Adventures in Many Lands

"Of course I couldn't—wouldn't. But Garstin's a brainy beggar—oh, wonderfully brainy."

There came a certain Friday evening when the two men sat late in their office, compiling the weekly report. Trevannion was in high good-humour; for had not their joint efforts, as he liked to call Garstin's useful suggestions, proved successful in ousting the river finally from Section D? and was not that troublesome part of the wharf ready for good concrete as soon as it could be made? He had to record this gratifying intelligence for the Committee's benefit, and he did it with a relish.

"Nothing to fear now for the old section," he remarked cheerfully.

"Nothing but the unexpected collapse of a pile," said Garstin.

"Oh, that's impossible."

"It's improbable."

The report was finished and placed in its long envelope, and they prepared to go home. Trevannion began to busy himself with a heavy oil lantern. "I am going to have a look at the section on the way," he said; "just to see that the river has not come over the top," he added jestingly. "It's a whim of mine. But don't come if you'd rather not. I can join you at the steps."

"Oh, I'll come," said Garstin—without enthusiasm.

The pair stepped out into the night, Trevannion locking the door behind him. It was pitch-dark on the wharf. They could feel the presence of, rather than see, the river that flowed silently in front of them, and they could roughly locate the far bank by the myriads of starry lights that showed Berthwer town beyond. A single red lamp glowed dully far to the west; it belonged to a steamer that they had seen come to her moorings in the afternoon. There were no other vessels showing lights. The rest was black with a blackness sentient of vague forms—an impenetrable wall of darkness that seemed to stand between them and the outer world.

Picking their way carefully between débris and other impedimenta, they made their way towards the section, and had covered half the distance when Garstin stopped. "Don't you hear something?" he asked. "I am almost sure I was not mistaken. It was like the sound of blows. There cannot be anybody there now, can there?"

Trevannion halted and listened.

"I don't hear anything," he said presently. "Besides, who could be on the wharf now? You know the regulations, and the watchman is there to enforce them."

"I think—the noise has stopped."

Trevannion flashed the lantern on him suspiciously. "Nerves again" had come into his mind. However, he said nothing, but resumed his march, swinging his lantern this way and that, so as to gain a larger circumference of light. But suddenly he again stopped, as an unexpected sound fell on his ears.

"By jove—water!" he exclaimed, and broke into a run.

Garstin followed as fast as he could, but, deprived of the light, he quickly came to grief over some old metal. When he picked himself up, the other was yards ahead, and after that he had to content himself with keeping the lantern in view.

The engineer reached Section D and stopped breathless on the brink. He had forgotten Garstin—had forgotten everything save that water was again forcing its way into the unhappy section. But how and where? Anxiously examining the opposite side with his lantern, he soon discovered what the matter was, and the discovery caused him a thrill of amazed horror. The "improbable thing" had happened. One of the piles was buckling—bending inwards—and the earth dam was surely, if slowly, giving way at this point. He turned to shout to Garstin.

Then something hit him on the shoulder and he fell backwards into Section D, wildly and vainly clutching at a beam to save himself.

"Trevannion! Trevannion!"

The voice of Garstin, office-desk theoretician, assistant-engineer—Trevannion was clear about that. What he did not realise so clearly was what had happened to himself. He was lying face downwards on something, with his arm under his breast—his left arm, that is—his right seemed to have disappeared. Likewise, though he was conscious of a weight hanging downwards from his middle, he wondered vaguely what had become of his legs. He felt a curious disinclination to stir.

Yet the voice went on calling, and presently he was impelled to answer "Hello, Garstin." Then, while he was still listening to the unfamiliar echo of his own voice, he heard just behind him a splash, splash, splash, and his left arm jerked itself spasmodically from beneath his breast, the hand simultaneously touching a substance that was hard, cold, and slimy.

Then he realised.

He was somewhere near the bottom of Section D. His body lay across one of the lowest beams; his legs dangled in the water. Garstin was somewhere above him, and the river was pouring steadily into the section, splashing now with monotonous regularity. And the water was rising—creeping up towards the level of the beam where he lay.

Trevannion tried to raise himself by his right arm, but the limb gave way with an agonising shoot of pain; it was broken. He remained still and considered. Was the broken arm the extent of his injuries? The cold water had numbed his legs beyond all feeling. They were so much dead weight attached to his body. Both might be fractured for all he knew.

The main fact was that he was incapable of moving, of helping himself, at any rate until assistance came. And the water was rising, of course. Would rescue or the water arrive first?

He looked up painfully through the clammy gloom. Nothing save patches of sky, seen between the black beams, greeted his eyes. There was no sound save that of the water—splash, splash, drip, drip. For an instant the fear of death conquered him, and he almost shrieked.

However, as physical exhaustion renewed its hold upon him, he grew calmer. He began to recall what had happened. He had fallen into the section—no—he had been pushed in. There flashed upon him the vision of a sullen, black-haired labourer, whom he had refused to reinstate; this act was O'Donnell's revenge.

What had happened after that? The man would scarcely have had time to make his escape before Garstin came up. Well, it did not matter—he had heard Garstin's voice since in proof that he had survived any possible encounter. And the absence of Garstin, the oppressive silence now? Garstin had gone for help, of course. A boy like that could do nothing by himself even if he had the nerve; and Garstin had none. However, he would not be long in finding the watchman, and bringing him to the rescue. They ought to be here now. They certainly ought to be here now.

Nervously anxious, he listened for any sound of footfall or voice. Did Garstin realise the danger of the black water that was rising, ever rising? Had he by any evil chance failed to find the watchman at his post?

A smooth wave flowed slowly over the beam, and he shuddered.

Suddenly—after hours, as it seemed—something flickered on the surface of the water in front of him. A shadowy white gleam it was. It danced before his eyes like a mocking spirit—and was gone. But shortly it reappeared, and with it a lantern and a rope, with somebody clinging to the end of the rope. Trevannion had just time to recognise the figure of Garstin, swaying slowly above him, before he lost consciousness.

Garstin got him out, of course. But it was many days before Trevannion learned the details of the rescue.

It appeared that Garstin had arrived just in time to witness O'Donnell's treacherous attack, and to confront the infuriated man as he turned to retreat. In a blind frenzy the boy sprang at his enemy, and the latter, taken by surprise, went down with a crash, striking his head on a heap of stones, and lay senseless.

Thereupon Garstin, with the one idea of rescuing Trevannion in his mind, hurried off to the watchman's hut—only to find that the fellow had left his post. However, he discovered there a lantern and a coil of rope, and, taking these, he returned to Section D, resolved to attempt the rescue by himself. Having shouted and received a reply, he hitched one end of the rope to a beam, and was about to lower himself down, when he discovered that the rope was so badly frayed in its centre that it could not be trusted to bear even his slight weight.

There was nothing to be done save to postpone the attempt till he had found a more substantial cable. He remembered that there was a length or two in the office, and thither he set out at once. The door being locked and Trevannion having the key is his pocket, he had to force the lock as best he could with the first implement he could lay hands on.

This occupied several minutes, and when he returned to the section, he was tormented by the fear that he might find Trevannion drowned. He hastily affixed the new rope, and let himself down into the abyss, where he discovered Trevannion insensible, with his forehead almost touching the water.

It did not take long to make a noose and slip it over the latter's shoulders, but he had hardly done so when a gush of water swept over the beam, carrying away the lantern and plunging them into total darkness. For some subsequent seconds the boy clutched the rope and Trevannion's lifeless body in an agony of terror and doubt.

Then he started to climb up. The process proved exceedingly laborious, for the hemp was thin and damp, and it was difficult to obtain a grip. However, he managed to reach the summit and clambered over the brink, then paused awhile for some little breath and strength before essaying the hardest task of all—the hauling of Trevannion into safety.

How his puny strength enabled him to do this, he never could say. His foothold was none too secure, and the only available leverage was a narrow piece of masonry that jutted from the side. Yet, working inch by inch, he accomplished it, and when Trevannion had been brought sufficiently near the top, he made the rope fast to a convenient block of granite, and, kneeling down, regardless of his own peril, lifted him over the side. It was quite ten minutes before he could stagger with his burden to the office.

Safely inside, he made up the fire and telephoned for the doctor. Then he remembered O'Donnell, and spoke a message to the police-station, whence were presently despatched a couple of constables who found the man, stunned and considerably bruised. Neither did he forget Section D—with the result that there was a breakdown gang on the spot before midnight.

The buckled pile was found to have been nearly chopped through a few feet from the top, and there was no doubt that if O'Donnell had been undisturbed, he would have done the most serious mischief to the work. As it was, the completion of the section was delayed for two months.

Trevannion heard this story during his convalescence—a lengthy period, since two ribs were broken as well as the arm, and he had suffered severely from shock and exposure. In answer to a question Garstin said that at the time he had scarcely noticed the physical strain. The thing that was uppermost in his mind was the fear that Trevannion might drown before he could get to him. No, he had experienced no personal sensation of nervousness, when preparing to descend into the section. Whereupon Trevannion thought deeply.

"I owe my life to your pluck, and I was a fool to faint at the critical moment," was all he said.

But, as has been remarked, his thoughts were many and profound. Nor was he ever again heard to reflect on Garstin's "want of nerve."

IX

MY ADVENTURE WITH A LION

I once served an apprenticeship on a New York newspaper, and some of my experiences as a reporter on the Evening Smile I shall never forget.

A reporter on an American newspaper is like a soldier—he is expected to obey orders implicitly, even at the risk of his life. For this reason he is paid well, but a nervous reporter often goes out of the office with his heart in his mouth and an "assignment" that makes him think seriously of taking out another insurance policy on his life.

One gloomy winter's morning I got down to the office at eight o'clock as usual, and had hardly reached my desk when the news editor—a kind man, who was always giving me opportunities of distinguishing myself—came up and began to speak at once in a very mysterious voice.

"Got a dandy assignment for you this morning," he said.

I looked up gratefully.

"I guess you carry a six-shooter, don't you?" he asked. "You may need it this trip."

"Oh!" I managed to gasp.

"A lion's escaped," he went on, in the quick, nervous American way of an American news editor.

"Has it really?" I said, wondering what was coming next.

"Jaffray's Circus came to town last night, the lion somehow got out, and they've been chasing it all night. Got it cornered in a stable at last, somewhere in East 19th Street; but it attacked and mauled a valuable horse there, and I understand is still at bay. That's all I know. Get up there as quick as you like, and get us a regular blazing story of it. You can run to a column," he added over his shoulder, as he returned to his desk to distribute the other morning assignments, "and let's have your copy down by messenger in time for the first edition."

No one ever disputed with the news editor, or asked unnecessary questions, but many a reporter did a lot of steady thinking when he got outside the office and safely on to the doorstep.

I crammed my pocket full of paper from the big heap at the middle table, and swaggered out of the room with my nose in the air, as though hunting escaped lions was a little matter I attended to every day of my life, and that did not disturb me an atom.

An overhead train soon rattled me up to East 19th Street, but it was some time before I found the stable where the lion awaited me, for 19th Street runs from Broadway down to the East River, and is a mile or two in length, and full of stables. Not far from the corner of Irving Place, however, I got on to the scent of my quarry, and I had hardly joined the group that had collected at the corner before a noise like distant thunder rose on the air, and every single person in the group turned tail and began to run for safety.

"What's the trouble?" I asked of a man as he dashed past me.

"Lion in that stable!" he shouted, pointing to the big wooden doors across the road. "Escaped from the circus. Savage as they make 'em. Killed a trotting-horse in there, and no one can get near it. They say it's a man-eater, too!"

Another roar burst out as he spoke, and the crowd that had begun to collect again scattered in an instant in all directions. There was no doubt about that sound: it was a genuine lion's roar, and it sounded deeper, I thought, than any roar I had ever heard before.

But news was news, and in this case news was bread-and-butter. I must get the facts, and be quick about it, too, for my copy had to be written out and in the office of the Evening Smile in time for the first edition. There was barely an hour in which to do the whole business.

I forced my way through the crowd now gathering again on the corner, and made my way across the road to where a group of men was standing not far from the stable doors. They moved about a bit when the roars came, but none of them ran, and I noticed some of them had pistols in their hands, and some heavy crowbars, and other weapons. Evidently, I judged, they were men connected with the circus, and I joined the group and explained my mission.

"Well, that's right enough," said one of them. "You've got a grand newspaper story this time. Old Yellow Hair's in there, sure pop! And, what's more, I don't see how we're ever going to get him out again."

"The horse must be stiff by now," said another. "He was mauled half to death an hour ago."

"It'd be a shame to have to shoot him," added a third, meaning the lion. "He's the best animal in the whole circus; but he is awful savage."

"That's a fact," chimed in a fourth. "There's no flies on old Yellow Hair."

Some one touched me on the arm and introduced himself as a reporter from the Evening Grin—a fellow-worker in distress. He said he didn't like the job at all. He wanted us to go off and concoct a "fake story." But I wouldn't agree to this, and it fell through; for unless all the evening papers conspire to write the same story there's always trouble at the office when the reporters get back.

Other reporters kept joining the group, and in twenty minutes from the time of my arrival on the scene there must have been a good dozen of us. Every paper in town was represented. It was a first-class news story, and the men who were paid by space were already working hard to improve its value by getting new details, such as the animal's history and pedigree, names of previous victims, human or otherwise, the description and family history of its favourite keeper, and every other imaginable detail under the sun.

"There's an empty loft above the stable," said one of the circus men, pointing to a smaller door on the storey above; and before ten minutes had passed some one arrived with a ladder, and the string of unwilling reporters was soon seen climbing up the rungs and disappearing like rats into a hole through the door of the loft. We drew lots for places, and I came fifth.

Before going up, however, I had got a messenger-boy stationed in the street below to catch my "copy" and hurry off with it to the Evening Smile as soon as I could compose the wonderful story and throw it down to him. The reporter on an evening paper in New York has to write his "stuff," as we called it, in wonderful and terrible places, and under all sorts of conditions. The only rules he must bear in mind are: Get the news, and get it quick. Accuracy is a mere detail for later editions—or not at all.

The loft was dark and small, and we only just managed to squeeze in. It smelt pleasantly of hay. But there was another odour besides, that no one understood at first, and that was decidedly unpleasant. Overhead were thick rafters. I think every one of us noticed these before he noticed anything else, for the instant the roar of that lion sounded up through the boards under our feet the reporters scattered like chaff before the wind, and scuttled up into those rafters with a speed, and dust, and clatter I have never seen equalled. It was like sparrows flying from the sudden onslaught of a cat.

Fat men, lean men, long men, short men—I never saw such a collection of news-gatherers; smart men from the big papers, shabby fellows from the gutter press, hats flying, papers fluttering; and in less than a second after the roar was heard there was not a solitary figure to be seen on the floor. Every single man had gone aloft.

We all came down again when the roar ceased, and with subsequent roars we got a little more accustomed to the shaking of the boards under our feet. But the first time at such close quarters, with only a shaky wooden roof between us and "old Yellow Hair," was no joke, and we all behaved naturally and without pose or affectation, and ran for safety, or rather climbed for it.

There was a trap-door in the floor through which, I suppose, the hay was passed down to the horses under normal circumstances. One by one we crawled on all-fours to this trap-door and peered through. The scene below I can see to this day. As soon as one's eyes got a little accustomed to the gloom the outline of the stalls became first visible. Then a human figure seated on the top of an old refrigerator, with a pistol in one hand, pointed at a corner opposite, came into view. Then another man, seated astride the division between the stalls, could be seen. And last, but not least, I saw the dark mass on the floor in the far corner, where the dead horse lay mangled and the monster of a lion sprawled across his carcass, with great paws outstretched, and shining eyes.

From time to time the man on the ice-box fired his pistol, and every time he did this the lion roared, and the reporters flew and climbed aloft. The trap-door was never occupied a single second after the roar began, and as the number of persons in the loft increased and the thin wooden floor began to bend and shake, a number of these adventurous news-gatherers remained aloft and never put foot to ground. Braver reporters threw their copy out of the door to the messenger-boys below, and every time this feat was accomplished the crowd, safely watching on the corners opposite, cheered and clapped their hands. A steady stream of writing dropped from that loft-door and poured all the morning into the offices of the evening newspapers; while the morning-newspaper men sat quietly and looked on, knowing that they could write up their own account later from the reports in the evening sheets.

The men in the stable below, occupying positions of great peril, were, of course, connected with the travelling circus. We shouted down questions to them, but more often got a pistol-shot instead of a voice by way of reply. Where all those bullets went to was a matter for anxious speculation amongst us, and the roaring of the lion combined with the reports of the six-shooter to keep us fairly dancing on that wooden floor as if we were practising a cake-walk.

A sound of cheering from the crowd outside, swelling momentarily as the neighbourhood awoke to the situation, brought us with a rush to the top of the ladder.

"It's the strong man!" cried several voices. "The strong man of the circus. He'll fix up the lion quick enough. Give him a chance!"

A huge man, who, rightly enough, proved to be the performing strong man of the circus, was seen making his way through the crowd, asking questions as he went. A pathway opened up for him as if by magic, and, carrying a mighty iron crowbar, he reached the foot of the ladder and began to climb up.

Thrilled by the sight of this monster with the determined-looking jaw, a dozen men rushed forward to hold the bottom of the ladder while he ascended; but when he was about half-way up, the lion was inconsiderate enough to give forth a most terrifying roar, with the immediate result that the men holding the ladder turned tail with one accord and fled. The ladder slipped a few inches, and the ascending Samson, crowbar and all, very neatly came to the ground with a crash. Fortunately, however, he just managed to grab the ledge of the door, and a dozen reporters seized him by the shoulders and dragged him, safe, but a trifle undignified, into the loft.

Talking very loud, and referring to the lion with a richness of epithets I have never heard equalled before or since, he crossed the floor and began to squeeze through the hole into the dangerous region below. In a moment he was hanging with legs dangling, and a second later had dropped heavily into a pile of hay underneath him. We lowered the crowbar to him, breathless with admiration; and then a strange thing happened. For, while the lion roared and the pistols banged, and we reporters tumbled over each other to get a glimpse of the attack of the lion on the strong man, or vice versa, lo! a voice below shouted to close the trap, and the same instant a board from below shot across the opening and completely obliterated our view.

"We'll have to fake that part of the fight," said a reporter. "Must all agree on the same yarn."

The sounds from below prevented the details being agreed upon just at that moment, for such a hoolabaloo as we then heard is simply indescribable—shooting, lion roaring, strong man shouting, crowbar clanging, and the sound of breaking wood and heavy bodies falling.

Outside the crowd heard it too, and remained absolutely silent. Most of them, indeed, had vanished! Every minute they expected to see the doors burst open and the enraged animal rush out with the strong man between his jaws, and their silence was accordingly explained by their absence.

At least half of the reporters were still among the rafters when the trap-door shot back in the floor, and a voice cried breathlessly that the strong man had caged the lion.

It was, indeed, a thrilling moment. We clambered down the ladder and out into the street just in time to see the great doors open and a procession emerge that was worth all the travelling circuses in the world put together to see.

First came the trainer, with a pistol in either hand. Following him was the man with the small crowbar who had sat on the division between the stalls. Then came a great iron cage, which had been in the stable all the time, but a little out of our line of vision in a dark corner, so that no one had observed it.