A DARK BROWN DOG

Stepahn Crane

A child was standing on a street-corner. He leaned with one shoulder against a high board-fence and swayed the other to and fro, the while kicking carelessly at the gravel.

Sunshine beat upon the cobbles, and a lazy summer wind raised yellow dust which trailed in clouds down the avenue. Clattering trucks moved with indistinctness through it. The child stood dreamily gazing.

After a time, a little dark-brown dog came trotting with an intent air down the sidewalk. A short rope was dragging from his neck. Occasionally he trod upon the end of it and stumbled.

He stopped opposite the child, and the two regarded each other. The dog hesitated for a moment, but presently he made some little advances with his tail. The child put out his hand and called him. In an apologetic manner the dog came close, and the two had an interchange of friendly pattings and waggles. The dog became more enthusiastic with each moment of the interview, until with his gleeful caperings he threatened to overturn the child. Whereupon the child lifted his hand and struck the dog a blow upon the head.

This thing seemed to overpower and astonish the little dark-brown dog, and wounded him to the heart. He sank down in despair at the child's feet. When the blow was repeated, together with an admonition in childish sentences, he turned over upon his back, and held his paws in a peculiar manner. At the same time with his ears and his eyes he offered a small prayer to the child.

He looked so comical on his back, and holding his paws peculiarly, that the child was greatly amused and gave him little taps repeatedly, to keep him so. But the little dark-brown dog took this chastisement in the most serious way, and no doubt considered that he had committed some grave crime, for he wriggled contritely and showed his repentance in every way that was in his power. He pleaded with the child and petitioned him, and offered more prayers.

At last the child grew weary of this amusement and turned toward home. The dog was praying at the time. He lay on his back and turned his eyes upon the retreating form.

Presently he struggled to his feet and started after the child. The latter wandered in a perfunctory way toward his home, stopping at times to investigate various matters. During one of these pauses he discovered the little dark-brown dog who was following him with the air of a footpad.

The child beat his pursuer with a small stick he had found. The dog lay down and prayed until the child had finished, and resumed his journey. Then he scrambled erect and took up the pursuit again.

On the way to his home the child turned many times and beat the dog, proclaiming with childish gestures that he held him in contempt as an unimportant dog, with no value save for a moment. For being this quality of animal the dog apologized and eloquently expressed regret, but he continued stealthily to follow the child. His manner grew so very guilty that he slunk like an assassin.

When the child reached his door-step, the dog was industriously ambling a few yards in the rear. He became so agitated with shame when he again confronted the child that he forgot the dragging rope. He tripped upon it and fell forward.

The child sat down on the step and the two had another interview. During it the dog greatly exerted himself to please the child. He performed a few gambols with such abandon that the child suddenly saw him to be a valuable thing. He made a swift, avaricious charge and seized the rope.

He dragged his captive into a hall and up many long stairways in a dark tenement. The dog made willing efforts, but he could not hobble very skilfully up the stairs because he was very small and soft, and at last the pace of the engrossed child grew so energetic that the dog became panic-stricken. In his mind he was being dragged toward a grim unknown. His eyes grew wild with the terror of it. He began to wiggle his head frantically and to brace his legs.

The child redoubled his exertions. They had a battle on the stairs. The child was victorious because he was completely absorbed in his purpose, and because the dog was very small. He dragged his acquirement to the door of his home, and finally with triumph across the threshold.

No one was in. The child sat down on the floor and made overtures to the dog. These the dog instantly accepted. He beamed with affection upon his new friend. In a short time they were firm and abiding comrades.

When the child's family appeared, they made a great row. The dog was examined and commented upon and called names. Scorn was leveled at him from all eyes, so that he became much embarrassed and drooped like a scorched plant. But the child went sturdily to the center of the floor, and, at the top of his voice, championed the dog. It happened that he was roaring protestations, with his arms clasped about the dog's neck, when the father of the family came in from work.

The parent demanded to know what the blazes they were making the kid howl for. It was explained in many words that the infernal kid wanted to introduce a disreputable dog into the family.

A family council was held. On this depended the dog's fate, but he in no way heeded, being busily engaged in chewing the end of the child's dress.

The affair was quickly ended. The father of the family, it appears, was in a particularly savage temper that evening, and when he perceived that it would amaze and anger everybody if such a dog were allowed to remain, he decided that it should be so. The child, crying softly, took his friend off to a retired part of the room to hobnob with him, while the father quelled a fierce rebellion of his wife. So it came to pass that the dog was a member of the household.

He and the child were associated together at all times save when the child slept. The child became a guardian and a friend. If the large folk kicked the dog and threw things at him, the child made loud and violent objections. Once when the child had run, protesting loudly, with tears raining down his face and his arms outstretched, to protect his friend, he had been struck in the head with a very large saucepan from the hand of his father, enraged at some seeming lack of courtesy in the dog. Ever after, the family were careful how they threw things at the dog. Moreover, the latter grew very skilful in avoiding missiles and feet. In a small room containing a stove, a table, a bureau and some chairs, he would display strategic ability of a high order, dodging, feinting and scuttling about among the furniture. He could force three or four people armed with brooms, sticks and handfuls of coal, to use all their ingenuity to get in a blow. And even when they did, it was seldom that they could do him a serious injury or leave any imprint.

But when the child was present, these scenes did not occur. It came to be recognized that if the dog was molested, the child would burst into sobs, and as the child, when started, was very riotous and practically unquenchable, the dog had therein a safeguard.

However, the child could not always be near. At night, when he was asleep, his dark-brown friend would raise from some black corner a wild, wailful cry, a song of infinite lowliness and despair, that would go shuddering and sobbing among the buildings of the block and cause people to swear. At these times the singer would often be chased all over the kitchen and hit with a great variety of articles.

Sometimes, too, the child himself used to beat the dog, although it is not known that he ever had what could be truly called a just cause. The dog always accepted these thrashings with an air of admitted guilt. He was too much of a dog to try to look to be a martyr or to plot revenge. He received the blows with deep humility, and furthermore he forgave his friend the moment the child had finished, and was ready to caress the child's hand with his little red tongue.

When misfortune came upon the child, and his troubles overwhelmed him, he would often crawl under the table and lay his small distressed head on the dog's back. The dog was ever sympathetic. It is not to be supposed that at such times he took occasion to refer to the unjust beatings his friend, when provoked, had administered to him.

He did not achieve any notable degree of intimacy with the other members of the family. He had no confidence in them, and the fear that he would express at their casual approach often exasperated them exceedingly. They used to gain a certain satisfaction in underfeeding him, but finally his friend the child grew to watch the matter with some care, and when he forgot it, the dog was often successful in secret for himself.

So the dog prospered. He developed a large bark, which came wondrously from such a small rug of a dog. He ceased to howl persistently at night. Sometimes, indeed, in his sleep, he would utter little yells, as from pain, but that occurred, no doubt, when in his dreams he encountered huge flaming dogs who threatened him direfully.

His devotion to the child grew until it was a sublime thing. He wagged at his approach; he sank down in despair at his departure. He could detect the sound of the child's step among all the noises of the neighborhood. It was like a calling voice to him.

The scene of their companionship was a kingdom governed by this terrible potentate, the child; but neither criticism nor rebellion ever lived for an instant in the heart of the one subject. Down in the mystic, hidden fields of his little dog-soul bloomed flowers of love and fidelity and perfect faith.

The child was in the habit of going on many expeditions to observe strange things in the vicinity. On these occasions his friend usually jogged aimfully along behind. Perhaps, though, he went ahead. This necessitated his turning around every quarter-minute to make sure the child was coming. He was filled with a large idea of the importance of these journeys. He would carry himself with such an air! He was proud to be the retainer of so great a monarch.

One day, however, the father of the family got quite exceptionally drunk. He came home and held carnival with the cooking utensils, the furniture and his wife. He was in the midst of this recreation when the child, followed by the dark-brown dog, entered the room. They were returning from their voyages.

The child's practised eye instantly noted his father's state. He dived under the table, where experience had taught him was a rather safe place. The dog, lacking skill in such matters, was, of course, unaware of the true condition of affairs. He looked with interested eyes at his friend's sudden dive. He interpreted it to mean: Joyous gambol. He started to patter across the floor to join him. He was the picture of a little dark-brown dog en route to a friend.

The head of the family saw him at this moment. He gave a huge howl of joy, and knocked the dog down with a heavy coffee-pot. The dog, yelling in supreme astonishment and fear, writhed to his feet and ran for cover. The man kicked out with a ponderous foot. It caused the dog to swerve as if caught in a tide. A second blow of the coffee-pot laid him upon the floor.

Here the child, uttering loud cries, came valiantly forth like a knight. The father of the family paid no attention to these calls of the child, but advanced with glee upon the dog. Upon being knocked down twice in swift succession, the latter apparently gave up all hope of escape. He rolled over on his back and held his paws in a peculiar manner. At the same time with his eyes and his ears he offered up a small prayer.

But the father was in a mood for having fun, and it occurred to him that it would be a fine thing to throw the dog out of the window. So he reached down and grabbing the animal by a leg, lifted him, squirming, up. He swung him two or three times hilariously about his head, and then flung him with great accuracy through the window.

The soaring dog created a surprise in the block. A woman watering plants in an opposite window gave an involuntary shout and dropped a flower-pot. A man in another window leaned perilously out to watch the flight of the dog. A woman, who had been hanging out clothes in a yard, began to caper wildly. Her mouth was filled with clothes-pins, but her arms gave vent to a sort of exclamation. In appearance she was like a gagged prisoner. Children ran whooping.

The dark-brown body crashed in a heap on the roof of a shed five stories below. From thence it rolled to the pavement of an alleyway.

The child in the room far above burst into a long, dirgelike cry, and toddled hastily out of the room. It took him a long time to reach the alley, because his size compelled him to go downstairs backward, one step at a time, and holding with both hands to the step above.

When they came for him later, they found him seated by the body of his dark-brown friend.

You’ve Known This Your Whole Life

by Christopher Bloodworth

You’ve known this your whole life.

Kissing my husband goodbye this morning made my stomach roll over in a way it never had.

Why?

Because early this morning something happened. Something I can’t explain.

I woke up at 3:06 AM. I remember, because when I woke up I opened my eyes to the glowing red numerals of our alarm clock. Why does that matter?

Because the alarm clock is on my husband’s night stand.

I yawned and rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling, confused as to how I got to his side of the bed. When I looked over to my side, every muscle in my body froze.

My husband lay on his back, his mouth wide open.

My husband never sleeps that way. He says that laying on his back gives him sleep paralysis.

That doesn’t matter though, that’s not what made me freeze.

A little girl stood on my husband’s chest, bent at the hips, her long black hair hanging down from her head and just brushing his cheeks.

The girl’s knobby knees stuck out from under her dress. Her knees were covered in spider webs of tiny black veins, spreading from the front of her knees to the backs. Her dress was white, but stained black in places.

I remember biting back a scream as the girl scratched at her leg and a chunk of grey flesh fell to the mattress. It hit my husband’s right arm and rolled to a stop against my chest. I could feel the little girl’s flesh squirm with life and baking heat.

Before I could pull away, the girl’s arm shot out and grabbed the chunk. I watched as she brought the grey meat to my husband’s mouth, dropping it in as she let out a deep, gurgling giggle.

The girl brought both hands to my husband’s chin and proceeded to work his jaw, making my husband chew what she placed in his mouth.

“Swallow,” I heard the deep voice say from behind the little girl’s hair.

My husband swallowed on command for the voice.

“Open,” the voice whispered.

My husband opened his mouth and tiny black things began to fall into his mouth. The girl’s head turned towards me as she hummed a song I couldn’t place. A nursery rhyme, I think.

When she brushed her hair away from her face, I threw myself out of bed. Dark-edged creamy white pustules nested at both corners of the girl’s mouth, crisscrossed with trails of black veins.

Up until that point, I thought I was experiencing sleep paralysis, but the moment my ass hit the carpet and my feet started kicking back towards the corner of the room, I knew that I was fully awake and this was happening.

The little girl winked at me, torn lips pulling back in a smile that made me want to scream.

The girl only had one eye, but it was nothing more than a milky white orb whose surface was riddled with rotting pock marks. Where the girl’s left eye should have been was a cave.

Sharp black teeth glistened in the faint light as more of the black things fell from the girl’s mouth into my husband’s.

It was at that moment that I finally realized what the black things were.

The little girl nodded at me like she’d heard what I was thinking, before whispering, “Dead flies.”

Bile rose in my throat.

The little girl perched on my husband’s chest as she turned to face me.

“Now you know,” a deep voice whispered from within the smiling little girl, even though her mouth never moved. “Most of you can’t see us, but all can feel us. That itch on your face right before you drift off to sleep that keeps returning?”

The little girl giggled deeply and touched her long hair.

“Ever wake up in the middle of the night and feel the need to clear your throat?”

The little girl opened her gaping mouth a little wider and more of the dead flies rained down upon my husband’s face.

You’ve known this your whole life.

I found my voice and asked, “What do you want?” in a hoarse voice that didn’t sound like my own.

“Him,” the little girl said. “Car wreck.”

The little girl twisted her head sideways, folding it in toward her chest.

Then I woke up to my husband shaking me, that little smile on his face as usual.

Oh. So it was just a dream, you’re thinking to yourself. Probably sleep paralysis.

It wasn’t though. My husband woke me up this morning in that same corner of the room I’d pushed myself to earlier.

“What are you doing?” He asked. “Did you sleep on the floor last night?”

I answered something noncommittal and went to take a shower, convinced that it was a dream or that I was coming unhinged.

Downstairs, 20 minutes ago, I kissed my husband goodbye as he left for work.

When I walked upstairs, I found something on his side of the bed.

Three perfect piles containing six insects each.

6, 6, 6.

I’ve tried calling my husband, but his phone goes straight to voicemail every time so I’m sitting here with the phone next to me, waiting for it to start ringing. Waiting for someone to tell me that my husband is dead.

Cause of death: Car wreck.

I’m trying not to think of all the times I’ve had an itch on my face at the edge of sleep. I’m trying not to think of all the times I’ve woken up in the middle of the night and needed to clear my throat.

I’m trying not to think of that little girl standing on my chest as I fall asleep.

Try not to think of her when you go to bed tonight, because when you open your eyes, she might be staring down at you, her black teeth glistening through torn lips.

I’ve known this my whole life, and so have you.

THE OPEN WINDOW

by H. H. MUNRO
 

"My aunt will be down presently, Mr. Nuttel," said a very self-possessed young lady of fifteen; "in the meantime you must try and put up with me."

Framton Nuttel endeavoured to say the correct something which should duly flatter the niece of the moment without unduly discounting the aunt that was to come. Privately he doubted more than ever whether these formal visits on a succession of total strangers would do much towards helping the nerve cure which he was supposed to be undergoing.

"I know how it will be," his sister had said when he was preparing to migrate to this rural retreat; "you will bury yourself down there and not speak to a living soul, and your nerves will be worse than ever from moping. I shall just give you letters of introduction to all the people I know there. Some of them, as far as I can remember, were quite nice."

Framton wondered whether Mrs. Sappleton, the lady to whom he was presenting one of the letters of introduction, came into the nice division.

"Do you know many of the people round here?" asked the niece, when she judged that they had had sufficient silent communion.

"Hardly a soul," said Framton. "My sister was staying here, at the rectory, you know, some four years ago, and she gave me letters of introduction to some of the people here."

He made the last statement in a tone of distinct regret.

"Then you know practically nothing about my aunt?" pursued the self-possessed young lady.

"Only her name and address," admitted the caller. He was wondering whether Mrs. Sappleton was in the married or widowed state. An undefinable something about the room seemed to suggest masculine habitation.

"Her great tragedy happened just three years ago," said the child; "that would be since your sister's time."

"Her tragedy?" asked Framton; somehow in this restful country spot tragedies seemed out of place.

"You may wonder why we keep that window wide open on an October afternoon," said the niece, indicating a large French window that opened on to a lawn.

"It is quite warm for the time of the year," said Framton; "but has that window got anything to do with the tragedy?"

"Out through that window, three years ago to a day, her husband and her two young brothers went off for their day's shooting. They never came back. In crossing the moor to their favourite snipe-shooting ground they were all three engulfed in a treacherous piece of bog. It had been that dreadful wet summer, you know, and places that were safe in other years gave way suddenly without warning. Their bodies were never recovered. That was the dreadful part of it." Here the child's voice lost
its self-possessed note and became falteringly human "Poor aunt always thinks that they will come back some day, they and the little brown spaniel that was lost with them, and walk in at that window just as they used to do. That is why the window is kept open every evening till it is quite dusk. Poor dear aunt, she has often told me how they went out, her husband with his white waterproof coat over his arm, and Ronnie, her youngest brother, singing 'Bertie, why do you bound?' as he always did to tease
her, because she said it got on her nerves. Do you know, sometimes on still, quiet evenings like this, I almost get a creepy feeling that they will all walk in through that window - "

She broke off with a little shudder. It was a relief to Framton when the aunt bustled into the room with a whirl of apologies for being late in making her appearance.

"I hope Vera has been amusing you?" she said.

"She has been very interesting," said Framton.

"I hope you don't mind the open window," said Mrs. Sappleton briskly; "my husband and brothers will be home directly from shooting, and they always come in this way. They've been out for snipe in the marshes to-day, so they'll make a fine mess over my poor carpets. So like you men-folk, isn't it?"

She rattled on cheerfully about the shooting and the scarcity of birds, and the prospects for duck in the winter. To Framton it was all purely horrible. He made a desperate but only partially successful effort to turn the talk on to a less ghastly topic; he was conscious that his hostess was giving him only a fragment of her attention, and her eyes were constantly straying past him to the open window and the lawn beyond. It was certainly an unfortunate coincidence that he should have paid his visit on this tragic anniversary.

"The doctors agree in ordering me complete rest, an absence of mental excitement, and avoidance of anything in the nature of violent physical exercise," announced Framton, who laboured under the tolerably wide-spread delusion that total strangers and chance acquaintances are hungry for the least detail of one's ailments and infirmities, their cause and cure. "On the matter of
diet they are not so much in agreement," he continued.

"No?" said Mrs. Sappleton, in a voice which only replaced a yawn at the last moment. Then she suddenly brightened into alert attention - but not to what Framton was saying.

"Here they are at last!" she cried. "Just in time for tea, and don't they look as if they were muddy up to the eyes!"

Framton shivered slightly and turned towards the niece with a look intended to convey sympathetic comprehension. The child was staring out through the open window with dazed horror in her eyes. In a chill shock of nameless fear Framton swung round in his seat and looked in the same direction.

In the deepening twilight three figures were walking across the lawn towards the window; they all carried guns under their arms, and one of them was additionally burdened with a white coat hung over his shoulders. A tired brown spaniel kept close at their heels. Noiselessly they neared the house, and then a hoarse young voice chanted out of the dusk: "I said, Bertie, why do you bound?"

Framton grabbed wildly at his stick and hat; the hall-door, the gravel-drive, and the front gate were dimly-noted stages in his headlong retreat. A cyclist coming along the road had to run into the hedge to avoid an imminent collision.

"Here we are, my dear," said the bearer of the white mackintosh, coming in through the window; "fairly muddy, but most of it's dry. Who was that who bolted out as we came up?"

"A most extraordinary man, a Mr. Nuttel," said Mrs. Sappleton; "could only talk about his illnesses, and dashed off without a word of good-bye or apology when you arrived. One would think he had seen a ghost."

"I expect it was the spaniel," said the niece calmly; "he told me he had a horror of dogs. He was once hunted into a cemetery somewhere on the banks of the Ganges by a pack of pariah dogs, and had to spend the night in a newly dug grave with the creatures snarling and grinning and foaming just above him. Enough to make anyone lose their nerve."

Romance at short notice was her specialty.

The Birthmark (By Nathaniel Hawthorne)

A long time ago, there lived a skillful scientist who had experienced a spiritual reaction more striking than any chemical one.

He had left his laboratory in the care of his assistant, washed the chemicals from his hands and asked a beautiful woman to become his wife. In those days new scientific discoveries such as electricity seemed to open paths into the area of miracles. It was not unusual for the love of science to compete with the love of a woman.

The scientist's name was Aylmer. He had so totally given himself to scientific studies that he could not be weakened by a second love. His love for his young wife could only be the stronger of the two if it could link itself with his love of science.

Such a union did take place with truly remarkable results. But one day, very soon after their marriage, Aylmer looked at his wife with a troubled expression.

"Georgiana," he said, "have you ever considered that the mark upon your cheek might be removed"?

"No," she said smiling. But seeing the seriousness of his question, she said, "The mark has so often been called a charm that I was simple enough to imagine it might be so."

"On another face it might," answered her husband, "but not on yours. No dear, Nature made you so perfectly that this small defect shocks me as being a sign of earthly imperfection."

"Shocks you!" cried Georgiana, deeply hurt. Her face reddened and she burst into tears. "Then why did you marry me? You cannot love what shocks you!"

We must explain that in the center of Georgiana's left cheek there was a mark, deep in her skin. The mark was usually a deep red color. When Georgiana blushed, the mark became less visible. But when she turned pale, there was the mark, like a red stain upon snow. The birthmark would come and go with the emotions in her heart.

The mark was shaped like a very small human hand. Georgiana's past lovers used to say that the hand of a magical fairy had touched her face when she was born. Many a gentleman would have risked his life for the honor of kissing that mysterious hand.

But other people had different opinions. Some women said the red hand quite destroyed the effect of Georgiana's beauty.

Male observers who did not praise the mark simply wished it away so that they did not see it. After his marriage, Aylmer discovered that this was the case with himself.

Had Georgiana been less beautiful, he might have felt his love increased by the prettiness of that little hand. But because she was otherwise so perfect, he found the mark had become unbearable.

 

Aylmer saw the mark as a sign of his wife's eventual sadness, sickness and death. Soon, the birthmark caused him more pain than Georgiana's beauty had ever given him pleasure.

During a period that should have been their happiest, Aylmer could only think of this disastrous subject. With the morning light, Aylmer opened his eyes upon his wife's face and recognized the sign of imperfection. When they sat together in the evening near the fire, he would look at the mark.

Georgiana soon began to fear his look. His expression would make her face go pale. And the birthmark would stand out like a red jewel on white stone.

"Do you remember, dear Aylmer, about the dream you had last night about this hateful mark?" she asked with a weak smile.

"None! None whatever!" answered Aylmer, surprised.

The mind is in a sad state when sleep cannot control its ghosts and allows them to break free with their secrets. Aylmer now remembered his dream. He had imagined himself with his assistant Aminadab trying to remove the birthmark with an operation. But the deeper his knife went, the deeper the small hand sank until it had caught hold of Georgiana's heart.

Aylmer felt guilty remembering the dream.

"Aylmer," said Georgiana, "I do not know what the cost would be to both of us to remove this birthmark. Removing it could deform my face or damage my health."

"Dearest Georgiana, I have spent much thought on the subject," said Aylmer. "I am sure it can be removed."

"Then let the attempt be made at any risk," said Georgiana. "Life is not worth living while this hateful mark makes me the object of your horror. You have deep science and have made great discoveries. Remove this little mark for the sake of your peace and my own."

"Dearest wife," cried Aylmer. "Do not doubt my power. I am ready to make this cheek as perfect as its pair."

Her husband gently kissed her right cheek, the one without the red hand.

The next day the couple went to Aylmer's laboratory where he had made all his famous discoveries. Georgiana would live in a beautiful room he had prepared nearby, while he worked tirelessly in his lab. One by one, Aylmer tried a series of powerful experiments on his wife. But the mark remained.

Georgiana waited in her room. She read through his notebooks of scientific observations. She could not help see that many of his experiments had ended in failure. She decided to see for herself the scientist at work.

The first thing that struck Georgiana when entering the laboratory was the hot furnace. From the amount of soot above it, it seemed to have been burning for ages. She saw machines, tubes, cylinders and other containers for chemical experiments. What most drew her attention was Aylmer himself. He was nervous and pale as death as he worked on preparing a liquid.

Georgiana realized that her husband had been hiding his tension and fear.

"Think not so little of me that you cannot be honest about the risks we are taking," she said. "I will drink whatever you make for me, even if it is a poison."

"My dear, nothing shall be hidden," Aylmer said. "I have already given you chemicals powerful enough to change your entire physical system. Only one thing remains to be tried and if that fails, we are ruined!"

He led her back to her room where she waited once more, alone with her thoughts. She hoped that for just one moment she could satisfy her husband's highest ideals. But she realized then that his mind would forever be on the march, always requiring something newer, better and more perfect.

Hours later, Aylmer returned carrying a crystal glass with a colorless liquid.

"The chemical process went perfectly," he said. "Unless all my science has tricked me, it cannot fail."

To test the liquid, he placed a drop in the soil of a dying flower growing in a pot in the room. In a few moments, the plant became healthy and green once more.

"I do not need proof," Georgiana said quietly. "Give me the glass. I am happy to put my life in your hands." She drank the liquid and immediately fell asleep.

Aylmer sat next to his wife, observing her and taking notes. He noted everything -- her breathing, the movement of an eyelid. He stared at the birthmark. And slowly, with every breath that came and went, it lost some of its brightness.

"By Heaven! It is nearly gone," said Aylmer. "Success! Success!"

He opened the window coverings to see her face in daylight. She was so pale. Georgiana opened her eyes and looked into the mirror her husband held. She tried to smile as she saw the barely visible mark.

"My poor Aylmer," she said gently. "You have aimed so high. With so high and pure a feeling, you have rejected the best the Earth could offer. I am dying, dearest."

It was true. The hand on her face had been her link to life. As the last trace of color disappeared from her cheek, she gave her last breath.

Blinded by a meaningless imperfection and an impossible goal, Aylmer had thrown away her life and with it his chance for happiness. In trying to improve his lovely wife, he had failed to realize she had been perfect all along.

 

The Adventure of Shoscombe Old Place

(by A. Conan Doyle)

Sherlock Holmes looked impatiently at his watch.

'I am waiting for a new client,' he said, 'but he is late. By the way, Watson, do you know anything about horse-racing?'

'Yes, I do,' I answered. 'What do you want to know?'

'I should like to know something about Sir Robert Norberton. Does the name tell you anything?'           

'Well, yes,' I answered. 'Sir Robert Norberton lives in Shoscombe Old Place. He is the most daredevil rider in England. He is also a boxer and an athlete. But people say he is a dangerous man.'

'How is that?' said Holmes.

'Everybody knows that he horsewhipped Sam Brewer once. He nearly killed the man.'

'And who is Sam Brewer?'

'Sam Brewer is a well-known money-lender,' I said.

'Ah,' said Holmes, 'that sounds interesting. Now, Watson, can you give me some idea of Shoscombe Old Place?'                                             

'Only that it is in the centre of Shoscombe Park and that the famous Shoscombe stud and training quarters are there.'

'And the head trainer,' said Holmes, 'is John Mason. Don't look surprised at my knowledge, Watson, for this is a letter from him which I have in my hand. But let us have some more about Shoscombe.'

'There are the Shoscombe spaniels,' I said. 'You hear of them at every dog show. The lady of Shoscombe Old place is very proud of them.'

'The lady of Shoscombe Old Place...    Sir Robert Norberton's wife, I suppose,' Sherlock Holmes said.

'No,' I said,  'Sir Robert has never married. He lives with his widowed sister, Lady Beatrice Falder. The place belonged to her late husband, but when she dies it will go to her husband's brother. Norberton has no right to it at all. His sister draws the rents every year...'

'And brother Robert, I suppose, spends the money?' asked Holmes.

'Yes,' I said. 'He gives her a lot of trouble, and still I have heard that she is very fond of him. But why do you ask me all these questions? What is wrong at Shoscombe?'

'Ah, that is just what I want to know. And here, I think, is the man who can tell us.'                      

The door opened and a tall, clean-shaven man with a firm, serious expression came in. He bowed coldly and calmly and seated himself upon the chair which Holmes pointed to.

'You had my note, Mr. Holmes?' he said.

'Yes, but it explained nothing.'

'It was too difficult for me to put the details on paper,' said the man. 'It was only face to face I could do it.'

'Well, we are at your service.'

'First of all, Mr. Holmes,' went on the man, 'I think that my employer, Sir Robert, has gone mad.' Holmes raised his eyebrows. 'I am a detective, not a doctor,' he said. 'But why do you think so?'

'Well, sir, when a man does one queer thing, or two queer things, there may be a meaning to it. But when everything he does is queer, then you begin to wonder.'

'What is wrong with your employer?' asked Holmes.

'I'll tell you everything, Mr. Holmes,' said the horse trainer. 'I know you are gentlemen of honour and I know that it won't go beyond the room. Sir Robert has got to win this Derby. You see, he is up to the neck in debt, and it's his last chance. He thinks of nothing but the Derby and his young horse — Shoscombe Prince. His whole life depends on it. If the horse wins the race, he is saved. If Shoscombe Prince does not win — his money lenders will tear him to pieces.'

'It seems really a difficult situation,' said Holmes, 'but why do you say he is mad?'

'Well, first of all, you have only to look at him, I don't believe he sleeps at night. His eyes are wild. And then he behaves very strangely to Lady Beatrice.'

'And how is that?'

'They have always been the best of friends. The two of them liked the same things, and she loved the horses as much as he did, and above all, she loved the Prince. But that's all over now.'

'Why?'

'Well, she seems to have lost all interest in the horses and never goes to the stable any longer.' 'Do you think there has been a quarrel?' asked Sherlock Holmes.

'I am sure they have quarrelled. If they had not, he would never have given away his sister's favourite spaniel. He gave it a few days ago to old Barnes who keeps the "Green Dragon" inn, three miles away.'

'That certainly does seem strange.'

'She couldn't go out with him because she was an invalid, but he spent two hours every evening in her room. That's all over, too, now. He never goes near her. And she takes it to heart. She is drinking like a fish now, Mr. Holmes.'

'Did she drink before this quarrel?' asked Holmes.

'Well, she drank her glass of wine. But now it's often a whole bottle an evening. The butler told me. But then, again, what is master doing down at the old church crypt at night? And who is the man that meets him there?'

'Go on, Mr.Mason,' said Holmes. 'You get more and more interesting.'

'It was the butler who saw him go,' the horse trainer went on. 'It was twelve o'clock at night and raining hard. So next night I went up to the house, and the butler and I went after him. We were afraid to get too near him. If he had seen us, it would have been a bad job, for he is a terrible man when he starts fighting. It was the church crypt that he was making for, and there was a man waiting for him there.'

'What is this church crypt?' asked Holmes.

'Well, sir, there is an old church in the park. And under this church there is a crypt which has a bad name among us. It's a dark, damp, lonely place by day, and there are few people who would not be frightened to go near it at night. But master is not afraid. He never feared anything in his life. But what is he doing there in the night-time?'

'Wait a bit!' said Holmes. 'You say there is another man there. It must be one of your own stablemen, or somebody from the house. I'm sure you have only to find out who it is and question him.'

'It's no one I know.'

'How can you say that?'

'Because I saw him, Mr. Holmes. It was on that second night. Sir Robert turned and passed us. while the butler and I were hiding in the bushes like two rabbits, because the moon was shining that night. But we could hear the other man going behind. We were not afraid of him. So we got up when Sir Robert had passed us. We pretended that we were just having a walk in the moonlight. We went straight towards him. "Oh, hullo," said I "who may you be?" I don't think he had heard us coming, so he looked over his shoulder with a face as if he had seen the devil himself... He gave a loud cry and ran away as fast as he could in the darkness. Oh, yes, he could run! In a minute he was out of sight and hearing... And who he was or what he was we never found.'

'But did you see him clearly in the moonlight?' asked Holmes.

'Oh, yes, I would recognize his yellow face again. What could he have in common with Sir Robert?'

Holmes sat for some time thinking hard.

'Who sits with Lady Beatrice?' asked Holmes.

'She has a devoted maid, who has been with her for five years.''

There was a pause.

'And then,' began Mr. Mason again, 'why should Sir Robert want to dig up a dead body?'

Holmes sat up quickly.

'We only found it out yesterday — after I had written to you. Yesterday Sir Robert went to London, so the butler and I went down to the crypt. It was all in order, sir, except that in one corner there was a bit of a human body.'

'You informed the police, I suppose?'

'Well, sir,' answered the man with a grim smile, 'I don't think it will interest the police. It was just the head and a few bones od a mummy, maybe a thousand years old. But it wasn't there before.That I'll swear and so will the butler. It had been hidden away in a comer and cov-eredover with a board, but that corner had always been empty before.'

'What did you do with it?' asked Holmes.

'Well, we just left it there.'

'That was wise,' said Holmes. 'You say Sir Robert was away yesterday. Has he returned?'

'We expect him back today.'

'When did Sir Robert give away his sister's dog?'

'It was just a week ago today. The dog was howling and Sir Robert got very angry. He caught it up and I thought he would kill it. Then he gave it to Sandy Bain, the jockey, and told him to take the dog to old Barnes at the "Green Dragon", for he never wished to see it again.'

Holmes lit his pipe and sat for some time in silent thought.

'It's not clear to me yet what you want me to do in this matter, Mr. Mason,' he said at last. 'Can't you make it more definite?'

'Perhaps this will make it more definite, Mr. Holmes,' said our visitor.

He took a paper from his pocket and, unwrapping it carefully, showed us a burned piece of bone.

Holmes examined it with interest.

'Where did you get it?'

'There is a central heating furnace in the cellar un-der Lady Beatrice's room. The boy who runs the furnace came to me this morning with this thing. He had found it in the furnace. He did not like the look of it.'

'Nor do I,' said Holmes. 'What do you make of it, Watson?'

'It is burned black,' said I, 'but there's no doubt that it is part of a human leg bone.'

'Exactly!' Holmes became very serious. 'When does the boy who runs the furnace leave the cellar?'

'He leaves it every evening,' said Mr.Mason.

'Then anyone could visit it during the night?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Can you enter it from outside?' asked Holmes again.

'There is one door from outside. There is another which leads up by a stair to the floor in which Lady Beatrice's room is situated.'

 'You say, Mr. Mason, that Sir Robert was not at home last night?'

'No, sir, he wasn't.'

'Then whoever was burning bones in the furnace, it was not he,' said Holmes.

'That's true, sir,' said the horse trainer.

'What is the name of that inn you spoke of?'

'The "Green Dragon".'

'Is there good fishing in that part of the country?' The honest trainer showed very clearly upon his face that he was sure that Sherlock Holmes had gone mad, too.

'Well, sir,' he said, 'I've heard there are fish in the river not far from the "Green Dragon", and in the Hull lake. It's in Shoscombe Park.'

'Very good! Watson and I are famous fishermen — are we not, Watson? We shall reach the inn tonight. Of course I need not say that we don't want to see you, Mr, Mason. But a note will reach us, and I'm sure I can find vou if I want you.'

* * *

On a bright May evening Holmes and I were discussing our plans for fishing with Mr. Barnes, the innkeeper.

'What about the Hull lake?' asked Holmes. 'Are there many fish in it?'

'Don't fish there, sir,' answered the innkeeper. 'You may find yourself in the lake before you have finished,'

'How is that?'

'It's Sir Robert, sir, he doesn't want any strangers to come near his park. Sir Robert is the sort that strikes first and speaks afterwards. Keep away from the park,' 'Of course, Mr. Barnes,' said Holmes, 'we certainly shall. By the way, you have a beautiful spaniel here. We saw it in the hall.'

IS HE LIVING OR IS HE DEAD

by M. Twain

A long time ago I was a young artist and came to France where I was travelling from place to place making sketches. One day I met two French artists who were also moving from place to place making sketches and I joined them. We were as happy as we were poor, or as poor as we were happy, as you like it.

Claude and Carl — these are the names of those boys — were always in good spirits and laughed at poverty. We were very poor. We lived on the money which we got from time to time for our sketches. When nobody wanted to buy our sketches we had to go hungry.

Once, in the north of France, we stopped at a village. For some time things had been very difficult for us. A young artist, as poor as ourselves, lived in that village. He took us into his house, and saved us from starvation. The artist’s name was Francois Millet.

He wasn’t greater than we were, then. He wasn’t famous even in his own village; and he was so poor that very often he hadn’t anything for dinner but cabbage, and sometimes he could not even get cabbage. We lived and worked together for over two years. One day Claude said:

“Boys, we’ve come to the end. Do you understand that? Everybody is against us. I’ve been all around the village and they do not want to sell food until we pay all the money”. There was a long silence. At last Millet said, “What shall we do? I can’t think of anything. Can you, boys?”

We made no answer. Then Carl began to walk up and down the room. Suddenly he stopped in front of a picture and said: ‘It’s a shame! Look at these pictures! They are good, as good as the pictures of any well-known artist. Many people had said so too.’

“But they don’t buy our pictures,” said Millet.

“Carl sat down and said, ‘I know now how we can become rich”.

“Rich! You have lost your mind”.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Yes, you have — you’ve lost your mind. What do you call rich?”

“A hundred thousand francs for a picture”.

“He has lost his mind. I knew it”.

“Yes, he has. Carl, these troubles have been too much for you, and…”

“Carl, you must take some medicine and go to bed”.

“Stop it!” said Millet seriously, “and let the boy say what he wants to. Now, then — go on with hour plan, Carl. What is it?”

«‘Well, then, to begin with, I will ask you to note this fact in human history: many great artists die of starvation. And only after their death people begin to buy their pictures and pay large sums of money for them. So the thing is quite clear”, he added, “one of us must die. Let us draw lots”. We laughed and gave Carl some medical advice, but he waited quietly, then went on again with his plan.

«‘Yes, one of us must die, to save the others — and himself. We will draw lots. He will become famous and all of us will become rich. Here is the idea. During the next three months the man who must die will paint as many pictures as he can, sketches, parts of pictures, fragments of pictures with his name on them, and each must have some particulars of his, that could be easily seen. Such things are sold too and collected at high prices for the world’s museums, after the great man is dead. At the same time the others of us will inform the public that a great artist is dying, that he won’t live over three months.

“But what if he doesn’t die?” we asked Carl.

“Oh, he won’t really die, of course; he will only change his name and disappear, we bury a dummy and cry over it and all the world will help us. And —‘ But he wasn’t allowed to finish. Everybody applauded him, we ran about the room, and fell on each others’ necks, and were happy. For hours we talked over the great plan and quite forgot that we were hungry.

At last we drew lots and Millet was elected to die. We collected the few things we had left and pawned them. So we got a little money for travel and for Millet to live on for a few days. The next morning Claude, Carl and I left the village. Each had some of Millet’s small pictures and sketches with him. We took different roads. Carl went to Paris, where he would begin the work of building Millet’s fame. Claude and I were going abroad.

On the second day I began to sketch a villa near a big town because I saw the owner standing on the veranda. He came down to look on. I showed him my sketch and he liked it. Then I took out a picture by Millet and pointed to the name in the corner.

“Do you know the name?” I said proudly. “Well, he taught me!” I finished.

The man looked confused.

“Don’t you know the name of Francois Millet?” I asked him.

“Of course it is Millet. I recognise it now”, said the man, who had never heard of Millet before, but now pretended to know the name. Then he said that he wanted to buy the picture. At first I refused to sell it, but in the end I let him have it for eight hundred francs. I made a very nice picture of that man’s house and wanted to offer it to him for ten francs, but remembered that I was the pupil of such a master, so I sold it to him for a hundred. I sent the eight hundred francs straight back to Millet from that town and was on the road again next day.

Now that I had some money in my pocket, I did not walk from place to place. I rode. I continued my journey and sold a picture a day. I always said to the man who bought it, “I’m a fool to sell a picture by Ftancois Millet. The man won’t live three months. When he dies, his pictures will be sold at a very high price”.

The plan of selling pictures was successful with all of us. I walked only two days. Claude walked two — both of us afraid to make Millet famous too near the village where he lived — but Carl walked only half a day and after that he travelled like a king. In every town that we visited, we met the editor of the newspaper and asked him to publish a few words about the master’s health. We never called Millet a genius. The readers understood that everybody knew Millet. Sometimes the words were hopeful, sometimes tearful. We always marked these articles and sent the papers to all the people who had bought pictures of us.

Carl was soon in Paris. He made friends with the journalists and Millet’s condition was reported to England and all over the continent, and America, and everywhere.

At the end of six weeks from the start, me three met in Paris and decided to stop asking for more pictures from Millet. We saw that is was time to strike. So we wrote Millet to go to bed and begin to prepare for his death. We wanted him to die in ten days, if he could get ready. Then we counted the money and found that we had sold eighty-five small pictures and sketches and had sixty-nine thousand francs. How happy we were!

Claude and I packed up and went back to the village to look after Millet in his last days and keep people out of the house. We sent daily bulletins to Carl in Paris for the papers of several continents with the information for a waiting world. The sad end came at last, and Carl came to the village to help us. Large crowds of people from far and near attended the funeral. We four carried the coffin. There was only a wax figure in it. Millet was disguised as a relative and helped to carry his own coffin.

After the funeral we continued selling Millet’s pictures. We got so much money that we did not know what to do with it. There is a man in Paris today who has seventy Millet’s pictures. He paid us two million francs for them.

Fate

(by Saki)

 

Rex Dillot was nearly twenty-four, almost good-looking and quite penniless. His mother was supposed to make him some sort of an allowance out of what her creditors allowed her, and Rex occasionally strayed into the ranks of those who earn fitful salaries as secretaries or companions to people who are unable to cope unaided with their correspondence or their leisure. For a few months he had been assistant editor and business manager of a paper devoted to fancy mice, but the devotion had been all on one side, and the paper disappeared with a certain abruptness from club reading-rooms and other haunts where it had made a gratuitous appearance. Still, Rex lived with some air of comfort and well-being, as one can live if one is born with a genius for that sort of thing, and a kindly Providence usually arranged that his week-end invitations coincided with the dates on which his one white dinner-waistcoat was in a laundry-returned condition of dazzling cleanness.

He played most games badly, and was shrewd enough to recognise the fact, but he had developed a marvellously accurate judgement in estimating the play and chances of other people, whether in a golf match, billiard handicap, or croquet tournament. By dint of parading his opinion of such and such a player's superiority with a sufficient degree of youthful assertiveness he usually succeeded in provoking a wager at liberal odds, and he looked to his week-end winnings to carry him through the financial embarrassments of his mid-week existence. The trouble was, as he confided to Clovis Sangrail, that he never had enough available or even prospective cash at his command to enable him to fix the wager at a figure really worth winning.

"Some day," he said, "I shall come across a really safe thing, a bet that simply can't go astray, and then I shall put it up for all I'm worth, or rather for a good deal more than I'm worth if you sold me up to the last button."

"It would be awkward if it didn't happen to come off," said Clovis.

"It would be more than awkward," said Rex; "it would be a tragedy. All the same, it would be extremely amusing to bring it off. Fancy awaking in the morning with about three hundred pounds standing to one's credit. I should go and clear out my hostess's pigeon-loft before breakfast out of sheer good-temper."

"Your hostess of the moment mightn't have a pigeon-loft," said Clovis.

"I always choose hostesses that have," said Rex; "a pigeon-loft is indicative of a careless, extravagant, genial disposition, such as I like to see around me. People who strew corn broadcast for a lot of feathered inanities that just sit about cooing and giving each other the glad eye in a Louis Quatorze manner are pretty certain to do you well."

"Young Strinnit is coming down this afternoon," said Clovis reflectively; "I dare say you won't find it difficult to get him to back himself at billiards. He plays a pretty useful game, but he's not quite as good as he fancies he is."

"I know one member of the party who can walk round him," said Rex softly, an alert look coming into his eyes; "that cadaverous-looking Major who arrived last night. I've seen him play at St. Moritz. If I could get Strinnit to lay odds on himself against the Major the money would be safe in my pocket. This looks like the good thing I've been watching and praying for."

"Don't be rash," counselled Clovis, "Strinnit may play up to his self-imagined form once in a blue moon."

"I intend to be rash," said Rex quietly, and the look on his face corroborated his words.

"Are you all going to flock to the billiard-room?" asked Teresa Thundleford, after dinner, with an air of some disapproval and a good deal of annoyance. "I can't see what particular amusement you find in watching two men prodding little ivory balls about on a
table."

"Oh, well," said her hostess, "it's a way of passing the time, you know."

"A very poor way, to my mind," said Mrs. Thundleford; "now I was going to have shown all of you the photographs I took in Venice last summer."

"You showed them to us last night," said Mrs. Cuvering hastily.

"Those were the ones I took in Florence. These are quite a different lot."

"Oh, well, some time tomorrow we can look at them. You can leave them down in the drawing-room, and then everyone can have a look."

"I should prefer to show them when you are all gathered together, as I have quite a lot of explanatory remarks to make, about Venetian art and architecture, on the same lines as my remarks last night on the Florentine galleries. Also, there are some verses of mine that I should like to read you, on the rebuilding of the Campanile. But, of course, if you all prefer to watch Major Latton and Mr. Strinnit knocking balls about on a table--"

"They are both supposed to be first-rate players," said the hostess.

"I have yet to learn that my verses and my art causerie are of second-rate quality," said Mrs. Thundleford with acerbity. "However, as you all seem bent on watching a silly game, there's no more to be said. I shall go upstairs and finish some writing. Later on, perhaps, I will come down and join you."

To one, at least, of the onlookers the game was anything but silly. It was absorbing, exciting, exasperating, nerve-stretching, and finally it grew to be tragic. The Major with the St. Moritz reputation was playing a long way below his form, young Strinnit was playing slightly above his, and had all the luck of the game as well. From the very start the balls seemed possessed by a demon of contrariness; they trundled about complacently for one player, they would go nowhere for the other.

"A hundred and seventy, seventy-four," sang out the youth who was marking. In a game of two hundred and fifty up it was an enormous lead to hold. Clovis watched the flush of excitement die away from Dillot's face, and a hard white look take its place.

"How much have you go on?" whispered Clovis. The other whispered the sum through dry, shaking lips. It was more than he or anyone connected with him could pay; he had done what he had said he would do. He had been rash.

"Two hundred and six, ninety-eight."

Rex heard a clock strike ten somewhere in the hall, then another somewhere else, and another, and another; the house seemed full of striking clocks. Then in the distance the stable clock chimed in.

In another hour they would all be striking eleven, and he would be
listening to them as a disgraced outcast, unable to pay, even in
part, the wager he had challenged.

"Two hundred and eighteen, a hundred and three." The game was as good as over. Rex was as good as done for. He longed desperately for the ceiling to fall in, for the house to catch fire, for anything to happen that would put an end to that horrible rolling to and fro of red and white ivory that was jostling him nearer and nearer to his doom.

"Two hundred and twenty-eight, a hundred and seven."

Rex opened his cigarette-case; it was empty. That at least gave him a pretext to slip away from the room for the purpose of refilling it; he would spare himself the drawn-out torture of watching that hopeless game played out to the bitter end. He backed away from the circle of absorbed watchers and made his way up a short stairway to a long, silent corridor of bedrooms, each with a guests' name written in a little square on the door. In the hush that reigned in this part of the house he could still hear the hateful click-click of the balls; if he waited for a few minutes longer he would hear the little outbreak of clapping and buzz of congratulation that would hail Strinnit's victory. On the alert tension of his nerves there broke another sound, the aggressive, wrath-inducing breathing of one who sleeps in heavy after-dinner slumber. The sound came from a room just at his elbow; the card on the door bore the announcement "Mrs. Thundleford." The door was just slightly ajar; Rex pushed it open an inch or two more and looked in.

The august Teresa had fallen asleep over an illustrated guide to Florentine art-galleries; at her side, somewhat dangerously near the edge of the table, was a reading-lamp. If Fate had been decently kind to him, thought Rex, bitterly, that lamp would have been knocked over by the sleeper and would have given them something to think of
besides billiard matches.

There are occasions when one must take one's Fate in one's hands. Rex took the lamp in his.

"Two hundred and thirty-seven, one hundred and fifteen." Strinnit was at the table, and the balls lay in good position for him; he had a choice of two fairly easy shots, a choice which he was never to decide. A sudden hurricane of shrieks and a rush of stumbling feet sent every one flocking to the door. The Dillot boy crashed into the room, carrying in his arms the vociferous and somewhat dishevelled Teresa Thundleford; her clothing was certainly not a mass of flames, as the more excitable members of the party afterwards declared, but the edge of her skirt and part of the table-cover in which she had been hastily wrapped were alight in a flickering, half-hearted manner. Rex flung his struggling burden on the billiard table, and for one breathless minute the work of beating out the sparks with rugs and cushions and playing on them with soda-water syphons engrossed the energies of the entire company.

"It was lucky I was passing when it happened," panted Rex; "someone had better see to the room, I think the carpet is alight."

As a matter of fact the promptitude and energy of the rescuer had prevented any great damage being done, either to the victim or her surroundings. The billiard table had suffered most, and had to be laid up for repairs; perhaps it was not the best place to have chosen for the scene of salvage operations; but then, as Clovis remarked, when one is rushing about with a blazing woman in one's arms one can't stop to think out exactly where one is going to put her.

Beginner's Luck

by Chris Rose

James Milner’s hands were shaking as he sat down at his desk. The man sitting at the computer terminal next to him laughed.

“First time on one of these machines, is it?”
“No!” lied James, as convincingly as he could. “I could use one of these things in my sleep!” James looked at the computer screen in front of him with its mysterious programme, and hoped that he was a convincing liar.
“That’s a good job then” laughed his new colleague, “because I often do!” They both laughed again. James hoped that his laugh would cover up how nervous he was. His new colleague sitting next to him turned back to his computer screen and started typing furiously, then shouting lots of instructions into the telephone headset he had. James put on the telephone headset he had by the side of his desk. “At least if I put this on I’ll look like I know what I’m doing”, he thought. Then he stared at the computer screen in front of him with the mysterious programme. There were hundreds of numbers and dates and names of cities written on it, as well as lots of strange names like “NYSE” and “CAC40” and other things. He had no idea what any of it meant.

The telephone headset was ok though. At least he knew what that was. His only other job ever had been in a fast food restaurant in London. They used the telephone headsets there too. But in the fast food restaurant it was easy. The instructions he heard through his telephone headset in the fast food restaurant were nothing more complicated than “two cheeseburgers without ketchup!”, “extra french fries now!”, “triple special burger with extra cheese!”. All he had had to do was listen to the instructions, put the pieces of frozen food in the microwave oven, then pull them out again after a few seconds, put them in a little box and give them to the person next to him. That had been easy. This job, his new job, his first “real” job, he now realised, was going to be a lot more difficult.

When he put the telephone headset on here he didn’t hear orders for extra french fries and different types of hamburgers, but excited men in faraway places shouting orders at him like “2000 Taipei heavy! Sell! Sell!! Sell!!!” or “Drop coming up on the NYSE! Buy! Buy!! Buy!!!” At first he sat there and tried to pretend he knew what he was doing. He tried pressing a few keys on the computer in front of him, but nothing seemed to happen to the screen. Lots of numbers appeared, frequently. Then they disappeared. After the first couple of hours on his new job, he turned round to the man sitting next to him, and tried to laugh again.
“Phew! This is pretty tiring, isn’t it?”
“This is nothing!” said the other man. “You’d better be thankful that today is a quiet day!!” He laughed his big laugh again. Then he held out a big hand to James and said “Davy. Davy Peterson. Good to meet you. Sorry I didn’t introduce myself before, but it always a bit busy here first thing in the morning, catching the late end of the Asian markets...you know how it is!!!”
“Yeah, sure!” laughed James, even though he didn’t have a clue about how it was.

James Milner had always been an average boy. At school he had never done very well, but he hadn’t done very badly either. When it came to the end of the year, he always just passed his exams, though he never got great marks. When his teachers wrote their annual reports, James knew that the teachers didn’t even know who he was.

After he had left school, he had gone to university, one of those universities which is just ok, not a great university, but not a bad one either. He had studied economics and commerce there, and got a degree. He didn’t have a great mark, but he didn’t have a bad one either. James didn’t really want to be a great businessman, a fantastic entrepreneur, an accountant or even a politician, even though his father pushed him a lot. James Milner came from quite a wealthy family, and he had always felt the pressure of his father’s expectations breathing down his neck. James didn’t really want to do very much at all in life really. He liked to take it easy, sleep a lot, and to travel. His father, however, had great expectations for his son. James’ father thought that he should become a great businessman, an entrepreneur, at least an accountant, or – if he couldn’t even become an accountant - then that he should go into politics. The problem was that James just didn’t care.

After he left university, he worked in the fast food restaurant for a while. It was ok there. No, the money wasn’t great, but his colleagues were friendly, and the work wasn’t difficult, even though the shifts were terrible. James hated working late at night or early in the morning. He really just wanted to sleep. And to travel, to go to other places. The problem was that James was too lazy to travel. He had never actually ever been further than Brighton, about an hour from where he was born and lived. Still he liked the idea of travel.

After a year, James’ father was desperate. “You must do something with your life, James!” he said. And so he telephoned his brother, James’ uncle. James’ uncle was the head of a very important bank in the city of London.

James knew what was happening. He had listened at the door while his father called his brother.
“..yes...young James...ha ha ha...yes, he’s a good boy..yes...got his degree last year...yes...you know how it is...now he wants to have a “gap year”...or something like that...yes...ha ha ha...yes..very bright, very intelligent..needs encouragement...a little push.. a little help...”

Next Monday James was sitting there in front of a computer which he had no idea how to use, apparently controlling the financial fortunes of Western Europe.

Even though he was worried at first, James soon learned how to use the computer and how to do his new job. It wasn’t that difficult after all, he soon learned. The people around him weren’t all that intelligent or clever, he realised. He even thought that it wasn’t really that different to working in the fast food restaurant. Instructions came through either on his telephone headset or on his computer screen and he followed them – when he understood them. Mostly the work consisted of buying and selling things. It was like a market. Instead of stocks and shares and personal fortunes, James imagined that he was selling carrots and cabbages and cauliflowers. When he had to make his own decisions, James took a coin out of his pocket, threw it up in the air, and depending on which side it landed on, he bought or sold.

It was amazing, he couldn’t believe it, but he started to be successful. After two weeks on the job, one of his bosses came up to him and said “Great work James!” James didn’t even know what he had done. He just kept on doing the same thing, buying or selling when he felt like it. “Beginner’s luck!” laughed his friend Davy next to him, every time that James seemed to manage to earn or save a fortune just by clicking the right keys on his computer.

James began to get more courageous. He put bigger and bigger numbers into his computer. Bigger numbers seemed to create even bigger numbers. It was great fun, he thought. The bigger the number, the bigger the reward. Buy 1000 shares! Sell 100 000! Buy a million, then sell them again ten minutes later.

Then his boss came to his desk holding a huge bottle of vintage champagne. “This is for you James! Great work on the Singapore bank takeover there! We were risking a lot, but I was following you and I cold see that you knew exactly what you were doing! You kept cool throughout it all!”

James and Davy and the boss opened the champagne right there and drank it all. Some of it spilled on his computer, but he didn’t care. He felt great! After drinking all the champagne they all went to a bar and carried on drinking some more. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning when the bar closed. Davy said that he was going back into the office – seeing as he was still awake he thought he could get some work done on the Asian markets. James was still so happy he went into the office as well. He was so tired he couldn’t see what he was doing, but he just kept on shouting “buy!” or “sell” and pushing all the buttons on his computer.

Sometime the next day James woke up feeling very bad. It was time to take a break, he thought. He phoned up his boss and said that he wouldn’t be in for a few days. He was going to take a holiday. “No problem!” said his boss. “You deserve a holiday! You take care of yourself and relax! And I want you back here in top form again next week!” James had always wanted to travel, and now was his chance. He walked to the nearest travel agent’s and bought a ticket to Thailand.

Two days later, James was sitting on a beach in Thailand. He felt great, he felt fantastic. This was what he had always wanted. He was sitting on a beautiful beach, looking at the beautiful sea with nothing to do and nothing to worry about. “Success!” he thought, then fell asleep again.

Later that evening he walked into the small town to find a bar. He noticed that there was a small stand selling English-language newspapers. Something about the headline he saw on the International Herald Tribune made him stop. Wait a second, he thought, that’s the name of my bank. He picked up the newspaper and started to read the article. At first he didn’t really understand what was happening. But it didn’t take long for him to understand. He didn’t bother buying the newspaper, but walked off and found a bar quickly.

In the bar there were some other Westerners, talking in English. “Have you heard about this bank that’s collapsed?” they were saying. “It looks like the entire London Stock Exchange might collapse!!!”
“It’s incredible” said one of the other people. “Some idiot sold 100 000 shares for 10p each, instead of buying 10 for 100 000 pounds! And that was only one of the mistakes he made...”

James left the bar immediately and went to the nearest cash machine. He took all the money that he could from the cash machine. Then he went back to the bar and asked if they needed a new barman.
“Yes” he told the owner, “I’ve got lots of experience! I used to work in a fast food restaurant in London!” The owner of the bar offered him a job immediately.

“By the way”, said James, “My name’s Fernando...just in case anyone ever comes looking for me...”