Читать бесплатно онлайн книгу автора  The Harmsworth Magazine, Vol. 1, No. 3, 1898–1899

Various

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

The
HARMSWORTH
MONTHLY PICTORIAL MAGAZINE
VOLUME I. 1898-9. No. 3

PUBLISHED BY HARMSWORTH BROS. Limited, London, E.C.

CONTENTS

FAMOUS RAILWAY SMASHES.
BEYOND THE SUNSET.
THE BEHAVIOUR OF WARRINGTON, V.C.
TRAINING OUR FIRE BRIGADE HEROES.
HOW THE MINISTER'S NOTES WERE RECOVERED.
LITTLE MAID.
PHOTOGRAPHIC LIES.
GASCOYNE'S TERRIBLE REVENGE.
THE MOST REMARKABLE FORTRESS IN THE WORLD.
MY FAIR NEIGHBOUR'S PIANO, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
AMERICAN WIVES OF ENGLISH HUSBANDS.
THE TRAGEDY OF A THIRD SMOKER.
SOME INCRIMINATING DOCUMENTS.
A TINY SHOE.
IAN'S SACRIFICE.
"PERPETUAL MOTION" SEEKERS.
THE STIR OUTSIDE THE CAFÉ ROYAL.
A VERY QUEER CRICKET MATCH.
POSTAGE STAMPS WORTH FORTUNES.
OUR MONTHLY GALLERY OF BEAUTIFUL AND INTERESTING PAINTINGS.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES.

WHY THE ANTELOPES STAMPEDED!

From the Painting by William Strutt.

By Permission of the Berlin Photographic Co., Bond Street, W

FAMOUS RAILWAY SMASHES

THIS ENGINE WENT OVER THE EMBANKMENT IN THE HEATHFIELD ACCIDENT.

Lankester, Tunbridge Wells, Photo

By Frederick A. Talbot.

Illustrated by Remarkable Photographs.

Sir Fredrick Bramwell once calculated that if a man made up his mind to be killed in a railway accident, he would have to travel night and day in express trains for 900 years in order to fulfil his purpose. But such a happy state of affairs did not always exist.

In 1859, when there were only some 10,000 miles of railway in the United Kingdom, and the number of persons carried was about 175,000,000, it was calculated that one out of every 8,708,411 passengers was killed from causes beyond his own control; while in 1897, when over 21,000 miles of railway were in operation, and considerably over 1,000,000,000 passengers were carried, the average was one in about every 26,500,000.

Indeed, in the sixties railway disasters were of such frequent occurrence that, on December 27th, 1867, Her Majesty wrote to the directors of the various railway companies in London requesting them "to be as careful of other passengers as of herself." Now, owing to the stringent regulations of the Board of Trade, the infallible block system, and interlocking of signals and points, it is impossible for a signalman to err without the grossest culpable negligence. The railway companies, too, have considerably improved their permanent ways, constructed heavier rolling stock, while the contrivances for controlling and maintaining the trains in check are of the most perfect description.

But there is an old adage that "accidents will happen in the best regulated families." The railway is no exception to the rule, and, notwithstanding multitudinous and careful precautions, and the extreme vigilance displayed by officials, the community is startled now and again by the news of some dreadful catastrophe that has overwhelmed the iron steed. Fortunately, accidents are few and far between, while the number of passengers killed is infinitesimal—the total last year was only thirty-four.

It is a fortunate circumstance that in these days of lightning travelling a train very seldom comes to grief through travelling too rapidly. Yet such a disaster occurred between Heathfield and Mayfield on the Eastbourne section of the London, Brighton, and South Coast Railway last year. For the length of about twenty miles this railway is a single line, and meanders along through the valleys among the hills, so as to avoid tunnelling, in the most zigzag manner. Between Heathfield and Mayfield, a distance of about four miles, there are a series of steep rising and falling gradients, many of one in fifty, and sharp S curves.

It was while travelling round one of these curves of nearly a third of a mile radius at a speed of from twenty-five to thirty miles an hour, that a train was derailed and the greater portion of it precipitated down an embankment sixty feet high. The engine fortunately fell over and remained by the side of the permanent way. Our tail-piece conveys a very good idea of the sharp curve, and also of the gradient. Although many of the carriages were smashed, only the driver was killed, and possibly, had he stuck to his engine, his life might have been spared.

Some of the passengers, as is generally the case in railway disasters, had marvellous escapes. One gentleman, who was sitting reading, suddenly felt the carriage give a lurch and then roll over and over down the embankment, while he was tossed violently about, till it crashed into another, when the superstructure was torn from its foundations. Considering the gravity of the accident it was a wonder that there was not a heavier death roll. As it was, it cost the company £13,000 for compensation to the injured.

The most shocking disaster that has ever happened upon any railway in the United Kingdom, excelling even the famous Tay Bridge disaster, when 74 passengers were killed by the bridge having collapsed, occurred on the North of Ireland Railway on June 12th, 1889, at Killooney. It is known as the Armagh accident.

A SMASH WHICH COST £13,000 FOR COMPENSATION.

Lankester, Tunbridge Wells, Photo

A holiday excursion had been arranged by the teachers connected with a Sunday-school in Armagh. The place selected was Warrenpoint, on Carlingford Bay. The number of excursionists was about 1,200, mostly children of both sexes, with a few parents. The first train, consisting of 13 carriages and a brake-van, drawn by one engine, set off at 10 o'clock with 940 passengers. The officials at the station had been rather sceptical of the adequacy of one engine to draw the train, especially as there is a steep incline of 1 in 75, running along an embankment 60 feet high, at Killooney, two miles from Armagh. The driver, however, expressed absolute confidence in the capability of his engine.

Shortly after the excursion had left Armagh, an ordinary passenger train followed it from the same station at its scheduled time; but, owing to the excursion being heavily laden and unable to proceed very rapidly, the ordinary gained upon it, and was pulled up at Annaclare Bridge, at the foot of the incline. Meanwhile the first train was proceeding up the incline with great difficulty, and when halfway up came to a dead stoppage, the load proving too heavy for the engine.

The traffic master of the line, who was travelling with the train, knowing that the ordinary must be but a short distance behind, rendering shunting back to Armagh for additional locomotive power impossible, ordered the train to be divided, in spite of the objection and remonstrances of the guard and some of the passengers. As a precaution, he ordered stones to be placed under the wheels of the last carriage of the detached section to prevent its running away. The first part of the train, in starting, set back a trifle—not much, but sufficient to give the second half, consisting of seven carriages, crammed with its full complement of passengers, a start. The brakes were immediately applied, but were absolutely ineffectual, and the train, gathering momentum every minute, ran backwards towards Annaclare Bridge. Who shall describe the feelings of the unfortunate passengers, many of whom knew they were rushing to inevitable destruction, and yet were unable to do anything to prevent it or to save themselves?

THE ARMAGH ACCIDENT IN WHICH 80 PERSONS WERE KILLED AND 400 INJURED.

Hunter & Co., Armagh, Photo

After running a mile and a half, it dashed into the stationary train with a frightful crash. The force of the impact was terrific, and, although no one in the ordinary train was seriously hurt, the engine was overturned, crushing four children beneath it. All the carriages in the excursion train were wrecked. Some were smashed to atoms, scarcely one timber being left joined to another; many were telescoped, and formed a fearful pile, which in turn was mounted by one carriage almost intact.

The scene that followed baffles description. There being few men among the unfortunate party, and some of the officers accompanying the train having been seriously injured, a terrible panic ensued. The agonising cries of the wounded, and the frantic shrieks and exhortations for help from the imprisoned children, were sufficient to make the boldest shudder. But the teachers soon regained their presence of mind, and, help having arrived from Armagh, the work of rescue was begun.

It was fraught with great difficulty, and attended with grave danger, as the huge pieces of timber were poised in the most dangerous positions, threatening to fall every minute, and bury both rescuers and rescued beneath them.

Some fragments of the carriages and a few of the bodies had been thrown promiscuously down the embankment by the force of the collision, but the bulk of the wreck and the greater part of the unfortunate victims were to be found within a limited area. Eighty persons were killed, nearly all children, and about 400 were injured. The work of extrication was horrible, many of the passengers being so crushed and battered as to be absolutely unrecognisable, but they were eventually laid out on the bank with care.

Great honour is due to the heroic conduct and intrepidity displayed by a soldier—Private Cox, of the Royal Irish Fusiliers—who was in the runaway train. When he realised that no human power could avert the appalling disaster, he stepped out on to the foot-board, and, with death staring him in the face, withdrew the frightened children from the compartments as rapidly as he could, and dropped them on to the bank, where they were afterwards discovered almost unhurt. Nor did he desist until the trains had almost met, when he sprang off just in the nick of time to save his own life, and worked arduously in the extrication of the dead and injured. This was truly a splendid exhibition of courage.

A TERRIBLE EMBRACE—THE SMASH UP OF THE CAPE MAIL EXPRESS.

Petherick, Taunton, Photo

Norton Fitzwarren, a short distance from Taunton on the Great Western Railway, was the scene of a calamitous catastrophe on November 11th, 1890, when the Cape Mail from Plymouth dashed into a stationary goods train while hurtling along at 50 miles an hour. The 6.45 goods train from Bristol had been shunted on to the up line at Norton Fitzwarren to let the 9.55 express goods train from Bristol pass by. It was about 2 o'clock in the morning, and while the slow goods was thus waiting on the up line, the signalman received warning of the approach of the special express train carrying passengers from the Cape liner Norham Castle, which had arrived at Plymouth the evening before, to London, and, forgetting all about the goods train, signalled "all clear." The result was a frightful collision.

CARRIAGE WRECKED AT NORTON FITZWARREN, SHOWING INTERIOR AND LUGGAGE ON THE RACK.

Petherick, Taunton, Photo

Both engines were locked firmly together and completely wrecked; all the exterior fittings, including the funnel on the boiler of the express, were demolished and carried away, while the boiler itself was torn open. The broken carriages, trucks, and other débris made an awful pile about 30 feet in height. Neither the fireman nor driver of the mail were killed, though they were terribly injured, owing to the fact that the engine had a heavy coal tender, which telescoped into the carriages immediately behind it, that bore the brunt of the crash from the rear. The driver of this train certainly was not born to be killed in a railway smash, having been in two serious accidents anterior to the Norton disaster, narrowly escaping with his life each time. A party of miners returning from the South African mines to the North of England were travelling in the first carriage, and were nearly all killed on the spot. So were also a party of card players in the same coach, with the exception of one young fellow who, having suffered great losses, had the good sense to give up playing and to leave the compartment at Exeter for another one in the rear of the train, and thus he probably saved his life. In one compartment the occupants, including women and children, had a most marvellous escape, the glass in the windows not even being broken, while that in every other compartment was shivered to fragments.

Another frightful accident, due to the negligence of the signalman, happened at Manor House Cabin, near Thirsk, on the North-Eastern Railway, in a dense fog, on the night of November 2nd, 1892, by which ten persons lost their lives. A goods train was standing in the station on the main line. The signalman, being fatigued, dropped asleep at his post. Presently he was awakened rather sharply by the ominous rumbling of the Scotch express, which had left Edinburgh for London at 10.30, and was now travelling at full speed. The signalman jumped to his feet, and, forgetting all about the stationary goods train waiting in the station on the same set of metals, signalled the approaching train.

THE DÉBRIS OF THE THIRSK DISASTER ON FIRE.

Clarke, Thirsk, Photo

On came the express through the dense fog, and crashed into the goods train with such force that the engines and all the carriages, with the exception of a Pullman sleeping-car, were thrown off the line. The carriages were all piled up, and the horrors of the catastrophe were accentuated by the broken and splintered wreckage catching fire. In our illustration the engine may be descried on the right, but a skeleton of its former majestic self, surrounded by a heterogeneous mass of broken wheels, iron joists, twisted and fashioned into the most fantastic shapes by the joint agencies of the collision and fire.

THE PULLMAN CAR AND ENGINE AFTER THE THIRSK COLLISION.

Clarke, Thirsk, Photo

The Pullman car, or rather the charred remains of it, presents a most bizarre though painful object, being quite destitute of those many sumptuous embellishments which characterised it but a few hours previously. The Marquesses of Tweeddale and Huntly were travelling in this car, but they fortunately escaped without injury.

Some commiseration should be extended to the signalman, however, as he had been up at home since six o'clock that morning, his youngest child having died the day before. When he went on duty at eight o'clock in the evening he begged the stationmaster to excuse him under the painful circumstances, but no substitute could be found, and he resumed his duties in the ordinary course of things, with the result that Nature, who would not be denied, caused the signalman to sleep. The railway company were severely censured in the subsequent inquiry for the long hours of duty inflicted upon signalmen.

January 3rd of this year recorded another deplorable disaster on the Scottish extension of the Great Northern Railway, the North British Railway, in which the East Coast express, which left King's Cross the previous night, came to grief outside Dunbar station, not far from Edinburgh. The night was foggy, and owing to this and other violent inclemencies of the weather it arrived at the border town of Berwick twenty-five minutes late. At Dunbar station a mineral train was being shunted across the main line into a siding to allow this express to pass by, when one of the waggons became derailed. It was into this that the express dashed, completely knocking the obstacle into a thousand pieces, but the force of the collision caused the first of the two engines to leave the metals and plough through the sleepers and permanent way for about thirty yards, when it fell over on to its side, leaving the tender upright.

THE SCOTCH EXPRESS WHICH DASHED INTO A MINERAL TRAIN.

W. Crooke, Edinburgh, Photo

The second engine, although it did not share the fate of its leader, was greatly damaged. The carriage next to the engine was telescoped by the heavier corridor coaches behind. By the force of the impact many of the waggons fell upon a corridor coach, staving in the side and smashing the framework and glass of the windows to atoms. In this carriage the intercommunicating corridor extended longitudinally down one side of the car, and fortunately it was this side that bore the brunt of the violence of the collision.

Had it been otherwise the death roll would have been increased terribly. As it was, one lady was killed. Curiously enough this unfortunate lady, who was travelling with her sister, had only just changed her seat with the latter. Had she retained her seat her sister, in all probability, would have been killed instead.

A runaway goods-waggon was the cause of another very extraordinary accident on the London and North-Western Railway at Chelford, near Crewe, on Dec. 22nd four years ago, by which the Manchester mail was completely wrecked. A violent gale was raging at the time, and a waggon standing in a siding at Chelford station was blown on to the main line, along which the mail was signalled to pass. The express, dashing along at the rate of a mile a minute, struck the waggon with tremendous force, literally jumping over it and then falling over.

The engine-driver had a most Providential escape, being hurled off his engine over a hedge into a ploughed field, with no more serious injuries than a few bruises. The truck was tossed on one side into the air and struck the pillars of the station, ripping a portion out of the side of a heavy coach during its aerial flight. It then rebounded into a carriage in the centre of the train with direful effect. One coach, as will be seen in the illustration, was utterly smashed, the flooring, wheels, and interior being swept entirely away, while the sides were torn out. All the remaining carriages in its rear were completely wrecked.

THE CHELFORD ACCIDENT, CAUSED BY A SINGLE WAGGON.

Leech, Macclesfield, Photo

Some were overturned on their sides, and one was so turned over as to stand on end, while an eye-witness stated "that some of the carriages were broken through by the carriage behind causing both sides of the interior compartments to meet and demolish the fittings." All together fourteen persons were killed and about forty or fifty injured, one lady having both her legs cut off.

Abbots Ripton, near Huntingdon, on the Great Northern Railway, was the scene of a terrible collision—or, rather, two collisions—on January 21st, 1876. A coal train of 33 waggons and a brake-van left Peterborough for London at 6 p.m. It was 18 minutes late in starting. The weather was extremely boisterous and stormy, while the snow fell in large flakes thickly and fast, seriously obscuring the outlook of the driver and guard of the train. The latter had seen the signals at Holme Station, and at the blocks at Conington and Wood Walton, which showed "all clear."

BULLHOUSE BRIDGE DERAILMENT—CAUSED BY THE BREAKING OF AN AXLE.

Bamforth, Holmfirth, Photo

At Abbots Ripton the train slackened speed, as it was signalled to cross into a siding to permit the Scotch express, which was due from Edinburgh for London, to go by. The greater part of the goods train had passed safely into the siding when the Scotch express dashed into it at full speed with most disastrous results. By the force of the collision the engine of the Scotch express jumped across the down line on to the bank, where it fell on to its broadside, dragging with it the tender and three or four succeeding carriages. Hunt, the guard of the coal train, displayed great presence of mind. He asked the signalman if he had blocked the down line, but the latter was so agitated by the disaster—which had happened within a few yards of his box—that he inadvertently declared he had.

THE SMASH AT NEW CROSS, IN WHICH THREE PEOPLE WERE KILLED.

Thiele, Photo

Hunt, feeling satisfied thereupon, left the box and rejoined his train, but, as a further precaution, thrust some fog signals into his pocket, which he placed on the rails of the down line. In less than ten minutes after the collision the driver and guard of the coal train set off to Huntingdon for assistance. They had not proceeded more than 800 yards when the Leeds down express, which had started from London at 6 p.m., was discerned dashing at top speed through the blinding storm. The driver of the coal train furiously sounded his whistle, while the guard waved his red lamp frantically to arrest the express. But it was too late, and it plunged into, and literally cut its way through, the wreck of the Scotch train.

The scene was a terrible one. The howling storm, the heartrending shrieks of the injured, the shouts of the rescuers and cries for help, the lurid glare of the burning wreckage, produced a scene never to be forgotten by those who witnessed it. All together fourteen persons were killed.

THE SCENE OF THE HEATHFIELD DISASTER.

Lancaster, Tunbridge Wells, Photo

The South-Eastern Railway has long enjoyed a remarkable immunity from railway smashes, but this record was sadly marred a few months ago, when three persons were killed in a stationary train while standing outside St. John's station, near New Cross, by the Hastings express, through the inadvertence of the signalman, crashing into it from behind. Fortunately, owing to the dense fog prevalent, the express was only travelling at about eight miles an hour; but even then the concussion was sufficiently violent to telescope the guard's van into the carriage immediately preceding it, smashing it to pieces as if it were constructed of cardboard. It is wonderful that more lives were not lost.

BEYOND the SUNSET.

I remember yet a window Looking out across the sea, Where I used to sit in childhood, In the days that used to be; And the crimson glow of sunset Fell along the dark'ning bay, As I watched the great ships sailing Far away at close of day.

Then my heart would fill with wonder As they passed across the foam. To what countries were they sailing— Would they ever more come home? Were there hearts on board them aching, For the loved ones left on shore? Then the golden sunset hid them, And I saw the ships no more!

I remember, too, a window, Looking out across a lawn, Where I oft at break of morning Watched the first red gleam of dawn; And I saw those great ships sailing, All the pain and peril o'er, Through the golden gates of morning, Into harbour, safe once more!

And it seems, now I no longer Am the child I used to be, Like the lives of men and women Were those ships upon the sea. For the golden years have taught me, As with joy and care they pass'd, There is Dawn beyond the sunset, And a Harbour fair, at last!

Clifton Bingham.

THE BEHAVIOUR OF WARRINGTON, V.C.:
(1) ON THE FIELD, AND (2) AT HOME.

By Percy E. Reinganum.

Illustrated by W. B. Wollen, R.I.

(1) On the Field.

A pitch-black night in a rocky valley of Afghanistan: a few stars in the heavy, black, moonless sky only intensifying the almost palpable darkness. A mile or two southwards, where the rocky valley swelled into rocky heights, little flashes of light recurring at intervals, followed by sharp little cracks, showed where the late skirmish and retreat was fighting itself out round about the camp.

Where one of the innumerable broken ridges that seamed the valley made a darker wall across the darkness, two figures were dimly discernible (when you knew where to look for them), the one semi-recumbent, propped against a boulder, the other tall and straight beside him.

"Clear out, Warrington—please go, sir," the voice came faintly from the recumbent figure. "You can get back to camp and send 'em out for me."

"Not likely, young 'un," observed the other. "What says the great R.K.:

"'When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan plains, And the women come out—to cut up what remains— Just——'"

"HE EMPTIED HIS REVOLVER INTO THE SILENCE OF THE NIGHT."

"Don't!" said the wounded man, and almost succeeded in stopping a groan between his clenched teeth.

"Poor old Vicary," said Warrington, bending over him. "Let me undo your belt.... Now grab yourself with both hands."

"Fellows in books," said the weak voice, drowsily, "never get hit in the tummy.... Always—head in a bandage—or—arm in sling.... Those Johnnies that write books—ought to come out with us."

There was silence for a time: the far-off flashes grew more rare. The wounded man shifted himself a little and spoke again.

"You're a brick, Warrington!" he said.

"Slightly different from Piccadilly and the Strand this, eh, Vic?"

"I wish the mater could see us now," said Vicary; "she's going to bye-bye just about now. She'd stick you pretty high up in her prayers if she knew."

"The next time you start talking nonsense," said Warrington, "I shall consider you delirious and past hope; and I shall turn tail and make tracks for camp."

A long silence.

"It's getting beastly cold," said Vicary, with a shiver; "I shall never pull through to-night."

"A HOWLING HILLMAN STUMBLED OVER VICARY'S LEGS."

"Cheer up, lad," said Warrington, and pulled at his moustache and glared at the darkness; "only a few hours till daybreak.... Pity you're six foot four in your boots and solid in proportion. I'm not equal to two miles with you on my back, my dainty midget."

"Can't see how you got me this far.... Why don't you sheer off now and get back, and——Oh, God! No! Warrington!... You're not going?"

"Another word like that, my son, and I leave you for Mr. and Mrs. Pathan and all the little Pathans to play with."

"All right—all right, I won't.... Let me hold your boot—I can hardly see you. Oh, Warry, what a funk I am; all the bit o' pluck I had's run out of the leak in my tunic—and I am beastly cold."

Warrington knelt beside him and cursed beneath his breath, and felt his head and hands. The former was very cold and damp, the latter were very wet and warm.

"I must let them know they're wanted, Vic!" he muttered.

The latter did not hear him.

"It'll be in to-morrow's despatches," he murmured. "'Missing: Lieutenant Beverley Warrington and Second Lieutenant Vicary of the ——' What's up, Warry?"

His companion had touched his forehead lightly with his lips, had risen to his feet, and, with his arm raised above his head, had emptied his revolver into the silence of the night.

"They'll know there's a British officer where that revolver is," he said, cheerily.

"But—but, you fool—you dear old silly fool—so will those brown devils!"

"Can't help that!" said Warrington, with a little laugh, "it's too chilly to stop out late to-night." Then in a lower tone, "For the sake of auld lang syne, Vic, my boy."

He reloaded his revolver. When the echoes had rattled away into deeper silence they heard the distant shots suddenly recommence, and distant shouts and howls came to them like whispers. From the invisible hills facing them came dim and confused scuffling and scraping sounds as of cats scrambling down rocks. A moving white blur appeared somewhere in the thick darkness, then another, and another; and a suggestion of low-toned guttural conversation reached Warrington's straining ears. He shifted his revolver to his left hand and gently drew his sword. Then from over there where he knew the camp lay came six revolver shots in quick succession.

"That's Welby!" he said to himself.

Vicary's hand had been grasping the heel of his foot tightly. Now he felt the grip relax; and in a moment more the wounded subaltern slipped a little with a slight tinkle of steel on rock, and groaned.

In another moment a dozen howling hillmen were blazing away at random towards the spot whence the groan seemed to have come. They aimed low and erratically, and Warrington held his fire for a few interminable seconds.

Then they closed in, and one stumbled over Vicary's outstretched legs before they could realise that two British officers were within a yard of them. Warrington felt the man grab at him as he fell, and fired with the barrel of his revolver touching bare skin. After that he fired and slashed very much at random, and the darkness around him shrieked and howled and spat fire, and long graceful knives suggested themselves to the imagination of the man who had seen them at work before.... For ten long minutes Warrington was busy—wondering all the time what Vicary was doing down there between his legs, and how he liked it, and which of them would die first.

Then suddenly in a lull he heard faintly a sound that sent the blood to his head with a rush—the scraping of many boots over rocks some hundreds of yards away, and the dim echo of a word of command. He shouted, and fired his last cartridge above his head that they might see the flash, and flung the empty weapon at a white eyeball that was too near to be pleasant, and cut and pointed and slashed away with renewed vigour. Down the valley and over the rocks came a hoarse, breathless cheer, and pith helmets gleamed faintly in the near distance. He answered the cheer with a croak, and went on carving and hacking as though his foes still confronted him. But they did not wait to meet his friends. They left. All but five, to whom even British troops were a matter of indifference now, as they stayed behind, huddled into a grim semicircle round Lieut. Warrington and Second Lieut. Vicary. When his men came up to him they found him with Vicary in his arms leaning against the wall of rock, "looking," as Private Billimore said, "as though 'e'd 'ad a nasty messy accident with the red paint."

Vicary opened his eyes as he entered the camp feet foremost.

"Warrington, V.C.," he said, and tried to cheer. But the others did it for him.

(2) At Home.

An afternoon in early November: a cosy room, bright fire, big armchairs, piano, pipes, photographs, and decanters: a male figure extended to enormous length in one armchair, with feet stretched out on the hearthrug: another male figure with back turned towards the room, gazing out of window at the unceasing rain. Thick clouds of tobacco smoke, and silence.

"Of all the brutal, filthy, miserably depressing days!" said the man at the window, suddenly.

"'I'M IN AN AWFUL FUNK,' SAID WARRINGTON."

"Weather seems to worry you, old man," said the gentleman by the fire, settling down a little deeper into the depths of his armchair. "Third time in twenty minutes you've got up to look at it—and talk about it."

"Sorry, Vic," said the other, and, turning, he came slowly towards the fire. "I must be lively company to-day; but this weather seems to upset one altogether."

"Not me," said Vicary, blowing a cloud. "I'm pretty comfy, thanks. I prefer rain in St. James' to starlight in Chukundra."

The other did not answer, but stood nervously opening and shutting his hands over the cheerful blaze.

"By George!" said Vicary, meditatively, "it seems almost like a dream now—all but the souvenirs we carry—eh, Warry?"

Warrington's hand went up to the livid band that ran across forehead, nose, and cheek, and almost bisected his strong face.

"One comfort," Vicary went on, "mine don't show. Not but what that has its drawbacks," he added, with a chuckle; "no one seems to believe they touched me—think I got my sick-leave on the bounce. And I can't continually strip to prove it."

Still his senior was silent. Vicary edged round a little to look at his face. Then his eyes opened and his voice changed.

"Warrington," he said, "d'you remember that very first dust up we had the second day out from Kir Wallah?"

Warrington nodded.

"That was my first taste of the walk-up-and-down-as-a-target business," said Vicary, solemnly; "and I was in a blue funk. Couldn't help it. Knees all flabby and face all twitchy when those bullets began whispering and pattering."

Warrington laughed nervously.

"I gave you the right sort of a dressing down," he said.

"It pulled me through," said Vicary; then, leaning forward, and still more solemnly, "I say, what did I look like?—all drawn up and ghastly?"

"A bit," admitted Warrington.

"Look in the glass now," said Vicary, in an awestruck voice, for Warrington was senior officer and brother and Ajax and Wellington and Lord Roberts all rolled into one, in the subaltern's estimation.

Warrington started, and looked not at the glass, but at Vicary.

"You're right, young 'un," he said in a moment, and dropped into the other armchair. "I'm in an awful funk at this very moment."

"'I SHOULD ADVISE YOU TO HAVE IT OUT WITH HER.'"

"Oh!" breathed Vicary, and allowed the amazing fact to sink into his consciousness.

"Fact," said Warrington, and dragged at his moustache and gnawed the end.

"In heaven's name," said Ensign Vicary, "what are you frightened of?"

"Of one little girl I could pick up and carry under one arm," said Lieutenant Warrington, V. C.

Vicary drew a long breath.

"You gave me quite a turn," he said.

"It's serious, boy," said the other man, bending his long, gaunt body forward, his grey eyes all alight. "I haven't the pluck to face her."

"Name?" said Vicary, judicially.

"Rivers," said Warrington, with reverence; "Catherine Rivers."

"Pretty Kitty Rivers!" cried Vicary. "Old man, I congratulate you."

"Don't be a fool!" said Warrington, angrily, and walked to the window.

"On your good taste, of course," said Vicary, with a grin. "Is it a bad case?"

"I shall—ask her to be my wife," said Warrington with a rush, "as soon as I dare call—which I haven't done since we've been back—more than a week."

Vicary whistled, rose, and strolled over to the piano.

"Well, I should advise you to go and have it out with her," he said, twisting himself round on the music-stool. "Come back when it's over, and sparkle up a bit."

"Shut up!" growled his senior.

Vicary shrugged his shoulders and struck a few aimless notes. This sort of timidity was strange to him. In matters relating to the opposite sex his senior was a child compared with that good-looking boy at the piano.

Suddenly Vicary grinned, struck a chord, and broke into a music-hall song, accentuating the twang of Cockayne to exaggeration:

"'O-ownly one gurl—in the world fer me; O-ownly one gurl—'as my sympathee; She m'yn't be vairy pritty——'"

"Shakespeare" between the shoulder-blades cut his efforts short. He twisted round, chuckling and rubbing himself.

"'HADN'T WE BETTER—ER—WALK?' SAID WARRINGTON, NERVOUSLY."

"Steady on, old chap! What's up?"

"I came here to-day for your help," said Warrington, and stopped short.

"Warry!" said Vicary, nervously. He had never seen him like this before.

"Vic, I'm longing to see her—to say it! I've been longing for months, and now—I simply daren't call."

"Bulldog—heavy father—comic papers," murmured Vicary, quite uncomprehending.

Warrington glared.

"If you're going to be a drivelling young idiot," he said, icily.

"No—no! Drive ahead," said Vicary.

"It's just her I'm frightened of," said Warrington. "I'd rather go through a week of Chukundras than speak; but I'd go through a lifetime of them with her at the far end."

"But, Warrington," said Vicary, puzzled, "she's not such a Tartar."

"She's the best girl in the world," said Warrington, V.C.; "and the only thing in it I'm afraid to face."

"Why, what would she do?" said Vicary.

"Do?" said Warrington, with both hands at his moustache. "Do? Why, she'll drop her eyelashes, or she'll curl the corners of her mouth, or she'll glance at me over her shoulder with her chin up, and then—and then——"

"And then?" said Vicary, twinkling.

"Then I shall sweat like a coolie, and stand gaping like a stuck pig," said Warrington, savagely; "and my knees will go flabby and my face twitchy, as you elegantly put it. Good-bye."

"Eh?"

"I'm going there now. I mean to go there now."

"Yes," said Vicary; "and directly you're outside you'll stand still for a quarter of a hour, and then cut off home and spend the evening practising profanity in solitude."

Warrington stood in front of his junior, and dared not contradict.

"Unless——" said Vicary, and stopped and grinned.

"Unless?" said Warrington, with painful eagerness.

"Unless," said Vicary, coolly, knocking his pipe out into the grate, "unless I come with you."

Warrington drew a long breath.

"Thanks," he said, shortly, and watched Vicary putting on hat and coat, and pulled his moustache violently.

As they left the room he slipped his hand through Vicary's arm.

"This is my Kir Wallah," he said, gravely.

Vicary laughed round at him.

"There's a whacking big balance on the Chukundra side," he said.

"Needn't say good-bye to the mater," he went on, as they descended the stairs; "you'll come back to dine."

"To be cheered up," said Warrington, with pathos.

Vicary did not deign to reply to such an absurd remark. He hailed a hansom.

"Hadn't we better—er—walk?" said Warrington, nervously.

"You jump in," said Vicary; "don't be frightened. I'm coming to hold your hand."

He gave the address, and they bowled away through the grey wetness. Warrington was trying to see the whole of his person at once in a six-inch strip of looking-glass.

"Now, I ask you, Vic," he said, plaintively, "is it likely she'd have an object like me?"

"Fishing!" said the subaltern. "You're not an Adonis, but a V.C. covers a multitude of sins."

"Pooh! what does a girl care about that?" said Warrington; and Vicary laughed aloud at him. To himself he said, "The girl that gets you will get the bravest, cleanest, best gentleman that wears the Queen's uniform; and the girl that will refuse you doesn't exist."

"Why, we're there," said Warrington, flushing and fidgeting; "how that horse has been going!"

"Three doors down the square," said Vicary to the cabman through the trap.

"Tell him to drive once round first," said Warrington, pulling a glove off and then beginning to put it on again. "I—I've got something to say to you——"

"It'll keep," said Vicary. "Out you get."

"No—I say—half a minute. Vicary! Is my tie straight? I ought to have changed my collar. Hang it—all right, I'm coming. Wait for us, cabby—we shan't be five minutes. Vicary, don't ring. I—I don't think I'll call to-day, after all—it's a bit late, don't you think? You have rung? Dash it! I—I—let me ask." The door was opened. "Is Mr. Rivers in? No? Oh, thank you. It don't matter—I'll call again. Good——"

"'SAY LIEUTENANT BEVERLEY WARRINGTON WISHES TO SEE HER ON MOST IMPORTANT BUSINESS.'"

Vicary caught him as he turned and held him fast.

"Is Miss Rivers in?" he asked.

"Yessir," said the man, who knew him well.

"Say Lieutenant Beverley Warrington wishes to see her for a few moments on most important—come here, you old idiot—on most important business."

Inside the house Warrington mopped his face and rehearsed speeches in a low monotone until the man reappeared.

"Will you walk up, sir, please?"

"Walk up," said Vicary, sternly, and marched him out of the room. "Right half face! Quick march! Go on, you conquering hero, and good luck attend you."

Warrington did not answer, but breathed stertorously and fingered the balustrade.

"Up you go!" said Vicary. "There's no retreat. She's waiting for you."

"I—I wish you could come too," said Warrington in a loud, hoarse whisper.

"HE FLEW UPSTAIRS AS FAST AS HIS WOUND WOULD ALLOW HIM."

Vicary grinned, shaking with internal laughter. Warrington glared at him, groaned, and went slowly upstairs, where the man stood patiently waiting to announce him.

Vicary heard him say breathlessly, "Wait a minute"; but the man preferred not to hear him, and opened the door with a most portentous "Lieutenant Beverley Warrington."

Vicary waited in the library. He smoked one cigarette, and another, and another. He tried to read, but gave it up. He tried to laugh at the scene in which he had just taken part, but gave that up too. After all, he was in no laughing mood where Warrington's happiness was concerned.

And at last, when the hands of the clock showed three-quarters of an hour gone, Warrington's voice from upstairs called hoarsely, "Vicary!"

He paused a moment, breathless. Then another voice, far clearer and sweeter, but with just a faint tremor in it, repeated, "Vicary!"

And then he flew upstairs as fast as his wound would allow him.

Lodge, Photo

PARTRIDGE'S NEST WITH THIRTEEN EGGS.

TRAINING OUR FIRE BRIGADE HEROES.
DESCRIBED AT THE HEADQUARTERS OF THE LONDON BRIGADE.

By Alfred Arkas.

The most fascinating of the multitudinous institutions with which the Mother City of the Empire abounds is unquestionably that which preserves her millions from the risk of fire. In these days, when we have awakened to a sense of appreciation of the Navy, Army, and other national institutions for our protection and well-being, it is to be feared that we do not sufficiently recognise the vast debt we owe to the Metropolitan Fire Brigade and those who rule its destinies.

THE LIFTING DRILL

Attention!

Raising the body to the knees.

London is to all intents and purposes an impregnable city—impregnable, that is to say, as regards an outside foe. The possibility of internal destruction by fire, although by no means so great as in the days of the Great Fire of London, still exists, in spite of fire-proof buildings, stone walls, and wide streets. Although the possibility exists, the risk of such a catastrophe will not be worth consideration so long as the Metropolitan Fire Brigade maintains its present high state of efficiency. It is to London what the Fleet is to the Empire, and the analogy is appropriate in more respects than one. It may be aptly described as the Navy of the Metropolis—the protecting genius of six million people, and the richest city the world has seen. To adequately realise its importance one has only to remember that the destruction of London would be a calamity to the Empire.

Lifting the body to the feet.

Safely lifted on to the back.

Every night its existence is threatened by the relentless fire demon. Every night the Fire Brigade as certainly combats and disarms it. Surely a strange, weird warfare, scarcely realised, since it is only on occasions when the demon temporarily gets the upper hand that we are reminded of its existence.

Opportunities for the display of heroism and conspicuous devotion to duty are comparatively rare in the Army and Navy. So when they occur we hear of them, and the heroes are received with acclaim. In the Fleet that never goes to sea such matters are common incidents of the day's work.

It is part of the ordinary duty of a London fireman to be a hero, and he never fails when it is expected of him.

It is natural to think of the brigade as a miniature Navy. It smells of the sea in every way. The captain is a naval man. Its crew of 1,009 are seamen, and the work of the brigade is of a nature readily performed by sailors, who are used to danger, and skilled in the art of hanging on to the skyline by their teeth.

Even the apparatus is peculiarly adapted for the use of the horny-handed sons of the sea.

It is therefore easy to understand how it is that these well-disciplined, hard-nerved men are pressed into the service of the brigade.

Many who have read of the marvellous rapidity with which the engines are turned out to a fire, or those who have been fortunate enough to see these splendid fellows at their work, may be interested in learning how a London fireman is made.

By the kindness of Commander Wells, R.N.—one of the most popular officers that ever donned the Queen's uniform—I have been able to observe the whole process, and pick up a good deal of interesting matter respecting the brigade into the bargain.

There is no objectionable formality about entering the brigade. Provided a sailor possesses the initial qualifications—he must be over 21 and under 31 years of age; have been at sea for at least five years; measure 37 inches round the chest; and be able to read and write—he simply walks into the yard of the central station at Southwark and inquires for the chief officer. The Commander examines his "discharges" and testimonials as to character and general intelligence. If he be a likely man, he is passed into the hands of the Brigade Doctor, who certifies his soundness of wind and limb. If he emerges successfully from this ordeal, he has yet a final and more trying one before him—the test of strength.

TWO METHODS OF CARRYING—A WOMAN OR A MAN.

Sheer physical strength is a desideratum in all branches of public service, but especially so in the Fire Brigade, where lives and property almost always depend upon nerve and muscle. Accordingly the strength test is necessarily a heavy one. A fire escape is brought into the yard, and is rested lengthwise on the flagstones. To a ring-bolt in the stones a tackle is hooked, the other end being made fast to the foot of the escape. The candidate is then requested to haul the escape bodily from the ground into its normal vertical position. It is an immensely trying pull of 240 lbs. If the candidate manages it, he becomes a probationer at a salary of 24s. per week.

The Southwark instructors reckon that it takes three months' hard work and unceasing drill before a man is competent to leave the yard, even as a fireman of the fourth class. During this period he is not permitted to attend a fire in any capacity.

No other sort of drill equals in fascination that which the embryo M.F.B. man must go through. Unlike a soldier or sailor, he must undertake many of the actual dangers of warfare during ordinary drill on the parade-ground. The instruction, conducted by superintendents who have gone through the mill themselves and know every detail of the work, is divided into two parts—theoretical and practical.

The room in which most of the theory is taught is particularly interesting. It contains a half section of every apparatus or device used by or in connection with the brigade. There is a half section of the boiler of the familiar steamer, a half section of a street lamp, indicating the position of a hydrant, and half sections of hose, nozzles, fire-plugs, flanges, and all the complicated machinery forming parts of the various types of engines in use.

That very important part of instruction, the use of steam, is undertaken in the yard, so that practical demonstration with a steamer under way may accompany the lesson.

Hand in hand with theoretical instruction, a daily grounding goes on in what may be termed emergency drill. To the layman, this is perhaps the most interesting part of the work.

Everything must be rehearsed over and over again. Every movement, every action must be practised again and again till it becomes automatic, before a man can feel sure of doing the right thing at the right time under circumstances of difficulty and danger. Most of us have seen a fireman descend an escape, bearing on his back a human burden, possibly heavier than himself; we wonder how it is done, but it does not occur to us that this same evolution is practised every day at Southwark in all its separate movements.

Our illustrations of this drill show how a fireman is taught to lift and carry a human body. In the first picture, the men under instruction are at "Attention." The second shows the first movement, the body being lifted on to its knees. In the third it is raised to its feet. In the final evolution the prostrate figure is bodily lifted on to the rescuer's back. The whole operation scarcely occupies a moment of time. By this method, the strain of lifting is reduced to a minimum, and the position of the body across the shoulders leaves both hands free.

When the men are thorough masters of this lifting drill, they have to go through the nerve-trying ordeal of performing it as though in actual practice. Escapes are run into the yard. Some of the old hands mount to the roof, and the embryo firemen are ordered to go aloft and save them from an awful death. That this is a very considerable feat, I think our photograph of the operation will amply demonstrate. To an old hand who has performed the operation amid all the exciting surroundings of an actual fire it is simple enough. He skips up the creaking, bending ladder, lightly tosses a twelve-stone colleague on his back, in the most unconcerned manner, and as blithely skips down again.

But although there is an element of very real danger in it to the beginner, yet he generally gets through it satisfactorily, though his progress is necessarily slow. It is in such drills that his sea training stands him in good stead.

NERVOUS WORK FOR RECRUITS—NEW FIREMEN RESCUING OLD FIREMEN.

However, the most nerve-trying work is the jumping-sheet drill. As our illustration shows, some eighteen or twenty men at a given order man the canvas jumping-sheet.

Beckets, or rope handles, are supplied all round the edge of the sheet. Each man holds one of these in either hand, and as the jumper alights in the centre of the canvas, all simultaneously give a little, and so break the force of the fall. The men are required to jump 20 feet from a parapet into the sheet. It is nervous work, both for the jumpers and those who catch them.

The instructor tells you that there is no danger. In fact a forty-foot jump into the sheet would be very unlikely to result in injury.

It is easy to listen to such statements, but it is another thing to stand on that narrow ledge and gaze contemplatively into the tiny sheet, twenty feet below.

Every possible method of saving life is the subject of a special set of drills, and all are constantly practised by all hands alike. They are designed to meet every possible contingency, and when lives are lost by fire it is generally attributable to delay in summoning the brigade.

STILL MORE NERVOUS WORK—JUMPING-SHEET DRILL, A 20-FEET DROP.

One of the most interesting systems of rescue is that in which the chair knot is used. It is an extreme method only resorted to when the fierceness of the fire renders the use of the escape impracticable.

This method is shown in actual operation in one of our photographs. You are invited to suppose that the whole face of the building is alight, and that a person is in the top front room calling for assistance. Several men ascend to the roofs of the houses on either side of the doomed building. Each party has a rope, the two ends of which are tied in a knot consisting of two loops. The person in danger is instructed how to fasten the loops about him. He is now suspended in a sort of cradle or chair, and is lowered away, a guy rope to the ground controlling the angle of descent.

In some extreme cases where the chair knot cannot be used another method is resorted to. Several of the brigade ascend to the roof of the opposite house with a line. This has a knot similar to that already described at one end, and is swung or thrown across into the window at which the unfortunate individual stands. If this cannot be managed the brigade use a special rocket apparatus which enables them to shoot a line to any given spot.

The man or woman, as the case may be, gets into the knot and swings off the window-ledge. The rescue party know beforehand by the length of the line exactly where he or she will strike the wall of the opposite house, and a mattress is suspended at this spot to break the impact. At a middle window a long projecting fork catches the rope in the centre as it swings across the street, and plays an important part in lessening the shock to the human burden in the knot below.

Needless to say there must always be an element of risk in this method, and it is only resorted to when every other expedient has failed.

New hands are constantly exercised in the work of turning out, getting apparatus to work, and performing in every detail the duties likely to be met with at an ordinary fire. There is a great deal of esprit de corps among them, and this and natural love of competition soon place them on a footing with the older hands as regards rapidity, stability, and general smartness.

Wednesday is the most interesting day of the week. This is a sort of At Home day at Southwark, and during the afternoon all the drills are gone through for inspection by the Commander. The picturesque incident of this dress rehearsal is the dummy fire. Without the slightest warning the onlooker is startled by a shrill whistle, the mad ringing of bells, and cries of "Fire." From an upper story of one of the buildings volumes of dense black smoke pour forth, and before he has time to realise that the whole thing is nothing more than an elaborate rehearsal, a steamer clatters into the yard, an escape is run up, and the men are aloft with the hose. A moment later two persons are rescued from the burning room, the fire is got under, and the brigade pack up their traps and disappear as quickly as they came. The photograph on the next page illustrates the scene a few seconds after the first alarm.

This very realistic outbreak is produced by means of a little oil and straw, ignited in an alcove in the wall. The two men who attend it have a lively time between fire and water, and if appearance counts for anything they are not rescued a moment too soon.

While one cannot but smile at the humorous side of this mock rescue, there is much of tragedy in the actual work of this kind which most members of the brigade are called upon to perform at one time or another.

I cannot help emphasising my conviction that the brigade is taken too much as a matter of course. At all big fires some member of the brigade is sure to receive injury; this is amply proved by statistics. For example, in 1897 the number of accidents to members of the brigade was 111. That is to say, one man in ten received a more or less serious hurt in the execution of his duty. Fortunately, no fatal case is reported.

In spite of this percentage the men are the happiest of fellows. They love and respect their Commander, at which there is no reason for surprise, and they go to their duty cheerfully, no matter what the danger or inconvenience may be.

The most pathetic record of heroism I know is that contained in a corner cupboard of the Instruction Room. Here are the helmets of men who have died at their posts. In more cases than one their lives have been sacrificed for others.

Bent, battered, twisted, and torn into every conceivable shape, they intimate only too clearly the awful nature and suddenness of such a death.

The appended label describes how every man met his death. It is the story we always hear of the British sailor, whether he be afloat or ashore—blind, unfailing devotion to duty, no matter how hopeless his case.

The remnants of uniform and equipment in the foreground of the picture are all that was found of Jacobs, the poor fellow who was burned like a rat in a hole at the Wandsworth fire in 1889.

I will not enlarge upon this distressing subject. They were grand fellows all of them, worthy of our reverence and respect.

A PROMPT RESCUE—USING THE CHAIR KNOT.

There are many more like them, and if this gruesome illustration reminds our readers that our firemen are every bit as deserving of praise as Thomas Atkins or Jack Tar it will not have been published in vain.

RECEIVING SUPERINTENDENTS' REPORTS.

Improvements are constantly being made in the apparatus of the brigade. There is a tendency to do away with the canvas shute once generally used on fire escapes. Commander Wells believes in ladders. He is striving to horse all escapes, an advantage which must strike the most casual observer of fire brigade work. At the present moment experiments are being made with telephonic street alarms. In the ordinary street alarm you smash the glass, press the button, which rings a bell in the nearest station, and wait till the engine comes. By the new plan it will be possible to speak directly through a telephone to the superintendent of the nearest station—an enormous advantage.

Needless to say the telegraphic and telephonic arrangements of the brigade are the most perfect in the world. One of our illustrations shows the gigantic switchboard, which directly connects the chief officer with the sixty odd stations situated all over London. The men at the tables are engaged in receiving the daily reports sent to the chief officer by the district superintendents.

The canteen van is now taken to every great fire. Formerly, when the men were working drenched to the skin for twelve or thirteen hours on end, they had no means of obtaining much-needed refreshment.

DUMMY FIRE AT HEADQUARTERS, WITH REAL SMOKE.

Commander Wells has altered all that. If the conflagration is one likely to keep the brigade going for some hours, the canteen takes up a convenient position and serves out hot cocoa or hot tea and other light refreshments.

HELMETS OF FIRE BRIGADE HEROES

What a benefit this is only those who have been on fire duty know.

Much more might be said of this, the most interesting of our public services, but my space is limited. I have not even room to deal with the floating fire stations and engines on the River Thames, worthy in themselves of an article.

In conclusion, I may tell those who are fond of figures that there are in the service of the Metropolis 235 escapes, 59 steam fire engines, 70 manuals, 115 hose carts, 36 miles of hose, 8 steam tugs, 12 barges, 5 floating stations, 8 floating engines, 12 skiffs, 5 long fire ladders, 7 ladder vans, 156 watch boxes, 159 horses, 114 telephone lines between stations, 592 fire alarm call points, and a host of other apparatus too numerous to mention.

The two most powerful steamers have a capacity of 580 gallons per minute, the ordinary engines 360 gallons per minute.

The horses are the finest in the world, and, as most people know, they stand on duty ready harnessed. The weight of collar and harness is taken off the animals by means of a mechanical contrivance which swings upward immediately the alarm bell is rung.

In the superintendent's room there is a huge map of London. It is dotted with little spots coloured red, green, and blue. The red marks denote what are called by the brigade "working fires," i.e. where engines have been used. The green spots indicate small fires, and there are left a host of yellow marks—in some districts there are dozens within a few hundred yards of each other.

I regret to say that they represent "malicious false alarms." The punishment for wilfully playing a trick of this kind is a fine of £20 or three months' imprisonment.

THE FIRE BRIGADE CANTEEN.

HOW THE MINISTER'S NOTES WERE RECOVERED.
THE STORY OF A BIT OF DIPLOMACY.

By Beatrice Heron-Maxwell.

Illustrated by Fred Pegram.

"It is like this, Frederic," said the United States Minister, button-holing Sir Frederic Rawnsley, and leading him to a deserted cosy-corner, "I am in a nasty hole! It must not be known, of course, but a slip of paper containing some important notes has got lost, and I have a horrible misgiving that it may have slipped inside the despatch we have just sent to Lord Westfaling. It won't do to ask, because it will only ensure their attention being attracted to it if it's there, and will betray our own laxity if it's not. Yet it must be found. What would you do?"

Sir Frederic thought for a moment; under his trivial exterior were some brains, as the Minister knew well.

"I should place the whole matter in the hands of Berend," he said, decisively.

The Minister looked dissatisfied.

"A mere lad, and quite raw," he said; "he has only been with us two days."

"I knew his father," continued Sir Frederic; "one of the cleverest Secretaries who ever handled a Legation. He would have made his mark if he had not died too soon. This boy is exactly like him. I fancy he will do well."

Some guests were entering: a private discussion was no longer possible. The American Minister wandered away, still dissatisfied and irresolute.

Half an hour later he crossed the ballroom, with the young attaché at his heels, and made his way to a girl in white, who was the centre of attraction there.

"You are interested in diplomacy, Lady Anstiss," he said; "may I present to you our latest arrival, Mr. Julius Berend?—Lady Anstiss Carlyon."

The girl raised a pair of lovely, indifferent eyes, and bowed; the Minister moved away as though the introduction were a matter of casual insignificance.

A few steps further on he stopped and glanced back.

Mr. Berend, his face devoid of expression, though he had just been introduced to the most beautiful girl in Brussels, was looking down silently.

Lady Anstiss, her shoulder turned to him, was bestowing her slow, sweet smile, the smile that had already made her famous as a beauty, on someone in the distance.

"What stage of acquaintanceship must one reach," he said, gravely, "before being promoted to the honour of a smile from Lady Anstiss Carlyon?"

She looked a little annoyed.

"Some people never reach it," she answered; "the majority in fact. I reserve it for my personal friends—and they are few."

"I am glad to hear it," said Mr. Berend. "I hate majorities: to escape from them is something worth striving for. To me a barrier of any sort is delightful; it arouses a corresponding amount of energy; and indolence is my detestation and my failing at the same time."

Lady Anstiss made a little gesture of impatience. This sententious boy was going to be a bore, and to give her the trouble of crushing him. Her programme, dangling from her fan, attracted his attention; he raised it and took the pencil, saying, "May I have the pleasure? Which dance?"

There were still two vacant places on the card; Lady Anstiss did not intend them for a chance-comer.

"I am sorry——" she began; but quite courteously he interrupted her.

"I should have preferred a waltz," he said; "but I am fortunate to find you disengaged at all," and wrote his name down.

Lady Anstiss looked at him critically as he did so.

A young man of middle height, with a graceful figure, and a face that might be called blameless, so inoffensive were the features and colouring. Fair, youthful-looking, with an air of mild freshness about it that seemed peculiarly unsuited to his profession. A partner claimed Lady Anstiss before she had made up her mind precisely how to subdue this apparently unconscious offender.

"Lord Westfaling is still away, and can't have had your despatch yet; so if Berend can get round Lady Anstiss," said Sir Frederic Rawnsley, with oracular significance, a little later, "the thing might be worked somehow."

'YOU ARE INTERESTED IN DIPLOMACY, LADY ANSTISS. MAY I PRESENT TO YOU OUR LATEST ARRIVAL?' SAID THE AMERICAN MINISTER.

The American Minister shook his head.

"If!" he repeated. "There is a very wide margin for probability, I am afraid."

"I don't know," replied Sir Frederic. "Women move the levers nowadays, though men make 'em. Westfaling gives in to her in everything. If she so insisted on his retiring from political life to-morrow, he would do it."

Nevertheless, and in spite also of the fact that Lady Anstiss was dancing for the second time that night with Mr. Berend, the Minister still felt as hopeless at the conclusion of the Diplomatic Ball as he had at its commencement.

The day following the ball happened to be the occasion of a weekly reception at Lord Westfaling's, where the part of hostess was played by his only daughter, Lady Anstiss Carlyon. She was at home from four to seven, and it was as the clock struck the former hour that her first visitor was announced—Mr. Julius Berend.

She had parted from him the night before still undecided as to the precise nature and extent of his offence, and the precise measure of punishment. His presumption appeared to be involuntary, as in the case of his calling so early—a privilege he ought to have hesitated to take.

She greeted him with the faintest perceptible effort of memory, as though she hardly recalled who Mr. Julius Berend was; but he was so little disconcerted that the reproof was wasted, and he took the chair nearest to her, which was unnecessary. She felt, in the few moments' conversation that ensued, as though she were a skilled fencer foiling the aimless thrusts of a tyro who did not know he was fencing.

Presently she handed him some tea, and in accepting it he calmly detained her fingers with his left hand.

"Pardon me," he said, "is that a genuine scarabæus in your ring? If so, it is a very perfect specimen."

"My father gave it to me," she said, coldly, "and he believes it to be a real one, but I cannot answer for its genuineness."

She attempted to withdraw her fingers; really, this young man was impossible.

But he still held them with firm gentleness, and having placed his cup of tea on a table, he now ventured to touch the ring with his right forefinger.

"Singular!" he said. "I thought I knew the genus scarabæus fairly well, but I do not remember seeing an intaglio quite like this before. May I——" He was about to draw the ring off.

"I would rather not," Lady Anstiss said, hastily, while his audacity brought the slightest addition of rose-flush to her cheek. "My father placed the ring there himself on my last birthday."

Again she strove to release her hand, and her eyes—grey eyes, with depths of violet in them—darkened with surprised vexation.

This young man seemed incapable of appreciating his own transcendent presumption. He was still replacing the ring, when the door, opening wide and swiftly, disclosed another visitor.

"Lady Lomond!" announced the footman; and a Scotchwoman, of ready eye and potent tongue, entered. The hand of Lady Anstiss was her own again simultaneously; but she rose to greet the newcomer with an uncomfortable sensation of having been caught and compromised.

Her hope that the situation had escaped Lady Lomond's notice was shattered with the first words.

"Palmistry?" inquired that lady, briefly, with a glance at Mr. Berend.

Lady Anstiss smiled with outward composure, but with inward rage.

"Oh, no!" she said; "this is Mr. Berend, who is learned in Egyptian lore, and doubts the quality of my scarabæus."

But even as she said it, she rebelled against all that her words must imply.

It would seem to Mr. Berend that she was acknowledging his right to have held her hand, to have behaved in fact unpardonably; that she was mitigating, explaining, condoning the offence all in one breath, and leaguing herself, as it were, with him against any insinuations that Lady Lomond might make.

Whether Mr. Berend perceived the situation or not it was impossible to tell.

He handed some tea to Lady Lomond, made one of his subtly inane remarks, and took his leave, saying, as he bowed over Lady Anstiss's hand, which he pressed more closely than the farewell warranted—

"I should like to feel quite certain about that scarabæus. Perhaps you will let me examine it again at leisure another day; it is exceedingly interesting to me."

And under the watchful eyes of the most ruthless scandal-promoter in Brussels, Lady Anstiss was obliged to assent, to appear quite friendly and at ease with him, when all the time she felt every word he uttered as a fresh provocation.

"Quite new, is he not?" said Lady Lomond; "that is, out here, I mean. An old friend of yours, no doubt?" Which was embarrassing when Lady Anstiss was secretly making up her mind to cut him dead from that moment.

The door reopened before she answered, and Mr. Berend was back again.

"I forgot," he said, "I am the bearer of a message to Lord Westfaling. Might I give it to him personally?"

"My father is away for three days," replied Lady Anstiss; "I thought General Standish was aware of that."

She intended a reproof, and this time Mr. Berend did not ignore it.

"Quite so," he answered; "my message was not from my chief; it was of a more private nature. Perhaps I might be permitted to have Lord Westfaling's address, or if I might send a note here could it be forwarded?"

"We are not forwarding any letters to him this time; they would only have missed him, perhaps," she answered, "but if you write here he will receive it on arrival."

"Thanks," said Mr. Berend, laconically, and took his final departure.

For thirty-six hours Lady Anstiss did not see him again, and during that period, in the intervals between her social distractions, the thought of him recurred so often that at last she positively wished to see him. She intended to show him plainly that he had transgressed, that she was not to be approached in the easy fashion he had adopted, and that the idea of friendship between them was quite out of the question.

She meant, in fact, to snub him as never had any young rising diplomat been snubbed before.

Armed with these pleasant resolutions, she felt really gratified when, at a dinner to which she had gone under Lady Lomond's chaperonage, she found that Mr. Berend was sitting on her left hand.

She was fully prepared for any advances he might make, and it took her some time to realise that he was evidently not going to make any at all.

He acknowledged her presence with polite gravity, and thereafter devoted himself to the lady on his other side, taking part also in the general conversation at table, and taking it well, but never once addressing a remark to Lady Anstiss.

She found herself listening to his conversation, acknowledging with unwillingness that it was clever, and betrayed no immaturity such as his face suggested; finally she began to feel piqued that he should ignore her, and to think that if Lady Lomond noticed it, that good lady would be sure to weave a new romance from his conduct.

"HE CALMLY DETAINED HER FINGERS WITH HIS LEFT HAND."

After dinner the same thing occurred. Mr. Berend, without seeming to do so in any marked manner, contrived to avoid her, and, strange to say, this chafed her, although she was surrounded all the evening by other men.

It vexed her, too, that Mr. Berend should appear to be concentrating himself on Lady Lomond, and Lady Anstiss wondered that he should be content to listen to such lengthy discourse from a woman who was nothing if she was not gossiping.

She felt a sort of relief when at last the moment for departure came, and, passing Mr. Berend with the slightest bow as he held the door open, swept downstairs in a less equable frame of mind than was her wont. To her surprise, when she followed Lady Lomond down the steps to the carriage, Mr. Berend, running lightly after them, jumped in too.

"I asked Mr. Berend to come with us," said Lady Lomond, "because if you do not mind I should like you to drive me home first, and I thought he could then escort you on to the Rue de la Place." The smile which accompanied this remark conveyed that she thought she had done a very clever and acceptable thing in giving these two an opportunity for a tête-à-tête.

"Thanks," responded Lady Anstiss, stiffly, "but I am afraid that will be taking Mr. Berend quite out of his way; and I am accustomed to drive alone often."

The matter, however, appeared to be settled, and she could only invoke silent anathemas on Lady Lomond's head for her officiousness, and determine that she would match Mr. Berend in behaviour, and would ignore him even when they were left to each other's society. But she reckoned without her host.

For, the moment after Lady Lomond had entered her own house and the carriage had started again, Mr. Berend, calmly taking the vacant place beside Lady Anstiss, said in an earnest tone, quite different from his usual one—

"I have longed for and yet dreaded this moment. Lady Anstiss, I felt to-night that there was only one subject I could speak to you about, and that I did not care to touch on it in the presence of others. It is a matter of indifference to you, but to me it is not only a serious one—it is a very distressing one."

He paused; and she tried to remember some of the chill and cutting remarks with which she had intended to show him how great was the distance that divided them.

But she had been wholly unprepared for this new method of advance, and, as only irrelevant replies occurred to her, she contented herself with silence.

"I am going away," he continued, "to-morrow."

"Going away," she echoed, involuntarily; "you have only just come. How is that?"

"I have pledged myself to fulfil a certain task in a certain space of time; the time ends to-morrow morning, and the task is uncompleted. Therefore I shall leave Brussels in the afternoon. Failure is quite as insupportable to me as to those above me. But I should not mind it so much if it were not for two things."

Again he paused, and again she was silent. They were nearing the Rue de la Place now; he knew that a few moments more only remained to him.

"You do not ask what they are," he said, with reproach, "and you will probably add it to my other iniquities if I tell you. Yet, Lady Anstiss, I must tell you."

His manner was strangely eager; she wished that she could feel more annoyed at it than she did.

"One reason is because when I leave Brussels I feel like the moth who goes out into the dark night and who longs to be fluttering his wings still round the light that dazzled him, that would have scorched him if he could have reached it. And the other—may I tell you the other?"

"You have not waited for my permission so far," she answered, half petulantly, half relentingly.

"There is no time to wait," he said; "the other is that I have added to my failure an unnecessary piece of stupidity which I deplore, and which is all the more aggravating because it is not yet irretrievable."

"What do you mean, Mr. Berend?" Her voice sounded softened even to herself; yet she had not quite intended it.

"I mean that it is in your power to do me an inestimable service; to soften my disgrace, and give me, in fact, another chance with the powers that be. I wrote a note—the note of which I spoke to you—to your father, on a private matter; and at the same time I was copying an important and strictly private paper for my chief. An important and strictly private paper is now missing, and the question is, could it by any carelessness have been placed in the envelope directed to Lord Westfaling. If so——" He made an expressive gesture of hopelessness.

"But what can I do?" She looked at him in real astonishment. This strange young man had the faculty of exciting interest, certainly, as well as displeasure.

"'IT IS IN YOUR POWER TO SOFTEN MY DISGRACE.'"

"You can allow me to open my own letter—in your presence—to seal it up again, after taking out the accidental enclosure if it is there, and so to retrieve what will otherwise be a very disastrous piece of bad luck."

"I do not see how it would be possible for me to do this," she said, after a moment's thought; "my father returns at ten to-morrow; I should find it difficult to explain it to him, to give him a sufficient reason for having ventured to interfere with his letters."

"If you would allow me to call and say good-bye to you at a quarter to ten," he pleaded, "in any case it would be a favour that I should prize immensely, and it is the last I shall ever ask of you."

It was extraordinary! This was in reality only the third time she had seen him, yet he was speaking to her with all the force and fervour of a long-tried lover.

And the amazement she felt at him was equalled by that which she felt at herself; for, to her own surprise, she was neither indifferent nor resentful. There was a magnetic force about him which carried all before it. They had turned into the Rue de la Place; a moment more and they must part.

"A mere formal visit of farewell," Mr. Berend urged. "Lady Anstiss, you do not know what it means to me, or you would not hesitate. It is not only my career—it is my life!"

The carriage had stopped—the footman had opened the door; before she had time to answer, Mr. Berend had descended and was handing her out.

"Then I will call shortly before ten to-morrow," he said, in a clear voice, "to see if you have any messages for England. Good night, Lady Anstiss."

He was away up the street, and she was in her own boudoir before she realised that she had tacitly granted his request.

And the feeling of annoyance with him that had been hers a few hours before was gone; in its place was one of pity for this daring young man whose essay in diplomacy had come to an untimely end.

He was of course nothing—less than nothing to her, but it would seem too unkind to refuse to see him in the morning.

She went to sleep at last, still undecided as to what she would or would not do.

But Mr. Julius Berend was troubled by no misgivings, and when he presented himself at a quarter to ten the next morning, a flicker of satisfaction tempered the pensive sadness of his gaze.

She was in the garden, and as he stepped out through the French windows towards her he thought—as he had thought on the night of his introduction to her—that for such a face as this, and such a smile, he would go to the end of the world.

And she? A grave sweetness had taken the place of her former manner to him, and she said, after giving him her hand, "Mr. Berend, I have been thinking over what you asked me, and—I think I can make it right with my father. You will promise me, of course, not to take anything out of the letter that ought to remain there?"

"I promise," he answered, quietly.

They went into the library together, and she brought him the tray of letters that were awaiting Lord Westfaling's arrival.

He drew a long envelope from his pocket, an official one, already addressed to Lord Westfaling.

"A LOOSE PAPER FLUTTERED TO THE FLOOR."

"It matches this," he said, "the one I want to open."

There were two similar envelopes amongst the pile of correspondence. He selected one, opened it, and, taking out the contents, shook them, stooped to pick up a loose paper that fluttered from them to the floor, and then placed them in the fresh envelope he had brought.

"May I seal this?" he asked. He had brought an official seal with him.

She brought him sealing wax and taper.

"Thanks," he said, when this was finished. "The paper was there, as I thought. I am glad to have retrieved it."

He folded it up, and put it, with the old envelope, into his pocket.

"Good-bye." He was holding out his hand to her quite coolly.

She felt hurt, disappointed. She would have deprecated his gratitude for the service she had rendered him, but the absence of its expression chilled her.

"Good-bye." She gave him her hand.

He clasped it for an instant, then raised it, saying, "We did not settle the vexed question of the ring. I am inclined, now I see it again, to think it is a genuine old scarabæus."

A sudden access of shyness, strange and new, came to her. The coldness of his voice did not match the warm clasp of his hand, the nearness of his approach.

She felt that the colour was mounting to her cheeks, and turned her face aside to hide it. And the next instant she felt the touch of his lips on her hair just where it swept away from her white neck.

"Mr. Berend!" she said, breathlessly, and would have started away, but he still held her hand.

"You can either never forgive me," he said, quickly, "or you must do so fully and freely. There can be no half measures between us any longer."

She was speechless; a storm of mixed feelings possessed her.

"I set myself to win you from the first moment that I saw you," he continued, impetuously. "The other task was nothing. I determined it should be both or neither with me. The failure that I spoke of to you last night is redeemed, and I am no longer under a cloud. It was a question of my word, and I have kept it. But for you I should not have done so. My fate is in your hands entirely."

Still no answer.

He drew her a little closer. "I have seen you four times," he went on, "and each time I have said to myself, 'There is only one woman in the world for me, and she is so sweet and lovely and perfect, that I dare only say good-bye to her—unless she tells me to stay.' Anstiss, good-bye!"

There was a stir in the house, and steps approaching in the hall. Lord Westfaling had returned, and was coming to the library. Mr. Berend released the hand he held, and Lady Anstiss turned in confusion to greet her father at the door.

"This is Mr. Berend, of the United States Embassy, father," she said. "He has brought a letter for you. It is there amongst your other ones."

She could not look at him; she was still in a tumult of indecision. Mr. Julius Berend had shaken hands with her father, apologising for his early call, and was saying to her—

"I am going to town this afternoon on business. May I call again at a more opportune moment on my return?"

She lifted her eyes to his, and he saw that he had won her.

"Yes," she said, simply; and with a bow he was gone.

"A nice-looking young fellow," commented her father, leisurely turning over his letters. "Son of Max Berend, I suppose. Very clever and smart, I am told."

"I told you you could not do better than pin your faith on Berend," said Sir Frederic Rawnsley to the United States Minister, a few days afterwards. "He managed that little affair for you very cleverly; and seems to be managing another little affair very cleverly, too."

He put up his eyeglass to watch the greeting between Mr. Julius Berend and Lady Anstiss Carlyon.

"Lady Lomond tells me it is almost a settled thing," he remarked. "And, after all, Anstiss might do a good deal worse. Berend will never stop half way; he is bound to reach the top of the tree."

"SHE LIFTED HER EYES TO HIS, AND HE SAW THAT HE HAD WON HER."

LITTLE MAID

You've crept in the dusk to my knee, little maid, And you've something you want to ask me, little maid. In your babyland eyes I'm so clever and wise, And you're certain as certain can be, little maid, If there's anyone knows what is right, little maid, It is I—you are sure of that quite, little maid; And I wish, pretty elf, I believed in myself As you do in me, dear, to-night, little maid.

You have heard that the angels have wings, little maid. Was it wisdom to tell you such things, little maid? You're too sweet and too small Yet to understand all Or one half the surprises time brings, little maid. But you've heard and are anxious to know, little maid, If sleepy at bedtime they grow, little maid, If they take off their wings With their everyday things, When to by-bye in heaven they go, little maid.

Your lips to my cheek then you lay, little maid, And you wonder I've nothing to say, little maid; But I couldn't reply Were I even to try For the space of a year and a day, little maid. You give me a shake of the head, little maid, And I feel there's no more to be said, little maid; But I know this is true, That our earthly ones do— And it's time one was tucked up in bed, little maid.

PHOTOGRAPHIC LIES.
PROVING THE USELESSNESS OF THE CAMERA AS A WITNESS.

There is a popular notion abroad that the art of photography is a first cousin to George Washington, and cannot tell a lie. The wider knowledge of the art, due to its adoption by hundreds of thousands of amateurs as a hobby, has largely shown the fallaciousness of this belief. Yet photographic fakes of a most absurdly simple nature still continue to impose upon the credulity of thousands of people, among the number being many who have gone so far as to accept such inventions as irrefutable evidence, in their ignorance of the possibilities of this, perhaps, the most elastic of all arts.

A striking instance of this is seen in the so-called "spirit" photographs, published some years ago by Mr. W. T. Stead. The brilliant editor of the Review of Reviews, a deep believer in spirit manifestations, argued that these photographs afforded the most conclusive proofs of the playful habit spooks have of returning to the scenes of their earthly labours.

He said that they were on the photographic plate, and, that being so, they must have been there "in the flesh," or "in the fog," as Mark Twain has it.

Unfortunately, this apparently conclusive argument was completely upset by Mr. Labouchere, who possessed a greater knowledge of the ways of photographs and photographers than his colleague, and explained how it was done.

As a matter of fact, the photographic ghost is an easily explained phenomenon, and any amateur can turn out creepy spooks by the thousand at the expense of a little time and patience.

A photograph is absolutely inadmissible as evidence of anything, unless it is proved conclusively that it was in nowise faked after being taken.

The faking can be carried on almost to any extent. In fact, nothing is impossible to the clever knight of the camera.

If a photographer wished to show that you were in a particular street at a certain time, he could do it with the greatest ease, notwithstanding that you were a thousand miles away at the moment in question.

A RAILWAY IN HOLBORN, LONDON!

If he wished to prove that your dog or pony had trespassed on his flowerbeds, it would be a simple matter to do so, and if cleverly done I doubt if the "fake" could be detected.

A GHOST WHICH WAS NOT A GHOST.

Anyway, I have seen many faked photographs that experienced photographers themselves were at a loss to explain.

In this article I propose to give some examples of extraordinary faked photographs, and explain to some extent how they are done. In each case they have been specially prepared for the illustration of this article, and amateur photographers who read this might do worse than copy them.

Many of these required considerable technical skill and inventive resource.

These qualities are exhibited to a high degree in the illustration of the railway in Holborn, for while we are glad that an electric train is to run under Holborn, no living or dead man has ever seen a train in Holborn itself. Such fakes occupy a considerable time in manufacture.

While the explanation is simple, the carrying out of this fake was a matter of some difficulty.

First a picture of a railway junction was taken. Then it was necessary to take a photograph of Holborn. This in itself is a simple enough matter, but in this case it was necessary to obtain a picture of exactly the same scale, in order that the railway lines might be fitted to appear as a natural part of the picture.

This was only managed after several ineffectual shots. Then the latter negative was placed in the printing frame with the roadway masked. When sufficiently printed the railway negative was placed in the frame on the same paper. That part of Holborn already printed was masked, and thus the rails were printed in the space where the roadway should have been. The result will make Londoners rub their eyes.

The two ghost photographs are specially calculated to puzzle not a few who are unacquainted with the tricks of the art. Like most puzzling things, they are simplicity itself when explained. There is not a suspicion of mystery about them. By the same method any amateur may manufacture a whole gallery of family ghosts for his delectation.

The invocation of our ghosts was on this wise.

A nice, quiet, suitable sort of churchyard not a dozen miles from London was chosen, and, with a couple of assistants, I hied myself to it one bright and anything but ethereal morning.

First, the lady was posed till we were satisfied that she looked scared enough for a ghost to be turned on. A second later my other assistant, with the best dining-room tablecloth thrown over his head, came on the scene, glided with healthy earthly steps to a pre-arranged spot, and took up his position.

Snap went the pneumatic shutter. The photographic plate, one of an extremely rapid variety, was exposed for the space of a second, and the ghost hid himself behind the camera and took off his tablecloth. The lady meanwhile remained in the same position, and directly the ghost disappeared, snap went the shutter again on her. So in the interval of nine seconds this wonder was perpetrated.

Those who have not dabbled in photography will require a further explanation of the need of two exposures of the same plate. In the first place, then, I assume that everybody knows that a photograph is the result of light acting on a glass plate coated with a sensitive preparation. When the photographer says, "Now then, a smile, please. Thank you. Steady," you may have noticed that he touches an indiarubber ball. This is a pneumatic release, which momentarily exposes the plate to the light. In that brief period the light eats or rots the sensitive material, at the same time faithfully imprinting upon it an exact image of whatever may be before it.

Now the whole secret of successful photography may be said to depend on this exposure being of the right length. If it is too short, the light has insufficient time to clearly impress the plate with the picture. If it is too long, the image will be too dense.

PROVING A MAN TO BE TRANSPARENT.

So much technique is necessary to a proper explanation of ghost pictures. Now the one second exposure given to our friend the ghost was much too short a time in which to obtain a good portrait of him, but quite long enough to obtain a faint shadowy image, which was just the thing desired.

On obtaining this he quietly walks out of the picture, and we then open the plate for another eight seconds, which is just long enough to obtain a clear and normal photograph of the rest of the picture, including the startled sitter, who has not moved in the meantime. And what is of still greater importance, it gives sufficient time for the foliage and end of the seat to impress themselves through the first picture, and so produce that shadowy transparent texture beloved of all aristocratic varieties of the ghost species.

The tombstone spirit was produced in the same way, a second exposure being given to the tomb, the grass, and the ivy-covered wall behind.

It will be seen that the ghost picture is a particularly simple example of the "fake" photograph.

In the beginning of this article I spoke of the futility of admitting the photograph as evidence.

To prove my assertion, I have been at some pains to prepare a faked photograph that will show how a subject might be "doctored" and put in as conclusive proof.

I have assumed, for the purpose of this example, that a prisoner charged with an offence, say in the North of England, has sought to set up an alibi by producing a portrait of a street in which he himself is seen. For the sake of argument, we will say that the photograph was taken by a friend who is prepared to swear that the picture was made on the day of the crime. Supposing this to be the case, if the photograph were accepted as evidence it would undoubtedly be instrumental in getting the accused off.

SHOWING HOW A MAN CAN BE IN TWO PLACES AT ONCE.

Now such a picture might readily be faked so as to deceive the most experienced. In order to realise this, you have only to glance at the photograph on this page.

The scene is a street at Richmond, and in the foreground two men are standing. If you look at them for a moment you will observe that they are in reality one and the same person. As we have not yet discovered a method of creating a double, it is perfectly clear that one at least of these figures has been "faked" or printed into the original photograph, and I don't know that it is very clear which.

As a matter of fact the one on the left-hand side was taken in the original picture, and the other is faked. Two figures of the same individual are shown, because, had we published one, and stated that the other was "printed in," it is possible some people might question the statement.

As it is, the duplicate clinches the matter, and the obvious deduction is that if one photograph can be faked in this manner, so can another.

However, we doubt if photographers, amateur or otherwise, were ever guilty of using their knowledge of fakes for any purpose other than that of amusement, and that indeed was our idea in shedding light on this comparatively unknown subject.

By the simple expedient of faking in the printing operation you may do what you will with friend or foe.

Cecil Rhodes may shake hands with Oom Paul, and the nation may be persuaded that they have forgotten their little amenities. It is only necessary to obtain suitable photographs of the two, the rest is comparatively simple.

The figure in the bottle would in the middle ages have burned its creator at the stake, but there is no witchcraft in it in reality. Indeed, it is one of the simplest photographic freaks to produce. In this case the figure is printed somewhat deeply on paper in the usual way, except that a mask of paper is cut to fit all round it to keep the remaining portion of the sensitive paper from contact with the light. When the print is deep enough it is taken out of the printing-frame, then placed behind a negative of the bottle, and a light print is made, with the result that the effect shown in the illustration is produced.

AN EXTRAORDINARY MIXTURE.

Few, save those who have had practice in instantaneous photography, realise the enormous rapidity necessary to the successful portraying of rapid movement by means of the camera.

One of the most interesting experiments in trick photography is that devoted to the evolving of composite portraits. The production of a successful composite practically means the creation of a new face. The method is similar to that employed in the making of ghost pictures. It is necessary to obtain, say, four portraits—the more used the greater the difficulty. These are all photographed one over the other on the same plate. The difficulty consists in regulating the exposures, that photographed first requiring a longer exposure than the next, and so on through the series. The example we give is a composite of photographs of well-known actors, and the face contains portraits of Sir Henry Irving and Mr. Forbes Robertson.

The composite photograph has been of great scientific value in determining the characteristic predominant features of different types of physiognomy. Our illustration is an excellent example of the typical actor's face.

A well-known professor recently composed a series of these types. One was a face containing the portraits of twelve eminent mathematicians; another contained portraits of sixteen notable naturalists.

Very extraordinary photographic freaks often result from mere accident. On the next page is given a picture of Hastings pier in a storm. A very good negative was obtained in the first instance, but unfortunately when developed it was placed on the oven to dry. The heat contracted the sensitive film of the negative, and when printed it presented the curious appearance seen in the illustration.

As a picture of a storm it is splendid, surpassing in exaggeration anything ever invented by the resourceful Munchausen.

COMPOSITE PORTRAIT OF WELL-KNOWN ACTORS.

"A Study in Boots" is an excellent example of one of the most effective methods of photographic faking. Like many things which border on the marvellous, it is as simple as A B C. The explanation is that when taking the photograph the operator used a short focus lens and made a point of specially focussing the boots instead of the picture as a whole. The result was that the rest of the figure was thrown out of focus, and consequently out of proportion.

This effect is only too well known to most beginners in the art, for it often appears unbidden in their early efforts, to the utter ruin of an otherwise good picture. Amateurs frequently spoil portraits of their friends in this way, the feet or hands appearing treble their proper size in the picture. The defect is usually the result of working with a lens of too short a focus. This explanation is somewhat technical for those who have not embraced the fascinating art, but it cannot be put in any other way.

HASTINGS PIER WHEN SUFFERING FROM HEAT.

There are many other possibilities in photographic faking. In fact, an amateur of an inventive disposition may evolve them ad libitum.

For example, there is the "long and short of it" style of fake, that will surely result in much amusement. By the use of concave and convex mirrors the face of a friend may be abnormally lengthened or widened in the portrait until it reminds one of the pictures displayed outside eating-houses, bearing the inscriptions, "Before dining at Z——'s," "After dining at Z——'s."

However, all these things are by way of amusement. I have never come across any deliberate case of photographic faking with intent to mislead or bear false witness; but, as I have already stated, what may be done for recreation is also possible of application in more serious affairs, and therefore it is a fallacy to suppose that a photograph cannot lie.

Very little has been done, comparatively speaking, in the direction of photograph faking. It is an amusement I can recommend to every devotee of the art; for there are few pastimes more completely fascinating.

A STUDY IN BOOTS.