There was a sweeping blast of wind. It was followed by a blinding flash and then a roar like the rumble of a million celestial chariot wheels. The Jap hid his face while the lightning seared and streaked the sky as if an egg had been spattered to smithereens on a blackboard. The very air smelled sulphurous bvi company setup .

I—I guess we'll go back, said Kenworth.

Just then a wave struck the side of the bow and reared its white crest high above the tossing[Pg 154] craft. Saki sprang to his feet as the salt water came dousing down in a regular cloudburst. It drenched Kenworth to the skin and tore from the Jap a frightened shout.

Hope you like it, grinned Ned, the only collected person on the boat. The dark frenzy of Kenworth's mad passion had passed and now he saw with panic-stricken eyes the danger they were in. The wind was howling furiously and the waves were piling up on every side. It seemed impossible that the lightly built craft could live much longer in the tumult of waters .

Saki was in a panic of fear. Crouched on the bottom of the boat, his yellow face looked, in the glare of the almost incessant lightning, like some hideous war-mask of the old Samurai.

Ned gazed about him. The outlook was bad, very bad. And then there were those handcuffs. If only he could get them off. He addressed the terrified Saki.
You drop that wheel, and we'll all go to Davy Jones! shouted Ned.—Page 155

[Pg 155]

Here, you, take these handcuffs off. At once, do you hear me?

He felt no fear of the groveling wretch at his feet. He even emphasized his remarks by a threatening gesture of his foot.

Oh! Oh! Honorable Saki much frightened! wailed the Jap.

You contemptible yellow cur, snapped Ned, brace up! Do you hear me? Come now, quick, the key.

The Jap actually managed to struggle to his feet and produce the key. Kenworth saw what he was doing.

Stop that! he yelled, and began to let go of the wheel. A shout from Ned brought him to his senses.

You drop that wheel, and we'll all go to Davy Jones! shouted Ned.

Kenworth gripped the spokes again. If ever fear was written on a face, it was on his. The thought of the death that was so near paralyzed[Pg 156] him. Perhaps he thought of that other storm off the Cuban coast when Ned had brought them safely aboard through a wilder sea than this Karson Choi .

There’s someone trying to rob me!” yelled Ralph, still clutching the wrist he had caught. The next instant a hand was at his throat and a knee on his chest and he was choked into silence. But his cry had had its effect. Like a runaway[244] steer Mountain Jim came charging through the darkness.

Who in creation are you, you scallywag? What do you want?” he roared, grabbing hold of Ralph’s antagonist, for by good luck he had come straight in the direction of Ralph’s cry. Without giving whoever the midnight intruder was any chance to reply, Mountain Jim encircled him with his iron arm and hurled him clear across the room. They could hear a crash and grunt as the fellow fetched up, and then a rush of feet through the darkness followed by the crash of a heavy fall, caused apparently by a violent tumble down the steep stairs leading to the attic.

They listened intently and heard somebody picking himself up and limping off.

Well, what do you think of that?” exclaimed Mountain Jim. Serves me right for sleeping, though, Ralph. Are you hurt?”

Not a bit, but I feel half choked. That fellow had a half Nelson on my neck, all right.”

I guess I had a whole one on his,” chuckled Jim. Strike a match, Ralph, and let’s see what we can see.”

The match showed a revolver lying on the floor by Ralph’s bed apparently just as it had been dropped by the intruder when Jim’s mighty arm encircled him.

Humph! pretty good gun,” commented Jim dryly, looking the weapon over. I’ll bet a doughnut that the owner never sees it again, though.”

Who do you think it was?” asked Ralph.

In these bustling days of headline-up-to-date newspapers, one shrinks from reminding one’s readers that Xenophon gave excellent advice to cavalry trainers and leaders—advice which a cavalryman will recognize is quite as applicable to-day as it was in those distant ages; since details with regard to grooming horses on hard stones, exercising cavalry in rough ground, and so on are by no means out of date. There is every reason to believe that Alexander, and later Rome and Carthage at their zenith as military nations, had proportionately as highly-trained cavalry as is possessed by any nation of to-day. Those who have fought in rearguards and running fights realize that the Parthian method of fighting must have required the highest training and moral. The cavalry of the predominant nations were drawn from those who kept horses for their own sport and amusement, and for the gratification of their pride, and who felt they were better fighting men on a horse. The descendants of the horse-lovers2 of those ages are with us to-day; they are those who love danger, excitement, and pace, and who find in the blood-horse an animal which shares their love for these, and will generously sacrifice its life or limbs in the co-partnership.

Those who have never felt the sensation of a really good horse bounding and stretching away under them, and the consequent elation, the wonder as to “what could stop us?” cannot grasp what a cavalry soldier’s feelings are in the “Charge.”

Following the centuries which saw the final success of the ordered phalanx of Rome, time after time the more savage races of horsemen—Attila with his Hunnish squadrons or Abdur-Rahman with Moslem hordes—drive all before them, anticipating the flight of peace-loving, easy-going farmers and traders, living on the country and carrying off what pleases them.

Then held sway
The good old rule ... the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can.

Ages roll by, the picture changes. The days of Norman chivalry animate and fire the imagination. The hunter warriors, knights, and squires lead their troops in battle array, throwing them into the combat at the decisive moment.

Broken bones incurred whilst unhorsing a friend, or a shrewd spear-thrust when cleaving to the chine a foe, in single combat, were adventures by no means to be declined or avoided.

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Power by YOZOSOFT

Once the stormy years of his early struggles were over, Dr. Juvenal Urbino had followed a setroutine and achieved a respectability and prestige that had no equal in the province. He arose atthe crack of dawn, when he began to take his secret medicines: potassium bromide to raise hisspirits, salicylates for the ache in his bones when it rained, ergosterol drops for vertigo, belladonnafor sound sleep. He took something every hour, always in secret, because in his long life as adoctor and teacher he had always opposed prescribing palliatives for old age: it was easier for himto bear other people's pains than his own. In his pocket he always carried a little pad of camphorthat he inhaled deeply when no one was watching to calm his fear of so many medicines mixedtogether reenex facial .

He would spend an hour in his study preparing for the class in general clinical medicine thathe taught at the Medical School every morning, Monday through Saturday, at eight o'clock, untilthe day before his death. He was also an avid reader of the latest books that his bookseller in Parismailed to him, or the ones from Barcelona that his local bookseller ordered for him, although hedid not follow Spanish literature as closely as French. In any case, he never read them in themorning, but only for an hour after his siesta and at night before he went to sleep. When he wasfinished in the study he did fifteen minutes of respiratory exercises in front of the open window inthe bathroom, always breathing toward the side where the roosters were crowing, which waswhere the air was new. Then he bathed, arranged his beard and waxed his moustache in anatmosphere saturated with genuine cologne from Farina Gegen眉 ber, and dressed in white linen,with a vest and a soft hat and cordovan boots. At eighty-one years of age he preserved the sameeasygoing manner and festive spirit that he had on his return from Paris soon after the greatcholera epidemic, and except for the metallic colour, his carefully combed hair with the centre partwas the same as it had been in his youth. He breakfasted en famille but followed his own personalregimen of an infusion of wormwood blossoms for his stomach and a head of garlic that he peeledand ate a clove at a time, chewing each one carefully with bread, to prevent heart failure. Afterclass it was rare for him not to have an appointment related to his civic initiatives, or his Catholicservice, or his artistic and social innovations.

He almost always ate lunch at home and had a ten-minute siesta on the terrace in the patio,hearing in his sleep the songs of the servant girls under the leaves of the mango trees, the cries ofvendors on the street reenex cps , the uproar of oil and motors from the bay whose exhaust fumes flutteredthrough the house on hot afternoons like an angel condemned to putrefaction. Then he read hisnew books for an hour, above all novels and works of history, and gave lessons in French andsinging to the tame parrot who had been a local attraction for years. At four o'clock, after drinking a large glass of lemonade with ice, he left to call on his patients. In spite of his age he would notsee patients in his office and continued to care for them in their homes as he always had, since thecity was so domesticated that one could go anywhere in safety.

After he returned from Europe the first time, he used the family landau, drawn by two goldenchestnuts, but when this was no longer practical he changed it for a Victoria and a single horse,and he continued to use it, with a certain disdain for fashion, when carriages had already begun todisappear from the world and the only ones left in the city were for giving rides to tourists andcarrying wreaths at funerals. Although he refused to retire, he was aware that he was called in onlyfor hopeless cases, but he considered this a form of specialisation too. He could tell what waswrong with a patient just by looking at him, he grew more and more distrustful of patentmedicines, and he viewed with alarm the vulgarisation of surgery. He would say: "The scalpel isthe greatest proof of the failure of medicine." He thought that, in a strict sense, all medication waspoison and that seventy percent of common foods hastened death reducing acne scarring . "In any case," he would say inclass, "the little medicine we know is known only by a few doctors." From youthful enthusiasm hehad moved to a position that he himself defined as fatalistic humanism: "Each man is master of hisown death, and all that we can do when the time comes is to help him die without fear of pain."But despite these extreme ideas, which were already part of local medical folklore, his formerpupils continued to consult him even after they were established in the profession, for theyrecognised in him what was called in those days a clinical eye. In any event, he was always anexpensive and exclusive doctor, and his patients were concentrated in the ancestral homes in theDistrict of the Viceroys.