Изображения страниц
PDF
EPUB

(Continued from page 71)

"I'm two up, Mr. Highdiver,' says he when I came to the third tee.

"But I held my peace, for I noticed that Angus was gone again, and I felt encouraged, knowing Angus' peculiarities when the liquor is on him.

"I mighta won that third hole. We were both on the green in eleven, but a wandering polar bear gobbled up my approach shot and made off with it. The stakeholder informed me the penalty was five strokes and, big as he was, I called him a robber. But they showed the rule to cover polar bears, so I dropped my other ball (I was young and extravagant then). But the handicap was too great, even though I was canny enough to pick a good lie when I dropped my second ball. Newcomb holed out in eighteen and I picked up what would have been a sure six foot putt.

"I'm three up, Mr. Bearfeeder,' says Newcomb, but I gritted my teeth and said naught.

"I mighta won the fourth hole, for I was on the green in eight. But there was a bit of an ice block on the fourth green and my ball struck it. So great was the power of my strokes that the ball had become hot from the friction and when it hit this square bit of ice, it melted its way into it. By the time I reached the spot, it had frozen again and there I was with my ball inside a chunk of ice. The stakeholder brought out the rules and they said the ball must be played as it lay. While I was trying to putt a square ball into a round cup Newcomb holed out on me and I was four down. I thought of all those dollars and my heart was sore within me. Why didn't Angus come?

"My heart was heavy within me as I drove off the fifth, but I played good golf. 'Tis natural for me to play good golf, ye may know. I was on the green in nine. Ah, but that fifth green at Tin City was a tricky one. The ice was slick and smooth as a billiard ball. Fine for curling, mayhap, but no for golf. While drawing my putter from my bag, my snowshoes went out from under me and I came down hard. The sleeve of my jacket touched the ball and moved it an inch or two.

[ocr errors][merged small]

with the toe of my snowshoe as I lay sprawling."

"By cracky, he made it,' said the stakeholder when he had stopped laughing. That took the laugh out of them, ye may well believe. But I was still three down and my head was singing like Watt's kettle, for that ice was hard, ye mind.

"I put all the golf I had into the sixth and I halved it, but the seventh and eighth were tricky holes and Newcomb knew them, which same I did not, and I was five down going into the ninth. I braced and halved the ninth in seventeen and the tenth in twentyfour.

"I mighta won the eleventh, but there was a clump of trees to the left of the green and my approach shot was caught by a gust of wind and blown high into a hollow tree.

[blocks in formation]

tee. My heart was heavy within me, until I saw Angus in the distance running madly.

"I'm sorry I'm late,' says he, as he came up, but I had to take down the boiler in the powerhouse to get this. 'Tis a good thing for ye, Mr. Mudd, that I was chief engineer of a steam packet before I took up golf.'

"With that he handed me a bit of an iron tube, mayhap a foot long and hollow.

"But what good is this?' says I, staring at the tube.

""To slip over the end of your clubs, ye idiot, so ye won't have to bend over.'

"I kissed him then, for I saw the lost siller coming back to us. Though it hurt to treat Betsy so, I slapped the tube over the end of her and tried a few practice swings. Ah, 'twas sweet and free and easy to be able to swing without bending over like the giraffe in the Glasgow Zoo. I felt the touch coming back to me and I drove a marvelous drive. I slipped the tube off Betsy and onto my mashie and laid my second dead to the pin. Then, with the tube on my putter, I sank a twenty-two footer and you should have heard the gallery gasp.

"Very good,' says the stakeholder, 'but wait till you get to the eighteenth, if you get that far.'

"Angus perked up his ears at that and, with another nip of the bottle, he rushed off in the direction of the eighteenth.

"I was five down on the thirteenth tee, but ye know how I can play golf, when my back is not broke from leaning over, and I fair made their eyes pop with the mastery of my timing of drives, the precision of my approaching and the wizardry of my putting. My esteemed enemy saw his case was hopeless and hardly tried.

"I'll get him on the eighteenth,' says he to the stakeholder and I wondered at his confidence.

[ocr errors][merged small][merged small]

"And what d'ye make it in?' says I, knowing him for a fair to middling golfer.

"I've never made it,' says he, 'I've only been playing this course for five years.'

"The eighteenth tee stood maybe fifty yards from a little river. To the left of the tee was a high, steep mountain, that reached right down to the near side of the river. On t'other side of the river was a glacier. But no green could I see, nor yet no flag.

'Where's the green,' says I to the stakeholder.

"On the other side of that mountain to your left,' says he.

"I looked at the mountain. Even I couldna drive over it and there was no way around it. 'Twas Newcomb's honor and instead of facing the mountain, he turned his back to it and drove at the side of the glacier across the river. The ball hit the glacier, bounced back across the river at an angle and disappeared on the other side of the moun

tain.

"Do that, if you can, Mr. Usquebaugh-guzzler," says Newcomb, "I'll betcha it's on the green. Took me twenty-two years to learn that.'

"I groaned, for 'twas an impossible task. True, I could hit the glacier right enough, 'twas big enough in all truth, but there was no telling where the rebound would go. I saw our siller going and I wept. I wouldha conceded the match hadna Angus come up just then. """Tis well for ye that I've a technical education,' says he. Tis well I know geometry. I'm a great mon, I am. D'ye see that red mark on the glacier yonder?' He dropped his voice to a whisper and pointed with his finger. Then I noticed what I hadn't seen before, a big red chalk mark showing up against the white of the glacier.

[ocr errors]

"I put that there with a bit of crayon, after taking my measurements,' says Angus, pleased as Punch. 'If ye hit that mark, 'tis geometrically certain ye'll rebound onto the green.'

""Twas a man's size task, hitting that wee mark, but I tightened my belt and swung. Ah, I was a glorious mon in those days. My eyes and Betsy served me well. The ball hit the red mark fair in the middle and caromed off behind the mountain.

""Twas a stiff climb up that mountain, but we made it in nothing flat. When we got to the top, we saw my caddy turning handsprings in the snow.

"'Ye must be on the green,' says Angus, and with that he rushed down the side of the mountain ahead of us all. We followed as fast as we could, but he got there first and when we came nearer, we saw Angus doing his clan's sword-dance over the cup, without any swords.

"'Square in the cup,' he yelled, 'ye've made it in one, ye've made it in one!'"

Mr. Mudd rose, knocked the ashes from his pipe and left the caddy house, amidst an awed silence.

"Oh, boy, can't he tell them though," gasped the caddy master.

"Hell, yes," said the red-headed caddy, who should have been spanked for swearing, but wasn't.

(Continued from page 60) plaything! A faint odor like the faint breath of opium smoke, filled his nostrils. The delicate toy was sent whirling into the deep shadows and Ching Chow's dull face leaped to life with the heat of revenge and hate.

Purple Dawn! She was gone like the first soft rays of the morning sun. Hatred had swelled within him like a maddening fire. Convulsively his fingers had clutched the slender vial and his eyes, now mere yellow slits, burned with a consuming rage.

***

Back to the temple Ching Chow had hurried with the light of dawn. A double portion of sweetmeats and the choicest of fruits from the Orient had he placed before the heavy-jowled joss. The dying punk of the night past, were replaced by fresh fragrant sticks. Long, sweet-smelling punk they were, foreboding nothing of the purpose back of their smoldering incense. Ching Chow would wait patiently. The answer would come and he was content.

And now it had come!

But six days had Ching Chow petitioned his ancestors and now they had answered. Truly Ching Chow was fortunate and his ancestors were to be praised.

Standing on the rim of the abyss as brick by brick the great cistern was constructed, Ching Chow now often watched the flower-decked mission school down the hill. Every step he had worked out craftily; nothing should mar his final revenge.

At the temple Ching Chow continued to place his sweetmeats in orderly array, to arrange the sweet smelling punk which glowed in the half dark as though in sullen anger.

Each night now found Ching Chow in the classroom of the little mission. His eyes revealed nothing of his burning hatred as he watched the little mission worker, Miss Patterson. Ching Chow was sure and he could afford to wait.

Each day he learned the line of verse given him by the little mission worker. Often he repeated the lines over and over to himself as he stood on the edge of the abyss now nearing completion. He mumbled a golden text, but hatred burned in his soul.

The walls of the reservoir slowly turned inward. Smooth as glass they were within and rounded up gradually to the opening no larger than the span of Ching Chow's two yellow arms. Ching Chow saw the iron cover fitted to the manhole; then he turned down the hill to the mission house.

Somehow that night the golden text kept slipping away and was lost in strange musings. No longer was the slave girl a part of his thoughts. She was of the misty past-a flash of a

purple wing now drowned in a sea of blood-red rays. In the ear of Ching Chow rang that heavy metallic clank of the cover of the manhole as it had slipped into place.

Haltingly Ching Chow stumbled through his lessons. When the mission. worker reproved him, he looked into the kindly faded blue eyes behind the gold spectacles and said:

"Axcuse, Mis Patisin, I am but a poor Chinese boy. Dear teacher, blame my parents." His silken shoulders stooped in humble submission; his almond eyes showed nothing but seeming Christian devotion.

At last Ching Chow heard the music. of running water deep in the black cavern on the hill top. Faintly at first came the drip, drip and ripple, but louder each day and Ching Chow was content to wait. Secretly he fashioned a short iron hook such as the workmen used to lift the heavy cover. He carried this beneath his silken blouse along with the vial he had intended for the slave girl.

That same night, Ching Chow hurried from the mission school and scurried through the inky blackness of the night fog to the hilltop reservoir, to try his newly formed hook. The heavy iron cover came away with hardly a sound. Ching Chow listened as loose pebbles fell into the still waters. With yellow ear to the yawning hole, he heard the ripples splash softly on the smooth walls. Ching Chow noted that the water was higher by a good two feet. The iron cover clanked in metallic sullenness as he dropped it back into place. Beneath his silken blouse he hung the short iron hook.

Day by day, slowly, then faster the great reservoir filled. By the splash of pebbles, Ching Chow knew that at last the black waters had reached the smooth surface where the walls turned inward. He laughed a yellow seared laugh as the ripples splashed softly against the glass-like surface.

Content with himself, Ching Chow hummed in a squeaky treble, a snatch of a hymn the little mission worker had taught him. The great round sun sunk behind the hills, a glowing mass of crimson red fire, deep angry red burning the western sky into a crimson crater, each cloud of onrushing mist turned to blotch of crimson blood.

a

Ching Chow saw all this as he left the temple. He smiled for he understood. Content were the gods of his ancestors with his gifts; gifts gathered from the choicest of Chinatown. With greatest care had he arranged his latest offerings. As he turned to leave the temple, the double row of clean new punks glowed not in sullen anger but (Continued on page 87)

(Continued from page 67)

He colored, and she apologized. "Really I didn't mean that. But when the tide comes in the echoes are a bit weird, though nothing alarming to one who knows their cause. And no sheriff could ever find you, and besides, you have your pistol," she concluded, again in a teasing mood.

"It's good to be jollied by you. Let's have some more of it."

Her reply was a gesture of denial, as she sprang down the rocks. A moment later he heard the echoing swish of her paddle as she passed out of the cavern. It was as though she had taken with her the last bit of brightness that illumined his place of refuge.

"What a girl," he murmured, as he recalled the frank gaze of her brown eyes, the coppery threads of her soft hair, the clear texture of her complexion despite its tan. "And she called me her partner. I wonder"

Alma found two men awaiting her return home, one her father, the other a slender youth with a worried air, which he tried to mask with an assumption of careless jauntiness.

"Jerry's boy, Bob," came the introduction.

Uncle Jerry's son? It couldn't be, and yet it was, as indisputable facts readily proved.

Half an hour later Alma, a great rage in her heart, was climbing the ledge in the Cave of Echoing Tides. What a scoundrel he was, this flippant city sportsman, who had mocked her so cruelly! But the cave was empty. Was his injury but a pretense, a fraud to make an amusing incident more interesting? But he had left a trail, one that was easy to follow. Out of the cleft at the upper end of the cave it went, past the clump of evergreens that masked the opening, then around the northern shoulder of the cliffs, and along the summit of the promontory where she had first met him. Farther still it led, gradually descending toward the shore. Below her she caught sight of a motor boat moored in a spot where the water was deep close inshore.

Next to her view came the scoundrel himself. He was sitting on a rock close beside the mooring place. In his hand were the rude crutches she had made for him, and his attitude was that of one who rests to gain strength for a further effort. At least he had not deceived her in respect to his injury, though that knowledge scarcely lessened her resentment.

"Well, what have you to say for yourself?" Stern as an accusing witness, she confronted him.

"Nothing," he confessed sheepishly. "Nothing? Was it nothing to you to take advantage of my error, and make

sport of a girl who was trying to help a foolish lad who was in trouble? You are contemptible!"

He raised a hand as though to check her utterance.

"I'm all of that, I'll admit, but I wasn't making fun of you, Miss Wayne; the thought never entered my head. But I was planning a trick. I intended to keep you with me till your father arrived with the real Austin, and then arrest him."

"Arrest? Who are you?"

"I am Franklin Boyd, the new sheriff."

"You-you sneak!" she exclaimed, hotly.

"I'm all of that, but don't forget I had a duty to perform. But my injury alters matters. I couldn't catch that boy unless he came after me himself. And I'm glad, though it seems strange to say that of a sprained ankle. It allows me to keep faith with the finest little partner that ever a man had." "Partner? You're no partner of mine! I wouldn't accept you as one by inheritance, even if you were to dig up an ancestor who was once an associate of Father's."

But he only smiled a bit wistfully. "You're angry now and with good reason, but after a time I hope you'll feel kinder. There was no one killed in that auto smash-up, I'm told, so it won't be long before that rich man settles all claims for damages, and it is safe for the boy to go home again. And till then I'll just forget that I ever heard of a Cave of Echoing Tides."

His sincerity moved her, but she was not ready to pardon him yet. She watched as he painfully arose and attempted to board his motor boat. She knew she ought to lend him a hand, but she would not. Rather she told herself with quite unnecessary emphasis that she hoped he would fall overboard. Almost she was persuaded that in that case she would let him drown. Of course if he asked for help, it would be different, but he did not speak. Perhaps her remarks about a man who needed propping still rankled. Yet the effort cost him something, if the pallor of the face he turned toward her, after gaining the cockpit, were any indication. But whatever repentance she felt was lost in the new anger inspired by his parting words.

"I'm coming back, Miss Wayne, just as soon as that boy is out of the country. In spite of your words, I still have hopes for that partnership."

The nerve of him! She turned her back and left him.

Weeks later, a much chastened Bob Austin left for his home, and on the next day Alma Wayne pushed her canoe into the water. Boyd must have learned

of the lad's departure, and true to his promise, would be coming to seek her. And she felt a reluctance to face him. She had forgiven his deception, but she had not forgotten his farewell plea, and the remembrance was disconcerting. It was better to flee from what might be an embarrassing situation.

But where could she go? To the Cave of Echoing Tides? Surely he could never find the channel, nor was it likely that he, an indifferent woodsman, had marked the other entrance sufficiently well to be able to find it again.

As her canoe grounded on the strip of sand within the cave, she sprang ashore. It was too late to retreat, when she saw Boyd standing against the ledge, from which he had fallen that other time. He must be a better man in the woods than she had thought, or a great longing had impelled him to a diligent search.

"Well, how about that partnership?" he asked, after an exchange of greetings that were a bit stilted. She made no reply, and he went on. "Did your father ever speak of a Sam Franklin?"

She lifted her head with a look of surprise in her eyes. "Yes, they were partners once on a prospecting trip."

"Then if I were to tell you that he was my uncle, would it be stretching the relationship too far to claim that we are partners by inheritance?"

"Surely not," she replied, her eyes once more lighting up with mischief. "I hereby grant you all the privileges of such partnership. Should you ever become an outlaw, the cave is yours for a refuge, and neither Father nor I will betray you to the authorities."

"Are those the only privileges?"

"Those were all that Bob Austin received. Father has stern ideas of justice, and believes that no offender, for his own best welfare, should be coddled. Rather he should be put away for awhile that he may have opportunity for reflection, repentance, and a realization that lawless conduct profits him nothing. And Bob certainly had that opportunity, shut up in this cave all these weeks, not daring to step outside except after dark -Father scared him half to death with tales of a sheriff hanging about. And with nothing to read but a Bible and an old hymn book, and only the echoes of the tides to keep him company-Father paid him few visits and I none-he must have found it dreary. His last word was that next time-should there ever be a next, which he doubted—he would choose jail in preference to such freedom."

He joined her merry laugh at the fugitive's discomfiture.

(Continued on page 88)

PA

year.

PRIZE CONTESTS

FOR

Short Stories and Poems

ARTICULARS are given below of various prizes which are to be awarded through Overland Monthly during the current It is Overland's desire that these contests shall bring forth the work of the younger writers as well as that of those who have "arrived," and to that end the two chief contests have been confined to anonymously submitted manuscripts. The short story contest is confined, through the restrictions made by its donors, within certain limits which should aid in opening an almost untouched field of material for the story writer. The "Blanden Prize Contest" for poetry is unrestricted as to subject, but Overland hopes that it will bring out some real Western verse by poets who know whereof they speak.

[blocks in formation]

Stories will be judged both as to perfection of construction and technique, and as to their presentation of Alta California life of today.

Manuscript must be submitted anonymously and bear no mark of identification other than the title. (The approximate number of words should appear on title page). Accompanying the manuscript should be a sealed envelope bearing the title of the story only. Enclosed in the sealed envelope should be (a) stamped and addressed envelope for return of manuscript, and (b) a slip bearing title of story, and name and address of author.

The story must be an original work and previously unpublished, in its submitted form or otherwise. The winning story becomes the property of Overland Monthly without further compensation.

The judges will give "honorable mention" to the six stories, in order, which in their opinion rank next the prize winning tale.

The contest is open to subscribers and non-subscribers alike.

Manuscript submitted in this contest must reach Overland Monthly not later than July 1, 1924. Address all manuscript (only one may be submitted by each contestant) to Short Story Contest Editor, Overland Monthly, 825 Phelan Bldg., San Francisco.

[blocks in formation]

All manuscript must be submitted anonymously, without distinguishing mark other than the title. Each manuscript must be accompanied by a sealed envelope which bears upon its outside nothing but the TITLE OF THE POEM, and which contains a slip bearing (a) Title, (b) Name and Address of Writer.

Lyrics must be in English, typed, and not more than thirty lines in length.

Only one lyric may be entered by each contestant. There is no restriction as to subject, but the treatment must be lyrical. (Please refer to the dictionary for the definition of a lyric as a personal expression, and be governed accordingly).

No postage should be included as no manuscripts will be returned, all being destroyed at the close of the contest. Manuscript should be mailed to reach the Overland office not later than August 1, 1924.

Address: Poetry Contest Editor, Overland Monthly 825 Phelan Bldg., San Francisco

The judges-the names will be announced later-will make first, second and third choice among the submitted lyrics, only the first award to receive a prize. Overland reserves the right to select among the remaining submissions approximately twenty which it may publish, either in Overland or with the prize lyrics in brochure form. There will be no other compensation for lyrics thus published than the honor of their inclusion, and it is understood that all contestants in entering the competition accept these terms.

The contest closes August 1, 1924, and the result will be announced in the October issue.

The prize winning lyric becomes the exclusive property of the Overland Monthly.

The contest for the Charles Granger Blanden Prize is open to subscribers and non-subscribers alike, and to residents of any country.

TWO ADDITIONAL PRIZES OF $25 EACH

are offered by Overland's Subscription Department to go only to Overland Subscribers.

If the winner of the League of American Pen Women Prize, or the Blanden Prize, is at the time of submission of manuscript a paid subscriber to Overland, the Subscriber's Prize of $25 will be added to the other prize and both go to the one person. If the winners of these prizes are not subscribers and the winners of second place can qualify, then the Subscriber's Prizes will go to them or to the third selection of the judges if both first and second fail to qualify.

For the purpose of this contest a paid subscriber shall be considered one who holds the regular receipt of Overland Monthly or its agents for a paid-in-advance subscription of not less than one year.

Announcement is also made of The Overland Annual Prize of Fifty Dollars, to be awarded for the BEST SHORT STORY published in Overland in 1924. No restrictions are made in this connection.

The names of judges for the various contests will be made as soon as arrangements have been completed.

[graphic][subsumed][subsumed]

W

THE REAL JAPANESE QUESTION E doubt if there is another living man who possesses as intimate knowledge of America and Americans in their relations to the Orient, or who has done more to develop good-will between Japan and this country than the eminent San Franciscan, K. K. Kawakami whose latest book we have just received from the Macmillan Company.

Mr. Kawakami has travelled extensively in central and eastern Asia, Europe and America. His books in English number eight; he has published others in Japanese; some have been translated into various languages; his magazine and newspaper articles are numerous. Fairness and optimism are the outstanding features of his books.

In his preface, Mr. Kawakami tells us that his book "believes in the innate capacity of the Japanese to live harmoniously with the Americans, and their ability to emerge happily from their present plight. It entertains faith in sound and common sense which will enable the leaders of the two peoples to arrive at an amicable solution of the question so befogged by this propaganda

. . . The author believes in the innate goodness of the American heart as well as the essential soundness of the American mind, and this in spite of his seven long years in California! . . . . At the same time, he has become intimately acquainted with men and women, public spirited, high-minded, self-sacrificing, and fearless in voicing their convictions

The conclusions of our author are in favor of continued restriction of Japanese immigration, and he shows that Japan will meet us on this point. He rightly emphasizes the need "of a spirit of mutual concession" and good-will, and makes many wise suggestions in regard to alterations in our present laws about non-caucasian immigration. His statistics, appendices and maps deserve very careful study. But the book is more than an argument; it is a contribution to the literature of the whole East-and-West relationship. The volume sells for $1.00. Charles H. Shinn

RUTH COMFORT MITCHELL of Los Gatos, author of "Corduroy" and other books, has recently told of a summer which anyone would envy, and which, she says, has made her feel "husky enough to throw the Santa Cruz Mountains over the Coast Range." That she can limit her energies to less worldshaking performances is proved, however, by the story she tells of incorporating a little orphaned fawn into her household. It was found by her husband, who succeeded in teaching it to lap milk, and it is now prospering. It "follows him like Mary's lamb" and it "adores our dogs."

HUGHES MEARNS, author of "I Ride in my Coach," says of his boyhood: "From my earliest recollection. I was disputed property. For a time my Virginia grandmother took me under her wing. During that period she would not let me go back to my mother for fear that I might be contaminated by the Yankee influence; and my mother dared not take me away, although a truce permitted her to make visits, far between and short. My escape at the age of nine was a midnight affair with something of the flavor of old-time melodrama."

"DIFFERENT GODS" by Violet Quirk is the story of a girl whose Gods prove somewhat different from those of some other girls-so different, in fact, that men who read the book lay it down. with a vindicated air. That's the kind of girl most of them have wanted to find. For Sheila, there is nothing in life besides one faithful love. In truth the world contains a great many girls of her sort which is well for the world.

"ANTIC HAY" is Aldous Huxley's new novel and has this odd title taken from one of Marlowe's poems. It is a satirical and characteristic piece of work delighting itself with all that is silly in the so-called "upper circles."

A

T LONG intervals one comes a book whose title-page

across

tells so much that you begin reading with a sense of having suddenly run across an old friend. The book we are now enjoying, all by ourselves, is one of this rare sort. Thus runs the titlepage: "Fifty Years on the Old Frontier, as Cowboy, Hunter, Guide, Scout and Ranchman, by James H. Cook, with an Introduction by General Charles King, U. S. V."

We of California must always recognize the fact of our farflung separate beginnings from the conquest and the gold rush of 1849. But the vast region, now a line of prosperous American States, which lay unsettled except by powerful Indian tribes who loved and fought to the last for it, was still to be conquered by Americans, or else the history of Carifornia and indeed of the whole Pacific Coast might have been far different. The man who writes this book was not born until 1857, and his greatest achievements were in the Eighties and early Nineties, long after the Civil War. He tells the story with utter unconsciousness of its importance to every American. Never was an autobiography more completely without small vanities or egotisms. There is a greatness of soul in the way, as boy and as man, the author thinks of events and of people, not of himself. But the reader can find this nation-builder who keeps open house at his Agate Springs Ranch, on the Niobrara-the man whom thousands of friends, Indians as well as whites, know as "Captain Jim."

We learn from the author's preface that Mr. E. A. Brininstool of Los Angeles, the well-known newspaper man, gave much aid in arranging the manuscript and otherwise putting the book into shape for publication. What General Charles King says of those old times is a tribute to his fellow-workers that touches one's heart; he has written an epic in prose, of those "Keen-eyed, cool-headed, fearless men, who, for half a century and more, were the guides and comrades of the cavalry of the Army

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »