ONE Saturday it unexpectedly rained all day long, and after dinner Captain Barker, hearing from Mrs. Bratt that I was at home, sent word to enquire if I would go in for a game of chess.

I had had a very worrying week at the office, and would have dearly liked to say “No,” but I had no excuse ready, and so meekly went in.

I thought the old chap was looking very ill, and I could see at once that he had been at the brandy.

He was irritable and inclined to be rude — a sure sign with him that he had started drinking. We began to play, but my thoughts were wandering, and I played very badly.

I made two bad blunders, and the old man swore angrily at me for my carelessness. I told him apologetically that I was not in a mood for playing, and then in a sudden burst of confidence let him know how things were going at the office, and that I was almost daily expecting to get the sack.

He listened quite quietly to me, but with a sneer that hardened and deepened as I went on.

“Oh, you little rotter,” he jeered, when I had finished, “and to think that I call you my friend. You little crawling worm — you’ve not got the courage of a bug. Man alive, how long are you going to put up with it? Can’t you see just where it’s leading you to, and what a hell you’re warming up for your poor dirty little soul? Where’s it going to end? What are you always going to do? ‘Rabbits’ they call you, do they? — well, don’t you make any mistake, it’s the rabbits they insult — not you! Oh, you little swab!”

I was too miserable to feel the faintest twinge of anger, but just leaned back in my chair, and dispiritedly regarded the driving rain upon the window.

“Yes, you swab,” he went on presently, seeing I was not going to make any excuses, “and do you know I could alter it all for you if I chose, yes, alter it at once. If you were worth it, and I could trust you, I’d send you out of this room with fifty times more courage even than I have. Fifty times more courage than I have — do you hear that, sir, and me — me, that in all my life’s never been afraid of any man that’s lived — do you hear that, I say?”

Perhaps I looked incredulous or perhaps it was I smiled, but the next moment he was pointing angrily to a large cabinet in a corner of the room.

“Open that door, you ass,” he spluttered in his rage, “give me out the black box on the bottom shelf. I’ll show you something, too, Mr. Rabbits — Mr. Bug.”

The box I carried to him was about the size of a cigar box. It was an ordinary looking wooden box without a lock or clasp, and just tied round with a piece of dirty string.

The string was too knotted to untie, and the old man hesitated for a few moments before cutting it with his knife.

“I’ve half a mind not to show you,” he went on musingly, with all trace of his anger for the moment gone. “There’s that in here that once cost the lives of four good men — and it might cost the lives of a good many more, if it got into wrong hands. But there,” he sneered disgustedly, “it’s safe with you. You’d want a bucketful before you’d ever dare to taste it. Oh, you miserable coward.”

He cut the string with a jerk, and, opening the box, took out a small packet wrapped in a length of dirty green oilskin.

“Now, Wacks,” he said solemnly, “it’s eleven years and more since this oilskins been unwrapped, and I don’t know why the devil I am unwrapping it now. I always swore I’d never touch it and that I’d let it die with me.”

He hesitated again, and then, taking a good gulp from the glass at his elbow, unrolled the oilskin clumsily, and a little brown jar rolled on to his knees. It was about the size of a small condensed milk can; the mouth of it was tied over tightly with a piece of greasy looking parchment.

“No; I’m not going to open it,” he growled. “This is as far as we’ll go today anyhow.”

He held the jar close up for me to inspect, and then, setting it carefully on the table with his shaky hand, fell into a long reverie that I thought best not to interrupt or disturb.

“Lord! how old I’m growing,” he said, presently. “See the date on it. I said eleven years, didn’t I? Well, it’s more like twenty. Curse you, Wacks, I’m blasted sorry I ever disturbed it. I’m nine years older than I thought — no wonder I feel sometimes as if coffin time was come. Look here, my boy,” he went on again, but in quite a gentle voice, “I said I’d tell you, and so I will, but it’s a tale that won’t do you no good, and maybe you’ll be sorry you roused me up to tell it at all.”

“Listen here. Twenty years ago, when I was master of the ‘Willing Bird,’ from Liverpool to Fremantle, I shipped a Malayan as fireman at Marseilles. I was short handed, and had lost two men in a gale off Finisterre. Well, this new man was just such another as you. A little silly swine that let everyone curse him and never cursed back. A man without a grain of pluck. Everyone harried him from the first moment he came aboard, and he had a rotten time. I couldn’t stop it, for I wasn’t everywhere in the ship. They bullied him and knocked him about, just because he was a blithering coward, like you, and let ’em do it. He never once hit anybody back, and all he did was to threaten them with something a cousin of his was going to do.

“‘Me cousin at Colombo,’ he would jabber, ‘he gib me something and me gib you hell den — see.’ But all they did was to jeer at him and give him more knocks. No one knew then what he meant. Well, at Colombo he went ashore, and right enough his damned cousin did give him something. He gave him this pot of paste. Two days out from Colombo he ate a teaspoonful of it, and in a couple of hours there was all hell aboard. Someone started him, and in a second he was flying at everyone he met. He knifed the quartermaster through the heart; then he stabbed a deck hand who tried to catch him. Then he rushed on deck, and put up an awful fight there. With everybody on him there was two more stabbed before the mate managed to break his arm with a marlinspike. Even then he fought ’em all like a tiger, and it was only when he broke his back by falling down the forecastle steps that we at last had him under control.

“The poor brute was quite conscious before he died next day, and he told me all about the jar. It’s a stuff the natives take before they go into the jungle after tigers, and it makes a man afraid of nothing in the world. Now you’ve heard all about it, Mr. Wacks, and will you have a taste?”

His jeering tones had come back, and he held up the jar, eyeing me with every expression of contempt. I shook my head feebly, and he went on tauntingly.

“Not a little bit, Mr. Wacks. Just think what it would do. You would go up to the office like a man — like a human being, sir. Think how you would walk into those chaps — think of the grudges you could pay back — think how astonished they would be. Wouldn’t their eyes bulge when the blooming bunny showed his claw — wouldn’t they gape to see the blasted worm turning round at last! Oh — get out, you little beast — get away from me, quick — I’m sick of your putty face. Get out, I say — get out.”

I got up hastily in real alarm. I had never seen the captain in quite such a kind of rage before. His face twitched horribly, and I thought he was going to have another fit.

I got to my own room as quickly as I could, and, throwing myself upon the bed, gave way passionately to the tears of a little child.

Yes — how was it all going to end? As the old man had said, it couldn’t go on for ever, and what was I going to do? The story he had told me hadn’t interested me in the least. I didn’t believe it, and I didn’t disbelieve it — I simply hadn’t taken it in. But his contempt had stung me somehow, and his bitter tongue had cut me somewhere on the raw. I had never felt so miserable and so hopeless before.

The next day, Sunday, turned out a fine and glorious day, and I looked to the service in chapel to make up in some way for the humiliations and worries of the week. But everything was against me still, and before the service began I had yet another horrible humiliation to get over.

As was my general habit, I had got early to the chapel, and had just settled myself comfortably in my accustomed seat, when I heard hurried footsteps behind me. Turning round curiously, I found Lucy’s gentle face, all flushed and animated, within a few inches of my own.

“Oh, do come out, please, Mr. Wacks,” she whispered quickly. “Deacon Brown’s horse is trying to bolt, and it’s tied to the railings. His mother’s in the chaise.”

I guessed what had happened at once. Every Sunday Deacon Brown used to bring his old mother to chapel in the chaise, and every Sunday he used to tie the horse up to the chapel railings whilst he went over to the minister’s house to have a yarn with him before the service began. Then they would both walk over together, and between them help the old lady out of the chaise, and gallantly escort her up the aisle to her allotted seat in the front pew. The horse was young and mettlesome, and was always rolling its eyes and pricking its ears when anything noisy went by. Everyone had said it would bolt one day, but the deacon had always pooh-poohed and laughingly replied that it was quiet as a lamb, and only showing play.

I ran out quickly and there was the brute as I had expected, tugging viciously at the cord that held him to the railings, prancing up and dawn and giving the old lady in the chaise a very fair imitation of a steamer dipping in a heavy sea. I looked round in horrible nervousness. There were plenty of women and children round, but I was the only man to be seen.

“Catch hold of his head, Mr. Wacks,” squeaked out an old lady, vigorously brandishing a fearful looking sunshade right in front of the beast’s eyes, “catch hold of his head, Mr. Wacks, and hold it low down.”

Catch hold of his head, I thought. How could I get anywhere near the beast, let alone catch hold of his head? His front legs were pumping viciously up and down, and it looked sudden death to me to go anywhere within three yards. I turned quite sick with nervousness and stood stock still, feebly wondering what on earth I was going to do.

“Catch hold of his head, please,” plaintively called out the white-faced old lady in the chaise. “He’ll get away if you don’t get hold of him quickly.”

Other people began to join in, and I could see contemptuous glances being thrown from all sides in my direction. I stood quite still, however, helplessly doing nothing, with the sweat now all covering my forehead in small beads. Every moment it looked as if the horse would break loose, and every moment I became more and more convinced in my own mind that it was not an occasion where I could successfully interfere. Let the beast jump up and down, I thought. He’ll soon get tired, and if the rope holds on no one will be a penny the worse, and, besides, it will be a good lesson to the deacon not to leave his poor old frightened mother alone in the chaise again.

What would ultimately have happened goodness only knows, but suddenly there was a rush and a shout behind me. I was knocked down roughly into the road, and a man sprang over me to the horse’s head.

Almost in a second it seemed he had seized hold of the bridle, and long before I had got on my feet he had secured the brute firmly, and was gently soothing and patting it back to a quiet state.

Something in the man’s voice seemed familiar to me, and, clearing my smarting eyes of dust, I saw to my disgust that it was Waller. Waller of all people, to have witnessed my cowardice. What a tale he would be making of it at the office! What humiliation for me again tomorrow.

They all crowded round to thank him, and I saw old Mrs. Brown, whom he apparently knew, introduce him to Lucy. Lucy impulsively clasped his outstretched hand in both of hers and, with her sweet and gentle face uplifted, said something that wreathed his face in a broad, self-satisfied, and delighted smirk.

My one piece of good fortune was that for the moment everyone had forgotten me, and taking advantage of their absorbed interest in the wretched Waller, I slunk away home, unnoticed and unmissed.

Monday was again a black day with me in the office, and I sensed instinctively that things had come almost to a head.

In the morning complaint was made to me about the noise in our room. A sarcastic message was sent in from the counting house that, if we didn’t mind, they would like sometimes to be able to hear themselves speak.

In the afternoon Mr. William had suddenly interrupted a game of darts. From the interested comments of the room generally I gathered that the game had just reached a most exciting stage. Waller was ‘two up,’ but Muggins had still ‘three to play.’ The firm’s penholders made excellent darts, and with the end nicely split to hold a steadying length of paper good hits were being obtained upon the target, on the back of the country ledger.

Mr. William had not said much, but he had given me a quick, stern look and I had shivered in my shoes.

That evening I returned home almost bowed down with grief. My nerves were strung up almost to breaking point.

I had just reached the garden gate when Mrs. Bratt came out of the hall door. She was red-eyed and had been crying.

“He’s dead,” she called out directly she caught sight of me. “He’s dead — poor old Captain Barker.”

“Dead,” I repeated numbly. “My God! When did he die?”

“Just after his dinner,” she half sobbed. “He said he wasn’t well and would lay down a bit. I helped him to the bed and he just fell back straight off and was gone. The doctor’s been and he’s to be buried tomorrow. I’m going to see about it now. Oh! Mr. Wacks, isn’t it terrible — he’s been with me over eight years and I’ll never have another lodger like him. I’ve put your things all ready and you’ve only got to make the tea. I shan’t be gone an hour. I hope I haven’t forgotten anything, but I’m so upset I can’t think of things properly,” and she went off with her handkerchief to her eyes.

For a moment or two I hesitated to enter the silent house. I was as frightened of the dead as of the living, and the thought of the dead body, all alone there on the bed, filled me with horror. I tiptoed quickly through the hall and shut myself up closely in the kitchen. I wasn’t in the mood for any tea; I felt too miserable for anything. Poor old Captain Barker. How many, many nights I must have played with him and, on the whole, how nice he had always been to me. It was only the brandy that made him swear at me and call me names.

Poor old fellow, but what a lonely life his had been. Well, he was dead now, and all his troubles were over. I wished I were dead, too. Anything to get out of all my worry.

I would have gladly killed myself if I had known how, and then my thoughts went in a flash to the little brown jar in the box. What a strange tale it was he had told me! Could it by any means have been true? He must have believed it himself, for he had been in deadly earnest and all the time I had known him I had never found him to exaggerate in anything. What if I had taken a taste when he offered it me? What if I took some now? I could feel my heart jump at the thought, and I had to stand up to get my breath. Why shouldn’t I at any rate get hold of the jar? No one knew of its existence yet, except myself, and no one need ever know. At any rate, I could get it now and think over later about using it. But I must get it at once, whilst Mrs. Bratt was out; later on I should have no excuse for entering the old man’s room.

Without giving myself a moment to reflect, and marvelling all the time at my own boldness. I tiptoed stealthily into the Captain’s sitting-room and opened the cabinet door. Yes — there was the box in the same place where I had first seen it, but now it was not even tied with string. Trembling all over, I thrust a shaking hand under the lid and, feeling the jar in its oilskin covering, quickly transferred it to the depths of my trouser pocket. Then closing up the cabinet again, I ran back quickly to the kitchen, and there Mrs. Bratt found me when she returned about a quarter of an hour later.

“Oh, Mr. Wacks,” she called out, “how dreadfully pale you are. I’ll have you going next if you don’t take care,” and she burst again weakly into tears.

I got away from her in a little while, and by 9 o’clock, at latest, went into my bedroom to get ready for bed.

I was just tired out and worn out, and only in half a mind after all about tasting any of the paste. I unwrapped the jar, however, and taking off the parchment cover curiously examined its contents. It was dark red in color, and thick, like jam that has set very hard. Almost automatically, I tasted a little with my finger. It was rather sickly and had the strong flavor of aniseed. I dipped in the handle of my tooth brush and brought up what I thought was about a small teaspoonful. I hesitated, perhaps for two seconds and then quickly put it in my mouth and gulped it down, so as not to give myself time to consider or repent.

I am sure now that I expected something to happen at once. I know I stood still in a perfect smother of excitement with great drops of perspiration running down my face.

Nothing happened, however, except that I felt rather sick. I waited and waited, mopping my forehead with shaking hands, hardly able to breathe for my emotion. Quite ten minutes must have passed and my feelings turned partly to relief and partly to disgust. What an ass I had been to believe all the old Captain had said! I had made no allowance for the natural superstitious credulity of all sea-going men and had now gone and swallowed some beastly stuff that might have turned rotten years ago and would probably give me fearful stomach-ache later in the night.

I threw the pot angrily into the cupboard amongst my clothes, and, very much disgusted with myself, undressed and got into bed.

My head was aching terribly and I expected to turn and toss, hour upon hour, before getting off to sleep.

But no, I must have dropped to sleep almost at once, for with a most vivid recollection of even the remotest happenings of that eventful night I can remember nothing more until when I woke up just before the hall clock struck three.

I believe, indeed, I had had some heavy dreams in which Waller and Captain Barker figured prominently, but, they left no distinct waking impressions on my brain, and I woke to the howl of Boulter’s dog in the garden of the house next door.

I sat up instantly in a tearful rage.

What right had Boulter to keep such a brute out of doors at night? Boulter himself might be as deaf as a post, but that was no reason why everyone else in the road should be nightly exasperated by the howling of his beastly cur.

I for one had put up with it long enough and would stand it no longer. I would kill the brute, and I wouldn’t care if everyone knew it.

I sprang out of bed and hurriedly slipping on my trousers ran into the hall.

I remembered a short iron bar that I had noticed once under some papers on a shelf in the back kitchen, and I struck a match and found it. It was part of the handle of a broken linen press rotting outside in the yard, and it was curved and had a heavy ball at one end. I thrust it down into my pocket and, opening the hall door quietly, softly slipped out into the road.

Boulter’s house was a corner house and honored with a back door which opened into a narrow passage that led into the garden.

I gambled on the back door being unlocked, and instead of climbing over the fence, approached it from the road.

The noise of my approaching footsteps cut short the howling of the dog and I could hear her shuffling down the passage to meet me.

She growled menacingly as I came near, and to reassure her I called her softly by name.

“Nell, old girl — good dog, lie down.”

She knew my voice at once for I had often patted her in passing and not infrequently she had come to our house for scraps.

She stopped growling at once, and very gently I pushed open the door intending to bash her with the iron directly I saw her head appear. But she was too quick for me, for when I had opened the door, ever so slightly, she slipped by me in a flash, and was out and down the road before I could even aim at her with my heavy bit of iron.

I swore at her retreating figure with a damn that came easily, though strangely, to my lips, and seeing there was no chance at all of overtaking her, turned back into her master’s back garden.

It was still dark, but a faint glowing in the sky warned me that morning was not far off.

There was a nasty strong smell in the garden and my disappointed rage found vent in more cursing. It was Boulter’s rabbits, of course.

What right had Boulter, I asked myself angrily, to keep his stinking rabbits so near to other houses? With his dog and his other dirty belongings he was a positive menace to the health of the place. He should be taught a lesson anyhow.

I cautiously approached the row of hutches and, after looking round to make sure no one was watching me, opened the door of the one nearest, and feeling about for a moment inside, brought out the inmate by its ears.

It was a fine big beast, and in the softly glowing light I could see the glinting of two big, frightened eyes. But I had no pity at all, and in a sudden paroxysm of rage nipped its body firmly between my knees and broke its neck.

Making sure I had killed it, I put back the quivering body into the hutch and, curling it in what I considered a natural position for sleep, carefully reshut and fastened the door.

The animals in the next hutches I served in exactly the same way, and in three or four minutes at most, seven of Boulter’s best rabbits were in the process of stiffening in their houses.

I felt the lust of taking life intoxicating me like wine and I should undoubtedly have finished off every rabbit in the place but for the sudden noise of a distant train.

It startled me unpleasantly and thinking that at all events I had done enough to go on with, I hurried stealthily back by the same way I had come.

I closed the hall door very carefully and with hardly a sound tiptoed to my bedroom and threw myself back into bed. Again I fell asleep at once, but this time I had no disturbing dreams.