TrukSe

trukse

Crews are responding to a &quot;multiple fatality&quot; crash involving a school bus and a concrete truck on State Highway 21 near the Travis/Bastrop County line.Austin-T

"Multiple" dead in school bus, concrete truck crash near Travis/Bastrop County line

Two people are dead, including a child, after a concrete truck struck a school bus full of pre-K children returning from a field trip head-on in Bastrop County, Texas, according to officials.

Texas school bus crash: A concrete truck struck a bus, killing 1 child and 1 adult | CNN

US News is a recognized leader in college, grad school, hospital, mutual fund, and car rankings. Track elected officials, research health conditions, and find news you can use in politics, business, health, and education.

Two Killed, 40 Injured in Texas Highway Crash of School Bus, Cement Truck

First responders on Friday afternoon responded to a deadly crash involving a school bus and a concrete truck.

At least 2 dead, 51 injured after school bus and concrete truck collide in Bastrop County

&quot;The Autopian&quot; reports that owners of kei trucks are running into more problems registering their vehicles, and an organization formed to fight back.

Texas is refusing to register kei trucks, and owners are fighting back - Autoblog

Scientific American, Volume XXXVI., No. 8, February 24, 1877 by Various, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . NEw Books and Publications here NEW BOOKS AND PUBLICATIONS. Archology, Or The Science Of Government. By S.V. Blakeslee. Price $1.25. New York and San Francisco: A. Roman & Co. This book is a very metaphysical treatise on theories of government and the duties of citizens to the law, each other, and themselves. Theoretical politics are little in favor with thinking men of this day; and the social difficulties of our age will have to be solved by practical wisdom founded on experience. The people that knows that a certain course of legislation has destroyed an empire, and that a contrary policy has developed one, will care little as to whether or not "the will controls the feelings by mediate and indirect force." We are unable to find in this book any attempt to apply the finely worded theories stated to practical use and popular instruction in political science. Graphical Analysis Of Roof Trusses, For The Use Of Engineers, Architects, And Builders. By Charles E. Greene, A.M., Professor of Civil Engineering in the University of Michigan. Chicago, Ill: George H. Frost. The author of this work truly says that any designer who fairly tries the graphical method will be pleased with the simplicity and directness of the analysis, even for apparently complex forms. The hindrance to the general use of the method is the want of knowledge of the higher mathematics, which are largely used in most treatises on the subject. Professor Greene has avoided this stumbling block, and given us a treatise which may be understood and appreciated by any one of common school education. We therefore give his work a hearty commendation, and we hope that every carpenter and builder may be induced to analyze the stresses which affect the different parts of structures, which he can readily do by carefully reading this volume. The Hub: a Journal devoted to the Carriage Building Trades. Published monthly. Subscription price, $3.00 a year. New York city: The Hub Publishing Company, 323 Pearl street. This journal is widely known for its accurate and extended information as to carriage building, trimming, lining, painting, etc.; and since its first issue it has maintained its reputation, and given the public an immense amount of instruction in a spirited and practical manner. The illustrations and typography are excellent, and every number shows how extended an area it serves as an authority on the important industry to which it is devoted. Assignats And Mandats: the Money and the Finances of the French Revolution of 1789. By Stephen D. Dillaye. Price, free by mail, 30 cents. Philadelphia, Pa.: Henry Carey Baird & Co., 810 Walnut street. Mr. Dillaye differs with the Hon. A.D. White, President of Cornell University, as to the relative merits of money and promises to pay money; and he begins with the assertion that the President's "object is to depreciate American credit, stability, and honor." Further perusal, to ascertain the meaning of this attack on a patriotic and useful member of society, shows us what Mr. Dillaye thinks he means. He talks of credit being the vital element of national power; and from this he argues that the more "credit" a nation has—that is, the deeper it is in debt—the more powerful it becomes. In short, he confuses credit as opposed to discredit with credit as opposed to cash—a grievous blunder, surely. A nation's credit is like a merchant's; it becomes greater only as his debts become smaller; and people trust a government for the same reason as they trust an individual, mainly because every previous obligation has been honorably observed. It is gratifying to know that persons of Mr. Dillaye's way of thinking are few and unimportant, and their number is diminishing daily. Croton Water Supply For The City Of New York: an Address by George B. Butler to the New York Municipal Society. New York city: Published by Order of the Society, 87 Madison avenue. A review of the whole subject of our water supply, its sources and the area they drain, the geographical features of the district, and the works erected by the city. Mr. Butler maintains that the Croton valley, with proper storage reservoirs, can abundantly supply the whole city; and that no new aqueduct need be constructed in the present condition of the public debt. Eine Kurze Allgemeine Einleitung Zu Den Aromatischen Nitroverbindungen. Von Peter Townsend Austen. Leipzig, Germany: Winter, Publisher. We are glad to see that an American is able to publish a very useful chemical treatise in Germany, the great head center of chemistry. Dr. Austen, one of our most distinguished young chemists in the field of original research, has produced a work which bears the marks of much patient thought and study. The book is dedicated to the renowned German chemist, Professor A.W. Hofmann. Our Young Folks' Magazine: a Monthly Journal of Instruction and Amusement. Subscription price, $1.60 a year. Boston, Mass.: Post Office Box 3090. A readable little periodical, well calculated to amuse the little ones for whom it is intended. Glass For The Studio And Dark Room. By Thomas Gaffield. Philadelphia, Pa.: Benerman & Wilson. There is much useful information in this little pamphlet, and photographers especially should read it. The matter first appeared in the Philadelphia . Photographer 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

NEW BOOKS AND PUBLICATIONS

Scientific American Supplement, No. 717, September 28, 1889, by Various, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . THE SHIP IN THE NEW FRENCH BALLET OF THE "TEMPEST." here THE SHIP IN THE NEW FRENCH BALLET OF THE "TEMPEST." A new ballet, entitled the "Tempest," by Messrs. Barbier and Thomas, has recently been put upon the stage of the Opera at Paris with superb settings. One of the most important of the several tableaux exhibited is the last one of the third act, in which appears a vessel of unusual dimensions for the stage, and which leaves far behind it the celebrated ships of the "Corsaire" and "L'Africaine." This vessel, starting from the back of the stage, advances majestically, describes a wide circle, and stops in front of the prompter's box. As the structure of this vessel and the mechanism by which it is moved are a little out of the ordinary, we shall give some details in regard to them. First, the sea is represented by four parallel strips of water, each formed of a vertical wooden frame entirely free in its movements (Fig. 2). The ship (Figs. 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5) is carried by wheels that roll over the floor of the stage. It is guided in its motion by two grooved bronze wheels and by a rail formed of a simple reversed T-iron which is fixed to the floor by bolts. In measure as it advances, the strips of water open in the center to allow it to pass, and, as the vessel itself is covered up to the water line with painted canvas imitating the sea, it has the appearance of cleaving the waves. As soon as it has passed, the three strips of water in the rear rise slightly. When the vessel reaches the first of the strips, the three other strips, at first juxtaposed against the preceding, spread out and thus increase the extent of the sea, while the inclined plane of the preceding tableau advances in order to make place for the vessel. The shifting of this inclined place is effected by simply pulling upon the carpet that covers it, and which enters a groove in the floor in front of the prompter's box. At this moment, the entire stage seems to be in motion, and the effect is very striking. We come now to the details of construction of the vessel. It is not here a question of a ship represented simply by means of frames and accessories, but of a true ship in its entirety, performing its evolutions over the whole stage. Now, a ship is not constructed at a theater as in reality. It does not suffice to have it all entire upon the stage, but it is necessary also to be able to dismount it after every representation, and that, too, in a large number of pieces that can be easily stored away. Thus, the vessel of the Tempest, which measures a dozen yards from stem to stern, and is capable of carrying fifty persons, comes apart in about 250 pieces of wood, without counting all the iron work, bolts, etc. Nevertheless, it can be mounted in less than two hours by ten skilled men. The visible hull of the ship is placed upon a large and very strong wooden framework, formed of twenty-six trusses. In the center, there are two longitudinal trusses about three feet in height by twenty-five in length, upon which are assembled, perpendicularly, seven other trusses. In the interior there are six transverse pieces held by stirrup bolts, and at the extremity of each of these is fixed a thirteen-inch iron wheel. It is upon these twelve wheels that the entire structure rolls. There are in addition the two bronze guide wheels that we have already spoken of. In the rear there are two large vertical trusses sixteen feet in height, which are joined by ties and descend to the bottom of the frame, to which they are bolted. These are worked out into steps and constitute the skeleton of the immense stern of the vessel. The skeleton of the prow is formed of a large vertical truss which is bolted to the front of the frame and is held within by a tie bar. On each side of this truss are placed the (Figs. 1 and 3), which are formed of pieces of wood that are set into the frame below and are provided above with grooves for the passage of iron rods that support the foot rests by means of which the supernumeraries are lifted. As a whole, those rods constitute a jointed parallelogram, so that the foot rest always remains horizontal while describing a curve of five feet radius from the top of the frame to the deck of the vessel. They are actuated by a cable which winds around a small windlass fixed in the interior of the frame. parallels The large mast consists of a vertical sheath 10 ft. high, which is set into the center of the frame, and in the interior of which slides a wooden spar that exceeds it by 5 ft. at first, and is capable of being drawn out as many more feet for the final apotheosis. This part of the mast carries three footboards and a platform for the reception of "supers." It is actuated by a windlass placed upon the frame. To form the skeleton of the vessel there are mounted upon the frame a series of eight large vertical trusses parallel with each other and cross-braced by small trusses. The upper part of these supports the flooring of the deck, and their exterior portion affects the curve of a ship's sides. It is to these trusses that are attached the panels covered with painted canvas that represent the hull. These panels are nine in number on each side. Above are placed those that simulate the nettings and those that cover the prow or form its crest. The turret that surrounds the large mast is formed of vertical trusses provided with panels of painted canvas and carrying a floor for the figurants to stand upon. The bowsprit is in two parts, one sliding in the other. The front portion is at first pulled back, in order to hide the vessel entirely in the side scenes. It begins to make its appearance before the vessel itself gets under way. Light silken cordages connect the mast, the bowsprit, and the small mast at the stern. On each side of the vessel, there are bolted to the frame that supports it five iron frames covered with canvas (Fig. 3), which reach the level of the water line, and upon which stand the "supers" representing the naiads that are supposed to draw the ship upon the beach. Finally at the bow there is fixed a frame which supports a danseuse representing the living prow of the vessel. The vessel is drawn to the middle of the stage by a cable attached to its right side and passing around a windlass placed in the side scenes to the left (Fig. 2). It is at the same time pushed by machinists placed in the interior of the framework. The latter, as above stated, is entirely covered with painted canvas resembling water. As the vessel, freighted with harmoniously grouped spirits, and with naiads, sea fairies, and graceful genii seeming to swim around it, sails in upon the stage, puts about, and advances as if carried along by the waves to the front of the stage, the effect is really beautiful, and does great credit to the machinists of the Opera. We are indebted to and for the description and engravings. Le Genie Civil Le Monde Illustré 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 Supplement, No. 717, September 28, 1889. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/17755/pg17755-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

THE SHIP IN THE NEW FRENCH BALLET OF THE "TEMPEST."

The Romance of Modern Mechanism by Archibald Williams is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . CHAPTER XIX here TRANSPORTER BRIDGES When the writer was in Rouen, in 1898, two lofty iron towers were being constructed by the Seine: the one on the Quai du Havre, the other on the Quai Capelier, which borders the river on the side of the suburb St. Sever. The towers rose so far towards the sky that one had to throw one's head very far back to watch the workmen perched on the summit of the framework. What were the towers for? They seemed much too slender for the piers of an ordinary suspension bridge fit to carry heavy traffic. An inquiry produced the information that they were the first instalment of a "transbordeur," or transporter bridge. What is a bridge of this kind? Well, it may best be described as a very lofty suspension bridge, the girder of which is far above the water to allow the passage of masted ships. The suspended girder serves only as the run-way for a truck from which a travelling car hangs by stout steel ropes, the bottom of the car being but a few feet above the water. The truck is carried across from tower to tower, either by electric motors or by cables operated by steam-power. The transporter bridge in a primitive form has existed for some centuries, but its present design is of very modern growth. With the increase of population has come an increased need for uninterrupted communication. Where rivers intervene they must be bridged, and we see a steady growth in the number of bridges in London, Paris, New York, and other large towns. Unfortunately a bridge, while joining land to land, separates water from water, and the dislocation of river traffic might not be compensated by the conveniences given to land traffic. The Forth, Brooklyn, Saltash, and other bridges have, therefore, been built of such a height as to leave sufficient head-room under the girders for the masts of the tallest ships. But what money they have cost! And even the Tower Bridge, with its hinged bascules, or leaves, and bridges with centres revolving horizontally, devour large sums. Wanted, therefore, an efficient means of transport across a river which, though not costly to install, shall offer a good service and not impede river traffic. Thirty years ago Mr. Charles Smith, a Hartlepool engineer, designed a bridge of the transporter type for crossing the Tees at Middlesbrough. The bridge was not built, because people feared that the towers would not stand the buffets of the north-easterly gales. The idea promulgated by an Englishman was taken up by foreign engineers, who have erected bridges in Spain, Tunis, and France. So successful has this type of ferry-bridge proved, that it is now receiving recognition in the land of its birth, and at the present time transporter bridges are nearing completion in Wales and on the Mersey. The first "transbordeur" built was that spanning the Nervion, a river flowing into the Bay of Biscay near [Bilbao, a Spanish town famous for the great deposits of iron ore close by. A pair of towers rises on each bank to a height of 240 feet, and carry a suspended trussed girder 530 feet long at a level of 150 feet above high-water mark. The car, giving accommodation for 200 passengers (it does not handle vehicles), hangs on the end of cables 130 feet long, and is propelled by a steam-engine situated in one of the towers. Motion is controlled by the car-conductor, who is connected electrically with the engine-room. The lofty towers are supported on the landward side by stout steel ropes firmly anchored in the ground. These ropes are carried over the girder in the familiar curve of the suspension bridge, and attached to it at regular intervals by vertical steel braces. The cost of the bridge—£32,000—compares favourably with that of any alternative non-traffic-blocking scheme, and the graceful, airy lines of the erection are by no means a blot on the landscape. At Bizerta we find the third flying-ferry, which connects that town with Tunis, over a narrow channel between the Mediterranean Sea and two inland lakes. It replaced a steam-ferry which had done duty for about ten years. The lakes being an anchorage for war vessels, it was imperative that any bridge over the straits should not interrupt free ingress and egress. This bridge has a span of 500 feet, and like that at Bilbao is worked by steam. Light as the structure appears, it has withstood a cyclone which did great damage in the neighbourhood. It is reported that the French Government has decided to remove the bridge to some other port, because its prominence would make it serve as a range-finder for an enemy's cannon in time of war. Its place would be taken either by a floating-bridge or by a submarine tunnel. The Nantes "transporter" over the Loire differs from its fellows in one respect, viz. that it is built on the cantilever or balance principle. Instead of a single girder spanning the space between the towers, it has three girders, the two end ones being balanced on the towers and anchored at their landward extremities by vertical cables. The gap between them is bridged by a third girder of bow shape, which is stiff enough in itself to need no central support. The motive power is electricity. All these structures will soon be eclipsed by two English bridges: the one over the Usk at Newport, Monmouthshire; the other over the Mersey and Manchester Ship Canal at Runcorn "Gap," where the river narrows to 1,200 feet. The first of these has towers 250 feet high and 685 feet apart. The girders will give 170 feet head-room above high-water mark. Five hundred passengers will be able to travel at one time on the car, besides a number of road vehicles, and as the passage is calculated to take only one minute, the average velocity will exceed eight miles an hour. The cost has been set down at £65,000, or about one-thirtieth that of a suspension bridge, and one-third that of a bascule bridge. The bridge is being built by the French engineers responsible for the Rouen . transbordeur Coming to the much more imposing Runcorn bridge we find even these figures exceeded. This span is 1,000 feet in length. The designer, Mr. John J. Webster, has already made a name with the Great Wheel which, at Earl's Court, London, has given many thousands of pleasure-seekers an aerial trip above the roofs of the metropolis. The following account by Mr. W. G. Archer in the Magazine of Commerce describes this mammoth of its kind in some detail:— "The two main towers carrying the cables and the stiffening girders are built, one on the south side of the Ship Canal, and the other on the foreshore on the north bank of the river; and the approaches consist of new roadways, nearly flat, built between stone and concrete retaining walls as far as the water's edge, and a corrugated steel flooring, upon which are laid the timber blocks on concrete, resting on steel elliptical girders and cast-iron columns. The roadway in front of the towers is widened out to 70 feet, for marshalling the traffic, and for providing space for waiting-rooms, etc. The towers are constructed wholly of steel, rise 190 feet above high-water level, and are bolted firmly to the cast-iron cylinders below. Each tower consists of four legs, spaced 30 feet apart at the base, and each pair of towers are 70 feet apart, and are braced together with strong horizontal and diagonal frames. Each of the two main cables consists of 19 steel ropes bound together, each rope being built up of 127 wires 0·16 inches in diameter. The ends of the cable backstays are anchored into the solid rock on each side of the river, about 30 feet from the rock surface. The weight of the main cables is about 243 tons, and from them are suspended two longitudinal stiffening girders, 18 feet deep, and placed 35 feet apart horizontally, the underside of the girders being 82 feet above the level of high water.... Upon the lower flange of the stiffening girders are fixed the rails upon which runs the traveller, from which is suspended the car. The traveller is 77 feet long, and is carried by sixteen wheels on each rail. It is propelled by two electric motors of about 35 horse-power each.... The car will be capable of holding at one time four large wagons and 300 passengers, the latter being protected from the weather by a glazed shelter.... The time occupied by the car in crossing will be 214 minutes, so, allowing for the time spent in loading and unloading, it will be capable of making nine or ten trips per hour. This bridge, when completed, will have the largest span of any bridge in the United Kingdom designed for carrying road traffic, the clear space over the Mersey and Ship Canal being 1,000 feet.... The total cost of the structure, including Parliamentary expenses, will be about £150,000." Mr. Archer adds that, in spite of prophecies of disastrous collisions between transporter cars and passing ships, there has up to date been no accident of any kind. To those in search of a new sensation the experience of skimming swiftly a few feet above the water may be recommended. 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. Archibald Williams (2014). The Romance of Modern Mechanism. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/46094/pg46094-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

TRANSPORTER BRIDGES

The Way We Live Now by Anthony Trollope is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . "UNANIMITY IS THE VERY SOUL OF THESE THINGS." here "UNANIMITY IS THE VERY SOUL OF THESE THINGS." That evening Montague was surprised to receive at the Beargarden a note from Mr. Melmotte, which had been brought thither by a messenger from the city,—who had expected to have an immediate answer, as though Montague lived at the club. "Dear Sir," said the letter, If not inconvenient would you call on me in Grosvenor Square to-morrow, Sunday, at half past eleven. If you are going to church, perhaps you will make an appointment in the afternoon; if not, the morning will suit best. I want to have a few words with you in private about the Company. My messenger will wait for answer if you are at the club. Yours truly, Augustus Melmotte. Paul Montague, Esq., The Beargarden. Paul immediately wrote to say that he would call at Grosvenor Square at the hour appointed,—abandoning any intentions which he might have had in reference to Sunday morning service. But this was not the only letter he received that evening. On his return to his lodgings he found a note, containing only one line, which Mrs. Hurtle had found the means of sending to him after her return from Southend. "I am so sorry to have been away. I will expect you all to-morrow. W. H." The period of the reprieve was thus curtailed to less than a day. On the Sunday morning he breakfasted late and then walked up to Grosvenor Square, much pondering what the great man could have to say to him. The great man had declared himself very plainly in the Board-room,—especially plainly after the Board had risen. Paul had understood that war was declared, and had understood also that he was to fight the battle single-handed, knowing nothing of such strategy as would be required, while his antagonist was a great master of financial tactics. He was prepared to go to the wall in reference to his money, only hoping that in doing so he might save his character and keep the reputation of an honest man. He was quite resolved to be guided altogether by Mr. Ramsbottom, and intended to ask Mr. Ramsbottom to draw up for him such a statement as would be fitting for him to publish. But it was manifest now that Mr. Melmotte would make some proposition, and it was impossible that he should have Mr. Ramsbottom at his elbow to help him. He had been in Melmotte's house on the night of the ball, but had contented himself after that with leaving a card. He had heard much of the splendour of the place, but remembered simply the crush and the crowd, and that he had danced there more than once or twice with Hetta Carbury. When he was shown into the hall he was astonished to find that it was not only stripped, but was full of planks, and ladders, and trussels, and mortar. The preparations for the great dinner had been already commenced. Through all this he made his way to the stairs, and was taken up to a small room on the second floor, where the servant told him that Mr. Melmotte would come to him. Here he waited a quarter of an hour looking out into the yard at the back. There was not a book in the room, or even a picture with which he could amuse himself. He was beginning to think whether his own personal dignity would not be best consulted by taking his departure, when Melmotte himself, with slippers on his feet and enveloped in a magnificent dressing-gown, bustled into the room. "My dear sir, I am so sorry. You are a punctual man I see. So am I. A man of business should be punctual. But they ain't always. Brehgert,—from the house of Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner, you know,—has just been with me. We had to settle something about the Moldavian loan. He came a quarter late, and of course he went a quarter late. And how is a man to catch a quarter of an hour? I never could do it." Montague assured the great man that the delay was of no consequence. "And I am so sorry to ask you into such a place as this. I had Brehgert in my room down-stairs, and then the house is so knocked about! We get into a furnished house a little way off in Bruton Street to-morrow. Longestaffe lets me his house for a month till this affair of the dinner is over. By-the-bye, Montague, if you'd like to come to the dinner, I've got a ticket I can let you have. You know how they're run after." Montague had heard of the dinner, but had perhaps heard as little of it as any man frequenting a club at the west end of London. He did not in the least want to be at the dinner, and certainly did not wish to receive any extraordinary civility from Mr. Melmotte's hands. But he was very anxious to know why Mr. Melmotte should offer it. He excused himself saying that he was not particularly fond of big dinners, and that he did not like standing in the way of other people. "Ah, indeed," said Melmotte. "There are ever so many people of title would give anything for a ticket. You'd be astonished at the persons who have asked. We've had to squeeze in a chair on one side for the Master of the Buckhounds, and on another for the Bishop of—; I forget what bishop it is, but we had the two archbishops before. They say he must come because he has something to do with getting up the missionaries for Thibet. But I've got the ticket, if you'll have it." This was the ticket which was to have taken in Georgiana Longestaffe as one of the Melmotte family, had not Melmotte perceived that it might be useful to him as a bribe. But Paul would not take the bribe. "You're the only man in London then," said Melmotte, somewhat offended. "But at any rate you'll come in the evening, and I'll have one of Madame Melmotte's tickets sent to you." Paul, not knowing how to escape, said that he would come in the evening. "I am particularly anxious," continued he, "to be civil to those who are connected with our great Railway, and of course, in this country, your name stands first,—next to my own." Then the great man paused, and Paul began to wonder whether it could be possible that he had been sent for to Grosvenor Square on a Sunday morning in order that he might be asked to dine in the same house a fortnight later. But that was impossible. "Have you anything special to say about the Railway?" he asked. "Well, yes. It is so hard to get things said at the Board. Of course there are some there who do not understand matters." "I doubt if there be any one there who does understand this matter," said Paul. Melmotte affected to laugh. "Well, well; I am not prepared to go quite so far as that. My friend Cohenlupe has had great experience in these affairs, and of course you are aware that he is in Parliament. And Lord Alfred sees farther into them than perhaps you give him credit for." "He may easily do that." "Well, well. Perhaps you don't know him quite as well as I do." The scowl began to appear on Mr. Melmotte's brow. Hitherto it had been banished as well as he knew how to banish it. "What I wanted to say to you was this. We didn't quite agree at the last meeting." "No; we did not." "I was very sorry for it. Unanimity is everything in the direction of such an undertaking as this. With unanimity we can do—everything." Mr. Melmotte in the ecstasy of his enthusiasm lifted up both his hands over his head. "Without unanimity we can do—nothing." And the two hands fell. "Unanimity should be printed everywhere about a Board-room. It should, indeed, Mr. Montague." "But suppose the directors are not unanimous." "They should be unanimous. They should make themselves unanimous. God bless my soul! You don't want to see the thing fall to pieces!" "Not if it can be carried on honestly." "Honestly! Who says that anything is dishonest?" Again the brow became very heavy. "Look here, Mr. Montague. If you and I quarrel in that Board-room, there is no knowing the amount of evil we may do to every individual shareholder in the Company. I find the responsibility on my own shoulders so great that I say the thing must be stopped. Damme, Mr. Montague, it must be stopped. We mustn't ruin widows and children, Mr. Montague. We mustn't let those shares run down 20 below par for a mere chimera. I've known a fine property blasted, Mr. Montague, sent straight to the dogs,—annihilated, sir;—so that it all vanished into thin air, and widows and children past counting were sent out to starve about the streets,—just because one director sat in another director's chair. I did, by G——! What do you think of that, Mr. Montague? Gentlemen who don't know the nature of credit, how strong it is,—as the air,—to buoy you up; how slight it is,—as a mere vapour,—when roughly touched, can do an amount of mischief of which they themselves don't in the least understand the extent! What is it you want, Mr. Montague?" "What do I want?" Melmotte's description of the peculiar susceptibility of great mercantile speculations had not been given without some effect on Montague, but this direct appeal to himself almost drove that effect out of his mind. "I only want justice." "But you should know what justice is before you demand it at the expense of other people. Look here, Mr. Montague. I suppose you are like the rest of us, in this matter. You want to make money out of it." "For myself, I want interest for my capital; that is all. But I am not thinking of myself." "You are getting very good interest. If I understand the matter,"—and here Melmotte pulled out a little book, showing thereby how careful he was in mastering details,—"you had about £6,000 embarked in the business when Fisker joined your firm. You imagine yourself to have that still." "I don't know what I've got." "I can tell you then. You have that, and you've drawn nearly a thousand pounds since Fisker came over, in one shape or another. That's not bad interest on your money." "There was back interest due to me." "If so, it's due still. I've nothing to do with that. Look here, Mr. Montague. I am most anxious that you should remain with us. I was about to propose, only for that little rumpus the other day, that, as you're an unmarried man, and have time on your hands, you should go out to California and probably across to Mexico, in order to get necessary information for the Company. Were I of your age, unmarried, and without impediment, it is just the thing I should like. Of course you'd go at the Company's expense. I would see to your own personal interests while you were away;—or you could appoint any one by power of attorney. Your seat at the Board would be kept for you; but, should anything occur amiss,—which it won't, for the thing is as sound as anything I know,—of course you, as absent, would not share the responsibility. That's what I was thinking. It would be a delightful trip;—but if you don't like it, you can of course remain at the Board, and be of the greatest use to me. Indeed, after a bit I could devolve nearly the whole management on you;—and I must do something of the kind, as I really haven't the time for it. But,—if it is to be that way,—do be unanimous. Unanimity is the very soul of these things;—the very soul, Mr. Montague." "But if I can't be unanimous?" "Well;—if you can't, and if you won't take my advice about going out;—which, pray, think about, for you would be most useful. It might be the very making of the railway;—then I can only suggest that you should take your £6,000 and leave us. I, myself, should be greatly distressed; but if you are determined that way I will see that you have your money. I will make myself personally responsible for the payment of it,—some time before the end of the year." Paul Montague told the great man that he would consider the whole matter, and see him in Abchurch Lane before the next Board day. "And now, good-bye," said Mr. Melmotte, as he bade his young friend adieu in a hurry. "I'm afraid that I'm keeping Sir Gregory Gribe, the Bank Director, waiting down-stairs." 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. Anthony Trollope (2004). The Way We Live Now. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/5231/pg5231-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

"UNANIMITY IS THE VERY SOUL OF THESE THINGS."

JOHN CRUMB

The Secret of Chimneys by Agatha Christie, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . Anthony Cade Signs on I. Anthony Cade Signs on “Gentleman Joe!” “Why, if it isn’t old Jimmy McGrath.” Castle’s Select Tour, represented by seven depressed-looking females and three perspiring males, looked on with considerable interest. Evidently their Mr. Cade had met an old friend. They all admired Mr. Cade so much, his tall lean figure, his sun-tanned face, the light-hearted manner with which he settled disputes and cajoled them all into good temper. This friend of his now—surely rather a peculiar-looking man. About the same height as Mr. Cade, but thickset and not nearly so good-looking. The sort of man one read about in books, who probably kept a saloon. Interesting, though. After all, that was what one came abroad for—to see all these peculiar things one read about in books. Up to now, they had been rather bored with Bulawayo. The sun was unbearably hot, the hotel was uncomfortable, there seemed to be nowhere particular to go until the moment should arrive to motor to the Matoppos. Very fortunately, Mr. Cade had suggested picture postcards. There was an excellent supply of picture postcards. Anthony Cade and his friend had stepped a little apart. “What the hell are you doing with this pack of females?” demanded McGrath. “Starting a harem.” “Not with this little lot,” grinned Anthony. “Have you taken a good look at them?” “I have that. Thought maybe you were losing your eyesight.” “My eyesight’s as good as ever it was. No, this is a Castle’s Select Tour. I’m Castle—the local Castle, I mean.” “What the hell made you take on a job like that?” “A regrettable necessity for cash. I can assure you it doesn’t suit my temperament.” Jimmy grinned. “Never a hog for regular work, were you?” Anthony ignored this aspersion. “However, something will turn up soon, I expect,” he remarked hopefully. “It usually does.” Jimmy chuckled. “If there’s any trouble brewing, Anthony Cade is sure to be in it sooner or later, I know that,” he said. “You’ve an absolute instinct for rows—and the nine lives of a cat. When can we have a yarn together?” Anthony sighed. “I’ve got to take these cackling hens to see Rhodes’s grave.” “That’s the stuff,” said Jimmy approvingly. “They’ll come back bumped black and blue with the ruts in the road, and clamouring for bed to rest the bruises on. Then you and I will have a spot or two and exchange the news.” “Right. So long, Jimmy.” Anthony rejoined his flock of sheep. Miss Taylor, the youngest and most skittish of the party, instantly attacked him. “Oh, Mr. Cade, was that an old friend of yours?” “It was, Miss Taylor. One of the friends of my blameless youth.” Miss Taylor giggled. “I thought he was such an interesting-looking man.” “I’ll tell him you said so.” “Oh, Mr. Cade, how can you be so naughty! The very idea! What was that name he called you?” “Gentleman Joe?” “Yes. Is your name Joe?” “I thought you knew it was Anthony, Miss Taylor.” “Oh, go on with you!” cried Miss Taylor coquettishly. Anthony had by now well mastered his duties. In addition to making the necessary arrangements of travel, they included soothing down irritable old gentlemen when their dignity was ruffled, seeing that elderly matrons had ample opportunities to buy picture postcards, and flirting with everything under a catholic forty years of age. The last task was rendered easier for him by the extreme readiness of the ladies in question to read a tender meaning into his most innocent remarks. Miss Taylor returned to the attack. “Why does he call you Joe, then?” “Oh, just because it isn’t my name.” “And why Gentleman Joe?” “The same kind of reason.” “Oh, Mr. Cade,” protested Miss Taylor, much distressed, “I’m sure you shouldn’t say that. Papa was only saying last night what gentlemanly manners you had.” “Very kind of your father, I’m sure, Miss Taylor.” “And we are all agreed that you are quite the gentleman.” “I’m overwhelmed.” “No, really, I mean it.” “Kind hearts are more than coronets,” said Anthony vaguely, without a notion of what he meant by the remark, and wishing fervently it was lunch time. “That’s such a beautiful poem, I always think. Do you know much poetry, Mr. Cade?” “I might recite ‘The boy stood on the burning deck’ at a pinch. ‘The boy stood on the burning deck, whence all but he had fled.’ That’s all I know, but I can do that bit with action if you like. ‘The boy stood on the burning deck’—whoosh—whoosh—whoosh—(the flames, you see) ‘Whence all but he had fled’—for that bit I run to and fro like a dog.” Miss Taylor screamed with laughter. “Oh, do look at Mr. Cade! Isn’t he funny?” “Time for morning tea,” said Anthony briskly. “Come this way. There is an excellent café in the next street.” “I presume,” said Mrs. Caldicott, in her deep voice, “that the expense is included in the Tour?” “Morning tea, Mrs. Caldicott,” said Anthony, assuming his professional manner, “is an extra.” “Disgraceful.” “Life is full of trials, isn’t it?” said Anthony cheerfully. Mrs. Caldicott’s eyes gleamed, and she remarked with the air of one springing a mine: “I suspected as much, and in anticipation I poured off some tea into a jug at breakfast this morning! I can heat that up on the spirit lamp. Come, father.” Mr. and Mrs. Caldicott sailed off triumphantly to the hotel, the lady’s back complacent with successful forethought. “Oh, Lord,” muttered Anthony, “what a lot of funny people it does take to make a world.” He marshalled the rest of the party in the direction of the café. Miss Taylor kept by his side, and resumed her catechism. “Is it a long time since you saw your friend?” “Just over seven years.” “Was it in Africa you knew him?” “Yes, not this part though. The first time I ever saw Jimmy McGrath, he was all trussed up ready for the cooking pot. Some of the tribes in the interior are cannibals, you know. We got there just in time.” “What happened?” “Very nice little shindy. We potted some of the beggars, and the rest took to their heels.” “Oh, Mr. Cade, what an adventurous life you must have led!” “Very peaceful, I assure you.” But it was clear that the lady did not believe him. It was about ten o’clock that night when Anthony Cade walked into the small room where Jimmy McGrath was busy manipulating various bottles. “Make it strong, James,” he implored. “I can tell you, I need it.” “I should think you did, my boy. I wouldn’t take on that job of yours for anything.” “Show me another, and I’ll jump out of it fast enough.” McGrath poured out his own drink, tossed it off with a practised hand and mixed a second one. Then he said slowly: “Are you in earnest about that, old son?” “About what?” “Chucking this job of yours if you could get another?” “Why? You don’t mean to say that you’ve got a job going begging? Why don’t you grab it yourself?” “I have grabbed it—but I don’t much fancy it, that’s why I’m trying to pass it on to you.” Anthony became suspicious. “What’s wrong with it? They haven’t engaged you to teach in a Sunday school, have they?” “Do you think anyone would choose me to teach in a Sunday school?” “Not if they knew you well, certainly.” “It’s a perfectly good job—nothing wrong with it whatsoever.” “Not in South America by any lucky chance? I’ve rather got my eye on South America. There’s a very tidy little revolution coming off in one of those little republics soon.” McGrath grinned. “You always were keen on revolutions—anything to be mixed up in a really good row.” “I feel my talents might be appreciated out there. I tell you, Jimmy, I can be jolly useful in a revolution—to one side or the other. It’s better than making an honest living any day.” “I think I’ve heard that sentiment from you before, my son. No, the job isn’t in South America—it’s in England.” “England? Return of hero to his native land after many long years. They can’t dun you for bills after seven years, can they, Jimmy?” “I don’t think so. Well, are you on for hearing more about it?” “I’m on all right. The thing that worries me is why you’re not taking it on yourself.” “I’ll tell you. I’m after gold, Anthony—far up in the interior.” Anthony whistled and looked at him. “You’ve always been after gold, Jimmy, ever since I knew you. It’s your weak spot—your own particular little hobby. You’ve followed up more wild-cat trails than anyone I know.” “And in the end I’ll strike it. You’ll see.” “Well, every one his own hobby. Mine’s rows, yours is gold.” “I’ll tell you the whole story. I suppose you know all about Herzoslovakia?” Anthony looked up sharply. “Herzoslovakia?” he said, with a curious ring in his voice. “Yes. Know anything about it?” There was quite an appreciable pause before Anthony answered. Then he said slowly: “Only what every one knows. It’s one of the Balkan States, isn’t it? Principal rivers, unknown. Principal mountains, also unknown, but fairly numerous. Capital, Ekarest. Population, chiefly brigands. Hobby, assassinating Kings and having Revolutions. Last King, Nicholas IV. Assassinated about seven years ago. Since then it’s been a Republic. Altogether a very likely spot. You might have mentioned before that Herzoslovakia came into it.” “It doesn’t except indirectly.” Anthony gazed at him more in sorrow than in anger. “You ought to do something about this, James,” he said. “Take a correspondence course, or something. If you’d told a story like this in the good old Eastern days, you’d have been hung up by the heels and bastinadoed or something equally unpleasant.” Jimmy pursued his course quite unmoved by these strictures. “Ever heard of Count Stylptitch?” “Now you’re talking,” said Anthony. “Many people who have never heard of Herzoslovakia would brighten at the mention of Count Stylptitch. The Grand Old Man of the Balkans. The Greatest Statesman of Modern Times. The biggest Villain unhung. The point of view all depends on which newspaper you take in. But be sure of this, Count Stylptitch will be remembered long after you and I are dust and ashes, James. Every move and counter move in the Near East for the last twenty years has had Count Stylptitch at the bottom of it. He’s been a dictator and a patriot and a statesman—and nobody knows exactly what he has been, except that he’s been a perfect King of intrigue. Well, what about him?” “He was Prime Minister of Herzoslovakia—that’s why I mentioned it first.” “You’ve no sense of proportion, Jimmy. Herzoslovakia is of no importance at all compared to Stylptitch. It just provided him with a birthplace and a post in public affairs. But I thought he was dead?” “So he is. He died in Paris about two months ago. What I’m telling you about happened some years ago.” “The question is,” said Anthony, “what are you telling me about?” Jimmy accepted the rebuke and hastened on. “It was like this. I was in Paris—just four years ago, to be exact. I was walking along one night in rather a lonely part, when I saw half a dozen French toughs beating up a respectable-looking old gentleman. I hate a one-sided show, so I promptly butted in and proceeded to beat up the toughs. I guess they’d never been hit really hard before. They melted like snow!” “Good for you, James,” said Anthony softly. “I’d like to have seen that scrap.” “Oh, it was nothing much,” said Jimmy modestly. “But the old boy was no end grateful. He’d had a couple, no doubt about that, but he was sober enough to get my name and address out of me, and he came along and thanked me next day. Did the thing in style too. It was then that I found out it was Count Stylptitch I’d rescued. He’d got a house up by the Bois.” Anthony nodded. “Yes, Stylptitch went to live in Paris after the assassination of King Nicholas. They wanted him to come back and be President later, but he wasn’t taking any. He remained sound to his Monarchical principals, though he was reported to have his finger in all the backstairs pies that went on in the Balkans. Very deep, the late Count Stylptitch.” “Nicholas IV was the man who had a funny taste in wives, wasn’t he?” said Jimmy suddenly. “Yes,” said Anthony. “And it did for him too, poor beggar. She was some little guttersnipe of a music hall artiste in Paris—not even suitable for a morganatic alliance. But Nicholas had a frightful crush on her, and she was all out for being a Queen. Sounds fantastic, but they managed it somehow. Called her the Countess Popoffsky, or something, and pretended she had Romanoff blood in her veins. Nicholas married her in the Cathedral at Ekarest with a couple of unwilling Arch-bishops to do the job, and she was crowned as Queen Varaga. Nicholas squared his Ministers, and I suppose he thought that was all that mattered—but he forgot to reckon with the populace. They’re very aristocratic and reactionary in Herzoslovakia. They like their Kings and Queens to be the genuine article. There were mutterings and discontent, and the usual ruthless suppressions, and the final uprising which stormed the Palace, murdered the King and Queen, and proclaimed a Republic. It’s been a Republic ever since—but things still manage to be pretty lively there, so I’ve heard. They’ve assassinated a President or two, just to keep their hand in. But revenons à nos moutons. You had got to where Count Stylptitch was hailing you as his preserver.” “Yes. Well, that was the end of that business. I came back to Africa and never thought of it again until about two weeks ago I got a queer-looking parcel which had been following me all over the place for the Lord knows how long. I’d seen in a paper that Count Stylptitch had recently died in Paris. Well, this parcel contained his Memoirs—or Reminiscences, or whatever you call the things. There was a note enclosed to the effect that if I delivered the manuscript at a certain firm of publishers in London on or before October 13 they were instructed to hand me a thousand pounds.” “A thousand pounds? Did you say a thousand pounds, Jimmy?” “I did, my son. I hope to God it’s not a hoax. Put not your trust in Princes or Politicians, as the saying goes. Well, there it is. Owing to the way the manuscript had been following me around, I had no time to lose. It was a pity, all the same. I’d just fixed up this trip to the interior, and I’d set my heart on going. I shan’t get such a good chance again.” “You’re incurable, Jimmy. A thousand pounds in the hand is worth a lot of mythical gold.” “And supposing it’s all a hoax? Anyway, here I am, passage booked and everything, on the way to Cape Town—and then you blow along!” Anthony got up and lit a cigarette. “I begin to perceive your drift, James. You go gold hunting as planned, and I collect the thousand pounds for you. How much do I get out of it?” “What do you say to a quarter?” “Two hundred and fifty pounds free of income tax, as the saying goes?” “That’s it.” “Done, and just to make you gnash your teeth I’ll tell you that I would have gone for a hundred! Let me tell you, James McGrath, you won’t die in your bed counting up your bank balance.” “Anyway, it’s a deal?” “It’s a deal all right. I’m on. And confusion to Castle’s Select Tours.” They drank the toast solemnly. 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. Agatha Christie (1998). The Secret of Chimneys. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/65238/pg65238-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 .

Anthony Cade Signs on

The troubles of the future

Rainbow Valley by L. M. Montgomery, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . POOR ADAM! CHAPTER XIX. POOR ADAM! When Una got home Faith was lying face downwards on her bed, utterly refusing to be comforted. Aunt Martha had killed Adam. He was reposing on a platter in the pantry that very minute, trussed and dressed, encircled by his liver and heart and gizzard. Aunt Martha heeded Faith’s passion of grief and anger not a whit. “We had to have something for the strange minister’s dinner,” she said. “You’re too big a girl to make such a fuss over an old rooster. You knew he’d have to be killed sometime.” “I’ll tell father when he comes home what you’ve done,” sobbed Faith. “Don’t you go bothering your poor father. He has troubles enough. And I’m housekeeper here.” “Adam was mine—Mrs. Johnson gave him to me. You had no business to touch him,” stormed Faith. “Don’t you get sassy now. The rooster’s killed and there’s an end of it. I ain’t going to set no strange minister down to a dinner of cold b’iled mutton. I was brought up to know better than that, if I have come down in the world.” Faith would not go down to supper that night and she would not go to church the next morning. But at dinner time she went to the table, her eyes swollen with crying, her face sullen. The Rev. James Perry was a sleek, rubicund man, with a bristling white moustache, bushy white eyebrows, and a shining bald head. He was certainly not handsome and he was a very tiresome, pompous sort of person. But if he had looked like the Archangel Michael and talked with the tongues of men and angels Faith would still have utterly detested him. He carved Adam up dexterously, showing off his plump white hands and very handsome diamond ring. Also, he made jovial remarks all through the performance. Jerry and Carl giggled, and even Una smiled wanly, because she thought politeness demanded it. But Faith only scowled darkly. The Rev. James thought her manners shockingly bad. Once, when he was delivering himself of an unctuous remark to Jerry, Faith broke in rudely with a flat contradiction. The Rev. James drew his bushy eyebrows together at her. “Little girls should not interrupt,” he said, “and they should not contradict people who know far more than they do.” This put Faith in a worse temper than ever. To be called “little girl” as if she were no bigger than chubby Rilla Blythe over at Ingleside! It was insufferable. And how that abominable Mr. Perry did eat! He even picked poor Adam’s bones. Neither Faith nor Una would touch a mouthful, and looked upon the boys as little better than cannibals. Faith felt that if that awful repast did not soon come to an end she would wind it up by throwing something at Mr. Perry’s gleaming head. Fortunately, Mr. Perry found Aunt Martha’s leathery apple pie too much even for his powers of mastication and the meal came to an end, after a long grace in which Mr. Perry offered up devout thanks for the food which a kind and beneficent Providence had provided for sustenance and temperate pleasure. “God hadn’t a single thing to do with providing Adam for you,” muttered Faith rebelliously under her breath. The boys gladly made their escape to outdoors, Una went to help Aunt Martha with the dishes—though that rather grumpy old dame never welcomed her timid assistance—and Faith betook herself to the study where a cheerful wood fire was burning in the grate. She thought she would thereby escape from the hated Mr. Perry, who had announced his intention of taking a nap in his room during the afternoon. But scarcely had Faith settled herself in a corner, with a book, when he walked in and, standing before the fire, proceeded to survey the disorderly study with an air of disapproval. “You father’s books seem to be in somewhat deplorable confusion, my little girl,” he said severely. Faith darkled in her corner and said not a word. She would not talk to this—this creature. “You should try to put them in order,” Mr. Perry went on, playing with his handsome watch chain and smiling patronizingly on Faith. “You are quite old enough to attend to such duties. My little daughter at home is only ten and she is already an excellent little housekeeper and the greatest help and comfort to her mother. She is a very sweet child. I wish you had the privilege of her acquaintance. She could help you in many ways. Of course, you have not had the inestimable privilege of a good mother’s care and training. A sad lack—a very sad lack. I have spoken more than once to your father in this connection and pointed out his duty to him faithfully, but so far with no effect. I trust he may awaken to a realization of his responsibility before it is too late. In the meantime, it is your duty and privilege to endeavour to take your sainted mother’s place. You might exercise a great influence over your brothers and your little sister—you might be a true mother to them. I fear that you do not think of these things as you should. My dear child, allow me to open your eyes in regard to them.” Mr. Perry’s oily, complacent voice trickled on. He was in his element. Nothing suited him better than to lay down the law, patronize and exhort. He had no idea of stopping, and he did not stop. He stood before the fire, his feet planted firmly on the rug, and poured out a flood of pompous platitudes. Faith heard not a word. She was really not listening to him at all. But she was watching his long black coat-tails with impish delight growing in her brown eyes. Mr. Perry was standing very near the fire. His coat-tails began to scorch—his coat-tails began to smoke. He still prosed on, wrapped up in his own eloquence. The coat-tails smoked worse. A tiny spark flew up from the burning wood and alighted in the middle of one. It clung and caught and spread into a smouldering flame. Faith could restrain herself no longer and broke into a stifled giggle. Mr. Perry stopped short, angered over this impertinence. Suddenly he became conscious that a reek of burning cloth filled the room. He whirled round and saw nothing. Then he clapped his hands to his coat-tails and brought them around in front of him. There was already quite a hole in one of them—and this was his new suit. Faith shook with helpless laughter over his pose and expression. “Did you see my coat-tails burning?” he demanded angrily. “Yes, sir,” said Faith demurely. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded, glaring at her. “You said it wasn’t good manners to interrupt, sir,” said Faith, more demurely still. “If—if I was your father, I would give you a spanking that you would remember all your life, Miss,” said a very angry reverend gentleman, as he stalked out of the study. The coat of Mr. Meredith’s second best suit would not fit Mr. Perry, so he had to go to the evening service with his singed coat-tail. But he did not walk up the aisle with his usual consciousness of the honour he was conferring on the building. He never would agree to an exchange of pulpits with Mr. Meredith again, and he was barely civil to the latter when they met for a few minutes at the station the next morning. But Faith felt a certain gloomy satisfaction. Adam was partially avenged. 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 (2004). Rainbow Valley. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/5343/pg5343-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.

POOR ADAM!

Verifying our structural analysis calculation is important, but it’s time-consuming. That is why if you can automate the process of structural analysis through coding, then, auditing your manual structural calculation results accuracy will be much easier. Hence, I decided to write a Python program to help me analyze a 2d frame structure. Learning how to program as an engineer or a student in engineering will help you build structural analyses and finite element tools that might become a startup company like Viktor. Viktor is a development platform with a value proposition of helping civil engineering companies develop their in-house engineering analyses and design tools with nothing but Python programming language. We are going to be using a Python library called . is a Python implementation of the 2D finite element method for structures. It allows you to do a structural analysis of frames and trusses. It helps you to compute the forces and displacements in the structural elements. anastruct anastruct https://youtu.be/jVMJdUh1ij8?t=53 Materials I use VS code as my (IDE) Python 3.10.0 which is a Python library developed by for frame and truss analyses anastruct Richie Vink The question above is from the website. structville We are going to be computing and plotting the following: Bending moment diagram Shear force diagram Axial forces diagram Step 1: Install the Library Using the Pip Command Open your VScode terminal, and type the following: pip install anastruct Step 2: Import the SystemElement Class This is the blueprint holding the behavior and properties of our structural elements from anastruct import SystemElements Step 3: Create the Structural Object From the System Class We are now going to create our structural element object(ss) by instantiating our class that we imported like this: SystemElement ss = SystemElements() Step 4: Create Structural Element With Nodal Positions Now, we are going to use the from the class. What this does is add different members into a frame connected at nodes and the argument locations to add various spans or lengths of the members. add _element method systemElement ss.add_element(location=[[0, 0], [0, 2]])
ss.add_element(location=[[0, 2], [0, 4]])
ss.add_element(location=[[0, 4], [3, 4]])
ss.add_element(location=[[3, 4], [4, 4]])
ss.add_element(location=[[4, 4], [6, 4]])
ss.add_element(location=[[6, 4], [7, 4]]) Step 5: Let’s Define Hinges From the original question, We have two internal hinges at nodes 3(B) and 5(2). So, we are adding the internal hinges using the . add_inernal_hinges method ss.add_internal_hinge(node_id=3)
ss.add_internal_hinge(node_id=5) Step 6: Define Support Conditions The frame structure has 3 supports. At node1 is fixed, node4 is roller support, and node6 is roller. ss.add_support_fixed(node_id=1)
ss.add_support_roll(node_id=4)
ss.add_support_roll(node_id=6) Step 7: Add External Forces(load) to the Structure We add horizontal point load at node2 using the passing the node location, and the magnitude of the load as an argument. Also, for the other point load. point_load method For the uniformly distributed using is used, and passing the element_id the load is acting on with the magnitude of the load q. The — sign in the load magnitude q signifies the load is acting downward. q_load method ss.point_load(node_id=2,Fx=+5)
ss.q_load(q=-2,element_id=3)
ss.q_load(q=-2,element_id=4)
ss.point_load(node_id=7,Fy=-10) Step 8: Analyze the Response of the Structure and Show the Reaction Forces We use the to compute the reaction forces, bending stresses, shear forces, and axial forces of the frame. solve method We use the method to plot the frame with the reaction forces at the supports: show_reaction_force ss.solve() ss.show_reaction_force() Step 9: Plot the Bending Moment Diagram We use the to plot the bending moment diagram of the frame. show bending moment method ss.show_bending_moment() . Step 10: Plot Shear Force Diagram To plot the shear force diagram, we use the . The Python plotting is on the left, and the diagram from the manual solution is on the right. show shearforce method ss.show_shear_force() Step 11: Plot Axial Force ss.show_axial_force() Conclusion Many civil engineering firms are using Python to create custom tools that solve complex problems. It will be cool as a student in civil engineering to learn how to program in Python while solving your domain problems. Also published here

2d Frame Analysis Using Python: A Guide for Beginners

The fowling-snare is one of man's ingenious villainies

THE GARDEN SPIDERS: PAIRING AND HUNTING

The Life of the Spider by Jean-Henri Fabre, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . THE GARDEN SPIDERS: THE TELEGRAPH-WIRE CHAPTER XII: THE GARDEN SPIDERS: THE TELEGRAPH-WIRE Of the six Garden Spiders that form the object of my observations, two only, the Banded and the silky Epeira, remain constantly in their webs, even under the blinding rays of a fierce sun. The others, as a rule, do not show themselves until nightfall. At some distance from the net, they have a rough and ready retreat in the brambles, an ambush made of a few leaves held together by stretched threads. It is here that, for the most part, they remain in the daytime, motionless and sunk in meditation. But the shrill light that vexes them is the joy of the fields. At such times, the Locust hops more nimbly than ever, more gaily skims the Dragon-fly. Besides, the limy web, despite the rents suffered during the night, is still in serviceable condition. If some giddy-pate allow himself to be caught, will the Spider, at the distance whereto she has retired, be unable to take advantage of the windfall? Never fear. She arrives in a flash. How is she apprised? Let us explain the matter. The alarm is given by the vibration of the web, much more than by the sight of the captured object. A very simple experiment will prove this. I lay upon a Banded Epeira’s lime-threads a Locust that second asphyxiated with carbon disulphide. The carcass is placed in front, or behind, or at either side of the Spider, who sits moveless in the centre of the net. If the test is to be applied to a species with a daytime hiding-place amid the foliage, the dead Locust is laid on the web, more or less near the centre, no matter how. In both cases, nothing happens at first. The Epeira remains in her motionless attitude, even when the morsel is at a short distance in front of her. She is indifferent to the presence of the game, does not seem to perceive it, so much so that she ends by wearing out my patience. Then, with a long straw, which enables me to conceal myself slightly, I set the dead insect trembling. That is quite enough. The Banded Epeira and the Silky Epeira hasten to the central floor; the others come down from the branch; all go to the Locust, swathe him with tape, treat him, in short, as they would treat a live prey captured under normal conditions. It took the shaking of the web to decide them to attack. Perhaps the grey colour of the Locust is not sufficiently conspicuous to attract attention by itself. Then let us try red, the brightest colour to our retina and probably also to the Spiders’. None of the game hunted by the Epeirae being clad in scarlet, I make a small bundle out of red wool, a bait of the size of a Locust. I glue it to the web. My stratagem succeeds. As long as the parcel is stationary, the Spider is not roused; but, the moment it trembles, stirred by my straw, she runs up eagerly. There are silly ones who just touch the thing with their legs and, without further enquiries, swathe it in silk after the manner of the usual game. They even go so far as to dig their fangs into the bait, following the rule of the preliminary poisoning. Then and then only the mistake is recognized and the tricked Spider retires and does not come back, unless it be long afterwards, when she flings the cumbersome object out of the web. There are also clever ones. Like the others, these hasten to the red-woollen lure, which my straw insidiously keeps moving; they come from their tent among the leaves as readily as from the centre of the web; they explore it with their palpi and their legs; but, soon perceiving that the thing is valueless, they are careful not to spend their silk on useless bonds. My quivering bait does not deceive them. It is flung out after a brief inspection. Still, the clever ones, like the silly ones, run even from a distance, from their leafy ambush. How do they know? Certainly not by sight. Before recognizing their mistake, they have to hold the object between their legs and even to nibble at it a little. They are extremely short-sighted. At a hand’s-breadth’s distance, the lifeless prey, unable to shake the web, remains unperceived. Besides, in many cases, the hunting takes place in the dense darkness of the night, when sight, even if it were good, would not avail. If the eyes are insufficient guides, even close at hand, how will it be when the prey has to be spied from afar! In that case, an intelligence-apparatus for long-distance work becomes indispensable. We have no difficulty in detecting the apparatus. Let us look attentively behind the web of any Epeira with a daytime hiding-place: we shall see a thread that starts from the centre of the network, ascends in a slanting line outside the plane of the web and ends at the ambush where the Spider lurks all day. Except at the central point, there is no connection between this thread and the rest of the work, no interweaving with the scaffolding-threads. Free of impediment, the line runs straight from the centre of the net to the ambush-tent. Its length averages twenty-two inches. The Angular Epeira, settled high up in the trees, has shown me some as long as eight or nine feet. There is no doubt that this slanting line is a foot-bridge which allows the Spider to repair hurriedly to the web, when summoned by urgent business, and then, when her round is finished, to return to her hut. In fact, it is the road which I see her follow, in going and coming. But is that all? No; for, if the Epeira had no aim in view but a means of rapid transit between her tent and the net, the foot-bridge would be fastened to the upper edge of the web. The journey would be shorter and the slope less steep. Why, moreover, does this line always start in the centre of the sticky network and nowhere else? Because that is the point where the spokes meet and, therefore, the common centre of vibration. Anything that moves upon the web sets it shaking. All then that is needed is a thread issuing from this central point to convey to a distance the news of a prey struggling in some part or other of the net. The slanting cord, extending outside the plane of the web, is more than a foot-bridge: it is, above all, a signalling-apparatus, a telegraph-wire. Let us try experiment. I place a Locust on the network. Caught in the sticky toils, he plunges about. Forthwith, the Spider issues impetuously from her hut, comes down the foot-bridge, makes a rush for the Locust, wraps him up and operates on him according to rule. Soon after, she hoists him, fastened by a line to her spinneret, and drags him to her hiding-place, where a long banquet will be held. So far, nothing new: things happen as usual. I leave the Spider to mind her own affairs for some days, before I interfere with her. I again propose to give her a Locust; but, this time, I first cut the signalling-thread with a touch of the scissors, without shaking any part of the edifice. The game is then laid on the web. Complete success: the entangled insect struggles, sets the net quivering; the Spider, on her side, does not stir, as though heedless of events. The idea might occur to one that, in this business, the Epeira stays motionless in her cabin since she is prevented from hurrying down, because the foot-bridge is broken. Let us undeceive ourselves: for one road open to her there are a hundred, all ready to bring her to the place where her presence is now required. The network is fastened to the branches by a host of lines, all of them very easy to cross. Well, the Epeira embarks upon none of them, but remains moveless and self-absorbed. Why? Because her telegraph, being out of order, no longer tells her of the shaking of the web. The captured prey is too far off for her to see it; she is all unwitting. A good hour passes, with the Locust still kicking, the Spider impassive, myself watching. Nevertheless, in the end, the Epeira wakes up: no longer feeling the signalling-thread, broken by my scissors, as taut as usual under her legs, she comes to look into the state of things. The web is reached, without the least difficulty, by one of the lines of the framework, the first that offers. The Locust is then perceived and forthwith enswathed, after which the signalling-thread is remade, taking the place of the one which I have broken. Along this road the Spider goes home, dragging her prey behind her. My neighbour, the mighty Angular Epeira, with her telegraph-wire nine feet long, has even better things in store for me. One morning, I find her web, which is now deserted, almost intact, a proof that the night’s hunting has not been good. The animal must be hungry. With a piece of game for a bait, I hope to bring her down from her lofty retreat. I entangle in the web a rare morsel, a Dragon-fly, who struggles desperately and sets the whole net a-shaking. The other, up above, leaves her lurking-place amid the cypress-foliage, strides swiftly down along her telegraph-wire, comes to the Dragon-fly, trusses her and at once climbs home again by the same road, with her prize dangling at her heels by a thread. The final sacrifice will take place in the quiet of the leafy sanctuary. A few days later, I renew my experiment under the same conditions, but, this time, I first cut the signalling-thread. In vain I select a large Dragon-fly, a very restless prisoner; in vain I exert my patience: the Spider does not come down all day. Her telegraph being broken, she receives no notice of what is happening nine feet below. The entangled morsel remains where it lies, not despised, but unknown. At nightfall, the Epeira leaves her cabin, passes over the ruins of her web, finds the Dragon-fly and eats her on the spot, after which the net is renewed. One of the Epeirae whom I have had the opportunity of examining simplifies the system, while retaining the essential mechanism of a transmission-thread. This is the Crater Epeira (Epeira cratera, WALCK.), a species seen in spring, at which time she indulges especially in the chase of the Domestic Bee, upon the flowering rosemaries. At the leafy end of a branch, she builds a sort of silken shell, the shape and size of an acorn-cup. This is where she sits, with her paunch contained in the round cavity and her forelegs resting on the ledge, ready to leap. The lazy creature loves this position and rarely stations herself head downwards on the web, as do the others. Cosily ensconced in the hollow of her cup, she awaits the approaching game. Her web, which is vertical, as is the rule among the Epeirae, is of a fair size and always very near the bowl wherein the Spider takes her ease. Moreover, it touches the bowl by means of an angular extension; and the angle always contains one spoke which the Epeira, seated, so to speak, in her crater, has constantly under her legs. This spoke, springing from the common focus of the vibrations from all parts of the network, is eminently fitted to keep the Spider informed of whatsoever happens. It has a double office: it forms part of the Catherine-wheel supporting the lime-threads and it warns the Epeira by its vibrations. A special thread is here superfluous. The other snarers, on the contrary, who occupy a distant retreat by day, cannot do without a private wire that keeps them in permanent communication with the deserted web. All of them have one, in point of fact, but only when age comes, age prone to rest and to long slumbers. In their youth, the Epeirae, who are then very wide-awake, know nothing of the art of telegraphy. Besides, their web, a short-lived work whereof hardly a trace remains on the morrow, does not allow of this kind of industry. It is no use going to the expense of a signalling-apparatus for a ruined snare wherein nothing can now be caught. Only the old Spiders, meditating or dozing in their green tent, are warned from afar, by telegraph, of what takes place on the web. To save herself from keeping a close watch that would degenerate into drudgery and to remain alive to events even when resting, with her back turned on the net, the ambushed Spider always has her foot upon the telegraph-wire. Of my observations on this subject, let me relate the following, which will be sufficient for our purpose. An Angular Epeira, with a remarkably fine belly, has spun her web between two laurestine-shrubs, covering a width of nearly a yard. The sun beats upon the snare, which is abandoned long before dawn. The Spider is in her day manor, a resort easily discovered by following the telegraph-wire. It is a vaulted chamber of dead leaves, joined together with a few bits of silk. The refuge is deep: the Spider disappears in it entirely, all but her rounded hind-quarters, which bar the entrance to the donjon. With her front half plunged into the back of her hut, the Epeira certainly cannot see her web. Even if she had good sight, instead of being purblind, her position could not possibly allow her to keep the prey in view. Does she give up hunting during this period, of bright sunlight? Not at all. Look again. Wonderful! One of her hind-legs is stretched outside the leafy cabin; and the signalling-thread ends just at the tip of that leg. Whoso has not seen the Epeira in this attitude, with her hand, so to speak, on the telegraph-receiver, knows nothing of one of the most curious instances of animal cleverness. Let any game appear upon the scene; and the slumberer, forthwith aroused by means of the leg receiving the vibrations, hastens up. A Locust whom I myself lay on the web procures her this agreeable shock and what follows. If she is satisfied with her bag, I am still more satisfied with what I have learnt. The occasion is too good not to find out, under better conditions as regards approach, what the inhabitant of the cypress-trees has already shown me. The next morning, I cut the telegraph-wire, this time as long as one’s arm and held, like yesterday, by one of the hind-legs stretched outside the cabin. I then place on the web a double prey, a Dragon-fly and a Locust. The latter kicks out with his long, spurred shanks; the other flutters her wings. The web is tossed about to such an extent that a number of leaves, just beside the Epeira’s nest, move, shaken by the threads of the framework affixed to them. And this vibration, though so close at hand, does not rouse the Spider in the least, does not make her even turn round to enquire what is going on. The moment that her signalling-thread ceases to work, she knows nothing of passing events. All day long, she remains without stirring. In the evening, at eight o’clock, she sallies forth to weave the new web and at last finds the rich windfall whereof she was hitherto unaware. One word more. The web is often shaken by the wind. The different parts of the framework, tossed and teased by the eddying air-currents, cannot fail to transmit their vibration to the signalling-thread. Nevertheless, the Spider does not quit her hut and remains indifferent to the commotion prevailing in the net. Her line, therefore, is something better than a bell-rope that pulls and communicates the impulse given: it is a telephone capable, like our own, of transmitting infinitesimal waves of sound. Clutching her telephone-wire with a toe, the Spider listens with her leg; she perceives the innermost vibrations; she distinguishes between the vibration proceeding from a prisoner and the mere shaking caused by the wind. 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. Jean-Henri Fabre (1999). The Life of the Spider. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/1887/pg1887-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 .

THE GARDEN SPIDERS: THE TELEGRAPH-WIRE

THE PRINCIPLES OF FRAMEWORK

A Columbus of Space by Garrett Putman Serviss is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . AN AMAZING METROPOLIS AN AMAZING METROPOLIS If I should undertake to describe in detail all the events that now followed in rapid succession, this history would take a lifetime to write. I must choose only the more significant facts. The newcomer, whose remarkable face had immediately impressed me, and not altogether favorably, proved to be a personage of very great importance, second only, as we could see, to Ala herself. And, what was particularly important for us, he showed none of her friendly disposition. I do not mean to suggest that he seemed inclined to any active hostility, but evidently we were, in his eyes, no better than savages, and consequently entitled to no special consideration, and especially to no favors. Jack, who, with all his careless ways, had a penetrating mind for the perception of character, whispered to me, within five minutes after the fellow came aboard: "If that galoot had his way, we'd make our entry in irons. Mark my words, there's mischief in him. Hang him! I'm going to keep my pistol handy when he's around." Edmund, who happened to overhear Jack's remark, interposed: "See here, Master Jack, this is no time to be talking of pistols. I trust that we are done with shooting." We were not done with it; but that comes later. It was not long before Edmund had discovered a name for the newcomer also; he called him Ingra. It was singular, he said, that all the names seemed to be characterized by the prevalence of vowels sounds, but he thought it likely that this arose from the greater ease with which they could be enunciated. They were like Spanish words, which are the easiest of all for foreigners, and probably also for natives, to pronounce. After we reached the coast we descended to the ground, at Edmund's request, I believe, because he wished to superintend the loading of the car upon one of the largest air ships, and it was an unforgettable sight to watch him managing the work as coolly and effectively as if he had been in charge of a gang of workmen at home! And, while I looked, I found myself again doubting if, after all, this was not a dream. The workers hurrying about, Edmund following them, pointing, objecting, urging and directing, with his derby hat, which had come through all our adventures (though somewhat damaged), stuck on the back of his head—and all this on the planet Venus! No! I could not be awake. But yet I was. When we started again, we were escorted by a hundred air ships, forming a complete circle about us. Now I noticed, what had escaped attention during the extraordinary atmospheric display, viz., that these craft were painted in colors that I should call gorgeous if they had not been so perfectly harmonious and pleasing. Every one looked like the careful creation of an artist, and the variety of tints exhibited was incredible. Our own air ship, and its consorts, on the other hand, were very plain in their decorations. I called Edmund's attention to this and immediately he said: "Remember what I told you—this has been an exploring expedition, and the craft taking part in it have been fitted up for rough work. That reminds me that I have not yet made the inquiries that I intended on that subject. I shall go to Ala now and see what I can learn." She was standing on the deck near the other end, with Ingra beside her. As Edmund approached them, Jack nudged me: "Look at that fellow," he said. "Wasn't I right?" There was no doubt about it; Ingra scowled and showed every sign of displeasure at Edmund's presence. But Ala greeted him graciously, and, apparently, Ingra did not dare to interfere. I could see that Jack was grasping his pistol again, but I did not anticipate that there would be any occasion to use it. Nevertheless, I watched them closely for a time, hoping to discover Edmund's method of reading her meaning; as to her comprehension of his I had no question about that. But I got no light on the subject, and, as it soon became evident, even to Jack, that there was no danger this time, we fell to examining the land over which we were passing. We flew at a height of about two thousand feet, so that the range of vision was very wide. The sea behind us curved into the land in three great scallops, separated by acuminate promontories, whose terminal bluffs of sand were as yellow as gold. Away ahead the line of mountains, that we had noticed before, appeared as a dark sierra, and between it and the sea the country seemed to be very little broken by hills. Large forests were visible, but from our elevation it was impossible to tell whether the trees composing them bore any resemblance to terrestrial forms. The open land was about equally divided in area between bare yellowish soil (or what we took to be soil) and bright green expanses whose color suggested vegetation. Scattered here and there we saw what appeared to be habitations, but we could not be sure of their nature; and, upon the whole, the land seemed to us to be very thinly populated. Many birds accompanied us in our flight, frequently alighting on the deck and other parts of the air ship. They were remarkably tame, allowing us to approach them closely, and we were delighted by their beautiful plumage and their singular forms. This reminds me to say that the motion of the craft was extremely curious—a kind of gentle rising and falling, which was very agreeable when once we were accustomed to it, and which resembled what one would suppose to be the movement of a bird in flight. This, of course, arose from the structure of the air ship, which, as I have before said, seemed to be modeled, as far as its motive parts were concerned, upon the principle of wings rather than of simple aeroplanes. But the mechanism was very complicated, and I never arrived at a full comprehension of it. Edmund remained a long time in conference with Ala, Ingra staying constantly with them, and when he had apparently finished his "conversation" we were surprised to see them begin a tour of inspection of the air ship, finally descending into the interior. This greatly excited Jack, who was for following them at once. "I can't be easy," he declared. "Nobody can tell what may happen to him if they get him alone." But I succeeded in persuading him that there could be no danger, and that we ought to trust to Edmund's discretion. They were gone so long, however, that at last I became anxious myself, and was on the point of suggesting to Jack that we try to find them, when they reappeared, and Edmund at once came to us, his face irradiated with smiles. "I have plenty of news for you," he said, as soon as he had joined us. "Never in my life have I spent two hours more delightfully. In the first place, I have found out practically all that I wished to know about this expedition, and, second, I have thoroughly examined the mechanism of the ship. Its complication is only apparent, and the management of it is so simple that a single man can pilot it easily. I could do it myself." We did not appreciate at the time what the knowledge that Edmund had thus acquired meant for us. "Well, what about the expedition?" asked Jack. "And where are we going?" "From what I can make out," replied Edmund musingly, "Ala is really what you called her, Jack, a queen. But such a queen! If we had some like her on the earth, monarchy might not be such a bad thing after all. She is a savant." "Bluestocking," put in Jack. "This is a new kind of amazon." Edmund did not smile. "I am in earnest," he continued. "Of course you understand that most of my conclusions are really based upon inference. I cannot grasp all that she tries to tell me, but her gestures are so speaking, and her eyes so full of a kind of meaning which seems to force its way into my mind, I cannot tell how, that I am virtually sure of the correctness of my interpretation. The expedition, which I am certain was planned by her, was intended to explore the outskirts of the dark hemisphere. Perhaps they meant to penetrate within it, but, if so, the stormy belt that we crossed was too serious an obstacle for them to overcome. Our encountering them was the greatest stroke of good fortune that we have yet had. It places us right at the center of affairs." "Where are they going now?" "Evidently back to their starting point; which is likely to be a great city—the capital and metropolis, most probably. The more I think of it the stronger becomes my conviction that Ala is really, at least in power and influence, a queen. And you can see for yourselves that it must be a great and rich empire that she rules, for remember the extraordinary reception with which she was greeted, the innumerable air ships, the splendor of everything." "But are we to be well treated? Is there no danger for us in accompanying them?" "If there were danger, it would be hard for us to escape from it now; but why should there be danger? We did not kill the Esquimaux that our polar explorers brought from the Arctic regions, and for these people, we are a greater curiosity than ever the Esquimaux, or the Pygmies of Africa, were for us. Instead of encountering any danger, I anticipate that we shall be very well treated." "Perhaps they'll put us in a cage," said Jack, with a ludicrous grimace, "and tote us about as a great moral show for children. If there's a Barnum on Venus, our fate is sealed." Jack's humorous suggestion struck home, for there seemed to be probability behind it, and Henry groaned, while, for my part, I confess that I felt rather uncomfortable over the prospect. But Edmund did not pursue the conversation, and soon we fell to regarding again the landscape beneath and far around us. We were gradually nearing the mountains, although they were still distant, and presently we caught sight of what resembled, as much as anything, gigantic cobwebs glittering with dew, and rising out of the plain between us and the mountains. "There, Edmund," said Jack, "there's another chance to exercise your genius for explaining mysteries. What are those things?" Edmund watched the objects for several minutes before replying. At length he said, with the decision characteristic of him: "Palaces." Jack burst out laughing. "Castles in Spain, I reckon," he said. "But, really, Edmund, what do you think they can be?" "I have already told you, palaces, or castles, if you prefer." "You are serious?" I asked. "Perfectly so. They cannot be anything else." Seeing our astonishment and incredulity, Edmund added: "Since they retain their places, it is evident that they are edifices of some kind, attached to the ground. But their great height and aerial structure indicate that they are erected in the air—floating, I should say, but firmly anchored at the bottom. Really, I cannot see anything astonishing about it; it accords with everything else that we have seen. Your minds are too hidebound to terrestrial analogies, and you do not give your imaginations sufficient play with the new materials that are here offered. "This atmosphere," he continued, after a pause, "is exactly suited for such things. It is a region of atmospheric calm. If we were not moving, you would hardly feel a breeze, and I doubt if there is ever a high wind here. To build their habitations in the air and make them float like gossamers—could any idea be more beautiful than that, or more in harmony with the nature of this planet, which is the favorite of the sun, for first he inundates it with a splendor unknown to the earth, and then generously covers it with a gorgeous screen of cloud which cuts off his scorching beams but suffers the light to pass, filtered to opalescent ether?" When Edmund spoke like that, as he sometimes did, suffusing his words with the fervor of his imagination, even Henry, I believe, felt his soul lifted to unaccustomed heights. We hung upon his lips, and, without a word, waited for him to continue. Presently he murmured, in an undertone: "Yes, all this I foresaw in my dream. A world of crystal, houses that seemed not made with hands, reaching toward heaven, and a people, beautiful beyond compare, dwelling in the aerial home of birds"; and then, addressing us, in his ordinary tones: "You will see that the capital, which we are unquestionably approaching, is to a large extent composed of this airy architecture." And it turned out to be as he had said—when, indeed, was it ever otherwise? As we drew nearer, the aerial structures which we had first seen began to tower up to an amazing height, just perceptibly swaying and undulating with the gentle currents of air that flowed through their traceried lattices, while behind them began to loom an immense number of floating towers, rising stage above stage, like the steel monsters of New York before they have received their outer coverings, but incomparably lighter in appearance, and more delicate and graceful; truly fairy constructions, bespangled with countless brilliant points. Yet nearer, and we could see cables attached to the higher structures, and running downward as if anchored to the ground beneath, but the ground itself we could not see, because now we had dropped lower in the air, and a long hill rose between us and the fairy towers, whose slight sinuous motion, affecting so many together, produced a trifling sense of dizziness as we gazed. Still nearer, and we believed that we could see people in the buoyant towers. A minute later there was no doubt about their presence, for the colors broke forth, and that marvelous interchange of chromatic signals, which had so astonished us as we drew near the coast, was resumed. "It is my belief," said Edmund, "that, notwithstanding the buoyancy of the heavy atmosphere, those structures cannot be maintained at such elevations without mechanical aid. You will see when we get nearer that every stage is furnished with some means of support, probably vertical screws reacting upon the air." Again he had guessed right, for in a little while we were near enough to see the screws, working in a maze of motion, like the wings of a multitude of insects. The resemblance was increased by their gauzy structure, and, as they turned, they flashed and glittered as if enameled. (The supernatant structures that they maintained were, as we afterwards ascertained, framed of hollow beams and trusses—a kind of bamboo, of great strength and lightness.) Now we rose over the intervening hill, and as we did so a cry burst from our lips. A vast city made its appearance as by magic, a magnified counterpart of the aerial city above it. Put all the glories of Constantinople, Damascus, Cairo, and Bombay, with all their spires, towers, minarets, and domes together, and multiply their splendor a thousand times, and yet your imagination will be unable to picture the scene of enchantment on which our eyes rested. "It is the capital of Venus," exclaimed Edmund. "There can be nothing greater than this!" It must, indeed, be the capital, for in the midst of it rose an edifice of unparalleled splendor, which could only be the palace of a mighty monarch. Above this magnificent building, which gleamed with metallic reflections, although it was as light and airy in construction as frostwork, rose the loftiest of the aerial towers, a hundred, two hundred—I cannot tell you how many stories in height, for I never succeeded in counting them. The other air ships now dropped back, and ours alone approached this stupendous tower, making apparently for its principal landing stage. Along the sides of the tower a multitude of small air ships ran up and down, stopping at various stages to discharge their living cargoes. "Elevators," said Edmund. Glancing round we saw that similar scenes were occurring at all the towers. They were filling up with people, and the continual rising and descending of the little craft that bore them, the holiday aspect of the gay colors everywhere displayed, and the brilliancy of the whole spectacle moved us beyond words. But the most astonishing scene still awaited us. Just before our vessel reached the landing stage, the enormous tower, from foot to apex, broke out with all the hues of the rainbow, like an enchanted rose tree covered with millions of brilliant flowers at the touch of a wand. The effect was overwhelming. The air became tremulous with rippling colors, whose vibrant waves, with quick succession of concordant tints afforded to the eye an exquisite pleasure akin to that which the ear receives from a carillon of bells. Our companions, and the people crowded on the towers, seemed to be transported with ecstatic delight. "Again the music of the spectrum!" cried Edmund. "The diapason of color! It is their national hymn, or the hymn of their race, written on a prismatic, instead of a sonometric, staff. And, mark me, this has a significance beyond your conjectures!" I believe that our enjoyment of this astonishing spectacle was hardly less than that of the natives themselves, but the pleasure was suddenly broken off by a tragedy that struck cold to our hearts. We had nearly touched the landing, when we observed that a discussion was going on between Ala and Ingra, and it quickly became evident that we were the subject of it. Before we could exchange a word, they approached us, and Ingra, in a threatening manner, laid his hand on Edmund's shoulder. In a second Jack had his pistol covering Ingra. Edmund saw the motion, and struck Jack's arm aside, but the weapon exploded, and, clutching her breast, Ala fell at our feet! 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. Garrett Putman Serviss (2005). A Columbus of Space. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/8673/pg8673.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 .

AN AMAZING METROPOLIS

The Letter of Master George Killingworth, the Company’s First Agent in Muscovy

The Mucker by Edgar Rice Burroughs, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . BARBARA AGAIN BARBARA AGAIN CAPTAIN BILLY BYRNE rode out of the hills the following afternoon upon a pinto pony that showed the whites of its eyes in a wicked rim about the iris and kept its ears perpetually flattened backward. At the end of a lariat trailed the Brazos pony, for Billy, laughing aside Bridge's pleas, was on his way to El Orobo Rancho to return the stolen horse to its fair owner. At the moment of departure Pesita had asked Billy to ride by way of Jose's to instruct the old Indian that he should bear word to one Esteban that Pesita required his presence. It is a long ride from the retreat of the Pesitistas to Jose's squalid hut, especially if one be leading an extra horse, and so it was that darkness had fallen long before Billy arrived in sight of Jose's. Dismounting some distance from the hut, Billy approached cautiously, since the world is filled with dangers for those who are beyond the law, and one may not be too careful. Billy could see a light showing through a small window, and toward this he made his way. A short distance from Jose's is another, larger structure from which the former inhabitants had fled the wrath of Pesita. It was dark and apparently tenantless; but as a matter of fact a pair of eyes chanced at the very moment of Billy's coming to be looking out through the open doorway. The owner turned and spoke to someone behind him. “Jose has another visitor,” he said. “Possibly this one is less harmless than the other. He comes with great caution. Let us investigate.” Three other men rose from their blankets upon the floor and joined the speaker. They were all armed, and clothed in the nondescript uniforms of Villistas. Billy's back was toward them as they sneaked from the hut in which they were intending to spend the night and crept quietly toward him. Billy was busily engaged in peering through the little window into the interior of the old Indian's hovel. He saw an American in earnest conversation with Jose. Who could the man be? Billy did not recognize him; but presently Jose answered the question. “It shall be done as you wish, Senor Grayson,” he said. “Ah!” thought Billy; “the foreman of El Orobo. I wonder what business he has with this old scoundrel—and at night.” What other thoughts Billy might have had upon the subject were rudely interrupted by four energetic gentlemen in his rear, who leaped upon him simultaneously and dragged him to the ground. Billy made no outcry; but he fought none the less strenuously for his freedom, and he fought after the manner of Grand Avenue, which is not a pretty, however effective, way it may be. But four against one when all the advantages lie with the four are heavy odds, and when Grayson and Jose ran out to investigate, and the ranch foreman added his weight to that of the others Billy was finally subdued. That each of his antagonists would carry mementos of the battle for many days was slight compensation for the loss of liberty. However, it was some. After disarming their captive and tying his hands at his back they jerked him to his feet and examined him. “Who are you?” asked Grayson. “What you doin' sneakin' 'round spyin' on me, eh?” “If you wanna know who I am, bo,” replied Billy, “go ask de Harlem Hurricane, an' as fer spyin' on youse, I wasn't; but from de looks I guess youse need spyin, yuh tinhorn.” A pony whinnied a short distance from the hut. “That must be his horse,” said one of the Villistas, and walked away to investigate, returning shortly after with the pinto pony and Brazos. The moment Grayson saw the latter he gave an exclamation of understanding. “I know him now,” he said. “You've made a good catch, Sergeant. This is the fellow who robbed the bank at Cuivaca. I recognize him from the descriptions I've had of him, and the fact that he's got the Brazos pony makes it a cinch. Villa oughter promote you for this.” “Yep,” interjected Billy, “he orter make youse an admiral at least; but youse ain't got me home yet, an' it'll take more'n four Dagos an' a tin-horn to do it.” “They'll get you there all right, my friend,” Grayson assured him. “Now come along.” They bundled Billy into his own saddle, and shortly after the little party was winding southward along the river in the direction of El Orobo Rancho, with the intention of putting up there for the balance of the night where their prisoner could be properly secured and guarded. As they rode away from the dilapidated hut of the Indian the old man stood silhouetted against the rectangle of dim light which marked the open doorway, and shook his fist at the back of the departing ranch foreman. “El cochino!” he cackled, and turned back into his hut. At El Orobo Rancho Barbara walked to and fro outside the ranchhouse. Within her father sat reading beneath the rays of an oil lamp. From the quarters of the men came the strains of guitar music, and an occasional loud laugh indicated the climax of some of Eddie Shorter's famous Kansas farmer stories. Barbara was upon the point of returning indoors when her attention was attracted by the approach of a half-dozen horsemen. They reined into the ranchyard and dismounted before the office building. Wondering a little who came so late, Barbara entered the house, mentioning casually to her father that which she had just seen. The ranch owner, now always fearful of attack, was upon the point of investigating when Grayson rode up to the veranda and dismounted. Barbara and her father were at the door as he ascended the steps. “Good news!” exclaimed the foreman. “I've got the bank robber, and Brazos, too. Caught the sneakin' coyote up to—up the river a bit.” He had almost said “Jose's;” but caught himself in time. “Someone's been cuttin' the wire at the north side of the north pasture, an' I was ridin' up to see ef I could catch 'em at it,” he explained. “He is an American?” asked the boss. “Looks like it; but he's got the heart of a greaser,” replied Grayson. “Some of Villa's men are with me, and they're a-goin' to take him to Cuivaca tomorrow.” Neither Barbara nor her father seemed to enthuse much. To them an American was an American here in Mexico, where every hand was against their race. That at home they might have looked with disgust upon this same man did not alter their attitude here, that no American should take sides against his own people. Barbara said as much to Grayson. “Why this fellow's one of Pesita's officers,” exclaimed Grayson. “He don't deserve no sympathy from us nor from no other Americans. Pesita has sworn to kill every American that falls into his hands, and this fellow's with him to help him do it. He's a bad un.” “I can't help what he may do,” insisted Barbara. “He's an American, and I for one would never be a party to his death at the hands of a Mexican, and it will mean death to him to be taken to Cuivaca.” “Well, miss,” said Grayson, “you won't hev to be responsible—I'll take all the responsibility there is and welcome. I just thought you'd like to know we had him.” He was addressing his employer. The latter nodded, and Grayson turned and left the room. Outside he cast a sneering laugh back over his shoulder and swung into his saddle. In front of the men's quarters he drew rein again and shouted Eddie's name. Shorter came to the door. “Get your six-shooter an' a rifle, an' come on over to the office. I want to see you a minute.” Eddie did as he was bid, and when he entered the little room he saw four Mexicans lolling about smoking cigarettes while Grayson stood before a chair in which sat a man with his arms tied behind his back. Grayson turned to Eddie. “This party here is the slick un that robbed the bank, and got away on thet there Brazos pony thet miserable bookkeepin' dude giv him. The sergeant here an' his men are a-goin' to take him to Cuivaca in the mornin'. You stand guard over him 'til midnight, then they'll relieve you. They gotta get a little sleep first, though, an' I gotta get some supper. Don't stand fer no funny business now, Eddie,” Grayson admonished him, and was on the point of leaving the office when a thought occurred to him. “Say, Shorter,” he said, “they ain't no way of gettin' out of the little bedroom in back there except through this room. The windows are too small fer a big man to get through. I'll tell you what, we'll lock him up in there an' then you won't hev to worry none an' neither will we. You can jest spread out them Navajos there and go to sleep right plump ag'in the door, an' there won't nobody hev to relieve you all night.” “Sure,” said Eddie, “leave it to me—I'll watch the slicker.” Satisfied that their prisoner was safe for the night the Villistas and Grayson departed, after seeing him safely locked in the back room. At the mention by the foreman of his guard's names—Eddie and Shorter—Billy had studied the face of the young American cowpuncher, for the two names had aroused within his memory a tantalizing suggestion that they should be very familiar. Yet he could connect them in no way with anyone he had known in the past and he was quite sure that he never before had set eyes upon this man. Sitting in the dark with nothing to occupy him Billy let his mind dwell upon the identity of his jailer, until, as may have happened to you, nothing in the whole world seemed equally as important as the solution of the mystery. Even his impending fate faded into nothingness by comparison with the momentous question as to where he had heard the name Eddie Shorter before. As he sat puzzling his brain over the inconsequential matter something stirred upon the floor close to his feet, and presently he jerked back a booted foot that a rat had commenced to gnaw upon. “Helluva place to stick a guy,” mused Billy, “in wit a bunch o' man-eatin' rats. Hey!” and he turned his face toward the door. “You, Eddie! Come here!” Eddie approached the door and listened. “Wot do you want?” he asked. “None o' your funny business, you know. I'm from Shawnee, Kansas, I am, an' they don't come no slicker from nowhere on earth. You can't fool me.” Shawnee, Kansas! Eddie Shorter! The whole puzzle was cleared in Billy's mind in an instant. “So you're Eddie Shorter of Shawnee, Kansas, are you?” called Billy. “Well I know your maw, Eddie, an' ef I had such a maw as you got I wouldn't be down here wastin' my time workin' alongside a lot of Dagos; but that ain't what I started out to say, which was that I want a light in here. The damned rats are tryin' to chaw off me kicks an' when they're done wit them they'll climb up after me an' old man Villa'll be sore as a pup.” “You know my maw?” asked Eddie, and there was a wistful note in his voice. “Aw shucks! you don't know her—that's jest some o' your funny, slicker business. You wanna git me in there an' then you'll try an' git aroun' me some sort o' way to let you escape; but I'm too slick for that.” “On the level Eddie, I know your maw,” persisted Billy. “I ben in your maw's house jest a few weeks ago. 'Member the horsehair sofa between the windows? 'Member the Bible on the little marble-topped table? Eh? An' Tige? Well, Tige's croaked; but your maw an' your paw ain't an' they want you back, Eddie. I don't care ef you believe me, son, or not; but your maw was mighty good to me, an' you promise me you'll write her an' then go back home as fast as you can. It ain't everybody's got a swell maw like that, an' them as has ought to be good to 'em.” Beyond the closed door Eddie's jaw was commencing to tremble. Memory was flooding his heart and his eyes with sweet recollections of an ample breast where he used to pillow his head, of a big capable hand that was wont to smooth his brow and stroke back his red hair. Eddie gulped. “You ain't joshin' me?” he asked. Billy Byrne caught the tremor in the voice. “I ain't kiddin' you son,” he said. “Wotinell do you take me fer—one o' these greasy Dagos? You an' I're Americans—I wouldn't string a home guy down here in this here Godforsaken neck o' the woods.” Billy heard the lock turn, and a moment later the door was cautiously opened revealing Eddie safely ensconced behind two six-shooters. “That's right, Eddie,” said Billy, with a laugh. “Don't you take no chances, no matter how much sob stuff I hand you, fer, I'll give it to you straight, ef I get the chanct I'll make my get-away; but I can't do it wit my flippers trussed, an' you wit a brace of gats sittin' on me. Let's have a light, Eddie. That won't do nobody any harm, an' it may discourage the rats.” Eddie backed across the office to a table where stood a small lamp. Keeping an eye through the door on his prisoner he lighted the lamp and carried it into the back room, setting it upon a commode which stood in one corner. “You really seen maw?” he asked. “Is she well?” “Looked well when I seen her,” said Billy; “but she wants her boy back a whole lot. I guess she'd look better still ef he walked in on her some day.” “I'll do it,” cried Eddie. “The minute they get money for the pay I'll hike. Tell me your name. I'll ask her ef she remembers you when I get home. Gee! but I wish I was walkin' in the front door now.” “She never knew my name,” said Billy; “but you tell her you seen the bo that mussed up the two yeggmen who rolled her an' were tryin' to croak her wit a butcher knife. I guess she ain't fergot. Me an' my pal were beatin' it—he was on the square but the dicks was after me an' she let us have money to make our get-away. She's all right, kid.” There came a knock at the outer office door. Eddie sprang back into the front room, closing and locking the door after him, just as Barbara entered. “Eddie,” she asked, “may I see the prisoner? I want to talk to him.” “You want to talk with a bank robber?” exclaimed Eddie. “Why you ain't crazy are you, Miss Barbara?” “No, I'm not crazy; but I want to speak with him alone for just a moment, Eddie—please.” Eddie hesitated. He knew that Grayson would be angry if he let the boss's daughter into that back room alone with an outlaw and a robber, and the boss himself would probably be inclined to have Eddie drawn and quartered; but it was hard to refuse Miss Barbara anything. “Where is he?” she asked. Eddie jerked a thumb in the direction of the door. The key still was in the lock. “Go to the window and look at the moon, Eddie,” suggested the girl. “It's perfectly gorgeous tonight. Please, Eddie,” as he still hesitated. Eddie shook his head and moved slowly toward the window. “There can't nobody refuse you nothin', miss,” he said; “'specially when you got your heart set on it.” “That's a dear, Eddie,” purred the girl, and moved swiftly across the room to the locked door. As she turned the key in the lock she felt a little shiver of nervous excitement run through her. “What sort of man would he be—this hardened outlaw and robber—this renegade American who had cast his lot with the avowed enemies of his own people?” she wondered. Only her desire to learn of Bridge's fate urged her to attempt so distasteful an interview; but she dared not ask another to put the question for her, since should her complicity in Bridge's escape—provided of course that he had escaped—become known to Villa the fate of the Americans at El Orobo would be definitely sealed. She turned the knob and pushed the door open, slowly. A man was sitting in a chair in the center of the room. His back was toward her. He was a big man. His broad shoulders loomed immense above the back of the rude chair. A shock of black hair, rumpled and tousled, covered a well-shaped head. At the sound of the door creaking upon its hinges he turned his face in her direction, and as his eyes met hers all four went wide in surprise and incredulity. “Billy!” she cried. “Barbara!—you?” and Billy rose to his feet, his bound hands struggling to be free. The girl closed the door behind her and crossed to him. “You robbed the bank, Billy?” she asked. “It was you, after the promises you made me to live straight always—for my sake?” Her voice trembled with emotion. The man could see that she suffered, and yet he felt his own anguish, too. “But you are married,” he said. “I saw it in the papers. What do you care, now, Barbara? I'm nothing to you.” “I'm not married, Billy,” she cried. “I couldn't marry Mr. Mallory. I tried to make myself believe that I could; but at last I knew that I did not love him and never could, and I wouldn't marry a man I didn't love. “I never dreamed that it was you here, Billy,” she went on. “I came to ask you about Mr. Bridge. I wanted to know if he escaped, or if—if—oh, this awful country! They think no more of human life here than a butcher thinks of the life of the animal he dresses.” A sudden light illumined Billy's mind. Why had it not occurred to him before? This was Bridge's Penelope! The woman he loved was loved by his best friend. And she had sent a messenger to him, to Billy, to save her lover. She had come here to the office tonight to question a stranger—a man she thought an outlaw and a robber—because she could not rest without word from the man she loved. Billy stiffened. He was hurt to the bottom of his heart; but he did not blame Bridge—it was fate. Nor did he blame Barbara because she loved Bridge. Bridge was more her kind anyway. He was a college guy. Billy was only a mucker. “Bridge got away all right,” he said. “And say, he didn't have nothin' to do with pullin' off that safe crackin'. I done it myself. He didn't know I was in town an' I didn't know he was there. He's the squarest guy in the world, Bridge is. He follered me that night an' took a shot at me, thinkin' I was the robber all right but not knowin' I was me. He got my horse, an' when he found it was me, he made me take your pony an' make my get-away, fer he knew Villa's men would croak me sure if they caught me. You can't blame him fer that, can you? Him an' I were good pals—he couldn't do nothin' else. It was him that made me bring your pony back to you. It's in the corral now, I reckon. I was a-bringin' it back when they got me. Now you better go. This ain't no place fer you, an' I ain't had no sleep fer so long I'm most dead.” His tones were cool. He appeared bored by her company; though as a matter of fact his heart was breaking with love for her—love that he believed unrequited—and he yearned to tear loose his bonds and crush her in his arms. It was Barbara's turn now to be hurt. She drew herself up. “I am sorry that I have disturbed your rest,” she said, and walked away, her head in the air; but all the way back to the ranchhouse she kept repeating over and over to herself: “Tomorrow they will shoot him! Tomorrow they will shoot him! Tomorrow they will shoot him!” 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. Edgar Rice Burroughs (1995). The Mucker. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/331/pg331-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.

BARBARA AGAIN

ONE TURN DESERVES ANOTHER

The Mucker by Edgar Rice Burroughs, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here. THE VILLAGE OF YOKA THE VILLAGE OF YOKA FOR several minutes Barbara Harding lay where she had collapsed after the keen short sword of the daimio had freed her from the menace of his lust. She was in a half-stupor that took cognizance only of a freezing terror and exhaustion. Presently, however, she became aware of her contact with the corpse beside her, and with a stifled cry she shrank away from it. Slowly the girl regained her self-control and with it came the realization of the extremity of her danger. She rose to a sitting posture and turned her wide eyes toward the doorway to the adjoining room—the women and children seemed yet wrapped in slumber. It was evident that the man's scream had not disturbed them. Barbara gained her feet and moved softly to the doorway. She wondered if she could cross the intervening space to the outer exit without detection. Once in the open she could flee to the jungle, and then there was a chance at least that she might find her way to the coast and Theriere. She gripped the short sword which she still held, and took a step into the larger room. One of the women turned and half roused from sleep. The girl shrank back into the darkness of the chamber she had just quitted. The woman sat up and looked around. Then she rose and threw some sticks upon the fire that burned at one side of the dwelling. She crossed to a shelf and took down a cooking utensil. Barbara saw that she was about to commence the preparation of breakfast. All hope of escape was thus ended, and the girl cautiously closed the door between the two rooms. Then she felt about the smaller apartment for some heavy object with which to barricade herself; but her search was fruitless. Finally she bethought herself of the corpse. That would hold the door against the accident of a child or dog pushing it open—it would be better than nothing, but could she bring herself to touch the loathsome thing? The instinct of self-preservation will work wonders even with a frail and delicate woman. Barbara Harding steeled herself to the task, and after several moments of effort she succeeded in rolling the dead man against the door. The scraping sound of the body as she dragged it into position had sent cold shivers running up her spine. She had removed the man's long sword and armor before attempting to move him, and now she crouched beside the corpse with both the swords beside her—she would sell her life dearly. Theriere's words came back to her now as they had when she was struggling in the water after the wreck of the Halfmoon: “but, by George, I intend to go down fighting.” Well, she could do no less. She could hear the movement of several persons in the next room now. The voices of women and children came to her distinctly. Many of the words were Japanese, but others were of a tongue with which she was not familiar. Presently her own chamber began to lighten. She looked over her shoulder and saw the first faint rays of dawn showing through a small aperture near the roof and at the opposite end of the room. She rose and moved quickly toward it. By standing on tiptoe and pulling herself up a trifle with her hands upon the sill she was able to raise her eyes above the bottom of the window frame. Beyond she saw the forest, not a hundred yards away; but when she attempted to crawl through the opening she discovered to her chagrin that it was too small to permit the passage of her body. And then there came a knocking on the door she had just quitted, and a woman's voice calling her lord and master to his morning meal. Barbara ran quickly across the chamber to the door, the long sword raised above her head in both hands. Again the woman knocked, this time much louder, and raised her voice as she called again upon Oda Yorimoto to come out. The girl within was panic-stricken. What should she do? With but a little respite she might enlarge the window sufficiently to permit her to escape into the forest, but the woman at the door evidently would not be denied. Suddenly an inspiration came to her. It was a forlorn hope, but well worth putting to the test. “Hush!” she hissed through the closed door. “Oda Yorimoto sleeps. It is his wish that he be not disturbed.” For a moment there was silence beyond the door, and then the woman grunted, and Barbara heard her turn back, muttering to herself. The girl breathed a deep sigh of relief—she had received a brief reprieve from death. Again she turned to the window, where, with the short sword, she commenced her labor of enlarging it to permit the passage of her body. The work was necessarily slow because of the fact that it must proceed with utter noiselessness. For an hour she worked, and then again came an interruption at the door. This time it was a man. “Oda Yorimoto still sleeps,” whispered the girl. “Go away and do not disturb him. He will be very angry if you awaken him.” But the man would not be put off so easily as had the woman. He still insisted. “The daimio has ordered that there shall be a great hunt today for the heads of the sei-yo-jin who have landed upon Yoka,” persisted the man. “He will be angry indeed if we do not call him in time to accomplish the task today. Let me speak with him, woman. I do not believe that Oda Yorimoto still sleeps. Why should I believe one of the sei-yo-jin? It may be that you have bewitched the daimio,” and with that he pushed against the door. The corpse gave a little, and the man glued his eyes to the aperture. Barbara held the sword behind her, and with her shoulder against the door attempted to reclose it. “Go away!” she cried. “I shall be killed if you awaken Oda Yorimoto, and, if you enter, you, too, shall be killed.” The man stepped back from the door, and Barbara could hear him in low converse with some of the women of the household. A moment later he returned, and without a word of warning threw his whole weight against the portal. The corpse slipped back enough to permit the entrance of the man's body, and as he stumbled into the room the long sword of the Lord of Yoka fell full and keen across the back of his brown neck. Without a sound he lunged to the floor, dead; but the women without had caught a fleeting glimpse of what had taken place within the little chamber, even before Barbara Harding could slam the door again, and with shrieks of rage and fright they rushed into the main street of the village shouting at the tops of their voices that Oda Yorimoto and Hawa Nisho had been slain by the woman of the sei-yo-jin. Instantly, the village swarmed with samurai, women, children, and dogs. They rushed toward the hut of Oda Yorimoto, filling the outer chamber where they jabbered excitedly for several minutes, the warriors attempting to obtain a coherent story from the moaning women of the daimio's household. Barbara Harding crouched close to the door, listening. She knew that the crucial moment was at hand; that there were at best but a few moments for her to live. A silent prayer rose from her parted lips. She placed the sharp point of Oda Yorimoto's short sword against her breast, and waited—waited for the coming of the men from the room beyond, snatching a few brief seconds from eternity ere she drove the weapon into her heart. Theriere plunged through the jungle at a run for several minutes before he caught sight of the mucker. “Are you still on the trail?” he called to the man before him. “Sure,” replied Byrne. “It's dead easy. They must o' been at least a dozen of 'em. Even a mutt like me couldn't miss it.” “We want to go carefully, Byrne,” cautioned Theriere. “I've had experience with these fellows before, and I can tell you that you never know when one of 'em is near you till you feel a spear in your back, unless you're almighty watchful. We've got to make all the haste we can, of course, but it won't help Miss Harding any if we rush into an ambush and get our heads lopped off.” Byrne saw the wisdom of his companion's advice and tried to profit by it; but something which seemed to dominate him today carried him ahead at reckless, breakneck speed—the flight of an eagle would have been all too slow to meet the requirements of his unaccountable haste. Once he found himself wondering why he was risking his life to avenge or rescue this girl whom he hated so. He tried to think that it was for the ransom—yes, that was it, the ransom. If he found her alive, and rescued her he should claim the lion's share of the booty. Theriere too wondered why Byrne, of all the other men upon the Halfmoon the last that he should have expected to risk a thing for the sake of Miss Harding, should be the foremost in pursuit of her captors. “I wonder how far behind Sanders and Wison are,” he remarked to Byrne after they had been on the trail for the better part of an hour. “Hadn't we better wait for them to catch up with us? Four can do a whole lot more than two.” “Not wen Billy Byrne's one of de two,” replied the mucker, and continued doggedly along the trail. Another half-hour brought them suddenly in sight of a native village, and Billy Byrne was for dashing straight into the center of it and “cleaning it up,” as he put it, but Theriere put his foot down firmly on that proposition, and finally Byrne saw that the other was right. “The trail leads straight toward that place,” said Theriere, “so I suppose here is where they brought her, but which of the huts she's in now we ought to try to determine before we make any attempt to rescue her. Well, by George! Now what do you think of that?” “Tink o' wot?” asked the mucker. “Wot's eatin' yeh?” “See those three men down there in the village, Byrne?” asked the Frenchman. “They're no more aboriginal headhunters than I am—they're Japs, man. There must be something wrong with our trailing, for it's as certain as fate itself that Japs are not head-hunters.” “There ain't been nothin' fony about our trailin', bo,” insisted Byrne, “an' whether Japs are bean collectors or not here's where de ginks dat copped de doll hiked fer, an if dey ain't dere now it's because dey went t'rough an' out de odder side, see.” “Hush, Byrne,” whispered Theriere. “Drop down behind this bush. Someone is coming along this other trail to the right of us,” and as he spoke he dragged the mucker down beside him. For a moment they crouched, breathless and expectant, and then the slim figure of an almost nude boy emerged from the foliage close beside and entered the trail toward the village. Upon his head he bore a bundle of firewood. When he was directly opposite the watchers Theriere sprang suddenly upon him, clapping a silencing hand over the boy's mouth. In Japanese he whispered a command for silence. “We shall not harm you if you keep still,” he said, “and answer our questions truthfully. What village is that?” “It is the chief city of Oda Yorimoto, Lord of Yoka,” replied the youth. “I am Oda Iseka, his son.” “And the large hut in the center of the village street is the palace of Oda Yorimoto?” guessed Theriere shrewdly. “It is.” The Frenchman was not unversed in the ways of orientals, and he guessed also that if the white girl were still alive in the village she would be in no other hut than that of the most powerful chief; but he wished to verify his deductions if possible. He knew that a direct question as to the whereabouts of the girl would call forth either a clever oriental evasion or an equally clever oriental lie. “Does Oda Yorimoto intend slaying the white woman that was brought to his house last night?” asked Theriere. “How should the son know the intentions of his father?” replied the boy. “Is she still alive?” continued Theriere. “How should I know, who was asleep when she was brought, and only heard the womenfolk this morning whispering that Oda Yorimoto had brought home a new woman the night before.” “Could you not see her with your own eyes?” asked Theriere. “My eyes cannot pass through the door of the little room behind, in which they still were when I left to gather firewood a half hour since,” retorted the youth. “Wot's de Chink sayin'?” asked Billy Byrne, impatient of the conversation, no word of which was intelligible to him. “He says, in substance,” replied Theriere, with a grin, “that Miss Harding is still alive, and in the back room of that largest hut in the center of the village street; but,” and his face clouded, “Oda Yorimoto, the chief of the tribe, is with her.” The mucker sprang to his feet with an oath, and would have bolted for the village had not Theriere laid a detaining hand upon his shoulder. “It is too late, my friend,” he said sadly, “to make haste now. We may, if we are cautious, be able to save her life, and later, possibly, avenge her wrong. Let us act coolly, and after some manner of plan, so that we may work together, and not throw our lives away uselessly. The chance is that neither of us will come out of that village alive, but we must minimize that chance to the utmost if we are to serve Miss Harding.” “Well, wot's de word?” asked the mucker, for he saw that Theriere was right. “The jungle approaches the village most closely on the opposite side—the side in rear of the chief's hut,” pointed out Theriere. “We must circle about until we can reach that point undetected, then we may formulate further plans from what our observations there develop.” “An' dis?” Byrne shoved a thumb at Oda Iseka. “We'll take him with us—it wouldn't be safe to let him go now.” “Why not croak him?” suggested Byrne. “Not unless we have to,” replied Theriere; “he's just a boy—we'll doubtless have all the killing we want among the men before we get out of this.” “I never did have no use fer Chinks,” said the mucker, as though in extenuation of his suggestion that they murder the youth. For some unaccountable reason he had felt a sudden compunction because of his thoughtless remark. What in the world was coming over him, he wondered. He'd be wearing white pants and playing lawn tennis presently if he continued to grow much softer and more unmanly. So the three set out through the jungle, following a trail which led around to the north of the village. Theriere walked ahead with the boy's arm in his grasp. Byrne followed closely behind. They reached their destination in the rear of Oda Yorimoto's “palace” without interruption or detection. Here they reconnoitered through the thick foliage. “Dere's a little winder in de back of de house,” said Byrne. “Dat must be where dem guys cooped up de little broiler.” “Yes,” said Theriere, “it would be in the back room which the boy described. First let's tie and gag this young heathen, and then we can proceed to business without fear of alarm from him,” and the Frenchman stripped a long, grass rope from about the waist of his prisoner, with which he was securely trussed up, a piece of his loin cloth being forced into his mouth as a gag, and secured there by another strip, torn from the same garment, which was passed around the back of the boy's head. “Rather uncomfortable, I imagine,” commented Theriere; “but not particularly painful or dangerous—and now to business!” “I'm goin' to make a break fer dat winder,” announced the mucker, “and youse squat here in de tall grass wid yer gat an' pick off any fresh guys dat get gay in back here. Den, if I need youse you can come a-runnin' an' open up all over de shop wid de artillery, or if I gets de lizzie outen de jug an' de Chinks push me too clost youse'll be here where yeh can pick 'em off easy-like.” “You'll be taking all the risk that way, Byrne,” objected Theriere, “and that's not fair.” “One o' us is pretty sure to get hurted,” explained the mucker in defense of his plan, “an, if it's a croak it's a lot better dat it be me than youse, fer the girl wouldn't be crazy about bein' lef' alone wid me—she ain't got no use fer the likes o' me. Now youse are her kin, an' so youse stay here w'ere yeh can help her after I git her out—I don't want nothing to do wid her anyhow. She gives me a swift pain, and,” he added as though it were an after-thought, “I ain't got no use fer dat ransom eider—youse can have dat, too.” “Hold on, Byrne,” cried Theriere; “I have something to say, too. I do not see how I can expect you to believe me; but under the circumstances, when one of us and maybe both are pretty sure to die before the day is much older, it wouldn't be worth while lying. I do not want that damned ransom any more, either. I only want to do what I can to right the wrong that I have helped to perpetrate against Miss Harding. I—I—Byrne, I love her. I shall never tell her so, for I am not the sort of man a decent girl would care to marry; but I did want the chance to make a clean breast to her of all my connection with the whole dirty business, and get her forgiveness if I could; but first I wanted to prove my repentance by helping her to civilization in safety, and delivering her to her friends without the payment of a cent of money. I may never be able to do that now; but if I die in the attempt, and you don't, I wish that you would tell her what I have just told you. Paint me as black as you can—you couldn't commence to make me as black as I have been—but let her know that for love of her I turned white at the last minute. Byrne, she is the best girl that you or I ever saw—we're not fit to breathe the same air that she breathes. Now you can see why I should like to go first.” “I t'ought youse was soft on her,” replied the mucker, “an' dat's de reason w'y youse otter not go first; but wot's de use o' chewin', les flip a coin to see w'ich goes an w'ich stays—got one?” Theriere felt in his trousers' pocket, fishing out a dime. “Heads, you go; tails, I go,” he said and spun the silver piece in the air, catching it in the flat of his open palm. “It's heads,” said the mucker, grinning. “Gee! Wot's de racket?” Both men turned toward the village, where a jabbering mob of half-caste Japanese had suddenly appeared in the streets, hurrying toward the hut of Oda Yorimoto. “Somepin doin', eh?” said the mucker. “Well, here goes—s'long!” And he broke from the cover of the jungle and dashed across the clearing toward the rear of Oda Yorimoto's hut. 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. Edgar Rice Burroughs (1995). The Mucker. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/331/pg331-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.

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