's cellar playing treble dummy with a stoat, had but ten minutes before been masquerading as the Duke's butler, had assisted a long dead French King in the manufacture of Tokay, and had of old wielded Rome's imperial sway under the title of Heliogabalus. But his historic omniscience has often convinced me that it could not have been otherwise. An antique boot, a modern rapier, a blue Mauritius, or Saitaphernes' tiara presented no archaeological difficulties to him, while a Republican as recalled memories of his childhood.

"Bunyan," interrogated Grypula briskly, as he placed the cards in the back of his gold repeater and slipped Moloch into his reticule, "are you ready for a stiff job to-night, for I think I see a pretty little adventure forming itself in the near future?"

"Need you ask?" I replied; "but, remember, I have a professional visit to pay to the Duke to-morrow morning" — and a vision of Ethel passed before my eyes.

"Have no fear," he answered, "but that pairing will never take place." I wondered. Did he read my thoughts? Or, was he thinking of the appointment with my illustrious patient? But he proceeded, "Listen. As you well know, in my search for the Iron Toe I required the assistance afforded by the ownership of the Missing Lynx. That animal was guarded in the fastnesses of the north by the Cheoptic Eskimo whose god it is. Daily it was fed on the freshly-severed limbs of human babes. Its ferocity was such that even the chief priest could not approach it unmuzzled. Now, mark me, no matter how, I have obtained that lynx."

"What!" I exclaimed, springing up, "are we then so near the end of our search?" He did not answer, but his eyes gleamed, and once again I noticed the extraordinary phenomena connected with these organs and with his shaven cranium. The eyes were those of a member of the feline tribe—large, green, and iridescent, the iris opening out and contracting into a thin vertical line, and the top suture of his head, always wide open, displayed, when in repose, a deep cleft which pulsated gently to the workings of his gigantic intellect. It was almost uncanny.

He resumed his story, "I have obtained that lynx, and it is now chained and muzzled in a den at the further end of this cellar."

I shuddered involuntarily. "But why here of all places in the world?" I asked.

"Really, Bunyan," he snapped, "you know little of my methods. It should be obvious even to you that my possession of the lynx would be objectionable to its late worshippers, of whom, by the way, the high priest—Usk—is a man to be reckoned with. Although born an ignorant Eskimo he holds a British master mariner's certificate. You will thus perceive that once owner of the Missing Lynx it became incumbent upon me to procure a reliable keeper. I, therefore, engaged for the purpose the premier Duke of Ireland at a salary."

"A salary! you surprise me."

"A mere matter of a million a week. Perhaps the rise in the bank rate which has so perplexed the press is now comprehensible to you. But pray do not interrupt me. The Duke agreed to house the lynx and daily feed it with his own hands. But even I am not infallible, at least I begin to think so. Usk had been a forward hand upon the Duke's yacht, and, becoming master of a dark secret, held the Duke in his power. I did not know of this. The Duke has proved false to his trust, and to-night Usk will be here with the Eskimo crew of the whaler, of which he is mate, to receive the lynx at his hands. This may explain to you your host's 'passing qualm' in the trifle after your unwitting blunder in referring to Lord Phoenix's loss. Now we must to business—wait here."

Grypula switched off the electric light, and I heard him gliding noiselessly towards the back of the long cellar. I fell to thinking over the strange events of the night, and wondering whether the circumstances of which I had just heard would affect my chances with his Grace's niece. I was thus employed when a tap on the shoulder from a heavy chain aroused me—it was Grypula.

"The lynx can now defend itself," he announced, "only the bars of its den protect us from its teeth and claws. But, hist! we have a visitor. Down behind that bin, Bunyan, for your life!" I instantly obeyed this peremptory request. A key rattled in the lock, as if held by some uncertain hand. I instinctively felt for my Waffenfabrik No. 3. W and S Target model ^.4_.4⁶₃²₆ repeating pistol which I invariably carry since I lost my left leg in the adventure of the Mystic Mangle of which I have already written. Would to God that I had had it on that awful day! The heavy door creaked on its hinges and a bar of light shot across the ceiling, following the circuitous route dictated to it by the heavy gilt mouldings of the cellar. The bar widened until it embraced the whole room, and disclosed that it emanated from a bedroom candle borne by a tall figure, whose face was so far bent down into the collar of an ample dressing-gown that I could not distinguish it from my coign of vantage. The figure shuffled slowly by me, and I saw that it was none other than the owner of the Tokay which was scarce dry upon my lips. He held in his hand a deep enamelled saucer of milk, paused before me to murmur "Puss! Puss! Poor Pussy!" and then continued towards the dark end of the cellar. At that moment clear, deep, yet shrill rang out into the echoing vault a wild hoarse mew. A mew so thrilling, so intense as ne'er was mewed before — it played among the arches and reverberated among the wine bins, telling of bestial rage, ruthless ferocity, and of strange uncanny power. Obeying some irresistible impulse, I jumped to my foot—a cry of warning at my lips. A sickening blow descended upon my head, a million sparks danced before my eyes, and I sank unconscious into the bin.

*   *   *   *

When I came to myself I found Grypula seated astride of one of the mahogany, brass-bound barrels of Beaune, gazing regretfully at a glace dress pump.

"Here," he soliloquised, "I hold all that remains of Patrick Threlgood Tippy Liffey, Duke of Dublin, Marquess of Nephin-Begg, Earl of Nephin-Begg, Viscount Croaghmoyle, Baron Liffey, Peer of Ireland, member of the Dublin City Council, Knight of the most noble order of the Shillaghleah of Donny-brook, once keeper of the Chiltern Hundreds, Resident Magistrate and Inspector of the Irish Constabulary, millionaire, connoisseur, and villain. He has paid in his checks—I will not judge him. This shoe will figure in my collection of interesting footgear." As he spoke he placed the pump in one of his capacious pockets, and "Bunyan," he pursued, "your untimely sympathy for that most undeserving of men almost interfered with my schemes. Had you made a sound I should have been obliged to resort to strong measures."

I murmured some feeble words of apology as I bound up my injured head. Grypula switched off the light and we resumed our former place of hiding. I had just begun to ponder on Ethel, now a duchess in her own right, when the massive door once more creaked and opened, and two figures bearing torches entered. They were wearing the tall conical head-dress of the priesthood of the Lynx, and their faces were covered with the heavy robe, pierced only with two eye-holes, which hung from it, At the bottom of the steps they turned and marched slowly and majestically towards the den. I shuddered with horror at what might happen—I had seen one man take that path before! Grypula thrust me violently aside, and with his swift, stealthy, cat-like walk followed them to the end of the cellar. There I saw him stretch out his arms and grip them each by the neck where the spinal cord enters the pericranium. I saw him give a slight effort of the wrists, I heard but one short, sharp crack, and, by the dim light given by the fallen torches, I saw that what had but a moment before been two as vigorous young priests as ever trod in shoe-leather was but one shapeless bundle of clothes. From this Grypula swiftly selected the priestly robes and, having assumed one, signed to me to do the same to the other. I had so often had cause to wear a similar garment in my many marvellous adventures with Grypula that this was but the work of a moment, and picking up the torches we proceeded to the door. Grypula opened the door, and in the Cheoptic dialect of the Eskimo language called out, "All is well, the Duke is in the Lynx's den" (which was strictly true). We stood aside and a file of men entered—such men as I had never seen before. All except their leader, who came last, were stunted deformities. They wore the usual Eskimo sealskin combination suit, and their copper, blubber-covered faces lit by the torches they bore produced a wild lurid effect. Their leader, whom I instantly recognised as Usk, was much above the average height — he must have easily touched seven feet. His face was powerful and, though cruel, handsome. His broad hairless upper lip, his flat nose, and almond eyes black as sloes, were surmounted by an extraordinarily protuberant forehead which showed an intellectual development remarkable in any man and marvellous in one of his race. Grypula signalled them towards the den, and made the mystic sign of the Lynx. "Go," he commanded, still in Cheoptic, "the mighty One of Ones hungers for the worship of her followers." As they turned I noticed that the leader held a brazen vessel which emitted a savoury odour — I shuddered involuntarily, thinking what nourishment it might contain, and was grateful to the covering robe which concealed my emotion. The whole party knelt and crawled swiftly down the cellar with low beastlike cries. Grypula thrust me towards the steps. "I think, my dear Bunyan," he whispered, " that our presence is no longer necessary." As he did so a hubbub arose at the further end of the cellar, and the whole horde came pressing back. I heard the hoarse voice of the leader shouting to his men, I saw the sea of angry faces, and we jumped through the portal and slammed the heavy door to, severing a hand which clutched at my wooden leg as it lay upon the ground, crablike. Grypula locked, double, and treble locked the door; we tore off our disguises and sped down the passage at lightning speed. As we ran Grypula explained to me that Usk had seen the bodies of the priests, knew that the Missing Lynx was loose within the cage, safe from capture, and was only bent upon revenge. Behind the door the din redoubled, and thundering blows shook the foundations of the ducal mansion, and as we reached the area a crash of rending timbers announced that it had fallen. "There is no time to lose," hissed Grypula, and seizing me by the belt of my Norfolk jacket, he tossed me clear over the area railings on to the cold, hard pavement, and vaulting lightly after me, thrust me into a hansom which stood tenantless at the door. I was dazed by my falls, and was only half conscious of Grypula springing into the driver's perch and lashing the horse into a gallop. When I came to myself I saw in the looking-glass before me that I had lost my top-hat, and that my neck-wear was disarranged. But for these trifling inconveniences and for the throbbing of my wounded head I was almost uninjured. The trapdocr opened above me, and the cool, calm voice of my extraordinary companion called to me " Kindly shoot the driver of the omnibus behind us." I never hesitate to obey this wonderful man, and so breaking the small window behind my head I raised the flap with my left hand and taking careful aim at his passing shadow on a house lodged a bullet in the gentleman indicated. I was horrified to see him sway from his box and fall with a dull thud upon the roadway, where the wheels of the ponderous vehicle passed over his body.

"A clever ricochet, between the eyes," chuckled Grypula. "You would he a great shikaree, but I fear it might, if published to those blockheads at Scotland Yard, bring you within the clutches of the law." A thrill of horror crept down my spine. Why had he bidden me kill this man?

"That omnibus contains some of our mutual friends," he rejoined from above, as though penetrating my inmost thoughts through the top of my skull, "and I considered it advisable to detain them."

The pace was becoming terrific: our steed, striving in a wild gallop, cast back great flecks of foam which gave it the appearance of a goose in the plucking, and the whole cab became white as driven snow. As I have often remarked, in moments such as these a man notices small details, and accordingly I say that I observed that the tassel of the right-hand window-blind was slightly frayed. As we shaved the corner leading from Oxford Street into Park Lane I saw the great swaying vehicle but sixty yards behind us, and heard the exulting yells of its pursuing inmates. At Hyde Park Corner the sixty yards had shrunk to thirty, and I felt that it could not last long. But here we obtained a momentary respite from the white uplifted hand of a policeman, who checked the 'bus's wild career while he himself crossed the road. This gave us but twenty yards more, and down past Knightsbridge through the Brompton Road to Hammersmith and Putney we held our mad course. Thrice my Waffenfabrik barked, and thrice a blubbery driver reeled from his perch and bit the asphalt with despairing cry. Up the steep slope of Putney Bridge we tore, and such was the pace that at the cobbled ridge the cab left the roadway and rose full two feet into the air. It fell with a grinding crash, and I found myself clinging to the brave horse's mane, struggling to regain my balance on his neck. Unable to do so unaided, I was slipping to the ground, when my artificial limb was seized in a firm, cold grasp, and I was restored to a more stable seat upon the horse's hack. Grypula, who was riding pillion with all the grace of an accomplished horse-woman, had again saved my life. I felt a clutch at my pistol pocket, and two shots rang out into the night. He had cut the traces, and we were freed from the trailing burden behind us. The body of our late vehicle followed us for twenty yards, then swerved in its course, jumped gutter, pavement, and parapet, and fell thirty-seven feet into the eddying swirls of black water below. Strange as it may seem, all had happened so swiftly that the horse had never broken his stride, and from our reaching the top of the bridge to the disappearance of the cab cannot have occupied more than seventeen seconds.

"I had to do that," muttered Grypula dreamily, "when escaping in my chariot from Attila. I had not yet invented gunpowder, and the hatchet was decidedly clumsier."

As we galloped up Putney Hill I could clearly see that the awful strain was telling on our brave beast, his breath came in deepstertorous gasps, his flanks heaved convulsively, and his knees quivered as they shot out beneath his outstretched neck. Grypula handed me a hypodermic syringe and calmly directed, "Under the left shoulder-blade. Unsporting but necessary — we have no time to consider the feelings of the jockey Club."

I did not protest, but pressed the tiny piston home, and we again began to distance our pursuers. Seven times I doped the poor labouring brute, seven times he pluckily responded to the call of transatlantic science, but as I inserted the needle for the eighth go at the top of Wimbledon Cornmon the exhausted animal twice staggered in its stride, and fell in rigid death. I was flung against a sharp boulder with the horse across my back, Grypula, as usual, landing upon his feet. He dragged me out by the hair and set me on my foot, and we fled through the iron-grey dawn. I leaped along in Grypula's wake, my steel-shod leg striking out, as I then thought, its last sparks from the flinty road. As we reached the summit of a slight ascent we heard a wild cheer from the oncoming 'bus, which turned into a shriek of terror from thirty throats as the huge fabric, striking the corpse of our faithful steed, stood, tottered, swayed, and, bursting like a bombshell, scattered its living contents to the earth. What had but lately been one of the best 'busses that ever travelled on tyres was but a heap of riven matchboard and shivered glass.

"That horse has been of use to us," quoth the strange man, as I stood fascinated by the dire ruin. " By the way, did you notice when he died?"

"I suppose when he fell on me," I ejaculated, surprised at the unexpected question.

"My clear Bunyan, you are no observer," sneered Grypula; "he ceased to breathe immediately after the second injection."

I shuddered involuntarily. For two miles we had ridden a dead horse!

"But now," he declared, "I must deal with the man who has endeavoured to thwart me." I looked towards the debris on the road, and saw one solitary figure arise from its midst and stride towards us — it was the mighty mate. He alone survived of those fifty desperate men who started from Greenland to recover the Missing Lynx. He advanced with deliberate strides from the wreck, beneath which the shattered forms of the last of his companions lay buried. At his approach Grypula removed his evening-dress coat, and neatly folding it handed it to me, postulating: "Be careful of Moloch." I was inexpressibly surprised and astonished to find this marvellous man so cool and collected. "Kindly relieve our friend of his furs," he remarked ; "they may encumber him," and taking from his trouser-pocket the pistol which he had not restored to me, he cast it away from him to the ground. Usk, moved by some impulse of rough chivalry, sent the heavy blubber knife which he held behind him to join my Waffenfabrik, and then with one swift movement threw aside his sealskin garment and faced Grypula completely nude, save for his nether jaeger underwear. The two stood motionless for a moment in silence, and I contemplated them with awe. Grypula, though a man of somewhat above the medium height, was giving his opponent half a cubit. He stood lightly poised upon the balls of his feet, leaning slightly forward. His tense, eager legs, taut yet supple, the finely trained muscles of his trunk and thighs, showing through his beautifully fitting clothes, which were specially made for him by a West-end tailor, his well-poised neck and ivory knuckles presented a splendid picture of graceful humanity. Before him stood Usk, the high priest of the Cheoptics. Huge as he had seemed when fully clothed, he now appeared far more gigantic; although without an ounce of superfluous flesh, he would have tipped the scale at nearly thirty stone. His close-cropped hair, his beetling brow and cruel mouth surmounted a tightly knotted, sinewy neck and a pair of shoulders which would have put a regular Hercules to shame. Above these shoulders the head, though immense, appeared monstrously small. The circumference of each of his thighs exceeded that of his waist, and his calves were those of a great Assyrian bull. His great feet were flattened with pacing icy decks, and contrasted strangely with the arched and dainty insteps of Grypula. After standing thus for twelve minutes the silence was broken by a short yap of hate as Usk rushed in; the two men gripped, and the struggle began. Silently the two figures stood, each clasping the other round the body, my friend having obtained the much coveted under-grip, and I could see that each without a sound or movement was straining to raise the other, Usk with a view to loosening Grypula's hold, Grypula with a view to utilising it. The only sound which broke the stillness was the monotonous creaking of their muscles as they strove for mastery. I could see the lithe, stipple movements of Grypula's chest and shoulders under his linen shirt, and could also detect that, mighty and well proportioned as he was, the Eskimo's diet of candles and soap had told upon the structure of his muscles—they seemed to move more slowly, more stiffly, and less precisely than those of his smaller opponent. Upward they strained, their feet clawing at the soil beneath them, The mighty backs writhed and bent, the eyes clashed like two sharp swords, and the deep red weals made upon the giant's back and sides by the steel cable arms of his adversary were hidden by the arms that had made them. Then suddenly a most extraordinary thing occurred. So equal was the strength of the two men and so great, such was their determination to attain this object, that they both succeeded. Slowly, steadily, and simultaneously each raised the other from the ground. They rose inch by inch, until there were two clear feet of space between them and the earth they had trod! Then slowly the gigantic effort subsided, and they came gradually back to earth. Again they strove, again they rose, inch by inch, inch by inch. Now the strain was fearful to see; Usk was grievously distressed, and even Grypula's brow was marked by a tiny bead of sweat! Suddenly I saw a change come over his feline eyes; they burned like two live coals, and the skin over the great cleft in his head was throbbing strangely. It rose until instead of a cleft it had the appearance of a ridge, shaped like the cock's comb of a Metropolitan policeman's helmet, and it glowed as if filled with liquid fire. Oh! my! slowly I saw the giant's eyes grow stony and vacant, and his skin, which until then had rippled over his working muscles like some strange sea, grew grey and rigid as the wavelets in the sand left by its swiftly retreating tide. His mighty arms relaxed, the great supporting tension snapped, and they fell as one man to the ground. Grypula sprang to his feet, stood for a moment over his vanquished foe with a smile of triumph, and then fell himself, unconscious. Grypula had fainted! It was but for an instant, and he rose and calmly bade me give him his coat.

"Usk has had a lesson he will never forget," he stated decisively, "for the next ten years he will think himself a turnip."

I shuddered involuntarily and turned in horror to the giant, and saw that already his head, upon which he was standing, was partly concealed in the soft soil, while he endeavoured to make the indescribable noise characteristic of that esculent root. When my eyes again fell upon Grypula, he had removed Moloch from his reticule, and was dealing out the cards for the second hand of his interrupted rubber.

Suddenly amid a rustle of silk and frou-frou, a slender figure emerged from the bushes. It was her Grace the Duchess of Dublin—nay, Ethel!

*   *   *   *

I little thought when I paid my professional visits to Dublin House that I should one day be Duke-Consort within its walls. Her Grace, my wife, tells me that Grypula has returned to London. I wonder whether that wonderful man will again come into my life in time for next month's "Scragford's"?

[To be continued in our next.]

NEXT MONTH. Mr. D'Oothey Boyle promises us an even more awful chapter for our next number, entitled: " THE ADVENTURE OF THE SEVENTH HOWL," in which Grypula, with the aid of the Lynx, discovers the thumbless Negro in his living tomb. Grypula will be disguised as a Banshee.

LONDON'S GOLD MINES: A DAY AMONG THE DUSTMEN. Being some personal glimpses of one of Britain's great enterprises, its remarkable achievements in the gathering of dust, with a bright and interesting account in which the writer gives his impressions of a visit to a London dust-cart. By MORTIMER TOMBES.

On the 4th of July, 1853, the seventy-seventh anniversary of the Declaration of the Independence of the United States of America, a dustman, whom we will call Robinson, was emptying his cart of dust at one of the great dust shoots of the metropolis, now long disused and probably covered by recent building. He had had a long and fatiguing day at his work, and perhaps may have been more or less anxious to get back to his wife and family— if, that is to say, he enjoyed the advantages of matrimonial life and some tender olive-branches. As the dust fell from his cart, he thought that he saw some object glittering in the evening sunlight. He got down from his cart to the ground and walked down the slope of the shoot to the spot where he thought, possibly, the object might have fallen. He groped about in the refuse with the toe of his boot, which was tipped with iron nails, and soon disclosed the bright object which he had really seen. It proved to be a spoon made of Abyssinian gold, a composition closely resembling in appearance the real article. He picked it up between his fingers and examined it with his eyes. Then he put it in his pocket and walked back to his cart. He climbed in, and taking up the reins in one hand and the whip in the other, he drove his cart away from the shoot towards his own mews, where his horse was to be stabled and where his cart was to be put away for the night. On the way he stopped at the police station, where he gave his find to a P.C., stating that he had found it among the refuse which he had brought in his cart from a particular street. The minion of the law took out his note-book from his pocket, and with the help of a pencil noted these facts, together with the name and address of the dustman Robinson. After this he told Robinson that it was all that he required of him, and the latter once more mounted his cart and drove the now empty vehicle home. He never again heard of the spoon, but the matter did not end here. On Maundy Thursday, 1854, during the second year of the Crimean War, the police traced the owner of the lost property, a respectable widow who lived in Wandsworth, and restored the spoon to her. Words fail to describe the bereaved woman's joy when she recovered the article she had so long deemed lost beyond recall.

Here we see the Dustman, his horse Tiger, and the cart. Readers should note the placard which informs the wondering observer of the nature of the cart's contents. This photo was taken while the dustman was attending to some of the complicated harness on Tiger's back. This dustman is looking at the wheel of his cart and wondering whether it wants any grease. If it does he will certainly put some on before he goes any further. Note that Tiger has moved his foot since the last photo was taken. The reins are hanging on the ground, but they will be picked up later.

The promptitude and intelligence shown by Robinson on that memorable evening are only characteristic of the thousands of dustmen who form the cleansers of London's dust-bins. Most people who by force or inclination are the owners of dust-bins in London gain a rather odd opinion of the duties of a dustman. Based on what they see of him they form the conclusion that his only occupation is to wear a sack upon his back, and to put dust into carts and take it away. That is the dustman as the house-holder sees him. To those, however, who know the bin-cleanser a little more intimately, as I do from having gone out and spoken to one in the street, he is quite a different kind of person. Next month's "Scragford's" will contain another intensely exciting and instructive article descriptive of the multitudinous duties of a London undertaker; the present writer avers that, so far as the number and variety are concerned, Dustmen's duties are hard to beat even by so versatile an individual as the Metropolitan Funeral Purveyor.

Come to think of it, the life of a Dustman is not the bed of roses most people imagine it to he. He most be able to carry the baskets of dust from the domestic dust-bin to his cart, to drive or lead his horse which draws the often heavy vehicle to and from the refuse-heaps. He must master the elaborate mechanism by which his cart is enabled to tip backwards so as to eject its contents upon the shoot. He has to be almost constantly, as to his driving, on the look-out, and woe betide the dustman who lies down in the road and allows his cart to pass over his body.

This is a photo of great interest. The wheel has been greased if it needed it. The reins have been picked up. But who is this other person? He is a passing stranger, unacquainted with the neighbourhood, who wishes to know his way. This the Dustman, who above all things is a handy man, is able to indicate to him by pointing with his finger to the sign-post. Note that Tiger has taken up his first position again, probably previous to starting.

The wheels of his cart, again, require constant and earnest attention, and so handy a man is he that he is able not only to perform his many other duties, but in case of being asked by any passing stranger to show him the way, he is able to indicate it to him if he happens to know it. The dustmen are undoubtedly the first and most highly trained force for the purpose of emptying bins. These bins can only be kept empty by constant and continuous practice. So many a time and oft, Robinson and his mates have to turn in at the bidding of a householder, or some person qualified to give them orders to remote dust. And at unexpected intervals a great D puts in an appearance in the windows of houses and summons them to remove dust. If there be any slackness exhibited in its removal some official is sure to hear of it afterwards, and what he hears may displease him. This dust is composed of all sorts of rubbish, cigar ends, cabbage stalks, pieces of worthless paper, even "Scragford's Farthing" — in short, all the useless trash which collects in a house. Under all these conditions and circumstances it must be admitted that a dustman is a very hardworked man, executing very important and offensive duties for a wage; still, you will always find him a jovial, hearty, fair-spoken fellow, enjoying, no doubt, the knowledge that by good conduct and willing work he is sure to remove a considerable quantity of refuse. Their bonhomie is of a kind which makes you think for many a long day of those lonely men who, restless on their carts, are incessantly vigilant in preserving our homes from the ravages of bacilli, and of the admirable officials who control the Dust Department of our great metropolis.

Readers of " Scragford's Farthing."

Look out eagerly next month for Mr. Tombes's brisk and strenuous article on "Undertakers."

---

"That night in bed I revolved the matter round and round in my brain, but it always came back to the same place. I could find no solution and no rest, and such was my discomfort that I felt almost inclined to discard my wig, but I am glad to say that the love of my profession conquered. I had just fallen into a fitful doze when I was awakened by the opening of my door and the entry of a flashily dressed individual.

"'What do you mean,' he said angrily, 'by taking this ridiculous case?'

"'To which of my cases do you refer?' I queried.

"'You have only one,' he sneered; 'why did you take it?'

"'If you refer to that of the lady who to-day appealed for my protection, know, sir, that I, like every other member of the English bar, am ever ready to defend the cause of distressed and solvent beauty.' I was young and my blood was hot."

As the old judge said this his eye flashed with the fire of youth, and a low murmur of admiration and acquiescence passed round his auditory. He resumed :

"'Pshaw! I will make it worth your while to prosecute,' the intruder went on, fingering a large bundle of bank-notes.

"I subdued my anger and, great as was the sum offered, I refused it, and explained that it was contrary to the etiquette of our profession to relinquish a brief until the conviction or acquittal of the client, and that I could not with my existing pressure of business hold two opposing briefs in the same case. With an expression of disgust he dashed from the room.

"The next day was the day fixed for the trial, and the Lord Chancellor had placed the case upon his list. I was up betimes, and busied myself in drawing my brief. When I entered the Court at Westminster it was filled to overflowing with the number of people, mostly professionals, who had come to assist at my début. My old coach, John Huggins, seated among the common serjeants, shook my hand encouragingly as I followed my client into the dock. Bets were passed freely, and, so far as I could ascertain from the usher of the court, Huggins was the only taker even at four to one against me. My client wore her prison garb with an indescribable coquetry, and she leaned heavily on my arm.

"The charge was read over, and my client shuddered. `It was not a tinderbox!' she cried, `I am innocent.'

"In my opening speech I contented myself with promising the court that my witnesses would show the utter falsity of those who were to be called for the prosecution, and then the long stream of hostile evidence began. The doctor, the banker, the gun-smith, an expert in handwriting, the cabin boy, MacGregor the gillie, and the man from whom the book was bought; each, in turn, contributed his quota of damning evidence, and after the opening speech for the Crown, I saw Huggins frantically trying to hedge — things looked black indeed.

"I rose to my feet and loudly called my own name, then stepped into the box and was sworn. Returning to my place in the dock I asked,`Herbert Pippings, what do you know of this case?' I regained the box, and once more kissing the book I divulged my story. I told of how a man visited a lawyer at midnight, of how he attempted to suborn him, and of how he was foiled. Then descending once more from the box I asked myself `Who was that Iawyer? and who that man?' I stepped once more into the box amid a hush of eager expectation during which I could have heard a horse hair pin fall from the Vice-Chancellor's wig, and, striking my chest, I cried out, 'I am that lawyer, and,' pointing to the foreman of the jury, 'Thou art the man!'

"The Lord Chancellor issued the usual peremptory mandamus, and my client left the box without a stain upon her character."

*   *   *   *

"But, my lud," said a youthful junior, after the frenzied applause had subsided, "what was the charge against the girl?

"Ah! my boy," returned the judge, smiling. kindly, "you have still much to learn from such stories as this of the etiquette of our profession."

Readers of "Scragford's!" Next month OUR LAWYER will tell of "The Witness's Revenge," a story of Damages in Chancery.

YE KNIGHTE OF OLDE. Picture by wwilliam bbrown in the possession of Alderman Suss.

A MEDITATION BY CISSY HASP. See! the silver Clarions bray, Th' Lists are set, the Gages giv'n, Champions join the Tourney's fray (Spirits soon will wend to Heav'n). Mowbray, Marlbro', Launcelote, Roland, Hudibras, Morold, Coeur de Lion, Don Quixote, Raleigh,— and our Knighte of Olde. Mark the Jousting's dinning sound, Clash of steel and clang of Glaive, Maces on the Vizors pound, Truncheons crested helmets save Ne'er "Ye Knighte of Olde" dismay'd, Ever foremost, him we find; Wearied in the tan are laid Friend and Foeman, far behind. High he rears his casque of steel Decorate with fairest jew'lry; Culverins his vict'ries peal, None now heed the jester's fool'ry; Smiling glances sound his praise; Seeks he Dame of high degree? Quiv'ring heartstrings meet that gaze; Heav'ns ! his orb hath fix'd on me! On me!! on me!!! on me!!!! on me!!!!! *   *   *   *   *   *   * Alas, the vision fair is gone for ever after more! Never again shall I behold th' adored Knight of yore, For, lo, that stalwart figure, which then so real did seem, Was but a scrumptious vision, the Phantom of my Dream.

The story of a stirring episode of the Silurian Dukedom, It tells of the daring deeds of aristocrats, of the sudden death of an archbishop, of the dissolution of a cabinet, of the fearful fate of a minister, and of a veteran's valour. A young Ketzerhaupt tells the story.

For The Royal Rusks by QUAX BLUNDERTHUD author of The Doom of Ramsgate; The Celluloid Octopus; The Serene Flunkey; Under the Royal Fist; The Imperial Buttons; The Blue Bulgarian Band; The Plagiarist of Hope; and other short stories.

As the Premier spoke a colossal flash beggared the levin bolt. The Cabinet Council and the refreshment room vanished like a dissolving view, and I found myself plunged in darkness.

A rasping voice close by my ear whispered, "`Tchernivitch. we have been blown into the main drain—are you hurt?" It was old Elecktronóff.

"I clenched my teeth and saluted stiffly. "Excellency, I am not," I answered.

"That is well," he said. " The Steinberg Cabinet is no more." As he said this, for one instant, a mercurial smile played under his silver moustache. Then he continued briskly, "This drain leads to the postern. Follow me."

We tore down the unsavoury alley. In fourteen minutes and four-sixteenths of a second we reached the nineteenth manhole. Elecktronóff raised its lid cautiously and emerged on to the battlements. When we peeped over, the scene which met our eyes was beyond description. We saw the deep chasm which separated the Hof from the hills towards the north. It was six hundred feet in depth, and its abyss, which even the lurid flames of the burning town failed to illumine, was shrouded in darkness. Across it from beneath our feet stretched the mighty Boris Suspension Bridge, built by and named after the late Archduke. Its span was five hundred yards and its breadth sixty feet, and its girders glowed as if in red heat in the flickering glare of the doomed city. Upon it we beheld a great army of rebel soldiers, desperate revolutionaries, sleek burghers and Silurian clergy, beneath whose unaccustomed weight the mighty structure quivered and sagged. On their faces the fire-light displayed rage, hatred, and baffled fury. The palace end of the bridge was clear for the space of twenty yards, and those who stood nearest to us were half turned away, and seemed as if striving to force their way back among those who pressed forward from behind. Why were these men afraid? Why did they hang back? We craned further over the battlements and saw just beneath us, at the top of the fan-shaped staircase which leads down from the narrow postern to the bridge, a gaunt military figure leaning upon his rifle with bayonet fixed. It was old Krakskul. just then, as if on purpose, a flash of livid forked lightning illumined the abysmal chasm beneath, and we saw why it was that that great host had fear amongst them. Strewn on the granite rocks beneath were the battered corpses of an army as great as that which stood before us on the bridge. Each man of that army had tried conclusions with that single hero, each man had met his fate at the point of that bayonet, and each man had crashed down to the rocks below with the same dull thud only to make room for another to follow him!

A slight stir was apparent among the front ranks of the foe, and from amidst the hustling crew emerged the swart stunted figure of Green-toothed George. He foamed at the mouth and bit his teeth till the blood flowed profusely, not blue but only violet, because of the base origin of his morganatic mother. He turned to his followers in fierce fury.

"Curs, cravens, cringing cripples, cursed cowards," he cried, "rapscallions, hounds, and misbegotten swine, poltroons and ruffians, do you fear one man?"

They withered beneath his scorn. Thenhe faced old Krakskul, and drawing his rapier from its scabbard and wrapping his cloak around his other arm, addressed his worthy opponent. "Well have you fought, and have obtained your prize," he shouted; "the slaughter of these weak Silurian slaves, whose very host might well have made a man of baser mettle tremble "—he pointed to the depths beneath the great bridge—" hath been yours. Your prize is yet to learn, and this then know. You have achieved the signal dignity, which on this field of battle from my hand alone you can receive—the noble honour of being dubbed what chivalry acclaims Knight Banneret — and this I dub you—thus!"

Throughout this speech the half royal miscreant had been slowly, almost imperceptibly, edging up the staircase, and at the last word he gave a traitor thrust at the sergeant's exposed side. A muffled groan and cries of shame rose up even from his own followers; however, Sir William Krakskul deftly turned aside the blow, at the same time calling out with military precision, "Parry number thirty-six." Then swiftly lunging forwards with the words "Thrust number three," he plunged his bayonet and rifle through the usurper's breast right up to the trigger. He was unable to withdraw the weapon, and so turning it round in his hand with the hideous corpse writhing in strange contortions upon it he unfixed his sword bayonet and, casting the encumbered weapon from him, faced his foes once more. The crowd uttered a deep roar of satisfaction at the sight of his partial disarmament, and I could see that long pikes were being passed forward to those in the front row. At this moment I saw what was, perhaps, the bravest deed of that day of deeds.

Elecktronóff, who had been leaning far out over the battlement, sprang from my side and leapt upon the parapet. In the glowing light his bronzed face shone out almost like burnished copper, and a tear glistened in his eye like a bead of solder on a biscuit tin. Was he thinking of his child-wife Gretchen far away among the northern mountains? Bending slowly forward he jumped towards the bridge and clutched at one of the great hawsers which bound it to the castle. At first he clung to the iron rope immovable, but gradually I saw him begin to swing first to the right then to the left. Had that radium brain given way ? The crowd beyond gazed up at him in stupefaction. My eyes followed the swinging cable back to the stones of the castle, and at last I saw what the keen eye of the great man had noticed. The hawser was frayed down to one single strand.

Still the metallic minister swung, backwards and forwards, and still the crowd gazed up at him in amazement, for he had been recognised. Finally a shrill piping voice from the crowd shrieked out in terror-stricken accents : "The bridge is falling! The bridge is falling!" This frenzied cry was instantly taken up by hundreds of trembling throats. Krakskul and the usurper, loyalty and rebellion were forgotten — skins, sound skins, alone were at a premium. But it was too late. Before the awful news had communicated itself to one third of the doomed host the cable parted with a report like a pistol. I saw a last vision of the iron man immeshed in the coils of the released hawser, whirled high in the air as if by an enraged python, and then hurled lifeless to his hero's grave. With a rapid fusillade the remaining cables snapped like cobweb strands, and the huge structure trembled for an instant and then thundered down into the darkness, bearing its shrieking burden to their doom.

I slid down one of the broken ends of the bridge supports on to the narrow platform before the postern, and gripped the newly created Sir William Krakskul by the hand. He was ghastly pale, but curled his moustache and saluted stiffly.

"Noble man," I said, and again clutched his reeking hand. "You have fought," I pursued, "as no man ever fought before or since!"

"Ketzerhaupt," quoth the veteran, "I have tried to obey my orders. Have I your permission to go off duty?" Needless to say this was immediately granted.

Old Krakskul slowly raised his twisted bayonet to the salute, then, in a voice which rings in my ears to-day, "Hoch! Hoch! Hoch!!!" he shouted, "it was a good fight. Long live Archduke Francis of Siluri—ah!'

The last syllable sank into a deep sigh, his knees gave a little, his head fell forward on to his neck, his whole frame shuddered, and, before I could stretch out my hand to save him, he pitched forwards and disappeared into the chasm. As he fell I saw a deep black wound between his shoulders, from which the last drops of his life blood slowly oozed.

Even I, rough soldier, inured to war in all its phases, could not restrain the lump which rose to my throat. I entered the postern and hastened through the echoing corridors of the deserted palace to the archducal night nursery, and turned reverently to the cot which held him for and against whom so many had fought and died.

Between the damask sheets, his face turned towards the half-curtained window, and his fair golden curls clustering like an aureole around it, lay the sweet child. His tiny hands, the dimpled thumb of the one gently Iocked in the little finger of the other, lay beside him on the soft pillow. The right hand showed its rosy palm, and its thumb nestled just above his pouting Iips. The little fingers were stretched out towards the window as if welcoming the first rays of dawn. As I gazed in silent wonder the sun's rays filtered through the overhanging pall of smoke which covered the ashes of Blagdensburg and rested on my sovereign's face, which became transfigured by their kindly effulgence. It might have been a portent.

The beautiful child started from slumber with a rippling laugh, and smiling again to see me with him. "Dukie 'ants his beckie, 00 nice soldier-man."

I dropped on one knee, clanked my sabre, saluted stiffly, and then backed out of the apartment to fetch the royal rusks and milk.

	BUNNIE A Powerful Short Story.
Being a stirring adventure which happened to a young Englishman. In which are graphically described the methods of one of Italy's many secret societies, and how it was foiled. The story contains a strong love interest. BY Britton Maphie CHAPTER I

"Sono soffiato!" he hissed with a fearful Italian oath, "how handsome these English are! Were even la bella Rosina to see him I fear my suit might be imperilled. But 'By night all knives are razors,' as we Italians say."

But of this Prosper knew nothing, and still less did he know that the haunting air which his receptive ear was whistling was the secret signal of the Fratelli dei Spaghetti.

At the Consul's Prosper found all merriment and gaiety. The elite of the English families were present, most of whom he had already met at the table d'hôte, but, besides these, several of the better-to-do natives had been invited by our broad-minded representative, and had gladly availed themselves of the opportunity of cultivating the acquaintance of the beautiful Northern race.

The Consul received Prosper with real heartiness.

"Welcome, Mr. Brumyard," he said. "You will know most of us. Let me present you to a new arrival, Miss Cogginshawle, and," he added in a lower voice, "very rich."

A pair of pink eyes floated before him, and Prosper realised that he had met his fate.

Three hours later he emerged from an arbour an engaged man.

"We'll meet again to-morrow, Bunnie, my dear girl, and I'll interview your guv'nor to settle up accounts."

The beautiful albino flushed to the roots of her snowy hair, and a warm, gentle pressure of the hand was her only response.

It was with a light heart that our young hero sauntered over to the refreshment table and broke the glad news to his host.

"My dear fellow, I congratulate you," said the latter, "but I advise you to get her out of this country as soon as possible; I don't like the look of things at all."

"Why? " said Prosper, half surprised; "what's up?"

The Consul bit his cigar grimly. "There is a nasty anti-foreign spirit about," he said, "and I think matters look rather ugly. Pshaw, these Southern devils are a treacherous lot."

"Surely we have nothing to fear from fellows like that; after all, they are only niggers," said Prosper, pointing with his finger to a dark-skinned man in gorgeous uniform who stood close by.

"For Heaven's sake be careful," whispered his host. "You must remember you are not in London now."

At that moment a messenger handed the Consul a telegram, and as he scanned its contents a muttered imprecation escaped him: "By Gad, this is too much."

"What's the game?" interrupted Prosper.

"A dark one," returned the other. " This is the sixth English girl murdered by that infernal secret society in a week. I shall wire the F. O. to-night. Perhaps you have not heard of the Fratelli dei Spaghetti— the Paste-string Brotherhood. They are a desperate body, banded together to avenge supposed insults offered to Italian works of art by English tourists. Originally a small antiquarian society formed to preserve ancient monuments, they have developed into a formidable organisation with ramifications in every town and village in the country. It was only when the wife of an Englishman was stabbed to death in the foyer of the grand opera at Leghorn, and the local authorities refused to take any steps, that we realised how far it had gone, for it seemed that only the day before her husband had unwittingly carved his name upon the nose of the Farnese Hercules."

"But why did they go for the missis?" cried the young man, half in horror, half in indignation.

"Ahah !" replied the official, "there you lay your finger on the spot. These foreigners are a queer set of people, and they argue on the principle of a tooth for a tooth. The Brotherhood say that the so-called art treasure monuments are their dearest possessions, and that whoever destroys them must lose his own ; therefore they invariably kill the wife, daughter, or sweetheart of the victim who has transgressed their crazy laws. In short, they act on the motto, 'Cherchez la femme.' Another point about the Brotherhood is its secret whistle known only to the members, and by which they recognise each other in the dark."

Prosper threaded his way past the tennis lawn and through the crowd of swarthy faces which gazed half contemptuously, half angrily, and half in envy of the skill and suppleness of the bull-dog breed. As he passed he overheard a young marchese say to his neighbour: " Their strength and their beauty are even as their madness — immense, prodigious."

Once in the Corso of Casabianca he instinctively drew from his pocket his red-bound guide-book and the list of sights which he had made that morning. He at once perceived that he had not yet visited the picture gallery for which the old town was famous, and decided upon doing it before the gathering darkness made it impossible. He learned from the "Baedeker" that the Daphne by Bacco, which was trebly starred, was the principal object of interest, and he soon found himself before it. In the half light he could scarcely distinguish the portrait, and felt in his pocket for a match with which to illumine the darkness. As he was wearing indiarubber tennis shoes and flannels, he drew the lucifer rapidly across the ancient canvas. This operation he had to repeat several times before the damp vesta spluttered into a flame, when he was able to examine his guide-book. He read :

Daphne by Bacco (1610-1676) or one of the Bacchi (most probably by Corpi di-- Aq) employing the Bacchic motives of the Revell du Soulard (Drinkwater Gallery). Bongs says of this picture that it "seems painted rather by the hand than by the foot." 4 ft. by 5 hands.

He half glanced at the picture and broke into a cheery laugh, "Blest if my light hasn't given her a pair of whiskers!"

At that moment a snarling curse grated upon his ears— he turned and confronted the peasant of the morning. The man's polished courtesy had vanished, and the dilated eyes and livid face betrayed the savage, murderous nature which lies beneath every Southern breast.

"Swine of an Englishman," he raved, "you have destroyed the masterpiece! Mother of a Stiletto, but you shall pay for this. I am Giuseppe, chief of the Paste-strings—your sweetheart dies before dawn."

Prosper, with a furious lunge, endeavoured to clinch matters by a sharp counter, but the slippery Italian eluded his grasp and vanished as the match expired with a mocking laugh.

The outside broker was at first dazed by what had passed, but quickly gathering his scattered wits he hurried swiftly from the building. When he reached the ill-lit street he flew with lightning speed, a thousand monstrous imaginings crashing through his brain. One thought stood out above the rest—Bunnie was in danger! Bunnie must be saved!!

CHAPTER II

THAT night at table d'hôte, when the talk waxed gayest, and the resident Archdeacon was telling a mirth-provoking story about an interment, Prosper Brumyard was strangely silent. He seemed unable to adapt his train of thought to the conversation, and even Bunnie's quips (for she was light-hearted that day) could not provoke his usual breezy laughter. The handsome Rosina pressed him with the salade de saison for the national Italian dish of naso del Papa, but he refused it, and asked only for another Scotch and water. Her liquid eyes broke into a smile which displayed her beautiful Southern teeth, and whispering "Whatever the Signore desires of me," she swiftly departed from the room. It was clear that the girl took pleasure in serving the English stranger. Prosper started, and then, as the waitress returned with the beverage, relapsed once more into thought, in which he remained plunged. He mechanically refused the Neapolitan ice and the cavalleria angelica which followed it; nor sweet nor savoury had any attraction for him that night—all his thoughts were of Bonnie and her impending danger, of which he had been the unwitting cause.

"And the funny part of it was," concluded the Archdeacon, "that the coffin had brass handles."

A general move was made to the verandah, but Prosper did not join his fellow guests.

"Are you not coming, dear?" said Bunnie supplicatingly.

"Not just yet," he answered, half brusquely; " wait for me in the reading-room, and don't go on to the verandah."

The ultra-blonde passed from the room, but too glad to display her new-found obedience, and Prosper remained alone. He was not long so, for the beautiful Rosina soon returned, and advancing to the side of his chair with all the warm undulating grace of her Southern blood showing in her every movement :

"To-night the Signor's plates have returned to my hands all untouched. Is there nothing the poor maid can do to please the bel Inglese, as we girls of Casabianca call him? " You're an honest girl, Rosina, and I'll tell you what—

Ten minutes later Prosper beheld a vision which long remained seared upon his brain. Standing upon the threshold of the French window, which opened into the street, was the form of the peasant beauty, Rosina. She faced him with half parted lips, clasping the casement. Her heaving bosom, which seemed as if it must burst the rude corsets that encircled it, rose and fell beneath the long fur cloak which she wore. The cloak was hooded and concealed her raven locks.

"I would do more than this for the Signore—I go." And clutching the cloak more closely round her lithe figure she stepped into the night. The cloak was Bunnie's.

Prosper reeled back, then ran to the window and peered out, but the night was black and moonless and the girl was lost to sight in the narrow streets of the little town. He thought he saw a dark creeping figure gliding on hands and knees through the beam of light which stretched out from the window, and he seemed to discern a narrow glint of light from something in the figure's mouth. Once more he heard the notes of the haunting whistle of the morning and then all was silence.

He rushed upstairs to the reading-room six steps at a time, and clutching his sweet-heart to his breast ran down wildly to the hall with the girl in his arms. Hurriedly commanding her silence, he snatched up the Archdeacon's hat, muffler, and greatcoat, and thrust them upon the trembling Bunnie.

"Don't say a word, but follow me at once," he whispered. " Our lives are in danger—quick." And wrapping himself in his ulster he led her hurriedly from the building. They sped along the narrow streets, hardly pausing to consult the guide-book, and reached the market-place. There a dreadful sight assailed their eyes. A cloaked figure was walking at the opposite side of the Piazza when suddenly a band of men stealthily surrounded it. A shrill shriek of terror rang out into the night and fifteen stilettos glanced in the dim lamp-light and rang out sharply as they clashed together in the body of their victim.

The English couple fled down a side street, and as they ran a deep wail of anguish followed them. It was the voice of Giuseppe, the leader of the Spaghetti, and it cried "Rosina, Rosina, I have slain my Rosina, whom I adored!"

Within a quarter of an hour the British Consul was reading the solemn and beautiful words of the civil marriage service.

"How can we ever be sufficiently mindful of her love and self-devotion, Prossy?" queried the fair beauty.

"H'em, certainly, old girl," said her husband, half musingly; "of course, yes. But I don't think I ever told you exactly how it happened. I wanted to save that poor girl a lot of pain, so, knowing she must give up her life for a hopeless love of me, I sent her out to buy some cigars, and made her put on your cloak because I said it was cold. I lay low about the picture and those Spaghetti coves."

"Oh, Prossy, how thoughtful and clever of you!"

Stormcloud and rain On shore and plain Fill ditch and drain— So, when the sheet Lies blank and neat A poet's lines are cheap and sweet.

CHAFF!    MR. PHUNNIMAN: "Howdee, old chappie, what's the softest thing you know of—eh?    MR. STEWPIDMAN: "Your head."    MR. PHUNNIMAN: "No, yours! Ta, ta, Baffy!" (Collapse of Stewpidman.) OFFAL (AWFUL !)    Young Mr. Soninglor received a letter from his wife's ma saying she was passing through town, and would stop with them for a week.    "Here, Maria," he groaned, "I am going to Ecuador for twelve years; perhaps I shall see your ma when I come back." Was he right? PEELINGS!    THE COPPER: "'Ere, guv'nor, your goin' more than twenty miles an hour."    MOWTERIST (with his horn): " Pip—Pip ! (Then he left.)	LEAVINGS!    Mr. B-- called upon his intended, Miss Honeysuckle. Old Mr. Honeysuckle kicked him downstairs. He left! GARBAGE!    Mrs. Matrimony says she has nothing to wear for Mrs. Smartset's evening party. Mr. Matrimony says she would soon waste all his Patrimony (money). Funny, isn't it—eh? WASH!    SCENE: Seaside, Bather and his dog. Bather takes his dip, leaving dog to guard clothes. Enter tramp. Tramp throws dog a bone. Dog runs after bone. Tramp bone's bather's bags and leaves his own. Dog returns and guards tramp's. Exit tramp. Re-enter bather. Tableau ! (On the strict Q. T.)
DREGS!    MR. DRINKALOT (returning at 3 A.M. to the wife of his bosom): "I'sh (hic) beensh (hic) t'mysh (hic) clubsh (hic)."    THE MISSUS (from upstairs