"I once knew another travellin" partner of his," he began quickly; "used to live down Moosejaw Rapids way--"
"Is that so?" said Hank.
"Kind o" useful sort er feller," chimed in Morris.
All the idea the men had was to stop the tongue wagging before the discrepancies became so glaring that we should be forced to take notice of them, and ask questions. But, just as well try to stop an angry bull-moose on the run, or prevent Beaver Creek freezing in mid-winter by throwing in pebbles near the sh.o.r.e. Out it came! And, though the discrepancy this time was insignificant, it somehow brought us all in a second face to face with the inevitable and dreaded climax.
"And so I tramped all over that little bit of an island, hoping he might somehow have gotten in without my knowing it, and always thinking I _heard that awful last cry of his_ in the darkness--and then the night dropped down impenetrably, like a d.a.m.n thick blanket out of the sky, and--"
All eyes fell away from his face. Hank poked up the logs with his boot, and Morris seized an ember in his bare fingers to light his pipe, although it was already emitting clouds of smoke. But the professor caught the ball flying.
"I thought you said he sank without a cry," he remarked quietly, looking straight up into the frightened face opposite, and then riddling mercilessly the confused explanation that followed.
The c.u.mulative effect of all these forces, hitherto so rigorously repressed, now made itself felt, and the circle spontaneously broke up, everybody moving at once by a common instinct. The professor"s wife left the party abruptly, with excuses about an early start next morning. She first shook hands with Rushton, mumbling something about his comfort in the night.
The question of his comfort, however, devolved by force of circ.u.mstances upon myself, and he shared my tent. Just before wrapping up in my double blankets--for the night was bitterly cold--he turned and began to explain that he had a habit of talking in his sleep and hoped I would wake him if he disturbed me by doing so.
Well, he did talk in his sleep--and it disturbed me very much indeed.
The anger and violence of his words remain with me to this day, and it was clear in a minute that he was living over again some portion of the scene upon the lake. I listened, horror-struck, for a moment or two, and then understood that I was face to face with one of two alternatives: I must continue an unwilling eavesdropper, or I must waken him. The former was impossible for me, yet I shrank from the latter with the greatest repugnance; and in my dilemma I saw the only way out of the difficulty and at once accepted it.
Cold though it was, I crawled stealthily out of my warm sleeping-bag and left the tent, intending to keep the old fire alight under the stars and spend the remaining hours till daylight in the open.
As soon as I was out I noticed at once another figure moving silently along the sh.o.r.e. It was Hank Milligan, and it was plain enough what he was doing: he was examining the holes that had been cut in the upper ribs of the canoe. He looked half ashamed when I came up with him, and mumbled something about not being able to sleep for the cold. But, there, standing together beside the over-turned canoe, we both saw that the holes were far too small for a man"s hand and arm and could not possibly have been cut by two men hanging on for their lives in deep water. Those holes had been made afterwards.
Hank said nothing to me and I said nothing to Hank, and presently he moved off to collect logs for the fire, which needed replenishing, for it was a piercingly cold night and there were many degrees of frost.
Three days later Hank and Silver Fizz followed with stumbling footsteps the old Indian trail that leads from Beaver Creek to the southwards. A hammock was slung between them, and it weighed heavily. Yet neither of the men complained; and, indeed, speech between them was almost nothing.
Their thoughts, however, were exceedingly busy, and the terrible secret of the woods which formed their burden weighed far more heavily than the uncouth, shifting ma.s.s that lay in the swinging hammock and tugged so severely at their shoulders.
They had found "it" in four feet of water not more than a couple of yards from the lee sh.o.r.e of the island. And in the back of the head was a long, terrible wound which no man could possibly have inflicted upon himself.
John Silence
by Algernon Blackwood
"Not since the days of Poe have we read anything in his peculiar genre fit to be compared with this remarkable book. . . . He brings to his work an extraordinary knowledge of strange and unusual forms of spiritualistic phenomena, and steeps his pages in an atmosphere of real terror and expectancy."--_Observer_.
"When one says that Mr. Blackwood"s work approaches genius, the phrase is used in no light connection. This very remarkable book is a considerable and lasting addition to the literature of our time."--_Morning Post_.
"These are the most haunting and original ghost stories since "Uncle Silas" appeared."--_Morning Leader_.
"In the field which he has chosen, Mr. Blackwood stands without rival among contemporary writers."--_Manchester Guardian_.
"As original, as powerful, and as artistically written as that little masterpiece of Lytton"s, "The Haunters and the Haunted." He bears favourable comparison with Le Fanu. . . . A volume which has an extraordinary power of fascination."--_Birmingham Daily Post_.
"The story is absolutely arresting in its imaginative power."--_Daily Telegraph_.
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The Lost Valley
by Algernon Blackwood
"In one of the stories, "The Wendigo," the author gives us, perhaps, one of the most successful excursions into the grimly weird; quietly but surely he makes his reader come under the influence of the eerie, until the pages are half-reluctantly turned under the spell of a fearful fascination. Mr. Blackwood writes like a real artist."--_Daily Telegraph_.
"The book of a remarkably gifted writer."--_Daily News_.
"The stories are unforgettable. Through them all, too, runs the charm of an accomplished style. . . . Mr. Blackwood has indeed done well."--_Pall Mall Gazette_.
"Whether concerned with beauty or terror, fact or fancy, there is an individuality in Mr. Blackwood"s work which cannot be ignored, and there is also power which proceeds, we think, not so much from the fertility of a comprehensive imagination, but from the amazing conviction of the author"s power of expression, and a literary quality rarely met with in contemporary stories of mystery and imagination."--_Globe_.
"In his method of touching the well-springs of fear, of pity, and of horror, Mr. Blackwood often exhibits powers which can only properly be called masterly. In its way his work bids fair to become cla.s.sical . . .
an art superior to that of Bulwer-Lytton, at least as fine as Le Fanu"s, and hardly, if at all, inferior to that exhibited by the supreme living masters of the short story, Mr. Kipling and Mr. James."--_Birmingham Daily Post_.
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The Listener
by Algernon Blackwood
"These stories are literature . . . good stories, well imagined, carefully modelled, properly proportioned. . . . "The Insanity of Jones" is perhaps the most remarkable _tour de force_ in this remarkable book. . . . If Mr.