My Best Adventure

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 1010, 28 June 1930, Page 18

My Best Adventure

Mrs. Clare Sheridan, novelist, sculptor and traveller, contributes to the series of “Best Adventures” at the invitation of the “Daily Chronicle.” BNE may hunt far afield for adventure and not find it. One may find it at liome without looking I searched for it in Russia, in Turkey, in Mexico, in the Sahara. Wherever there was trouble X hurried to the spot. Again and again I thought I was in it, felt it boiling around me, felt thrills, fear and the necessity of caution. But the best thrill, interwoven with mystery, happened quite unexpectedly when I went to stay in an Irish coun- j try house on the border of the Free i State and Ulster. It was two years i ago. Irish troubles had subsided; peace reigned. My friend's house was I one of the few that had survived burning. It stood upon Free State soil, although half the estate straggled over the border into Ulster. One night after dinner Joan, the daughter of the house, suggested that we sohuld go pike fishing while the rest of the party were playing bridge. Accordingly we took a light and descended into the basement to fetch ! the fishing tackle. Torch and Revolver Strange scuffling sounds at the end of the long passage startled us. Jkiau shouted, “Who is there?” and re- i ceived no answer. We inspected the I premises and discovered nothing, not ! even a belated kitchenmaid to whom some garden swain might have been making love. The incident perturbed Joan, so we returned the following night to investigate. This time we took no light, only a box of matches, and we walked on tip-toe. Someone, however, was on watch.

coin sticks, the sick person will recover; otherwise not. All medicine is, by origin, magic, and not a. few realiy valuable remedies now listed in the pharmacopoeia were imagined centuries ago to derive their i efficacy from supernatural sources. Even nowadays, in the most enlightened countries, many such superstitions survive. One that is familiar relates to the “madstone,” alleged to cure dog bite. Mystery always attaches to the nature of the madstone, but in reality it is merely a gallstone from the-gall-bladder of an ox. There are still many persons who believe that a ring formed of a coffin-nail and worn on the finger is a cure for cramp. In Europe and in South America votive offerings for the cure of diseases are often seen hung up' in churches. Some of them represent the part of the body affected, such as a leg or a kidney. Others are human figures, which point to the afflicted part of the body. Usually they are made of silver, but sometimes of gold. To frighten away the spirits which cause diseases, the priest-magician of | Tibet wields a whip that has a handle j made of a human thigh-bone and j lashes of human skin. Further to j scare the demons, he beats on a drum ! formed of the top parts of two human j skulls.

A torch was flashed in our faces i blindingly, and a rough voice said ! “Stick ’em up!” The torch glinted! upon a revolver-barrel. We put our ; hands up immediately; it was the only thing to do. Had we turned and run w T e might have been shot in the back. Besides, Joan would never run, not even she were frightened. She was not that sort. I confess that a revolver-barrel in the face makes me feel ill at ease. I knowhow easily I pull the trigger of my ow’u revolver without meaning to. “We Won’t Split” Also I particularly dislike being in the light when the other person is in the dark. I cursed myself for not! having brought a torch. “Who are you?” asked the man with | the revolver, and “What are you doing 1 1 here?” I j

“I m on a visit!” I confessed. The maxi at Joan. “Oh, it’s you—”; he evidently recognised the daughter of the house. Yes, it s me,” she answered. Mayn’t I walk about my own house?” “You’d better clear out,” he answered, and the sound of voices brought others to the spot, but thev j were hidden in the inkv blackness! behind the torch. ’ , t- 1 >°u split, ' said one of them i ■we II burn the house down." “We won’t split,” said Joan, “but don t shoot us in the back.” In The Bushes It was unpleasant having to retrace ! one s footsteps down the long underground corridor, and we felt fools- it i seemed such an ignominious retreat I I knew Joan was hating it We discussed the situation when we I got upstairs. If they were plain : burglars why did they come two! nights running, and why hadn t thev 1 a “>' th ing after their first visit’ : “WhYt r then?” bUrßlarS ” Said J ° an ’ | She did not know, but her chief I the basement ?” H ° W they Bet int °! a servant was in collus- 1 I Joan couldn't keep away from it \ ’"list find out!’ she kept savin--' j 1 must. I will, find out more ” I of\\!l en 1 r ul up lo > icd 1 i°°ktd out of the window and saw figures on the I man d ° d Smg among the bushes. \ i 1 111311 Wlth a sun and a slouch tap was 1

Clare Sheridan Relates the Tale | of a Country House Party.

j gazing through the kitchen window, I where there was still a light. ! I called Joan, and we crept down- j i stairs. Solemnly we w-eht out aniooe I the shadows and said, “’We’re friends!” Someone came out from behind a bush and asked, “What do you want?” “We want to know what you are all playing at,” I said, and Joan added, “Bet us into it and we won’t tell.” He replied: "Get out of it! This is no place for girls.” Blow from Behind Joan recognised Tim, the gardener’s ! sen. His belt was pulled in very : tight over his mackintosh, and his j small waist, of which he was very • vain, was unmistakable. Someone 1 shouted. “Don’t make ex row.” I “If you don’t tell me,” said Joan. “I’ll tell my father.” She confronted . them bravely in her pink satin eveni ing dress, looking very pretty and : very frail. I thought someone’s hear i might have been touched. Instead. J she received a blow on the bead from ! behind, that sent her staggering to- ■ ward the house. ! we rounded the stable someone j seized me by the arm and said, “Yon j will tel], will you?” and scraped it i against the rough cement wall, so that j from elbow to wrist the skin was mince and blood. For some days I I bad 1° wear a long-sleeved dress. The Secret But we couldn't keep away. Down j into the basement we went again a lew nights later. ’ They” promised 1 to tell us everything if we would bring | them some port wine to drink. We 1 fetched it in a lemonade jug. They drank, and then laughed: “T’was only ! to get the port we promised." Joan used strong language; she was | extraordinarily brave. Tim. of the small waist, took her aside and whispered he d tell the secret if we swore not to let the “gang” know that we knew. lie appointed the boathouse as a meeting-place. met him there the next night, but he would not tell in front of me. "A stranger wot doesn't belong—•” he would tell Joan only. So I walked a tew yards away, and was recalled by screams. Tim had seized Joan in his arms and kissed her! The Death of Tim Another night the gang had a row i among themselves. We -heard a rej volver shot in the direction of the j wood, and hurried toward it. Two I men w ere being pursued bv five. One |of them wots Tim! He fell heavily, j - shot in the shoulder, cursing outrage j 0:1 sly at those who stood around him. ; and pulled his revolver at random j Someone was hit in the leg. 1 Ide bridge party, hearing the shots. ;01 ok© up in a panic. Joan’s father ; appeared at the dor. Someone explained: “I’m the lodge-keeper, sir; I j got a rabbit,” ‘ Nonsense—-one doesn't shoot rufr bits at night!” Joan loomed up. “But they do. daddy! They shoot rabbits every I night.” ! „ “Extraordinary! Extraordinary! j Only in Ireland—” said mine host, and , returned within doors. ; The next day I left, without hawing learnt anything about “the gang.* Joan never found out. either, except . that Tim, who wus su. peeled of being friendly with the Civic Guard, died 1 shortly after, black in the face, sof- ; feriug from stomach pains, and d«4 daring he was poisoned.