O Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories Of 1921 By Various

O. HENRY MEMORIAL AWARD PRIZE STORIES of 1921 CHOSEN BY THE SOCIETY OF ARTS AND SCIENCES WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY BLANCHE COLTON WILLIAMS 1922 CONTENTS THE HEART OF LITTLE SHIKARA. By Edison Marshall THE MAN WHO CURSED THE LILIES. By Charles Tenney Jackson THE URGE. By Maryland Allen MUMMERY. By Thomas Beer THE VICTIM OF HIS VISION. By Gerald Chittenden MARTIN GERRITY GETS EVEN. By Courtney Ryley Cooper and Leo F. Creagan STRANGER THINGS. By Mildred Cram COMET. By Samuel A. Derieux FIFTY-TWO WEEKS FOR FLORETTE. By Elizabeth Alexander Heermann WILD EARTH. By Sophie Kerr THE TRIBUTE. By Harry Anable Kniffin THE GET-AWAY. By O.F. Lewis “AURORE.” By Ethel Watts Mumford MR. DOWNEY SITS DOWN. By L.H. Robbins THE MARRIAGE IN KAIRWAN. By Wilbur Daniel Steele GRIT. By Tristram Tupper FOUNDER OF THE O. HENRY MEMORIAL COMMITTEE The plan for the creation of the O. Henry Memorial Committee was conceived and the work of the Committee inaugurated in the year 1918 by the late John F. Tucker, LL.M., then Directing Manager of the Society of Arts and Sciences. The Society promptly approved the plan and appropriated the sum necessary to inaugurate its work and to make the award. The Committee is, therefore, in a sense, a memorial to Mr. Tucker, as well as to O. Henry. Up to the time of his death Mr. Tucker was a constant adviser of the Committee and an attendant at most of its meetings. Born in New York City in 1871 and educated for the law, Mr. Tucker’s inclinations quickly swept him into a much wider stream of intellectual development, literary, artistic, and sociological. He joined others in reviving the Twilight Club (now the Society of Arts and Sciences), for the broad discussion of public questions, and to the genius he developed for such a task the success of the Society up to the time of his death was chiefly due. The remarkable series of dinner discussions conducted under his management, for many years, in New York City, have helped to mould public opinion along liberal lines, to educate and inspire. Nothing he did gave him greater pride than the inception of the O. Henry Memorial Committee, and that his name should be associated with that work perpetually this tribute is hereby printed at the request of the Society of Arts and Sciences. E.J.W. INTRODUCTION In 1918 the Society of Arts and Sciences established, through its Managing Director, John F. Tucker, the O. Henry Memorial. Since that year the nature of the annual prize and the work of the Committee awarding it have become familiar to writer, editor, and reader of short stories. To the best short story written by an American and published in America the sum of $500 is awarded; to the second best, the sum of $250. In 1919 the prize winning story was Margaret Prescott Montague’s “England to America”; in 1920 it was Maxwell Struthers Hurt’s “Each in His Generation.” Second winners were: 1919, Wilbur Daniel Steele’s “For They Know Not What They Do,” and, 1920, Frances Noyes Hart’s “Contact!” [The prizes were delivered on June 2, 1920, and on March 14, 1921, at the annual memorial dinner, Hotel Astor.] In 1921 the Committee of Award consisted of these members: BLANCHE COLTON WILLIAMS, Ph. D., Chairman EDWARD J. WHEELER, Litt. D. ETHEL WATTS MUMFORD FRANCES GILCHRIST WOOD GROVE E. WILSON And the Committee of Administration: JOHN F. TUCKER, [Deceased, February 27, 1921.], Founder of the O. Henry Memorial EDWARD J. WHEELER, Litt.D. GLENN FRANK, Editor of The Century Magazine GEORGE C. HOWARD, Attorney. As in previous years each member of the Committee of Award held himself responsible for reviewing the brief fiction of certain magazines and for circulating such stories as warranted reading by other members. Results in 1921 differ in a number of respects from those of 1919 and 1920. In the earlier half year, January excepted, every reader reported a low average of current fiction, so low as to excite apprehension lest the art of the short story was rapidly declining. The latter six months, however, marked a reaction, with a higher percentage of values in November and December. Explanation of the low level lies in the financial depression which forced a number of editors to buy fewer stories, to buy cheaply, or to search their vaults for remnant of purchases made in happier days. Improvement began with the return to better financial conditions. The several members of the Committee have seldom agreed on the comparative excellence of stories, few being of sufficient superiority in the opinion of the Committee as a whole to justify setting them aside for future consideration. The following three dozen candidates, more or less, average highest: Addington, Sarah, Another Cactus Blooms (Smart Set, December). Alexander, Elizabeth, Fifty-Two Weeks for Florette [Reprinted as by Elizabeth Alexander Heermann.] (Saturday Evening Post, August 13). Allen, Maryland, The Urge (Everybody’s, September). Arbuckle, Mary, Wasted (Midland, May). Beer, Thomas, Mummery (Saturday Evening Post, July 30). Burt, Maxwell Struthers, Buchanan Hears the Wind (Harper’s, August). Byrne, Donn, Reynardine (McClure’s, May). Chittenden, Gerald, The Victim of His Vision (Scribner’s, May). Comfort, Will Levington, and Dost, Zamin Ki, The Deadly Karait (Asia, August). Cooper, Courtney Ryley, and Creagan, Leo F. Martin, Gerrity Gets Even (American, July). Cooper, Courtney Ryley, Old Scarface (Pictorial Review, April). Cram, Mildred, Stranger Things–(Metropolitan, January). Derieux, Samuel A., Comet (American, December). Hull Helen R., Waiting (Touchstone, February). Jackson, Charles Tenney, The Man who Cursed the Lilies (Short Stories, December 10). Kerr, Sophie, Wild Earth (Saturday Evening Post, April 2). Kniffin, Harry Anable, The Tribute (Brief Stories, September). Lewis, O.F., The Get-A way (Red Book, February); The Day of Judgment (Red Book, October). Mahoney, James, Wilfrid Reginald and the Dark Horse (Century, August). Marshall, Edison, The Heart of Little Shikara (Everybody’s, January). Morris, Gouverneur, Groot’s Macaw (Cosmopolitan, November); Just One Thing More (Cosmopolitan, December). Mumford, Ethel Watts, “Aurore” (Pictorial Review, February); The Crowned Dead (Short Stories, July); Funeral Frank (Detective Stories, October 29). Robbins, L.H., Mr. Downey Sits Down (Everybody’s, June). Steele, Wilbur Daniel, ‘Toinette of Maissonnoir (Pictorial Review, July); The Marriage in Kairwan (Harper’s, December). Street, Julian, A Voice in the Hall (Harper’s, September). Stringer, Arthur, A Lion Must Eat (McClure’s, March). Tupper, Tristram, Grit (Metropolitan, March). Vorse, Mary Heaton, The Halfway House (Harper’s, October). Wolff, William Almon, Thalassa! Thalassa! (Everybody’s, July). * * * * * The following stories rank high with a majority of the Committee: Anthony, Joseph, A Cask of Ale for Columban (Century, March). Baker, Karle Wilson, The Porch Swing (Century, April). Balmer, Edwin, “Settled Down” (Everybody’s, February). Beer, Thomas, Addio (Saturday Evening Post, October 29); The Lily Pond (Saturday Evening Post, April 16). Biggs, John, Jr., Corkran of the Clamstretch (Scribner’s, December). Boulton, Agnes, The Snob (Smart Set, June). Boyle, Jack, The Heart of the Lily (Red Book, February); The Little Lord of All the Earth (Red Book, March). Byrne, Donn, The Keeper of the Bridge (McClure’s, April). Canfield, Dorothy, Pamela’s Shawl (Century, August). Connell, Richard, The Man in the Cape (Metropolitan, July). Cooper, Courtney Ryley, The Fiend (Cosmopolitan, March); Love (Red Book, June). Cram, Mildred, Anna (McCatt’s, March); The Bridge (Harper’s Bazaar, April). Derieux, Samuel A., Figgers Can’t Lie (Delineator, April); The Bolter (American, November). Dreiser, Theodore, Phantom Gold (Live Stories, March). Ellerbe, Alma and Paul, When the Ice Went Out (Everybody’s, May). England, George Allan, Test Tubes (Short Stories, March). Erickson, Howard, The Debt (Munsey’s, February). Fraenkel, H. E., The Yellow Quilt (Liberator, December). Ginger, Bonnie, The Decoy (Century, October). Hart, Frances Noyes, The American (Pictorial Review, November). Hergesheimer, Joseph, Juju (Saturday Evening Post, July 30); The Token (Saturday Evening Post, October 22). Hopper, Elsie Van de Water, The Flight of the Herons (Scribner’s, November). Hughes, Rupert, When Crossroads Cross Again (Collier’s, January 29). Hurst, Fannie, She Walks in Beauty (Cosmopolitan, August). Irwin, Inez Haynes, For Value Received (Cosmopolitan, November). Irwin, Wallace, The Old School (Pictorial Review, April). Kabler, Hugh MacNair, Like a Tree (Saturday Evening Post) January 22). Lanier, Henry Wysham, Circumstantial (Collier’s, October 15). Lewis, Sinclair, Number Seven (American, May). Mahoney, James, Taxis of Fate (Century, November). Mason, Grace Sartwell, Glory (Harper’s, April). Moore, Frederick, The Picture (Adventure, September 10). Mouat, Helen, Aftermath (Good Housekeeping, September). Natteford, J. F., A Glimpse of the Heights (Photoplay, April). Neidig, William F, The Firebug (Everybody’s, April). Pitt, Chart, Debt of the Snows (Sunset, April). Post, Melville Davisson, The Mottled Butterfly (Red Book, August); The Great Cipher (Red Book, November). Read, Marion Pugh, Everlasting Grace (Atlantic Monthly, March). Rhodes, Harrison, Night Life and Thomas Robinson (Saturday Evening Post, June 4). Rouse, William Merriam, Arms of Judgment (Argosy-All-Story Weekly, March 12). Shore, Viola Brothers, The Heritage (Saturday Evening Post, February 5). Singmaster, Elsie, The Magic Mirror (Pictorial Review, November). Springer, Fleta Campbell, The Mountain of Jehovah (Harper’s, March). Tarkington, Booth, Jeannette (Red Book, May). Titus, Harold, The Courage of Number Two (Metropolitan, June). Train, Arthur, The Crooked Fairy (McCall’s, July). Watson, Marion Elizabeth, Bottle Stoppers (Pictorial Review, June). Wormser, G. Ranger, Gossamer (Pictorial Review, March). The following stories are regarded the best of the year by the judges whose names are respectively indicated:

1. The Marriage in Kairwan, by Wilbur Daniel Steele (Harper’s, December). Ethel Watts Mumford.
2. A Life, by Wilbur Daniel Steele (Pictorial Review, August). Edward J. Wheeler.
3. Wisdom Buildeth Her House, by Donn Byrne (Century, December). Blanche Colton Williams.
4. Waiting, by Helen R. Hull (Touchstone, February). Grove E. Wilson.
5. The Poppies of Wu Fong, by Lee Foster Hartman (Harper’s, November). Frances Gilchrist Wood. Out of the first list sixteen stories were requested for republication in this volume. The significance of the third list lies in the fact that only one story was selected from it, the others meeting objections from the remainder of the Committee. Since no first choice story won the prize, the Committee resorted, as in former years, to the point system, according to which the leader is “The Heart of Little Shikara,” by Edison Marshall. To Mr. Marshall, therefore, goes the first prize of $500. In like manner, the second prize, of $250, is awarded to “The Man Who Cursed the Lilies,” by Charles Tenney Jackson. In discussing “A Life,” “The Marriage in Kairwan,” and “‘Toinette of Maissonnoir,” all published by Wilbur Daniel Steele in 1921, in remarking upon the high merit of his brief fiction in other years, and in recalling that he alone is represented in the first three volumes of O. Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories, the Committee intimated the wish to express in some tangible fashion its appreciation of this author’s services to American fiction. On the motion of Doctor Wheeler, therefore, the Committee voted to ask an appropriation from the Society of Arts and Sciences as a prize to be awarded on account of general excellence in the short story in 1919, 1920, and 1921. This sum of $500 was granted by the Society, through the proper authorities, and is accordingly awarded to Wilbur Daniel Steele. Two characteristics of stories published in 1921 reveal editorial policies that cannot but be harmful to the quality of this art. These ear-marks are complementary and, yet, paradoxically antipodal. In order to draw out the torso and tail of a story through Procrustean lengths of advertising pages, some editors place, or seem to place, a premium upon length. The writer, with an eye to acceptance by these editors, consciously or unconsciously pads his matter, giving a semblance of substance where substance is not. Many stories fall below first rank in the opinion of the Committee through failure to achieve by artistic economy the desired end. The comment “Overwritten” appeared again and again on the margins of such stories. The reverse of this policy, as practised by other editors, is that of chopping the tail or, worse, of cutting out sections from the body of the narrative, then roughly piecing together the parts to fit a smaller space determined by some expediency. Under the observation of the Committee have fallen a number of stories patently cut for space accommodation. Too free use of editorial blue pencil and scissors has furnished occasion for protest among authors and for comment by the press. For example, in The Literary Review of The New York Post, September 3, the leading article remarks, after granting it is a rare script that cannot be improved by good editing, and after making allowance for the physical law of limitation by space: “Surgery, however, must not become decapitation or such a trimming of long ears and projecting toes as savage tribes practise. It seems very probable that by ruthless reshaping and hampering specifications in our magazines, stories and articles have been seriously affected.” Further, “the passion for editorial cutting” is graphically illustrated in The Authors’ League Bulletin for December (page 8) by a mutilation of Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address. Although, by the terms of the Memorial, the Committee were at liberty to consider only stories by American authors, they could not but observe the increasing number of races represented through authorship. Some of the following names will be recognized from preceding years, some of them are new: Blasco Ibanez, W. Somerset Maugham, May Sinclair, Mrs. Henry Dudeney, Mary Butts, Frank Swinnerton, Georges Clemenceau, Johan Bojer, H. Soederberg, Seumas Macmanus, R. Sabatini, Demetra Vaka, Achmed Abdullah, Rabindranath Tagore, A. Remizov, Konrad Bercovici, Anzia Yezierska, and–daughter of an English mother and Italian father who met in China, she herself having been born in San Francisco–Adriana Spadoni. Nor do these represent all the nations whose sons and daughters practise the one indigenous American art on its native soil. Let the list stand, without completion, sufficient to the point. The note of democracy is sounded, as a sequence, in the subject matter. East Side Italian and Jew brush shoulders in Miss Spadoni’s tales; Englishman, Dane, and South Sea Islander shake hands on the same page of W. Somerset Maugham’s “The Trembling of a Leaf”; Norwegian, Frenchman, and Spaniard are among us, as before; Bercovici’s gypsies from the Roumanian Danube, now collected in “Ghitza,” flash colourful and foreign from the Dobrudja Mountains and the Black Sea. In one remarkable piece of melodrama, “Rra Boloi,” by the Englishman Crosbie Garstin (Adventure), and the African witch doctor of the Chwene Kopjes enters short-story literature. The Oriental had been exploited to what appeared the ultimate; but continued interest in the Eastern problem brings tidal waves of Japanese and Chinese stories. Disarmament Conferences may or may not effect the ideal envisioned by the Victorian, a time “when the war drums throb no longer, and the battle-flags are furled in the Parliament of Man”; but the short story follows the gleam, merely by virtue of authorship and by reflecting the peoples of the earth. When Lee Foster Hartman created his Chinese hero in “The Poppies of Wu Fong,” dramatized Oriental inscrutability with Occidental suavity and sureness, and set off the Oriental gentleman in American surroundings, he brought together the nations in a new vision of the brotherhood of man. This story was preferred, for the reasons implied, by Frances Gilchrist Wood, who sees in Wu Fong’s garden the subtle urge of acres of flowers, asleep under the stars, pitted against the greed of profiteers; who sees in answer to Western fume and fret the wisdom of Confucius, “Come out and see my poppies.” The story was rejected by other members who, while applauding the author’s motivation of character, his theme, and his general treatment, yet felt a lack of emotion and a faltering at the dramatic climax. Wilbur Daniel Steele’s “The Marriage in Kairwan” presents an appalling tragedy which, if it be typical, may befall any Tunisian lady who elects for herself man’s standard of morality–for himself. Such a story is possible when the seeing eye and the understanding heart of an American grasps the situation in Kairwan and through the technician’s art develops it, transforms it, and bears it into the fourth dimension of literature. The thread of narrative runs thinly, perhaps, through the stiffly embroidered fabric, heavy as cloth of gold; the end may be discerned too soon. But who can fail of being shocked at the actual denouement? The story may be, as Ethel Watts Mumford admits, caviar. “But if so,” she adds, “it is Beluga Imperial.” Donn Bryne’s “Wisdom Buildeth Her House,” is constructed on a historic foundation, the visit that Balkis, Queen of Sheba, made to Solomon, King of the Jews. Mr. Bryne has not only built a cunning mosaic, plunging into the stream of Scriptural narrative for his tessellations and drawing gems out of The Song of Solomon, but he has also recalled by virtue of exercising a vigorous imagination, the glory of the royalty that was Sheba’s and the grandeur of her domain in pictures as gorgeously splendid as those from an Arabian Night. He has elaborated the Talmud story with mighty conviction from a novel point of view and has whetted his theme on the story of a love the King lacked wisdom to accept. The Chairman of the Committee prefers this story; but other members assert that it lacks novelty and vitality, nor can they find that it adds anything new to the Song of Songs. These three first choice stories, then, are strong in Oriental flavour, characters, and setting. Again, democracy (in the etymological sense of the word, always, rather than the political) is exemplified in the fiction of 1921, in that the humblest life as well as the highest offers matter for romance. More than in former years, writers seek out the romance that lies in the lives of the average man or woman. Having learned that the Russian story of realism, with emphasis too frequently placed upon the naturalistic and the sordid, is not a vehicle easily adapted to conveying the American product, the American author of sincerity and belief in the possibility of realistic material has begun to treat it in romantic fashion, always the approved fashion of the short story in this country. So Harry Anable Kniffin’s “The Tribute” weaves in 1,700 words a legend about the Unknown Soldier and makes emotionally vivid the burial of Tommy Atkins. Commonplace types regarded in the past as insufficiently drab, on the one hand, and insufficiently picturesque on the other are reflected in this new romantic treatment. Sarah Addington’s “Another Cactus Blooms” prophesies colour in that hard and prickly plant the provincial teacher at Columbia for a term of graduate work. Humorously and sardonically the college professor is served up in “The Better Recipe,” by George Boas (Atlantic Monthly, March); the doctorate degree method is satirized so bitterly, by Sinclair Lewis, in “The Post Mortem Murder” (Century, May), as to challenge wonder, though so subtly as to escape all save the initiated. Sophie Kerr’s “Wild Earth” makes capital in like legitimate manner of the little shop girl and her farmer husband. Wesley Dean is as far removed from the Down Easterner of a Mary Wilkins farm as his wife, Anita, is remote from the Sallies and Nannies of the farmhouse. Of the soil this story bears the fragrance in a happier manner; its theme of wild passion belongs to the characters, as it might belong, also, to the man and woman of another setting. “Here is a romance of the farm,” the author seems to say; not sordid realistic portrayal of earth grubbers. So, too, Tristram Tupper’s “Grit” reveals the inspiration that flashed from the life of a junkman. So Cooper and Creagan evoke the drama of the railroad man’s world: glare of headlight, crash of wreckage and voice of the born leader mingle in unwonted orchestration. “Martin Gerrity Gets Even” is reprinted as their best story of this genre. The stories of Ethel Watts Mumford declare her cosmopolitan ability and her willingness to deal with lives widely diverse. At least three rank high in the estimation of her fellow-committeemen. “Aurore,” by its terseness and poignant interpretation of the character of the woman under the Northern Lights touches poetry and is akin to music in its creative flight. The Committee voted to include it in Volume III, under the author’s protest and under her express stipulation that it should not be regarded as a candidate for either prize. That another of her stories might have found place in the collection is indicated best by the following letter: The Players16 Gramercy ParkNew York City November 16th Re. O. HENRY MEMORIAL PRIZE. To Dr. B.C. Williams,605 West 113 Street,New York City. My Dear Doctor Williams, I mailed to you yesterday a copy of a story by Ethel Watts Mumford, entitled “Funeral Frank,” published in the Detective Story Magazine two weeks ago–for your consideration in awarding the O. Henry Memorial prize. I think it is the best short story I have read in a long time both for originality of subject and technical construction. The choice on the author’s part of such an unsuspected (by the reader) and seemingly insignificant agent for the working of Nemesis, I think shows great skill. I say seemingly insignificant because a little dog seems such a small and unlikely thing to act the leading part in a criminal’s judgment and suggested regeneration–and yet all lovers of animals know what such a tie of affection may mean, especially to one who has no human friends–and even while it works, the victim of Nemesis as the author says “is wholly unconscious of the irony of the situation.” Apart from this I think the tale is exceedingly well told in good English and with the greatest possible economy of space. Yours very truly,Oliver Herford. “Waiting,” by Helen R. Hull, stands first on the list of Grove E. Wilson, who thinks its handling of everyday characters, its simplicity of theme and its high artistry most nearly fulfil, among the stories of the year, his ideal of short story requirements. Though admired as literature by the Committee, it seemed to one or two members to present a character study rather than a story. Certainly, in no other work of the period have relations between a given mother and daughter been psychologized with greater deftness and skill. Other members of society reflected in the year are preachers, judges, criminals, actors, and actresses. For some years, it is true, actor and actress have been treated increasingly as human beings, less as puppets who walk about on the stage. This volume contains two stories illustrating the statement: “The Urge,” by Maryland Allen, which marshalls the grimly ironic reasons for the success of the heroine who is the most famous comedienne of her day; “Fifty-Two Weeks for Florette,” which touches with a pathos that gave the story instant recognition the lives of vaudeville Florette and her son. It is not without significance that these stories are the first their respective authors have published. 0.F. Lewis brings the judge to his own bar in “The Day of Judgment,” but had difficulty in finding a denouement commensurate with his antecedent material. The Committee Preferred his “The Get-Away” and its criminals, who are Presented objectively, without prejudice, save as their own acts invoke it. Viciously criminal is Tedge, of “The Man Who Cursed the Lilies,” by Charles Tenney Jackson. The Committee value this narrative for the power and intensity of its subject matter, for its novel theme, for its familiar yet seldom-used setting, for its poetic justice and for its fulfilment of short story structural laws. “The Victim of His Vision,” by Gerald Chittenden, dramatizes the missionary’s reverse, unusual in fiction, and presents a convincing demonstration of the powers of voodoo. Readers who care for manifestations of the superstitious and the magical will appreciate the reality of this story as they will that of “Rra Boloi,” mentioned above. They may also be interested in comparing these with Joseph Hergesheimer’s “Juju.” Mr. Hergesheimer’s story, however, fails to maintain in the outcome the high level of the initial concept and the execution of the earlier stages. A number of 1921 stories centre about a historic character. F. Scott Fitzgerald’s “Tarquin of Cheapside” (Smart Set, February) offers in episode form the motivation of Shakespeare’s “Rape of Lucrece”; Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews parallels her “The Perfect Tribute” and eulogy of Lincoln with “His Soul Goes Marching On” and warm reminiscence of Roosevelt; Fleta Campbell Springer’s “The Role of Madame Ravelles” is apparently a tapestry in weaving the stately figure of Georgette LeBlanc. Ranking highest among these personal narratives, however, is Mildred Cram’s “Stranger Things–” Besides calling up, under the name of Cecil Grimshaw, the irresistible figure of Oscar Wilde, the author has created a supernatural tale of challenging intricacy and imaginative genius. The only other stories of the supernatural to find place in the Committee’s first list are Maxwell Struthers Burt’s “Buchanan Hears the Wind” and Mary Heaton Vorse’s “The Halfway House.” In all of these, suggestion, delicately managed, is the potent element of success. Animals figure in vaster numbers and under intensive psychological study. That a race-horse owner goes nowadays to the astrologer for a horoscope of his racer is a fact that insinuatingly elevates the beast to the plane of his master. In the short story of 1921, the monkey, the tiger, the elephant, the dog and all their kind are treated from an anthropomorphic point of view. Courtney Ryley Cooper’s titles–“Love” and “Vengeance,” for example–covering stories dominated by the animal character, betray the author’s ascription of human attributes to his hero or villain. “Reynardine,” by Donn Byrne, retails with haunting charm the friendship between the Fitzpauls and the fox, in an instance that tests the friendship. Foxes, for Morgan of the story, “took on for him now a strange, sinister entity…. They had become to him a quasi-human, hypernormal race…. They had tabus as strict as a Maori’s. Strange, mystical laws.”–“Corkran of the Clamstretch” uniquely portrays the ugly and heroic “R.T.C.” throughout as a gentleman, “who met triumph with boredom,” and “defeat, as a great gentleman should, with quiet courtesy and good humour.” Samuel A. Derieux adds “Comet” to his list of superintelligent dogs in a story the Committee regard as one of his best. It should be compared with R.G. Kirk’s “Gun-Shy” (Saturday Evening Post, October 22). Similar in theme, in sympathy and in the struggle–that of a trainer to overcome a noble dog’s fear of the powder roar–the stories diverge in the matter of workmanship. Yet “Gun-Shy” is based on a plot superior to that of “Comet.” Oddly enough, the Committee preferred not one of the humanized-beast stories, but Edison Marshall’s “The Heart of Little Shikara.” The preference was because of a number of counts, however; moreover, the man eater takes second place beside Little Shikara, whose bravery and loyalty motivate the thrilling climax of the narrative. And it is just this: a superb story, with underscoring for “story.” Anthropomorphism is found at its height in “A Life,” by Wilbur Daniel Steele. Dr. Edward J. Wheeler places this story first of the year’s brief fiction, on the score of originality, power, and satisfactory evolution of the struggle, with its triumphant dramatic reverse. Other members of the Committee, though sensible of its claim to high distinction, believe it is a novelette, not to be classed as a short story, and therefore barred from consideration. Its spirit, one affirms, lacks something of the vigour which made of “Guiablesse” (Harper’s, 1919) so convincing a work of art. Another member finds its value somewhat decreased in that its theme had been used similarly in John Masefield’s “The Wanderer.” The child’s place in the democracy of the short story was assured years ago. No remarkably outstanding examples have come from the pen of Booth Tarkington, amusing as are his adolescents and children of the Red Book tales. The best combinations of humour and childhood appeared to the Committee to be “Wilfrid Reginald and the Dark Horse,” by James Mahoney, and “Mr. Downey Sits Down,” by L.H. Robbins. For laughter the reader is recommended to each of these, the latter of which is reprinted in this volume. For humour plus a trifle more of excitement, “Mummery,” by Thomas Beer, is included. Mr. Beer has succeeded in handling Mrs. Egg as Miss Addington manages Miss Titwiler, the “Cactus”; that is, as the equal of author and reader, but also–and still without condescension–as reason for twinkles and smiles. Apart from consideration of impulses dominating the short story of 1921, impulses here summarized under the general idea of democracy, the story is different in several particulars. First, its method of referring to drink, strong drink, marks it of the present year. The setting is frequently that of a foreign country, where prohibition is not yet known; the date of the action may be prior to 1919; or the apology for presence of intoxicating liquors is forthcoming in such statement as “My cellar is not yet exhausted, you see.” Second, the war is no longer tabu; witness “The Tribute,” and “His Soul Goes Marching On.” Touched by the patina of time and mellowed through the mellifluence of age, the war now makes an appeal dissimilar to that which caused readers two or three years ago to declare they were “fed up.” Third, Freudian theories have found organic place in the substance of the story. They have not yet found incorporation in many narratives that preserve short story structure, however–although it is within conceivability that the influence may finally burst the mould and create a new–and the Committee agree in demanding both substance and structure as short story essentials. Finally, the story reflects the changing ideals of a constantly changing age. Not only are these ideals changing because of cross-currents that have their many sources in racial springs far asunder, not only because of contact or conflict between the ideals and cosmic forces dimly apprehended; also they are changing because of the undeniable influence of what Emerson called the Oversoul. The youth of the time is different, as youth is always different. But now and then a sharp cleavage separates the succeeding generations and it separates them now. The youth of England has found interpretation in Clemence Dane’s play, “A Bill of Divorcement.” In America, the interpretation is only half articulate; but when the incoherent sounds are wholly intelligible, the literature of the short story will have entered, in definite respects, upon a new era. The Committee of Award wish once again to thank the authors, editors, and publishers whose cooperation makes possible this annual volume and the O. Henry Memorial Prizes. Blanche Colton Williams. New York CityJanuary 10, 1922 O. HENRY MEMORIAL AWARD PRIZE STORIES of 1921 THE HEART OF LITTLE SHIKARA By EDISON MARSHALL From Everybody’s I If it hadn’t been for a purple moon that came peering up above the dark jungle just at nightfall, it would have been impossible to tell that Little Shikara was at his watch. He was really just the colour of the shadows–a rather pleasant brown–he was very little indeed, and besides, he was standing very, very still. If he was trembling at all, from anticipation and excitement, it was no more than Nahar the tiger trembles as he crouches in ambush. But the moon did show him–peering down through the leaf-clusters of the heavy vines–and shone very softly in his wide-open dark eyes. And it was a purple moon–no other colour that man could name. It looked almost unreal, like a paper moon painted very badly by a clumsy stage-hand. The jungle-moon quite often has that peculiar purplish tint, most travellers know, but few of them indeed ever try to tell what causes it. This particular moon probed down here and there between the tall bamboos, transformed the jungle–just now waking–into a mystery and a fairyland, glinted on a hard-packed elephant trail that wound away into the thickets, and always came back to shine on the coal-black Oriental eyes of the little boy beside the village gate. It showed him standing very straight and just as tall as his small stature would permit, and looked oddly silvery and strange on his long, dark hair. Little Shikara, son of Khoda Dunnoo, was waiting for the return of a certain idol and demigod who was even now riding home in his howdah from the tiger hunt. Other of the villagers would be down to meet Warwick Sahib as soon as they heard the shouts of his beaters–but Little Shikara had been waiting almost an hour. Likely, if they had known about it, they would have commented on his badness, because he was notoriously bad, if indeed–as the villagers told each other–he was not actually cursed with evil spirits. In the first place, he was almost valueless as a herder of buffalo. Three times, when he had been sent with the other boys to watch the herds in their wallows, he had left his post and crept away into the fringe of jungle on what was unquestionably some mission of witchcraft. For small naked brown boys, as a rule, do not go alone and unarmed into the thick bamboos. Too many things can happen to prevent them ever coming out again; too many brown silent ribbons crawl in the grass, or too many yellow, striped creatures, no less lithe, lurk in the thickets. But the strangest thing of all–and the surest sign of witchcraft–was that he had always come safely out again, yet with never any satisfactory explanations as to why he had gone. He had always looked some way very joyful and tremulous–and perhaps even pale if from the nature of things a brown boy ever can look pale. But it was the kind of paleness that one has after a particularly exquisite experience. It was not the dumb, teeth-chattering paleness of fear. “I saw the sergeant of the jungle,” Little Shikara said after one of these excursions. And this made no sense at all. “There are none of the King’s soldiers here,” the brown village folk replied to him. “Either thou liest to us, or thine eyes lied to thee. And didst thou also see the chevron that told his rank?” “That was the way I knew him. It was the black bear, and he wore the pale chevron low on his throat.” This was Little Shikara all over. Of course he referred to the black Himalayan bear which all men know wears a yellowish patch, of chevron shape, just in front of his fore legs; but why he should call him a jungle-sergeant was quite beyond the wit of the village folk to say. Their imagination did not run in that direction. It never even occurred to them that Little Shikara might be a born jungle creature, expatriated by the accident of birth–one of that free, strange breed that can never find peace in the villages of men. “But remember the name we gave him,” his mother would say. “Perhaps he is only living up to his name.” For there are certain native hunters in India that are known, far and wide, as the Shikaris; and possibly she meant in her tolerance that her little son was merely a born huntsman. But in reality Little Shikara was not named for these men at all. Rather it was for a certain fleet-winged little hawk, a hunter of sparrows, that is one of the most free spirits in all the jungle. And it was almost like taking part in some great hunt himself–to be waiting at the gate for the return of Warwick Sahib. Even now, the elephant came striding out of the shadows; and Little Shikara could see the trophy. The hunt had indeed been successful, and the boy’s glowing eyes beheld–even in the shadows–the largest, most beautiful tiger-skin he had ever seen. It was the great Nahar, the royal tiger, who had killed one hundred cattle from near-by fields. Warwick Sahib rode in his howdah, and he did not seem to see the village people that came out to meet him. In truth, he seemed half asleep, his muscles limp, his gray eyes full of thoughts. He made no answer to the triumphant shouts of the village folk. Little Shikara glanced once at the lean, bronzed face, the limp, white, thin hands, and something like a shiver of ecstasy went clear to his ten toes. For like many other small boys, all over the broad world, he was a hero-worshipper to the last hair of his head; and this quiet man on the elephant was to him beyond all measure the most wonderful living creature on the earth. He didn’t cry out, as the others did. He simply stood in mute worship, his little body tingling with glory. Warwick Sahib had looked up now, and his slow eyes were sweeping the line of brown faces. But still he did not seem to see them. And then–wonder of wonders–his eyes rested full on the eyes of his little worshipper beside the gate. But it was quite the way of Warwick Sahib to sweep his gray, tired-out eyes over a scene and seemingly perceive nothing; yet in reality absorbing every detail with the accuracy of a photographic plate. And his seeming indifference was not a pose with him, either. He was just a great sportsman who was also an English gentleman, and he had learned certain lessons of impassiveness from the wild. Only one of the brown faces he beheld was worth a lingering glance. And when he met that one his eyes halted in their sweeping survey–and Warwick Sahib smiled. That face was the brown, eager visage of Little Shikara. And the blood of the boy flowed to the skin, and he glowed red all over through the brown. It was only the faintest of quiet, tolerant smiles; but it meant more to him than almost any kind of an honour could have meant to the prematurely gray man in the howdah. The latter passed on to his estate, and some of the villagers went back to their women and their thatch huts. But still Little Shikara stood motionless–and it wasn’t until the thought suddenly came to him that possibly the beaters had already gathered and were telling the story of the kill that with startling suddenness he raced back through the gates to the village. Yes, the beaters had assembled in a circle under a tree, and most of the villagers had gathered to hear the story. He slipped in among them, and listened with both outstanding little ears. Warwick Sahib had dismounted from his elephant as usual, the beaters said, and with but one attendant had advanced up the bed of a dry creek. This was quite like Warwick Sahib, and Little Shikara felt himself tingling again. Other hunters, particularly many of the rich sahibs from across the sea, shot their tigers from the security of the howdah; but this wasn’t Warwick’s way of doing. The male tiger had risen snarling from his lair, and had been felled at the first shot. Most of the villagers had supposed that the story would end at this point. Warwick Sahib’s tiger hunts were usually just such simple and expeditious affairs. The gun would lift to his shoulder, the quiet eyes would glance along the barrel–and the tiger, whether charging or standing still–would speedily die. But to-day there had been a curious epilogue. Just as the beaters had started toward the fallen animal, and the white Heaven-born’s cigarette-case was open in his hand, Nahara, Nahar’s great, tawny mate, had suddenly sprung forth from the bamboo thickets. She drove straight to the nearest of the beaters. There was no time whatever for Warwick to take aim. His rifle leaped, like a live thing, in his arms, but not one of the horrified beaters had seen his eyes lower to the sights. Yet the bullet went home–they could tell by the way the tiger flashed to her breast in the grass. Yet she was only wounded. One of the beaters, starting, had permitted a bough of a tree to whip Warwick in the face, and the blow had disturbed what little aim he had. It was almost a miracle that he had hit the great cat at all. At once the thickets had closed around her, and the beaters had been unable to drive her forth again. The circle was silent thereafter. They seemed to be waiting for Khusru, one of the head men of the village, to give his opinion. He knew more about the wild animals than any mature native in the assembly, and his comments on the hunting stories were usually worth hearing. “We will not be in the honoured service of the Protector of the Poor at this time a year from now,” he said. They all waited tensely. Shikara shivered. “Speak, Khusru,” they urged him. “Warwick Sahib will go again to the jungles–and Nahara will be waiting. She owes two debts. One is the killing of her mate–and ye know that these two tigers have been long and faithful mates. Do ye think she will let that debt go unpaid? She will also avenge her own wound.” “Perhaps she will die of bleeding,” one of the others suggested. “Nay, or ye would have found her this afternoon. Ye know that it is the wounded tiger that is most to be feared. One day, and he will go forth in pursuit of her again; and then ye will not see him riding back so grandly on his elephant. Perhaps she will come here, to carry away our children.” Again Shikara tingled–hoping that Nahara would at least come close enough to cause excitement. And that night, too happy to keep silent, he told his mother of Warwick Sahib’s smile. “And some time I–I, thine own son,” he said as sleepiness came upon him, “will be a killer of tigers, even as Warwick Sahib.” “Little sparrow-hawk,” his mother laughed at him. “Little one of mighty words, only the great sahibs that come from afar, and Warwick Sahib himself, may hunt the tiger, so how canst thou, little worthless?” “I will soon be grown,” he persisted, “and I–I, too–will some time return with such a tiger-skin as the great Heaven-born brought this afternoon.” Little Shikara was very sleepy, and he was telling his dreams much more frankly than was his wont. “And the village folk will come out to meet me with shoutings, and I will tell them of the shot–in the circle under the tree.” “And where, little hawk, wilt thou procure thine elephants, and such rupees as are needed?” “Warwick Sahib shoots from the ground–and so will I. And sometimes he goes forth with only one attendant–and I will not need even one. And who can say–perhaps he will find me even a bolder man than Gunga Singhai; and he will take me in his place on the hunts in the jungles.” For Gunga Singhai was Warwick Sahib’s own personal attendant and gun-carrier–the native that the Protector of the Poor could trust in the tightest places. So it was only to be expected that Little Shikara’s mother should laugh at him. The idea of her son being an attendant of Warwick Sahib, not to mention a hunter of tigers, was only a tale to tell her husband when the boy’s bright eyes were closed in sleep. “Nay, little man,” she told him. “Would I want thee torn to pieces in Nahara’s claws? Would I want thee smelling of the jungle again, as thou didst after chasing the water-buck through the bamboos? Nay–thou wilt be a herdsman, like thy father–and perhaps gather many rupees.” But Little Shikara did not want to think of rupees. Even now, as sleep came to him, his childish spirit had left the circle of thatch roofs, and had gone on tremulous expeditions into the jungle. Far away, the trumpet-call of a wild tusker trembled through the moist, hot night; and great bell-shaped flowers made the air pungent and heavy with perfume. A tigress skulked somewhere in a thicket licking an injured leg with her rough tongue, pausing to listen to every sound the night gave forth. Little Shikara whispered in his sleep. A half mile distant, in his richly furnished bungalow, Warwick Sahib dozed over his after-dinner cigar. He was in evening clothes, and crystal and silver glittered on his board. But his gray eyes were half closed; and the gleam from his plate could not pass the long, dark lashes. For his spirit was far distant, too–on the jungle trails with that of Little Shikara. II One sunlit morning, perhaps a month after the skin of Nahar was brought in from the jungle, Warwick Sahib’s mail was late. It was an unheard-of thing. Always before, just as the clock struck eight, he would hear the cheerful tinkle of the postman’s bells. At first he considered complaining; but as morning drew to early afternoon he began to believe that investigation would be the wiser course. The postman’s route carried him along an old elephant trail through a patch of thick jungle beside one of the tributaries of the Manipur. When natives went out to look, he was neither on the path nor drowned in the creek, nor yet in his thatched hut at the other end of his route. The truth was that this particular postman’s bells would never be heard by human ears again. And there was enough evidence in the wet mould of the trail to know what had occurred. That night the circle under the tree was silent and shivering. “Who is next?” they asked of one another. The jungle night came down, breathless and mysterious, and now and then a twig was cracked by a heavy foot at the edge of the thickets. In Warwick’s house, the great Protector of the Poor took his rifles from their cases and fitted them together. “To-morrow,” he told Gunga Singhai, “we will settle for that postman’s death.” Singhai breathed deeply, but said nothing. Perhaps his dark eyes brightened. The tiger-hunts were nearly as great a delight to him as they were to Warwick himself. But while Nahara, lame from Warwick’s bullet, could no longer overtake cattle, she did with great skilfulness avoid the onrush of the beaters. Again Little Shikara waited at the village gate for his hero to return; but the beaters walked silently to-night. Nor were there any tales to be told under the tree. Nahara, a fairly respectable cattle-killer before, had become in a single night one of the worst terrors of India. Of course she was still a coward, but she had learned, by virtue of a chance meeting with a postman on a trail after a week of heart-devouring starvation, two or three extremely portentous lessons. One of them was that not even the little deer, drinking beside the Manipur, died half so easily as these tall, forked forms of which she had previously been so afraid. She found out also that they could neither run swiftly nor walk silently, and they could be approached easily even by a tiger that cracked a twig with every step. It simplified the problem of living immensely; and just as any other feline would have done, she took the line of least resistance. If there had been plenty of carrion in the jungle, Nahara might never have hunted men. But the kites and the jackals looked after the carrion; and they were much swifter and keener-eyed than a lame tiger. She knew enough not to confine herself to one village; and it is rather hard to explain how any lower creature, that obviously cannot reason, could have possessed this knowledge. Perhaps it was because she had learned that a determined hunt, with many beaters and men on elephants, invariably followed her killings. It was always well to travel just as far as possible from the scene. She found out also that, just as a doe is easier felled than a horned buck, certain of this new kind of game were more easily taken than the others. Sometimes children played at the door of their huts, and sometimes old men were afflicted with such maladies that they could not flee at all. All these things Nahara learned; and in learning them she caused a certain civil office of the British Empire to put an exceedingly large price on her head. Gradually the fact dawned on her that unlike the deer and the buffalo, this new game was more easily hunted in the daylight–particularly in that tired-out, careless twilight hour when the herders and the plantation hands came in from their work. At night the village folk kept in their huts, and such wood-cutters and gipsies as slept without wakened every hour to tend their fires. Nahara was deathly afraid of fire. Night after night she would creep round and round a gipsy camp, her eyes like two pale blue moons in the darkness, and would never dare attack. And because she was taking her living in a manner forbidden by the laws of the jungle, the glory and beauty of her youth quickly departed from her. There are no prisons for those that break the jungle laws, no courts and no appointed officers, but because these are laws that go down to the roots of life, punishment is always swift and inevitable. “Thou shall not kill men,” is the first law of the wild creatures; and everyone knows that any animal or breed of animals that breaks this law has sooner or later been hunted down and slain–just like any other murderer. The mange came upon her, and she lost flesh, and certain of her teeth began to come out. She was no longer the beautiful female of her species, to be sung to by the weaver-birds as she passed beneath. She was a hag and a vampire, hatred of whom lay deep in every human heart in her hunting range. Often the hunting was poor, and sometimes she went many days in a stretch without making a single kill. And in all beasts, high and low, this is the last step to the worst degeneracy of all. It instils a curious, terrible kind of blood-lust–to kill, not once, but as many times as possible in the same hunt; to be content not with one death, but to slay and slay until the whole herd is destroyed. It is the instinct that makes a little weasel kill all the chickens in a coop, when one was all it could possibly carry away, and that will cause a wolf to leap from sheep to sheep in a fold until every one is dead. Nahara didn’t get a chance to kill every day; so when the opportunity did come, like a certain pitiable kind of human hunter who comes from afar to hunt small game, she killed as many times as she could in quick succession. And the British Empire raised the price on her head. One afternoon found her within a half mile of Warwick’s bungalow, and for five days she had gone without food. One would not have thought of her as a royal tigress, the queen of the felines and one of the most beautiful of all living things. And since she was still tawny and graceful, it would be hard to understand why she no longer gave the impression of beauty. It was simply gone, as a flame goes, and her queenliness was wholly departed, too. In some vague way she had become a poisonous, a ghastly thing, to be named with such outcasts as the jackals or hyenas. Excessive hunger, in most of the flesh-eating animals, is really a first cousin to madness. It brings bad dreams and visions, and, worst of all, it induces an insubordination to all the forest laws of man and beast. A well-fed wolf-pack will run in stark panic from a human being; but even the wisest of mountaineers do not care to meet the same gray band in the starving times of winter. Starvation brings recklessness, a desperate frenzied courage that is likely to upset all of one’s preconceived notions as to the behaviour of animals. It also brings, so that all men may be aware of its presence, a peculiar lurid glow to the balls of the eyes. In fact, the two pale circles of fire were the most noticeable characteristics of the long, tawny cat that crept through the bamboos. Except for them, she would hardly have been discernible at all. The yellow grass made a perfect background, her black stripes looked like the streaks of shadow between the stalks of bamboo, and for one that is lame she crept with an astounding silence. One couldn’t have believed that such a great creature could lie so close to the earth and be so utterly invisible in the low thickets. A little peninsula of dwarf bamboos and tall jungle grass extended out into the pasture before the village and Nahara crept out clear to its point. She didn’t seem to be moving. One couldn’t catch the stir and draw of muscles. And yet she slowly glided to the end; then began her wait. Her head sunk low, her body grew tense, her tail whipped softly back and forth, with as easy a motion as the swaying of a serpent. The light flamed and died and flamed and died again in her pale eyes. Soon a villager who had been working in Warwick’s fields came trotting in Oriental fashion across the meadow. His eyes were only human, and he did not see the tawny shape in the tall grass. If any one had told him that a full-grown tigress could have crept to such a place and still remained invisible, he would have laughed. He was going to his thatched hut, to brown wife and babies, and it was no wonder that he trotted swiftly. The muscles of the great cat bunched, and now the whipping tail began to have a little vertical motion that is the final warning of a spring. The man was already in leaping range; but the tiger had learned, in many experiences, always to make sure. Still she crouched–a single instant in which the trotting native came two paces nearer. Then the man drew up with a gasp of fright. For just as the clear outlines of an object that has long been concealed in a maze of light and shadow will often leap, with sudden vividness, to the eyes, the native suddenly perceived the tiger. He caught the whole dread picture–the crouching form, the terrible blue lights of the eyes, the whipping tail. The gasp he uttered from his closing throat seemed to act like the fall of a firing-pin against a shell on the bunched muscles of the animal; and she left her covert in a streak of tawny light. But Nahara’s leaps had never been quite accurate since she had been wounded by Warwick’s bullet, months before. They were usually straight enough for the general purposes of hunting, but they missed by a long way the “theoretical centre of impact” of which artillery officers speak. Her lame paw always seemed to disturb her balance. By remembering it, she could usually partly overcome the disadvantage; but to-day, in the madness of her hunger, she had been unable to remember anything except the terrible rapture of killing. This circumstance alone, however, would not have saved the native’s life. Even though her fangs missed his throat, the power of the blow and her rending talons would have certainly snatched away his life as a storm snatches a leaf. But there was one other determining factor. The Burman had seen the tiger just before she leaped; and although there had been no time for conscious thought, his guardian reflexes had flung him to one side in a single frenzied effort to miss the full force of the spring. The result of both these things was that he received only an awkward, sprawling blow from the animal’s shoulder. Of course he was hurled to the ground; for no human body in the world is built to withstand the ton or so of shocking power of a three-hundred-pound cat leaping through the air. The tigress sprawled down also, and because she lighted on her wounded paw, she squealed with pain. It was possibly three seconds before she had forgotten the stabbing pain in her paw and had gathered herself to spring on the unconscious form of the native. And that three seconds gave Warwick Sahib, sitting at the window of his study, an opportunity to seize his rifle and fire. Warwick knew tigers, and he had kept the rifle always ready for just such a need as this. The distance was nearly five hundred yards, and the bullet went wide of its mark. Nevertheless, it saved the native’s life. The great cat remembered this same far-off explosion from another day, in a dry creek-bed of months before, and the sing of the bullet was a remembered thing, too. Although it would speedily return to her, her courage fled and she turned and faced into the bamboos. In an instant, Warwick was on his great veranda, calling his beaters. Gunga Singhai, his faithful gun-carrier, slipped shells into the magazine of his master’s high-calibered close-range tiger-rifle. “The elephant, Sahib?” he asked swiftly. “Nay, this will be on foot. Make the beaters circle about the fringe of bamboos. Thou and I will cross the eastern fields and shoot at her as she breaks through.” But there was really no time to plan a complete campaign. Even now, the first gray of twilight was blurring the sharp outlines of the jungle, and the soft jungle night was hovering, ready to descend. Warwick’s plan was to cut through to a certain little creek that flowed into the river and with Singhai to continue on to the edge of the bamboos that overlooked a wide field. The beaters would prevent the tigress from turning back beyond the village, and it was at least possible that he would get a shot at her as she burst from the jungle and crossed the field to the heavier thickets beyond. “Warwick Sahib walks into the teeth of his enemy,” Khusru, the hunter, told a little group that watched from the village gate. “Nahara will collect her debts.” A little brown boy shivered at his words and wondered if the beaters would turn and kick him, as they had always done before, if he should attempt to follow them. It was the tiger-hunt, in view of his own village, and he sat down, tremulous with rapture, in the grass to watch. It was almost as if his dream–that he himself should be a hunter of tigers–was coming true. He wondered why the beaters seemed to move so slowly and with so little heart. He would have known if he could have looked into their eyes. Each black pupil was framed with white. Human hearts grow shaken and bloodless from such sights as this they had just seen, and only the heart of a jungle creature–the heart of the eagle that the jungle gods, by some unheard-of fortune, had put in the breast of Little Shikara–could prevail against them. Besides, the superstitious Burmans thought that Warwick was walking straight to death–that the time had come for Nahara to collect her debts. III Warwick Sahib and Singhai disappeared at once into the fringe of jungle, and silence immediately fell upon them. The cries of the beaters at once seemed curiously dim. It was as if no sound could live in the great silences under the arching trees. Soon it was as if they were alone. They walked side by side, Warwick with his rifle held ready. He had no false ideas in regard to this tiger-hunt. He knew that his prey was desperate with hunger, that she had many old debts to pay, and that she would charge on sight. The self-rage that is felt on missing some particularly fortunate chance is not confined to human beings alone. There is an old saying in the forest that a feline that has missed his stroke is like a jackal in dog-days–and that means that it is not safe to be anywhere in the region with him. He simply goes rabid and is quite likely to leap at the first living thing that stirs. Warwick knew that Nahara had just been cheated out of her kill and someone in the jungle would pay for it. The gaudy birds that looked down from the tree-branches could scarcely recognize this prematurely gray man as a hunter. He walked rather quietly, yet with no conscious effort toward stealth. The rifle rested easily in his arms, his gray eyes were quiet and thoughtful as always. Singularly, his splendid features were quite in repose. The Burman, however, had more of the outer signs of alertness; and yet there was none of the blind terror upon him that marked the beaters. “Where are the men?” Warwick asked quietly. “It is strange that we do not hear them shouting.” “They are afraid, Sahib,” Singhai replied. “The forest pigs have left us to do our own hunting.” Warwick corrected him with a smile. “Forest pigs are brave enough,” he answered. “They are sheep–just sheep–sheep of the plains.” The broad trail divided, like a three-tined candlestick, into narrow trails. Warwick halted beside the centre of the three that led to the creek they were obliged to cross. Just for an instant he stood watching, gazing into the deep-blue dusk of the deeper jungle. Twilight was falling softly. The trails soon vanished into shadow–patches of deep gloom, relieved here and there by a bright leaf that reflected the last twilight rays. A living creature coughed and rustled away in the thickets beside him. “There is little use of going on,” he said. “It is growing too dark. But there will be killings before the dawn if we don’t get her first.” The servant stood still, waiting. It was not his place to advise his master. “If we leave her, she’ll come again before the dawn. Many of the herders haven’t returned–she’ll get one of them sure. At least we may cross the creek and get a view of the great fields. She is certain to cross them if she has heard the beaters.” In utter silence they went on. One hundred yards farther they came to the creek, and both strode in together to ford. The water was only knee-deep, but Warwick’s boots sank three inches in the mud of the bottom. And at that instant the gods of the jungle, always waiting with drawn scimitar for the unsuspecting, turned against them. Singhai suddenly splashed down into the water, on his hands and knees. He did not cry out. If he made any sound at all, it was just a shivering gasp that the splash of water wholly obscured. But the thing that brought home the truth to Warwick was the pain that flashed, vivid as lightning, across his dark face; and the horror of death that left its shadow. Something churned and writhed in the mud; and then Warwick fired. Both of them had forgotten Mugger, the crocodile, that so loves to wait in the mud of a ford. He had seized Singhai’s foot, and had already snatched him down into the water when Warwick fired. No living flesh can withstand the terrible, rending shock of a high-powered sporting rifle at close range. Mugger had plates of armour, but even these could not have availed against it if he had been exposed to the fire. As it was, several inches of water stood between, a more effective armour than a two-inch steel plate on a battleship. Of course the shock carried through, a smashing blow that caused the reptile to release his hold on Singhai’s leg; but before the native could get to his feet he had struck again. The next instant both men were fighting for their lives. They fought with their hands, and Warwick fought with his rifle, and the native slashed again and again with the long knife that he carried at his belt. To a casual glance, a crocodile is wholly incapable of quick action. These two found him a slashing, darting, wolf-like thing, lunging with astounding speed through the muddied water, knocking them from their feet and striking at them as they fell. The reptile was only half grown, but in the water they had none of the usual advantages that man has over the beasts with which he does battle. Warwick could not find a target for his rifle. But even human bodies, usually so weak, find themselves possessed of an amazing reserve strength and agility in the moment of need. These men realized perfectly that their lives were the stakes for which they fought, and they gave every ounce of strength and energy they had. Their aim was to hold the mugger off until they could reach the shore. At last, by a lucky stroke, Singhai’s knife blinded one of the lurid reptile eyes. He was prone in the water when he administered it, and it went home just as the savage teeth were snapping at his throat. For an instant the great reptile flopped in an impotent half-circle, partly reared out of the water. It gave Warwick a chance to shoot, a single instant in which the rifle seemed to whirl about in his arms, drive to his shoulder, and blaze in the deepening twilight. And the shot went true. It pierced the mugger from beneath, tearing upward through the brain. And then the agitated waters of the ford slowly grew quiet. The last echo of the report was dying when Singhai stretched his bleeding arms about Warwick’s body, caught up the rifle and dragged them forty feet up on the shore. It was an effort that cost the last of his strength. And as the stars popped out of the sky, one by one, through the gray of dusk, the two men lay silent, side by side, on the grassy bank. Warwick was the first to regain consciousness. At first he didn’t understand the lashing pain in his wrists, the strange numbness in one of his legs, the darkness with the great white Indian stars shining through. Then he remembered. And he tried to stretch his arm to the prone form beside him. The attempt was an absolute failure. The cool brain dispatched the message, it flew along the telegraph-wires of the nerves, but the muscles refused to react. He remembered that the teeth of the mugger had met in one of the muscles of his upper arm, but before unconsciousness had come upon him he had been able to lift the gun to shoot. Possibly infection from the bite had in some manner temporarily paralyzed the arm. He turned, wracked with pain, on his side and lifted his left arm. In doing so his hand crossed before his eyes–and then he smiled wanly in the darkness. It was quite like Warwick, sportsman and English gentleman, to smile at a time like this. Even in the gray darkness of the jungle night he could see the hand quite plainly. It no longer looked slim and white. And he remembered that the mugger had caught his fingers in one of its last rushes. He paused only for one glance at the mutilated member. He knew that his first work was to see how Singhai had fared. In that glance he was boundlessly relieved to see that the hand could unquestionably be saved. The fingers were torn, yet their bones did not seem to be severed. Temporarily at least, however, the hand was utterly useless. The fingers felt strange and detached. He reached out to the still form beside him, touching the dark skin first with his fingers, and then, because they had ceased to function, with the flesh of his wrist. He expected to find it cold. Singhai was alive, however, and his warm blood beat close to the dark skin. But he was deeply unconscious, and it was possible that one foot was hopelessly mutilated. For a moment Warwick lay quite still, looking his situation squarely in the face. He did not believe that either he or his attendant was mortally or even very seriously hurt. True, one of his arms had suffered paralysis, but there was no reason for thinking it had been permanently injured. His hand would be badly scarred, but soon as good as ever. The real question that faced them was that of getting back to the bungalow. Walking was out of the question. His whole body was bruised and lacerated, and he was already dangerously weak from loss of blood. It would take all his energy, these first few hours, to keep his consciousness. Besides, it was perfectly obvious that Singhai could not walk. And English gentlemen do not desert their servants at a time like this. The real mystery lay in the fact that the beaters had not already found and rescued them. He wore a watch with luminous dial on his left wrist, and he managed to get it before his eyes. And then understanding came to him. A full hour had passed since he and his servant had fought the mugger in the ford. And the utter silence of early night had come down over the jungle. There was only one thing to believe. The beaters had evidently heard him shoot, sought in vain for him in the thickets, possibly passed within a few hundred feet of him, and because he had been unconscious he had not heard them or called to them, and now they had given him up for lost. He remembered with bitterness how all of them had been sure that an encounter with Nahara would cost him his life, and would thus be all the more quick to believe he had died in her talons. Nahara had her mate and her own lameness to avenge, they had said, attributing in their superstition human emotions to the brute natures of animals. It would have been quite useless for Warwick to attempt to tell them that the male tiger, in the mind of her wicked mate, was no longer even a memory, and that premeditated vengeance is an emotion almost unknown in the animal world. Without leaders or encouragement, and terribly frightened by the scene they had beheld before the village, they had quickly given up any attempt to find his body. There had been none among them coolheaded enough to reason out which trail he had likely taken, and thus look for him by the ford. Likely they were already huddled in their thatched huts, waiting till daylight. Then he called in the darkness. A heavy body brushed through the creepers, and stepping falsely, broke a twig. He thought at first that it might be one of the villagers, coming to look for him. But at once the step was silenced. Warwick had a disturbing thought that the creature that had broken the twig had not gone away, but was crouching down, in a curious manner, in the deep shadows. Nahara had returned to her hunting. IV “Some time I, too, will be a hunter of tigers,” Little Shikara told his mother when the beaters began to circle through the bamboos. “To carry a gun beside Warwick Sahib–and to be honoured in the circle under the tree!” But his mother hardly listened. She was quivering with fright. She had seen the last part of the drama in front of the village; and she was too frightened even to notice the curious imperturbability of her little son. But there was no orderly retreat after Little Shikara had heard the two reports of the rifle. At first there were only the shouts of the beaters, singularly high-pitched, much running back and forth in the shadows, and then a pell-mell scurry to the shelter of the villages. For a few minutes there was wild excitement at the village gates. Warwick Sahib was dead, they said–they had heard the shots and run to the place of firing, and beat up and down through the bamboos; and Warwick Sahib had surely been killed and carried off by the tigress. This dreadful story told, most of the villagers went to hide at once in their huts; only a little circle of the bravest men hovered at the gate. They watched with drawn faces the growing darkness. But there was one among them who was not yet a man grown; a boy so small that he could hover, unnoticed, in the very smallest of the terrible shadow-patches. He was Little Shikara, and he was shocked to the very depths of his worshipping heart. For Warwick had been his hero, the greatest man of all time, and he felt himself burning with indignation that the beaters should return so soon. And it was a curious fact that he had not as yet been infected with the contagion of terror that was being passed from man to man among the villagers. Perhaps his indignation was too absorbing an emotion to leave room for terror, and perhaps, far down in his childish spirit, he was made of different stuff. He was a child of the jungle, and perhaps he had shared of that great imperturbability and impassiveness that is the eternal trait of the wildernesses. He went up to one of the younger beaters who had told and retold a story of catching a glimpse of Nahara in the thickets until no one was left to tell it to. He was standing silent, and Little Shikara thought it possible that he might reach his ears. “Give ear, Puran,” he pleaded. “Didst thou look for his body beside the ford over Tarai stream?” “Nay, little one–though I passed within one hundred paces.” “Dost thou not know that he and Singhai would of a certainty cross at the ford to reach the fringe of jungle from which he might watch the eastern field? Some of you looked on the trail beside the ford, but none looked at the ford itself. And the sound of the rifle seemed to come from thence.” “But why did he not call out?” “Dead men could not call, but at least ye might have frightened Nahara from the body. But perhaps he is wounded, unable to speak, and lies there still–“ But Puran had found another listener for his story, and speedily forgot the boy. He hurried over to another of the villagers, Khusru the hunter. “Did no one look by the ford?” he asked, almost sobbing. “For that is the place he had gone.” The native’s eyes seemed to light. “Hai, little one, thou hast thought of what thy elders had forgotten. There is level land there, and clear. And I shall go at the first ray of dawn–“ “But not to-night, Khusru–?” “Nay, little sinner! Wouldst thou have me torn to pieces?” Lastly Little Shikara went to his own father, and they had a moment’s talk at the outskirts of the throng. But the answer was nay–just the same. Even his brave father would not go to look for the body until daylight came. The boy felt his skin prickling all over. “But perhaps he is only wounded–and left to die. If I go and return with word that he is there, wilt thou take others and go out and bring him in?” “Thou goest!” His father broke forth in a great roar of laughter. “Why, thou little hawk! One would think that thou wert a hunter of tigers thyself!” Little Shikara blushed beneath the laughter. For he was a very boyish little boy in most ways. But it seemed to him that his sturdy young heart was about to break open from bitterness. All of them agreed that Warwick Sahib, perhaps wounded and dying, might be lying by the ford, but none of them would venture forth to see. Unknowing, he was beholding the expression of a certain age-old trait of human nature. Men do not fight ably in the dark. They need their eyes, and they particularly require a definite object to give them determination. If these villagers knew for certain that the Protector of the Poor lay wounded or even dead beside the ford, they would have rallied bravely, encouraged one another with words and oaths, and gone forth to rescue him; but they wholly lacked the courage to venture again into the jungle on any such blind quest as Little Shikara suggested. But the boy’s father should not have laughed. He should have remembered the few past occasions when his straight little son had gone into the jungle alone; and that remembrance should have silenced him. The difficulty lay in the fact that he supposed his boy and he were of the same flesh, and that Little Shikara shared his own great dread of the night-curtained jungle. In this he was very badly mistaken. Little Shikara had an inborn understanding and love of the jungle; and except for such material dangers as that of Nahara, he was not afraid of it at all. He had no superstitions in regard to it. Perhaps he was too young. But the main thing that the laugh did was to set off, as a match sets off powder, a whole heartful of unexploded indignation in Shikara’s breast. These villagers not only had deserted their patron and protector, but also they had laughed at the thought of rescue! His own father had laughed at him. Little Shikara silently left the circle of villagers and turned into the darkness. At once the jungle silence closed round him. He hadn’t dreamed that the noise of the villagers would die so quickly. Although he could still see the flame of the fire at the village gate behind him, it was almost as if he had at once dropped off into another world. Great flowers poured perfume down upon him, and at seemingly a great distance he heard the faint murmur of the wind. At first, deep down in his heart, he had really not intended to go all the way. He had expected to steal clear to the outer edge of the firelight; and then stand listening to the darkness for such impressions as the jungle would choose to give him. But there had been no threshold, no interlude of preparation. The jungle in all its mystery had folded about him at once. He trotted softly down the elephant trail, a dim, fleet shadow that even the keen eyes of Nahara could scarcely have seen. At first he was too happy to be afraid. He was always happy when the jungle closed round him. Besides, if Nahara had killed, she would be full-fed by now and not to be feared. Little Shikara hastened on, trembling all over with a joyous sort of excitement. If a single bird had flapped its wings in the branches, if one little rodent had stirred in the underbrush, Little Shikara would likely have turned back. But the jungle-gods, knowing their son, stilled all the forest voices. He crept on, still looking now and again over his shoulder to see the village fire. It still made a bright yellow triangle in the dusk behind him. He didn’t stop to think that he was doing a thing most grown natives and many white men would not have dared to do–to follow a jungle trail unarmed at night. If he had stopped to think at all he simply would have been unable to go on. He was only following his instincts, voices that such forces as maturity and grown-up intelligence and self-consciousness obscure in older men–and the terror of the jungle could not touch him. He went straight to do what service he could for the white sahib that was one of his lesser gods. Time after time he halted, but always he pushed on a few more feet. Now he was over halfway to the ford, clear to the forks in the trail. And then he turned about with a little gasp of fear. The light from the village had gone out. The thick foliage of the jungle had come between. He was really frightened now. It wasn’t that he was afraid he couldn’t get back. The trail was broad and hard and quite gray in the moonlight. But those far-off beams of light had been a solace to his spirit, a reminder that he had not yet broken all ties with the village. He halted, intending to turn back. Then a thrill began at his scalp and went clear to his bare toes. Faint through the jungle silences he heard Warwick Sahib calling to his faithless beaters. The voice had an unmistakable quality of distress. Certain of the villagers–a very few of them–said afterward that Little Shikara continued on because he was afraid to go back. They said that he looked upon the Heaven-born sahib as a source of all power, in whose protection no harm could befall him, and he sped toward him because the distance was shorter than back to the haven of fire at the village. But those who could look deeper into Little Shikara’s soul knew different. In some degree at least he hastened on down that jungle trail of peril because he knew that his idol was in distress, and by laws that went deep he knew he must go to his aid. V The first few minutes after Warwick had heard a living step in the thickets he spent in trying to reload his rifle. He carried other cartridges in the right-hand trousers pocket, but after a few minutes of futile effort it became perfectly evident that he was not able to reach them. His right arm was useless, and the fingers of his left, lacerated by the mugger’s bite, refused to take hold. He had, however, three of the five shells the rifle held still in his gun. The single question that remained was whether or not they would be of use to him. The rifle lay half under him, its stock protruding from beneath his body. With the elbow of his left arm he was able to work it out. Considering the difficulties under which he worked, he made amazingly few false motions; and yet he worked with swiftness. Warwick was a man who had been schooled and trained by many dangers; he had learned to face them with open eyes and steady hands, to judge with unclouded thought the exact percentage of his chances. He knew now that he must work swiftly. The shape in the shadow was not going to wait all night. But at that moment the hope of preserving his life that he had clung to until now broke like a bubble in the sunlight. He could not lift the gun to swing and aim it at a shape in the darkness. With his mutilated hands he could not cock the strong-springed hammer. And if he could do both these things with his fumbling, bleeding, lacerated fingers, his right hand could not be made to pull the trigger. Warwick Sahib knew at last just where he stood. Yet if human sight could have penetrated that dusk, it would have beheld no change of expression in the lean face. An English gentleman lay at the frontier of death. But that occasioned neither fawning nor a loss of his rigid self-control. Two things remained, however, that he might do. One was to call and continue to call, as long as life lasted in his body. He knew perfectly that more than once in the history of India a tiger had been kept at a distance, at least for a short period of time, by shouts alone. In that interlude, perhaps help might come from the village. The second thing was almost as impossible as raising and firing the rifle; but by the luck of the gods he might achieve it. He wanted to find Singhai’s knife and hold it compressed in his palm. It wasn’t that he had any vain hopes of repelling the tiger’s attack with a single knife-blade that would be practically impossible for his mutilated hand to hold. Nahara had five or so knife-blades in every paw and a whole set of them in her mouth. She could stand on four legs and fight, and Warwick could not lift himself on one elbow and yet wield the blade. But there were other things to be done with blades, even held loosely in the palm, at a time like this. He knew rather too much of the way of tigers. They do not always kill swiftly. It is the tiger way to tease, long moments, with half-bared talons; to let the prey crawl away a few feet for the rapture of leaping at it again; to fondle with an exquisite cruelty for moments that seem endless to its prey. A knife, on the other hand, kills quickly. Warwick much preferred the latter death. And even as he called, again and again, he began to feel about in the grass with his lacerated hand for the hilt of the knife. Nahara was steadily stealing toward him through the shadows. The great tigress was at the height of her hunting madness. The earlier adventure of the evening when she had missed her stroke, the stir and tumult of the beaters in the wood, her many days of hunger, had all combined to intensify her passion. And finally there had come the knowledge, in subtle ways, that two of her own kind of game were lying wounded and helpless beside the ford. But even the royal tiger never forgets some small measure of its caution. She did not charge at once. The game looked so easy that it was in some way suggestive of a trap. She crept forward, a few feet at a time. The wild blood began to leap through the great veins. The hair went stiff on the neck muscles. But Warwick shouted; and the sound for an instant appalled her. She lurked in the shadows. And then, as she made a false step, Warwick heard her for the first time. Again she crept forward, to pause when Warwick raised his voice the second time. The man knew enough to call at intervals rather than continuously. A long, continued outcry would very likely stretch the tiger’s nerves to a breaking point and hurl her into a frenzy that would probably result in a death-dealing charge. Every few seconds he called again. In the intervals between the tiger crept forward. Her excitement grew upon her. She crouched lower. Her sinewy tail had whipped softly at first; now it was lashing almost to her sides. And finally it began to have a slight vertical movement that Warwick, fortunately for his spirit, could not see. Then the little light that the moon poured down was suddenly reflected in Nahara’s eyes. All at once they burned out of the dusk; two blue-green circles of fire fifty feet distant in the darkness. At that Warwick gasped–for the first time. In another moment the great cat would be in range–and he had not yet found the knife. Nothing remained to believe but that it was lost in the mud of the ford, fifty feet distant, and that the last dread avenue of escape was cut off. But at that instant the gasp gave way to a whispered oath of wonder. Some living creature was running lightly down the trail toward him–soft, light feet that came with amazing swiftness. For once in his life Warwick did not know where he stood. For once he was the chief figure of a situation he did not entirely understand. He tried to probe into the darkness with his tired eyes. “Here I am!” he called. The tiger, starting to creep forward once more, halted at the voice. A small straight figure sped like an arrow out of the thickets and halted at his side. It was such an astounding appearance as for an instant completely paralyzes the mental faculties. Warwick’s first emotion was simply a great and hopeless astonishment. Long inured to the mystery of the jungle, he thought he had passed the point where any earthly happening could actually bewilder him. But in spite of it, in spite of the fire-eyed peril in the darkness, he was quite himself when he spoke. The voice that came out of the silence was wholly steady–a kindly, almost amused voice of one who knows life as it is and who has mastered his own destiny. “Who in the world?” he asked in the vernacular. “It is I–Little Shikara,” a tremulous voice answered. Except for the tremor he could not keep from his tone, he spoke as one man to another. Warwick knew at once that Little Shikara was not yet aware of the presence of the tiger fifty feet distant in the shadows. But he knew nothing else. The whole situation was beyond his ken. But his instincts were manly and true. “Then run speedily, little one,” he whispered, “back to the village. There is danger here in the dark.” Little Shikara tried to speak, and he swallowed painfully. A lump had come in his throat that at first would not let him talk. “Nay, Protector of the Poor!” he answered. “I–I came alone. And I–I am thy servant.” Warwick’s heart bounded. Not since his youth had left him to a gray world had his strong heart leaped in just this way before. “Merciful God!” he whispered in English. “Has a child come to save me?” Then he whipped again into the vernacular and spoke swiftly; for no further seconds were to be wasted. “Little Shikara, have you ever fired a gun?” “No, Sahib–“ “Then lift it up and rest it across my body. Thou knowest how it is held–“ Little Shikara didn’t know exactly, but he rested the gun on Warwick’s body; and he had seen enough target practice to crook his finger about the trigger. And together, the strangest pair of huntsmen that the Indian stars ever looked down upon, they waited. “It is Nahara,” Warwick explained softly. For he had decided to be frank with Little Shikara, trusting all to the courage of a child. “It all depends on thee. Pull back the hammer with thy thumb.” Little Shikara obeyed. He drew it back until it clicked and did not, as Warwick had feared, let it slip through his fingers back against the breach. “Yes, Sahib,” he whispered breathlessly. His little brave heart seemed about to explode in his breast. But it was the test, and he knew he must not waver in the sahib’s eyes. “It is Nahara, and thou art a man,” Warwick said again. “And now thou must wait until thou seest her eyes.” So they strained into the darkness; and in an instant more they saw again the two circles of greenish, smouldering fire. They were quite near now–Nahara was almost in leaping range. “Thou wilt look through the little hole at the rear and then along the barrel,” Warwick ordered swiftly, “and thou must see the two eyes along the little notch in front.” “I see, Sahib–and between the eyes,” came the same breathless whisper. The little brown body held quite still. Warwick could not even feel it trembling against his own. For the moment, by virtue of some strange prank of Shiv, the jungle-gods were giving their own strength to this little brown son of theirs beside the ford. “Thou wilt not jerk or move?” “Nay, Sahib.” And he spoke true. The world might break to pieces or blink out, but he would not throw off his aim by any terror motions. They could see the tiger’s outline now–the lithe, low-hung body, the tail that twitched up and down. “Then pull the trigger,” Warwick whispered. The whole jungle world rocked and trembled from the violence of the report. When the villagers, aroused by the roar of the rifle and led by Khusru and Puran and Little Shikara’s father, rushed down with their firebrands to the ford, their first thought was that they had come only to the presence of the dead. Three human beings lay very still beside the stream, and fifty feet in the shadows something else, that obviously was not a human being, lay very still, too. But they were not to have any such horror story to tell their wives. Only one of the three by the ford, Singhai, the gun-bearer, was even really unconscious; Little Shikara, the rifle still held lovingly in his arms, had gone into a half-faint from fear and nervous exhaustion, and Warwick Sahib had merely closed his eyes to the darting light of the firebrands. The only death that had occurred was that of Nahara the tigress–and she had a neat hole bored completely through her neck. To all evidence, she had never stirred after Little Shikara’s bullet had gone home. After much confusion and shouting and falling over one another, and gazing at Little Shikara as if he were some new kind of a ghost, the villagers got a stretcher each for Singhai and the Protector of the Poor. And when they got them well loaded into them, and Little Shikara had quite come to himself and was standing with some bewilderment in a circle of staring townspeople, a clear, commanding voice ordered that they all be silent. Warwick Sahib was going to make what was the nearest approach to a speech that he had made since various of his friends had decoyed him to a dinner in London some years before. The words that he said, the short vernacular words that have a way of coming straight to the point, established Little Shikara as a legend through all that corner of British India. It was Little Shikara who had come alone through the jungle, said he; it was Little Shikara’s shining eyes that had gazed along the barrel, and it was his own brown finger that had pulled the trigger. Thus, said Warwick, he would get the bounty that the British Government offered–British rupees that to a child’s eyes would be past counting. Thus in time, with Warwick’s influence, his would be a great voice through all of India. For small as he was, and not yet grown, he was of the true breed. After the shouting was done, Warwick turned to Little Shikara to see how he thought upon all these things. “Thou shalt have training for the army, little one, where thy good nerve will be of use, and thou shalt be a native officer, along with the sons of princes. I, myself, will see to it, for I do not hold my life so cheap that I will forget the thing that thou hast done to-night.” And he meant what he said. The villagers stood still when they saw his earnest face. “And what, little hawk, wilt thou have more?” he asked. Little Shikara trembled and raised his eyes. “Only sometimes to ride with thee, in thy howdah, as thy servant, when thou again seekest the tiger.” The whole circle laughed at this. They were just human, after all. Their firebrands were held high, and gleamed on Little Shikara’s dusky face, and made a lustre in his dark eyes. The circle, roaring with laughter, did not hear the sahib’s reply, but they did see him nod his head. “I would not dare go without thee now,” Warwick told him. And thus Little Shikara’s dreams came true–to be known through many villages as a hunter of tigers, and a brave follower and comrade of the forest trails. And thus he came into his own–in those far-off glades of Burma, in the jungles of the Manipur. THE MAN WHO CURSED THE LILIES By CHARLES TENNEY JACKSON From Short Stories Tedge looked from the pilot-house at the sweating deckhand who stood on the stubby bow of the Marie Louise heaving vainly on the pole thrust into the barrier of crushed water hyacinths across the channel. Crump, the engineer, shot a sullen look at the master ere he turned back to the crude oil motor whose mad pounding rattled the old bayou stern-wheeler from keel to hogchains. “She’s full ahead now!” grunted Crump. And then, with a covert glance at the single passenger sitting on the fore-deck cattle pens, the engineman repeated his warning, “Yeh’ll lose the cows, Tedge, if you keep on fightin’ the flowers. They’re bad f’r feed and water–they can’t stand another day o’ sun!” Tedge knew it. But he continued to shake his hairy fist at the deckhand and roar his anathemas upon the flower-choked bayou. He knew his crew was grinning evilly, for they remembered Bill Tedge’s year-long feud with the lilies. Crump had bluntly told the skipper he was a fool for trying to push up this little-frequented bayou from Cote Blanche Bay to the higher land of the west Louisiana coast, where he had planned to unload his cattle. Tedge had bought the cargo himself near Beaumont from a beggared ranchman whose stock had to go on the market because, for seven months, there had been no rain in eastern Texas, and the short-grass range was gone. Tedge knew where there was feed for the starving animals, and the Marie Louise was coming back light. By the Intercoastal Canal and the shallow string of bays along the Texas-Louisiana line, the bayou boat could crawl safely back to the grassy swamp lands that fringe the sugar plantations of Bayou Teche. Tedge had bought his living cargo so ridiculously cheap that if half of them stood the journey he would profit. And they would cost him nothing for winter ranging up in the swamp lands. In the spring he would round up what steers had lived and sell them, grass-fat, in New Orleans. He’d land them there with his flap-paddle bayou boat, too, for the Marie Louise ranged up and down the Inter-coastal Canal and the uncharted swamp lakes and bays adjoining, trading and thieving and serving the skipper’s obscure ends. Only now, when he turned up Cote Blanche Bay, some hundred miles west of the Mississippi passes, to make the last twenty miles of swamp channel to his landing, he faced his old problem. Summer long the water hyacinths were a pest to navigation on the coastal bayous, but this June they were worse than Tedge had ever seen. He knew the reason: the mighty Mississippi was at high flood, and as always then, a third of its yellow waters were sweeping down the Atchafalaya River on a “short cut” to the Mexican Gulf. And somewhere above, on its west bank, the Atchafalaya levees had broken and the flood waters were all through the coastal swamp channels. Tedge grimly knew what it meant. He’d have to go farther inland to find his free range, but now, worst of all, the floating gardens of the coast swamps were coming out of the numberless channels on the crevasse water. He expected to fight them as he had done for twenty years with his dirty bayou boat. He’d fight and curse and struggle through the les flotantes, and denounce the Federal Government, because it did not destroy the lilies in the obscure bayous where he traded, as it did on Bayou Teche and Terrebonne, with its pump-boats which sprayed the hyacinths with a mixture of oil and soda until the tops shrivelled and the trailing roots then dragged the flowers to the bottom. “Yeh’ll not see open water till the river cleans the swamps of lilies,” growled Crump. “I never seen the beat of ’em! The high water’s liftin’ ’em from ponds where they never been touched by a boat’s wheel and they’re out in the channels now. If yeh make the plantations yeh’ll have to keep eastard and then up the Atchafalaya and buck the main flood water, Tedge!” Tedge knew that, too. But he suddenly broke into curses upon his engineer, his boat, the sea and sky and man. But mostly the lilies. He could see a mile up the bayou between cypress-grown banks, and not a foot of water showed. A solid field of green, waxy leaves and upright purple spikes, jammed tight and moving. That was what made the master rage. They were moving–a flower glacier slipping imperceptibly to the gulf bays. They were moving slowly but inexorably, and his dirty cattle boat, frantically driving into the blockade, was moving backward–stern first! He hated them with the implacable fury of a man whose fists had lorded his world. A water hyacinth–what was it? He could stamp one to a smear on his deck, but a river of them no man could fight. He swore the lilies had ruined his whisky-running years ago to the Atchafalaya lumber camps; they blocked Grand River when he went to log-towing; they had cost him thousands of dollars for repairs and lost time in his swamp ventures. Bareheaded under the semi-tropic sun, he glowered at the lily-drift. Then he snarled at Crump to reverse the motor. Tedge would retreat again! “I’ll drive the boat clean around Southwest Pass to get shut of ’em! No feed, huh, for these cows! They’ll feed sharks, they will! Huh, Mr. Cowman, the blisterin’ lilies cost me five hundred dollars already!” The lone passenger smoked idly and watched the gaunt cattle staggering, penned in the flat, dead heat of the foredeck. Tedge cursed him, too, under his breath. Milt Rogers had asked to make the coast run from Beaumont on Tedge’s boat. Tedge remembered what Rogers said–he was going to see a girl who lived up Bayou Boeuf above Tedge’s destination. Tedge remembered that girl–a Cajan girl whom he once heard singing in the floating gardens while Tedge was battling and cursing to pass the blockade. He hated her for loving the lilies, and the man for loving her. He burst out again with his volcanic fury at the green and purple horde. “They’re a fine sight to see,” mused the other, “after a man’s eyes been burned out ridin’ the dry range; no rain in nine months up