THE BRONZE TIGER.

Dunstan Times, Issue 2678, 11 August 1913, Page 2

THE BRONZE TIGER.

(By James Francis Dwyer.)

Curtis, the American consul, took this story down in longhand the day I staggered into his office. And Curtis believed it too. He brought me round to his club, bought mo a meal and a peg of brandy, gave me a suit of drill ana a hand-shake that nearly cracked my knuckles. “Don’t tell it too often when you get back to our country,” be said. “Why?” I asked. Curtis laughed grimly and looked about him. “Woll, thoy wouldu t the atmosphere,” he said, “and atmosphere is everything when it comes to believing a story. If you told that varn in a club in Fifth Avenue--- No, I’m wrong. They’d believe you. Hie darn thing drips truth.!” That was a compliment from Gurus. He doubted everybody, but ho believed mo. He gave me clothes, a meal, and a hand-shake, and he said that the Tarn, dripped truth.. I don t know i it does, but here’s tho story:

1 met Masterson at Singapore. He was American on tho father’s side, I m sure of that. As to his mother-well, the consul told me Ijhat day m his office, that Maaterson’s grandmother was a Shan-Talok woman from the head of the Mein man. I don t know. There may have been a streak of colot in Masterson, but I didn’t notice it. Mastorson was going up into the hills above Kopah to collect specimens, and I went with him as an assistant. 1 dislike work—that is, hard work,— but vou can’t panhandle the Malay. The Fast is the real home of old Jla Poverty. Starvation walks around with a' chaw at round its loins, utid Mr Death works overtime. That s why i went to work helping Masterson gatnei specimens of snakes, lizards, bugs, ana other things in the hills above Kopah. “It’s nice and interesting work. He “For the lizards and bugs,” I snapped. “They’re being put in bottles and sent to America; we’ve got to stay to do the recruiting work.” That was a nasty bit of country round there. Body o’, me! tes. There are some places m the woiki that are worse than opium. 1 I,U ' !U | they’re more dangerous. The hlameu drug is in the air; in the hot dawns; in tiio white sunlight and the velvety nights. I know it. And those hills above Kopah were worse than an.' other spot I had struck. 1 hat pact was too old. There were wandering whiffs of perfume in those hills that oot right into the back of my head and rooted out memories that must have been there for centuries— ror a score of centuries most likely. Imy stirred up desires and dreams that must have belonged to ancestors ot mine who lived when the mammoth was ornamenting tho landscape. I urtis, the American consul, understood when I told him about it. Curtis had been in the East for fourteen years, and he had lost a lot of the cocksureness that he had taken from vv ash in g“This country is hell,” said I to Masterson. “It looks as dead as Pharaoh’s chariot mules, and yet it is alive.” , .... Ho was bottling a krait, one ot those deadly little snakes that bo around m the sand with their heads out waiting to bite anyone or anything that comes noar, and'he grinned at me. “The Sivins say that the little grains of sand talk to each other,” he said “and I believe the Siyms are right. Yes, it’s alive all right.” That place made mo sick. It was the sort of place that the Spectres or Hie Lonely Places would pick tor a convention ground. It was so. I tried to whistle “Dixie” once or twice in that \ alley of Golan Ra, hut i/avo it up. That spot was too unhealthy for whistling. We were fixing our tents one afternoon when a real spectre came down from the hills above that valley. He wag a Burmese monk, and he was a fright. Body o’ me! Yes! Ho was naaod except for a dirty waist-clot n; his hair stood out around his head like a thorny halo, and his finger-nails were twelve inches long. He was in keeping with the surroundings all right. He was just the sort of apparition you would expect to run across in a place like that.

Maeterson spoke to him in the Malay lingo, and ho replied in English. Good English too. Said he wa-s a Buddhist monk from Moulrnoin, and he livinl in a little cave high up in the sandstone rooks. “And why do you stay in tins place?” I asked. “It is a sacred place,” lie answered. “Buddha rested here on the way to the Temple of Paklan.” “Huh!” I said. “Buddha must have done nothing else but rest. I’ve seen about two hundred bo-trees that mark places where he squatted.” “But there is more than a bo-tree here,” said the Monk. “Why, what’s here?”l asked. “The Man-cater of Golan Ha,” he answered quietly. Now I' think that Masterson had heard something of that man-eater before tho monk mentioned him. I'm nearly sure he had. The moment the apparition mentioned tho thing, Masterson dropped his specimen-box and came closer to tho freak. His eyes were mighty scared-looking too. “Did that happen hero?” he asked. The freak nodded his head. “It happened right here,” he murmured. “Let tho story. loose,” I said. “I have never hoard it.” Afterward I was sorry that I had asked the greasy monk to tell the yarn, but fooling sorry for an action does no good. That fakir was some story-teller. Holy St. Christopher! wasn’t he! That yarn went into my through every hair I had in my head. He chanted it like a Batta chanting a war-song, and I just gasped as 1 sat on tho hot sand arid listened. Masterson was pop-eyed, too. That monk was a devil of a story-teller. Ho said that Buddha had rested at that place on his way to the Temple of Paklan. Budd was tired, mighty• tired. He sat down in the shade to rest himself, and while he was sitting there a big, man-eating rigor came down from the sandstone ridges and peeped at him from behind a thorn-hush. Peeped at Buddha, mind you! Do you know that funny music the orchestra grinds out when they watu to give the audience cold shivers down its back? Well, that monk could do that stunt with his voice. Wow! couldn’t he just! He soft-pedalled on the descriptive business concerning that tiger peeking round the bush till ho ha-d Masterson and me rubbing at the stunted cactus clumps, thinking that another tiger might be peeping at us. The Oriental is the greatest storyteller in the world. He puts shadows into his stories, and those shadow masses stir your imagination just the way it should be stirred. And that fakir in the Valley of Golan Ra was the boss of all the narrators we had ever met. That tiger liked the look rf Buddha. Buddha was fat, and the tiger was hungry. The brute was a bit of a gourmet, and ho had grown tired of eating skinny Negritos. They gave him indigestion. He licked bis chops as he watched tho fat saint mumbling his prayers, and he breathed so excitedly that old Buddha heard him and looked up. The tiger sort of grinned at Buddha hut Buddha took no notice. He was busy thinking out some mighty big problems, and he had no time for grin-

rung at tigers. That’s what the fakir | said. The boss monk in the Temple of Paklan had been grafting a little, ; and the saii\t was thinking out a plan 1 to fix him. That greasy monk was an actor of tho first water. Wow! wasn’t he a dandy! He put up a piece of rock to represent Buddha, while he took the part of Mr Tiger, and all the time he was pouring out the descriptive matter.

The tiger came out from behind the | bush and walked forward a little. He thought that Buddha might bo a, little short-sighted.. That brute had been in tho habit of seeing Malays and Negritos holt in every direction when he poked his bead around a corner, and he was just a little bit surprised to see old Budd still juggling with his praver-cord. It hurt his vanity to see a respectable old-gentleman ignore him completelv, and ho gave a little giovl 10 show the saint that he was a real full-grown specimen of a hill tiger. Tint fr rowl armored Buddha. At leas’ the fakir said that it annoyed him. The tiger had a breath, and the growl sent the odor of that breath under the saint’s nose. _ Ho stopped graving and waved the tiger away, but the tiger’s stomach was troubling him too much at that moment. Buddha lookul fat and sweet to him. He crept a little closer, and tho saint got mad. I’m just tolling what that monk told to Masterson and myseß in the Valiev of Golan Ra. . , '“Go hack!” said Buddha, but, the tiger only drew his lips buck in a MKvr. 1 guess lie thought; t-hat IJualcilirv was having a little joke before ho i handed in his cheques. , ■•Go hack to the lulls! cried the I S ain‘. "Go back at once!” But that tiger had no word like retreat in his dictionary. Not much. He just walloped his ribs furiously with the end of bis tail and crouched on bis hauncliew before making a spring at tho saint. ... , Buddha was as cool as a mudtisn according to the story of the monk. Ho just eved the tiger, and the tiger returned the stare. That tool brine was wondering why Buddha didu t pick up his crown and Im>R across the sand. That was what tho Negritos used to do. and it always amused the tiger to do i ;l lutle run' after them before making an evening meal off them. "Now,” said Buddha, “if you spring veu will be sorry, very soiiy. TPo tiger, so the monk reckoned, stiffened his muscles and licked his chops. Buddha’s threats didn t frighten h-un much. He gave one little growl as a signal to himself to be ready, another little growl as a signal to be st ad.v and when he gave the thud 11 tie ,r rowl ho lifted himself into the air. "But Buddha did something at that moment. Mind you, this p.nt <» the varn is not mine, 1 m only tel.uig what the monk said in that dead V alley of Golan Ra. And that monk was a 'champion at telling a story. Mhen he got up to the part where the tigei was ooing to hop at Buddha, he had us fairly creepy with curiosity. Ves, sir! That was no bit of fiction as tar las ho was concerned. It was bventyI two carat gospel, and that was «h} he was able to make us shiver like frozen ! hoboes When he got to the climax. • • yes yes,” gasped Masterson, vliat happened tJieii ?” . “Why,” said tho monk, sinking bis voice till it was only a whisper, “when Buddha lifted his hand the tigei s Himing was arrested. He stopped > n mid-air. It was as if he were lahrifl(..d iastantlv, and as Buddha continu'd to pray tho old man-eater turned slowly to bronze. Into him /.e. sirs. Ho became a piece of statuary, li is bodv erect, his fore paws stretched out, and only the pads of Ins hind foot on the ground.” ! don’t know whether it was the smroundirigs that made us seared or Whether it was the manner m wlncli that fakir told the story, hut vhon ho finished wo were pop-eyed. v\ '>'« • Yes' There was never a. story-teller like that Buddhist monk and there was : never a place that fitted so well as a background for a yarn of that ch.nactor as that weird Valley of Golan Ra. Masterson didn’t speak for a Ww minutes after the freak had finished Ins sterv, then he moistened his lips and put a question. “Where is tho tiger that was turned into bronze?” he asked. I expected that monk to say that someone had stolen that statue, hut 1 got a surprise—a mighty big snrpi ise-. He just turned and waved his skinny hand toward a patch of thorn that was about five hundred yards away, and said simply, “He is out there. It’s hard to make anyone feci what wo felt hi that wilderness. Gurus, the American consul, understood, but he had been fourteen years in that Gml-forsaken country. “Show him to us,” said Masterson. It was dusk then, the curious tropical dusk Hull comes down like a purple veil before the thick night swoops down. Thu monk started to walk toward that patch of thorn, and Maateisoti and 1 lollowod. Mastorson was all nerve# at that moment. The day had affected linn more than it had affected, me. That air was like opium to him, and after lie had listened to the story he walker! like a man in a dream. It anyone could have canned that atmosphere of Golan Ra, they could have sold it to dope fiends, it was ono of tho most peculiar s]>oks 1 had ever seen. There are thousands of places in tiio tropics that look unhealthy and feel ■ unhealthy, but the Valley ol Golan Ha was vicious. I don’t know if 1 make my meaning clear by saying that. Curtis understood when 1 told him about it.

■‘l know the atmosphere,” ho said. “It’s poisonous. The country has been loft too much to itiseli, and it doesn’t want a white man near.” The consul was right. That valley didn't want Masterson or me. Ihe monk fitted into the surroundings, but wo didn't. We knew it, but we Followed that fakir across the sand that was .still so hot that you Felt it through the soles of your shoes, and so dry that you could hear a lizard rustling through it twenty feet away. The monk circled the clump of cactus and stunted eaniel’s-thorn, then he stopped and pointed with his thin hand

“There ho is,” ho whispered. “There is the Man-eater of Golan Ha!” Body o’ me! I got a shock when I looked at the spot he pointed out. The sight we saw hilt us so hard that wo stopped in our tracks with our months open. I know a little about tigers, so does Masterson, but the man who modelled the big bronze tiger at Golan Bn knew more about tigers than all the naturalists between Penang and Philadelphia. That’s the truth. The Kaehins of Northern Burma toll of the tiger-men who live and hunt with the tigers, and the man who made that statue must have been one of that breed. Ho must have watched them ip he knew every muscle in their bodies. Wow! Wow! Wow! What a statue it was! It flamed with life. That was the genius in it. Genius! Why, when wo came irn front of that thing we .stepped aside in fear!

Someone will cry about Antoine T.ouis Barye when they read this. Barye never did anything like that. Never! I’ve seem a lot of Barye’s work, but I have never seen anything like

that tiger. Holy St. Christopher! No! Barye’s tiger in the Tuileries is not to b,o compared with that brute in the wastes of Golan Ra. Barye’s stuff is dead. That tiger in the valley between the hills was »o full of life that you crouched instinctively as you came in front of him.

I didn’t wonder about the Buddha yarn being woven about that beast. Not much! It was beyond the intelligence of those hill tribes to think that an artist modelled that thing. They gambled on supernatural influence, and of course they picked Buddha. Anyone with the smallest, particle of ima-gi-i at ion would think that the brute had been turned into bronze a* he was about to spring. Masterson looked at me, and swallowed like a pelican. In tho dim light the thing looked uncanny. It did so. And that walking bag of bones knew that he had handled us a surprise packet. “In the night,” he said, turning to Masterson, “be is very lonely. He mils to tho tigers in the hills, and they come down and keep him company.” “Who calls?” I snapped. “Buddha’s tiger,” said the monk. “Ho calls to his brothers up in the sandstone ridges, and they come down to him. There are a hundred tigers hero every nigjht.” The East is a curious place. 1 wanted to laugh, and I couldn’t laugh, I thought I could rid myself of the ini | tating fear that gripped mo if 1 were j able to ridicule that old naked fool’s story, but I couldn’t raise a grim The 1 look of that tiger choked back any laughs that 1 tried to put forward. \Masterton stooped and looked for

tracks m tiio sanU, then he looked at ! mo with a stupid look on ins lace. The 1 atmosphere oi that valley had played the mischief with Masterton’s nerves. : He looked like a. man who has been : kit with a sandbag. “They oomo every night,” murmured i the monk. "They come down to him when he cries.”

••Huh,” J grunted, “theyTo real obliging; tigers, ain’t they?” 1 don’t know whether the story or the place ujx'Ol my courage, hut 1 was scared — seared in that curious way when your courage seems to bo penned in a corner lighting against a fear that you can't get a grip on. “Do you know that no harm can come to one who is near him?” asked iho monk. ■■ 11 jt\ r‘’ I growled. "it anyone places his hand on him and eric's out to Buddha, no harm can cornu to him,” he answered. “Mo tiger will touch him. The Holy Buddha has willed it so. Onlv a few days ago a Malay, pursued by a tiger, rushed down here from the lulls and touched the Maine. When ho did so the tiger that was pursuing him ran away.”

foil would think that a remark of Hint kind would make us laugh, but it didn't. It was getting dark, and that place had a look that chilled our Mood. But wo didn’t want to show the while feather in front of that dirty Buddhist monk. Not much! We had picked up our rifles when leaving the camp: it isn’t safe to wander round without a gun in those hills, and when dm - fakir told tho story about the tigers coming down from tho hills 1 got a fool notion into my head to draw his bluff. .Mastorson must have got tiio same Idea, at tho exact moment 1 }>ouiiO(xl on it. He looked around at a couple of stunted trees that wore about twenty yards from tho statue, and then looked at me. “We might wait and see if there is any truth in tho yarn,” he said. “1 mean the tale about the tigers coming down fmni Hie hills.” “Sure.” 1 answered. “We’ll wait by all means.’’ “M liai. are you going to do?” asked tho monk. “We’re going to stay around ami I his tiger gathering,” I said. "We'll build a platform between those two stunted trees.”

“Can 1 stay?'’ lie asked quietly. “Stay if you like,” said Masterson. “Help us get some timber together.” Masterson and 1 worked like madmen collecting timber to build a platform between those two small trees, and the monk helped us without speaking. And all the time it was getting

darker in that valley. Darker? Why. it was that dark when wo finished Hie perch that we fell as if we were crawling througli something tangible as we climbed on to the platform we had hurriedly put together. We couldn’t see the bronze tiger, ini 1 we seemed to feel him. That’s a curious way of putting it, but it’s the only way that can explain our sensations. Thai piece of work had made a mighty funny impression on us, and we could easily understand how stories had sprung up about it. In that dreary waste of sand and stunted thorn-bush that tiger seemed to he the only thing alive. Alive, mind you! The rocks were dead, the hills were dead, the cactus and stunted trees, and even tho monk, looked as if they held on to existence by the skin of their teeth, as the saying is, but the tiger seemed to flame with life.

Genius is a wonderful thing. They tell a story in the Shan states of a man who made a hamadryad that was so wonderfully lifelike that the natives died with fear after looking at it, and 1 could believe chat story after seeing the 'I igur ol Golan Ra. Ho was alive to that greasy monk. Body o’ me! Yes! Bight in my heart 1 knew that the fakir worshipped the thing, and as we crouched on the shaky platform between the two trees 1 knew that ho was 'Staring toward the spot where the tiger stood.

•‘it’s devilish quiet, ’ muttered Master.'Oii. alt. i wo had been squatting thero for about an hour.

"( k )iiiei ?” 1 growled. “I’m praying for an earthquake to come along and burst this internal silence.”

Wow! wasn’t it quiet! 1 guess wo could have heard a British-India steamer hoot in the Bay of Bengal if that silence strata had run all the way to the coast. That was how it seemed to me. And every minute of that terrific silence seemed to act like a vice that was squeezing out of me everything that was human and vital. 1 don’t know whether it was that way with Masterson, hut 1 had to wriggle my limbs occasionally just to rid myself of the belief that I was becoming petrified. We were on that platform for about four hours before anything happened. Then matters began to got lively. The monk touched our sleeves with his long fingers, and we put our best ears to the breeze. “They’re corning,” whispered the fakir. “Who? gasped Masterson. “The tigers,” breathed the monk, “1 can hear them coming down from the hills. When they get on the sand. Buddha’s tiger will cry out to them.”

I felt inclined to knock that freait off the platform when he said that. 1 felt that we had done a foolish thing in waiting round that place, and I blamed the monk for making us build that perch. A kind of fear gripped mo at that moment that 1 had never experienced before. Never! A nigger can hear a tiger long before a white man can hoar him, and it was some minutes before I hoard a noise. Masterson heard them before I did. Ho was crouched close to mo, and I felt his muscles stiffen with excitement. Masterson was all nerves

just then. The atmosphere of tha.t valley, together with the story of the monk, had upset him completely. “They’re coming,” ne breathed. “They’tre coming.” “Hush,” I whispered. “Be quiet. In the tremendous silence that was over that place, my skin seemed to feel the soft padding of those brutes approaching. Tigers r Of course they were tigers! And you can understand how it struck us after listening to the story that the freak had told. I pictured him grinning in the darkness. There is nothing pleases a nigger better than to get the laugh on a white man, and that fakir had sensed our scepticism when he unbottled that yarn. I gripped my rifle and peered over tho edge of the platform into the darknes that heaved beneath us like masses of black cotton wadding. Wow! wasn’t it dark. And out of that infernal thick night came little snuffles and snarls that made me put a few pertinent questions to myself. “What brings them to this spot?’ 1 asked myself. “Why Hie deuce do they come down from the hills to the bronze statue? What fakery is at the bottom of it?”

Just as 1 was trying to puzzle the matter out. the monk gripped my arm and brought his mouth close to my face.

“Now Buddha’s tiger will cry out to them,” he whispered. “Listen!” ! got a dliill down my spinal column when ho said that. 1 was listening with every inch of my skin. 1 wanted to hear that cry. That naked monk had mo scared right down to my shoes, and I knew that Mastorson was just as bad. Mind you, Masterson had plenty of grit at most times, but all his grit had been sucked out of him by the surroundings on that evening ut Golan Ra.

“Listen!” whispered the monk. “Now he. will cry out to them to lot them know that he is lonely.” Tho fakir timed it exactly. The cry came at the moment he finished speaking. It split the silence like a projectile of sound, and it nearly made Master ton leap from the platform. It was a. scream with a point to it. ri knocked mo so silly that 1 couldn’t think of a thing. “Did you hear?” whispered the monk. “Buddha’s tiger is calling.” I tried to answer that freak, but I couldn’t. That scream had paralysed my tongue. T damned myself for nine different kinds of a fool as I crouched waiting. 1 knew how Mastorson was. Ho was al)out eighteen degrees worse than I was.

1 peered into the darkness, feeling mighty angry and mighty foolish. i pushed the rifle over the edge of the platform and waited for something that would let me know where one of those brutes was prowling. The monk sensed what I was about to do, and his long fingers clutched my arm. “Don’t!” he whispered. “Don’t!” You will annoy Buddha’s tiger if vou shoot his kinsfolk here. Listen! He is calling again.” That cry came again, and 1 was as stupid as a stuffed mongoose. My, didn’t it chill me! 1 wanted to let fly at one of the brutes that snuffled and snarled in the dark, just because i thought that the report of the rifle would bring hack my courage. Noise is a great spine-stiffener for the noisomaker. 1 ran tell you. “Lot him cry I” I gasped, and as I spoke the cry went up again. It was an animal’s cry, hut it was a cry of fear that would chill the heart of a road agent. “Don’t shoot!” cried the monk. “Don’t!” He made a grab at my arm, but 1 pushed him hack. A huge pair of emeralds appeared under the tree at that instant and 1 let fly. Body o’ me! Didn’t that shot start a rumpus! I'd give a few dollars to know how many tigers were around that statue. Just to satisfy my own curiosity, that’s all. Those hills are famous for tigers, and it was some convention that had assembled there. You bet it was. Masterton was pretty funky just then ; i was scared, but lie was clean out of his wits with fright. 1 was looking for another pair of green eyes to help my courage a bit, but ho reached over and gripped my shoulder. "Let thorn alone!” lie gasped. "Let them alone I”

“Shucks!” I spluttered, and just at that moment I caught sight of another pair of blazing emeralds, and I lot fly. Suffering sinners! Didn’t 1 get a shock when 1 banged at him! That tiger must have, been as big as the bronze statue. Me must have boon. Th,. bullet stirred Ids temper, and the brute sprang at us. li<‘ couldn’t reach that platform, but he did as much damage as if ho had readied it. The big brute cannoned against one of the stunted trees, and the trunk of that tree had been bored through by the teredo ant! My hair prickled mighty badly as 1 felt that heavy brute strike it. The tree started to ciaek near the ground, and with a dickens of a hubbub the timbers of the platform, Masterson, the mad monk, and myself flopped heavily to the sand! A piece of timber walloped me on the back of ihe head as 1 struck the earth, and I guess it was some minutes before I regained, consciousness. It might have been an hour for all f know. _ I tried to get up, but 1 couldn’t. I listened to see if I could hear the tigers, Ini! there wasn’t a sound. Something had stampeded the brutes at the moment tile*platform fell, and they had boiled lor the hills. 1 was just wondering what had become of Masterson and the monk when their voices came out ct the silence, and ! listened. You bet 1 did. When I told this part of the story to Curtis, the American Consul, he nodded his head and told me about A!aster.son’s grandmother. 1 guess Curtis was right. If she was a Sliau-Talok woman, a night like that was the kind to bring the breeding out of him. Do you know what that brace were doingt They were praying to Huddha at the very Lop of their lungs. “Keep your hands on the tiger and pray!” shouted the monk. “Don’t take your hands from him. He has saved you from the tigers as the Holy Duo willed.”

1 tried to crawl toward thorn, but that smash on the back of the head was too much for me. I tainted away attain, and as 1 fell on the sand 1 heard Mastersou repeating a sing-song prayer that tlic Buddhist priest was chanting through the nose. it was dawn when I came to my senses. 1 lifted myself up and stared about me, but there were no signs of Masterson and the monk. That big bronze tiger stood up in the dawnlight with his paws stretched out in front of him, hut the fakir and his convert, they had both cleared out.

“Took him away before dawn, so that he wouldn’t see anything,” I muttered, and then I dragged myself over to the statue. It was mighty plain to ms what brought those brutes from the hills when I reached the bronze tiger. There had been a little feast there if I could judge by the look of things. Some confederate of that greasy monk had sneaked up in the darkness and left a live gibbon tied to the statue, and it was that gibbon that had howled when he knew the tigers were on him. He had kept quiet till he knew that they had winded him. I guess that little feast had been spread for them every night for months, so the monk had a sure guess when he told his little story to us.

That’s mighty near all I have to tell. Two weeks afterwards 1 found the empty cave where'the monk used to live. Under a stone near the door was a note from Masterson asking me to tell his employers at Washington that he had thrown up his job. That was all. A leprous Negrito told me that Masterson and the monk had gone to a Buddhist temple farther up the mountains, and 1 let him go. 1 had enough of those hills.

i told Masterson’s boss in Washington that he had thrown the collecting job. The boss was a big tat man, so I didn’t bother telling him the story of that night at Golan Ra. “Thrown it?” he cried. “Why, there’s no one out there who could give him more money than what we wore giving him. Do you think there is?” “Search me!” I said, aud with that I left him there to puzzle the matter over. He wouldn’t have believed me if 1 told him everything. But Curtis the consul believed ic. He took me to the club, gave me a meal, a peg of brandy, and a suit of drill. And he said that the yarn dripped truth. But Curtis had been out there long enough to understand the country and to know what effect the atmosphere of a place like Golan Ra would have on a man who had a dash of color in his blood.