Masters of Adventure

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Masters of AdventureM A G A Z I N E

Issue number 1

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MASTERS OF ADVENTURE 1

MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE .............................................4EDGAR ALLAN POE • ILLUSTRATED BY G. W. THOMAS

SMITH AND THE PHARAOHS .........................................13H. RIDER HAGGARD • ILLUSTRATED BY M. D. JACKSON

THE BRAZILIAN CAT .................................................42A. CONAN DOYLE • ILLUSTRATED BY M. D. JACKSON

THE GROVE OF ASHTORATH .........................................56JOHN BUCHAN • ILLUSTRATED BY G. W. THOMAS

TARZAN RESCUES THE MOON .......................................74EDGAR RICE BURROUGHS • ILLUSTRATED BY M. D. JACKSON

A THOUSAND DEATHS ...............................................86JACK LONDON • ILLUSTRATED BY M. D. JACKSON

A TROPICAL HORROR ................................................94WILLIAM HOPE HODGSON • ILLUSTRATED BY G. W. THOMAS

BREATH OF ALLAH .................................................102SAX ROHMER • ILLUSTRATED BY G. W. THOMAS

THE PEOPLE OF THE PIT..........................................116A. MERRITT • ILLUSTRATED BY G. W. THOMAS

WINGS IN THE NIGHT .............................................128ROBERT E. HOWARD • ILLUSTRATED BY M. D. JACKSON

CONTENTS

Publishers:M. D. JacksonG. W. Thomas

Editor:G.W. Thomas

Art Director/Design:M.D. Jackson

Cover art and design:M.D. Jackson

All of the stories thatappear in this magazineare in the public domain.

MASTERS OF ADVENTURE — issued occasionally by the Dark Worlds Club, British Columbia, Canada. Copyright 2010. All Rights Reserved by the Editors and Author/Artist Partners. All copyright remains with the authors and artists. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written per-mission. No submissions will be accepted without invitation of the Dark Worlds Club. Let-ters of Comment can be sent to [email protected]. Each story in this anthology is a work of fi ction. Names, places, characters, and incidents in this anthology are either the product of the author’s imagi-nation or used fi ctitiously. Any resemblance to real people (liv-ing or dead) places, business establishments, locales, and/or events is entirely coincidental.

2 MASTERS OF ADVENTURE

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THE STORIES COLLECTED

here and in future volumes con-

tain the greatest fantastic adven-

ture stories produced in English

(and occasionally other languag-

es too).

Most were written between

1850 and 1930, a time in which

attitudes about race, the role of

women and empire were differ-

ent than today. It is a well-doc-

umented fact that Jack London

and Robert E. Howard were

outright “racist” in their beliefs.

Some of the other authors in this

book equally show their dated

beliefs. The anti-Semitic un-

derpinning of Buchan’s story as

well as Edgar Rice Burroughs’

war between Tarzan and the Af-

rican tribe in Tarzan’s early days

would never be published in to-

day’s world of multiculturalism.

These authors wrote for a largely

white, male and Christian read-

ership who would have shared

many of these overt or uncon-

scious prejudices.

This leaves the modern editor

fl inching at times while revising

these texts. There is a tempta-

tion to switch an offensive word

with a newer, more politically

correct one. But this temptation

must be resisted for the magic

that these writers possessed, a

storytelling glamour that is as

much the charm of their by-

gone days as it was personal to

them, will not suffi ce tampering.

To remove or change any part is

to paste fi g leaves over the geni-

tals of statues, as the Victorians

were wont to do.

Instead, we prefer to trust in

the intelligence of our readers,

who know that these outmoded

ways of thinking do not refl ect

our own beliefs. Our desire is

to promote the classic tales of

far-fl ung adventure, fantastic

monsters and exciting, unseen

worlds, not to demean any

group, creed or creature.

– The Editors.

EDITOR’S NOTES


MASTERS OF ADVENTURE 5MASTERS OF ADVENTURE 5

Qui n’a plus qu’un moment a vivreN’a plus rien a dissimuler.

— Quinault — Atys.

OF MY COUNTRY AND OF MY FAMILY I HAVE LITTLE TO say. Ill usage and length of years have driven me from the one, and estranged me from the other. Hereditary wealth afforded me an education of no common order, and a contemplative turn of mind enabled me to methodize the stores which early study very dili-gently garnered up. — Beyond all things, the study of the German moralists gave me great delight; not from any ill-advised admira-tion of their eloquent madness, but from the ease with which my habits of rigid thought enabled me to detect their falsities. I have often been reproached with the aridity of my genius; a defi ciency of imagination has been imputed to me as a crime; and the Pyr-rhonism of my opinions has at all times rendered me notorious. Indeed, a strong relish for physical philosophy has, I fear, tinctured my mind with a very common error of this age — I mean the habit of referring occurrences, even the least susceptible of such refer-

Ms. Found in a Bottle

EDGAR ALLAN POEIllustrated by G. W. Thomas


MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE EDGAR ALLAN POE

ence, to the principles of that science. Upon the whole, no person could be less liable than my-self to be led away from the severe precincts of truth by the ignes fatui of superstition. I have thought proper to premise thus much, lest the incredible tale I have to tell should be consid-ered rather the raving of a crude imagination, than the positive experience of a mind to which the reveries of fancy have been a dead letter and a nullity.

After many years spent in foreign travel, I sailed in the year 18 — , from the port of Bata-via, in the rich and populous island of Java, on a voyage to the Archipelago of the Sunda islands. I went as passenger — having no other induce-ment than a kind of nervous restlessness which haunted me as a fi end.

Our vessel was a beautiful ship of about four hundred tons, copper-fastened, and built at Bombay of Malabar teak. She was freighted with cotton-wool and oil, from the Lachadive islands. We had also on board coir, jaggeree, ghee, cocoa-nuts, and a few cases of opium. The stowage was clumsily done, and the vessel consequently crank.

We got under way with a mere breath of wind, and for many days stood along the east-ern coast of Java, without any other incident to beguile the monotony of our course than the occasional meeting with some of the small grabs of the Archipelago to which we were bound.

One evening, leaning over the taffrail, I ob-served a very singular, isolated cloud, to the N.W. It was remarkable, as well for its color, as from its being the fi rst we had seen since our departure from Batavia. I watched it attentively until sunset, when it spread all at once to the eastward and westward, girting in the horizon with a narrow strip of vapor, and looking like a long line of low beach. My notice was soon afterwards attracted by the dusky-red appear-ance of the moon, and the peculiar character of the sea. The latter was undergoing a rapid change, and the water seemed more than usu-

ally transparent. Although I could distinctly see the bottom, yet, heaving the lead, I found the ship in fi fteen fathoms. The air now became in-tolerably hot, and was loaded with spiral exha-lations similar to those arising from heat iron. As night came on, every breath of wind died away, a more entire calm it is impossible to con-ceive. The fl ame of a candle burned upon the poop without the least perceptible motion, and a long hair, held between the fi nger and thumb, hung without the possibility of detecting a vi-bration. However, as the captain said he could perceive no indication of danger, and as we were drifting in bodily to shore, he ordered the sails to be furled, and the anchor let go. No watch was set, and the crew, consisting principally of Malays, stretched themselves deliberately upon deck. I went below — not without a full presen-timent of evil. Indeed, every appearance war-ranted me in apprehending a Simoom. I told the captain my fears; but he paid no attention to what I said, and left me without deigning to give a reply. My uneasiness, however, prevented me from sleeping, and about midnight I went upon deck. — As I placed my foot upon the up-per step of the companion-ladder, I was startled by a loud, humming noise, like that occasioned by the rapid revolution of a mill-wheel, and be-fore I could ascertain its meaning, I found the ship quivering to its centre. In the next instant, a wilderness of foam hurled us upon our beam-ends, and, rushing over us fore and aft, swept the entire decks from stem to stern.

The extreme fury of the blast proved, in a great measure, the salvation of the ship. Al-though completely water-logged, yet, as her masts had gone by the board, she rose, after a minute, heavily from the sea, and, stagger-ing awhile beneath the immense pressure of the tempest, fi nally righted.

By what miracle I escaped destruction, it is impossible to say. Stunned by the shock of the water, I found myself, upon recovery, jammed in between the stern-post and rudder.


EDGAR ALLAN POE MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE

With great diffi culty I gained my feet, and looking dizzily around, was, at fi rst, struck with the idea of our being among breakers; so terrifi c, beyond the wildest imagination, was the whirl-pool of mountainous and foaming ocean within which we were engulfed. After a while, I heard the voice of an old Swede, who had shipped with us at the moment of our leaving port. I hallooed to him with all my strength, and presently he came reeling aft. We soon discovered that we were the sole survivors of the accident. All on deck, with the exception of ourselves, had been swept overboard; — the captain and mates must have perished as they slept, for the cabins were deluged with water. Without assistance, we could expect to do little for the security of the ship, and our exertions were at fi rst paralyzed by the momentary expectation of going down. Our cable had, of course, parted like pack-thread, at the fi rst breath of the hurricane, or we should have been instantaneously overwhelmed. We scudded with frightful velocity before the sea, and the water made clear breaches over us. The frame-work of our stern was shattered excessive-ly, and, in almost every respect, we had received considerable injury; but to our extreme Joy we found the pumps unchoked, and that we had made no great shifting of our ballast. The main fury of the blast had already blown over, and we apprehended little danger from the violence of the wind; but we looked forward to its total ces-sation with dismay; well believing, that, in our shattered condition, we should inevitably perish in the tremendous swell which would ensue. But this very just apprehension seemed by no means likely to be soon verifi ed. For fi ve entire days and nights — during which our only subsistence was a small quantity of jaggeree, procured with great diffi culty from the forecastle — the hulk fl ew at a rate defying computation, before rap-idly succeeding fl aws of wind, which, without equalling the fi rst violence of the Simoom, were still more terrifi c than any tempest I had before encountered. Our course for the fi rst four days

EDGAR ALLAN POE(1809-1849)

IN TODAY’S world genres are defi ned by what publishers put on the spines of books. In the past this was not the case. Imagi-native fi ction was seen as an um-brella for many different types of

adventure-oriented story-telling. Two hun-dred years ago, the term was “Romance” but today that word is much narrower, tales of women and men falling in love. A hundred years ago the same kind of fi c-tion was called “Fantasy”, again a narrow classifi cation, fi lled with Tolkienesque elves and Howardian barbarians.

Whatever you call it, there is a wealth of imaginative adventure fantasy which, like horror, mystery and even science fi ction, date back to Edgar Allan Poe. Poe, you say? Tales like “Ms. Found In a Bottle” (1833), “Descent Into the Maelstrom” (1841) and the unfi nished The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym (1838) inspired generations of writers to create amazing adventures in the far-away places of the Earth, as yet undiscovered. The fi rst au-thor to really solidify this genre was Jules Verne, with his “Voyages Fantasque”. Verne (as would H. P. Lovecraft decades later) even wrote a sequel/ending to Ar-thur Gordon Pym’s tale called The Sphinx of the Ice-Fields (1897).

Read the rest of this story by purchasing Masters of Adventure #1 at www.lulu.com/ragemachinebooks

MASTERS OF ADVENTURE 13MAMAMAMAMAMASTSTSTSTSTSTERERERERERERSSS S S S OFOFOFOFOFOF A AA A AADVDVDVDVDVDVENENENENENENTUTUTUTUTUTURERERERERERE 1 1111133333

I.SCIENTISTS, or some scientists — for occasionally one learned person dif-fers from other learned persons — tell us they know all that is worth know-ing about man, which statement, of course, includes woman. They trace him from his remotest origin; they show us how his bones changed and his shape modifi ed, also how, under the infl uence of his needs and passions, his intel-ligence developed from something very humble. They demonstrate conclu-sively that there is nothing in man which the dissecting-table will not explain; that his aspirations towards another life have their root in the fear of death, or, say others of them, in that of earthquake or thunder; that his affi nities with the past are merely inherited from remote ancestors who lived in that past, perhaps a million years ago; and that everything noble about him is but the fruit of expediency or of a veneer of civilisation, while everything base must be attributed to the instincts of his dominant and primeval nature. Man, in short, is an animal who, like every other animal, is fi nally subdued by his en-vironment and takes his colour from his surroundings, as cattle do from the red soil of Devon. Such are the facts, they (or some of them) declare; all the rest is rubbish.

At times we are inclined to agree with these sages, especially after it has been our privilege to attend a course of lectures by one of them. Then perhaps something comes within the range of our experience which gives us pause and causes doubts, the old divine doubts, to arise again deep in our hearts, and

Smith and the PharaohsH. RIDER HAGGARDIllustrated by M. D. Jackson

14 MASTERS OF ADVENTURE141441444 M M M M MMASASASASASASTETETETETETERSRSRSRSRSRS O F ADVENTNTNTNTNTNTURRRRRREEEEEE

“J. E. Smith was well born and well educated. When

he was a good- looking and able young man at col-

lege, but before he had taken his degree, trouble

came to him, the particulars of which do not matter,

and he was thrown penniless, also friendless, upon

the rocky bosom of the world. “


H. RIDER HAGGARD SMITH AND THE PHARAOHS

with them a yet diviner hope. Perchance when all is said, so we think to

ourselves, man is something more than an animal. Perchance he has known the past, the far past, and will know the future, the far, far future. Perchance the dream is true, and he does indeed possess what for con-venience is called an immortal soul, that may manifest itself in one shape or anoth-er; that may sleep for ages, but, waking or sleeping, still remains itself, indestructible as the matter of the Universe.

An incident in the career of Mr. James Ebenezer Smith might well occasion such refl ections, were any acquainted with its details, which until this, its setting forth, was not the case. Mr. Smith is a person who knows when to be silent. Still, un-doubtedly it gave cause for thought to one individual — namely, to him to whom it happened. Indeed, James Ebenezer Smith is still thinking over it, thinking very hard indeed.

J. E. Smith was well born and well edu-cated. When he was a good- looking and able young man at college, but before he had taken his degree, trouble came to him, the particulars of which do not matter, and he was thrown penniless, also friendless, upon the rocky bosom of the world. No, not quite friendless, for he had a godfa-ther, a gentleman connected with business whose Christian name was Ebenezer. To him, as a last resource, Smith went, feel-ing that Ebenezer owed him something in return for the awful appellation wherewith he had been endowed in baptism.

To a certain extent Ebenezer recognised the obligation. He did nothing heroic, but he found his godson a clerkship in a bank of which he was one of the directors — a modest clerkship, no more. Also, when he died a year later, he left him a hundred pounds to be spent upon some souvenir.

H. RIDER HAGGARD(1856-1925)

PERHAPS no other writer has been so synonymous with the words “African adventure” than Sir Henry Rider Hag-gard.

His Victorian adventure tales are now considered fantastic, but were consid-ered more speculative in their day. Haggard wrote his most

famous novel, King Solomon’s Mines (1885) af-ter reading Stevenson’s Treasure Island. When he played down the book, his brother challenged him to write a better one. The Allan Quatermain series grew to include: King Solomon’s Mines (1885) Allan Quatermain (1887), Maiwa’s Revenge (1888), Allan’s Wife and Other Tales (1889), Marie (1912), Child of Storm (1913), Allan and the Holy Flower (1915), The Ivory Lake (1916), Finished (1917), Smith and the Pharaoh and Other Tales (1920), The Ancient Allan (1920), Heu-Heu, the Monster (1924), The Treasure of the Lake (1926), and Allan and the Ice Gods (1927).

Perhaps even more famous are the novels about Ayesha or She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed: Wisdom’s Daughter (1923), She (1887) and Ayesha the Return of She (1905). The two series connect with She and Allan (1921). His series characters are featured in the bulk of his work, though he wrote about Central America and Mexico as well.

Others of interest: The World’s Desire (1890) with Andrew Lang, Eric Brighteyes (1891), The People of the Mist (1894), Heart of the World (1895), The Spirit of Bambaste (1906), The Yel-low God (1908), Sheba’s Ring (1910), Red Eye (1911), When the World Shook (1919).


Smith, being of a practical turn of mind, in-stead of adorning himself with memorial jew-ellery for which he had no use, invested the hundred pounds in an exceedingly promising speculation. As it happened, he was not misin-formed, and his talent returned to him multi-plied by ten. He repeated the experiment, and, being in a position to know what he was doing, with considerable success. By the time that he was thirty he found himself possessed of a for-tune of something over twenty-fi ve thousand pounds. Then (and this shows the wise and practical nature of the man) he stopped specu-lating and put out his money in such a fashion that it brought him a safe and clear four per cent.

By this time Smith, being an excellent man of business, was well up in the service of his bank — as yet only a clerk, it is true, but one who drew his four hundred pounds a year, with prospects. In short, he was in a position to marry had he wished to do so. As it happened, he did not wish — perhaps because, being very friendless, no lady who attracted him crossed his path; perhaps for other reasons.

Shy and reserved in temperament, he confi d-ed only in himself. None, not even his superiors at the bank or the Board of Management, knew how well off he had become. No one visited him at the fl at which he was understood to occupy somewhere in the neighbourhood of Putney; he belonged to no club, and possessed not a single intimate. The blow which the world had dealt him in his early days, the harsh repulses and the rough treatment he had then experienced, sank so deep into his sensitive soul that never again did he seek close converse with his kind. In fact, while still young, he fell into a condition of old-bachelorhood of a refi ned type.

Soon, however, Smith discovered — it was after he had given up speculating — that a man must have something to occupy his mind. He tried philanthropy, but found himself too sensi-tive for a business which so often resolves it-

self into rude inquiry as to the affairs of other people. After a struggle, therefore, he com-promised with his conscience by setting aside a liberal portion of his income for anonymous distribution among deserving persons and ob-jects.

While still in this vacant frame of mind Smith chanced one day, when the bank was closed, to drift into the British Museum, more to escape the vile weather that prevailed without than for any other reason. Wandering hither and thither at hazard, he found himself in the great gallery devoted to Egyptian stone objects and sculp-ture. The place bewildered him somewhat, for he knew nothing of Egyptology; indeed, there remained upon his mind only a sense of won-derment not unmixed with awe. It must have been a great people, he thought to himself, that executed these works, and with the thought came a desire to know more about them. Yet he was going away when suddenly his eye fell on the sculptured head of a woman which hung upon the wall.

Smith looked at it once, twice, thrice, and at the third look he fell in love. Needless to say, he was not aware that such was his condition. He knew only that a change had come over him, and never, never could he forget the face which that carven mask portrayed. Perhaps it was not really beautiful save for its wondrous and mys-tic smile; perhaps the lips were too thick and the nostrils too broad. Yet to him that face was Beauty itself, beauty which drew him as with a cart-rope, and awoke within him all kinds of wonderful imaginings, some of them so strange and tender that almost they partook of the na-ture of memories. He stared at the image, and the image smiled back sweetly at him, as doubt-less it, or rather its original — for this was but a plaster cast — had smiled at nothingness in some tomb or hiding-hole for over thirty cen-turies, and as the woman whose likeness it was had once smiled upon the world.

A short, stout gentleman bustled up and, in

SMITH AND THE PHARAOHS H. RIDER HAGGARD


42 MASTERS OF ADVENTURE4242424242424 M M M M M MASAASASASASTETETETETETERSRSRSRSRSRS OOO O O OFFF F F F ADADADADADADVEVEVEVEVEVENTNTNTTTNTURURURURURUREEEEEE

“In the centre of this room, lying in the middle of

a golden patch of sunlight, there was stretched

a huge creature, as large as a tiger, but as

black and sleek as ebony. “

MASTERS OF ADVENTURE 43MAMAMAMAMAM STSTSTSTS ERS SSS OFOFOFOFFOF AAAAA ADVDVDVDVDVDVENENENENENENTUTUTUTUTUTURERERERERERE 4444 4333333

IT IS HARD LUCK ON A YOUNG FELLOW TO HAVE EXPENSIVE tastes, great expectations, aristocratic connections, but no actual money in his pocket, and no profession by which he may earn any. The fact was that my father, a good, sanguine, easy-going man, had such confi dence in the wealth and benevolence of his bachelor elder brother, Lord Southerton, that he took it for granted that I, his only son, would never be called upon to earn a living for myself. He imagined that if there were not a vacancy for me on the great Southerton Estates, at least there would be found some post in that diplomatic service which still remains the special preserve of our privileged classes. He died too early to realize how false his calculations had been. Neither my uncle nor the State took the slightest notice of me, or showed any interest in my career. An occasional brace of pheasants, or basket of hares, was all that ever reached me to remind me that I was heir to Ot-well House and one of the richest estates in the country. In the meantime, I found myself a bachelor and man about town, living in a suite of apartments in Grosvenor Mansions, with no occupation save that of pigeon-shooting and polo-playing at Hurlingham. Month by month I realized that it was more and more diffi cult to get the brokers to renew my bills, or to cash any further post-obits upon an unentailed property. Ruin lay right across my

BrazillianARTHUR CONAN DOYLEIllustrated by M. D. Jackson

The

Cat


path, and every day I saw it clearer, nearer, and more absolutely unavoidable.

What made me feel my own poverty the more was that, apart from the great wealth of Lord Southerton, all my other relations were fairly well-to-do. The nearest of these was Everard King, my father’s nephew and my own fi rst cousin, who had spent an adventurous life in Brazil, and had now returned to this country to settle down on his fortune. We never knew how he made his money, but he appeared to have plenty of it, for he bought the estate of Grey-lands, near Clipton-on-the-Marsh, in Suffolk. For the fi rst year of his residence in England he took no more notice of me than my miserly uncle; but at last one summer morning, to my very great relief and joy, I received a letter ask-ing me to come down that very day and spend a short visit at Greylands Court. I was expecting a rather long visit to Bankruptcy Court at the time, and this interruption seemed almost prov-idential. If I could only get on terms with this unknown relative of mine, I might pull through yet. For the family credit he could not let me go entirely to the wall. I ordered my valet to pack my valise, and I set off the same evening for Clipton-on-the-Marsh.

After changing at Ipswich, a little local train deposited me at a small, deserted station lying amidst a rolling grassy country, with a sluggish and winding river curving in and out amidst the valleys, between high, silted banks, which showed that we were within reach of the tide. No carriage was awaiting me (I found afterwards that my telegram had been delayed), so I hired a dogcart at the local inn. The driver, an excel-lent fellow, was full of my relative’s praises, and I learned from him that Mr. Everard King was already a name to conjure with in that part of the county. He had entertained the school-chil-dren, he had thrown his grounds open to visi-tors, he had subscribed to charities—in short, his benevolence had been so universal that my driver could only account for it on the supposi-

tion that he had parliamentary ambitions.My attention was drawn away from my driv-

er’s panegyric by the appearance of a very beau-tiful bird which settled on a telegraph- post beside the road. At fi rst I thought that it was a jay, but it was larger, with a brighter plum-age. The driver accounted for its presence at once by saying that it belonged to the very man whom we were about to visit. It seems that the acclimatization of foreign creatures was one of his hobbies, and that he had brought with him from Brazil a number of birds and beasts which he was endeavouring to rear in England. When once we had passed the gates of Greylands Park we had ample evidence of this taste of his. Some small spotted deer, a curious wild pig known, I believe, as a peccary, a gorgeously feathered oriole, some sort of armadillo, and a singular lumbering in-toed beast like a very fat badger, were among the creatures which I observed as we drove along the winding avenue.

Mr. Everard King, my unknown cousin, was standing in person upon the steps of his house, for he had seen us in the distance, and guessed that it was I. His appearance was very homely and benevolent, short and stout, forty-fi ve years old, perhaps, with a round, good-humoured face, burned brown with the tropical sun, and shot with a thousand wrinkles. He wore white linen clothes, in true planter style, with a cigar between his lips, and a large Panama hat upon the back of his head. It was such a fi gure as one associates with a verandahed bungalow, and it looked curiously out of place in front of this broad, stone English mansion, with its solid wings and its Palladio pillars before the door-way.

“My dear!” he cried, glancing over his shoul-der; “my dear, here is our guest! Welcome, welcome to Greylands! I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Cousin Marshall, and I take it as a great compliment that you should hon-our this sleepy little country place with your presence.”

THE BRAZILLAIN CAT ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE


Nothing could be more hearty than his man-ner, and he set me at my ease in an instant. But it needed all his cordiality to atone for the frigid-ity and even rudeness of his wife, a tall, haggard woman, who came forward at his summons. She was, I believe, of Brazilian extraction, though she spoke excellent English, and I excused her manners on the score of her ignorance of our customs. She did not attempt to conceal, how-ever, either then or afterwards, that I was no very welcome visitor at Greylands Court. Her actual words were, as a rule, courteous, but she was the possessor of a pair of particularly expres-sive dark eyes, and I read in them very clearly from the fi rst that she heartily wished me back in London once more.

However, my debts were too pressing and my designs upon my wealthy relative were too vi-tal for me to allow them to be upset by the ill-temper of his wife, so I disregarded her coldness and reciprocated the extreme cordiality of his welcome. No pains had been spared by him to make me comfortable. My room was a charm-ing one. He implored me to tell him anything which could add to my happiness. It was on the tip of my tongue to inform him that a blank cheque would materially help towards that end, but I felt that it might be premature in the pres-ent state of our acquaintance. The dinner was excellent, and as we sat together afterwards over his Havanas and coffee, which later he told me was specially prepared upon his own plantation, it seemed to me that all my driver’s eulogies were justifi ed, and that I had never met a more large-hearted and hospitable man.

But, in spite of his cheery good nature, he was a man with a strong will and a fi ery temper of his own. Of this I had an example upon the follow-ing morning. The curious aversion which Mrs. Everard King had conceived towards me was so strong, that her manner at breakfast was almost offensive. But her meaning became unmistak-able when her husband had quitted the room.

“The best train in the day is at twelve-fi fteen,”

ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE(1859-1930)

A. CONAN Doyle will be re-membered forev-er as the author of the Sherlock Holmes stories, but his works about two scien-tists, Challenger and Maracot are important pieces of adventure sci-

ence fi ction. The Lost World (1912) along with Verne’s Journey to the Center of the Earth would inspire Edgar Rice Burroughs and his dinosaur-fi lled lands. Professor Challenger and his associates venture to a remote plateau in South America where ancient forms of life survive. The sequel The Poison Belt (1913) has the scientists explore the Earth after a holocaust, caused when a poisonous gas cloud passes over the earth.

The Maracot Deep (1927-8) features an-other scientist, Professor Maracot, who de-scends into the depths of the ocean to fi nd the lost inhabitants of Atlantis. In this tech-nologically advanced world he meets The Lord of the Dark Face. A. Merritt would use a similar idea in The Moon Pool.

Doyle became famous as a promoter of Spiritualism. Unlike his character Sherlock Holmes, Doyle had a penchant for the fantastic and the weird. He also penned several tales of horror and suspense. One of his best non-supernatural tales is “The Brazilian Cat” from The Strand, December 1898.

ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE THE BRAZILLAIN CAT



“I am one of those fellows who are born Colonial at

heart, and I don't see why I shouldn’t arrange my life as I

please. Besides, for ten years I have been falling in love

with this country, and now I am up to the neck."


The

Groveof

AshtorathBY JOHN BUCHANILLUSTRATED BY G.W. THOMAS

"C'est enfin que dans leurs prunellesR i t e t p l e u r e - f a s t i d i e u x -L'amour des choses eternellesDes vieux morts et des anciens dieux!"

- PAUL VERLAINE.

I.WE WERE SITTING AROUND THE CAMP FIRE, SOME THIRTY MILES NORTH

of a place called Taqui, when Lawson announced his intention of finding a

home. He had spoken little the last day or two, and I had guessed that he had

struck a vein of private reflection. I thought it might be a new mine or irrigation

scheme, and I was surprised to find that it was a country house.

"I don't think I shall go back to England," he said, kicking a sputtering log

into place. "I don't see why I should. For business purposes I am far more useful

to the firm in South Africa than in Throgmorton Street. I have no relation left

except a third cousin, and I have never cared a rush for living in town. That

beastly house of mine in Hill Street will fetch what I gave for it,--Isaacson cabled

about it the other day, offering for furniture and all. I don't want to go into

Parliament, and I hate shooting little birds and tame deer. I am one of those

fellows who are born Colonial at heart, and I don't see why I shouldn't arrange

my life as I please. Besides, for ten years I have been falling in love with this


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