Can Such Things Be [24]
the horrible thing's hand close upon his throat, his own clutch its wrists. Then the table was overturned, and candle thrown to the floor and extinguished, and all was black dark. But the noise of the struggle was dreadfully distinct, and most terrible of all were the raucous, squawking sounds made by the strangled man's efforts to breathe. Guided by the infernal hub- bub, I sprang to the rescue of my friend, but had hardly taken a stride in the darkness when the whole room blazed with a blinding white light that burned into my brain and heart and memory a vivid pic- ture of the combatants on the floor, Moxon under- neath, his throat still in the clutch of those iron hands, his head forced backward, his eyes protrud- ing, his mouth wide open and his tongue thrust out; and--horrible contrast!--upon the painted face of his assassin an expression of tranquil and pro- found thought, as in the solution of a problem in chess! This I observed, then all was blackness and silence. Three days later I recovered consciousness in a hospital. As the memory of that tragic night slowly evolved in my ailing brain I recognized in my at- tendant Moxon's confidential workman, Haley. Re- sponding to a look he approached, smiling. 'Tell me about it,' I managed to say, faintly-- 'all about it.' 'Certainly,' he said; 'you were carried uncon- scious from a burning house--Moxon's. Nobody knows how you came to be there. You may have to do a little explaining. The origin of the fire is a bit mysterious, too. My own notion is that the house was struck by lightning.' 'And Moxon?' 'Buried yesterday--what was left of him.' Apparently this reticent person could unfold him- self on occasion. When imparting shocking intelli- gence to the sick he was affable enough. After some moments of the keenest mental suffering I ven- tured to ask another question: 'Who rescued me?' 'Well, if that interests you--I did.' 'Thank you, Mr. Haley, and may God bless you for it. Did you rescue, also, that charming product of your skill, the automaton chess-player that mur- dered its inventor?' The man was silent a long time, looking away from me. Presently he turned and gravely said: 'Do you know that?' 'I do,' I replied; 'I saw it done.' That was many years ago. If asked to-day I should answer less confidently.
A TOUGH TUSSLE
ONE night in the autumn of 1861 a man sat alone in the heart of a forest in western Virginia. The region was one of the wildest on the continent--the Cheat Mountain country. There was no lack of people close at hand, however; within a mile of where the man sat was the now silent camp of a whole Federal brigade. Somewhere about--it might be still nearer--was a force of the enemy, the num- bers unknown. It was this uncertainty as to its numbers and position that accounted for the man's presence in that lonely spot; he was a young officer of a Federal infantry regiment and his business there was to guard his sleeping comrades in the camp against a surprise. He was in command of a detachment of men constituting a picket-guard. These men he had stationed just at nightfall in an irregular line, determined by the nature of the ground, several hundred yards in front of where he now sat. The line ran through the forest, among the rocks and laurel thickets, the men fifteen or twenty paces apart, all in concealment and under injunction of strict silence and unremitting vigilance. In four hours, if nothing occurred, they would be relieved by a fresh detachment from the reserve now resting in care of its captain some distance away to the left and rear. Before stationing his men the young officer of whom we are writing had pointed out to his two sergeants the spot at which he would be found if it should be necessary to consult him, or if his presence at the front line should be required. It was a quiet enough spot--the fork of an old wood-road, on the two branches of which, prolong- ing themselves deviously forward in the dim moon- light, the sergeants were themselves stationed, a few paces in rear of the line. If driven sharply back
A TOUGH TUSSLE
ONE night in the autumn of 1861 a man sat alone in the heart of a forest in western Virginia. The region was one of the wildest on the continent--the Cheat Mountain country. There was no lack of people close at hand, however; within a mile of where the man sat was the now silent camp of a whole Federal brigade. Somewhere about--it might be still nearer--was a force of the enemy, the num- bers unknown. It was this uncertainty as to its numbers and position that accounted for the man's presence in that lonely spot; he was a young officer of a Federal infantry regiment and his business there was to guard his sleeping comrades in the camp against a surprise. He was in command of a detachment of men constituting a picket-guard. These men he had stationed just at nightfall in an irregular line, determined by the nature of the ground, several hundred yards in front of where he now sat. The line ran through the forest, among the rocks and laurel thickets, the men fifteen or twenty paces apart, all in concealment and under injunction of strict silence and unremitting vigilance. In four hours, if nothing occurred, they would be relieved by a fresh detachment from the reserve now resting in care of its captain some distance away to the left and rear. Before stationing his men the young officer of whom we are writing had pointed out to his two sergeants the spot at which he would be found if it should be necessary to consult him, or if his presence at the front line should be required. It was a quiet enough spot--the fork of an old wood-road, on the two branches of which, prolong- ing themselves deviously forward in the dim moon- light, the sergeants were themselves stationed, a few paces in rear of the line. If driven sharply back