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Scientific American, Volume XXIV., No. 12, March 18, 1871 by Various, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . DISCLAIMER. here DISCLAIMER. Solar Camera.—David A. Woodward, Baltimore, Md. Letters Patent No. 16,700, dated February 24, 1857; reissue No. 2,311, dated July 10, 1866. Filed February 23, 1871. .—The Scientific American will be delivered in every part of the city at $3.50 a year. Single copies for sale at the News-stands in this city, Brooklyn, Jersey City, and Williamsburgh, and by most of the News Dealers in the United States. City Subscribers —When money is paid at the office for subscriptions, a receipt for it will be given; but when subscribers remit their money by mail, they may consider the arrival of the first paper a bona-fide acknowledgment of their funds. Receipts About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Various (2006). Scientific American, Volume XXIV., No. 12, March 18, 1871. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/19180/pg19180-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

David A. Woodward, Baltimore, Md. Letters Patent No. 16,700, dated February 24, 1857

Scientific American, Volume XXIV., No. 12, March 18, 1871 by Various, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . EXTENSIONS. here EXTENSIONS. Wagons.—Edgar Huson, Ithaca, N. Y. Letters Patent No. 16,648, dated February 17, 1857; reissue No. 2,500, dated March 5, 1867. Operating Valve of Steam Engine.—Samuel R. Wilmot, Bridgeport, Conn. Letters Patent No. 16,668, dated February 17, 1857. Hinges.—John David Browne, Cincinnati, Ohio. Letters Patent No. 16,678, dated February 24, 1857. Keeper for Right and Left Hand Door Locks.—Calvin Adams, Pittsburgh, Pa. Letters Patent No. 16,676, dated February 24, 1857. Solar Camera.—David A. Woodward, Baltimore, Md. Letters Patent No. 16,700, dated February 24, 1857; reissue No. 2,311, dated July 10, 1866. Cast Seamless Thimble Skeins for Wagons.—John Benedict, Kenosha, Wis., administrator of Andrew Leonard, deceased. Letters Patent No. 16,688, dated February 24, 1857; reissue No. 575, dated July 27, 1858; reissue No. 1,229, dated October 8, 1861. Mode of Casting Seamless Skeins for Wagons.—John Benedict, Kenosha, Wis., administrator of Andrew Leonard, deceased. Letters Patent No. 16,688, dated February 24, 1857; reissue No. 575, dated July 27, 1858; reissue No. 1,228, dated October 8, 1861. Breech-loading Firearms.—William Cleveland Hicks, Summit, N. J. Letters Patent No. 16,797, dated March 10, 1857; reissue No. 1,952, dated May 9, 1865; reissue No. 3,798, dated January 18, 1870; reissue No. 3,860, dated March 1, 1870. Seeding Machine.—Lewis B. Myers and Henry A. Myers, Elmore, Ohio. Letters Patent No. 16,772, dated March 3, 1857. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Various (2006). Scientific American, Volume XXIV., No. 12, March 18, 1871. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/19180/pg19180-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

Edgar Huson, Ithaca, N. Y. Letters Patent No. 16,648, dated February 17, 1857; reissue No. 2,500

Scientific American, Volume XXXVI., No. 8, February 24, 1877 by Various is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. Read this book online for free on HackerNoon! : Scientific American, Volume XXXVI., No. 8, February 24, 1877 Title : Various Author : September 29, 2006 [eBook #19406] Release date : English Language TABLE OF LINKS DATES AND THE DATE PALM. Panthers as Seed Distributors. FOR POSTERITY—A SUGGESTION. THE LOST ARTS IN NEW YORK. THE BLUE GLASS DECEPTION. THE WETLI MOUNTAIN RAILROAD AND ITS DISASTROUS TRIAL TRIP. Leghorn Hens. Sawdust in Rough Casting. Absence of White Color in Animals. IMPROVED TROLLING HOOK. Purification of Wool and Woolen Stuff. Caffeone. THE HEMI-PLUNGER. Supreme Court Patent Decision. Planing Mill Machinery. Suicide Statistics. COMMUNICATIONS The Frost Plant of Russia. Patent Matters in Washington, D.C. NEW YORK ACADEMY OF SCIENCES. ANNUAL REPORT OF THE PATENT OFFICE. The Iron Trade In England. IMPROVED LATHE CHUCK. SCREW-CUTTING LATHES. Natural Ornaments in Winter. IMPROVED HARNESS COCKEYE. PROPOSED CREMATION TEMPLE. How to Rejuvenate an Old Rose Bush. A Clock Collector. Fertilizing Influence of Snow. Action of Sea Water on Lead. PAPIN'S STEAM ENGINE. The Speaking Telegraph. Crossing a River on a Wire. Blue Glass Science. Infectious Disease Propagation. Toughened Glass Making in Brooklyn. Alexander Bain, Electrician. Self-Reliance Necessary to Success. Something to Do. Moneyed Men. NEW BOOKS AND PUBLICATIONS. RECENT AMERICAN FOREIGN PATENTS New Agricultural Invention New Miscellaneous Inventions. New Mechanical and Engineering Inventions Business and Personal Notes & Queries COMMUNICATIONS RECEIVED. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Various (2006). Scientific American, Volume XXXVI., No. 8, February 24, 1877. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/19406/pg19406-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

Scientific American, Volume XXXVI., No. 8, February 24, 1877 by Various - Table of Links

The Mysterious Island by Jules Verne, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . Chapter XII here Chapter XII The next day, the 18th of February, was devoted to the exploration of all that wooded region forming the shore from Reptile End to Falls River. The colonists were able to search this forest thoroughly, for, as it was comprised between the two shores of the Serpentine Peninsula, it was only from three to four miles in breadth. The trees, both by their height and their thick foliage, bore witness to the vegetative power of the soil, more astonishing here than in any other part of the island. One might have said that a corner from the virgin forests of America or Africa had been transported into this temperate zone. This led them to conclude that the superb vegetation found a heat in this soil, damp in its upper layer, but warmed in the interior by volcanic fires, which could not belong to a temperate climate. The most frequently occurring trees were knaries and eucalypti of gigantic dimensions. But the colonists’ object was not simply to admire the magnificent vegetation. They knew already that in this respect Lincoln Island would have been worthy to take the first rank in the Canary group, to which the first name given was that of the Happy Isles. Now, alas! their island no longer belonged to them entirely; others had taken possession of it, miscreants polluted its shores, and they must be destroyed to the last man. No traces were found on the western coast, although they were carefully sought for. No more footprints, no more broken branches, no more deserted camps. “This does not surprise me,” said Cyrus Harding to his companions. “The convicts first landed on the island in the neighborhood of Flotsam Point, and they immediately plunged into the Far West forests, after crossing Tadorn Marsh. They then followed almost the same route that we took on leaving Granite House. This explains the traces we found in the wood. But, arriving on the shore, the convicts saw at once that they would discover no suitable retreat there, and it was then that, going northwards again, they came upon the corral.” “Where they have perhaps returned,” said Pencroft. “I do not think so,” answered the engineer, “for they would naturally suppose that our researches would be in that direction. The corral is only a storehouse to them, and not a definitive encampment.” “I am of Cyrus’ opinion,” said the reporter, “and I think that it is among the spurs of Mount Franklin that the convicts will have made their lair.” “Then, captain, straight to the corral!” cried Pencroft. “We must finish them off, and till now we have only lost time!” “No, my friend,” replied the engineer; “you forget that we have a reason for wishing to know if the forests of the Far West do not contain some habitation. Our exploration has a double object, Pencroft. If, on the one hand, we have to chastise crime, we have, on the other, an act of gratitude to perform.” “That was well said, captain,” replied the sailor, “but, all the same, it is my opinion that we shall not find the gentleman until he pleases.” And truly Pencroft only expressed the opinion of all. It was probable that the stranger’s retreat was not less mysterious than was he himself. That evening the cart halted at the mouth of Falls River. The camp was organized as usual, and the customary precautions were taken for the night. Herbert, become again the healthy and vigorous lad he was before his illness, derived great benefit from this life in the open air, between the sea breezes and the vivifying air from the forests. His place was no longer in the cart, but at the head of the troop. The next day, the 19th of February, the colonists, leaving the shore, where, beyond the mouth, basalts of every shape were so picturesquely piled up, ascended the river by its left bank. The road had been already partly cleared in their former excursions made from the corral to the west coast. The settlers were now about six miles from Mount Franklin. The engineer’s plan was this:—To minutely survey the valley forming the bed of the river, and to cautiously approach the neighborhood of the corral; if the corral was occupied, to seize it by force; if it was not, to entrench themselves there and make it the center of the operations which had for their object the exploration of Mount Franklin. This plan was unanimously approved by the colonists, for they were impatient to regain entire possession of their island. They made their way then along the narrow valley separating two of the largest spurs of Mount Franklin. The trees, crowded on the river’s bank, became rare on the upper slopes of the mountain. The ground was hilly and rough, very suitable for ambushes, and over which they did not venture without extreme precaution. Top and Jup skirmished on the flanks, springing right and left through the thick brushwood, and emulating each other in intelligence and activity. But nothing showed that the banks of the stream had been recently frequented—nothing announced either the presence or the proximity of the convicts. Towards five in the evening the cart stopped nearly 600 feet from the palisade. A semicircular screen of trees still hid it. It was necessary to reconnoiter the corral, in order to ascertain if it was occupied. To go there openly, in broad daylight, when the convicts were probably in ambush, would be to expose themselves, as poor Herbert had done, to the firearms of the ruffians. It was better, then, to wait until night came on. However, Gideon Spilett wished without further delay to reconnoiter the approaches to the corral, and Pencroft, who was quite out of patience, volunteered to accompany him. “No, my friends,” said the engineer, “wait till night. I will not allow one of you to expose himself in open day.” “But, captain—” answered the sailor, little disposed to obey. “I beg of you, Pencroft,” said the engineer. “Very well!” replied the sailor, who vented his anger in another way, by bestowing on the convicts the worst names in his maritime vocabulary. The colonists remained, therefore, near the cart, and carefully watched the neighboring parts of the forest. Three hours passed thus. The wind had fallen, and absolute silence reigned under the great trees. The snapping of the smallest twig, a footstep on the dry leaves, the gliding of a body among the grass, would have been heard without difficulty. All was quiet. Besides, Top, lying on the grass, his head stretched out on his paws, gave no sign of uneasiness. At eight o’clock the day appeared far enough advanced for the reconnaissance to be made under favorable conditions. Gideon Spilett declared himself ready to set out accompanied by Pencroft. Cyrus Harding consented. Top and Jup were to remain with the engineer, Herbert, and Neb, for a bark or a cry at a wrong moment would give the alarm. “Do not be imprudent,” said Harding to the reporter and Pencroft, “you have not to gain possession of the corral, but only to find out whether it is occupied or not.” “All right,” answered Pencroft. And the two departed. Under the trees, thanks to the thickness of their foliage, the obscurity rendered any object invisible beyond a radius of from thirty to forty feet. The reporter and Pencroft, halting at any suspicious sound, advanced with great caution. They walked a little distance apart from each other so as to offer a less mark for a shot. And, to tell the truth, they expected every moment to hear a report. Five minutes after leaving the cart, Gideon Spilett and Pencroft arrived at the edge of the wood before the clearing beyond which rose the palisade. They stopped. A few straggling beams still fell on the field clear of trees. Thirty feet distant was the gate of the corral, which appeared to be closed. This thirty feet, which it was necessary to cross from the wood to the palisade, constituted the dangerous zone, to borrow a ballistic term: in fact, one or more bullets fired from behind the palisade might knock over any one who ventured on to this zone. Gideon Spilett and the sailor were not men to draw back, but they knew that any imprudence on their part, of which they would be the first victims, would fall afterwards on their companions. If they themselves were killed, what would become of Harding, Neb, and Herbert? But Pencroft, excited at feeling himself so near the corral where he supposed the convicts had taken refuge, was about to press forward, when the reporter held him back with a grasp of iron. “In a few minutes it will be quite dark,” whispered Spilett in the sailor’s ear, “then will be the time to act.” Pencroft, convulsively clasping the butt-end of his gun, restrained his energies, and waited, swearing to himself. Soon the last of the twilight faded away. Darkness, which seemed as if it issued from the dense forest, covered the clearing. Mount Franklin rose like an enormous screen before the western horizon, and night spread rapidly over all, as it does in regions of low latitudes. Now was the time. The reporter and Pencroft, since posting themselves on the edge of the wood, had not once lost sight of the palisade. The corral appeared to be absolutely deserted. The top of the palisade formed a line, a little darker than the surrounding shadow, and nothing disturbed its distinctness. Nevertheless, if the convicts were there, they must have posted one of their number to guard against any surprise. Spilett grasped his companion’s hand, and both crept towards the corral, their guns ready to fire. They reached the gate without the darkness being illuminated by a single ray of light. Pencroft tried to push open the gate, which, as the reporter and he had supposed, was closed. However, the sailor was able to ascertain that the outer bars had not been put up. It might, then, be concluded that the convicts were there in the corral, and that very probably they had fastened the gate in such a way that it could not be forced open. Gideon Spilett and Pencroft listened. Not a sound could be heard inside the palisade. The musmons and the goats, sleeping no doubt in their huts, in no way disturbed the calm of night. The reporter and the sailor hearing nothing, asked themselves whether they had not better scale the palisades and penetrate into the corral. This would have been contrary to Cyrus Harding’s instructions. It is true that the enterprise might succeed, but it might also fail. Now, if the convicts were suspecting nothing, if they knew nothing of the expedition against them, if, lastly, there now existed a chance of surprising them, ought this chance to be lost by inconsiderately attempting to cross the palisades? This was not the reporter’s opinion. He thought it better to wait until all the settlers were collected together before attempting to penetrate into the corral. One thing was certain, that it was possible to reach the palisade without being seen, and also that it did not appear to be guarded. This point settled, there was nothing to be done but to return to the cart, where they would consult. Pencroft probably agreed with this decision, for he followed the reporter without making any objection when the latter turned back to the wood. In a few minutes the engineer was made acquainted with the state of affairs. “Well,” said he, after a little thought, “I now have reason to believe that the convicts are not in the corral.” “We shall soon know,” said Pencroft, “when we have scaled the palisade.” “To the corral, my friends!” said Cyrus Harding. “Shall we leave the cart in the wood?” asked Neb. “No,” replied the engineer, “it is our wagon of ammunition and provisions, and, if necessary, it would serve as an entrenchment.” “Forward, then!” said Gideon Spilett. The cart emerged from the wood and began to roll noiselessly towards the palisade. The darkness was now profound, the silence as complete as when Pencroft and the reporter crept over the ground. The thick grass completely muffled their footsteps. The colonists held themselves ready to fire. Jup, at Pencroft’s orders, kept behind. Neb led Top in a leash, to prevent him from bounding forward. The clearing soon came in sight. It was deserted. Without hesitating, the little band moved towards the palisade. In a short space of time the dangerous zone was passed. Neb remained at the onagers’ heads to hold them. The engineer, the reporter, Herbert, and Pencroft, proceeded to the door, in order to ascertain if it was barricaded inside. It was open! “What do you say now?” asked the engineer, turning to the sailor and Spilett. Both were stupefied. “I can swear,” said Pencroft, “that this gate was shut just now!” The colonists now hesitated. Were the convicts in the corral when Pencroft and the reporter made their reconnaissance? It could not be doubted, as the gate then closed could only have been opened by them. Were they still there, or had one of their number just gone out? All these questions presented themselves simultaneously to the minds of the colonists, but how could they be answered? At that moment, Herbert, who had advanced a few steps into the enclosure, drew back hurriedly, and seized Harding’s hand. “What’s the matter?” asked the engineer. “A light!” “In the house?” “Yes!” All five advanced and indeed, through the window fronting them, they saw glimmering a feeble light. Cyrus Harding made up his mind rapidly. “It is our only chance,” said he to his companions, “of finding the convicts collected in this house, suspecting nothing! They are in our power! Forward!” The colonists crossed through the enclosure, holding their guns ready in their hands. The cart had been left outside under the charge of Jup and Top, who had been prudently tied to it. Cyrus Harding, Pencroft, and Gideon Spilett on one side, Herbert and Neb on the other, going along by the palisade, surveyed the absolutely dark and deserted corral. In a few moments they were near the closed door of the house. Harding signed to his companions not to stir, and approached the window, then feebly lighted by the inner light. He gazed into the apartment. On the table burned a lantern. Near the table was the bed formerly used by Ayrton. On the bed lay the body of a man. Suddenly Cyrus Harding drew back, and in a hoarse voice,—“Ayrton!” he exclaimed. Immediately the door was forced rather than opened, and the colonists rushed into the room. Ayrton appeared to be asleep. His countenance showed that he had long and cruelly suffered. On his wrists and ankles could be seen great bruises. Harding bent over him. “Ayrton!” cried the engineer, seizing the arm of the man whom he had just found again under such unexpected circumstances. At this exclamation Ayrton opened his eyes, and, gazing at Harding, then at the others,— “You!” he cried, “you?” “Ayrton! Ayrton!” repeated Harding. “Where am I?” “In the house in the corral!” “Alone?” “Yes!” “But they will come back!” cried Ayrton. “Defend yourselves! defend yourselves!” And he fell back exhausted. “Spilett,” exclaimed the engineer, “we may be attacked at any moment. Bring the cart into the corral. Then, barricade the door, and all come back here.” Pencroft, Neb, and the reporter hastened to execute the engineer’s orders. There was not a moment to be lost. Perhaps even now the cart was in the hands of the convicts! In a moment the reporter and his two companions had crossed the corral and reached the gate of the palisade behind which Top was heard growling sullenly. The engineer, leaving Ayrton for an instant, came out ready to fire. Herbert was at his side. Both surveyed the crest of the spur overlooking the corral. If the convicts were lying in ambush there, they might knock the settlers over one after the other. At that moment the moon appeared in the east, above the black curtain of the forest, and a white sheet of light spread over the interior of the enclosure. The corral, with its clumps of trees, the little stream which watered it, its wide carpet of grass, was suddenly illuminated. From the side of the mountain, the house and a part of the palisade stood out white in the moonlight. On the opposite side towards the door, the enclosure remained dark. A black mass soon appeared. This was the cart entering the circle of light, and Cyrus Harding could hear the noise made by the door, as his companions shut it and fastened the interior bars. But, at that moment, Top, breaking loose, began to bark furiously and rush to the back of the corral, to the right of the house. “Be ready to fire, my friends!” cried Harding. The colonists raised their pieces and waited the moment to fire. Top still barked, and Jup, running towards the dog, uttered shrill cries. The colonists followed him, and reached the borders of the little stream, shaded by large trees. And there, in the bright moonlight, what did they see? Five corpses, stretched on the bank! They were those of the convicts who, four months previously, had landed on Lincoln Island! About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Jules Verne (1998). The Mysterious Island. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/files/1268/1268-h/1268-h.htm This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

The next day, the 18th of February, was devoted to the exploration

Ali Pacha by Alexandre Dumas, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . Chapter XI CHAPTER XI For a whole week all seemed going well, when, on the morning of February 5th, Kursheed sent Hassan Pacha to convey his compliments to Ali, and announce that the sultan’s firman, so long desired, had at length arrived. Their mutual wishes had been heard, but it was desirable, for the dignity of their sovereign, that Ali, in order to show his gratitude and submission, should order Selim to extinguish the fatal match and to leave the cave, and that the rest of the garrison should first display the Imperial standard and then evacuate the enclosure. Only on this condition could Kursheed deliver into Ali’s hands the sultan’s decree of clemency. Ali was alarmed, and his eyes were at length opened. He replied hesitatingly, that on leaving the citadel he had charged Selim to obey only his own verbal order, that no written command, even though signed and sealed by himself, would produce any effect, and therefore he desired to repair himself to the castle, in order to fulfil what was required. Thereupon a long argument ensued, in which Ali’s sagacity, skill, and artifice struggled vainly against a decided line of action. New protestations were made to deceive him, oaths were even taken on the Koran that no evil designs, no mental reservations, were entertained. At length, yielding to the prayers of those who surrounded him, perhaps concluding that all his skill could no longer fight against Destiny, he finally gave way. Drawing a secret token from his bosom, he handed it to Kursheed’s envoy, saying, “Go, show this to Selim, and you will convert a dragon into a lamb.” And in fact, at sight of the talisman, Selim prostrated himself, extinguished the match, and fell, stabbed to the heart. At the same time the garrison withdrew, the Imperial standard displayed its blazonry, and the lake castle was occupied by the troops of the Seraskier, who rent the air with their acclamations. It was then noon. Ali, in the island, had lost all illusions. His pulse beat violently, but his countenance did not betray his mental trouble. It was noticed that he appeared at intervals to be lost in profound thought, that he yawned frequently, and continually drew his fingers through his beard. He drank coffee and iced water several times, incessantly looked at his watch, and taking his field-glass, surveyed by turns the camp, the castles of Janina, the Pindus range, and the peaceful waters of the lake. Occasionally he glanced at his weapons, and then his eyes sparkled with the fire of youth and of courage. Stationed beside him, his guards prepared their cartridges, their eyes fixed on the landing-place. The kiosk which he occupied was connected with a wooden structure raised upon pillars, like the open-air theatres constructed for a public festival, and the women occupied the most remote apartments. Everything seemed sad and silent. The vizier, according to custom, sat facing the doorway, so as to be the first to perceive any who might wish to enter. At five o’clock boats were seen approaching the island, and soon Hassan Pacha, Omar Brionis, Kursheed’s sword-bearer, Mehemet, the keeper of the wardrobe, and several officers of the army, attended by a numerous suite, drew near with gloomy countenances. Seeing them approach, Ali sprang up impetuously, his hand upon the pistols in his belt. “Stand! . . . what is it you bring me?” he cried to Hassan in a voice of thunder. “I bring the commands of His Highness the Sultan,—knowest thou not these august characters?” And Hassan exhibited the brilliantly gilded frontispiece which decorated the firman. “I know them and revere them.” “Then bow before thy destiny; make thy ablutions; address thy prayer to Allah and to His Prophet; for thy, head is demanded. . . .” Ali did not allow him to finish. “My head,” he cried with fury, “will not be surrendered like the head of a slave.” These rapidly pronounced words were instantly followed by a pistol-shot which wounded Hassan in the thigh. Swift as lightning, a second killed the keeper of the wardrobe, and the guards, firing at the same time, brought down several officers. Terrified, the Osmanlis forsook the pavilion. Ali, perceiving blood flowing from a wound in his chest, roared like a bull with rage. No one dared to face his wrath, but shots were fired at the kiosk from all sides, and four of his guards fell dead beside him. He no longer knew which way to turn, hearing the noise made by the assailants under the platform, who were firing through the boards on which he stood. A ball wounded him in the side, another from below lodged in his spine; he staggered, clung to a window, then fell on the sofa. “Hasten,” he cried to one of his officers, “run, my friend, and strangle my poor Basilissa; let her not fall a prey to these infamous wretches.” The door opened, all resistance ceased, the guards hastened to escape by the windows. Kursheed’s sword-bearer entered, followed by the executioners. “Let the justice of Allah be accomplished!” said a cadi. At these words the executioners seized Ali, who was still alive, by the beard, and dragged him out into the porch, where, placing his head on one of the steps, they separated it from the body with many blows of a jagged cutlass. Thus ended the career of the dreaded Ali Pacha. His head still preserved so terrible and imposing an aspect that those present beheld it with a sort of stupor. Kursheed, to whom it was presented on a large dish of silver plate, rose to receive it, bowed three times before it, and respectfully kissed the beard, expressing aloud his wish that he himself might deserve a similar end. To such an extent did the admiration with which Ali’s bravery inspired these barbarians efface the memory of his crimes. Kursheed ordered the head to be perfumed with the most costly essences, and despatched to Constantinople, and he allowed the Skipetars to render the last honours to their former master. Never was seen greater mourning than that of the warlike Epirotes. During the whole night, the various Albanian tribes watched by turns around the corpse, improvising the most eloquent funeral songs in its honour. At daybreak, the body, washed and prepared according to the Mohammedan ritual, was deposited in a coffin draped with a splendid Indian Cashmere shawl, on which was placed a magnificent turban, adorned with the plumes Ali had worn in battle. The mane of his charger was cut off, and the animal covered with purple housings, while Ali’s shield, his sword, his numerous weapons, and various insignia, were borne on the saddles of several led horses. The cortege proceeded towards the castle, accompanied by hearty imprecations uttered by the soldiers against the “Son of a Slave,” the epithet bestowed on their sultan by the Turks in seasons of popular excitement. The Selaon-Aga, an officer appointed to render the proper salutes, acted as chief mourner, surrounded by weeping mourners, who made the ruins of Janina echo with their lamentations. The guns were fired at long intervals. The portcullis was raised to admit the procession, and the whole garrison, drawn up to receive it, rendered a military salute. The body, covered with matting, was laid in a grave beside that of Amina. When the grave had been filled in, a priest approached to listen to the supposed conflict between the good and bad angels, who dispute the possession of the soul of the deceased. When he at length announced that Ali Tepelen Zadi would repose in peace amid celestial houris, the Skipetars, murmuring like the waves of the sea after a tempest, dispersed to their quarters: Kursheed, profiting by the night spent by the Epirotes in mourning, caused Ali’s head to be en closed in a silver casket, and despatched it secretly to Constantinople. His sword-bearer Mehemet, who, having presided at the execution, was entrusted with the further duty of presenting it to the sultan, was escorted by three hundred Turkish soldiers. He was warned to be expeditious, and before dawn was well out of reach of the Arnaouts, from whom a surprise might have been feared. The Seraskier then ordered the unfortunate Basilissa, whose life had been spared, to be brought before him. She threw herself at his feet, imploring him to spare, not her life, but her honour; and he consoled her, and assured her of the sultan’s protection. She burst into tears when she beheld Ali’s secretaries, treasurers, and steward loaded with irons. Only sixty thousand purses (about twenty-five million piastres) of Ali’s treasure could be found, and already his officers had been tortured, in order to compel them to disclose where the rest might be concealed. Fearing a similar fate, Basilissa fell insensible into the arms of her attendants, and she was removed to the farm of Bouila, until the Supreme Porte should decide on her fate. The couriers sent in all directions to announce the death of Ali, having preceded the sword-bearer Mehemet’s triumphal procession, the latter, on arriving at Greveno, found the whole population of that town and the neighbouring hamlets assembled to meet him, eager to behold the head of the terrible Ali Pacha. Unable to comprehend how he could possibly have succumbed, they could hardly believe their eyes when the head was withdrawn from its casket and displayed before them. It remained exposed to view in the house of the Mussulman Veli Aga whilst the escort partook of refreshment and changed horses, and as the public curiosity continued to increase throughout the journey, a fixed charge was at length made for its gratification, and the head of the renowned vizier was degraded into becoming an article of traffic exhibited at every post-house, until it arrived at Constantinople. The sight of this dreaded relic, exposed on the 23rd of February at the gate of the seraglio, and the birth of an heir-presumptive to the sword of Othman—which news was announced simultaneously with that of the death of Ali, by the firing of the guns of the seraglio—roused the enthusiasm of the military inhabitants of Constantinople to a state of frenzy, and triumphant shouts greeted the appearance of a document affixed to the head which narrated Ali’s crimes and the circumstances of his death, ending with these words: “This is the Head of the above-named Ali Pacha, a Traitor to the Faith of Islam.” Having sent magnificent presents to Kursheed, and a hyperbolical despatch to his army, Mahmoud II turned his attention to Asia Minor; where Ali’s sons would probably have been forgotten in their banishment, had it not been supposed that their riches were great. A sultan does not condescend to mince matters with his slaves, when he can despoil them with impunity; His Supreme Highness simply sent them his commands to die. Veli Pacha, a greater coward than a woman-slave born in the harem, heard his sentence kneeling. The wretch who had, in his palace at Arta, danced to the strains of a lively orchestra, while innocent victims were being tortured around him, received the due reward of his crimes. He vainly embraced the knees of his executioners, imploring at least the favour of dying in privacy; and he must have endured the full bitterness of death in seeing his sons strangled before his eyes, Mehemet the elder, remarkable, for his beauty, and the gentle Selim, whose merits might have procured the pardon of his family had not Fate ordained otherwise. After next beholding the execution of his brother, Salik Pacha, Ali’s best loved son, whom a Georgian slave had borne to him in his old age, Veli, weeping, yielded his guilty head to the executioners. His women were then seized, and the unhappy Zobeide, whose scandalous story had even reached Constantinople, sewn up in a leather sack, was flung into the Pursak—a river whose waters mingle with those of the Sagaris. Katherin, Veli’s other wife, and his daughters by various mothers, were dragged to the bazaar and sold ignominiously to Turcoman shepherds, after which the executioners at once proceeded to make an inventory of the spoils of their victims. But the inheritance of Mouktar Pacha was not quite such an easy prey. The kapidgi-bachi who dared to present him with the bowstring was instantly laid dead at his feet by a pistol-shot. “Wretch!” cried Mouktar, roaring like a bull escaped from the butcher, “dost thou think an Arnaout dies like an eunuch? I also am a Tepelenian! To arms, comrades! they would slay us!” As he spoke, he rushed, sword in hand, upon the Turks, and driving them back, succeeded in barricading himself in his apartments. Presently a troop of janissaries from Koutaieh, ordered to be in readiness, advanced, hauling up cannon, and a stubborn combat began. Mouktar’s frail defences were soon in splinters. The venerable Metche-Bono, father of Elmas Bey, faithful to the end, was killed by a bullet; and Mouktar, having slain a host of enemies with his own hand and seen all his friends perish, himself riddled with wounds, set fire to the powder magazine, and died, leaving as inheritance for the sultan only a heap of smoking ruins. An enviable fate, if compared with that of his father and brothers, who died by the hand of the executioner. The heads of Ali’s children, sent to Constantinople and exposed at the gate of the seraglio, astonished the gaping multitude. The sultan himself, struck with the beauty of Mehemet and Selim, whose long eyelashes and closed eyelids gave them the appearance of beautiful youths sunk in peaceful slumber, experienced a feeling of emotion. “I had imagined them,” he said stupidly, “to be quite as old as their father;” and he expressed sorrow for the fate to which he had condemned them. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Alexandre Dumas (2006). Ali Pacha. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/2753/pg2753-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html .

On the morning of February 5th

The Golden Road by L. M. Montgomery, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . EXTRACTS FROM THE FEBRUARY AND MARCH NUMBERS OF “OUR MAGAZINE” CHAPTER IX. EXTRACTS FROM THE FEBRUARY AND MARCH NUMBERS OF “OUR MAGAZINE” RESOLUTION HONOUR ROLL Miss Felicity King. HONOURABLE MENTION Mr. Felix King. Mr. Peter Craig. Miss Sara Ray. EDITORIAL The editor wishes to make a few remarks about the Resolution Honour Roll. As will be seen, only one name figures on it. Felicity says she has thought a beautiful thought every morning before breakfast without missing one morning, not even the one we were at Peg Bowen’s. Some of our number think it not fair that Felicity should be on the honour roll (FELICITY, ASIDE: “That’s Dan, of course.”) when she only made one resolution and won’t tell us what any of the thoughts were. So we have decided to give honourable mention to everybody who has kept one resolution perfect. Felix has worked all his arithmetic problems by himself. He complains that he never got more than a third of them right and the teacher has marked him away down; but one cannot keep resolutions without some inconvenience. Peter has never played tit-tat-x in church or got drunk and says it wasn’t as bad as he expected. (PETER, INDIGNANTLY: “I never said it.” CECILY, SOOTHINGLY: “Now, Peter, Bev only meant that as a joke.”) Sara Ray has never talked any mean gossip, but does not find conversation as interesting as it used to be. (SARA RAY, WONDERINGLY: “I don’t remember of saying that.”) Felix did not eat any apples until March, but forgot and ate seven the day we were at Cousin Mattie’s. (FELIX: “I only ate five!”) He soon gave up trying to say what he thought always. He got into too much trouble. We think Felix ought to change to old Grandfather King’s rule. It was, “Hold your tongue when you can, and when you can’t tell the truth.” Cecily feels she has not read all the good books she might, because some she tried to read were very dull and the Pansy books were so much more interesting. And it is no use trying not to feel bad because her hair isn’t curly and she has marked that resolution out. The Story Girl came very near to keeping her resolution to have all the good times possible, but she says she missed two, if not three, she might have had. Dan refuses to say anything about his resolutions and so does the editor. PERSONALS We regret that Miss Cecily King is suffering from a severe cold. Mr. Alexander Marr of Markdale died very suddenly last week. We never heard of his death till he was dead. Miss Cecily King wishes to state that she did not ask the question about “Holy Moses” and the other word in the January number. Dan put it in for a mean joke. The weather has been cold and fine. We have only had one bad storm. The coasting on Uncle Roger’s hill continues good. Aunt Eliza did not favour us with a visit after all. She took cold and had to go home. We were sorry that she had a cold but glad that she had to go home. Cecily said she thought it wicked of us to be glad. But when we asked her “cross her heart” if she wasn’t glad herself she had to say she was. Miss Cecily King has got three very distinguished names on her quilt square. They are the Governor and his wife and a witch’s. The King family had the honour of entertaining the Governor’s wife to tea on February the seventeenth. We are all invited to visit Government House but some of us think we won’t go. A tragic event occurred last Tuesday. Mrs. James Frewen came to tea and there was no pie in the house. Felicity has not yet fully recovered. A new boy is coming to school. His name is Cyrus Brisk and his folks moved up from Markdale. He says he is going to punch Willy Fraser’s head if Willy keeps on thinking he is Miss Cecily King’s beau. (CECILY: “I haven’t ANY beau! I don’t mean to think of such a thing for at least eight years yet!”) Miss Alice Reade of Charlottetown Royalty has come to Carlisle to teach music. She boards at Mr. Peter Armstrong’s. The girls are all going to take music lessons from her. Two descriptions of her will be found in another column. Felix wrote one, but the girls thought he did not do her justice, so Cecily wrote another one. She admits she copied most of the description out of Valeria H. Montague’s story Lord Marmaduke’s First, Last, and Only Love; or the Bride of the Castle by the Sea, but says they fit Miss Reade better than anything she could make up. HOUSEHOLD DEPARTMENT Always keep the kitchen tidy and then you needn’t mind if company comes unexpectedly. ANXIOUS INQUIRER: We don’t know anything that will take the stain out of a silk dress when a soft-boiled egg is dropped on it. Better not wear your silk dress so often, especially when boiling eggs. Ginger tea is good for colds. OLD HOUSEKEEPER: Yes, when the baking-powder gives out you can use tooth-powder instead. (FELICITY: “I never wrote that! I don’t care, I don’t think it’s fair for other people to be putting things in my department!”) Our apples are not keeping well this year. They are rotting; and besides father says we eat an awful lot of them. PERSEVERANCE: I will give you the recipe for dumplings you ask for. But remember it is not everyone who can make dumplings, even from the recipe. There’s a knack in it. If the soap falls into the porridge do not tell your guests about it until they have finished eating it because it might take away their appetite. FELICITY KING. ETIQUETTE DEPARTMENT P-r C-g:—Do not criticize people’s noses unless you are sure they can’t hear you, and don’t criticize your best girl’s great-aunt’s nose in any case. (FELICITY, TOSSING HER HEAD: “Oh, my! I s’pose Dan thought that was extra smart.”) C-y K-g:—When my most intimate friend walks with another girl and exchanges lace patterns with her, what ought I to do? Ans. Adopt a dignified attitude. F-y K-g:—It is better not to wear your second best hat to church, but if your mother says you must it is not for me to question her decision. (FELICITY: “Dan just copied that word for word out of the Family Guide, except about the hat part.”) P-r C-g:—Yes, it would be quite proper to say good evening to the family ghost if you met it. F-x K-g:—No, it is not polite to sleep with your mouth open. What’s more, it isn’t safe. Something might fall into it. DAN KING. FASHION NOTES Crocheted watch pockets are all the rage now. If you haven’t a watch they do to carry your pencil in or a piece of gum. It is stylish to have hair ribbons to match your dress. But it is hard to match gray drugget. I like scarlet for that. It is stylish to pin a piece of ribbon on your coat the same colour as your chum wears in her hair. Mary Martha Cowan saw them doing it in town and started us doing it here. I always wear Kitty’s ribbon and Kitty wears mine, but the Story Girl thinks it is silly. CECILY KING. AN ACCOUNT OF OUR VISIT TO COUSIN MATTIE’S We all walked over to Cousin Mattie’s last week. They were all well there and we had a fine dinner. On our way back a snow-storm came up and we got lost in the woods. We didn’t know where we were or nothing. If we hadn’t seen a light I guess we’d all have been frozen and snowed over, and they would never have found us till spring and that would be very sad. But we saw a light and made for it and it was Peg Bowen’s. Some people think she is a witch and it’s hard to tell, but she was real hospitable and took us all in. Her house was very untidy but it was warm. She has a skull. I mean a loose skull, not her own. She lets on it tells her things, but Uncle Alec says it couldn’t because it was only an Indian skull that old Dr. Beecham had and Peg stole it when he died, but Uncle Roger says he wouldn’t trust himself with Peg’s skull for anything. She gave us supper. It was a horrid meal. The Story Girl says I must not tell what I found in the bread and butter because it would be too disgusting to read in Our Magazine but it don’t matter because we were all there, except Sara Ray, and know what it was. We stayed all night and us boys slept in straw. None of us had ever slept on straw before. We got home in the morning. That is all I can write about our visit to Cousin Mattie’s. FELIX KING. MY WORST ADVENTURE It’s my turn to write it so I suppose I must. I guess my worst adventure was two years ago when a whole lot of us were coasting on Uncle Rogers hill. Charlie Cowan and Fred Marr had started, but half-way down their sled got stuck and I run down to shove them off again. Then I stood there just a moment to watch them with my back to the top of the hill. While I was standing there Rob Marr started Kitty and Em Frewen off on his sled. His sled had a wooden tongue in it and it slanted back over the girls’ heads. I was right in the way and they yelled to me to get out, but just as I heard them it struck me. The sled took me between the legs and I was histed back over the tongue and dropped in a heap behind before I knew what had happened to me. I thought a tornado had struck me. The girls couldn’t stop though they thought I was killed, but Rob came tearing down and helped me up. He was awful scared but I wasn’t killed nor my back wasn’t broken but my nose bled something awful and kept on bleeding for three days. Not all the time but by spells. DAN KING. THE STORY OF HOW CARLISLE GOT ITS NAME This is a true story to. Long ago there was a girl lived in charlotte town. I dont know her name so I cant right it and maybe it is just as well for Felicity might think it wasnt romantik like Miss Jemima Parrs. She was awful pretty and a young englishman who had come out to make his fortune fell in love with her and they were engaged to be married the next spring. His name was Mr. Carlisle. In the winter he started off to hunt cariboo for a spell. Cariboos lived on the island then. There aint any here now. He got to where it is Carlisle now. It wasn’t anything then only woods and a few indians. He got awful sick and was sick for ever so long in a indian camp and only an old micmac squaw to wait on him. Back in town they all thought he was dead and his girl felt bad for a little while and then got over it and took up with another beau. The girls say that wasnt romantik but I think it was sensible but if it had been me that died I’d have felt bad if she forgot me so soon. But he hadnt died and when he got back to town he went right to her house and walked in and there she was standing up to be married to the other fellow. Poor Mr. Carlisle felt awful. He was sick and week and it went to his head. He just turned and run and run till he got back to the old micmac’s camp and fell in front of it. But the indians had gone because it was spring and it didnt matter because he really was dead this time and people come looking for him from town and found him and buryed him there and called the place after him. They say the girl was never happy again and that was hard lines on her but maybe she deserved it. PETER CRAIG. MISS ALICE READE Miss Alice Reade is a very pretty girl. She has kind of curly blackish hair and big gray eyes and a pale face. She is tall and thin but her figure is pretty fair and she has a nice mouth and a sweet way of speaking. The girls are crazy about her and talk about her all the time. FELIX KING. BEAUTIFUL ALICE That is what we girls call Miss Reade among ourselves. She is divinely beautiful. Her magnificent wealth of raven hair flows back in glistening waves from her sun-kissed brow. (DAN: “If Felix had said she was sunburned you’d have all jumped on him.” (CECILY, COLDLY: “Sun-kissed doesn’t mean sunburned.” DAN: “What does it mean then?” CECILY, EMBARRASSED: “I—I don’t know. But Miss Montague says the Lady Geraldine’s brow was sun-kissed and of course an earl’s daughter wouldn’t be sunburned. “THE STORY GIRL: “Oh, don’t interrupt the reading like this. It spoils it.”) Her eyes are gloriously dark and deep, like midnight lakes mirroring the stars of heaven. Her features are like sculptured marble and her mouth is a trembling, curving Cupid’s bow. (PETER, ASIDE: “What kind of a thing is that?”) Her creamy skin is as fair and flawless as the petals of a white lily. Her voice is like the ripple of a woodland brook and her slender form is matchless in its symmetry. (DAN: “That’s Valeria’s way of putting it, but Uncle Roger says she don’t show her feed much.” FELICITY: “Dan! if Uncle Roger is vulgar you needn’t be!”) Her hands are like a poet’s dreams. She dresses so nicely and looks so stylish in her clothes. Her favourite colour is blue. Some people think she is stiff and some say she is stuck-up, but she isn’t a bit. It’s just that she is different from them and they don’t like it. She is just lovely and we adore her.) CECILY KING. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. L. M. Montgomery (2008). The Golden Road. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/316/pg316-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html .

EXTRACTS FROM THE FEBRUARY AND MARCH NUMBERS OF “OUR MAGAZINE”

Minima announced today that it would launch its Public Presale in February 2023. The Presale will take place over several tranches, with the first one being exclusively open to existing Incentive Program node runners on 14 February. The following tranches, which will be available for everyone, are going to commence as each previous one is fully sold. The Presale will end on 28 February 2023 or once all offered coins are sold, depending on what happens first. "After years of development, we're excited to offer this opportunity for the world to join us on the journey of genuine decentralization," said Hugo Feiler, CEO, and Co-Founder of Minima. Minima is leading the way in blockchain decentralization, with fully constructing and validating nodes running on mobile and IoT devices dispersed globally. Since its network has no centralizing elements, such as miners or external validators, it is entirely run by its community. It means that it is the user who not only validates the entire chain but maintains the liveliness of the whole network and prevents censorship attacks. Every single person is an equal and complete member, so attempts to disrupt the network would require bribing or attacking billions of people. Minima uses an innovative Proof of Work (PoW) algorithm, which allows both off-chain and on-chain traffic for security. Another essential feature of this algorithm is that it requires a small number of resources, thus permitting users to run a Complete node at any time. Such network organization ensures that any systemic attack would require an attack on the entire user base. Another feature of their Protocol is its scalability. It not only allows both off-chain and on-chain transactions but also makes the block size adaptive, which means it can grow and shrink as the users see fit. "Our testnet phase has attracted hundreds of thousands of community members to run full nodes, and as we announce a wide range of global partnerships over the coming year, our potential will accelerate towards mass adoption." “For those who have supported our project, there's no better time to get involved in the construction of the blockchain than during the Public Presale." Minima achieves complete decentralization to ensure security and scalability and realize the original promise of blockchain technology. In other words, it is a large community where everyone shares the same degree of rights and duties. A community with no miners, master nodes, delegates, coordinators, or any other overarching authority to take the slack. Breaking the miner-centric approach prevailing in other networks, Minima lays the foundation for a secure future where responsibility is shifted squarely onto every community member, and sets a new standard for the crypto industry; Minima is seen by many as what Satoshi Nakamoto would have created if he had a smartphone. To participate in the Presale, visit: https://presale.minima.global For more information about Minima, visit: https://minima.global To join the community, visit: https://discord.gg/minima Follow Minima on Twitter here: https://twitter.com/Minima_Global : Vested Interest Disclosure The author is publishing via our . Be it through direct compensation, media partnerships, or networking, the author has a vested interest in the company/ies mentioned in this story. HackerNoon has reviewed the report for quality, but the claims herein belong to the author. #DYOR brand-as-author program

Minima to Launch Public Presale in February 2023

Astounding Stories of Super-Science February 1931: Phalanxes of Atlans - Chapter I

Astounding Stories of Super-Science, February 1930: Vol. I, No. 2 - Spawn of the Stars

Astounding Stories of Super-Science February 1931, by Astounding Stories is part of HackerNoon’s Book Blog Post series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . The Tentacles From Below - Chapter X: The Return of the Wanderer CHAPTER X. The Return of the Wanderer Wells watched the several helmet-lights shooting upwards and wondered if they represented all the men that had got safely through the net of tentacles. Remembering the rocky ceiling they were rapidly approaching, he ordered the others to reduce speed by discharging air from their sea-suits. He received no articulate answer. Although he cut down the rush of his own progress, it was with a jar that he bounded into the top of the cavern. As he dangled there, he beheld four light beams hurtling upward; his earphones registered crash after crash: and then he saw the beams go spinning down into the gloom again, weaving and crossing fantastically, the shock having jerked them from their owner's hands. Keith had lost his own helmet-light below, but peering around he could make out a few vague forms, bumping and twisting in the current. "Graham!" the commander called. "Graham, you there?" After a moment his first officer's voice came thickly back. "Yes—here. A bit groggy. That crash...." Wells swam clumsily towards him. "I guess only a few of us broke through," the commander said slowly. As the two officers hung at the roof, swinging grotesquely, one by one the other men came to their senses and reported their presence in the radiophone. Keith ordered them to cluster around him, and soon eight weird figures had grouped nearby. After a while they located two others, which brought their total to ten men and two officers. They looked a long time, but could not find any more. Two were gone. Deep silence fell over the tiny group. The dark mass of the rocky ceiling scraped their helmets; below, the bluish waters tapered into a thick gloom, hiding, miles beneath, the mound-buildings and swarming octopi. One of the men spoke. His words were audible to everyone, and they voiced the thought in every brain: "What're we going to do now?" Keith had no answer. They had escaped the immediate danger, but it was only a temporary respite. The commander knew it was hopeless to try and locate the tunnel leading to the outer sea, for they were very tired, and in their clumsy suits they would be able to swim only a few rods. Their helmet-lights were gone; they had played their last card. "They're goin' to find us after a while," the pessimistic voice continued. "They'll send that submarine of theirs after us—or maybe they'll come up in their metal suits...." "Well," Keith replied with forced cheerfulness, "then we'll have to fight 'em off." "Why not rip our suits an' end it now—" began another, but Graham's voice cut in sharply. "Quiet!" he said. "I heard something!" The men stilled abruptly. In tense silence their ears strained at the headphones. Wells asked: "What did you hear?" "Wait!" Graham interrupted, listening intently. "There it is again! Listen! Can't you hear it? Why, it sounded like—like—" Keith concentrated his whole mind on listening, but could catch nothing at all. He was just about to give up when he caught a faint, jumbled murmur—the murmur of a human voice. "My God!" he whispered. The voice, little by little, grew, and Wells could distinguish words. They formed into a complete sentence. Keith heard it plainly. It was: "Now, what the hell's this thing for?" Unmistakably, it was the voice of Cook Angus McKegnie, whom they all had thought dead. Amazed, the men of the crew started to jabber. "Quiet!" Wells ordered sharply. He listened again. McKegnie's voice was growing quickly and steadily louder. "McKegnie!" the commander cried excitedly. "McKegnie, can you hear me?" There was no answer. Patiently Wells waited a minute, every second of which increased the volume of his long-lost cook's bewildered tones. Again he tried. "McKegnie! Can you hear me? This is Commander Wells. McKegnie!" The cook's stammering voice came back: "Why—why—is that you, Mr. Wells? Did I hear you, Mr. Wells?" "Yes!" Keith shouted impatiently. "This is Commander Wells! For heaven's sake, McKegnie, where are you?" "I don't know, sir!" the cook responded. "Where are you?" Keith was for the moment perplexed. "But—but, are you a prisoner?" he questioned. And he could have sworn he heard a distinct note of pride as the invisible McKegnie replied: "Oh, no, sir! Not yet! These devils been tryin' their best to get me, but they couldn't! No, sir!" Wells became more and more puzzled. "Then—but—you're not running the NX-1, are you?" McKegnie's voice was much louder now, and growing every second. The note of pride persisted. "Of course, sir!" he confirmed. "It was kind of hard at first, with these octopises botherin' me, but I got onto it pretty quick. That octopis ship chased me with them heat rays for a long time, but I ain't seen them lately. I guess I kinda tired them out." His last words grew louder with a rush, and from the dark depths beneath a long shape suddenly appeared, hurtling up at the group of astounded men in a zoom that bade fair to take it straight through the ceiling. It was the NX-1. "Dive, man, dive!" Keith yelled. "Cook, pull that black-handled lever towards you! Yank it back! Yank it back! Quick!" He sighed with relief as he saw his madly-driven submarine pause, whip its nose downward, and crash back for the depths from which it had come. The commander spoke rapidly. "McKegnie, listen: Leave the black lever halfway, so you'll level out. Straighten your helm. We're only a little above you; come round in a circle till I tell you to stop." The NX-1 came out of her dive, and, as the cook evidently shoved her helm over, went skirting around in a wide, drunken circle, some thousand feet below her regular crew. "All right!" Keith shouted. The fear that the octopi submarine would dart back before he could get aboard his ship was looming in his mind. "You're at the helm, Cook; there's a wheel right over your head. Spin it around—oh, my God, there you go again!" He groaned while the NX-1 went swooping off on a repetition of her crazy circle. "Sorry, sir," the culinary navigator said thickly. "I guess I got the wrong thing." "Now!" Wells roared. "Spin that wheel above your head.... That's right—right—there! Don't touch a thing, Cook! We're coming down." The submarine had paused directly beneath them, listing slightly to port. Then began the cautious business of the descent. Under Wells' rapid orders the men linked arms again and discharged more air from their sea-suits. Slowly, thin chains of bubbles rising behind them, they sank towards the dim shape of the NX-1 below. Wells' eyes kept probing the thick gloom far beneath. Every moment he expected to see it disgorge a swarm of octopi. They neared the submarine, and saw numberless pitted spots in her body, where the heat ray had stabbed for a moment. In their excitement they missed their level by some feet, but clutching together they admitted more air and soon rose even with the starboard exit port. "Swim forward," Keith ordered. "Hurry!" The weird figures groped clumsily, and very slowly neared the port. The commander, in the van, at last reached out and gripped its jutting external controls. He could not work them at first: his hands were numb and awkward. As he tugged and struggled with them a shout rang in his headphone. It was McKegnie, scared to death. "Oh, hurry, Mr. Wells!" he yelled. "Quick! Quick, please! The octopis ship's comin', sir! The red light's back!" About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Various. 2009. Astounding Stories of Super-Science, February 1931. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved May 2022 from https://www.gutenberg.org/files/30124/30124-h/30124-h.htm#Page_172 . This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

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