No More Learning

Carnehan was shivering, and I feared that
his mind might go. I wiped my face, took a fresh grip of the piteously
mangled hands, and said, "What happened after that? "

The momentary shift of my eyes had broken the clear current.

"What was you pleased to say? " whined Carnehan. "They took them without
any sound. Not a little whisper all along the snow, not though the King
knocked down the first man that set hand on him--not though old Peachey
fired his last cartridge into the brown of 'em. Not a single solitary
sound did those swines make. They just closed up tight, and I tell you
their furs stunk. There was a man called Billy Fish, a good friend of us
all, and they cut his throat, Sir, then and there, like a pig; and the
King kicks up the bloody snow and says, 'We've had a dashed fine run for
our money. What's coming next? ' But Peachey, Peachey Taliaferro, I tell
you, Sir, in confidence as betwixt two friends, he lost his head, Sir.
No, he didn't, neither. The King lost his head, so he did, all along o'
one of those cunning rope bridges. Kindly let me have the paper-cutter,
Sir. It tilted this way. They marched him a mile across that snow to a
rope bridge over a ravine with a river at the bottom. You may have seen
such. They prodded him behind like an ox. 'Damn your eyes! ' says the
King. 'D' you suppose I can't die like a gentleman? '

"He turns to Peachey--Peachey that was crying like a child. 'I've
brought you to this, Peachey,' says he. 'Brought you out of your happy
life to be killed in Kafiristan, where you was late Commander-in-Chief
of the Emperor's forces. Say you forgive me, Peachey. ' 'I do,' says
Peachey. 'Fully and freely do I forgive you, Dan. ' 'Shake hands,
Peachey,' says he. 'I'm going now. ' Out he goes, looking neither right
nor left, and when he was plumb in the middle of those dizzy dancing
ropes, 'Cut you beggars,' he shouts; and they cut, and old Dan fell,
turning round and round and round, twenty thousand miles, for he took
half an hour to fall till he struck the water, and I could see his body
caught on a rock with the gold crown close beside.

"But do you know what they did to Peachey between two pine trees? They
crucified him, Sir, as Peachey's hand will show. They used wooden pegs
for his hands and feet; but he didn't die. He hung there and screamed,
and they took him down next day, and said it was a miracle that he
wasn't dead. They took him down--poor old Peachey that hadn't done them
any harm--that hadn't done them any--"

He rocked to and fro and wept bitterly, wiping his eyes with the back of
his scarred hands and moaning like a child for some ten minutes.

"They was cruel enough to feed him up in the temple, because they said
he was more of a God than old Daniel that was a man. Then they turned
him out on the snow, and told him to go home, and Peachey came home in
about a year, begging along the roads quite safe; for Daniel Dravot he
walked before and said, 'Come along, Peachey. It's a big thing we're
doing. ' The mountains they danced at night, and the mountains they tried
to fall on Peachey's head, but Dan he held up his hand, and Peachey came
along bent double. He never let go of Dan's hand, and he never let go
of Dan's head. They gave it to him as a present in the temple, to remind
him not to come again; and though the crown was pure gold and Peachey
was starving, never would Peachey sell the same. You know Dravot, Sir!
You knew Right Worshipful Brother Dravot! Look at him now! "

He fumbled in the mass of rags round his bent waist; brought out a black
horsehair bag embroidered with silver thread; and shook therefrom on to
my table--the dried, withered head of Daniel Dravot! The morning sun,
that had long been paling the lamps, struck the red beard and blind
sunken eyes; struck, too, a heavy circlet of gold studded with raw
turquoises, that Carnehan placed tenderly on the battered temples.

"You be'old now," said Carnehan, "the Emperor in his 'abit as he
lived--the King of Kafiristan with his crown upon his head. Poor old
Daniel that was a monarch once! "

I shuddered, for, in spite of defacements manifold, I recognised the
head of the man of Marwar Junction. Carnehan rose to go. I attempted to
stop him. He was not fit to walk abroad. "Let me take away the whisky,
and give me a little money," he gasped. "I was a King once. I'll go to
the Deputy Commissioner and ask to set in the Poorhouse till I get my
health. No, thank you, I can't wait till you get a carriage for me. I've
urgent private affairs--in the south--at Marwar. "

He shambled out of the office and departed in the direction of the
Deputy Commissioner's house. That day at noon I had occasion to go down
the blinding-hot Mall, and I saw a crooked man crawling along the white
dust of the roadside, his hat in his hand, quavering dolorously after
the fashion of street-singers at Home. There was not a soul in sight,
and he was out of all possible earshot of the houses. And he sang
through his nose, turning his head from right to left:

"The Son of Man goes forth to war,
A golden crown to gain;
His blood-red banner streams afar--
Who follows in His train? "

I waited to hear no more, but put the poor wretch into my carriage and
drove him off to the nearest missionary for eventual transfer to the
Asylum. He repeated the hymn twice while he was with me, whom he did not
in the least recognise, and I left him singing it to the missionary.

Two days later I inquired after his welfare of the Superintendent of the
Asylum.

"He was admitted suffering from sunstroke. He died early yesterday
morning," said the Superintendent. "Is it true that he was half an hour
bareheaded in the sun at midday? "

"Yes," said I; "but do you happen to know if he had anything upon him by
any chance when he died? "

"Not to my knowledge," said the Superintendent.

And there the matter rests.

* * * * *




"THE FINEST STORY IN THE WORLD"

"O' ever the knightly years were gone
With the old world to the grave,
I was a king in Babylon
And you were a Christian slave. "
--W. E. Henley.

His name was Charlie Mears; he was the only son of his mother who was a
widow, and he lived in the north of London, coming into the City
every day to work in a bank. He was twenty years old and suffered from
aspirations. I met him in a public billiard-saloon where the marker
called him by his given name, and he called the marker "Bulls-eyes. "
Charley explained, a little nervously, that he had only come to the
place to look on, and since looking on at games of skill is not a cheap
amusement for the young, I suggested that Charlie should go back to his
mother.

That was our first step toward better acquaintance. He would call on
me sometimes in the evenings instead of running about London with his
fellow-clerks; and before long, speaking of himself as a young man must,
he told me of his aspirations, which were all literary. He desired to
make himself an undying name chiefly through verse, though he was not
above sending stories of love and death to the drop-a-penny-in-the-slot
journals. It was my fate to sit still while Charlie read me poems of
many hundred lines, and bulky fragments of plays that would surely
shake the world. My reward was his unreserved confidence, and the
self-revelations and troubles of a young man are almost as holy as those
of a maiden.

Charlie had never fallen in love, but was anxious to do so on the first
opportunity; he believed in all things good and all things honorable,
but, at the same time, was curiously careful to let me see that he
knew his way about the world as befitted a bank clerk on twenty-five
shillings a week. He rhymed "dove" with "love" and "moon" with "June,"
and devoutly believed that they had never so been rhymed before. The
long lame gaps in his plays he filled up with hasty words of apology and
description and swept on, seeing all that he intended to do so clearly
that he esteemed it already done, and turned to me for applause.

I fancy that his mother did not encourage his aspirations, and I know
that his writing-table at home was the edge of his washstand. This he
told me almost at the outset of our acquaintance; when he was ravaging
my bookshelves, and a little before I was implored to speak the truth
as to his chances of "writing something really great, you know. " Maybe
I encouraged him too much, for, one night, he called on me, his eyes
flaming with excitement, and said breathlessly:

"Do you mind--can you let me stay here and write all this evening? I
won't interrupt you, I won't really. There's no place for me to write in
at my mother's. "

"What's the trouble? " I said, knowing well what that trouble was.

"I've a notion in my head that would make the most splendid story that
was ever written. Do let me write it out here. It's such a notion! "

There was no resisting the appeal. I set him a table; he hardly
thanked me, but plunged into the work at once. For half an hour the pen
scratched without stopping. Then Charlie sighed and tugged his hair. The
scratching grew slower, there were more erasures, and at last ceased.
The finest story in the world would not come forth.

"It looks such awful rot now" he said, mournfully. "And yet it seemed so
good when I was thinking about it. What's wrong? "

I could not dishearten him by saying the truth. So I answered: "Perhaps
you don't feel in the mood for writing. "

"Yes I do--except when I look at this stuff. Ugh! "

"Read me what you've done," I said. He read, and it was wondrous bad
and he paused at all the specially turgid sentences, expecting a little
approval; for he was proud of those sentences, as I knew he would be.

"It needs compression," I suggested, cautiously.

"I hate cutting my things down. I don't think you could alter a word
here without spoiling the sense. It reads better aloud than when I was
writing it. "

"Charlie, you're suffering from an alarming disease afflicting a
numerous class. Put the thing by, and tackle it again in a week. "

"I want to do it at once. What do you think of it? "

"How can I judge from a half-written tale? Tell me the story as it lies
in your head. "

Charlie told, and in the telling there was everything that his ignorance
had so carefully prevented from escaping into the written word. I looked
at him, and wondering whether it were possible, that he did not know the
originality, the power of the notion that had come in his way? It was
distinctly a Notion among notions. Men had been puffed up with pride by
notions not a tithe as excellent and practicable. But Charlie babbled
on serenely, interrupting the current of pure fancy with samples of
horrible sentences that he purposed to use. I heard him out to the end.
It would be folly to allow his idea to remain in his own inept hands,
when I could do so much with it. Not all that could be done indeed; but,
oh so much!

"What do you think? " he said, at last. "I fancy I shall call it 'The
Story of a Ship. '"

"I think the idea's pretty good; but you won't Be able to handle it for
ever so long. Now I--"

"Would it be of any use to you? Would you care to take it? I should be
proud," said Charlie, promptly.

There are few things sweeter in this world than the guileless,
hot-headed, intemperate, open admiration of a junior. Even a woman in
her blindest devotion does not fall into the gait of the man she adores,
tilt her bonnet to the angle at which he wears his hat, or interlard her
speech with his pet oaths. And Charlie did all these things. Still
it was necessary to salve my conscience before I possessed myself of
Charlie's thoughts.

"Let's make a bargain. I'll give you a fiver for the notion," I said.

Charlie became a bank-clerk at once.

"Oh, that's impossible. Between two pals, you know, if I may call you
so, and speaking as a man of the world, I couldn't. Take the notion if
it's any use to you. I've heaps more. "

He had--none knew this better than I--but they were the notions of other
men.

"Look at it as a matter of business--between men of the world," I
returned. "Five pounds will buy you any number of poetry-books. Business
is business, and you may be sure I shouldn't give that price unless--"

"Oh, if you put it that way," said Charlie, visibly moved by the thought
of the books. The bargain was clinched with an agreement that he should
at unstated intervals come to me with all the notions that he possessed,
should have a table of his own to write at, and unquestioned right to
inflict upon me all his poems and fragments of poems. Then I said, "Now
tell me how you came by this idea. "

"It came by itself. " Charlie's eyes opened a little.

"Yes, but you told me a great deal about the hero that you must have
read before somewhere. "

"I haven't any time for reading, except when you let me sit here, and
on Sundays I'm on my bicycle or down the river all day. There's nothing
wrong about the hero, is there? "

"Tell me again and I shall understand clearly. You say that your hero
went pirating. How did he live? "

"He was on the lower deck of this ship-thing that I was telling you
about. "

"What sort of ship? "

"It was the kind rowed with oars, and the sea spurts through the
oar-holes and the men row sitting up to their knees in water. Then
there's a bench running down between the two lines of oars and an
overseer with a whip walks up and down the bench to make the men work. "

"How do you know that? "

"It's in the table. There's a rope running overhead, looped to the upper
deck, for the overseer to catch hold of when the ship rolls. When the
overseer misses the rope once and falls among the rowers, remember the
hero laughs at him and gets licked for it. He's chained to his oar of
course--the hero. "

"How is he chained? "

"With an iron band round his waist fixed to the bench he sits on, and a
sort of handcuff on his left wrist chaining him to the oar. He's on the
lower deck where the worst men are sent, and the only light comes from
the hatchways and through the oar-holes. Can't you imagine the sunlight
just squeezing through between the handle and the hole and wobbling
about as the ship moves? "

"I can, but I can't imagine your imagining it. "

"How could it be any other way? Now you listen to me. The long oars on
the upper deck are managed by four men to each bench, the lower ones
by three, and the lowest of all by two. Remember it's quite dark on the
lowest deck and all the men there go mad. When a man dies at his oar
on that deck he isn't thrown overboard, but cut up in his chains and
stuffed through the oar-hole in little pieces. "

"Why? " I demanded, amazed, not so much at the information as the tone of
command in which it was flung out.

"To save trouble and to frighten the others. It needs two overseers to
drag a man's body up to the top deck; and if the men at the lower deck
oars were left alone, of course they'd stop rowing and try to pull up
the benches by all standing up together in their chains. "

"You've a most provident imagination. Where have you been reading about
galleys and galley-slaves? "

"Nowhere that I remember. I row a little when I get the chance. But,
perhaps, if you say so, I may have read something. "

He went away shortly afterward to deal with booksellers, and I wondered
how a bank clerk aged twenty could put into my hands with a profligate
abundance of detail, all given with absolute assurance, the story of
extravagant and bloodthirsty adventure, riot, piracy, and death in
unnamed seas. He had led his hero a desperate dance through revolt
against the overseas, to command of a ship of his own, and ultimate
establishment of a kingdom on an island "somewhere in the sea, you
know"; and, delighted with my paltry five pounds, had gone out to buy
the notions of other men, that these might teach him how to write. I
had the consolation of knowing that this notion was mine by right of
purchase, and I thought that I could make something of it.

When next he came to me he was drunk--royally drunk on many poets for
the first time revealed to him. His pupils were dilated, his words
tumbled over each other, and he wrapped himself in quotations. Most of
all was he drunk with Longfellow.

"Isn't it splendid? Isn't it superb? " he cried, after hasty greetings.

"Listen to this--

"'Wouldst thou,' so the helmsman answered, 'Know the secret of the sea?
Only those who brave its dangers Comprehend its mystery. '

"By gum!

"'Only those who brave its dangers Comprehend its mystery. '" he repeated
twenty times, walking up and down the room and forgetting me. "But I can
understand it too," he said to himself. "I don't know how to thank you
for that fiver. And this; listen--

"'I remember the black wharves and the ships And the sea-tides tossing
free, And the Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the beauty and
mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea. '

"I haven't braved any dangers, but I feel as if I knew all about it. "

"You certainly seem to have a grip of the sea. Have you ever seen it? "

"When I was a little chap I went to Brighton once; we used to live in
Coventry, though, before we came to London. I never saw it.

"'When descends on the Atlantic The gigantic Storm-wind of the
Equinox. '"

He shook me by the shoulder to make me understand the passion that was
shaking himself.

"When that storm comes," he continued, "I think that all the oars in
the ship that I was talking about get broken, and the rowers have their
chests smashed in by the bucking oar-heads. By the way, have you done
anything with that notion of mine yet? "

"No. I was waiting to hear more of it from you. Tell me how in the world
you're so certain about the fittings of the ship. You know nothing of
ships. "

"I don't know. It's as real as anything to me until I try to write it
down. I was thinking about it only last night in bed, after you had
loaned me 'Treasure Island'; and I made up a whole lot of new things to
go into the story. "

"What sort of things? "

"About the food the men ate; rotten figs and black beans and wine in a
skin bag, passed from bench to bench. "

"Was the ship built so long ago as that? "

"As what? I don't know whether it was long ago or not. It's only a
notion, but sometimes it seems just as real as if it was true. Do I
bother you with talking about it? "

"Not in the least. Did you make up anything else? "

"Yes, but it's nonsense. " Charlie flushed a little.

"Never mind; let's hear about it. "

"Well, I was thinking over the story, and after awhile I got out of bed
and wrote down on a piece of paper the sort of stuff the men might be
supposed to scratch on their oars with the edges of their handcuffs. It
seemed to make the thing more lifelike. It is so real to me, y'know. "

"Have you the paper on you? "

"Ye-es, but what's the use of showing it? It's only a lot of scratches.
All the same, we might have 'em reproduced in the book on the front
page. "

"I'll attend to those details. Show me what your men wrote. "

He pulled out of his pocket a sheet of note-paper, with a single line of
scratches upon it, and I put this carefully away.

"What is it supposed to mean in English? " I said.

"Oh, I don't know. Perhaps it means 'I'm beastly tired. ' It's great
nonsense," he repeated, "but all those men in the ship seem as real
people to me. Do do something to the notion soon; I should like to see
it written and printed. "

"But all you've told me would make a long book. "

"Make it then. You've only to sit down and write it out. "

"Give me a little time. Have you any more notions? "

"Not just now. I'm reading all the books I've bought. They're splendid. "

When he had left I looked at the sheet of note-paper with the
inscription upon it. Then I took my head tenderly between both hands, to
make certain that it was not coming off or turning round.

Then--but there seemed to be no interval between quitting my rooms and
finding myself arguing with a policeman outside a door marked Private
in a corridor of the British Museum. All I demanded, as politely as
possible, was "the Greek antiquity man. " The policeman knew nothing
except the rules of the Museum, and it became necessary to forage
through all the houses and offices inside the gates. An elderly
gentleman called away from his lunch put an end to my search by holding
the note-paper between finger and thumb and sniffing at it scornfully.

"What does this mean? H'mm," said he. "So far as I can ascertain it is
an attempt to write extremely corrupt Greek on the part"--here he glared
at me with intention--"of an extremely illiterate--ah--person. " He read
slowly from the paper, "Pollock, Erckman, Tauchnitz, Henniker"--four
names familiar to me.

"Can you tell me what the corruption is supposed to mean--the gist of
the thing? " I asked.

"'I have been--many times--overcome with weariness in this particular
employment. That is the meaning. '" He returned me the paper, and I fled
without a word of thanks, explanation, or apology.

I might have been excused for forgetting much. To me of all men had been
given the chance to write the most marvelous tale in the world, nothing
less than the story of a Greek galley-slave, as told by himself. Small
wonder that his dreaming had seemed real to Charlie. The Fates that are
so careful to shut the doors of each successive life behind us had, in
this case, been neglectful, and Charlie was looking, though that he did
not know, where never man had been permitted to look with full knowledge
since Time began. Above all he was absolutely ignorant of the knowledge
sold to me for five pounds; and he would retain that ignorance, for
bank-clerks do not understand metempsychosis, and a sound commercial
education does not include Greek. He would supply me--here I capered
among the dumb gods of Egypt and laughed in their battered faces--with
material to make my tale sure--so sure that the world would hail it as
an impudent and vamped fiction. And I--I alone would know that it was
absolutely and literally true. I alone held this jewel to my hand for
the cutting and polishing.

Therefore I danced again among the gods till a policeman saw me and took
steps in my direction.

It remained now only to encourage Charlie to talk, and here there was no
difficulty. But I had forgotten those accursed books of poetry. He came
to me time after time, as useless as a surcharged phonograph--drunk on
Byron, Shelley, or Keats. Knowing now what the boy had been in his past
lives, and desperately anxious not to lose one word of his babble, I
could not hide from him my respect and interest. He misconstrued both
into respect for the present soul of Charlie Mears, to whom life was as
new as it was to Adam, and interest in his readings; and stretched my
patience to breaking point by reciting poetry--not his own now, but
that of others. I wished every English poet blotted out of the memory of
mankind. I blasphemed the mightiest names of song because they had drawn
Charlie from the path of direct narrative, and would, later, spur him to
imitate them; but I choked down my impatience until the first flood of
enthusiasm should have spent itself and the boy returned to his dreams.

"What's the use of my telling you what I think, when these chaps wrote
things for the angels to read? " he growled, one evening. "Why don't you
write something like theirs? "

"I don't think you're treating me quite fairly," I said, speaking under
strong restraint.

"I've given you the story," he said, shortly replunging into "Lara. "

"But I want the details. "

"The things I make up about that damned ship that you call a galley?
They're quite easy. You can just make 'em up yourself. Turn up the gas a
little, I want to go on reading. "

I could have broken the gas globe over his head for his amazing
stupidity. I could indeed make up things for myself did I only know what
Charlie did not know that he knew. But since the doors were shut behind
me I could only wait his youthful pleasure and strive to keep him
in good temper. One minute's want of guard might spoil a priceless
revelation: now and again he would toss his books aside--he kept them
in my rooms, for his mother would have been shocked at the waste of
good money had she seen them--and launched into his sea dreams. Again I
cursed all the poets of England. The plastic mind of the bank-clerk had
been overlaid, colored and distorted by that which he had read, and the
result as delivered was a confused tangle of other voices most like the
muttered song through a City telephone in the busiest part of the day.

He talked of the galley--his own galley had he but known it--with
illustrations borrowed from the "Bride of Abydos. " He pointed the
experiences of his hero with quotations from "The Corsair," and threw
in deep and desperate moral reflections from "Cain" and "Manfred,"
expecting me to use them all. Only when the talk turned on Longfellow
were the jarring cross-currents dumb, and I knew that Charlie was
speaking the truth as he remembered it.

"What do you think of this? " I said one evening, as soon as I understood
the medium in which his memory worked best, and, before he could
expostulate read him the whole of "The Saga of King Olaf! "

He listened open-mouthed, flushed his hands drumming on the back of the
sofa where he lay, till I came to the Songs of Emar Tamberskelver and
the verse:

"Emar then, the arrow taking From the loosened string, Answered: 'That
was Norway breaking 'Neath thy hand, O King. '"

He gasped with pure delight of sound.

"That's better than Byron, a little," I ventured.

"Better? Why it's true! How could he have known? "

I went back and repeated:

"'What was that? ' said Olaf, standing
On the quarter-deck,
'Something heard I like the stranding
Of a shattered wreck. '"

"How could he have known how the ships crash and the oars rip out and go
z-zzp all along the line? Why only the other night--But go back please
and read 'The Skerry of Shrieks' again. "

"No, I'm tired. Let's talk. What happened the other night? "

"I had an awful nightmare about that galley of ours. I dreamed I was
drowned in a fight. You see we ran alongside another ship in harbor. The
water was dead still except where our oars whipped it up. You know where
I always sit in the galley? " He spoke haltingly at first, under a fine
English fear of being laughed at.

"No. That's news to me," I answered, meekly, my heart beginning to beat.

"On the fourth oar from the bow on the right side on the upper deck.
There were four of us at the oar, all chained. I remember watching the
water and trying to get my handcuffs off before the row began. Then we
closed up on the other ship, and all their fighting men jumped over our
bulwarks, and my bench broke and I was pinned down with the three other
fellows on top of me, and the big oar jammed across our backs. "

"Well? " Charlie's eyes were alive and alight. He was looking at the wall
behind my chair.

"I don't know how we fought. The men were trampling all over my back,
and I lay low. Then our rowers on the left side--tied to their oars, you
know--began to yell and back water. I could hear the water sizzle, and
we spun round like a cockchafer and I knew, lying where I was, that
there was a galley coming up bow-on, to ram us on the left side. I could
just lift up my head and see her sail over the bulwarks. We wanted to
meet her bow to bow, but it was too late. We could only turn a little
bit because the galley on our right had hooked herself on to us and
stopped our moving. Then, by gum! there was a crash! Our left oars began
to break as the other galley, the moving one y'know, stuck her nose into
them. Then the lower-deck oars shot up through the deck-planking, butt
first, and one of them jumped clean up into the air and came down again
close to my head. "

"How was that managed? "

"The moving galley's bow was plunking them back through their own
oarholes, and I could hear the devil of a shindy in the decks below.
Then her nose caught us nearly in the middle, and we tilted sideways,
and the fellows in the right-hand galley unhitched their hooks and
ropes, and threw things on to our upper deck--arrows, and hot pitch or
something that stung, and we went up and up and up on the left side,
and the right side dipped, and I twisted my head round and saw the water
stand still as it topped the right bulwarks, and then it curled over and
crashed down on the whole lot of us on the right side, and I felt it hit
my back, and I woke. "

"One minute, Charlie. When the sea topped the bulwarks, what did it look
like? " I had my reasons for asking. A man of my acquaintance had
once gone down with a leaking ship in a still sea, and had seen the
water-level pause for an instant ere it fell on the deck.

"It looked just like a banjo-string drawn tight, and it seemed to stay
there for years," said Charlie.

Exactly! The other man had said: "It looked like a silver wire laid down
along the bulwarks, and I thought it was never going to break. " He had
paid everything except the bare life for this little valueless piece of
knowledge, and I had traveled ten thousand weary miles to meet him
and take his knowledge at second hand. But Charlie, the bank-clerk, on
twenty-five shillings a week, he who had never been out of sight of a
London omnibus, knew it all. It was no consolation to me that once in
his lives he had been forced to die for his gains. I also must have died
scores of times, but behind me, because I could have used my knowledge,
the doors were shut.

"And then? " I said, trying to put away the devil of envy.

"The funny thing was, though, in all the mess I didn't feel a bit
astonished or frightened. It seemed as if I'd been in a good many
fights, because I told my next man so when the row began. But that cad
of an overseer on my deck wouldn't unloose our chains and give us a
chance. He always said that we'd all Be set free after a battle, but we
never were; We never were. " Charlie shook his head mournfully.

"What a scoundrel! "

"I should say he was. He never gave us enough to eat, and sometimes
we were so thirsty that we used to drink salt-water. I can taste that
salt-water still. ''

"Now tell me something about the harbor where the fight was fought. "

"I didn't dream about that. I know it was a harbor, though; because we
were tied up to a ring on a white wall and all the face of the stone
under water was covered with wood to prevent our ram getting chipped
when the tide made us rock. "

"That's curious. Our hero commanded the galley? Didn't he? "

"Didn't he just! He stood by the bows and shouted like a good 'un. He
was the man who killed the overseer. "

"But you were all drowned together, Charlie, weren't you? "

"I can't make that fit quite," he said with a puzzled look. "The galley
must have gone down with all hands and yet I fancy that the hero went on
living afterward. Perhaps he climbed into the attacking ship. I wouldn't
see that, of course. I was dead, you know. "

He shivered slightly and protested that he could remember no more.

I did not press him further, but to satisfy myself that he lay in
ignorance of the workings of his own mind, deliberately introduced him
to Mortimer Collins's "Transmigration," and gave him a sketch of the
plot before he opened the pages.

"What rot it all is! " he said, frankly, at the end of an hour. "I don't
understand his nonsense about the Red Planet Mars and the King, and the
rest of it. Chuck me the Longfellow again. "

I handed him the book and wrote out as much as I could remember of his
description of the sea-fight, appealing to him from time to time for
confirmation of fact or detail. He would answer without raising his eyes
from the book, as assuredly as though all his knowledge lay before flint
on the printed page. I spoke under the normal key of my voice that the
current might not be broken, and I know that he was not aware of what he
was saying, for his thoughts were out on the sea with Longfellow.

"Charlie," I asked, "when the rowers on the galleys mutinied how did
they kill their overseers? "

"Tore up the benches and brained 'em.