A SUBMISSIVE VICTIM.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1797, 15 August 1906, Page 6

A SUBMISSIVE VICTIM.

(By Walter J. Mowbray.)

As the door opened, Beryl Gray ros® hastily from her chair by the window, and stood in tho centre of the floor. Her lover camo to meet her—a look of deep gravity on his clear-cut face. Slio read his news in the lines about his mouth, and her heart sank. Tenderly ho put Ills arms about the slender figure and looked into the darkbrown eyes. “Our worst fears are confirmed, ’ h© said, hopelessly. “My father cannot live till tho morning. I have just left him. Ho hade me send you to linn. I think ho has something on his mind. You will go to him?” Beryl put up one little hand till it caressed his cheek. He understood the action, and knew that ail her sympathies wore his. Then ho kissed her and stood by the door while she passed through. A few moments and she was in the room whore Lucas Wyatt lay. As his eye fell on her advancing figure, he mado a gesture with his hand for the nurse to withdraw. Beryl sat. down by tho bed and looked into the face of he>r guardian. Already the hand of death had set its seal upon the pallid cheek and glazing eye. She bent towards him and tried to tako his Hand. But he drew it away hurriedly. “Wait,” ho said huskily, “I have much to say. Are we a2ono?” She comforted him with a word. “All, that is well,” he said, relieved, “my timo is short., Beryl, and I dare not die without confessing all that I have done. You have seemed to love me sometimes, and my conscience haa tormented mo whenever I have seen it. For I liart; wronged you past redemption, and now that it is too late would undo alii that I have clone.” Sho looked anxiously into lus face. Was his reason deserting him in these last hours of his earthly life? “Don’t think about it, ’ she said, soothingly. ‘There is nothing to reproach yourself with. You have taken tho place of my dead father and I have barely felt the loss.” But ho motioned her to bo silent, and sho obeyed. “You do not know,” he sard, “listen and I will tell you. You have heard tho story of your father’s death, but you do not know all. We were crossing the Atlantic, I was his solicitor and his dearest friend. He kept no secrets from me, and, while he lived, I was true to him; but temptation came, and I sinned against his memory and against you.” He paused with a deep groan of despair and repentance. Beryl watched him anxiously ss he continued: “Your mother was dead, and you were a child of eight. I had left a wife at home and a promising boy of twelve ; we talked of them many, times during the voyage, and then your father grew suddenly ill. The doctor did all he could to save him, hut one day he openly admitted that he could do no more, and that your poor father must die before we reached our destination. I carried to him the news snd he bowed his head resignedly. “Then he bade me draw' up a will ; I sat in his cabin and wrote at his dictation. All his worldly possessions had been reduced to cash, some months before, and he was the owner of twenty thousand pounds. To you he bequeathed the whole of this little for* tune; do not start, I have much more to tell you ere I die.

THE ARTFULNESS OF THE DEAD UN

“He charged me with your training and education, for this I was to draw each year a sum of three hundred pounds from the estate. When you wore eighteen, this sum was to be doubled for three succeeding years, then at twenty-one I was to resign all control of you, and the fortune your, father left was to be yours unconditionally.” Beryl’s face was very pale, but sue forebore to speak. Lucas Wyatt passed one hand wearily across his brow and continued: , “The will was signed and attested by two witnesses. Then a terrible tiling happened; wo were run down m the night by a groat homeward-bounci liner. The water gushed in with appalling swiftness, and the vessel was doomed; the liner had slipped away under oover of the night and we knew not whether she too had sustained auv damage. There was a rush lor tho boats, and I ran below to rescue your father, hut I stood still oil the threshold. . ‘•'Already ho was past all human help.'yet I bore him to the deck, and lifted him tenderly into one of the boats. Then we rowed away from the sinking ship, and tossed lor two days in the wild was to of waters that seethed around ns. At last wo sighted an island and beached our boat. that night a second boat reached us, and wo welcomed it with shouts, bur they brought sad tidings of the two remaining boats; both, had foundered befoic their eyes. "They had rescued as many as tneir frail craft would hokl, but many were drowned, and with them the two witnesses of your father’s wild. "We had buried him that afternoon on a knoll or the island, and night fell black and cheerless on our little camp. ’ Again tho dying man panned. Beryl could see that' he was nearing his confession; ho turned his eyes guiltily to tho wall.

•Tt was then that the temptation began to assail me,” be resumed. “I was ambitious, and wanted money badly. With it I could specu-ata and win more. Don’t be too Hard on me; it was for Leslie I sinned, you little know how I loved him. I told myself that you would not want the money —might never want it. "At least twelve years must elapse era a penny of.it could be touched. It was only the interest- —and but part of that —which would fall into my hands, and twenty thousand pounds was to me a great sum then. Day by day tho temptation grew, a vessel liove in sight, and we were rescued. Yet all through the voyage that followed I brooded upon what I might achieve with your father’s money, in tho end I yielded.” Beryl was listening now. with bated breath, truly this man had sinned against her, yet she. was conscious of no bitterness' or shadow oi anger as tlie truth was disclosed. Presently he went on a gam in the same remorseful tone: . . ... "It was so easy to sm, a second will took tlio place of the first. ihe signatures were traced, and few con .cl have told which woio genuine mid which false. I took advantage of the ■well-known friendship existing between your father and myself, dins regard and esteem were set forth as tlie reason for Ills bequest. "You were confided to ray solo care until you were twenty-one. I was to .maintain and educate you and take the place of liim you had lost. When you cam a of age you were lo have tlie sum of five thousand pounds, the rest was left to me. You know the rest already. The will was proved, tlio death of the witnesses passed over.

“My profession carries with it a certain guarantee of respectability; would to God I hat! Bred up to tmat standard. For years i have bitterly repented tlie step I took, yet there has been no chance of retreat. And now my end is near and the shame avil! fall, not upon my own bead, but upon his whom I love better than all the world —my son.” He broke off abruptly, and Beryl heard him _ groan. For some time there was silence in the room, then he turned and faced her.

"I have robbed you, too, of the happiness you thought was yours,” he said humbly, “little did I think that in sinning I should blight the hope of your inmost heart and of his; I did not then dream that you would learn to love him—that ho would grow to worship you and desire- you for his wife.

“And now the seed is bringing forth fruit and the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children; ho will make you reparation to the uttermost farthing, and then he will turn his face away from you for ever. I know his pride; he will inherit my shame and never for one moment forget it or its bitter penalty.” . Beryl stood up; she was thinking rapidly. Too well she knew the truth of her guardian’s last words. The question of the money had troubled her little, but if it touched her love—if it robbed her of him—the penalty of this man’s sin was indeed great. She looked down, something was in the old man’s outstretched hand. “Take it,” he said huskily, “like many another guilty man I have kept the proof of my crane, rna-ny times have I resolved to destroy it, but ailways I have held back; take itj, it is your father’s true will.”

She took it from him and opened it. A glance showed her that he had spoken truly. Suddenly a new idea occurred to her; she sat down and tried to think. Slowly tho idea grew till it merged into a resolve, then she lifted her head. “Is this known to any save ourselves?” she asked quickly. “No,” ho said humbly, “I have hidden it even from liim.” Sho bent down earnestly. “Will you promise to reveal it to none save myself?” she asked, “you .iay you iiavo sinned against me; if you dio with the secret still unspoken I shall deem it sufficient reparation. Will you promise me?” He looked at her in bewilderment. “But that will not help you,” he said. She smiled. “It will save me from life-long unhappiness,” sho said, gently, “it will prevent tho separation you fear.” He looked at her fixedly. “But how?” lie asked. "Because I too will keep silence,” she replied softly. Ho started and his dim eyes brightened. “But you would lose the money,” he demurred. “And I snail gain something far better,” she replied, “I shall keep the love I have won and shall be happy.” "And you will never tell—never reproach him with his father’s guilt?” ho said, tremulously. Sim smiled down into his face. "Look!” sho said, and moved towards the fire'. Ho watched her with intent eyes; sho held the wifi in her hand and lie saw her "’aco it upon tho red coals of tho lire. Tho paper flared and blazed and a blackened mass of ash soared in-

to the wide chimney. Then she came hack to the bed and again sat down. ‘•Lot tho dead paid bury its dead,” .-ho s;:id, gently; “the secret shall nevo.' pass my lips, Leslie shall never know.” The of d man reached for her hand, and blessed her. “And can you forgive me?” he pleaded humbly. She bant and kissed-him. ••You have been my father for twelve years,” she said, “I have only kind thou gilts in my heart' for you, and I cannot forget that through you has como my best gift. Best content, I will make him a good and loving wife, and will honour him all the days of my life.” Ho smiled feebly in his great relief and gratitude, but his strength was well nigh spent; she went to the door and summoned Leslie to tho room. The old man smiled again as he saw his son, thou he made a sign, and they joined hands. One© more they saw him smile, then a grey shade crept into his face and they two were alone with the dead. Leslie summoned, the nurse and drew Beryl from the room. She went with tears in her dark-brown eyes, yet she was happy in what she had done, for lovo had triumphed over wrong, and all was blotted out. The secret Avas hers and hers alone, and none Avou'Jd over know it.

A cash-box containing about £4O belonging to tho Karori Borough Council Avas stolen from the Council’s temporary office in connection with the traniAvay Avorks, on the eastern side of the Karori tunnel, some time on Monday last. The thief avss in possession of a key of the office, for he unlocked the door to gain entrance, and locked it again afterwards. The robbery is supposed to have taken place during the lunch hour, when the timekeeper waa away-

(By J. Dougall Reid.)

“That brute run! Why, Vs as dead as Binnio’s son, an’ ——” “My eon, ye Yorkshire clown! Why, I ain’t got a. wife yet.” “Jusso, jusiso; that’s what I’m eay111’. You ain’t got a wife—as we knows on —an’ so can’t are a won —as wo knows on agin. That’s the plain moan id o’ plain fax, in a manner o’ speakin’. Bui*, then, knowin’ you, as we does, to be the most able-bodied- —-well, we’ll be perlite, an’ say untruther, in Injy, it ain’t, impossible for ybu to ” “Oh, shut up, Burge; it’s ’osscs we’re talkin’ about, not multiplication of idpis,” pub in one of the listeners, impatiently. “Lot's get back to the business on ’and.” Ned Burge, stout of figure and fat of face, fixed a look of pained surprise on the speaker. “O tempory! O' Moses!'’ he exclaimed in tones of deep feeling. ‘That s Luting, that is—l got it from tho chaplain —an’ it means that the times is bad an’ tho manners wuss —’cep’ in the case of Hit chi ns there, what interrupted roe, an’ ’an no bally manners at all. An’ tlio subjec’ of ’is interruption, too! To think as us five should ’ave gathered ’ere to arrange about a ’oss runnin’ for that thousand rupn, an’ that wo should ’ear tho Hitchins family refer to the increase of the great Binnie family as a multiplication of idjitw! Binnie, you has my .sympathy. I’ll, weep for you when I gets a spare minit —I will.” Something lurid in tlie way of thanks rcee to Binnie’s lips, and was only just checked in time. The others, too, maintained an equally prudent silence. All wanted to hear how tilings stood for

their chance of winning the 1000 rupees pony race at the forthcoming station sports, but they knew that it wae useless to argue or remonstrate with Burge when ho was in tlio Avay of hearing himself speak; tho only thing to be done at such times svas to let him run down, liko a clock. But they looked their displeasure, aIL the same. Perhaps he saw this, for presently tlio grm of half-malicious humour left lii.s face, and bio eyes, in ceasing to twinkle, showed him for what lie really was—as shrewd and hard-headed a specimen. as ever owned up to tlio name of Tvkc.

“Well, hoys,” ho said, looking sloAvly round at the four expectant faces, “as Dickson will be hero with the pony in ten minutes, avo’ll quit chaffin’. Noav, tho peru it ion’s this. As you knoAv, that Yankee bigwig as is .stayin’ with the Governor has offered a special prize of ono thousand rupees for an extra pony raco at tho sports. It’s to be a close race—that’s to say, all tho ’osses entered must bo owned by soldiers of the garrison, an’ Avhito soldiers at that. I suppose the bigwig, like most Americans, has a prejudice agin men of colour. There's only tho one prize, no second or third money—an’ owners may either ride themselves or put up native jocks, just an suits them. Got that all right?” “Yes."

“Well, next thing is tho ’osses entered. There’s thirteen on ’em — c\ r ery nag in garrison as ’as any chance at all. Of them thirteen, three have the race among ’em—Major Boyle’s Rocket, Lieutenant Trevor’s Sasic, an’ Captain Morley’s Discus. Of the three, Discus is, I think, the best, an’

“What does that bally name mean, or ’as it any moanin’?” put in Binnie, tho inquisitive. “Yes, it ’as a moanin’, lad; I axed the captain about it. It means a round tiling like them Avocden cheeses avo use in tho skittle alley, an’ the ancient Greeks used it in their games. Well, Discus, as I said, is the best, ’less this brut© as Dickson’s bringin’ along is a

flier; an’ it strike; me as the only way it could fly ’ud be by failin’ over a bloomin’ precipice. I’ve ’ad a look at it, an’, wo far as appcriances goes, the brute’s {load; a clean dead ’tin, if it ’ad only the wetn.se to lie down.” “Then what, in thunder, do you and Dickson mean by botherin’ about it at all, if it’s such a buzzard’s breakfast as that?” asked one of the group, m surprise. “I’m botherin’ about it because Dickwon is,” replied Burglie, “an Vs botherin’ about it because 'o says it’s a good ’un, as good as its name.” “An’ what is it’s name, then ?” “It’s a native word moanin’ Windfect, an’ Windfeet we’re goiii’ to call it if we buy it. “Yew—if—an’ a big if.” “Neither big nor little. Hitchins, till we’vo ween it go,” replied Burge, drily. Then, with a momentary return of Ilia “loonio” manner, lie went on: —“Apperiances is deceivin’, like Bob llaffen here; very deceivin’. Take yourself, f’r instance, Bob. As we all know, you’re reely a ’uman bein’, an’ yet if you was stuck on top of a temple with no clothes on your misfertnit carcage, blest if your upperianco wouldn’t deluder the bandars (apes) into welknnin’ you as a lomg-lorst brother. It’s ” “You go to rats, Ned Burge,” snarled Raff on, angrily. Although a stout and tried soldier, he was about the ugliest man in India, a little consideration rendering disquisitions on “appcriances” distasteful.

“I’d rather go on furlough, if it’s all the same to you,” replied Burge, mildly. “A ’ealthy climate But, say, boys, yonder’s Dickson at last, an’ now for the dead ’un.”

Their eyes turning in the direction indicated by those of the speaker, the four men saw approaching them at a leisurely walk a soldier of their own regiment, a half-grown Hindu lad, and a pony. The latter engrossed all their attention, and as it came nearer and nearer an expression of amazement grew and deepened on all their faces. In a state of paralysis they sat watching tho procession until it- halted close in front of them, and then a sort of inarticulate yelp of horror burst from the whole four. “Who are you gettin’ at, Jack Dickson ?” “What time’s the funeral?” “Sossidges—sossidges!” “M-e-a-t—cat’s meat, O'!” the last vowl from Hitchins, whose Cockney soul liad flown, back on tho wings of association to tho “big village” and its street cries.

Dickson, straw in mouth, eyed tlie jeering crew with the amused contempt of a man who lias a lot up his sleeve, the Hindu lad grinned broadly, as one not unamused either, but the pony seemed deeply affected by the rudeness of its reception. It let its bead droop, its knees bend, just as though it would like to apologise for being on the surface of the earth instead of under iti Then, as the abusive four swarmed about it with injurious remarks and comparisons, it winked rapidly with both eyes, as though trying to keep back its tears. Possibly it was this “ap-j perianoe” of abject meekness that misled Hitchins into getting behind it and giving at its heels a life-like imitation of two cats having a sudden and acute difference of opinion. Whether this was rso or not, it is certain that had that near hind hoof landed on his ribs instead of on bis liip, it would have been liis funeral -there and then. As it was, tho hearty goodwill of the stroke shifted him seven or eight feet through the air, and laid liim down to sleep- with neatness and despatch. There was not much thought of sleep in his head, though, as he scrambled up and looked respectfully at tho energetic skeleton. “Jingo! ’e can kick if ’e can’t run,” ho said in. a tone of deep conviction. Then, as ho limped towards a lian-dy stone, ho added, “ 'Ope to ’Eaven ’e ’asn’t given me the strip glia It, blimy.” “Servo you right if he lias,” said Dickson with unfeeling directness. “Next time you go makin’ a racket like that at a ’ass’s heels you’d better make sure that it’s dead: you’ll find it safer.” “Well, ’e might bo excused for thinkin’ that ’un dead.” said B-urge, who, though ho liad taken no part in t-lie recent circus had been eyeing the pony throughout Avith growing disfavour. “Now as I’vo ’ad a second an’ better' look at ’im I can only say what I said before —Vs dead if ’e ’ad but the sense to lie down.”

“Think so? I fancy you’ll change your mind Avlien you’ve seen him go,” replied Dickson Avith a superior smile. “Maybe— but I’m ’anged if I tliink as its Avorth Avhilo goin’ on with this ’ere game; ’aviid anything more to do with a bone rack like "that,” said Burge, Avith a sort of weary disgust-. “Just look at the blame brute.” And tho blame brute 'was Avortli looking at—lor reasons. As he stood there despondently nosing his knees he certainly corn-eyed tho impression that most of Ids strength Avas needed to keep him on his feet, and that if lie fell down lie Avould never be able to get up again without help. He Avas bony and scraggy to tho point of emaciation, lii® coat Avas rough, unkemnt, uncared for, and his long iegs looked as if the Avoiglit of the light natßo saddle lie carried Avas almost too much for him. The only sign of vim about him. indeed, Avas in his eyes, t int had in them a light revealing much to such as could read them. “Well, ho don’t look a goer,” admit-

fed Dickson. “But then his sort never put on flesh, an 5 he’s heen half-starved besides*. Let him get a tew days of good feedin’ an’ groomin’ an’ you’ll see a difference.” “No, I won’t,” said Burge sourly. Tll not bother about ’im any more. You’d better take ’im back to the old charcoal burner.” A murmur of agreement from the others followed the words, and, hearing it, Dickson smiled. “Can’t do that,” he answered coolly, “seein’ as I’ve bought him from the same old charcoal burner.” _ “You've what?” almost shouted Burge, the only one of the. quintette able to speak in the surprise of the moment. “Bought that ’Ow much? “Fifty rupees-—an ; a u&rg<un tuafy replied Dickson composedly. . “Fifty rupees ter a slither o’ cats meat 1” said Burge, raising his eyes m delirious protest to the universe generally. “Fifty solid silver rupees for ? a dead ’un —an’ ’e—’e calls it a bar -” An overwhelming rusli of emotion choked him, and ho rumbled into silence. Then came an agonised croaking from the stone shared by Hitclnns and his sitringhalt. “Bui, y GY&y I say,” ho barked; wasu t it arranged that nothing was to be ■bought ’thout consultin’ the rest of the eindibit?” u “It was,” answered Dickson, but when I found that some of Sergeant Kalloate crowd had got wind of the syndicate, an’ were nosing round aitei me, I knew there was no time to lose. They’re pilin’ their dibs on Discus, an they’d have bought Windfeet on chance, just to spool our game. But you chaps needn’t stand there shiverin’ over it either, like lop-dogs in snow,” he went on angrily. “I paid the fifty out n my own pocket—an’ if that’s all the confidence you ’ave in my judgment you can clear out, the bally lot of you, an I’ll see this thing through by myself, single-handed.” The defiance cooled them considerably, recalling to their minds several things. They remembered that what Dickson did not know about horses was scarcely worth knowing, and it came to them all at once that where he was willing to walk the path might he less slippery than they had feared. Feeling this himself and also reading it on the faces of the others, Burge’s tone was even apologetic as he said—- “ All right, Dickson. Let’s see im go. n. They saw him go, and the result was % surprise for the erstwhile jeering five. The pony’s action in galloping had a curiously mechanical, machine-like look, but it got him over the ground at an astonishing rate, and when, after a mile and a half of it, the little Hindu, Met, pulled him up, Burge, watch in hand, pronounced him faster than anything on the station except Discus, and only a little way behind that' niuchpraosed animal. This discovery rendered the whole syndicate jubilant, and as they turned homeward the only question agitating them was whether Windfeet could be improved during the. eight dlays that had yet to intervene before the date fixed for the sports. “If wo can get ’im just a little bit faster by then ’el’ll be able to ’old Discus, an’, like as not, win outright,” said Burge, rubbing his hands. “He could hold Discus now, at this minute,” said Dickson. “He wasn’t nearly doin’ his best back there.” Then, as the others halted and stared, he added —“I told Met to bring the pony along at a good rate, hut still to be sure that he kept a bit in hand.” “What ter, name o’ ” “Look yonder,” said Dickson, cutting his questioner short, and pointing hack to the huge tree under which they had held their meeting. And then as they looked they saw a white man, a civilian, descend the tree and walk rapidly away. They understood at once, and a fierce growl broke from the whole five. “A spy!—one of Kellor’s gang,” said Raffen, savagely. “Wish I’d knowed ’e was there; I’d ’av given ’im something for hisself, blimy.” “I knew he wa3 there— saw him as we were cornin’ up,” said Dickson. “Yon knew ? Then why on earth ” “Yes, I knew ; that was why I told Met to keep a bit in hand,” interrupted the astute Dickson. “I knew he was there to time the pony, so I let him do ft, an’—well, he thinks he’s got Windfeet’s measure, and now he’ll go and tell Kellor and his crowd, an’—well, boys, d’ye see anything ahead ?—I do.” They did —they did indeed, and the dance of exceeding joy they performed made the pony heave up its melancholy nowl and have misgivings as to their perfect sobriety. fr Looked at that way, it shapes well,” said Binnie, chuckling, “an’ I’m blame glad as that mob of Ivellor’s is like to get a drop. ’E’e a dem bad lot hisself, an 15 them as ’e goes with, swaddics an’ ciwis alike, are rotters.” “Not a haporth of doubt about that,” assented Burge, with emphasis. “I tell you, boys, we’U ’ave to keep a sharp look-out atween now an’ the race, ’less we want Windfeet nobbled. Strikes me Kellor knows more about dopin’ [drugging horses] than an honest man should.” “We must take turn about at watching the pony till race day’s past,” said Dickson. “Like you, I wouldn't trust Kellor ter much.”

r<! Gan you trust ’im?” asked Raff on, nodding towards the Hindu. For answer Dickson led the way to where the lad stood watching the apparently half asleep Windfeet with a twinkle in his eye. “Not, Met, just tell us what you have to do, ’an why we can trust you to do it,” said the soldier, quietly.

Th. smile on the Hindu’s face vanished, to be replaced by a hot glow of quick and living gratitude.

‘T tell eahibe last first.” he said. “When my father sick an’ we money not got, Dickson sahib pay for doctor, pay for——■” “Shut up,” interrupted Dickson, his face reddening under the approving eyes of his comrades. “That wasn’t what I asked you about.” ‘“Well, sahibs can trus’ me' because sahibs against Ivellor sahib. Kellor sahib say I steal ten rupees out of his bunk an’ flog me. I not steal the rupees, an’ Kellor sahib find in liis bunk three days after. But he not say he sorry; not try to get me hack my work in station —no.”

“He’s a pig,” said Morgan, the silent man of the syndicate. He spoke seldom, but generally to the point. “Yes, sahib, he very much pig,” agreed Met, “and jus’ because pig I try help sahib against him.” “In what way?” “In way of what Burge Siahib call do him brown,” answered Met, gleefully. “I take Windfeet out and look like tryin’ always do my best. But I not doing my best, and Windfeet not doing his best either. Kellor Sahib’s men watch and tell him. He say “Urn, um, and think he all right. But he not know that I much big humbug, and that Windfeet plenty much big humbug—yes.” As the Hindu ended this exceedingly confidential statement, Windfeet, just

as though some hard-pan idea had hit him violently, threw up his head, skipped liko a ballet girl, made a fair attempt to neigh—and became a dead ’un again in something liko the twinkling of an eye. The thing was eo swift, unexpected, and yet so apposite as an endorsement of what Met had just said, that the syndicate hung on to itself and laughed till it cried. “Talk about artfulness!” said Hitchins, wiping his eyes. “ ’Anged if that boy an’ that ’oss don’t about take the cake! Como on, old plenty much big ’uinbug,” with a hearty slap on the pony’s touzled shoulder. “The sooner you’re in the stable the sooner you’ll get what’s good for you. d’ye ’ear?” The process of giving Windifeet what was good for him was begun at once, and under it the “dead ’un” improved not a little, although it was evident from the first that good looks and he were to be for ever apart. But he grew' stronger, less liko a specimen escaped from an anatomical museum, and the strange fire in his eyes deepened daily. Met, too, reported an increasing difficulty in getting the beast to act the part of a dead ’un, and confessed to a growing fear tnat the freakish Windfeet might take it into his head to have a real gallop, in which case, as the Kellor combination’s spies were all about, the game of the syndicate would bo largely spoiled. But as thero was no way out of it they had to accept the risk and hope for the best. This same hope was not strengthened, either by a growing rumour that there was a dark horse in the race, and that it was ■just possible Discus might meet with a rival more than dangerous. The growth of this rumour let loose on the wretched syndicate a perfect horde of the unabashable inquisitive, whose activity gave them a warm time of it. But they held their own and played the game stoutly, albeit thanking their stars every night that they were a day nearer the end of it. As they could not trust many

in the circumstances they had taken the safe course of trusting none in the matter of “straight tips,” consequently it was somewhat of a surprise when a/t one of their meetings Burge proposed that they should/ make at least one exception. “Say, hoys,” he began with very unusual diffidence. “I wants your permissions to give the straight tip to Sergeant Stanley. ’E?s a dashed good sort, ’e is, though ’taint for that only as I want to give ’im the tip.” There was a momentary silence 1 , and then Dickson spoke. “Stanley is a good sort,” he said, “but —*—Well, go on.”

“All I’ve to say is this. Stanley’s time’s up next year, an’ he’s been savin’ up his money so\s ’e can go home an’ marry a girl in Portsmouth. Kellor wanted the same girl, an’ because she chose Stanley ’stead of ’im, es been down on Stanley ever since. Now, although Kellor an’ ’is gang are quite sure that Discus ’ll win, what ’ave they been doin’ hut makin’ Stanley believe as Windfeet ’ll really win, an’ that they themselves are abackin’ of Windfeet on the quiet. As it turns out, Stanley believed them, an’ ’as put nigh an os worth on Windfeet- See?” “Yes, we see. Kellor’s game was to get Stanley rooked. Well, he didn’t moan it, of course, hut he’s put Stanley on as good a thing as ever was. “Yes but the trouble is that Stanley has found out that Kellor’s gang ’ave been foolin’ ’im, an’ Vs in a great state about ” , .. , “I see,” broke in Dickson, “an you r© afraid he’ll begin hedging?”

“That’s it.” T , n “Well boys, I think I should go with Burge to Stanley, tell him how things really stand, an’ get him to put Ins last rupee on Windfeet. In that way we 11

hit Kellor the hardest knock lie’s got yet-. What d’ye say?”

The answer was a unanimous assent, and within half-an-hq,ur the two had seen Sergeant Stanley, stopped his hedging, and set him off dreaming of bluo eyes and house furniture. Tho day of the race arrived at last, and brought with it a warm time for the owner and backers of Discus. When thn flag fell, Discus, Rocket, and Sasin led away in a cluster, the rest in a ruck, w’th Windfeet in the middle of it. At tho start there had been much jeering at Wind feet’s want of personal attractions, hut as the pace quickened and tho ruck began to tail ofF leaving the desnisod “buzzard’s breakfast” at the haul of it, tlie shouters .suspended business in dawning surprise. Presently surprise began to merge in terror when the gaunt brown brute, moving with all the unfaltering regularity of a machine, began to overhaul the l leaders. Then, waking up to the situation, the crowd yeliled like on© man—one man up to Ids knees in scalding water. As tho hoarse roar of voices reached him, Sasin’o jockey lost his head, and though far fromii the distance, let his mount go. In an instant the riders of Discus and Rocket, native boys both, caught the infection and were off on a cracker of their own. But fast as they went, they could not shake off that brown terror behind, that moving certainty, that was gaining on them at every stride. As she watched, the bigwig American’s pretty daughter, who, with feminine perversity, had backed Windfeet just because all those around her were against him, caught her father excitedly by the arm and began to crow liko her own national eagle. “Hooray for Windfeet!” she cried, her clear young vofte carrying prophecy of disaster to the Discus cult about her. “Guess this is my race —mine and Windfeet’s. Oh, it’s great! I’ll have gloves enough to stock a Slay, poppa,

you’ve got to buy me that pony, if it costs you Oh, gracious! Look, look!” And there was something to look at. The brown machine had beaten Pocket and was now challenging Sasin. Half-a-dozen lengths in front, and going lik® the wind, was Discus, but no one couLd now doubt that the finish would be fought out between him and Windfeet. Afc tlie distance Sasin was passed after a desperate struggle, and with a sudden rush Windfeet dosed with the leader, the two coming on neck and neck for home amid an uproar such .as would have provoked remonstrance in pandemonium. The Discus section of the crowd yelled and cursed and screeched! unceasingly, while the Windfeet men, being too few to make themselves heard, took it out in helmet and turban, waving, with impromptu hornpipes on anybody’s toes. Kellor and his immediate following had shouted and sworn themselves voiceless by this time, and with white faces and frenzied eyes were looking the curses they could no longer utter, knowing as they now did that the race was lest-. A whistle, shrill, wild, piercing, soared up from somewhere among the crowd. As he heard it the Hindu boy, Met, leaned fonvard with a strange, unearthly cry that, as it fell on his mount’s ears, seemed to stimulate it to preternatural energy. The brute’s speed, already headlong, became terrific, and in a few seconds more it flashed. past the post like a brown javelin, quite threo lengths ahead of the game but hopelessly beaten Discus. Smiling, Met pulled up and looked back. lie saw the roaring, tossing crowd. saw the beautiful American delightedly clapping her hands, saw the syndicate dancing in a ring, with Stairley Sahib dancing in the middle, and, best of all to his revengeful heathen 60 ul, the face of Kellor upturned to the sky—dazed, ashen, murderous. “Ho got toko at last,” ivas the Hindu’s thought, and in so thinking he was right. That day’s work swept from Kellor the accumulated plunder of years; much of it, too, into the pockets of the man lie had tried to ruin. The fair American’s poppa bought Windfeet for her, .so insuring for that weird beast a comfortable future. And as for the syndicate men, they got what to them was wealth galore and a caution from the colonel to watch themselves in the way of drink. They did.