there's the name as well as the monogram. Names like Tompkins and Jenkins and Jinks are funny without being vulgar; I mean they are vulgar without being common. If you prefer it, they are commonplace without being common. They are just the names to be chosen to look ordinary, but they're really rather extraordinary. Do you know many people called Tompkins? It's a good deal rarer than Talbot. It's pretty much the same with the comic clothes of the parvenu. Jenkins dresses like a character in Punch. But that's because he is a character in Punch. I mean he's a fictitious character. He's a fabulous animal. He doesn't exist. "Have you ever considered what it must be like to be a man who doesn't exist? I mean to be a man with a fictitious character that he has to keep up at the expense not merely of personal talents. To be a new kind of hypocrite hiding a talent in a new kind of napkin. This man has chosen his hypocrisy very ingeniously; it was really a new one. A subtle villain has dressed up as a dashing gentleman and a worthy business man and a philanthropist and a saint; but the loud checks of a comical little cad were really rather a new disguise. But the disguise must be very irksome to a man who can really do things. This is a dexterous little cosmopolitan guttersnipe who can do scores of things, not only shoot, but draw and paint, and probably play the fiddle. Now a man like that may find the hiding of his talents useful; but he could never help wanting to use them where they were useless. If he can draw, he will draw absent-mindedly on blotting-paper. I suspect this rascal has often drawn poor old Puggy's face on blotting-paper. Probably he began doing it in blots as he afterward did it in dots, or rather shots. It was the same sort of thing; he found a disused target in a deserted yard and couldn't resist indulging in a little secret shooting, like secret drinking. You thought the shots all scattered and irregular, and so they were; but not accidental. No two distances were alike; but the different points were exactly where he wanted to put them. There's nothing needs such mathematical precision as a wild caricature. I've dabbled a little in drawing myself, and I assure you that to put one dot where you want it is a marvel with a pen close to a piece of paper. It was a miracle to do it across a garden with a gun. But a man who can work those miracles will always itch to work them, if it's only in the dark.” After a pause March observed, thoughtfully, "But he couldn't have brought him down like a bird with one of those little guns." "No; that was why I went into the gunroom," replied Fisher. "He did it with one of Burke's rifles, and Burke thought he knew the sound of it. That's why he rushed out without a hat, looking so wild. He saw nothing but a car passing quickly, which he followed for a little way, and then concluded he'd made a mistake.” There was another silence, during which Fisher sat on a great stone as motionless as on their first meeting, and watched the gray and silver river eddying past under the bushes. Then March said, abruptly, “Of course he knows the truth now. "Nobody knows the truth but you and I," answered Fisher, with a certain softening in his voice. "And I don't think you and I will ever quarrel." "What do you mean?" asked March, in an altered accent. "What have you done about it?" Horne Fisher continued to gaze steadily at the eddying stream. At last he said, "The police have proved it was a motor accident." "But you know it was not." "I told you that I know too much," replied Fisher, with his eye on the river. "I know that, and I know a great many other things. I know the atmosphere and the way the whole thing works. I know this fellow has succeeded in making himself something incurably commonplace and comic. I know you can't get up a persecution of old Toole or Little Tich. If I were to tell Hoggs or Halkett that old Jink was an assassin, they would almost die of laughter before my eyes. Oh, I don't say their laughter's quite innocent, though it's genuine in its way. They want old Jink, and they couldn't do without him. I don't say I'm quite innocent. I like Hoggs; I don't want him to be down and out; and he'd be done for if Jink can't pay for his coronet. They were devilish near the line at the last election. But the only real objection to it is that it's impossible. Nobody would believe it; it's not in the picture. The crooked weather-cock would always turn it into a joke." "Don't you think this is infamous?" asked March, quietly. "I think a good many things," replied the other. "If you people ever happen to blow the whole tangle of society to hell with dynamite, I don't know that the human race will be much the worse. But don't be too hard on me merely because I know what society is. That's why I moon away my time over things like stinking fish.” There was a pause as he settled himself down again by the stream; and then he added: "I told you before I had to throw back the big fish." WITH A WALKING SONG BY RICHARD LE GALLIENNE WITH a Shakespeare in my pocket, and a blackened English brier, With a brook to run beside me, and the morning at its spring, With the climbing road before me, and the mountains catching fire, I feel as I imagine it must feel to be a king. Be it April or October, wild-rose or silk-weed pod, The larch's tender green or the maple's bannered gold, With my brier for my comrade, and my Shakespeare for my god, "The Muses love the morning," wrote Erasmus long ago, O up into the radiance, forever on and on, Be it hoarfrost on the pasture or blossom on the vine, and travelers to the African West Coast NIGHT had breathed a little coolness and travelers to t christened after a near-by chapel, known along the water-front as the Church of the Sailors. Palm fronds above me softly stirred in the gentle, lisping "trade"; strollers-by spoke the tongue of the Spaniards; the murmuring sea plashing against the foot of the plaza whispered of lands far away. In the open roadstead, off the old Castello, ridinglights of merchant-men from distant land blinked through the sub-tropical night. The place was one of those tuckedaway pockets of the world-Las Palmas, capital of Grand Canary-famous enough, though, to long-voyage sailors 66 Our twenty-two-ton schooner, Kitty A, sixteen foot abeam, had weathered the broad reach of the Atlantic and the jagged, lava-cusped coasts of the WestAfrican islands, and was now at Lanzarote, the easternmost. There the rest of the expedition were collecting bird specimens, having left me at Teneriffe, as my work lay in the ethnology of Grand Canary-or Gran Canaria. On the map, Grand Canary is like a polliwog with a lump on the end of its tail. By this geological appendage, known as the Isleta, the trim Spanish steamer which brought me from Teneriffe docked. Three of us and baggage were bundled into a two-wheeled rig—a tartana-and jogged from the Puerto toward Las Palmas, white and warm-tinted, a town of flat roofs and low houses. Transform its cathedral towers, which accentuate its sky-line, into minarets, and the Oriental aspect would be complete. Back in the days of the Conquest, the Spaniards found here many of the aboriginal inhabitants, the Canarios (Guanches), living as troglodytes. Their caves, the most perfect examples of ancient cave-dwellings in the Archipelago, served as habitations, ceremonial places, religious devotees' retreats, and tombsthe mummified bodies of their shepherd kings and nobles being placed in the most inaccessible. Even to-day among the present inhabitants there are small cave-dwelling communities. One can understand such a primitive existence in the interior of a mountainous island six hundred and thirtyfour miles square, much of which is wild and uninhabited. But this crude manner of life still exists, side by side with modernity, as in the cave village of Atalaya, six miles from Las Palmas and within sight of the electric light and the automobile. In pre-Spanish days Atalaya (WatchTower) was a Guanche stronghold. Nearly fifteen hundred feet above the sea, overlooking a picturesque ravine, the Barranco de las Goteras, it stands as the largest and most perfect collection of troglodyte dwellings in the Canaries. In recent years some of the more enterprising have pushed additions of whitewashed lava stone out on the mountainside. Most of the habitations in this precipitous, isolated gritstone rock are either open caves or frontal walls under projecting, eroded layers of lava -retiring beneath the shadows as shyly as some of their denizens retreat within their caves. Paths and steps often cut in the solid rock, century-worn by soft tread of countless feet, undulate over and about the dwellings in a most surprising manner, going every way but straight, one man's entrance path likely enough forming the ridge-pole of his neighbor's house. On the terraces, smoke-smudged pottery-kilns, resembling huge beehives, evidence the community industry, for within every cave-dwelling are the crude utensils for pottery manufacture. The clay, obtained near by, is handled expertly by old and young, the modeling of a well-formed jar often being but a matter of minutes. No wheel is used, the pottery being formed by the hands. and a rounded stone, the ancient Canario method, which I also found among the Surinam Caribs. Finished products from this ancient factory, which has existed for hundreds of years, are for the Las Palmas market. In and about these caverns, honeycombing the mountain-side, within which secret passages undoubtedly lead to mysterious inner chambers and hidden outlets, these half-clad people and their naked children live a life to themselves. For, though pretty Santa Brigida below them is a scant mile away from the brow of their cliff, these dark-typed Atalayans with broad, high cheek-bones, eyes of lighter hazel than the Spaniards, and free primitive manners, are regarded with disfavor by their neighbors. They rarely intermarry with them; in fact, no one, church or state, seems to interfere with these cliff-dwellers. Why this aversion? Is it a legacy, together with their pottery and their caves, left from before the Conquest? A strange old settlement indeed, so old that “it is probable its men and women, alone on the island, perpetuate the blood of the aboriginal Gran Canarians." The most unusual of these troglodyte settlements was at Artenara, in the interior mountain wilderness. With the kind help of Mr. Davies, of Blandy & Co., my plans were soon completed for crossing the island. I was to go by coach to San Mateo, where a Señor de Vega Nuez, through a preceding letter, was to have a mule and guide ready. Then, crossing the island via Artenara to Aldea, we were to follow the coast northward, arriving at Agaete (Agayite), the western terminus of the island cart-road, on a certain afternoon some days later, to connect with an automobile sent to take me back to Las Palmas. Equipped with my knapsack, camera, and letters to Señor Bertrano at Artenara, the curé at Aldea, and Mr. Fenoulhet at Galdar, beyond Agaete, I downed early morning coffee at the café "Quatro Naciones," then seated myself by the driver on one of the mule-coaches which journey daily to and from San Mateo. For a democratic institution, take a Canary Island mulecoach. I have learned more of the thought, character, and daily life of these people during a morning's ride, perched over the shafts of a mule coach, than in the driver. Underneath the coach, baskets swung in the dust; on the top was baggage trunks, personal effects, baskets of flowers, chickens, and even goats and pigs. One looks for streams through the barranco bottoms; instead, dry riverbeds wind their silver serpentine ways from the inland ranges TWO LITTLE CAVE-DWELLERS OF ARTENARA, WEARING THE ISLAND HEAD-DRESS across brown or green valley floors. All of the island's precious water is diverted to irrigate valleys or supply towns. This water from the mountains often follows the roadside in narrow levadas or conduits, in which women wash clothes. Carts, people, donkeys, and mules, produce-laden, passed us on their way to town. On the constant uphill climb stops are made to rest the mules, deliver goods and mes sages, or take on passengers; when any other way. It is a little village in the towns people gather, and personal center on wheels. "Arre!" Crack! The four mules strained the harness we were off. These coaches have a nonchalant tilt forward, like a man with his hat over his eyebrows. Mostly women packed two long seats within; all wore the native black or white mantilla. Men passengers packed the front seat and another just below it; on the foot-board sat remarks and jokes are exchanged-a very human way indeed of traveling. Beyond Tafira the big automobile mail-'bus, the correo, lumbered by, loaded to the scuppers with fully two dozen men and women in the somber dress of black felt hats and black mantillas, respectively-like four-and-twenty blackbirds baking in a pie. About nine o'clock pretty, begar |