The Magic Shop

 

I had seen the Magic Shop from afar several times; I had passed it once

or twice, a shop window of alluring little objects, magic balls, magic

hens, wonderful cones, ventriloquist dolls, the material of the basket

trick, packs of cards that LOOKED all right, and all that sort of

thing, but never had I thought of going in until one day, almost without

warning, Gip hauled me by my finger right up to the window, and so

conducted himself that there was nothing for it but to take him in. I

had not thought the place was there, to tell the truth--a modest-sized

frontage in Regent Street, between the picture shop and the place where

the chicks run about just out of patent incubators, but there it was

sure enough. I had fancied it was down nearer the Circus, or round the

corner in Oxford Street, or even in Holborn; always over the way and

a little inaccessible it had been, with something of the mirage in its

position; but here it was now quite indisputably, and the fat end of

Gip's pointing finger made a noise upon the glass.

 

"If I was rich," said Gip, dabbing a finger at the Disappearing Egg,

"I'd buy myself that. And that"--which was The Crying Baby, Very

Human--"and that," which was a mystery, and called, so a neat card

asserted, "Buy One and Astonish Your Friends."

 

"Anything," said Gip, "will disappear under one of those cones. I have

read about it in a book.

 

"And there, dadda, is the Vanishing Halfpenny--, only they've put it

this way up so's we can't see how it's done."

 

Gip, dear boy, inherits his mother's breeding, and he did not propose to

enter the shop or worry in any way; only, you know, quite unconsciously

he lugged my finger doorward, and he made his interest clear.

 

"That," he said, and pointed to the Magic Bottle.

 

"If you had that?" I said; at which promising inquiry he looked up with

a sudden radiance.

 

"I could show it to Jessie," he said, thoughtful as ever of others.

 

"It's less than a hundred days to your birthday, Gibbles," I said, and

laid my hand on the door-handle.

 

Gip made no answer, but his grip tightened on my finger, and so we came

into the shop.

 

It was no common shop this; it was a magic shop, and all the prancing

precedence Gip would have taken in the matter of mere toys was wanting.

He left the burthen of the conversation to me.

 

It was a little, narrow shop, not very well lit, and the door-bell

pinged again with a plaintive note as we closed it behind us. For a

moment or so we were alone and could glance about us. There was a tiger

in papier-mache on the glass case that covered the low counter--a grave,

kind-eyed tiger that waggled his head in a methodical manner; there were

several crystal spheres, a china hand holding magic cards, a stock

of magic fish-bowls in various sizes, and an immodest magic hat that

shamelessly displayed its springs. On the floor were magic mirrors; one

to draw you out long and thin, one to swell your head and vanish your

legs, and one to make you short and fat like a draught; and while we

were laughing at these the shopman, as I suppose, came in.

 

At any rate, there he was behind the counter--a curious, sallow, dark

man, with one ear larger than the other and a chin like the toe-cap of a

boot.

 

"What can we have the pleasure?" he said, spreading his long, magic

fingers on the glass case; and so with a start we were aware of him.

 

"I want," I said, "to buy my little boy a few simple tricks."

 

"Legerdemain?" he asked. "Mechanical? Domestic?"

 

"Anything amusing?" said I.

 

"Um!" said the shopman, and scratched his head for a moment as if

thinking. Then, quite distinctly, he drew from his head a glass ball.

"Something in this way?" he said, and held it out.

 

The action was unexpected. I had seen the trick done at entertainments

endless times before--it's part of the common stock of conjurers--but I

had not expected it here.

 

"That's good," I said, with a laugh.

 

"Isn't it?" said the shopman.

 

Gip stretched out his disengaged hand to take this object and found

merely a blank palm.

 

"It's in your pocket," said the shopman, and there it was!

 

"How much will that be?" I asked.

 

"We make no charge for glass balls," said the shopman politely. "We get

them,"--he picked one out of his elbow as he spoke--"free." He produced

another from the back of his neck, and laid it beside its predecessor on

the counter. Gip regarded his glass ball sagely, then directed a look

of inquiry at the two on the counter, and finally brought his round-eyed

scrutiny to the shopman, who smiled.

 

"You may have those too," said the shopman, "and, if you DON'T mind, one

from my mouth. SO!"

 

Gip counselled me mutely for a moment, and then in a profound silence

put away the four balls, resumed my reassuring finger, and nerved

himself for the next event.

 

"We get all our smaller tricks in that way," the shopman remarked.

 

I laughed in the manner of one who subscribes to a jest. "Instead of

going to the wholesale shop," I said. "Of course, it's cheaper."

 

"In a way," the shopman said. "Though we pay in the end. But not

so heavily--as people suppose.... Our larger tricks, and our daily

provisions and all the other things we want, we get out of that

hat... And you know, sir, if you'll excuse my saying it, there ISN'T a

wholesale shop, not for Genuine Magic goods, sir. I don't know if

you noticed our inscription--the Genuine Magic shop." He drew a

business-card from his cheek and handed it to me. "Genuine," he

said, with his finger on the word, and added, "There is absolutely no

deception, sir."

 

He seemed to be carrying out the joke pretty thoroughly, I thought.

 

He turned to Gip with a smile of remarkable affability. "You, you know,

are the Right Sort of Boy."

 

I was surprised at his knowing that, because, in the interests of

discipline, we keep it rather a secret even at home; but Gip received it

in unflinching silence, keeping a steadfast eye on him.

 

"It's only the Right Sort of Boy gets through that doorway."

 

And, as if by way of illustration, there came a rattling at the door,

and a squeaking little voice could be faintly heard. "Nyar! I WARN 'a go

in there, dadda, I WARN 'a go in there. Ny-a-a-ah!" and then the accents

of a down-trodden parent, urging consolations and propitiations. "It's

locked, Edward," he said.

 

"But it isn't," said I.

 

"It is, sir," said the shopman, "always--for that sort of child," and as

he spoke we had a glimpse of the other youngster, a little, white face,

pallid from sweet-eating and over-sapid food, and distorted by evil

passions, a ruthless little egotist, pawing at the enchanted pane.

"It's no good, sir," said the shopman, as I moved, with my natural

helpfulness, doorward, and presently the spoilt child was carried off

howling.

 

"How do you manage that?" I said, breathing a little more freely.

 

"Magic!" said the shopman, with a careless wave of the hand, and behold!

sparks of coloured fire flew out of his fingers and vanished into the

shadows of the shop.

 

"You were saying," he said, addressing himself to Gip, "before you came

in, that you would like one of our 'Buy One and Astonish your Friends'

boxes?"

 

Gip, after a gallant effort, said "Yes."

 

"It's in your pocket."

 

And leaning over the counter--he really had an extraordinarily long

body--this amazing person produced the article in the customary

conjurer's manner. "Paper," he said, and took a sheet out of the empty

hat with the springs; "string," and behold his mouth was a string-box,

from which he drew an unending thread, which when he had tied his parcel

he bit off--and, it seemed to me, swallowed the ball of string. And then

he lit a candle at the nose of one of the ventriloquist's dummies, stuck

one of his fingers (which had become sealing-wax red) into the flame,

and so sealed the parcel. "Then there was the Disappearing Egg," he

remarked, and produced one from within my coat-breast and packed it, and

also The Crying Baby, Very Human. I handed each parcel to Gip as it was

ready, and he clasped them to his chest.

 

He said very little, but his eyes were eloquent; the clutch of his arms

was eloquent. He was the playground of unspeakable emotions. These,

you know, were REAL Magics. Then, with a start, I discovered something

moving about in my hat--something soft and jumpy. I whipped it off, and

a ruffled pigeon--no doubt a confederate--dropped out and ran on the

counter, and went, I fancy, into a cardboard box behind the papier-mache

tiger.

 

"Tut, tut!" said the shopman, dexterously relieving me of my headdress;

"careless bird, and--as I live--nesting!"

 

He shook my hat, and shook out into his extended hand two or three eggs,

a large marble, a watch, about half-a-dozen of the inevitable glass

balls, and then crumpled, crinkled paper, more and more and more,

talking all the time of the way in which people neglect to brush their

hats INSIDE as well as out, politely, of course, but with a certain

personal application. "All sorts of things accumulate, sir.... Not YOU,

of course, in particular.... Nearly every customer.... Astonishing what

they carry about with them...." The crumpled paper rose and billowed on

the counter more and more and more, until he was nearly hidden from us,

until he was altogether hidden, and still his voice went on and on. "We

none of us know what the fair semblance of a human being may conceal,

sir. Are we all then no better than brushed exteriors, whited

sepulchres--"

 

His voice stopped--exactly like when you hit a neighbour's gramophone

with a well-aimed brick, the same instant silence, and the rustle of the

paper stopped, and everything was still....

 

"Have you done with my hat?" I said, after an interval.

 

There was no answer.

 

I stared at Gip, and Gip stared at me, and there were our distortions in

the magic mirrors, looking very rum, and grave, and quiet....

 

"I think we'll go now," I said. "Will you tell me how much all this

comes to?....

 

"I say," I said, on a rather louder note, "I want the bill; and my hat,

please."

 

It might have been a sniff from behind the paper pile....

 

"Let's look behind the counter, Gip," I said. "He's making fun of us."

 

I led Gip round the head-wagging tiger, and what do you think there

was behind the counter? No one at all! Only my hat on the floor, and a

common conjurer's lop-eared white rabbit lost in meditation, and looking

as stupid and crumpled as only a conjurer's rabbit can do. I resumed my

hat, and the rabbit lolloped a lollop or so out of my way.

 

"Dadda!" said Gip, in a guilty whisper.

 

"What is it, Gip?" said I.

 

"I DO like this shop, dadda."

 

"So should I," I said to myself, "if the counter wouldn't suddenly

extend itself to shut one off from the door." But I didn't call Gip's

attention to that. "Pussy!" he said, with a hand out to the rabbit as it

came lolloping past us; "Pussy, do Gip a magic!" and his eyes followed

it as it squeezed through a door I had certainly not remarked a moment

before. Then this door opened wider, and the man with one ear larger

than the other appeared again. He was smiling still, but his eye met

mine with something between amusement and defiance. "You'd like to see

our show-room, sir," he said, with an innocent suavity. Gip tugged

my finger forward. I glanced at the counter and met the shopman's eye

again. I was beginning to think the magic just a little too genuine.

"We haven't VERY much time," I said. But somehow we were inside the

show-room before I could finish that.

 

"All goods of the same quality," said the shopman, rubbing his flexible

hands together, "and that is the Best. Nothing in the place that isn't

genuine Magic, and warranted thoroughly rum. Excuse me, sir!"

 

I felt him pull at something that clung to my coat-sleeve, and then

I saw he held a little, wriggling red demon by the tail--the little

creature bit and fought and tried to get at his hand--and in a moment

he tossed it carelessly behind a counter. No doubt the thing was only an

image of twisted indiarubber, but for the moment--! And his gesture was

exactly that of a man who handles some petty biting bit of vermin. I

glanced at Gip, but Gip was looking at a magic rocking-horse. I was

glad he hadn't seen the thing. "I say," I said, in an undertone, and

indicating Gip and the red demon with my eyes, "you haven't many things

like THAT about, have you?"

 

"None of ours! Probably brought it with you," said the shopman--also

in an undertone, and with a more dazzling smile than ever. "Astonishing

what people WILL carry about with them unawares!" And then to Gip, "Do

you see anything you fancy here?"

 

There were many things that Gip fancied there.

 

He turned to this astonishing tradesman with mingled confidence and

respect. "Is that a Magic Sword?" he said.

 

"A Magic Toy Sword. It neither bends, breaks, nor cuts the fingers. It

renders the bearer invincible in battle against any one under eighteen.

Half-a-crown to seven and sixpence, according to size. These panoplies

on cards are for juvenile knights-errant and very useful--shield of

safety, sandals of swiftness, helmet of invisibility."

 

"Oh, daddy!" gasped Gip.

 

I tried to find out what they cost, but the shopman did not heed me.

He had got Gip now; he had got him away from my finger; he had embarked

upon the exposition of all his confounded stock, and nothing was going

to stop him. Presently I saw with a qualm of distrust and something very

like jealousy that Gip had hold of this person's finger as usually he

has hold of mine. No doubt the fellow was interesting, I thought,

and had an interestingly faked lot of stuff, really GOOD faked stuff,

still--

 

I wandered after them, saying very little, but keeping an eye on this

prestidigital fellow. After all, Gip was enjoying it. And no doubt when

the time came to go we should be able to go quite easily.

 

It was a long, rambling place, that show-room, a gallery broken up

by stands and stalls and pillars, with archways leading off to other

departments, in which the queerest-looking assistants loafed and stared

at one, and with perplexing mirrors and curtains. So perplexing, indeed,

were these that I was presently unable to make out the door by which we

had come.

 

The shopman showed Gip magic trains that ran without steam or clockwork,

just as you set the signals, and then some very, very valuable boxes of

soldiers that all came alive directly you took off the lid and said--. I

myself haven't a very quick ear and it was a tongue-twisting sound,

but Gip--he has his mother's ear--got it in no time. "Bravo!" said the

shopman, putting the men back into the box unceremoniously and handing

it to Gip. "Now," said the shopman, and in a moment Gip had made them

all alive again.

 

"You'll take that box?" asked the shopman.

 

"We'll take that box," said I, "unless you charge its full value. In

which case it would need a Trust Magnate--"

 

"Dear heart! NO!" and the shopman swept the little men back again, shut

the lid, waved the box in the air, and there it was, in brown paper,

tied up and--WITH GIP'S FULL NAME AND ADDRESS ON THE PAPER!

 

The shopman laughed at my amazement.

 

"This is the genuine magic," he said. "The real thing."

 

"It's a little too genuine for my taste," I said again.

 

After that he fell to showing Gip tricks, odd tricks, and still odder

the way they were done. He explained them, he turned them inside out,

and there was the dear little chap nodding his busy bit of a head in the

sagest manner.

 

I did not attend as well as I might. "Hey, presto!" said the Magic

Shopman, and then would come the clear, small "Hey, presto!" of the boy.

But I was distracted by other things. It was being borne in upon me just

how tremendously rum this place was; it was, so to speak, inundated by

a sense of rumness. There was something a little rum about the fixtures

even, about the ceiling, about the floor, about the casually distributed

chairs. I had a queer feeling that whenever I wasn't looking at them

straight they went askew, and moved about, and played a noiseless

puss-in-the-corner behind my back. And the cornice had a serpentine

design with masks--masks altogether too expressive for proper plaster.

 

Then abruptly my attention was caught by one of the odd-looking

assistants. He was some way off and evidently unaware of my presence--I

saw a sort of three-quarter length of him over a pile of toys and

through an arch--and, you know, he was leaning against a pillar in an

idle sort of way doing the most horrid things with his features! The

particular horrid thing he did was with his nose. He did it just as

though he was idle and wanted to amuse himself. First of all it was a

short, blobby nose, and then suddenly he shot it out like a telescope,

and then out it flew and became thinner and thinner until it was like

a long, red, flexible whip. Like a thing in a nightmare it was! He

flourished it about and flung it forth as a fly-fisher flings his line.

 

My instant thought was that Gip mustn't see him. I turned about, and

there was Gip quite preoccupied with the shopman, and thinking no evil.

They were whispering together and looking at me. Gip was standing on

a little stool, and the shopman was holding a sort of big drum in his

hand.

 

"Hide and seek, dadda!" cried Gip. "You're He!"

 

And before I could do anything to prevent it, the shopman had clapped

the big drum over him. I saw what was up directly. "Take that off," I

cried, "this instant! You'll frighten the boy. Take it off!"

 

The shopman with the unequal ears did so without a word, and held the

big cylinder towards me to show its emptiness. And the little stool was

vacant! In that instant my boy had utterly disappeared?...

 

You know, perhaps, that sinister something that comes like a hand out

of the unseen and grips your heart about. You know it takes your common

self away and leaves you tense and deliberate, neither slow nor hasty,

neither angry nor afraid. So it was with me.

 

I came up to this grinning shopman and kicked his stool aside.

 

"Stop this folly!" I said. "Where is my boy?"

 

"You see," he said, still displaying the drum's interior, "there is no

deception---"

 

I put out my hand to grip him, and he eluded me by a dexterous movement.

I snatched again, and he turned from me and pushed open a door to

escape. "Stop!" I said, and he laughed, receding. I leapt after

him--into utter darkness.

 

THUD!

 

"Lor' bless my 'eart! I didn't see you coming, sir!"

 

I was in Regent Street, and I had collided with a decent-looking working

man; and a yard away, perhaps, and looking a little perplexed with

himself, was Gip. There was some sort of apology, and then Gip had

turned and come to me with a bright little smile, as though for a moment

he had missed me.

 

And he was carrying four parcels in his arm!

 

He secured immediate possession of my finger.

 

For the second I was rather at a loss. I stared round to see the door

of the magic shop, and, behold, it was not there! There was no door, no

shop, nothing, only the common pilaster between the shop where they sell

pictures and the window with the chicks!...

 

I did the only thing possible in that mental tumult; I walked straight

to the kerbstone and held up my umbrella for a cab.

 

"'Ansoms," said Gip, in a note of culminating exultation.

 

I helped him in, recalled my address with an effort, and got in also.

Something unusual proclaimed itself in my tail-coat pocket, and I felt

and discovered a glass ball. With a petulant expression I flung it into

the street.

 

Gip said nothing.

 

For a space neither of us spoke.

 

"Dada!" said Gip, at last, "that WAS a proper shop!"

 

I came round with that to the problem of just how the whole thing had

seemed to him. He looked completely undamaged--so far, good; he was

neither scared nor unhinged, he was simply tremendously satisfied with

the afternoon's entertainment, and there in his arms were the four

parcels.

 

Confound it! what could be in them?

 

"Um!" I said. "Little boys can't go to shops like that every day."

 

He received this with his usual stoicism, and for a moment I was sorry I

was his father and not his mother, and so couldn't suddenly there, coram

publico, in our hansom, kiss him. After all, I thought, the thing wasn't

so very bad.

 

But it was only when we opened the parcels that I really began to be

reassured. Three of them contained boxes of soldiers, quite ordinary

lead soldiers, but of so good a quality as to make Gip altogether forget

that originally these parcels had been Magic Tricks of the only genuine

sort, and the fourth contained a kitten, a little living white kitten,

in excellent health and appetite and temper.

 

I saw this unpacking with a sort of provisional relief. I hung about in

the nursery for quite an unconscionable time....

 

That happened six months ago. And now I am beginning to believe it is

all right. The kitten had only the magic natural to all kittens, and

the soldiers seem as steady a company as any colonel could desire. And

Gip--?

 

The intelligent parent will understand that I have to go cautiously with

Gip.

 

But I went so far as this one day. I said, "How would you like your

soldiers to come alive, Gip, and march about by themselves?"

 

"Mine do," said Gip. "I just have to say a word I know before I open the

lid."

 

"Then they march about alone?"

 

"Oh, QUITE, dadda. I shouldn't like them if they didn't do that."

 

I displayed no unbecoming surprise, and since then I have taken occasion

to drop in upon him once or twice, unannounced, when the soldiers were

about, but so far I have never discovered them performing in anything

like a magical manner.

 

It's so difficult to tell.

 

There's also a question of finance. I have an incurable habit of paying

bills. I have been up and down Regent Street several times, looking for

that shop. I am inclined to think, indeed, that in that matter honour is

satisfied, and that, since Gip's name and address are known to them, I

may very well leave it to these people, whoever they may be, to send in

their bill in their own time.

 

 

The Valley of Spiders

 

Towards mid-day the three pursuers came abruptly round a bend in the

torrent bed upon the sight of a very broad and spacious valley. The

difficult and winding trench of pebbles along which they had tracked

the fugitives for so long, expanded to a broad slope, and with a common

impulse the three men left the trail, and rode to a little eminence set

with olive-dun trees, and there halted, the two others, as became them,

a little behind the man with the silver-studded bridle.

 

For a space they scanned the great expanse below them with eager eyes.

It spread remoter and remoter, with only a few clusters of sere thorn

bushes here and there, and the dim suggestions of some now waterless

ravine, to break its desolation of yellow grass. Its purple distances

melted at last into the bluish slopes of the further hills--hills it

might be of a greener kind--and above them invisibly supported, and

seeming indeed to hang in the blue, were the snowclad summits of

mountains that grew larger and bolder to the north-westward as the sides

of the valley drew together. And westward the valley opened until a

distant darkness under the sky told where the forests began. But the

three men looked neither east nor west, but only steadfastly across the

valley.

 

The gaunt man with the scarred lip was the first to speak. "Nowhere," he

said, with a sigh of disappointment in his voice. "But after all, they

had a full day's start."

 

"They don't know we are after them," said the little man on the white

horse.

 

"SHE would know," said the leader bitterly, as if speaking to himself.

 

"Even then they can't go fast. They've got no beast but the mule, and

all to-day the girl's foot has been bleeding---"

 

The man with the silver bridle flashed a quick intensity of rage on him.

"Do you think I haven't seen that?" he snarled.

 

"It helps, anyhow," whispered the little man to himself.

 

The gaunt man with the scarred lip stared impassively. "They can't be

over the valley," he said. "If we ride hard--"

 

He glanced at the white horse and paused.

 

"Curse all white horses!" said the man with the silver bridle, and

turned to scan the beast his curse included.

 

The little man looked down between the melancholy ears of his steed.

 

"I did my best," he said.

 

The two others stared again across the valley for a space. The gaunt man

passed the back of his hand across the scarred lip.

 

"Come up!" said the man who owned the silver bridle, suddenly. The

little man started and jerked his rein, and the horse hoofs of the three

made a multitudinous faint pattering upon the withered grass as they

turned back towards the trail....

 

They rode cautiously down the long slope before them, and so came

through a waste of prickly, twisted bushes and strange dry shapes of

horny branches that grew amongst the rocks, into the levels below.

And there the trail grew faint, for the soil was scanty, and the only

herbage was this scorched dead straw that lay upon the ground. Still, by

hard scanning, by leaning beside the horses' necks and pausing ever and

again, even these white men could contrive to follow after their prey.

 

There were trodden places, bent and broken blades of the coarse grass,

and ever and again the sufficient intimation of a footmark. And once

the leader saw a brown smear of blood where the half-caste girl may have

trod. And at that under his breath he cursed her for a fool.

 

The gaunt man checked his leader's tracking, and the little man on the

white horse rode behind, a man lost in a dream. They rode one after

another, the man with the silver bridle led the way, and they spoke

never a word. After a time it came to the little man on the white horse

that the world was very still. He started out of his dream. Besides the

little noises of their horses and equipment, the whole great valley kept

the brooding quiet of a painted scene.

 

Before him went his master and his fellow, each intently leaning forward

to the left, each impassively moving with the paces of his horse; their

shadows went before them--still, noiseless, tapering attendants; and

nearer a crouched cool shape was his own. He looked about him. What was

it had gone? Then he remembered the reverberation from the banks of the

gorge and the perpetual accompaniment of shifting, jostling pebbles.

And, moreover--? There was no breeze. That was it! What a vast, still

place it was, a monotonous afternoon slumber. And the sky open and

blank, except for a sombre veil of haze that had gathered in the upper

valley.

 

He straightened his back, fretted with his bridle, puckered his lips

to whistle, and simply sighed. He turned in his saddle for a time, and

stared at the throat of the mountain gorge out of which they had come.

Blank! Blank slopes on either side, with never a sign of a decent beast

or tree--much less a man. What a land it was! What a wilderness! He

dropped again into his former pose.

 

It filled him with a momentary pleasure to see a wry stick of purple

black flash out into the form of a snake, and vanish amidst the brown.

After all, the infernal valley WAS alive. And then, to rejoice him still

more, came a little breath across his face, a whisper that came and

went, the faintest inclination of a stiff black-antlered bush upon a

little crest, the first intimations of a possible breeze. Idly he wetted

his finger, and held it up.

 

He pulled up sharply to avoid a collision with the gaunt man, who had

stopped at fault upon the trail. Just at that guilty moment he caught

his master's eye looking towards him.

 

For a time he forced an interest in the tracking. Then, as they rode on

again, he studied his master's shadow and hat and shoulder, appearing

and disappearing behind the gaunt man's nearer contours. They had ridden

four days out of the very limits of the world into this desolate place,

short of water, with nothing but a strip of dried meat under their

saddles, over rocks and mountains, where surely none but these fugitives

had ever been before--for THAT!

 

And all this was for a girl, a mere wilful child! And the man had whole

cityfuls of people to do his basest bidding--girls, women! Why in the

name of passionate folly THIS one in particular? asked the little man,

and scowled at the world, and licked his parched lips with a blackened

tongue. It was the way of the master, and that was all he knew. Just

because she sought to evade him....

 

His eye caught a whole row of high plumed canes bending in unison, and

then the tails of silk that hung before his neck flapped and fell. The

breeze was growing stronger. Somehow it took the stiff stillness out of

things--and that was well.

 

"Hullo!" said the gaunt man.

 

All three stopped abruptly.

 

"What?" asked the master. "What?"

 

"Over there," said the gaunt man, pointing up the valley.

 

"What?"

 

"Something coming towards us."

 

And as he spoke a yellow animal crested a rise and came bearing down

upon them. It was a big wild dog, coming before the wind, tongue out, at

a steady pace, and running with such an intensity of purpose that he

did not seem to see the horsemen he approached. He ran with his nose up,

following, it was plain, neither scent nor quarry. As he drew nearer the

little man felt for his sword. "He's mad," said the gaunt rider.

 

"Shout!" said the little man, and shouted.

 

The dog came on. Then when the little man's blade was already out, it

swerved aside and went panting by them and past. The eyes of the little

man followed its flight. "There was no foam," he said. For a space the

man with the silver-studded bridle stared up the valley. "Oh, come

on!" he cried at last. "What does it matter?" and jerked his horse into

movement again.

 

The little man left the insoluble mystery of a dog that fled from

nothing but the wind, and lapsed into profound musings on human

character. "Come on!" he whispered to himself. "Why should it be given

to one man to say 'Come on!' with that stupendous violence of effect.

Always, all his life, the man with the silver bridle has been saying

that. If _I_ said it--!" thought the little man. But people marvelled

when the master was disobeyed even in the wildest things. This

half-caste girl seemed to him, seemed to every one, mad--blasphemous

almost. The little man, by way of comparison, reflected on the gaunt

rider with the scarred lip, as stalwart as his master, as brave and,

indeed, perhaps braver, and yet for him there was obedience, nothing but

to give obedience duly and stoutly...

 

Certain sensations of the hands and knees called the little man back to

more immediate things. He became aware of something. He rode up beside

his gaunt fellow. "Do you notice the horses?" he said in an undertone.

 

The gaunt face looked interrogation.

 

"They don't like this wind," said the little man, and dropped behind as

the man with the silver bridle turned upon him.

 

"It's all right," said the gaunt-faced man.

 

They rode on again for a space in silence. The foremost two rode

downcast upon the trail, the hindmost man watched the haze that crept

down the vastness of the valley, nearer and nearer, and noted how the

wind grew in strength moment by moment. Far away on the left he saw a

line of dark bulks--wild hog perhaps, galloping down the valley, but of

that he said nothing, nor did he remark again upon the uneasiness of the

horses.

 

And then he saw first one and then a second great white ball, a great

shining white ball like a gigantic head of thistle-down, that drove

before the wind athwart the path. These balls soared high in the air,

and dropped and rose again and caught for a moment, and hurried on

and passed, but at the sight of them the restlessness of the horses

increased.

 

Then presently he saw that more of these drifting globes--and then soon

very many more--were hurrying towards him down the valley.

 

They became aware of a squealing. Athwart the path a huge boar rushed,

turning his head but for one instant to glance at them, and then hurling

on down the valley again. And at that, all three stopped and sat in

their saddles, staring into the thickening haze that was coming upon

them.

 

"If it were not for this thistle-down--" began the leader.

 

But now a big globe came drifting past within a score of yards of them.

It was really not an even sphere at all, but a vast, soft, ragged, filmy

thing, a sheet gathered by the corners, an aerial jelly-fish, as it

were, but rolling over and over as it advanced, and trailing long,

cobwebby threads and streamers that floated in its wake.

 

"It isn't thistle-down," said the little man.

 

"I don't like the stuff," said the gaunt man.

 

And they looked at one another.

 

"Curse it!" cried the leader. "The air's full of it up there. If it

keeps on at this pace long, it will stop us altogether."

 

An instinctive feeling, such as lines out a herd of deer at the approach

of some ambiguous thing, prompted them to turn their horses to the wind,

ride forward for a few paces, and stare at that advancing multitude

of floating masses. They came on before the wind with a sort of smooth

swiftness, rising and falling noiselessly, sinking to earth, rebounding

high, soaring--all with a perfect unanimity, with a still, deliberate

assurance.

 

Right and left of the horsemen the pioneers of this strange army passed.

At one that rolled along the ground, breaking shapelessly and trailing

out reluctantly into long grappling ribbons and bands, all three horses

began to shy and dance. The master was seized with a sudden unreasonable

impatience. He cursed the drifting globes roundly. "Get on!" he cried;

"get on! What do these things matter? How CAN they matter? Back to

the trail!" He fell swearing at his horse and sawed the bit across its

mouth.

 

He shouted aloud with rage. "I will follow that trail, I tell you!" he

cried. "Where is the trail?"

 

He gripped the bridle of his prancing horse and searched amidst the

grass. A long and clinging thread fell across his face, a grey streamer

dropped about his bridle-arm, some big, active thing with many legs ran

down the back of his head. He looked up to discover one of those grey

masses anchored as it were above him by these things and flapping out

ends as a sail flaps when a boat comes, about--but noiselessly.

 

He had an impression of many eyes, of a dense crew of squat bodies, of

long, many-jointed limbs hauling at their mooring ropes to bring the

thing down upon him. For a space he stared up, reining in his prancing

horse with the instinct born of years of horsemanship. Then the flat

of a sword smote his back, and a blade flashed overhead and cut the

drifting balloon of spider-web free, and the whole mass lifted softly

and drove clear and away.

 

"Spiders!" cried the voice of the gaunt man. "The things are full of big

spiders! Look, my lord!"

 

The man with the silver bridle still followed the mass that drove away.

 

"Look, my lord!"

 

The master found himself staring down at a red, smashed thing on the

ground that, in spite of partial obliteration, could still wriggle

unavailing legs. Then when the gaunt man pointed to another mass that

bore down upon them, he drew his sword hastily. Up the valley now it was

like a fog bank torn to rags. He tried to grasp the situation.

 

"Ride for it!" the little man was shouting. "Ride for it down the

valley."

 

What happened then was like the confusion of a battle. The man with

the silver bridle saw the little man go past him slashing furiously at

imaginary cobwebs, saw him cannon into the horse of the gaunt man and

hurl it and its rider to earth. His own horse went a dozen paces before

he could rein it in. Then he looked up to avoid imaginary dangers, and

then back again to see a horse rolling on the ground, the gaunt man

standing and slashing over it at a rent and fluttering mass of grey that

streamed and wrapped about them both. And thick and fast as thistle-down

on waste land on a windy day in July, the cobweb masses were coming on.

 

The little man had dismounted, but he dared not release his horse. He

was endeavouring to lug the struggling brute back with the strength of

one arm, while with the other he slashed aimlessly, The tentacles of a

second grey mass had entangled themselves with the struggle, and this

second grey mass came to its moorings, and slowly sank.

 

The master set his teeth, gripped his bridle, lowered his head, and

spurred his horse forward. The horse on the ground rolled over, there

were blood and moving shapes upon the flanks, and the gaunt man,

suddenly leaving it, ran forward towards his master, perhaps ten paces.

His legs were swathed and encumbered with grey; he made ineffectual

movements with his sword. Grey streamers waved from him; there was

a thin veil of grey across his face. With his left hand he beat at

something on his body, and suddenly he stumbled and fell. He struggled

to rise, and fell again, and suddenly, horribly, began to howl,

"Oh--ohoo, ohooh!"

 

The master could see the great spiders upon him, and others upon the

ground.

 

As he strove to force his horse nearer to this gesticulating, screaming

grey object that struggled up and down, there came a clatter of hoofs,

and the little man, in act of mounting, swordless, balanced on his belly

athwart the white horse, and clutching its mane, whirled past. And again

a clinging thread of grey gossamer swept across the master's face.

All about him, and over him, it seemed this drifting, noiseless cobweb

circled and drew nearer him....

 

To the day of his death he never knew just how the event of that moment

happened. Did he, indeed, turn his horse, or did it really of its own

accord stampede after its fellow? Suffice it that in another second

he was galloping full tilt down the valley with his sword whirling

furiously overhead. And all about him on the quickening breeze, the

spiders' airships, their air bundles and air sheets, seemed to him to

hurry in a conscious pursuit.

 

Clatter, clatter, thud, thud--the man with the silver bridle rode,

heedless of his direction, with his fearful face looking up now right,

now left, and his sword arm ready to slash. And a few hundred yards

ahead of him, with a tail of torn cobweb trailing behind him, rode the

little man on the white horse, still but imperfectly in the saddle.

The reeds bent before them, the wind blew fresh and strong, over his

shoulder the master could see the webs hurrying to overtake....

 

He was so intent to escape the spiders' webs that only as his horse

gathered together for a leap did he realise the ravine ahead. And then

he realised it only to misunderstand and interfere. He was leaning

forward on his horse's neck and sat up and back all too late.

 

But if in his excitement he had failed to leap, at any rate he had not

forgotten how to fall. He was horseman again in mid-air. He came off

clear with a mere bruise upon his shoulder, and his horse rolled,

kicking spasmodic legs, and lay still. But the master's sword drove its

point into the hard soil, and snapped clean across, as though Chance

refused him any longer as her Knight, and the splintered end missed his

face by an inch or so.

 

He was on his feet in a moment, breathlessly scanning the onrushing

spider-webs. For a moment he was minded to run, and then thought of the

ravine, and turned back. He ran aside once to dodge one drifting terror,

and then he was swiftly clambering down the precipitous sides, and out

of the touch of the gale.

 

There under the lee of the dry torrent's steeper banks he might crouch,

and watch these strange, grey masses pass and pass in safety till the

wind fell, and it became possible to escape. And there for a long time

he crouched, watching the strange, grey, ragged masses trail their

streamers across his narrowed sky.

 

Once a stray spider fell into the ravine close beside him--a full foot

it measured from leg to leg, and its body was half a man's hand--and

after he had watched its monstrous alacrity of search and escape for a

little while, and tempted it to bite his broken sword, he lifted up his

iron-heeled boot and smashed it into a pulp. He swore as he did so, and

for a time sought up and down for another.

 

Then presently, when he was surer these spider swarms could not drop

into the ravine, he found a place where he could sit down, and sat and

fell into deep thought and began after his manner to gnaw his knuckles

and bite his nails. And from this he was moved by the coming of the man

with the white horse.

 

He heard him long before he saw him, as a clattering of hoofs, stumbling

footsteps, and a reassuring voice. Then the little man appeared, a

rueful figure, still with a tail of white cobweb trailing behind him.

They approached each other without speaking, without a salutation. The

little man was fatigued and shamed to the pitch of hopeless bitterness,

and came to a stop at last, face to face with his seated master. The

latter winced a little under his dependant's eye. "Well?" he said at

last, with no pretence of authority.

 

"You left him?"

 

"My horse bolted."

 

"I know. So did mine."

 

He laughed at his master mirthlessly.

 

"I say my horse bolted," said the man who once had a silver-studded

bridle.

 

"Cowards both," said the little man.

 

The other gnawed his knuckle through some meditative moments, with his

eye on his inferior.

 

"Don't call me a coward," he said at length.

 

"You are a coward like myself."

 

"A coward possibly. There is a limit beyond which every man must fear.

That I have learnt at last. But not like yourself. That is where the

difference comes in."

 

"I never could have dreamt you would have left him. He saved your life

two minutes before.... Why are you our lord?"

 

The master gnawed his knuckles again, and his countenance was dark.

 

"No man calls me a coward," he said. "No. A broken sword is better than

none.... One spavined white horse cannot be expected to carry two men

a four days' journey. I hate white horses, but this time it cannot be

helped. You begin to understand me?... I perceive that you are minded,

on the strength of what you have seen and fancy, to taint my reputation.

It is men of your sort who unmake kings. Besides which--I never liked

you."

 

"My lord!" said the little man.

 

"No," said the master. "NO!"

 

He stood up sharply as the little man moved. For a minute perhaps they

faced one another. Overhead the spiders' balls went driving. There was a

quick movement among the pebbles; a running of feet, a cry of despair, a

gasp and a blow....

 

Towards nightfall the wind fell. The sun set in a calm serenity, and

the man who had once possessed the silver bridle came at last very

cautiously and by an easy slope out of the ravine again; but now he led

the white horse that once belonged to the little man. He would have gone

back to his horse to get his silver-mounted bridle again, but he feared

night and a quickening breeze might still find him in the valley, and

besides he disliked greatly to think he might discover his horse all

swathed in cobwebs and perhaps unpleasantly eaten.

 

And as he thought of those cobwebs and of all the dangers he had been

through, and the manner in which he had been preserved that day, his

hand sought a little reliquary that hung about his neck, and he clasped

it for a moment with heartfelt gratitude. As he did so his eyes went

across the valley.

 

"I was hot with passion," he said, "and now she has met her reward. They

also, no doubt--"

 

And behold! Far away out of the wooded slopes across the valley, but in

the clearness of the sunset distinct and unmistakable, he saw a little

spire of smoke.

 

At that his expression of serene resignation changed to an amazed anger.

Smoke? He turned the head of the white horse about, and hesitated. And

as he did so a little rustle of air went through the grass about him.

Far away upon some reeds swayed a tattered sheet of grey. He looked at

the cobwebs; he looked at the smoke.

 

"Perhaps, after all, it is not them," he said at last.

 

But he knew better.

 

After he had stared at the smoke for some time, he mounted the white

horse.

 

As he rode, he picked his way amidst stranded masses of web. For some

reason there were many dead spiders on the ground, and those that lived

feasted guiltily on their fellows. At the sound of his horse's hoofs

they fled.

 

Their time had passed. From the ground without either a wind to carry

them or a winding sheet ready, these things, for all their poison, could

do him little evil. He flicked with his belt at those he fancied came

too near. Once, where a number ran together over a bare place, he was

minded to dismount and trample them with his boots, but this impulse he

overcame. Ever and again he turned in his saddle, and looked back at the

smoke.

 

"Spiders," he muttered over and over again. "Spiders! Well, well.... The

next time I must spin a web."