THE Novelist

Otago Witness, Issue 4029, 2 June 1931, Page 6

THE Novelist

THE FOREST RANGER

By

BEN BOLT.

(Copyright.—For t:

•HE Otago Witness.)

CHAPTER XIX. For ten minutes Grenville waited in tire cottage, now cold with fear, now hot with anger, as from time to time the flicker of the fire across the street showed him the terrible thing hanging from the beam. His anger was for the man who had wrought this evil deed, his fears for Diane de Vaudreuil whom he had left in this humble home and who now w r as gone —he knew not where. Raoul de Terry’s words occurred to him —“ But you will not take my wife his mind shaping them again and again, until they were like a mad tattoo in his' brain. Were the words more than the malicious utterance he had thought at the time; an utterance meant to anger him, or to kindle in him the fiery apprehension of the thing behind them ? Had the coureur-de-bois, discovering Diane’s whereabouts, completed that interrupted ceremony in the cathedral; and was Diane indeed his wife? That was more than possible. Diane, a fugitive, wounded, weakened by sickness perhaps, with her uncle to insist and de Terry resolved, might have been unable to resist, and there was a possibility of her having been constrained against her will. And where was she now? Almost certainly not in Quebec. What was it that de Terry had said?— “ And now she is beyond your discovery.” He laughed grimly as he remembered the Words. He would find her, though he crawled on hands and knees through every settlement in New France; and he would find de Terry and kill him as one killed a snake, ruthlessly, without any consideration of honour. Then as the burning house once more sent a lurid radiance on the dead face before him, he shivered again. The man who had done this savage thing was utterly callous. There was no evil to which he would not stoop, and Diane was in his hands, helpless, with none to trouble over her in these hours when an empire was toppling in ruins and half a continent changing hands —none save himself. The sound of footsteps broke on his melancholy reflections, his shadow appeared suddenly on the opposite wall, and Shervington entered bearing a lantern which he had requisitioned from a householder farther up the street. Without a word he lifted it and stared at the dead woman, then he spoke tersely. “No self-slaughter there! Someone hound her before she was hanged.” “Raoul de Terry! ” “ That is likely. The man has a devil’s heart. . . . But why?—a woman, remember! ” “ For hiding Diane.” “Yes. He found mademoiselle, unless he lied to you. He found her and took her away—and he hanged this poor widow. . . . God curse the man. . . . But Simon the mariner? Where is he?” “In the loft, maybe, with his throat cut.” “Wait! ” Shervington ascended to the loft, tak- " ing the lantern with him. In three minutes he was back in thie kitchen. “He is not there, nor any sign of him. Possibly he was carried away and shot.” “We may learn something from the neighbours. But first—this poor woman sheltered us—and Diane. We cannot leave her hanging here. It would be too ghastly. Your sword, Shervington. I will hold her.” They cut the dead woman down, laid her on her bed, and covered her face, decently; they made a careful scrutiny of the room. They found nothing that threw any light upon the tragedy; no message from either Diane or Simon, no indication of what had'befallen save that terrible one afforder by the dead woman. At the end of their search, Shervington made a conjecture. “ The w’hole thing must have happened suddenly. No doubt they were surprised, or one of them—mademoiselle or Simon • —would have contrived to leave some message for you. . . . You don’t think mademoiselle is in the city? ” “No! That villian said she was beyond my discovery. And he must have known when he came here to do his foul work that the city must fall to us.” * Shervington nodded. “ ’Tis likely he removed her elsewhere—to Montreal, perhaps.” “ Wherever the- place is I will seek till I find. Think of her, Shervington, in those foul hands! ” His voice shook with emotion, and his friend nodded comprehension, but did not seek to offer consolation where none would serve. After a moment he recalled Grenville’s own suggestion.

The neighbours—we might see them. As you said, we may’ learn something there.” “i? 68, ket 1,8 8°- There is nothing to be done here —except when morning comes to see this poor woman decently buried.” They left the cottage, wedging the door and shuttering the window, and moved to the nearest house that was still inhabited. A woman, young, with a child in her arms, 'answered their summons; and when she saw their uniforms stood with a stricken look on her face whilst she shook with fear. Grenville strove to reassure her. “Be not afraid, madaine! The English do not war with women. I seek news which perhaps you can give me; and here’s the reward before you speak No doubt the meal-bag is low.” The woman’s eyes gleamed with sudden tears. “ Empty, m’sieu’—these two days, and my Jacques gone away with Governor Vaudreuil.” “Well, that will replenish it. And before long your Jacques will return. Now tell me. You knew the Widow Levin ? ” “ But, yes, m’seiu’, living so near.” “When did you see her last?” “ On the day before the great battle,” answered the woman, a little wonderingly. “ She came here with some milk for my little Pierre who is sick.” “And you have not seen her since?” “ No m’sieu’, but ” The woman broke off as if doubtful of the wisdom of what she had been about to say. “ Continue, madaine. It is important that I should know.” “ It is a strange story that my Jacques told me, on the night before the battle. He had slipped away from the citadel —to see me, m’sieu’, comprehends? He came late, with the guns thundering and half the street toppling about him as the bombs struck it. . . . He said that there were Hurons outside the Widow Levin’s house; and wondering what they were about he had lingered in the street watching, and had seen a white mademoiselle carried forth by a man whom he knew by sight ” “ He gave the man a name? ” “ Why, yes, m’sieu’—a name well known here in Quebec.” “ It was the name of the leader of the coureurs-de-bois, Raoul de Terry?” “ That was the name, m’sieu’.” “So! Pray continue. Your Jacques saw other things ? ” “ But little more, m’sieu’. M’sieu’ de Terry re-entered the cottage with two of the Indians, leaving the girl with the Hurons in the street. After a little time they reappeared and after closing the door behind them, they marched away, taking the maiden with them. As they went a man came round the corner of the house and followed them ” “ Ah! That would be Simon Lisieux who lodged wih the widow.” “I do not know, m’sieu’! That was the story my Jacques told, and the meaning of the things he had seen he did not comprehend; but since then the cottage has been shuttered and the door closed, so I think Madame Levin must have left the city.”

“ Left it indeed. But her body is here. She is dead in her house! ” “ Oh, the poor woman! God have mercy on her soul! ” “ You can tell me no more? ” “Nothing m’sieu’.” “Then I will not keep you at the door. But have no fear to go forth, madame. You will not be molested. Our general has promised to hang soldier or Indian who touches woman or child in Quebec. You may go abroad with safety. Good night.” “ Bon soir, m’sieu’! God be kind to you.” The two men left her, and as they went on their -way, Grenville spoke hopefully.” “ Simon Lisieux was there.” “Without question he was the man who w’atched and followed.” “Yes. And he did not return. If they carried Diane from the city he probably went at their heels in the hope of helping her. He will know where she is; and now we hold the city he will come seeking me -with news. Perhaps to-morrow ” “ I pray Heaven he may—for your sake.” But the morrow did not bring Simon Lisieux with the news for which Grenville hungered, nor the next day, nor the week A month passed and failed to bring him, and in utter hopelessness, Grenville said to himself: “ Simon Lisieux is dead. God help Diane! ’*

No news whatever came. That Diane was not with her uncle the Governor at Montreal he learned from a French officer who was captured on a raiding expedition up the river; but Raoul de Terry was with the Governor, very active with his coureurs-de-bois. Hearing that, Shervington spoke the mind of both. “ That means the scoundrel has mademoiselle in hiding somewhere.” “Yes! But where?” “ God knows! There are so many leagues in this great land. A man might hide an army leave alone a girl.” . . . The autumn moved towards winter and still Grenville was left without news. At the approach of winter the English fleet left the river and sailed for England, carrying with it the body of the heroic soldier who had perished in the hour of his glory. General Murray took command of the army; and all sound men were set to work to prepare for a winter more terrible than even those inured ot the climate had experienced—a garrison without winter clothing, left to hold a ruined city in a land where winter was even more hostile than the population. In the sevenfold activities demanded of every officer, Grenville found some anodyne from the care and anxiety that gnawed continually at his heart. " With the New England Rangers, in company with Shervington, he went often beyond the British posts on foraging and raiding expeditions; and more than once they had skirmishes w'ith little parties of their enemy who ventured down the frozen river. Always on these expeditions he hoped forlornly that he might hear some word of Diane; and hungered fiercely for a meeting with de Terry, who, as he guesed, must be engaged in the constant raids of the French woodrangers. But each time the hope was vain; and when at last, towards Christmas, he had news of a sort, it was in the place where he had quite ceased to expect it—in Quebec itself. It was the desire of the English officers to cultivate friendly relations with the

inhabitants of the city. These on the whole were cordial enough, particularly the women, it being a matter of sober history as recorded by one of the victors, “ that their young ladies take the utmost pains to teach our officers French; with what view I know not unless that they may hear themselves flattered and courted without loss of time.” It became a pleasant custom for soldiers to dine with the leading inhabitants, and one night, much against his will, Grenville was carried by Shervington to dine w’ith a gentleman to whom he had been of some service in the early days of the English occupation. There in no merry mood, arriving late, he found himself seated next to a sparkling lady to whom he gave scant attention until she reproached him playfully. “ You wear the air of a disgruntled Csesar, Major Grenville, and have no remembrance of old acquaintance?” “Old acquaintance! Impossible, madame,” he retorted gallantly. “Your years do not permit it.” “ Flatterer! ” the lady mocked. “ But deeds are more than words, and you do not remember.” He looked at her closely then, and in an instant knew her. Here was the lady who had urged Diane to the marriage with Raoul de Terry. The discovery made him short in his answer. “But I do, Madame de Vionnc! ” The lady did not notice his tone. She clapped her hands, and like the butterfly she was retorted gaily enough. “ Then you remember, after all. That is a great compliment from one who ventured what you did for Diane de Vaudreuil in the cathedral! You cheated de Terry there, and made all the ladies in Quebec envious of such a lover. What have you done with her? Sent her to England in your ships with other spoil of New France, I suppose.” “No! She is in New France still,” he answered carelessly. “ Man or money. Where the treasure is the heart remains,” replied the lady flippantly. “It is the way with us all.” She laughed and then nodded. “ But I for one owe you no grudge, Monsieur Grenville, for robbing Raoul de Terry of his desire.”

“ But,” he cried in surprise, “ I thought that you desired that marriage.

I understood from Diane that you persuaded her ” Madame’s eyes flashed at the words, and an enigmatic look came on her face. “ One woman may persuade another to a way that she docs not in her heart wish her to take. ... I had my reasons, monsieur. Raoul de Terry was mine—once! He is not rich, and this marriage would have ” She broke off. “ Perhaps you do not know that Diane de Vaudreuil has an estate in Auvergne? ” “ No! ” answered Grenville, “I did not know that.” Dimly he glimpsed the conspiracy behind Raoul de Terry’s projected marriage with Diane, but the woman’s gain in it was not clear to him, qor did he ever learn it, for a moment after madame spoke again. “ Raoul has but an estate in the wilderness, all woods and painted Indians, a. poor place, though in the records he is described as the Seigneur of St. Croix. So you see ” For a little time Grenville saw nothing —not even the food before him, nor the woman at his side. The name she had spoken was beating in his brain like a roll of drums. St. Croix! St. Croix! St. Croix! That was the place to which Diane had been carried. He know it with that dazzling certainty that goes with conviction. He would have staked his life upon it. And he knew the place. He had seen it once, two years before—and now, with merry chatter and laughter and the clinking of wine glasses about him he saw it again in vision. A river ran by it, great woods ran behind it, a Catholic church lifted its bell tower in the midst, and round this were grouped the cabins and wigwams of the Indians — with a fine timber house a little distance away that he supposed must be the Seigneurie. It had been high summer when he had looked upon it, secretly; for the place had the worst reputation, and now that it was winter, by some trick of im-

agination he saw it with the river frozen, the woods black and sombre under a mantle of wliite, the wigwams, the cabins, and the church alike deep in snow. “ St. Croix! ” he whispered, forgetful where he was, and unconscious of madame’s eyes looking at him curiouslv. “ St. Croix! ” “ Why, yes! ” broke in the lady. “ But why it should make you see ghosts I cannot think.” “It is an evil place! ” he said hastily, as her word called him back to reality. “ It has a church,” madame laughed “ A priest! What would you ? Its Indians are notable Christians.” “ The very spawn of Hell! ” he retorted, truthfully enough, for the village was the most notorious in all New France. “And Raoul de Terry is the Seigneur of St. Croix. I am glad to know that.” “ But Monsieur Grenville, why should you be that ? ” “ Because I shall go there to find ” He stopped sharply, realising that it would be indiscreet to tell this light ' woman his purpose. But Madame de Vionne was not so easily turned aside. His manifest accession of caution whetted her curiosity. “Yes?” she said encouragingly. “You will go to St. Croix to find—what?” Grenville had himself in hand now. He laughed a little harshly. “ Oh, I shall go to find Raoul de Terry to kill him.” He laughed again, and to divert her from a possible scent of the truth, he asked: “Do you know that he tried to hang me at Ticonderoga ?” “Your Diane told me of that.” “ But you do not know that he ami his Christian Indians tortured my cousin in the woods of Champlain—tortured and- burned him; and that when Montcalm sent me free from the fort, de Terry followed and tried to shoot me treacherously in the night. Nor do you know that we have met since twice, and fqught with each other ” “ Ah! ” broke in the lady, “ that was how he came by the wound last winter ? ” “Yes! And five days ago his life for a moment was in my hand. But for an interruption I should have taken it then; but some day I shall go to St Croix seeking it with my sword ”

Madaine de Vionnc flashed a swift glance at him, and interrupted sharply; “ Will that be all that you go seeking, Monsieur Grenville?” He had a sudden twinge of fear at the question. Did she guess? It was possible, for madaine was of sharp mind, a schemer, with a curious nose for a scent. He laughed easily to deceive her.

“ Why, no! ”he answered. “ There are those Christian Indians at >St. Croix—worse than any of the pagan devils who slink in the woods, and have no priest to teach them to slay the heretic. . . , I think I shall not leave one of them alive. I saw, once, a New England viL lage after those Christians of St. Croix had been there. I am a soldier. 1 have seen bitter sights, but that village when those fiends had wrought their Christian work gave me a nausea ... I think I shall burn their church also ”

“If Raoul de Terry allows you!” gibed the lady. “ Madaine,” he answered tersely, “ be» lieve me, he will be dead when I make the holocaust.” Their host broke in with a question addressed to Grenville, who was glad of the diversion. When the dinner ended, he avoided the lady and, as soon as ha could, sought out Shervington. “ Make our excuses early. There is work for me to do.” Shervington looked at him, marking the gleam of excitement in his eyes. “ Ah,” he said, “ you have learned something? ” “Yes! Diane is at St. Croix, of which little hell on earth de Terry is the Seigneur.” “The devil he is! A fit Seigneur for that Sodom. How did you learn that? ” Grenville gave him the source of his information, and Shervington nodded. “ She would know. But she did not say that mademoiselle was at St. Croix? ” “No! I said that. I am sure of it, and by the Mass I’m going to prove the truth of it.” “ Well, since you feel that way ” Shervington interrupted himself. “ The less said the better, here.” There was a warning flash in his eyes; and a moment after, looking round, the other saw Madame de Vionne standing a little distance away, back to them, but with her head poised alertly. “ Yes,” he answered, “we will wait, and discuss things when we get back to quarters.” They discussed the matter that same night, and the upshot was that two nights later, the pair of them, with leave to follow their private affairs, stole from Quebec and crossed the ice to the southern bank en route for the St. Francis River. It was a far cry in winter to their destination at St. Croix: but both were sturdy men; and three years of the wilderness warfare had turned them into woodsmen who could face the perils and hardships of a winter journey undaunted. There were risks everywhere. Indian allies of the French camped in tire great woods; coureurs-de-bois hunting and foraging for the French army up the river; wandering soldiery from that army trying their luck in pursuit of fur and game; famishing peasants, ruined by the war and half-desperate with hunger; and all the chances of the wintry wilderness, the snow, the great frost which froze the sappy hearts of the trees so that they hurst with the sharp sound of pistol-shots. In the teeth of all they hurried on, keeping in the shadow of the great woods, and following the course of the St. Lawrence until they were three days’ march from Trois Rivieres, when they started to make a traverse through the woods to their destination.

Their way took them through great swamps, frozen now, where the only firing was willow of slender growth, but where ptarmigan for the pot abounded; through thick forests where ,the moose had their yards, and where the woodland caribou moved silently as ghosts under the snow-burdened trees; over hills where the wind blew blisteringly, and where the bitter frosts checked the blood, cracking and blackening the skin as with flame. It was a journey that might have daunted even the painted savages who had their homes in the wilderness, and who were familiar with the difficulties and perils from childhood; but the pair were beyond all daunting. Indomitable, fearless, bitten by frost, stung by the shot-like snow flung at them by the bitter wind, hindered at times by huge deadfalls, or by deep snow, they kept on, and came at last, two gaunt and wearyeyed men to the St. Francis River. There they camped for the nght in deep woods; and by the fire, before they rolled in their blankets, Shervington spoke a single word. “ To-morrow ? ” “Yes! Please God.”

On the morrow they resumed theii’ journey, but now they used exceeding caution. Both of them were dressed as French coureurs-de-bois, and would have passed as such with any save those to whom they might be known. But at Christian St. Croix there were risks for any stranger —risks at least as great if not greater than those at any other Indian village, for its inhabitants, having thrown off all inter-tribal obligations, were accustomed to indulge their lustfor blood with an unbridled ferocity. It behove them to be wary for other reasons also. They must learn the whereabouts of Diane if they were to seccced in their desperate enterprise, and must assure themselves of the presence or absence of Raoul de Terry himself. Once they had knowledge of the first, and were certain of the last, neither had

any doubt of tlie success of their endeavours. Having accomplished so much they could not fail. In the late afternoon they approached the village through the woods behind it. A bell sounded clearly across the snow, find presently they saw the church itself, with the wigwams and cabins about it, iind close beside a large log-built house that was plainly the Presbytery. . Further up the river, a little apart, was the Seigneurie. “There! ” said Grenville in a whisper. Shervington nodded. . . •. “ But • those fires? There is, it appears, some ■ Sort of festival going forward.” The ill-omened place was certainly en ' fete from the coming and going, the great fires which burned, and the clamour which presently came across the snow, the bell ceased to call to prayer; the Short, winter day ended, and night very dark and still came down on the great woods where they kept vigil. Grenville watched the Seigneurie carefully, hoping that lights there would tell him what he wished to know, but learned nothing. . Presently the bell of the church began to ring again; groups of Indians appeared about the fire, and on the still air came the appetising smell of roasting meat. “ There is surely a feast,” said Shervington, “ Heaven send the rum is plentiful.” They continued to wait, watchfully, running in the woods meanwhile to keep their feet from freezing. In the village the clamour grew. After a little time there was dancing and wild screeching sounds of savage revelry. Then a light shone in the window of the Seigneurie. “ Now! ” whispered Grenville. “ St. Croix is too busy with its sins to be Watchful.” They made a circuit through the wood, and reached the fine log-house on the farther side. There was no palisading or breastwork of logs such as was customary in the wilderness homes; and the house was open to the river in front and the woods behind, proof of the Seig- ■ neur’s assurrance of the loyalty of St. Croix. With his eye on the lighted window, Grenville crept nearer, leaving Shervington to keep watch. The window was of parchment, and he could see nothing. Bitterly disappointed he crept nearer to listen, but heard no sound. At a loss how to proceed, he crouched, still hoping for some sign, and listening to the clamour over in the village. A warning hiss from Shervington told him that someone was approaching, and he crouched in the shadow below the window with his rifle ready for instant action. After a little time he caught sight of the newcomer, a short, bulky man in a long robe. That was all he could make out, but that the man was not de Terry he knew by the height and breadth of the figure. The man made straight for the door of the house, knocked authoritatively, and presently the door was opened; and by the light of the taper she carried Grenville glimpsed a young Indian girl, and at the same time saw the gross, bearded face of the man whose summons she answered. The man asked some question, and Grenville caught the girl’s reply, given with obvious deference. “Si, Pere Antoine! ” “ The priest of Little Hell! ” thought Grenville to himself. The priest pushed his way past her, and the girl stood for a moment staring at the fires of the village. Then she blew out the taper and hurried from the door. A minute later she was back shrouded from head to foot in a wrap; and pulling the door to without, latching it, she ran lightly across the snow in the direction of the fires. In the same moment through the parchment window, Grenville heard a voice speaking. “ To-morrow or the day following, daughter. A rumour arrived to-day with news of the Seigneur’s coming: It is well to prepare.” “ But I will not, Pere Antoine, Before then I shall die ”

Grenville’s heart leaped at the sound of the answering voice—Diane’s! His conviction had been a true one, and now the end of the long endeavour was in sight. De Terry, as he interpreted the priest’s remark, was not at home, but was expected on the morrow or the following day; but Diane was there, and with St. Croix en fete and absorbed in its pleasures the chance was golden. He slipped back to Shervington, told him tlie news, and explained his intentions, then walked boldly to the house, thrust the door open, and stepped inside. Leaving the door as he had found it he walked up a passage covered with boar skins, found a doorway hung with tanned deer skin, and a door behind it partly open. Without pause he pushed the door, and stepped inside the room. Tlie priest was there, a low-browed, fat-faced man with pouchy eyes, and a figure gross with high Jiving. And Diane! pale, hollow-cheeked, with a light of apprehension in her dark eyes. Both of them stared amazedly at his intrusion, as well they might, for with his frost-blackened unshaven face, gaunt and haggard with Herculean endeavour, wayworn by the passage through the great, woods, with knife and tomahawk at his belt, and rifle in his hand, he was a sufficiently wild figure. The priest stared at him resentfully, and began in a bullying voice: “ Fellow, who are you, to come ” So far he got when Grenville saw incredulous amazement, relief, joy, leap in Diane’s face.

“Mon Jean! ” she whispered as if voicing the unbelievable. “ Mon cher Jean! ”

“ Yes, Diane. I have come for

you ” The priest made a sudden movement towards the door, no doubt with the thought of fetching some of his precious flock, but Grenville with no respect for priests of his particular breed struck the man’s fat belly with the butt of his rifle, and with a groan Pere Antoine dropped upon the floor. “Lie there, foul priest. Move! And I will kill you! ” “It is indeed you, mon Jean?” whispered Diane again, incredulously, with never an eye for the stout father’s contortions on the floor.

.“ It is indeed I, Diane. There is no time for explanation. We must away at once, before anyone can know. Go, put on your furs! Bring stout moccasins—two or three pairs, stockings, your very warmest ”

Diane laughed tremulously. “ All these things I have ready. Tonight 1 was leaving St. Croix, for tomorrow or the day after Raoul de Terry is due here, and is sworn to marry me. I did not expect him till the ice broke under the spring suns, but he is on the way; and to-night I am to flee ” “ With me, beloved! ” “ With you, mon Jean. I thank the Virgin Mother who has pitied me in my sorrow, and ” The priest, still in contortions, rolled a little nearer the door. Grenville saw him and dropped the rifle butt on him again to warn him. “Diane, if you could find a rope. This creature must be tied and gagged or he will give you trouble. Quick, beloved! ” “ I run, mon Jean.” She really did run, and Grenville looked down at the fat priest with sardonic eyes. “Do you know, priest, that if yon were not such a sinner you should wed me to my Diane to-night? But I cannot believe that through so foul a channel any divine grace can run. . . . Besides, I have sworn to burn your church . . . as you have burned heretics here if rumour be true. For a livre I would burn you with it—and cleanse the place with fire. Get up! ” The priest scrambled to his feet, stark fear in his pouchy eyes. “ Sit on that stool! ” Father Antoine obeyed instantly, and Diane appeared with a coil of rope. Grenville set his rifle down, and proceeded to bind the priest securely to the stool. Then he looked round for something that would serve as a gag. Nothing but the tanned deer-skin curtain offered, and with his knife Grenville cut a strip, and carefully gagged the man. Then he turned to Diane. “My dear, your furs! Your pack. We must leave whilst there is time.” Diane hurried from the room once more, and Grenville stood waiting, watching the priest. He was so engaged when he saw an alert look come in the man’s eyes. He was listening for something —something he had already heard. Grenville also listened. Outside there was a sound of steps in the snow, someone was approaching the door. Whoever it might be, he was plainly without anticipation of trouble, for he began to whistle. Grenville cocked his rifle, and a grim look came on his face. Then something familiar in the air brought an odd light to his eyes. The whistler broke off and began to chant C'est uhe dame de Bordeaux Qu’est amoureuse It was the ribald chanson which, with the mariner he had chanted to the sergeant and his search-party in the snowy street in Quebec, and that voice The singer broke off abruptly, and from without there came a sound of feet hurrying in the crisp snow. “Qui va la?” And then Grenville knew beyond all doubt who the singer was, for Shervington's voice, hushed, exultant, utterly incredulous, reached him in complete disregard of the militant challenge.

“ Powers of darkness! Simon the mar. iner! Simon —you old tarry-breeches, in God’s name where have you sprung from? ” (To be concluded.)

Cop: “ Here, you can’t stand about here in that bathing costume.” Pavement Artist's Daughter: “ But me father can’t work without a model, stupid.” • —Passing Show, London