The Planter

by Theodore Goodridge Roberts

THE PLANTER

By THEODORE GOODRIDGE ROBERTS

THE warm rain poured down on the streaming island and the flat sea, battering the pale green canes, soddening roofs of thatch, and hammering like a million drumsticks on roofs of tile, flooding the white roads, and swelling insignificant brooks to raging torrents, which stained the clear water of the Caribbean with the brown fertility of the plantations. So it had been all day; but after sunset the crashing and rolling of thunder were heard through and above the ceaseless drumming of the rain, and wide, white flashes of lightning illuminated the watery curtains of the storm for blinking seconds.

A slave crouched among the battered canes at the edge of a flooded road. He was as wet as a fish, but he gave no heed to the storm. He was ready to meet and master a thing more terrible to him than any convulsion of the elements. He was an elderly fellow, but strong and massive. In one black fist he gripped the wooden haft of a cane knife. The fingers of his left hand opened and closed, and opened and closed on a pulpy mass of vegetation, as if on the throat of an enemy. He lowered his round, black head close to the sodden earth, listening, listening. At last he raised his head and moved forward by a foot or two. His strong teeth chattered. His face worked with something of terror, something of furious determination.

In a flash of white fire he saw the tyrant abreast of him, leaning forward in the saddle, his drenched cloak high about his neck, and the water spouting from his gold-laced hat. He saw the narrow face turned full upon him—the derisive grey eyes, the thin, cruel mouth, and the high-bridged nose. All this he saw and noted, feared and abhorred, in the white instant of the lightning flash. He sprang, uttering a guttural scream of rage. The horse, jerked around and launched at him unerringly, struck him full-chested. As he was battered under, clutching at the wet bridle, the butt of a great pistol crashed down upon his temple.

The master rode home; the next morning the dead slave was found beside the flooded highway.

•••••

The "Pine," "Three Mills," and "Victory" estates were the property of Mr. William Ashton Dick, of 21, Radnor Place, London, W., B.A. (Oxon) and Barrister-at-Law. Mr. Dick, like his father before him, had lived all his life in England, leaving those three fine plantations in Bados, in the British West Indies, to the care of agents and managers. Mr. Dick knew enough of the history of his family to see a reason for this, particularly in the case of his father. The grandfather, a Badosian by birth, had begun his active life as a mulatto mule boy on a sugar plantation. For some exceptional service to his master, he had been given twenty golden pounds over and above his wages. He had invested this money in a half share of a little shop in Bridgetown. A year later, when business did not look very bright, he bought out his somewhat indolent partner. Within ten years of that transaction the ex-mule boy owned one of the biggest and most flourishing shops in the town.

Then came the first slump in the cane-sugar market, followed immediately by the first slump in sugar-producing land. Luxury-loving planters needed money. Mr. Dick had it to oblige them. Some wanted to sell portions of their plantations in a hurry. Mr. Dick was ready to buy, just to oblige the proud gentlemen who were momentarily dismayed by the weakness of the sugar market. Mr. Dick did a great deal of figuring, the result of which was a conviction that sugar land was good property, even with the market for the produce in its present state. Naturally, considering his humble extraction, his ideas were not as large as those of the original owners.

At the age of forty-five this first Mr. Dick found himself to be the possessor of considerable ready money, a profitable business, and three fine plantations. So he visited England and married a woman of lowly condition, but of pure white blood. His own blood was not more than half white. Returning to Bados with his wife, he continued to apply himself to his business.

The second Mr. Dick was born in Bados, but was sent to England at a tender age. In England he was educated; in England he found the daughter of a half-pay major for a wife, and there he lived a quiet, well-furnished life, and died a quiet and fairly comfortable death, leaving all his property in trust for the third Mr. Dick.

This is all that William Ashton Dick knew of the paternal side of his family, and he considered it quite enough. A scholar and a recluse, he frequently gave hours of close thought to a subject which his English friends would have considered unworthy of a moment's reflection, even had they known all he knew. What mattered a diluted strain of African blood?—so his friends would have asked. He looked and talked like any well-bred Anglo-Saxon. He had a larger income than he required, a sound education, and a passion for books, and one of the best private libraries within a mile of Radnor Place. He did not even have to practise, or try to practise, the learned profession which he had acquired after leaving the University. Being unmarried, he had no family ties and worries. This would have been the opinion of his friends, had he confided in them; but he did not confide in them. He was a student of more than books.

In his thirtieth year he began to study himself with a keener and more feverish attention than he had ever given to any printed book. He brought all his scholarly equipment to bear on the actual and theoretical influences of that thin strain of African slave's blood on his life. He subjected himself to the most searching self-analysis. He sought, and at last was convinced that he found, both outward and inward marks of that dark strain. He read exhaustively of the African tribes, of the slave-dealers, and of the British West Indian islands in the days of slavery.

He studied these subjects with a comprehension and energy that he had not even applied to the classics; and in the light of what he read he studied himself. From gripping his mind, the problem—call it what you will—gripped his spirit as well. The contemplation of that thin, wild, submerged strain in his being became an obsession with him. Awake, he brooded over it; asleep, he dreamed of it. He began to look for an unconscious attitude of mastery, of instinctive race domination, in his friends—yes, and even in his servants. They knew nothing, but could they not feel what he had learned to feel? He began to think that they could. He began to see signs where no signs were.

At last William Ashton Dick decided to go to the birthplace of his grandfather, the mulatto, and test himself there among the peoples of the two races represented in his own blood. There, if anywhere, a conclusive test could be made. If he could there disprove the fear that was growing in him that the faint strain of black blood was more persistent than the great volume of white blood in his veins, then he would worry no more about the matter. He shrank from the test, and yet, for the sake of his future peace of mind, he was determined to make it. If his fears were realised—well, he would at least know himself for what he really was. His books and his scholarship would still be left to him.

At this time there lived in Bados a man named John Gort. He was a white man, but of that humble class that is known in the island by the term of "red-leg." That is to say, he was held in no more consideration than the black field-hands on the estates, despite the fact of his pure white blood. He was poor, ignorant, without pride and without ambition. And yet he was not exactly like his brother "red-legs." He possessed a peculiarity that had been his from birth.

At the time of Mr. Dick's mental struggle and self-questioning in London, John Gort was an overseer on the Victory plantation, in Bados. His two brother-overseers on the place were blacks. Above them—far above them—were the manager of the estate and the bookkeeper. John Gort accepted the superiority of these two without so much as the shadow of question or protest, even as he accepted the equality of the other overseers. And yet he knew vaguely, without interest or envy, that his own ancestors, of his own name, had possessed lands, horses, slaves, and mules in this same island, hundreds of years ago. He knew this dully, without concern. It held no more appeal for him than the contemplation of Adam as the first of his family.

The only things in life that excited his interest were his food, his day's work, his rum and tobacco, and the peculiar quality that had been his from birth. He knew nothing of the laws and freaks of heredity, but he derived a good deal of mild entertainment from the above-mentioned quality, or power, call it what you will. A steady, prolonged glance of his grey, derisive eyes had a most amusing effect on any negro subjected to it. The effect was the negro's, the amusement John Gort's. The boldest and most self-opinionated fellow on the estate would tremble under Gort's eyes, and beg him to look some other way. Even his brother-overseers would grow uneasy and curse hysterically, if he regarded them with that particular leer for more than a second at a time.

He had once tried the trick on a wealthy mulatto planter from the windward side of the island, but as the subject in this case had flown into a kind of terrified rage, and laced the protesting but unresisting overseer with his whip, the usual element of amusement had been lacking. And yet not even the smallest and laziest "hand" on the place was afraid of Gort. Few of them even respected him. They knew him for what he was, even as he knew himself—a poor devil of a "red-leg." What they feared was the queer "feelings" that always possessed them when he eyed them intently and set his thin lips in a certain way. But John was wise enough not to amuse himself with this strange power to such an extent as to cause complaints to the manager.

On more than one occasion he had turned that grey, diabolical regard on white men in the town—on clerks in shops and sailors from the ships—with no other results than inquiring glances in return, haughty glares, requests for him to go and put his ugly block in a bag, and threatening inquiries as to what to hell he thought he was gawking at. So it was evident, even to John Gort's dull mind, that the peculiar quality of his glance intimidated and confused only persons of African extraction.

To return to Mr. William Ashton Dick. No sooner had the Royal Mail steam-packet Severn dropped anchor in the open roadstead off Bridgetown than three smartly manned boats pulled out to her. One contained the harbour-master, another the port doctor, and the third Mr. Dick's agent in the island. The agent, Tomilson by name, was a prosperous and imposing person, dressed in spotless linen. He came over the rail and advanced upon his employer with his Panama clutched in one hand and the other extended.

"I am glad to have you come, sir!" he exclaimed. "You own the three finest properties in the island, and so I have always felt that you owe Bados a little personal attention, sir. I don't mean business attention, of course, but social attention."

"This is very good of you, Mr. Tomilson. No doubt you are right," said the Londoner nervously.

"I was mighty glad to get your wire," continued the agent, "and I took the liberty to let everybody know of your intention to visit us, sir. We have always felt that we had a claim on you, you know, and that England could get along without you better than Bados. I hope you don't mind, sir, but I have ventured to accept nine or ten dinner invitations for you—two of them at Government House. People wouldn't take 'No' for an answer. And you have been put up at both the clubs, sir, and at the garrison mess."

"But—but I am accustomed to live very quietly," protested Mr. Dick.

"A man of your position can't live quietly in Bados, sir," returned Mr. Tomilson gaily.

Then the two port officials approached and were introduced. They were very cordial, and the doctor, who was young, was slightly deferential.

"Here comes Darley," said Tomilson, pointing at another boat which was approaching the ship at a furious pace.

"Who is Darley?" inquired Mr. Dick.

"He is the Governor's A.D.C."

"What brings him to the ship? And why is he in such a hurry?"

"Darley is always in a hurry, and Sir Henry has sent him to welcome you to the island."

It was two o'clock in the morning when Mr. Dick retired to bed in his big, cool room in the Marine Hotel. He was tired, having suffered a variety of entertainments since landing from the ship. His reception had been almost official—almost royal, in fact. And yet all these people, with the possible exception of the Governor and the English officers, knew the origin of his grandfather and his fortune. He lay awake for an hour, considering the matter. It was to his wealth, of course, that the astonishing welcome had been given. Doubtless the leading islanders felt that he might be tempted to reside permanently on one of his estates, and so give to Bados some benefit of his wealth. Even if this thought were at the back of their actions, yet he had been amazingly well treated, and received by one and all without a shade of reservation, and this in a little island where white and black, master and man, had lived out their mingled but distinct existences and built up their unbreakable traditions for centuries. There had been no innuendo, even in the glance of an eye or the tone of a voice, and there had been no ghost of a hint of patronage or condescension. He had been treated by the landed proprietors and permanent Government officials as one of themselves, of whom they were proud, and by the Governor and the officers of the garrison as an important Englishman whom it was a pleasure as well as a duty to honour. Sir Henry Morgan had heard of his University career, and knew a number of his mother's family.

"Your father was a scholar, too, I have heard, but your mother's people were all soldiers," Sir Henry had said. "Colonel Bertram Ash ton, an uncle of yours, was my commanding officer for a number of years."

Musing pleasantly on the incidents of his reception to the home of his humble fathers, Mr. Dick at last closed his eyes, convinced that his fears had been idle fancies, and that he had stood the test gloriously. He was an Anglo-Saxon and a scholar. The thin strain of slave's blood in his veins had been absorbed and obliterated by the strong tide of dominant English blood, by his own and his father's scholarship, and by two generations of the highest civilisation in Europe.

A week later Mr. Dick devoted a day to visiting his three plantations, accompanied by Mr. Tomilson and two subalterns from the garrison, and escorted over each estate by the anxious and deferential manager thereof. He was greatly pleased with all that he saw. For the first time in his life his wealth meant more to him than mere comfort and freedom from care. Pride of possession and love of land awoke in his heart, even as it had once awakened in the heart of his grandfather. On this first tour of inspection he failed to notice John Gort.

This was a fairly warm time of year in Bados, but it did not distress Mr. Dick unduly. He put off his departure from week to week, and finally decided to remain throughout the autumn and following winter. So he cabled for about half a ton of his books to be shipped out to him. Having laid the spectre that had haunted him in London, he felt mentally and physically refreshed. He now found life to be a normal thing, and learned that it held other interests and pleasures besides those of printed pages. In fact, he came out of his shell—ceased to be a recluse. He began to live a gay but sane life, imported two or three good saddle-horses from one of the other islands, and entertained generously.

Mr. Tomilson, who was now Mr. Dick's very close friend, arrived at the hotel early one morning and went straight up to the other's room.

"Why don't you live in the house on 'Victory'?" he asked. "It is a fine house, with good stables, and just a convenient distance from town. You would be as comfortable there as here, and could entertain without half the trouble."

"But what about Hansard and his family? Is there any other house on the place fit for them to live in?" returned Mr. Dick.

"Pack them all off to England for a holiday," suggested the agent. "They need it. Hansard has been managing that place for ten years, without a day off. Six months' rest would do him good."

"I should like that. I wonder if I know enough about canes to run the place myself while Hansard is away?"

"You could do it easily, with a little help from young Biglow, the bookkeeper. You like the land and the life, don't you?"

"Like them? I love them!"

"Good! I have a bet on at the club, you know, that you'll settle down in Bados for the rest of your life, and marry one of our own girls."

Mr. Dick laughed pleasantly at this, and enjoyed a fleeting but inspiring mental vision of Miss Dorothy Carter as he had seen her, the evening before, at dinner in her father's house at Mount Gay.

So it came about that Mr. Hansard and his family sailed for England to enjoy a well-earned holiday, and Mr. Dick, the proprietor, took up his abode in the big, sprawling, time-stained mansion on "Victory." Mr. Dick opened his term of occupation with a house-warming, the equal of which had not been known in the island for fifty years. It began with a garden-party, went on to a dinner, and ended with a dance that kept the old house a-twinkle and a-tingle until hours past midnight. The Governor and his family, the bishop, the officers from the garrison and their wives, planters, civil officials, and leading merchants—the power, beauty, blood, and substance of the island—all were there.

Mr. Dick was up, dressed, and in the saddle in the cool of the following morning. He walked his horse around to the yards and stables on a tour of inspection. The cattle had already been driven away to their narrow grazing lands between the unfenced fields of cane, and the plough mules, with their drivers, were already afield. As Mr. Dick brought his horse to a stand and gazed around at the sheds, stables, and open pens with a glow of the pride of possession at his heart, John Gort issued into the cool sunlight from the gloom of a storehouse, with a piece of harness over his arm. One of the teams had broken a trace, and the overseer had himself returned for another, so as to save time. The rich and scholarly proprietor and the poor and ignorant overseer became aware of one another's presence at one and the same moment. John Gort halted for a second, touched a finger to the brim of his shabby hat, then shuffled awkwardly on his way. Mr. Dick chirruped to his horse and moved along beside the overseer.

"Good morning," he said.

"Good morning, your honour," returned Gort shyly.

"You are one of the overseers, I think."

"Yes, sir. My name is John Gort."

"Of course. Mr. Biglow has spoken of you. I am glad to hear, Gort, that you have worked faithfully on this estate for fifteen years."

Gort put a finger to the brim of his tattered hat again in a humble salute, and glanced up at the great man for whom he had kept mules and men unshirkingly at work for the past fifteen years. The great man looked down at him. For a second the mild blue eyes met and held the scrutiny of the grey eyes, then the blue eyes turned aside, and the grey lowered humbly. In silence Mr. Dick aroused his horse to a trot and turned off to the left, and John Gort continued on his shuffling way to the team of four mules idly awaiting the arrival of the new trace. Gort was pleased with the encounter. He had been spoken to about his work like a man. He had noticed nothing unusual in the brief exchange of glances. But Mr. Dick, on the other hand, rode past the windmills and the boiling-house and along a narrow lane between the fields where the hands were toiling, without a turn of the head to right or left. His brow was slightly puckered, and he breathed quickly. Presently he slowed his horse to a walk, then to a halt.

"Now, what is the meaning of that?" he murmured anxiously. "Something about that poor fellow's face—his eyes, perhaps—gave me a most unpleasant turn. I wonder if I have not been taking enough rest lately? That is the trouble, no doubt. Perhaps I need a dose of quinine."

He lit a cigarette, turned his horse, and went about his work. He returned to the house shortly before ten o'clock, took a shower bath and a small dose of quinine, and then ate a planter's substantial breakfast. After the meal he slept for a couple of hours in a deck-chair on the wide verandah.

In the cool of the evening, after a couple of visitors from town had drunk their tea and ridden away, Mr. Dick and young Biglow sat and smoked. Biglow was one of five sons of the owner of a small and impoverished plantation. He was more or less distantly connected with almost every long-established family in the island—with the Todds, Carters, Alleynes, Despards, and Boxhills, to name only a few.

"I believe Gort is the only white overseer we have on the three estates," remarked Mr. Dick.

"Yes, sir, the only one," replied Biglow.

"Why is that?"

"Well, sir, there are not more than a dozen of them in the whole island. You see, it is a black man's job, or a 'red-leg's,' and very few 'red-legs' have energy enough to make good overseers. They are a lazy, unambitious lot, sir. Gort is a good man at his job—better than the average black overseer, perhaps—but he is exceptional."

"So Gort is ambitious?"

"Not what we understand by the term, sir. He has more energy than the average 'red-leg,' and almost as much as the average negro, and he attends faithfully to his work. I should hardly call him ambitious, sir."

"And about these unfortunate 'red-legs'—how have they come to fall so low?"

"Through poverty, sir, and the climate, and the conditions that formerly existed in the island. Once a family lost its money, in the old days, down it went. Now conditions are better. A white man can keep books and his self-respect at one and the same time; and, with half an education, one can always go to the States or Canada, and find white man's work. But, speaking of the fellow Gort, sir, are you interested in history?"

"Yes."

"Well, sir, John Gort's ancestors were at one time regular nobs in this island. That was hundreds of years ago. They began to go downhill in Oliver Cromwell's time, from what I can learn. One of my ancestors was so proud of being connected with the family that he named his son after it—gave him Gort for a Christian name. That was just before the first downward slide."

"It is certainly tragic," said Mr. Dick.

"Yes, sir," returned young Biglow. "I often tremble when I think that the same thing might have happened to any of us. The Scarletts were once planters, but they are all 'red-legs' now. A branch of the Todd family went down about seventy years ago. We Biglows have been on the verge a dozen times, always through poverty. Once down is always down in that game."

"Does Gort know anything of the early position of his people?"

"He knows, sir, in a vague sort of way. He is not interested in his ancestors, and is perfectly contented with his lot."

Mr. Dick rode in to the garrison after dinner, and played several rubbers of bridge; but when he went to bed, tired though he was, he lay awake for hours.

During the following week Mr. Dick managed to exchange a few words with Gort, and met the regard of those strange grey eyes several times. Each time, at the glance of the overseer's eyes, he felt again that sinking, fluttering sensation in his breast; but, with a sharp effort of will, he always managed to maintain control of his facial expression. The exchange of glances never lasted more than a moment. The overseer's eyes, always dull and humble on these occasions, seemed ever eager to shift or lower. And yet they gripped Mr. Dick with an emotion like fear. It was from one of the house-servants that Mr. Dick first learned of the unpleasant effect of John Gort's eyes on all the coloured folks, and of how those same eyes distressed a white man no more than the regard of a calf. He listened with but a scanty show of interest; but later he retired to his room and spent a miserable hour at the old self-analysis that had poisoned his days in London.

It was on the following Sunday that Mr. Dick met Gort alone in the mahogany grove which hid the overseers' quarters from the big house. The proprietor was strolling up and down in the shade, waiting for his horse to be brought around from the stables. Feeling an uncomfortable sensation, as of a chill at the base of his skull, he halted and turned suddenly; and there, gazing steadily at him, with a faint though derisive leer in his grey eyes, stood John Gort. A blind flame of terror sprang up and seemed to scorch the very depths of the planter's being. He felt as if he must stagger and cry out, and at that moment, as if suddenly realising that he was staring at his master, Gort lowered his glance and humbly touched his hat. Mr. Dick regained the mastery of himself with a sharp effort, and, after a brief silence, said: "You startled me, Gort. You move as quietly as a snake."

"I ask your honour's pardon," returned Gort nervously. "I—I didn't know you was here, sir."

"Don't mention it," said the other.

Gort touched his hat again and shuffled humbly away. The truth is, he had not meant to stare at Mr. Dick, and had quite failed to note the momentary light of terror in the great man's eyes. The leer had been unconscious.

Mr. Dick rode into town and spent the day and the evening with a heavy heart among his gay friends. Returning home, he paced his room until dawn, then threw himself on his bed and slept for very weariness. The old doubts and fears were at work again in his heart and head.

Throughout the week it seemed to poor John Gort that Mr. Dick was keeping a close but quiet watch upon him, which distressed him greatly. Could it be that the great man was not satisfied with him? Gort sighed, and continued to do his humble tasks as well as he could, trembling with apprehension concerning his job, yet afraid to ask a question. He noticed that Mr. Dick was losing the glow from his cheeks and the clear light from his blue eyes. Mr. Biglow, Mr. Tomilson, and many other gentlemen also noticed this, and the planter was given a few doses of quinine and cautioned to go easy for a while.

Fever was at work in Mr. Dick's blood, and a worse thing was gnawing at his mind. One morning he awoke with a dull headache, and found the world all grey and green and steaming under the multitudinous spatterings of a tropic downpour. He felt cold and depressed. He kept to his own private rooms all day, and about noon fortified himself with quinine and several stiff glasses of brandy. The fever strengthened and rose in him, feeding the other sickness, which was of the mind and spirit. Sitting beside an unlighted window at the back of the house, just before the quick fall of darkness, he heard young Biglow giving directions to Gort to ride to town on some errand.

The rain still battered down. He saw Gort ride out of the wet yard on a mule, holding the great cotton umbrella over his head. The sight of the overseer fired him like the cut of a whip—of a thonged, blood-soaked whip. He went to his bedroom and drank more brandy. The fever was a madness in him now. He looked at his watch, then took a revolver from one of his boxes, and placed a cartridge in each chamber with great care. He laughed quietly and hideously. William Ashton Dick bad never laughed in that way before.

Mr. Dick crouched among the dripping canes at the edge of a flooded road. His garments were soaked and his head uncovered. Rain, lightning, and thunder raged over the island, but he gave no heed to the fury of the elements. He listened intently, stooping close to the sodden ground. At last he heard the splashing thud of approaching hoofs. He moved forward and, in a flash of white fire, he saw John Gort. Then fear, or reason, shattered his mad intention. He thrust the revolver behind his back and uttered a wild cry of distress. Dully he heard another cry—a yell of fright—and the mad galloping of hoofs. He flung the revolver far from him and ambled into the flooded road.

John Gort had thought that the flash of lightning had disclosed a ghost to him until he reached the house and heard that Mr. Dick was missing. Then he told Biglow of what he had seen. Horses and mules were quickly mounted, and half an hour later the fever-stricken proprietor was found still ambling aimlessly along the flooded road. It was Gort who lifted him to the front of his own wet saddle and held him tenderly in his strong, thin arms.

To the wonder and relief of everyone, Mr. Dick's illness was neither serious nor prolonged. Though he lay in a silent stupor throughout the first night, he was on the mend by morning. He had contracted a slight cold, but the fever soon left him. Within two weeks of that terrible night he was on his feet and about again.

Mr. Dick sent for John Gort. The overseer shuffled into the library, hat in hand. The planter motioned to a chair on the other side of the table at which he was pretending to write.

"Sit down," he said.

Gort seated himself uneasily on the edge of the chair. The two were alone, and the door was shut. Gort breathed quickly and kept his eyes on the floor. Was he to be discharged? he wondered. And, if so, why?

Mr. Dick sat very still in his chair. He was cool and collected—his blood cool and his mind clear. He had decided to make a real test of his quality, and to shape his future by the result of the test. John Gort was the only man whom he had ever met who seemed to have the power to lay bare and dominate the dark, weak strain in him. This man's eyes were terrible to all persons of African blood. But did not scholarship and courage and the blood of English soldiers count for more than that thin taint? If not, he would go back to London, his books, and his bitter thoughts; on the other hand, he would live out the life he had learned to love, fearing nothing.

"Are you an honest man?" he asked.

"Yes, your honour," replied Gort nervously.

"Look at me."

Gort glanced up and immediately down again.

"No, look at me steadily for a whole minute. I want to see if you are honest."

Again Gort raised his eyes to Mr. Dick's. They wavered for a second, then steadied. The planter's blue eyes returned the gaze unflinchingly. After ten seconds or so, the eyes of the overseer changed suddenly. A light of cruel derision flashed and burned in them. The man knew that this was so, was fearful of it, and yet could not alter it. For an instant it seemed as if the glance of the other quailed, but only for an instant. All the force of a trained mind and all the valour of the blood of dead heroes surged to the rescue. The mild blue eyes hardened and gleamed. The grey eyes narrowed, and their diabolical light intensified. So the two men sat for a full minute, motionless, scarcely breathing, glaring as if into the depths of one another's souls.

Then suddenly John Gort groaned, lowered his eyes, and covered his face with his red, scrawny hands. What had he done? He had been mad! Now he would lose his job, for a certainty.

Mr. Dick took a deep breath and got up from his chair.

"Thank God!" he murmured. Then: "That is all, Gort. I see that you are honest. Next year I mean to give you the management of one of the estates, and, in the meantime, your wages are to be increased by ten shillings a week."

John Gort staggered from the library, dazed but happy. Mr. Dick continued to stand motionless beside the table for several minutes, his thin, scholarly face aglow, his blue eyes still flashing victoriously.