The Poison Belt Read online

  THE POISON BELT

  BY

  ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  Being an account of another adventure of Prof. George E. Challenger, Lord John Roxton, Prof. Summerlee, and Mr. E. D. Malone, the discoverers of "The Lost World"

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter

  I THE BLURRING OF LINES II THE TIDE OF DEATH III SUBMERGED IV A DIARY OF THE DYING V THE DEAD WORLD VI THE GREAT AWAKENING

  Chapter I

  THE BLURRING OF LINES

  It is imperative that now at once, while these stupendous events arestill clear in my mind, I should set them down with that exactness ofdetail which time may blur. But even as I do so, I am overwhelmed by thewonder of the fact that it should be our little group of the "LostWorld"--Professor Challenger, Professor Summerlee, Lord John Roxton, andmyself--who have passed through this amazing experience.

  When, some years ago, I chronicled in the Daily Gazette our epoch-makingjourney in South America, I little thought that it should ever fall to mylot to tell an even stranger personal experience, one which is unique inall human annals and must stand out in the records of history as a greatpeak among the humble foothills which surround it. The event itself willalways be marvellous, but the circumstances that we four were together atthe time of this extraordinary episode came about in a most natural and,indeed, inevitable fashion. I will explain the events which led up to itas shortly and as clearly as I can, though I am well aware that thefuller the detail upon such a subject the more welcome it will be to thereader, for the public curiosity has been and still is insatiable.

  It was upon Friday, the twenty-seventh of August--a date forevermemorable in the history of the world--that I went down to the office ofmy paper and asked for three days' leave of absence from Mr. McArdle, whostill presided over our news department. The good old Scotchman shookhis head, scratched his dwindling fringe of ruddy fluff, and finally puthis reluctance into words.

  "I was thinking, Mr. Malone, that we could employ you to advantage thesedays. I was thinking there was a story that you are the only man thatcould handle as it should be handled."

  "I am sorry for that," said I, trying to hide my disappointment. "Ofcourse if I am needed, there is an end of the matter. But the engagementwas important and intimate. If I could be spared----"

  "Well, I don't see that you can."

  It was bitter, but I had to put the best face I could upon it. Afterall, it was my own fault, for I should have known by this time that ajournalist has no right to make plans of his own.

  "Then I'll think no more of it," said I with as much cheerfulness as Icould assume at so short a notice. "What was it that you wanted me todo?"

  "Well, it was just to interview that deevil of a man down at Rotherfield."

  "You don't mean Professor Challenger?" I cried.

  "Aye, it's just him that I do mean. He ran young Alec Simpson of theCourier a mile down the high road last week by the collar of his coat andthe slack of his breeches. You'll have read of it, likely, in the policereport. Our boys would as soon interview a loose alligator in the zoo.But you could do it, I'm thinking--an old friend like you."

  "Why," said I, greatly relieved, "this makes it all easy. It so happensthat it was to visit Professor Challenger at Rotherfield that I wasasking for leave of absence. The fact is, that it is the anniversary ofour main adventure on the plateau three years ago, and he has asked ourwhole party down to his house to see him and celebrate the occasion."

  "Capital!" cried McArdle, rubbing his hands and beaming through hisglasses. "Then you will be able to get his opeenions out of him. In anyother man I would say it was all moonshine, but the fellow has made goodonce, and who knows but he may again!"

  "Get what out of him?" I asked. "What has he been doing?"

  "Haven't you seen his letter on 'Scientific Possibeelities' in to-day'sTimes?"

  "No."

  McArdle dived down and picked a copy from the floor.

  "Read it aloud," said he, indicating a column with his finger. "I'd beglad to hear it again, for I am not sure now that I have the man'smeaning clear in my head."

  This was the letter which I read to the news editor of the Gazette:--

  "SCIENTIFIC POSSIBILITIES"

  "Sir,--I have read with amusement, not wholly unmixed with some lesscomplimentary emotion, the complacent and wholly fatuous letter of JamesWilson MacPhail which has lately appeared in your columns upon thesubject of the blurring of Fraunhofer's lines in the spectra both of theplanets and of the fixed stars. He dismisses the matter as of nosignificance. To a wider intelligence it may well seem of very greatpossible importance--so great as to involve the ultimate welfare of everyman, woman, and child upon this planet. I can hardly hope, by the use ofscientific language, to convey any sense of my meaning to thoseineffectual people who gather their ideas from the columns of a dailynewspaper. I will endeavour, therefore, to condescend to theirlimitation and to indicate the situation by the use of a homely analogywhich will be within the limits of the intelligence of your readers."

  "Man, he's a wonder--a living wonder!" said McArdle, shaking his headreflectively. "He'd put up the feathers of a sucking-dove and set up ariot in a Quakers' meeting. No wonder he has made London too hot forhim. It's a peety, Mr. Malone, for it's a grand brain! We'll let's havethe analogy."

  "We will suppose," I read, "that a small bundle of connected corks waslaunched in a sluggish current upon a voyage across the Atlantic. Thecorks drift slowly on from day to day with the same conditions all roundthem. If the corks were sentient we could imagine that they wouldconsider these conditions to be permanent and assured. But we, with oursuperior knowledge, know that many things might happen to surprise thecorks. They might possibly float up against a ship, or a sleeping whale,or become entangled in seaweed. In any case, their voyage would probablyend by their being thrown up on the rocky coast of Labrador. But whatcould they know of all this while they drifted so gently day by day inwhat they thought was a limitless and homogeneous ocean?

  "Your readers will possibly comprehend that the Atlantic, in thisparable, stands for the mighty ocean of ether through which we drift andthat the bunch of corks represents the little and obscure planetarysystem to which we belong. A third-rate sun, with its rag tag andbobtail of insignificant satellites, we float under the same dailyconditions towards some unknown end, some squalid catastrophe which willoverwhelm us at the ultimate confines of space, where we are swept overan etheric Niagara or dashed upon some unthinkable Labrador. I see noroom here for the shallow and ignorant optimism of your correspondent,Mr. James Wilson MacPhail, but many reasons why we should watch with avery close and interested attention every indication of change in thosecosmic surroundings upon which our own ultimate fate may depend."

  "Man, he'd have made a grand meenister," said McArdle. "It just boomslike an organ. Let's get doun to what it is that's troubling him."

  "The general blurring and shifting of Fraunhofer's lines of the spectrumpoint, in my opinion, to a widespread cosmic change of a subtle andsingular character. Light from a planet is the reflected light of thesun. Light from a star is a self-produced light. But the spectra bothfrom planets and stars have, in this instance, all undergone the samechange. Is it, then, a change in those planets and stars? To me such anidea is inconceivable. What common change could simultaneously come uponthem all? Is it a change in our own atmosphere? It is possible, but inthe highest degree improbable, since we see no signs of it around us, andchemical analysis has failed to reveal it. What, then, is the thirdpossibility? That it may be a change in the conducting medium, in thatinfinitely fine ether which extends from star to star and pervades thewhole universe. Deep in that ocean we are floating upon a slow
current.Might that current not drift us into belts of ether which are novel andhave properties of which we have never conceived? There is a changesomewhere. This cosmic disturbance of the spectrum proves it. It may bea good change. It may be an evil one. It may be a neutral one. We donot know. Shallow observers may treat the matter as one which can bedisregarded, but one who like myself is possessed of the deeperintelligence of the true philosopher will understand that thepossibilities of the universe are incalculable and that the wisest man ishe who holds himself ready for the unexpected. To take an obviousexample, who would undertake to say that the mysterious and universaloutbreak of illness, recorded in your columns this very morning as havingbroken out among the indigenous races of Sumatra, has no connection withsome cosmic change to which they may respond more quickly than the morecomplex peoples of Europe? I throw out the idea for what it is worth.To assert it is, in the present stage, as unprofitable as to deny it, butit is an unimaginative numskull who is too dense to perceive that it iswell within the bounds of scientific possibility.

  "Yours faithfully, "GEORGE EDWARD CHALLENGER.

  "THE BRIARS, ROTHERFIELD."

  "It's a fine, steemulating letter," said McArdle thoughtfully, fitting acigarette into the long glass tube which he used as a holder. "What'syour opeenion of it, Mr. Malone?"

  I had to confess my total and humiliating ignorance of the subject atissue. What, for example, were Fraunhofer's lines? McArdle had justbeen studying the matter with the aid of our tame scientist at theoffice, and he picked from his desk two of those many-coloured spectralbands which bear a general resemblance to the hat-ribbons of some youngand ambitious cricket club. He pointed out to me that there were certainblack lines which formed crossbars upon the series of brilliant coloursextending from the red at one end through gradations of orange, yellow,green, blue, and indigo to the violet at the other.

  "Those dark bands are Fraunhofer's lines," said he. "The colours arejust light itself. Every light, if you can split it up with a prism,gives the same colours. They tell us nothing. It is the lines thatcount, because they vary according to what it may be that produces thelight. It is these lines that have been blurred instead of clear thislast week, and all the astronomers have been quarreling over the reason.Here's a photograph of the blurred lines for our issue to-morrow. Thepublic have taken no interest in the matter up to now, but this letter ofChallenger's in the Times will make them wake up, I'm thinking."

  "And this about Sumatra?"

  "Well, it's a long cry from a blurred line in a spectrum to a sick niggerin Sumatra. And yet the chiel has shown us once before that he knowswhat he's talking about. There is some queer illness down yonder, that'sbeyond all doubt, and to-day there's a cable just come in from Singaporethat the lighthouses are out of action in the Straits of Sundan, and twoships on the beach in consequence. Anyhow, it's good enough for you tointerview Challenger upon. If you get anything definite, let us have acolumn by Monday."

  I was coming out from the news editor's room, turning over my new missionin my mind, when I heard my name called from the waiting-room below. Itwas a telegraph-boy with a wire which had been forwarded from my lodgingsat Streatham. The message was from the very man we had been discussing,and ran thus:--

  Malone, 17, Hill Street, Streatham.--Bring oxygen.--Challenger.

  "Bring oxygen!" The Professor, as I remembered him, had an elephantinesense of humour capable of the most clumsy and unwieldly gambollings.Was this one of those jokes which used to reduce him to uproariouslaughter, when his eyes would disappear and he was all gaping mouth andwagging beard, supremely indifferent to the gravity of all around him? Iturned the words over, but could make nothing even remotely jocose out ofthem. Then surely it was a concise order--though a very strange one. Hewas the last man in the world whose deliberate command I should care todisobey. Possibly some chemical experiment was afoot; possibly----Well,it was no business of mine to speculate upon why he wanted it. I mustget it. There was nearly an hour before I should catch the train atVictoria. I took a taxi, and having ascertained the address from thetelephone book, I made for the Oxygen Tube Supply Company in OxfordStreet.

  As I alighted on the pavement at my destination, two youths emerged fromthe door of the establishment carrying an iron cylinder, which, with sometrouble, they hoisted into a waiting motor-car. An elderly man was attheir heels scolding and directing in a creaky, sardonic voice. Heturned towards me. There was no mistaking those austere features andthat goatee beard. It was my old cross-grained companion, ProfessorSummerlee.

  "What!" he cried. "Don't tell me that _you_ have had one of thesepreposterous telegrams for oxygen?"

  I exhibited it.

  "Well, well! I have had one too, and, as you see, very much against thegrain, I have acted upon it. Our good friend is as impossible as ever.The need for oxygen could not have been so urgent that he must desert theusual means of supply and encroach upon the time of those who are reallybusier than himself. Why could he not order it direct?"

  I could only suggest that he probably wanted it at once.

  "Or thought he did, which is quite another matter. But it is superfluousnow for you to purchase any, since I have this considerable supply."

  "Still, for some reason he seems to wish that I should bring oxygen too.It will be safer to do exactly what he tells me."

  Accordingly, in spite of many grumbles and remonstrances from Summerlee,I ordered an additional tube, which was placed with the other in hismotor-car, for he had offered me a lift to Victoria.

  I turned away to pay off my taxi, the driver of which was verycantankerous and abusive over his fare. As I came back to ProfessorSummerlee, he was having a furious altercation with the men who hadcarried down the oxygen, his little white goat's beard jerking withindignation. One of the fellows called him, I remember, "a silly oldbleached cockatoo," which so enraged his chauffeur that he bounded out ofhis seat to take the part of his insulted master, and it was all we coulddo to prevent a riot in the street.

  These little things may seem trivial to relate, and passed as mereincidents at the time. It is only now, as I look back, that I see theirrelation to the whole story which I have to unfold.

  The chauffeur must, as it seemed to me, have been a novice or else havelost his nerve in this disturbance, for he drove vilely on the way to thestation. Twice we nearly had collisions with other equally erraticvehicles, and I remember remarking to Summerlee that the standard ofdriving in London had very much declined. Once we brushed the very edgeof a great crowd which was watching a fight at the corner of the Mall.The people, who were much excited, raised cries of anger at the clumsydriving, and one fellow sprang upon the step and waved a stick above ourheads. I pushed him off, but we were glad when we had got clear of themand safe out of the park. These little events, coming one after theother, left me very jangled in my nerves, and I could see from mycompanion's petulant manner that his own patience had got to a low ebb.

  But our good humour was restored when we saw Lord John Roxton waiting forus upon the platform, his tall, thin figure clad in a yellow tweedshooting-suit. His keen face, with those unforgettable eyes, so fierceand yet so humorous, flushed with pleasure at the sight of us. His ruddyhair was shot with grey, and the furrows upon his brow had been cut alittle deeper by Time's chisel, but in all else he was the Lord John whohad been our good comrade in the past.

  "Hullo, Herr Professor! Hullo, young fella!" he shouted as he cametoward us.

  He roared with amusement when he saw the oxygen cylinders upon theporter's trolly behind us. "So you've got them too!" he cried. "Mine isin the van. Whatever can the old dear be after?"

  "Have you seen his letter in the Times?" I asked.

  "What was it?"

  "Stuff and nonsense!" said Summerlee harshly.

  "Well, it's at the bottom of this oxygen business, or I am mistaken,"said I.

  "Stuff and nonsense!" cried Summerlee again with quite unneces
saryviolence. We had all got into a first-class smoker, and he had alreadylit the short and charred old briar pipe which seemed to singe the end ofhis long, aggressive nose.

  "Friend Challenger is a clever man," said he with great vehemence. "Noone can deny it. It's a fool that denies it. Look at his hat. There'sa sixty-ounce brain inside it--a big engine, running smooth, and turningout clean work. Show me the engine-house and I'll tell you the size ofthe engine. But he is a born charlatan--you've heard me tell him so tohis face--a born charlatan, with a kind of dramatic trick of jumping intothe limelight. Things are quiet, so friend Challenger sees a chance toset the public talking about him. You don't imagine that he seriouslybelieves all this nonsense about a change in the ether and a danger tothe human race? Was ever such a cock-and-bull story in this life?"

  He sat like an old white raven, croaking and shaking with sardoniclaughter.

  A wave of anger passed through me as I listened to Summerlee. It wasdisgraceful that he should speak thus of the leader who had been thesource of all our fame and given us such an experience as no men haveever enjoyed. I had opened my mouth to utter some hot retort, when LordJohn got before me.

  "You had a scrap once before with old man Challenger," said he sternly,"and you were down and out inside ten seconds. It seems to me, ProfessorSummerlee, he's beyond your class, and the best you can do with him is towalk wide and leave him alone."

  "Besides," said I, "he has been a good friend to every one of us.Whatever his faults may be, he is as straight as a line, and I don'tbelieve he ever speaks evil of his comrades behind their backs."

  "Well said, young fellah-my-lad," said Lord John Roxton. Then, with akindly smile, he slapped Professor Summerlee upon his shoulder. "Come,Herr Professor, we're not going to quarrel at this time of day. We'veseen too much together. But keep off the grass when you get nearChallenger, for this young fellah and I have a bit of a weakness for theold dear."

  But Summerlee was in no humour for compromise. His face was screwed upin rigid disapproval, and thick curls of angry smoke rolled up from hispipe.

  "As to you, Lord John Roxton," he creaked, "your opinion upon a matter ofscience is of as much value in my eyes as my views upon a new type ofshot-gun would be in yours. I have my own judgment, sir, and I use it inmy own way. Because it has misled me once, is that any reason why Ishould accept without criticism anything, however far-fetched, which thisman may care to put forward? Are we to have a Pope of science, withinfallible decrees laid down _ex cathedra_, and accepted without questionby the poor humble public? I tell you, sir, that I have a brain of myown and that I should feel myself to be a snob and a slave if I did notuse it. If it pleases you to believe this rigmarole about ether andFraunhofer's lines upon the spectrum, do so by all means, but do not askone who is older and wiser than yourself to share in your folly. Is itnot evident that if the ether were affected to the degree which hemaintains, and if it were obnoxious to human health, the result of itwould already be apparent upon ourselves?" Here he laughed withuproarious triumph over his own argument. "Yes, sir, we should alreadybe very far from our normal selves, and instead of sitting quietlydiscussing scientific problems in a railway train we should be showingactual symptoms of the poison which was working within us. Where do wesee any signs of this poisonous cosmic disturbance? Answer me that, sir!Answer me that! Come, come, no evasion! I pin you to an answer!"

  I felt more and more angry. There was something very irritating andaggressive in Summerlee's demeanour.

  "I think that if you knew more about the facts you might be less positivein your opinion," said I.

  Summerlee took his pipe from his mouth and fixed me with a stony stare.

  "Pray what do you mean, sir, by that somewhat impertinent observation?"

  "I mean that when I was leaving the office the news editor told me that atelegram had come in confirming the general illness of the Sumatranatives, and adding that the lights had not been lit in the Straits ofSunda."

  "Really, there should be some limits to human folly!" cried Summerlee ina positive fury. "Is it possible that you do not realize that ether, iffor a moment we adopt Challenger's preposterous supposition, is auniversal substance which is the same here as at the other side of theworld? Do you for an instant suppose that there is an English ether anda Sumatran ether? Perhaps you imagine that the ether of Kent is in someway superior to the ether of Surrey, through which this train is nowbearing us. There really are no bounds to the credulity and ignorance ofthe average layman. Is it conceivable that the ether in Sumatra shouldbe so deadly as to cause total insensibility at the very time when theether here has had no appreciable effect upon us whatever? Personally, Ican truly say that I never felt stronger in body or better balanced inmind in my life."

  "That may be. I don't profess to be a scientific man," said I, "though Ihave heard somewhere that the science of one generation is usually thefallacy of the next. But it does not take much common sense to see that,as we seem to know so little about ether, it might be affected by somelocal conditions in various parts of the world and might show an effectover there which would only develop later with us."

  "With 'might' and 'may' you can prove anything," cried Summerleefuriously. "Pigs may fly. Yes, sir, pigs _may_ fly--but they don't. Itis not worth arguing with you. Challenger has filled you with hisnonsense and you are both incapable of reason. I had as soon layarguments before those railway cushions."

  "I must say, Professor Summerlee, that your manners do not seem to haveimproved since I last had the pleasure of meeting you," said Lord Johnseverely.

  "You lordlings are not accustomed to hear the truth," Summerlee answeredwith a bitter smile. "It comes as a bit of a shock, does it not, whensomeone makes you realize that your title leaves you none the less a veryignorant man?"

  "Upon my word, sir," said Lord John, very stern and rigid, "if you were ayounger man you would not dare to speak to me in so offensive a fashion."

  Summerlee thrust out his chin, with its little wagging tuft of goateebeard.

  "I would have you know, sir, that, young or old, there has never been atime in my life when I was afraid to speak my mind to an ignorantcoxcomb--yes, sir, an ignorant coxcomb, if you had as many titles asslaves could invent and fools could adopt."

  For a moment Lord John's eyes blazed, and then, with a tremendous effort,he mastered his anger and leaned back in his seat with arms folded and abitter smile upon his face. To me all this was dreadful and deplorable.Like a wave, the memory of the past swept over me, the good comradeship,the happy, adventurous days--all that we had suffered and worked for andwon. That it should have come to this--to insults and abuse! Suddenly Iwas sobbing--sobbing in loud, gulping, uncontrollable sobs which refusedto be concealed. My companions looked at me in surprise. I covered myface with my hands.

  "It's all right," said I. "Only--only it _is_ such a pity!"

  "You're ill, young fellah, that's what's amiss with you," said Lord John."I thought you were queer from the first."

  "Your habits, sir, have not mended in these three years," said Summerlee,shaking his head. "I also did not fail to observe your strange mannerthe moment we met. You need not waste your sympathy, Lord John. Thesetears are purely alcoholic. The man has been drinking. By the way, LordJohn, I called you a coxcomb just now, which was perhaps unduly severe.But the word reminds me of a small accomplishment, trivial but amusing,which I used to possess. You know me as the austere man of science. Canyou believe that I once had a well-deserved reputation in severalnurseries as a farmyard imitator? Perhaps I can help you to pass thetime in a pleasant way. Would it amuse you to hear me crow like a cock?"

  "No, sir," said Lord John, who was still greatly offended, "it would_not_ amuse me."

  "My imitation of the clucking hen who had just laid an egg was alsoconsidered rather above the average. Might I venture?"

  "No, sir, no--certainly not."

  But in spite of this earnest prohibition, Profes
sor Summerlee laid downhis pipe and for the rest of our journey he entertained--or failed toentertain--us by a succession of bird and animal cries which seemed soabsurd that my tears were suddenly changed into boisterous laughter,which must have become quite hysterical as I sat opposite this graveProfessor and saw him--or rather heard him--in the character of theuproarious rooster or the puppy whose tail had been trodden upon. OnceLord John passed across his newspaper, upon the margin of which he hadwritten in pencil, "Poor devil! Mad as a hatter." No doubt it was veryeccentric, and yet the performance struck me as extraordinarily cleverand amusing.

  Whilst this was going on, Lord John leaned forward and told me someinterminable story about a buffalo and an Indian rajah which seemed to meto have neither beginning nor end. Professor Summerlee had just begun tochirrup like a canary, and Lord John to get to the climax of his story,when the train drew up at Jarvis Brook, which had been given us as thestation for Rotherfield.

  And there was Challenger to meet us. His appearance was glorious. Notall the turkey-cocks in creation could match the slow, high-steppingdignity with which he paraded his own railway station and the benignantsmile of condescending encouragement with which he regarded everybodyaround him. If he had changed in anything since the days of old, it wasthat his points had become accentuated. The huge head and broad sweep offorehead, with its plastered lock of black hair, seemed even greater thanbefore. His black beard poured forward in a more impressive cascade, andhis clear grey eyes, with their insolent and sardonic eyelids, were evenmore masterful than of yore.

  He gave me the amused hand-shake and encouraging smile which the headmaster bestows upon the small boy, and, having greeted the others andhelped to collect their bags and their cylinders of oxygen, he stowed usand them away in a large motor-car which was driven by the same impassiveAustin, the man of few words, whom I had seen in the character of butlerupon the occasion of my first eventful visit to the Professor. Ourjourney led us up a winding hill through beautiful country. I sat infront with the chauffeur, but behind me my three comrades seemed to me tobe all talking together. Lord John was still struggling with his buffalostory, so far as I could make out, while once again I heard, as of old,the deep rumble of Challenger and the insistent accents of Summerlee astheir brains locked in high and fierce scientific debate. SuddenlyAustin slanted his mahogany face toward me without taking his eyes fromhis steering-wheel.

  "I'm under notice," said he.

  "Dear me!" said I.

  Everything seemed strange to-day. Everyone said queer, unexpectedthings. It was like a dream.

  "It's forty-seven times," said Austin reflectively.

  "When do you go?" I asked, for want of some better observation.

  "I don't go," said Austin.

  The conversation seemed to have ended there, but presently he came backto it.

  "If I was to go, who would look after 'im?" He jerked his head towardhis master. "Who would 'e get to serve 'im?"

  "Someone else," I suggested lamely.

  "Not 'e. No one would stay a week. If I was to go, that 'ouse would rundown like a watch with the mainspring out. I'm telling you becauseyou're 'is friend, and you ought to know. If I was to take 'im at 'isword--but there, I wouldn't have the 'eart. 'E and the missus would belike two babes left out in a bundle. I'm just everything. And then 'egoes and gives me notice."

  "Why would no one stay?" I asked.

  "Well, they wouldn't make allowances, same as I do. 'E's a very cleverman, the master--so clever that 'e's clean balmy sometimes. I've seen'im right off 'is onion, and no error. Well, look what 'e did thismorning."

  "What did he do?"

  Austin bent over to me.

  "'E bit the 'ousekeeper," said he in a hoarse whisper.

  "Bit her?"

  "Yes, sir. Bit 'er on the leg. I saw 'er with my own eyes startin' amarathon from the 'all-door."

  "Good gracious!"

  "So you'd say, sir, if you could see some of the goings on. 'E don'tmake friends with the neighbors. There's some of them thinks that when'e was up among those monsters you wrote about, it was just ''Ome, Sweet'Ome' for the master, and 'e was never in fitter company. That's what_they_ say. But I've served 'im ten years, and I'm fond of 'im, and,mind you, 'e's a great man, when all's said an' done, and it's an honorto serve 'im. But 'e does try one cruel at times. Now look at that,sir. That ain't what you might call old-fashioned 'ospitality, is itnow? Just you read it for yourself."

  The car on its lowest speed had ground its way up a steep, curvingascent. At the corner a notice-board peered over a well-clipped hedge.As Austin said, it was not difficult to read, for the words were few andarresting:--

  +---------------------------------------+ | WARNING. | | ---- | | Visitors, Pressmen, and Mendicants | | are not encouraged. | | | | G. E. CHALLENGER. | +---------------------------------------+

  "No, it's not what you might call 'earty," said Austin, shaking his headand glancing up at the deplorable placard. "It wouldn't look well in aChristmas card. I beg your pardon, sir, for I haven't spoke as much asthis for many a long year, but to-day my feelings seem to 'ave got thebetter of me. 'E can sack me till 'e's blue in the face, but I ain'tgoing, and that's flat. I'm 'is man and 'e's my master, and so it willbe, I expect, to the end of the chapter."

  We had passed between the white posts of a gate and up a curving drive,lined with rhododendron bushes. Beyond stood a low brick house, pickedout with white woodwork, very comfortable and pretty. Mrs. Challenger, asmall, dainty, smiling figure, stood in the open doorway to welcome us.

  "Well, my dear," said Challenger, bustling out of the car, "here are ourvisitors. It is something new for us to have visitors, is it not? Nolove lost between us and our neighbors, is there? If they could get ratpoison into our baker's cart, I expect it would be there."

  "It's dreadful--dreadful!" cried the lady, between laughter and tears."George is always quarreling with everyone. We haven't a friend on thecountryside."

  "It enables me to concentrate my attention upon my incomparable wife,"said Challenger, passing his short, thick arm round her waist. Picture agorilla and a gazelle, and you have the pair of them. "Come, come, thesegentlemen are tired from the journey, and luncheon should be ready. HasSarah returned?"

  The lady shook her head ruefully, and the Professor laughed loudly andstroked his beard in his masterful fashion.

  "Austin," he cried, "when you have put up the car you will kindly helpyour mistress to lay the lunch. Now, gentlemen, will you please stepinto my study, for there are one or two very urgent things which I amanxious to say to you."