A TALE OF MERE CHANCE.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1261, 30 April 1896, Page 41

A TALE OF MERE CHANCE.

By Stki'ilkn Crane.

Behiqan Armnnl of the Pursuit of the Tiles, til,-i lenient of the Clock, and the Crip of a Coal nf Oniii'ie >SV", lofinllur irilh some Cr.lintw of n I Meet ire ■•'in! to he Curved from an Old Tnble-Le'l.

Yev, my friend, T killed the man ; but I would ii it have been detected in it wore it ivA for some very extraordinary circumstances. 1 had long considered this deed, but I am a delicate and sensitive person, you understand, and f hesitated over it as the diver hesitate:! on the brink of a, dark and icy mountain pool. A thought of the shock of contact holds one lv.in-V. As I was p'i -;-i:i:r hi-; liou;«e one morning 1 said to myso'.f, ' Well, at any ra'e, if she loves him it will not be for loner.' And after that decision 1 was uoL myself, but a sort of u: ichine. I rang the bell, and the servant admitted me to the drawing-room. I waited there while the tall old clock placidly tieke 1 its speech of time. The rigid and austere chairs remained in possession of t!i :ir singular imperturbability, altho.igb, of course, they were aware of my purpose, lint the little white tiles of the floor whimpered one to anotlicr, and looked at me. Presently lie entered the room, and 1, drawing my revolver, shot him. He screamed you know that sere mi, mostly amazement -and as ho fell forward Ins blood was upon the little white tiles. They huddled, and covered their eyes from this rain. It seemed to me that the old clock stopped ticking, as a imn may gasp in the middle of a sentence, and a chair threw itself in my way as i sprang toward the door. A moment later I was walking down the street—tranquil, you understand -and 1 said to myself, ; It is done ! Long years from this day 1 will say to her that it was 1. who killed him. After timo liars eaten the conscience of the thing she will admire my courage.' I was elated that the affair had gone off so smoothly, and I felt like returning home and taking a long, full sleep, like a tired working man. WhenSpeoplo passed mo I contemplated their stupidity with a sense of satis .ction. 7?ut those accursed little white til h ! I heard a shrill cry and chattering behind me, and looking back I saw them, bloodstained and impassioned, raising their little hands and screaming, ' Murder! It was ho!' I have said that they had little hands. I am not so sure of it, but they had some means of indicating me as unerringly as pointing fingers. As for their movement, they swept aloncr as oasily as dry, light loaves are carried hv the wind. Always tliev were shrilly pining

My friend, may it never bo your fortune to bo pursued by a crowd of little blood-stained tiles. I used a thousand means to be free from the clash, clash, of those tiny feet. I ran through tho world at my best speed, hut it was no better than that of an ox, while they, my pursuers, were always fresh, eager, relentless. I am an ingenious person, and I used every trick that a desperately fertile man can invent. Hundreds of times I had almost evaded them when some smouldering, neglected spark would blaze up and discover me.

I felt that the eye of conviction would have no terrors for me ; hut tho eye of suspicion, which I saw in city after city, on road after road, drove me to the verge of going forward and saving, ‘ Yes, 1 have murdorc i.’ People would see tho following, clamorous troup of blood-stained tiles and give me piercing glances, so that these swords played continually at my heart But wc are a decorous race, thank God ! It is very vulgir lo apprehend murderers on tho public street. \Ve have learned correct manners from the English. Besides, who can he sure of the meaning of clamouring tiles ? It might be merely a trick in politics. Detectives? What are detectives? Ob, yes, I have read of them and their deeds when I come to think of it. The pro-historic races must liauo been remarkable. 1 have never been able to understand bow the detectives nnegated in stone boats. Still, specimens of their pottery excavated in Taumanipas show a remarkable knowledge in mechanics. I remember tho little hydraulic what’s that? Well, what you say may be true, my friend, but I think you dream. The little stained tiles. My friend, T stopped in an inn at the end of the ear'll, and i:i the morning they were there living like birds and pecking at my window. 1 should have escaped. Heavens! i should have escaped ! What was more simple ! I murdered, and then walked into the world, which is wide and intricate. Do you know that my own clock assisted in the hunt of me? They asked what lime 1 left my home that morning and it replied at once : ‘ Half-past eight.’ The watch of a man T had cli sliced to pass near the house of (lie crime told tho people ‘Seven minutes after nine.’ And of course the tall oil clock in the drawingroom went about day alter day repeating: ‘ Eighteen minutes after nine.’ Do you say that the man who caught mo was very clever? My friend, I have lived long, and he was the most incredible blockhead of my experience. An enslaved, dusteating Mexican vaquero wouldn’t hitch his pony to such a man. Do you think lie deserves credit for my capture? If he lnd been as pervading as tho atmosphere he would never have caught me. If lie was a detective, a? you sav, i could carve a better one from an old table-leg. But the tiles! That is another mat!or. At, night I think they flew ill a long, high flock, like pigeons. In the day, little mad tilings, they murmured on my trail like frothy-mouthed weasels. I sec that you note these great, round, vividly orange spots on my coat. Of course, even if the detective was really c irved from an old table-leg, he could hardly fail to apprehend a nun thus badged. As sores come upon one in the plague, so came these spots upon my coat. When I discovered them I made efforts to free myself of this coat I tore, tugged, wrenched at it, but around my shoulders it was like the grip of a dead man’s arms. Do you know that J had plunged in n thousand lakes? I have smeared this co.it with a thousand paints, hut day and night I lie .spots luirn like lights. I might

walk from this gaol to day if i could rid my seif of this coat, but it clings -clings -clings

At any rate, the person you call a detective is not so clever to discover a man in a coat of spotted orange, followed by shrieking bloodstained tiles. Yes that noise from the corridor is most peculiar; but they are always there, muttering and watching, clashing and jostling. It sounds as if the dishes of 11a Us were being washed. Yeti have become used toil. Once, indeed, in the nigh), I cried nut to them : ‘ln finds name, go away, little blood stained tiles!’ But they doggedly answered: ‘lf. is the law .’ —Tlw D.i'ili.h lll i.v/ivb d .1/a/if./nc.